MAKING FRIENDS.
I bought a dictionary and a grammar, and worked hard in my moments
of leisure. My daily life, moreover, might be described as an almost
unbroken Italian lesson, and it was not long before I began to
understand what was said around me, and to express myself more or less
haltingly in the language of my land of exile. A means of communication
being thus opened up between myself and the Marchesina Annunziata, that
open-hearted person began to take me into her confidence, and to pour
out for my benefit a dozen little facts and circumstances which I might
have lived all my life with the voluble, but reserved, Marchesa without
ever having learnt.
Of Andrea, the absent son, she spoke often.
"Molto indipendente!" she said shaking her head, and using the same
expression as her young sister-in-law.
This reprobate, it seemed, flying in the face of family tradition, had
announced from the first his intention of earning his own living; had
studied hard and with distinction for a civil engineer, and five years
ago, refusing all offers of help, had accepted a post in America.
As for Romeo, the elder brother, he also, said his wife, was very
clever; had passed his examinations as a barrister. "But, of course,"
she added, with naïve pride, "he would never think of practising."
Romeo, indeed, to do him justice, was troubled by no disturbing spirit
of radicalism, and carried on the ancestral pursuit of doing nothing
with a grace and a persistence which one could not help but admire.
His mother possessed a fine natural aptitude for the same branch of
industry; but the old Marchese, whom, though he spoke but little and
was seldom seen, I soon perceived to have a character of his own,
passed his days in reading and writing in some obscure retreat on the
ground-floor.
Bianca, after suspending her judgment for some days, had apparently
given a verdict in my favour, for she now followed me about like
a dog, a line of conduct which, though flattering, had certainly
its drawbacks. The English lessons were always a trial, but they
grew better as time went on, and the music lessons were far more
satisfactory.
As for me, I began to grow fond of my pupil; she was such a crude,
instinctive creature, so curiously undeveloped for her time of life,
that one could not but take her under one's wing and forgive her her
failings as one forgives a little child.
I had now been a month in Pisa, and the first sense of desolation
and strangeness had worn off. There were moments, even now, when the
longing for home grew so desperate that I was on the point of rushing
off to England by the next train; but I was growing accustomed to my
surroundings; the sense of being imprisoned in an enchanted palace
had vanished, and had been followed by a more prosaic, but more
comfortable, adaptation to environment.
My life moved from day to day in a groove, and I ceased to question
the order of things. In the morning were the lessons and the walk
with Bianca; the afternoons were looked upon as my own, and these I
generally passed in reading, writing letters, and in walking about the
city, whose every stone I was getting to know by heart.
Often leaning on the bridge and looking across at the palaces curving
along the river, I peopled with a visionary company the lofty rooms
beyond the lofty windows.
Here Shelley came with his wife and the Williams', and here it was
that they made acquaintance with Emilia Vivian, the heroine of
"Epipsychidion." Byron had a palazzo all to himself, whence he rode out
with Trelawney, to the delight of the population.
Leigh Hunt lingered here in his many wanderings, and Landor led a
hermit life in some hidden corner of the old town.
Claire Clairmont, that unfortunate mortal, who where'er she
came brought calamity, vibrated discontentedly between here and
Florence, and it seemed that sometimes I saw her, a little, unhappy,
self-conscious ghost, looking from the upper windows of Shelley's
palace.
And here, too, after the storm and the shipwreck in which their lives'
happiness had gone down, came those two forlorn women, Mary Shelley and
Jane Williams. Upon the picture of such sorrow I could not trust myself
to gaze; only now and then I heard their shadowy weeping in some dim,
great chamber of a half-deserted house.
At other times, I returned to my first friend, the great piazza, whose
marvels it seemed impossible to exhaust, and for which I grew to
entertain a curiously personal affection.
But as the spring came on, and the mild, enervating breezes ousted more
and more their colder comrades, I began to long with all my soul and
body for the country. The brown hills, so near and yet so far, inspired
me with a fervour of longing. I had promised never to go beyond the
city walls; even the great park, or Casine, where already the trees
were burgeoning, was forbidden ground, though sometimes, indeed, I
drove out there with the ladies. The cool and distant peaks of the
Apennines drew my heart towards them with an ever-growing magnetism.
The cypresses and ilexes springing up beyond the high white walls of
a garden, the scent of spring flowers borne across to me in passing,
filled me with a longing and a melancholy which were new to me.
As a matter of fact, the enervating climate, the restricted life and
the solitude--for solitude, when all were said, it was--were beginning
to tell upon my health. I was not unhappy, but I grew thin and pale,
and was developing a hitherto unknown mood of dreamy introspection.
In June, I gathered, the whole Brogi household would adjourn to the
family villa near the baths of Lucca. It was taken for granted that I
was to accompany them, and, indeed, I had determined on making out my
full year, should my services be required for so long.
After that, no doubt, a husband would be found for Bianca, and I could
return to England with a clear conscience and quite a nice little
amount of savings. Mother should have a deep arm-chair, and Rosalind a
really handsome wedding present; and with my new acquisition of Italian
I hoped to be able to command a higher price in the educational market.
The evenings were generally passed in chatter, in which I soon learnt
to take my part; and I began to be included in the invitations to the
houses of the various ladies who "received," like the Marchesa, on
certain evenings of the week.
No subject of gossip was too trivial for discussion; and I could not
but admire the way in which the tiniest incident was taken up, turned
inside out, battledored this way and that, and finally wore threadbare
before it was allowed to drop, by these highly skilled talkers. Talk,
indeed, was the business of their lives, the staple fare of existence.
Every one treated me with perfect courtesy, but also, it must be owned,
with perfect coldness.
Bianca, as I said before, developed a sort of fondness for me; and
Annunziata included me in her general benevolence--Annunziata, good
soul, who was always laughing, when she was not deluged in tears. I
fancy the charming Romeo had his drawbacks as a husband.
The Marchesa, with her glib talk, her stately courtesy, was in truth
the chilliest and the most reserved of mortals. Of Romeo I saw but
little. With the old Marchese, alone, I was conscious of a silent
sympathy.