The Eltons' ball, that ball to which our friends Flora Adair, Marie
Arbi, and the two Elton girls had looked forward with so much
eagerness, was over. Had it brought them pleasure or pain? To Helena
and Marie it had brought pleasure; but to Flora and Mary, pain. Mary
felt that, although she had succeeded in prejudicing Mr. Earnscliffe
against Flora, she had not advanced one step towards winning his
admiration for herself; and when Helena congratulated her on his having
danced with her--that being an honour which he did not often confer on
any one--she answered bitterly, "You mistake, Helena; Mr. Earnscliffe
danced with his hostess's eldest daughter, and not with Mary Elton!"
Yet the more the attainment of the object upon which she had set her
heart seemed remote, the more wildly did she long for it. To gain Mr.
Earnscliffe's love, or even to hinder another from possessing it, she
would stoop to any, even the most unworthy, means. Hers was a powerful
passion, but it was a passion for evil rather than for good; it was not
a passion of devotedness but of selfishness; she would sacrifice his
happiness to her love, and not her love to his happiness. Evidently
she did not know that a woman's happiness consists "in another's love
become her own." The song of Solomon represents the love of the Saviour
and His Church under the type of human love;--the Christian marriage
ceremony says, "Let a woman be subject to her husband in all things,
as the Church is subject to Christ;" and Saint Paul tells "wives" to
"be subject to their husbands as unto God!" It is in such submission,
and in such alone, that a woman's happiness consists. Short-sighted
people call this bondage, but it is that bondage in which alone is true
liberty!... To serve truly is indeed to reign!
"What?" we hear young ladies, ay, and old ones too, exclaim--"Are we
never to do what we like,--never to think of pleasing ourselves? A
curious notion of happiness indeed!" Nevertheless it is the only true
one. Woman was created to be "a help meet for man;" her ministry in
the world is one of love, and she can never be really happy save in
fulfilling the end for which she was created. A mere preference,
accompanied by calm affection and esteem, will never enable a woman
to be to her husband what the Church is to her Lord. It must be a
feeling such as Leibnitz speaks of when he says, "To love, is to place
our happiness in the happiness of another;"--and as an illustrious
French writer beautifully describes it, so beautifully that we would
not venture to translate it, and must be pardoned for quoting somewhat
at length in a foreign tongue--"L'amour ne s'arrête pas à l'acte
de choix, il exige le dévouement à l'être choisi. Choisir, c'est
préférer un être à tous les autres; se dévouer, c'est le préférer à
soi-même. Le dévouement, c'est l'immolation de soi à l'objet aimé.
Quiconque ne va pas jusque là n'aime pas. La préférence toute seule
n'implique en effet qu'un goût de l'âme qui a besoin de s'epancher
dans la cause d'où il sort, goût honorable et prècieux sans doute,
mais qui se bornant là n'aboutit qu'à se rechercher soi-même dans un
autre que soi. Si beaucoup d'affections s'arrêtent à ce point, c'est
que beaucoup d'affections ne sont qu'un egoïsme deguisé, on eprouve un
attrait, on s'y abandonne, on croit aimer, on a peut-être des lueurs de
l'amour veritable, mais l'heure du dévouement arrivée, on reconnait à
l'impuissance du sacrifice la vanité du sentiment qui nous préoccupait
sans nous posséder."
When a woman loves, she creates happiness, so to say, for herself
and for those around her, and obtains so much the greater recompense
the less she seeks it. In this submission she is immeasurably more
free than if she had no law but that of her own will, just as a true
Christian is more free than those who follow their own opinions, for
"where the law is, there is liberty."
All this was indeed a sealed fountain to Mary Elton; her idea of
happiness was not centred in "another's happiness become her own," but
in the triumph of her own unbridled will. Yet she was rather to be
pitied than blamed. The too popular code, alas! now-a-days is, that
anything like real ardent feeling is to be ruthlessly crushed down.
In this she was educated, and, being of a less impulsive disposition
than her sister, she succumbed more to this training. She was like
a vigorous young tree whose owner willed that it should grow in a
particular form, quite regardless of the one which nature intended it
to take, and for this purpose had bound and constrained it with what he
thought to be strong bands; but one day a strange hand cut one of those
bands, and at once all the others gave way: the tree then rebounded
from its constraint, and took a more natural form, and the trainer
found with dismay that it had grown wild and unmanageable. He had but
produced deformity; had he helped to develop the plant, and not tried
to force it from its natural bent, it would have grown in the beauty
of its own unity: under his hands it had become a deformed and an
unsightly thing!
Such, too, was Mary Elton. Her mother had tried to swathe her mind and
heart in bands of unnatural propriety and worldliness, and for a time
she seemed to have succeeded. Mr. Earnscliffe was the strange hand
which chanced to cut one of the bands, and thus caused all the others
to give way; then her natural strength of feeling burst forth, rank
and untrained. Had her mother carefully directed and not endeavoured
to crush this, it would have made her character as beautiful as it
was strong. Unfortunately Mrs. Elton had not done so, and the result
was, that in all probability nothing less powerful than that religion
of which Mary knows nothing could show her the difference between a
"disguised egotism," in which one only seeks one's self in another, and
love, which is an immolation of one's self to the beloved object.
We must leave her alone with her gloomy retrospections, which were
not the less dark and unpleasing from the partial success which had
attended her planning. She was haunted by the consciousness of having
acted falsely as well as meanly towards Flora; for she as well as Mr.
Earnscliffe had seen the parting between her and Mr. Lyne, and she
judged it more truly than he had done. Since then she felt certain--if
indeed she ever doubted it--that Mr. Lyne would never be more than a
friend to Flora; yet she had done all she could to make Mr. Earnscliffe
believe that they were to be married, and she knew that in this she had
been successful.
Helena's remembrances of the ball were as bright as Mary's were dark.
She dwelt with heartfelt delight on all the enjoyment which it had
afforded her, and, as Mary listened to her, her smile grew brighter and
more genial than usual. Her protecting affection for her sister was the
one virtue amidst many faults--the one feeling from which she could
draw unalloyed pleasure.
A contrast not altogether dissimilar might have been witnessed between
Flora and Marie. The latter was all animation, and related with
infinite zest her adventures of the previous night; while the former
spoke but little, and appeared tired and weary. She could not help
feeling that she had behaved somewhat unkindly towards Mr. Lyne. She
was angry with herself for not having sooner seen that he meant to
propose, and that she had not taken care to prevent his doing so;
still, were she in a palace of truth, she would probably have been
obliged to confess that it was not the remembrance of the pain which
she had inflicted on Mr. Lyne that weighed most heavily upon her
spirits, but rather Mr. Earnscliffe's conduct to herself. Save to shake
hands with her in the beginning of the evening, he had not approached
her until just before the cotillon when his manner and words appeared
so unaccountable to her.
We have already said that there is no greater pang than that of being
misunderstood by one whom we esteem, and the sharpness of the pang
increases with the strength of our affection. Thus Flora felt most
bitterly the injustice to herself which Mr. Earnscliffe implied when he
said how different it would be if women were not--as even the best of
them are--ready to sell themselves to the first man who asks them to
marry him, if he can give them wealth or position. It was certainly not
a pleasant farewell, and she sighed as she thought that probably she
would never know again such pleasure as she had felt in his society.
Even the memory of it was more to her than any other actual enjoyment
had been; nevertheless she did not deem herself in love. A day after a
ball seemed to possess a fatality for Flora; she found this day a very
sad one, yet the time may come when, by comparison with others, she
may perhaps think it had brought her happiness.
Fortunately for her their approaching departure from Rome, and the
preparations necessary for it, did not leave her much time for
brooding. As usual, the week after Easter saw Rome thinning rapidly.
Some of our acquaintances were going to the south, others to the north:
for the former were bound the Eltons, Pentons, Mr. Lyne, Mr. Caulfield
and Mr. Earnscliffe, and for the latter the Blakes and the Adairs.
On the Tuesday after the ball, at seven in the morning, a large
travelling carriage stood before the door of the Adairs' apartments. It
was open, and in it was seated Mrs. Blake. Mina was in the cabriolet,
and her uncle, Mr. Vincent Blake, who had joined them a few days before
on his way from the East, and who was to return with them to Ireland,
was standing on the flags inspecting the packing of the luggage. The
Adairs were to complete the party; and as soon as they came down, Mr.
Blake hurried them into the carriage with Mrs. Blake--that is, Mrs.
Adair and Marie. Flora was to go in the cabriolet with Mina; and having
handed her up, and taken his own seat beside the coachman, he gave the
word to start; the whip was flourished, and off they went, the wheels
rattling noisily over the pavement to the merry accompaniment of the
bells round the horses' necks.
At the Porta del Popolo they were obliged to halt, in order to have
their passports examined. Mr. Blake got down, and went into the office.
During the delay which this caused, Mina and Flora stood up to take
"one last long look" at Rome, that city which, it is said, few--even
of those who have suffered there--ever leave without a feeling of
regret and a desire to return. It is a strange fascination which Rome
possesses even for those who are aliens within her walls! We know how
one of the most celebrated of these apostrophises her:--
"O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery."
If Rome is so dear to those who regard her only as a standing record of
a mighty past, what must she be to those to whom she is not merely a
"Lone mother of dead empires,"
but a living mother of a living world--the heart, the centre, the
capital of Christendom itself!
Mina and Flora were fond of Rome for both of these reasons. Flora
loved it especially as the scene of the happiest hours she had ever
known, and so she could not leave it without a feeling of sadness and
a longing to return. How often do we yearn to revisit places where we
have been happy, even when all around us has changed!
"Cari luoghi, io vi trovai
Ma quei dì non trovo più!"
After a few moments Mr. Blake reappeared with the passports all
in order. A _scudo_ has a particularly accelerating effect on the
movements of Roman officials. At length they bade adieu to Rome, yet
not to its memories and associations, for their route lay along the
far-famed Flaminian Way.
There is surely no such pleasant travelling for pleasant people as
vetturino! When it is through a beautiful country, in fine weather, and
with intimate friends, it is truly delightful. The irregular meals,
furnished from the contents of capacious baskets, the ever-changing
scene, the never-ending variety of flowers and foliage, the newness of
all around, the expectation of coming events, the evenings at country
inns, where the very "roughing" gives zest to a life so different from
the regularity of ordinary existence; the unflagging chatter, the
buoyant spirits,--these, yes, and a thousand other charms, tend to make
such happy journeys the sunniest of sunny spots in the pilgrimage
of life. As for the cabriolet, if a pair of lovers could only get
possession of it, it would be the perfection of human enjoyment--a sort
of moving elysium. Ah! this is a picture upon which we must not dwell,
or we might be teased by importunate wishes to have it realised, and so
become dissatisfied with the dull plodding routine of stay-at-home days.
Our new friend, Mr. Blake, was tall, stout, and nearly sixty, but
withal strong and healthy in appearance. His fair, florid complexion,
large features, and light blue eyes, and, indeed, the whole expression
of his countenance, gave strong indications of good-humour and
benevolence; nor was there any visible want in it of intellectual
power. He proved a most amusing and instructive companion, having
travelled over this route more than once before. He pointed out to
Mina and Flora the objects of note and of classic interest, quoted
scraps from the Latin poets, which he rendered into extempore English
for them. The position of Civitta Castellana called forth his loudest
praises, and he talked much of the days when it was the proud capital
of the Valisci, who dared to contend with Rome herself, even in the
days of her warlike glory; and he made them laugh heartily over the
story of Camillus and the schoolmaster. Some years before, Mr. Blake
had spent a few days at Civitta Castellana, exploring the beautiful
neighbourhood with some friends, and he related many anecdotes of their
excursions, declaring that there were few things more enjoyable than
such excursions made in agreeable company.
The girls assured him that it was not necessary to impress _that_ upon
their minds, as they could easily believe how delightful it would be
so to wander about in such beautiful scenery. To make it perfect, they
said, there should be a Valerie de Ventadour, and an Ernest Maltravers
to re-people each scene for her with the heroes and legends of old,
to unroll before her the lore of the ancient historians and poets,
and thus to light it up again with a light once its own. And Flora
laughingly added--
"Now, Mr. Blake, you will be obliged to play Ernest Maltravers to one
of us."
"Indeed, young lady! and do you mean to imply that 're-peopling some
lonely scene for you, with the heroes and legends of old, unrolling
before you the lore of the ancients, and thus lighting it up with a
light once its own,' would be at all the same thing done by a rough,
grey-headed old man, as by an Ernest Maltravers? If so, I am afraid
I must say that you are a sad deceiver. Now, I'll lay a wager on it
you are thinking of some one who could play Ernest Maltravers to your
Valerie de Ventadour, very much to your satisfaction?"
Mr. Blake chuckled with delight as he saw Flora get red and turn away
her head.
Thus the day passed quickly away, and about five in the evening they
arrived at Civitta Castellana, where they were to sleep on the first
night of their journey.
It took them about six days to travel from Rome to Florence by this
route. Were we to follow them step by step, we should be writing a
guide-book and not a story. Nevertheless, we cannot pass by in silence
two such spots as the Falls of Terni and Assisi. Byron says that the
view of the falls either from above or below is worth that of all
the cascades and torrents of Switzerland put together. The Staubach,
Reichenfels, are rills in comparative appearance. Who could forget his
description of the contrast between the "giant element leaping from
rock to rock with delicious bound," and the lovely smiling valley by
which the falls are surrounded? It is indeed
"Love, watching madness with unutterable mien."
Then the church of Assisi, with all its wealth of interest! To the
lover of the picturesque, of art, or of religion, it has special
attractions. Dante sings the loveliness of its site; Cimabue and
Giotto's works adorn its walls, and mark the progress of painting; and
Saint Francis throws over it a halo which dims the glory of poet and
artist, and makes Assisi--for those who know and love his life--another
holy land. Such is the creative power of charity or love. Centuries
ago, Saint Francis died in self-imposed poverty and privation, barely
covered with the cloak of another; yet hardly had the grave closed
over him, when a structure, matchless even in Italy, was built in his
honour, and the precious germs of love and self-sacrifice which he
planted in the hearts of his spiritual children went on fructifying
until his Order spread itself throughout Christendom, and now blesses
the world almost in spite of itself.
Our friends thought that if this route could boast of Assisi alone, it
would have been almost unrivalled; but Assisi was only its crowning
point. It traverses a track of country, for upwards of two hundred
miles, where beauty, history, and poetry combine to give a charm to all
around. The vale of Clitumnus and its stream--
"Haunt of river nymph!"
the lake of Thrasimene, where Hannibal and his swarthy hosts revelled
in their sanguinary victory over the brave Flaminius; the towns perched
on mountain-tops, and surrounded by deep romantic ravines, where still
stand a ruined arch or pier to tell of the massive bridges which once
spanned them--the colossal works of the mighty Romans.
It was altogether so delightful a journey, that to some at least of our
party it caused a feeling of regret when about six o'clock on Sunday
evening they reached the top of the hill of San Donato, and for the
first time looked upon _Firenze la bella_, and the beautiful view over
the valley of the Arno. They quickly descended to the Porta san Nicolo,
by which they entered the city--crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, drove
along the Lung' Arno, passing the arcades of the Uffizi, and the Piazza
di Santa Trinita, and drew up at one of the hotels which face the
river. And here, in beautiful Florence, let us leave them to repose.