ENJOYMENT.
There were not many neighbours near Langdale Priory, and Mrs. Mordaunt
often expressed great fear lest I should find it dull. Dull!--this
English word “dull,” for which no exact Italian equivalent could be
found, often puzzled me; and I had never realised in myself the meaning,
or rather sensation, of dulness. Miserable I had been, miserable and
despairing, discontented, suffered what seemed to be agonies at the
moment; but my wild sensations were all too active and vivid to allow
room for dulness. Still less could I connect the idea of dulness with
the beautiful place which inspired me with a kind of joyful adoration;
not a peaceful appreciation, but a downright actively joyous affection.
I could never tire of running round the old trees, and rambling in the
woods, visiting the cottages, and talking to and listening to the
people, old and young, who inhabited the village near.
Then there was the library; and I discovered my father’s marks in many
of the books, and they gave me a never-ending fund of interest and
delight. I certainly did not inherit any of my mother’s peaceful _dolce
far niente_ enjoyments, for I devoured with the keenest ardour books on
all kinds of subjects; and the happy day never seemed long enough for
all I wished to do.
Aunt Jane used to bring her work--little garments she was always making
for the poor--and sit in the corner of the deep bay-window. She had read
a good deal in English, and a little in French, but she was entirely
unacquainted with German and Italian literature. So I translated
passages to her as she sat at work, and her keen appreciation of the
beauties of some of my favourite passages delighted me beyond measure.
“I must take you to see my dear little friend Norah,” she said one day,
in the middle of a passage I was reading to her. “I should like you to
teach her some of these languages, and other things you know, for she
has learnt little, and yet how much older in mind she is than you are;
but I don’t want you to develop quickly. Suffering will do that some
day, and I foresee you will have a great deal of trouble with yourself.”
“Who is little Norah, and why have you never mentioned her before?”
“Because I only heard this morning she has returned to her father’s
home. I am afraid it will scarcely seem like a home to her again, for he
married a few months ago, and, from all I hear, the poor girl will not
have a satisfactory step-mother.”
“Poor girl, how very sad! Do let me see her.”
“Yes, we will all go and call at Chandos Mount to-morrow, and perhaps
Mrs. Mordaunt will ask little Norah to return home with us.”
The next day we started, after luncheon, in the luxurious open carriage,
which I always enjoyed so much, and drove through the largest part of
our beautiful park on the road to Chandos Mount.
How I did admire that thoroughly English park, with its graceful deer
and splendid oaks!--its deep fern-clad dells and upland slopes, where
the silvery stems of the beech-trees shone like jewelled pillars
supporting gardens of richly-varied foliage. How I did enjoy the variety
of colouring, the breezy, heath-scented air, all the fresh forest
smells, which were so new to me, and, added to the interest of
association with my dear father’s memory, were all the more striking
from their contrast to anything I had seen in Italy. The glowing
beauties of even Sorrento, with its richly-scented orange-groves, which
had sometimes oppressed me with their power, its dazzling lights and
shades, the vivid blue sea and unclouded sky, had less charm for me than
the refreshing sights, and quiet, homely sounds of my own, my father’s
own dear park.
Then that delightfully easy open carriage, with its well-appointed
horses, that drove the same quick, steady pace up and down the steepest
hills of the park.
“Well, I do enjoy riches,” thought I, with a sudden feeling of
humiliation, “and everything seems more luxurious in England, because, I
suppose, people are richer.” I had been struck with the contrast of the
thoroughly well-managed establishment at the Priory, and that of most
even rich Italian houses I had seen. The quiet respectfulness of the old
English servants, who seemed to do everything exactly right, with a
noiseless and unbustling precision. In fact, I afterwards made up my
mind that no country produces--or rather did produce in my young
days--such good servants as England, and I attribute this to the natural
respect the lower feel for the upper circles, from the remains of the
ancient feudal system. The country which produces the worst servants is
Ireland. And now I am going to say something which will shock people
horribly, in these days of exaggerated sympathy with the “wrongs of
Ireland.” I think the greatest wrong Ireland has to complain of is that
it has never been thoroughly amalgamated with England. Why should it
not have been so (if it were formally taken possession of) as well as
the races of any other country in the world have been with some other
people than the first inhabitants? Of course all conquest is to be
deplored; but still, if the avarice and infirmity of human nature
propels people to usurpation, it must be better that the various parts
should be welded into one harmonious whole.
Then came the strife of religion in Ireland, which still further
retarded any harmonious settlement of rights. And, unfortunately of all
strifes, those that are falsely called religious are the most deadly.
Multitudes will willingly risk their lives, and die for what they think
is their religion; and still more willingly kill others for it. But,
alas! how few can be found to _live for_ it--to live according to God’s
law and Christian precepts; for if we would but do this, there would be
an end of all war and strife.
But what a digression is all this from the drive to Chandos Mount, when
none of these sage thoughts came into my head, for I never reasoned
then--nor did I think much. I only enjoyed, thoroughly enjoyed my life,
and everything around me.