There is a short season in which a villa within the walls of old Rome
realizes all that is positive ecstasy in the life of Italy. This season
begins usually towards the end of February, and continues through the
month of March. This interval--which in less favored lands is dedicated
to storms of rain and sleet, east winds and equinoctial gales, tumbling
chimney-pots and bronchitis--is here signalized by all that Spring, in
its most voluptuous abundance, can pour forth. Vegetation comes out,
not with the laggard step of northern climes,--slow, cautious, and
distrustful,--but bursting at once from bud to blossom, as though
impatient for the fresh air of life and the warm rays of the sun. The
very atmosphere laughs and trembles with vitality. From the panting
lizard on the urn to the myriad of insects on the grass, it is life
everywhere; and over all sweeps the delicious odor of the verbena and
the violet, almost overpowering with perfume, so that one feels, in
such a land, the highest ecstasy of existence is that same dreamy state
begotten of impressions derived from blended sense, where tone and tint
and odor mingle almost into one. Perhaps the loveliest spot of Rome in
this loveliest of seasons was the Villa Altieri. It stood on a slope of
the Pincian, defended from north and east, and looking eastward over the
Campagna towards the hills of Albano. A thick ilex grove, too thick and
dark for Italian, though perfect to English taste, surrounded the house,
offering alleys of shade that even the noonday's sun found impenetrable;
while beneath the slope, and under shelter of the hill, lay a delicious
garden, memorable by a fountain designed by Thorwaldsen, where
four Naiades splash the water at each other under the fall of a
cataract,--this being the costly caprice of the Cardinal Altieri, to
complete which he had to conduct the water from the Lake of Albano.
Unlike most Italian gardens, the plants and shrubs were not merely those
of the south, but all that the culture of Holland and England could
contribute to fragrance and color were also there, and the gorgeous
tulips of the Hague, the golden ranunculus and crimson carnation, which
attain their highest beauty in moister climates, here were varied with
chrysanthemums and camellias. Gorgeous creepers trailed from tree to
tree or gracefully trained themselves around the marble groups, and
clusters of orange-trees, glittering with golden fruit, relieved in
their darker green the almost too glaring brilliancy of color.
At a window which opened to the ground--and from which a view of the
garden, and beyond the garden the rich woods of the Borghese Villa, and
beyond these again, the massive dome of St. Peter's, extended--sat two
ladies, so wonderfully alike that a mere glance would have proclaimed
them to be sisters. It is true the Countess Balderoni was several years
older than Lady Augusta Bramleigh; but whether from temperament or
the easier flow of an Italian life in comparison with the more wearing
excitement of an English existence, she certainly looked little, if
anything, her senior.
They were both handsome,--at least, they had that character of good
looks which in Italy is deemed beauty; they were singularly fair, with
large, deep-set blue-gray eyes, and light brown hair of a marvellous
abundance and silkiest fibre. They were alike soft-voiced and
gentle-mannered, and alike strong-willed and obstinate, of an intense
selfishness, and very capricious.
“His eminence is late this evening,” said Lady Augusta, looking at her
watch. “It is nigh eight o'clock.”
“I fancy, Gusta, he was not quite pleased with you last night. On going
away he said something, I did n't exactly catch it, but it sounded like
'leggierezza;' he thought you had not treated his legends of St. Francis
with becoming seriousness.”
“If he wanted me to be grave he oughtn't to tell me funny stories.”
“The lives of the saints, Gusta!”
“Well, dearest, that scene in the forest where St. Francis asked the
devil to flog him, and not to desist, even though he should be weak
enough to implore it--was n't that dialogue as droll as anything in
Boccaccio?”
“It's not decent, it's not decorous to laugh at any incident in the
lives of holy men.”
“Holy men, then, should never be funny, at least when they are presented
to me, for it's always the absurd side of everything has the greatest
attraction for me.”
“This is certainly not the spirit which will lead you to the Church!”
“But I thought I told you already, dearest, that it 's the road I
like, not the end of the journey. Courtship is confessedly better than
marriage, and the being converted is infinitely nicer than the state of
conviction.”
“Oh, Gusta, what are you saying?”
“Saying what I most fervently feel to be true. Don't you know, better
even than myself, that it is the zeal to rescue me from the fold of the
heretics surrounds me every evening with monsignori and vescovi, and
attracts to the sofa where I happen to sit, purple stockings and red, a
class of adorers, I am free to own, there is nothing in the lay world
to compare with; and don't you know, too, that the work of conversion
accomplished, these seductive saints will be on the look-out for a new
sinner?”
“And is this the sincerity in which you profess your new faith? is
it thus that you mean to endow a new edifice to the honor of the Holy
Religion?”
“Cara mia! I want worship, homage, and adoration myself, and it is as
absolute a necessity of my being, as if I had been born up there, and
knew nothing of this base earth and its belongings. Be just, my dearest
sister, and see for once the difference between us. You have a charming
husband, who never plagues, never bores you, whom you see when it is
pleasant to see, and dismiss when you are weary of him. He never worries
you about money, he has no especial extravagance, and does not much
trouble himself about anything--I have none of these. I am married to
a man almost double my age, taken from another class, and imbued with
a whole set of notions different from my own. I can't live with _his_
people; my own won't have me. What then is left but the refuge of that
emotional existence which the Church offers?--a sort of pious flirtation
with a runaway match in the distance, only it is to be heaven, not
Gretna Green.”
“So that all this while you have never been serious, Gusta?”
“Most serious! I have actually written to my husband,--you read the
letter,--acquainting him with my intended change of religion, and my
desire to mark the sincerity of my profession by that most signal of
all proofs,--a moneyed one. As I told the Cardinal last night, Heaven is
never so sure of us as when we draw on our banker to go there!”
“How you must shock his eminence when you speak in this way!”
“So he told me; but I must own he looked very tenderly into my eyes as
he said so. Isn't it provoking?” said she, as she arose and moved out
into the garden. “No post yet! It is always so when one is on thorns for
a letter. Now, when one thinks that the mail arrives at daybreak, what
can they possibly mean by not distributing the letters till evening? Did
I tell you what I said to Monsignore Ricci, who has some function at
the Post Office?”
“No, but I trust it was not a rude speech; he is always so polite.”
“I said that as I was ever very impatient for my letters, I had
requested all my correspondents to write in a great round legible hand,
which would give the authorities no pretext for delay, while deciphering
their contents.”
“I declare, Gusta, I am amazed at you. I cannot imagine how you can
venture to say such things to persons in office.”
“My dear sister, it is the only way they could ever hear them. There is
no freedom of the press here; in society nobody speaks out. What would
become of those people if they only heard the sort of stories they tell
each other; besides, I 'm going to be one of them. They must bear with a
little indiscipline.' The sergeant always pardons the recruit for being
disorderly on the day of enlistment.”
The Countess shook her head disapprovingly, and was silent.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” sighed Lady Augusta. “I wonder what tidings the
post will bring me! Will my affectionate and afflicted husband comply
with my prayer, and be willing to endow the Church, and secure his own
freedom; or will he be sordid, and declare that he can't live without
me? I know you'd laugh, dear, or I'd tell you that the man is actually
violently in love with me. You 've no notion of the difficulty I have to
prevent him writing tender letters to me.”
“You are too, too bad, I declare,” said the other, smothering a rising
laugh.
“Of course I 'd not permit such a thing. I stand on my dignity, and say,
'Have a care, sir.' Oh, here it comes! here's the post! What! only two
letters, after all? She's a dun! Madame la Ruelle, Place Vendôme,--the
cruellest creature that ever made a ball-dress. It is to tell me she
can't wait; and I 'm so sick of saying she must, that I 'll not write
any more. And who is this? The postmark is 'Portshandon.' Oh! I see;
here's the name in the corner. This is from our eldest son, the future
head of the house. Mr. Augustus Bramleigh is a bashful creature of
about my own age, who was full of going to New Zealand and turning
sheep-farmer. True, I assure you; he is an enthusiast about
independence; which means he has a grand vocation for the workhouse.”
“By what strange turn of events has he become your correspondent?”
“I should say, Dora, it looks ill as regards the money. I'm afraid that
this bodes a refusal.”
“Would not the shorter way be to read it?” said the other, simply.
“Yes, the shorter, but perhaps not the sweeter. There are little events
in life which are worse than even uncertainties; but here goes:--
“'Castello.”
“'My dear Lady Augusta,--
“A very pretty beginning from my son--I mean my husband's son; and yet
he could not have commenced 'Dearest Mamma.'”
“'I write my first letter to you at a very painful moment. My poor
father was seized on Tuesday last with a most serious and sudden
illness, to which the physician as yet hesitates to give a name. It
is, however, on the brain or the membranes, and deprives him of all
inclination, though not entirely of all power, to use his faculties.
He is, moreover, enjoined to avoid every source of excitement, and even
forbidden to converse. Of course, under these afflicting circumstances,
everything which relates to business in any way is imperatively excluded
from his knowledge; and must continue to be so till some change occurs.
“'It is not at such a moment you would expect to hear of a marriage
in the family, and yet yesterday my sister Marion was married to Lord
Viscount Culduff.'”
Here she laid down the letter, and stared with an expression of
almost overwhelmed amazement at her sister. “Lord Culduff! Where's the
'Peerage,' Dora? Surely it must be the same who was at Dresden when we
were children; he wasn't married--there can be no son. Oh, here he
is: 'Henry Plantagenet de Lacey, fourteenth Viscount Culduff; born 9th
February, 17--.' Last century. Why, he 's the patriarch of the peers,
and she 's twenty-four! What can the girl mean?”
“Do read on; I'm impatient for more.”
“'The imperative necessity for Lord Culduff to hold himself in readiness
for whatever post in the diplomatic service the Minister might desire
him to occupy, was the chief reason for the marriage taking place at
this conjuncture. My father, however, himself, was very anxious on the
subject; and indeed, insisted strongly on being present. The ceremony
was accordingly performed in his own room, and I rejoice to say that,
though naturally much excited, he does not appear to have sustained any
increase of malady from this trying event. I need not tell you the great
disparity of age between my sister and her husband: a disparity which I
own enlisted me amongst those who opposed the match. Marion, however,
so firmly insisted on her right to choose for herself, and her fortune
being completely at her own disposal, that all continued opposition
would have been not alone unavailing for the present, but a source of
coldness and estrangement for the future.
“'The Culduffs'--(how sweetly familiar)--'the Culduffs left this for
Paris this day, where I believe they intend to remain till the question
of Lord Culduff's post is determined on. My sister ardently hopes it may
be in Italy, as she is most desirous to be near you.'
“Can you imagine such a horror as this woman playing daughter to me, and
yet going in to dinner before me, and making me feel her rank on
every possible occasion! All this here I see is business,--nothing but
business. The Colonel, it would seem, must have been breaking before
they suspected, for all his late speculations have turned out ill.
Penstyddin Copper Mine is an utter failure; the New Caledonian Packet
Line a smash; and there 's a whole list of crippled enterprises. It 's
very nice of Augustus, however, to say that, though he mentions these
circumstances, which might possibly reach me through other channels, no
event that he could contemplate should in any way affect my income, or
any increase of it that I deem essential to my comfort or convenience;
and although in total ignorance as he is of all transactions of the
house, he begs me to write to himself directly when any question of
increased expense should arise--which I certainly will. He 's a _buon
figliuolo_, Dolly, that must be said, and it would be shameful not to
develop such generous instincts.
“'If my father's illness should be unhappily protracted, means must be
taken, I believe, to devolve his share in business matters upon some
other. I regret that it cannot possibly be upon myself; but I am totally
unequal to the charge, and have not, besides, courage for the heavy
responsibility.'
“That's the whole of it,” said she, with a sigh; “and all things
considered, it might have been worse.”