PARTLY to suit Calvert’s passion for fishing, partly to meet his own
love of a quiet, unbroken, easy existence, Loyd decided for a ramble
through the lakes of Northern Italy; and, in about ten days after the
compact had been sealed, they found themselves at the little inn of the
Trota, on the Lago d’Orta. The inn, which is little more than a cottage,
is beautifully situated on a slender promontory that runs into the lake,
and is itself almost hidden by the foliage of orange and oleander trees
that cover it. It was very hard to believe it to be an inn with its
trellised vine-walk, its little arched boat-house, and a small shrine
beside the lake, where on certain saints’ days, a priest said a mass,
and blessed the fish and those that caught them. It was still harder,
too, to credit the fact when one discovered his daily expenses to be all
comprised within the limits of a few francs, and this with the services
of the host, Signor Onofrio, for boatman.
To Loyd it was a perfect paradise. The glorious mountain range, all
rugged and snow-capped--the deep-bosomed chestnut-woods--the mirror-like
lake--the soft and balmy air, rich in orange odours--the earth teeming
with violets--all united to gratify the senses, and wrap the mind in a
dreamy ecstasy and enjoyment. It was equally a spot to relax in or
to work, and although now more disposed for the former, he planned in
himself to come back here, at some future day, and labour with all the
zest that a strong resolve to succeed inspires.
What law would he not read? What mass of learned lore would he not store
up! What strange and curious knowledge would he not acquire in this
calm seclusion! He parcelled out his day in imagination; and, by rising
early, and by habits of uninterrupted study, he contemplated that in one
long vacation here he would have amassed an amount of information that
no discursive labour could ever attain. And then, to distract him from
weightier cares, he would write those light and sketchy things, some
of which had already found favour with editors. He had already attained
some small literary successes, and was like a very young man, delighted
with the sort of recognition they had procured him; and last of all,
there was something of romance in this life of mysterious seclusion.
He was the hero of a little story to himself, and this thought diffused
itself over every spot and every occupation, as is only known to those
who like to make poems of their lives, and be to their own hearts their
own epic.
Calvert, too, liked the place; but scarcely with the same enthusiasm.
The fishing was excellent. He had taken a “four-pounder,” and heard of
some double the size. The cookery of the little inn was astonishingly
good. Onofrio had once been a courier, and picked up some knowledge of
the social chemistry on his travels. Beccafichi abounded, and the small
wine of the Podere had a false smack of Rhenish, and then with cream,
and fresh eggs, and fresh butter, and delicious figs in profusion, there
were, as he phrased it, “far worse places in the hill country!”
Resides being the proprietor of the inn, Onofrio owned a little villa, a
small cottage-like thing on the opposite shore of the lake, to which he
made visits once or twice a week, with a trout, or a capon, or a basket
of artichokes, or some fine peaches--luxuries which apparently always
found ready purchasers amongst his tenants. He called them English, but
his young guests, with true British phlegm, asked him no questions about
them, and he rarely, if ever, alluded to them. Indeed, his experience
of English people had enabled him to see that they ever maintained a
dignified reserve towards each other, even when offering to foreigners
all the freedom of an old intimacy; and then he had an Italian’s tact
not to touch on a dangerous theme, and thus he contented himself with
the despatch of his occasional hamper without attracting more attention
to the matter than the laborious process of inscribing the words
“Illustrissima Sign’. Grangiari,” on the top.
It was about a month after they had taken up their abode at the Trota
that Onofrio was seized with one of those fevers of the country which,
though rarely dangerous to life, are still so painful and oppressive as
to require some days of confinement and care. In this interval, Calvert
was deprived of his chief companion, for mine host was an enthusiastic
fisherman, and an unequalled guide to all parts of the lake. The young
soldier, chafed and fretted out of all measure at this interruption
to his sport, tried to read; tried to employ himself in the garden;
endeavoured to write a long-promised letter home; and at last, in utter
failure, and in complete discontent with himself and everything, he
walked moodily about, discussing within himself whether he would not
frankly declare to Loyd that the whole thing bored him, and that he
wanted to be free. “This sort of thing suits Loyd well enough,” would
he say. “It is the life of Brazenose or Christchurch in a purer air
and finer scenery. He can read five or six hours at a stretch, and then
plunge in the lake for a swim, or pull an oar for half an hour, by way
of refreshment. He is as much a man of reflection and thought as I am of
action and energy. Yet, it is your slow, solemn fellow,” he would say,
“who is bored to death when thrown upon himself;” and now he had, in a
measure, to recant this declaration, and own that the solitude was too
much for _him_.
While he was yet discussing with himself how to approach the subject,
the hostess came to tell him that Onofrio’s illness would prevent him
acting as his boatman, and begged the boat might be spared him on that
day, to send over some fruit and fresh flowers he had promised to the
family at St Rosalia; “that is,” added she, “if I’m lucky enough to find
a boatman to take them, for at this season all are in full work in the
fields.”
“What would you say, Donna Marietta, if I were to take charge of the
basket myself, and be your messenger to the villa?”
The hostess was far less astonished at his offer than he had imagined
she would be. With her native ideas on these subjects, she only accepted
the proposal as an act of civility, and not as a surprising piece of
condescension, and simply said, “Onofrio shall thank you heartily for it
when he is up and about again.”
If this was not the exact sort of recognition he looked for, Calvert at
all events saw that he was pledged to fulfil his offer; and so he stood
by while she measured out peas, and counted over artichokes, and tied up
bundles of mint and thyme, and stored up a pannier full of ruddy apples,
surmounting all with a gorgeous bouquet of richly perfumed flowers,
culled in all the careless profusion of that land of plenty. Nor was
this all. She impressed upon him how he was to extol the excellence
of this, and the beauty of that, to explain that the violets were true
Parmesans, and the dates such as only Onofrio knew how to produce.
Loyd laughed his own little quiet laugh when he heard of his friend’s
mission, and his amusement was not lessened at seeing the half-awkward
and more than half-unwilling preparations Calvert made to fulfil it.
“Confound the woman!” said he, losing all patience; “she wanted to
charge me with all the bills and reckonings for the last three weeks, on
the pretext that her husband is but ill-skilled in figures, and that
it was a rare chance to find one like myself to undertake the office.
I have half a mind to throw the whole cargo overboard when I reach the
middle of the lake. I suppose a Nap. would clear all the cost.”
“Oh, I’ll not hear of such extravagance,” said Loyd, demurely.
“I conclude I have a right to an act of personal folly, eh?” asked
Calvert, pettishly.
“Nothing of the kind. I drew up our contract with great care, and
especially on this very head, otherwise it would have been too offensive
a bargain for him who should have observed all the rigid injunctions of
its economy.”
“It was a stupid arrangement from the first,” said Calvert warmly. “Two
men yet never lived, who could say that each could bound his wants by
those of another. Not to say that an individual is not himself the same
each day of the week. I require this on Tuesday, which I didn’t want on
Monday, and so on.”
“You are talking of caprice as though it were necessity, Calvert.”
“I don’t want to discuss the matter like a special pleader, and outside
the margin of our conjoint expenses I mean to be as wasteful as I
please.”
“As the contract is only during pleasure, it can never be difficult to
observe it.”
“Yes, very true. You have arrived at my meaning by another road. When
was it we last replenished the bag?”
“A little more than a week ago.”
“So that there is about a fortnight yet to run?”
“About that.”
Calvert stood in thought for a few seconds, and then, as if having
changed the purpose he was meditating, turned suddenly away and hastened
down to the boat quay.
Like many bashful and diffident men, Loyd had a false air of coldness
and resolution, which impressed others greatly, but reacted grievously
on his own heart in moments of afterthought; and now, no sooner had
his companion gone, than he felt what a mockery it was for him to have
assumed a rigid respect for a mere boyish agreement, which lost all its
value the moment either felt it burdensome. “_I_ was not of an age to
play Mentor to _him_. It could never become me to assume the part of
a guardian. I ought to have said the bargain ceases the instant you
repudiate it. A forced companionship is mere slavery. Let us part the
good friends we met; and so on.” At last he determined to sit down and
write a short note to Calvert, releasing him from his thraldom, and
giving him his full and entire liberty.
“As for myself, I will remain here so long as I stay abroad, and if I
come to the continent again, I will make for this spot as for a home:
and now for the letter.”