It will save some time, both to writer and reader, while it will also
serve to explain certain particulars about those we are interested
in, if I give in this place a letter which was written by Lady Augusta
Bramleigh, the Colonel's young wife, to a married sister at Rome. It ran
thus:
Hanover Square, Nov. 10, 18--.
Dearest Dorothy,--
Here we are back in town, at a season, too, when we find ourselves
the only people left; and if I wanted to make a long story of how it
happens, there is the material; but it is precisely what I desire to
avoid, and at the risk of being barely intelligible, I will be brief. We
have left Earlshope, and, indeed, Herefordshire, for good. Our campaign
there was a social failure, but just such a failure as I predicted it
would and must be; and although, possibly, I might have liked to have
been spared some of the mortifications we met with, I am too much
pleased with the results to quarrel over the means.
You are already in possession of what we intended by the purchase of
Earlshope--how we meant to become county magnates, marry our sons and
daughters to neighboring magnates, and live as though we had been rooted
to the soil for centuries. I say “we,” my dear, because I am too good
a wife to separate myself from Col. B. in all these projects; but I am
fain to own that as I only saw defeat in the plan, I opposed it from the
first. Here, in town, money will do anything; at least, anything that
one has any right to do. There may be a set or a clique to which it will
not give admission; but who wants them, who needs them?
There's always a wonderful Van Eyck or a Memling in a Dutch town, to
obtain the sight of which you have to petition the authorities, or
implore the Stadtholder; but I never knew any one admit that success
repaid the trouble; and the chances are that you come away from the
sight fully convinced that you have seen scores of old pictures exactly
like it, and that all that could be said was, it was as brown, and as
dusky, and as generally disappointing, as its fellows. So it is with
these small exclusive societies. It may be a great triumph of ingenuity
to pick the lock; but there 's nothing in the coffer to reward it. I
repeat, then, with money--and we had money--London was open to us. All
the more, too, that for some years back society has taken a speculative
turn; and it is nothing derogatory to find people “to go in,” as it is
called, for a good thing, in “Turks” or “Brazilians,” in patent fuel, or
a new loan to the children of Egypt. To these, and such like, your City
man and banker is esteemed a safe pilot; and you would be amused at the
amount of attention Col. B. was accustomed to meet with from men who
regarded themselves as immeasurably above him, and who, all question
of profit apart, would have hesitated at admitting him to their
acquaintance.
I tell you all these very commonplace truths, my dear Dorothy, because
they may not, indeed cannot, be such truisms to you--you, who live in
a grand old city, with noble traditions, and the refinements that come
transmitted from centuries of high habits; and I feel, as I write, how
puzzled you will often be to follow me. London was, as I have twice
said, our home; but for that very reason we could not be content with
it. Earlshope, by ill luck, was for sale, and we bought it. I am afraid
to tell you the height of our castle-building; but, as we were all
engaged, the work went on briskly, every day adding at least a story
to the edifice. We were to start as high sheriff, then represent the
county. I am not quite clear, I think we never settled the point as to
the lord-lieutenancy; but I know the exact way, and the very time, in
which we demanded our peerage. How we threatened to sulk, and did sulk;
how we actually sat a whole night on the back benches; and how we made
our eldest son dance twice with a daughter of the “Opposition,”--menaces
that no intelligent Cabinet or conscientious “Whip” could for a moment
misunderstand. And oh! my dear Dora, as I write these things, how
forcibly I feel the prudence of that step which once we all were so
ready to condemn you for having taken. You were indeed right to marry
a foreigner. That an English girl should address herself to the married
life of England, the first condition is she should never have left
England, not even for that holiday-trip to Paris and Switzerland, which
people now do, as once they were wont to “do Margate.” The whole game of
existence is such a scramble with us: we scramble for social rank, for
place, for influence, for Court favor, for patronage; and all these call
for so much intrigue and plotting, that I vow to you I 'd as soon be
a Carbonara or a Sanfedista as the wife of an aspiring middle-class
Englishman.
But to return. The county would not have us--we were rich, and we were
City folk, and they deemed it an unpardonable pretension in us to come
down amongst them. They refused our invitations, and sent us none of
their own. We split with them, contested the election against them, and
got beaten. We spent unheard-of moneys, and bribed everybody that had
not a vote for ten miles round. With universal suffrage, which I believe
we promised them, we should have been at the head of the poll; but the
freeholders were to a man opposed to us.
I am told that our opponents behaved ungenerously and unjustly--perhaps
they did; at all events, the end of the contest left us without a single
acquaintance, and we stood alone in our glory of beaten candidateship,
after three months of unheard-of fatigue, and more meanness than I
care to mention. The end of all was, to shake the dust off our feet at
Herefordshire, and advertise Earlshope for sale. Meanwhile we returned
to town; just as shipwrecked men clamber up the first rock in sight, not
feeling in their danger what desolation is before them. I take it that
the generals of a beaten army talk very little over their late defeat.
At all events we observed a most scrupulous reserve, and I don't think
that a word was dropped amongst us for a month that could have led a
stranger to believe that we had just been beaten in an election, and
hunted out of the county.
I was just beginning to feel that our lesson, a severe one, it is true,
might redound to our future benefit, when our eldest-born--I call them
all mine, Dora, though not one of them will say mamma to me--discovered
that there was an Irish estate to be sold, with a fine house and fine
grounds, and that if we could n't be great folk in the grander kingdom,
there was no saying what we might not be in the smaller one. This was
too much for me. I accepted the Herefordshire expedition because it
smacked of active service. I knew well we should be defeated, and I knew
there would be a battle, but I could not consent to banishment. What had
I done, I asked myself over and over, that I should be sent to live in
Ireland?
I tried to get up a party against the project, and failed. Augustus
Bramleigh--our heir--was in its favor, indeed its chief promoter.
Temple, the second son, who is a secretary of embassy, and the most
insufferable of puppies, thought it a “nice place for us,” and certain
to save us money; and John,--Jack they call him,--who is in the navy,
thinks land to be land, besides that, he was once stationed at Cork, and
thought it a paradise. If I could do little with the young men, I did
less with the girls. Marion, the eldest, who deems her papa a sort
of divine-right head of a family, would not discuss the scheme; and
Eleanor, who goes in for nature and spontaneous feeling, replied that
she was overjoyed at the thought of Ireland, and even half gave me to
understand that she was only sorry it was not Africa. I was thus driven
to a last resource. I sent for our old friend, Doctor Bartlet, and told
him frankly that he must order me abroad to a dry warm climate, where
there were few changes of temperature, and nothing depressing in the
air. He did the thing to perfection; he called in Forbes to consult with
him. The case was very serious, he said. The lung was not yet attacked,
but the bronchial tubes were affected. Oh, how grateful I felt to
my dear bronchial tubes, for they have sent me to Italy! Yes, Dolly
dearest, I am off on Wednesday, and hope within a week after this
reaches you to be at your side, pouring out all my sorrows, and asking
for that consolation you never yet refused me. And now, to be eminently
practical, can you obtain for me that beautiful little villa that
overlooked the Borghese Gardens?--it was called the Villino Altieri. The
old Prince Giuseppe Altieri, who used to be an adorer of mine, if he
be alive may like to resume his ancient passion, and accept me for a
tenant; all the more that I can afford to be liberal. Col. B. behaves
well always where money enters. I shall want servants, as I only mean
to take from this, Rose and my groom. You know the sort of creatures
I like; but, for my sake, be particular about the cook,--I can't eat
“Romanesque,”--and if there be a stray Frenchman wandering about, secure
him. Do you remember dear old Paoletti, Dolly, who used to serve
up those delicious little macaroni suppers long ago in our own
room?--cheating us into gourmandism by the trick of deceit! Oh, what
would I give to be as young again! To be soaring up to heaven, as
I listened with closed eyes to the chant in the Sistine Chapel, or
ascending to another elysium of delight, as I gazed at the “noble guard”
of the Pope, who, while his black charger was caracoling, and he was
holding on by the mane, yet managed to dart towards me such a look of
love and devotion I and you remember, Dolly, we lived “secondo piano,”
at the time, and it was plucky of the man, considering how badly he
rode. I yearn to go back there. I yearn for those sunsets from the
Pincian, and those long rambling rides over the Campagna, leading to
nothing but an everlasting dreaminess, and an intense desire that one
could go on day after day in the same delicious life of unreality; for
it is so, Dolly. Your Roman existence is as much a trance as anything
ever was--not a sight nor sound to shock it. The swell of the organ and
the odor of the incense follow you even to your pleasures, and, just as
the light streams in through the painted windows with its radiance of
gold and amber and rose, so does the Church tinge with its mellow lustre
all that goes on within its shadow. And how sweet and soothing it all
is! I don't know, I cannot know, if it lead to heaven, but it certainly
goes in that direction, so far as peace of mind is concerned. What has
become of Carlo Lambruschini? Is he married? How good-looking he was,
and how he sung! I never heard Mario without thinking of him. How is it
that our people never have that velvety softness in their tenor voices;
there is no richness, no latent depth of tone, and consequently no power
of expression? Will his Eminence of the Palazzo Antinori know me
again? I was only a child when he saw me last, and used to give me his
“benedizione.” Be sure you bespeak for me the same condescending favor
again, heretic though I be. Don't be shocked, dearest Dora, but I mean
to be half converted, that is to have a sort of serious flirtation with
the Church; something that is to touch my affections, and yet not wound
my principles; something that will surround me with all the fervor of
the faith, and yet not ask me to sign the ordinances. I hope I can do
this. I eagerly hope it, for it will supply a void in my heart which
certainly neither the money article, nor the share list, nor even the
details of a county contest, have sufficed to fill. Where is poor little
Santa Rosa and his guitar? I want them, Dolly--I want them both. His
little tinkling barcarolles were as pleasant as the drip of a fountain
on a sultry night; and am I not a highly imaginative creature, who
can write of a sultry night in this land of fog, east wind, gust, and
gaslight? How my heart bounds to think how soon I shall leave it! How
I could travesty the refrain, and cry, “Rendez-moi mon passeport, ou
laissez-moi mourir.” And now, Dolly darling, I have done. Secure me the
villa, engage my people. Tanti saluti to the dear cardinal,--as
many loves to all who are kind enough to remember me. Send me a
lascia-passare for my luggage--it is voluminous--to the care of the
consul at Civita Vecchia, and tell him to look out for me by the arrival
of the French boat, somewhere about the 20th or 21st; he can be useful
with the custom-house creatures, and obtain me a carriage all to myself
in the train.
It is always more “carino” to talk of a husband at the last line of
a letter, and so I say, give dear Tino all my loves, quite apart and
distinct from my other legacies of the like nature. Tell him, I am more
tolerant than I used to be,--he will know my meaning,--that I make paper
cigarettes just as well, and occasionally, when in high good-humor, even
condescend to smoke one too. Say also, that I have a little chestnut
cob, quiet enough for his riding, which shall be always at his orders;
that he may dine with me every Sunday, and have one dish--I know
well what it will be, I smell the garlic of it even now--of his own
dictating; and if these be not enough, add that he may make love to me
during the whole of Lent; and with this, believe me
Your own doting sister,
Augusta Bramleigh.
After much thought and many misgivings I deemed it advisable to offer to
take one of the girls with me, leaving it open, to mark my indifference,
as to which it should be. They both however refused, and, to my intense
relief, declared that they did not care to come abroad; Augustus also
protesting that it was a plan he could not approve of. The diplomatist
alone opined that the project had anything to recommend it; but as his
authority, like my own, in the family, carries little weight, we were
happily outvoted. I have, therefore, the supreme satisfaction--and is it
not such?--of knowing that I have done the right thing, and it has cost
me nothing; like those excellent people who throw very devout looks
towards heaven, without the remotest desire to be there.