CHAPTER IV. _Villa Cimarosa, Logo di Como_.

It is a week since I wrote a line in my notebook, and, judging only from my sensations, it seems like a year. Events rapidly succeeding, always make time seem longer in retrospect. It is only monotony is brief to look back upon.

I expected ere this to have been at Naples, if not Palermo; and here I linger on the Lake of Como, as if my frail health had left me any choice of a resting-place. And yet, why should this not be as healthful as it is beautiful?

Looking out from this window, beneath which, not three paces distant, the blue lake is plashing--the music of its waves the only sound heard--great mountains rise grandly from the water to the very skies, the sides one tangled mass of olive, vine, and fig-tree. The dark-leaved laurel, the oleander, the cactus and the magnolia cluster around each rugged rocky eminence, and hang in graceful drapery over the glassy water. Palaces, temples, and villas are seen on every side; some, boldly standing out, are reflected in the calm lake, their marble columns tremulous as the gentle wind steals past; others, half hid among the embowering trees, display but a window or a portico, or perchance a deep arched entrance for the gondolas, above which some heavy banner slowly waves its drooping folds, touching the very water. The closed jalousies, the cloudless sky, the unruffled water, over which no boat is seen to glide, the universal stillness, all tell that it is noon--the noon of Italy, and truly the northern midnight is not a season of such unbroken repose. Looking at this scene, and fancying to myself the lethargic life of ease, which not even thought disturbs, of these people, I half wonder within me how had it fared with us of England beneath such a sun, and in such a clime. Had the untiring spirit of enterprise, the active zeal and thirst for wealth, triumphed over every obstacle, and refused to accept, as a season of rest, the hours of the bright and glaring sunshine?

Here, the very fishermen are sleeping beneath their canvass awnings, and their boats lie resting in the dark shadows. There is something inexpressibly calm and tranquillising in all this. The stillness of night we accept as its natural and fitting accompaniment, but to look out upon this fair scene, one is insensibly reminded of the condition of life which leaves these busiest of mortal hours, elsewhere, free to peaceful repose, and with how little labour all wants are met and satisfied.

How came I here? is a question rising to my mind at every moment, and actually demanding an effort of memory to answer. The very apartment itself is almost a riddle to me, seeming like some magic transformation, realising as it does all that I could ask or wish.

This beautiful little octagon room, with its marble “statuettes” in niches between the windows, its frescoed ceiling, its white marble floor, reflecting each graceful ornament, even to the silver lamp that hangs high in the coved roof; and then, this little terrace beside the lake, where under the silk awning I sit among a perfect bosquet of orange and oleander trees;--it is almost too beautiful for reality. I try to read, but cannot; and as I write I stand up at each moment to peep over the balcony at the fish, as sluggishly they move along, or, at the least stir, dart forward with arrowy speed, to return again the minute after, for they have been fed here and know the spot. There is a dreamy, visionary feeling, that seems to be the spirit of the place, encouraging thought, and yet leading the mind to dalliance rather than moody reverie. And again, how came I here? Now for the answer.

On Tuesday last I was at Varenna, fully bent on proceeding by Milan to Genoa, and thence to Naples. I had, not without some difficulty, resisted all approaches of Sir Gordon Howard, and even avoided meeting him. What scores of fables did I invent merely to escape an interview with an old friend!

Well, at eight o’clock, as I sat at breakfast, I heard the bustle of preparation in the court-yard, and saw with inexpressible relief that his horses were standing ready harnessed, while my valet came with the welcome tidings that the worthy Baronet was starting for Como, near which he had taken a Villa. The Villa Cimarosa, the most beautiful on the lake,--frescoes--statues--hanging gardens--I know not how many more charming items, did my informant recite, with all the impassioned eloquence of George Robins himself. He spared me nothing, from the news that Mademoiselle, Sir Gordon’s grandaughter, who was a prodigious heiress, was ordered to Italy for her health, and that it was more than likely we should find them at Naples for the winter, down to the less interesting fact that the courier, Giacomo Bartoletti, was to proceed by the steamer and get the Villa ready for their arrival. I could only stop his communications by telling him to order horses for Lecco, pay the bill, and follow me, as I should stroll down the road and look at the caverns of rock which it traverses by the lake side.

I had seen Sir Gordon drive off--I had heard the accustomed “_Buon viaggio_” uttered by the whole household in chorus--and now, I was free once more; and so escaping this noisy ceremony of leave-taking, I sauntered listlessly forth, and took my way along the lake. The morning was delicious; a slight breeze from the north, the pleasantest of all the winds on the Lake of Como, was just springing up.

It is here, opposite Varenna, that the lake is widest; but nothing of bleakness results from the greater extent of water, for the mountains are still bold and lofty, and the wooded promontory of Bellagio dividing the two reaches of the lake, is a beautiful feature. Its terraced gardens and stately palaces peeping amid the leafy shade, and giving glimpses of one of the sweetest spots the “Villégiatura” ever lingered in.

I had got a considerable distance from the town of Varenna without feeling it. The enchanting picture, ever presenting some new effect, and the light and buoyant breeze from the water, and a certain feeling of unusual lightness of heart, all aiding, I walked on without fatigue; nor was I aware of the distance traversed, till at a little bend of the lake I saw Varenna diminishing away--its tall poplars and taper spires being now the most conspicuous features of the town.

At a short distance in front of me lay a little creek or bay, from one side of which a wooden pier projected--a station for the steamers that ply on the lake. There now Sir Gordon Howard’s phaeton was standing, surrounded with a most multifarious heap of trunks, packing-cases, portmanteaus, and other travelling gear--signs that some portion of his following, at least, were awaiting the arrival of the packet. Nor had they to wait long: for as I looked, the vessel shot round the rocky point and darted swiftly across the smooth water, till she lay scarce moving, about a quarter of a mile from shore,--the shoal water prevented her approaching nearer to the jetty.

With the idle curiosity of a lounger, I sat down on a rock to watch the scene.

I know no reason for it, but I ever take an interest in the movements of travellers. Their comings and goings suggest invariably some amusing pictures to my mind, and many a story have I weaved for myself from nothing but the passing glimpses of those landed hurriedly from a steamer.

I watched, therefore, with all my usual satisfaction, the launching of the boat laden heavily with luggage, on the top of which, like its presiding genius, sat a burly courier, his gold-banded cap glistening brightly in the sun. Then came a lighter skiff, in the stern of which sat a female figure, shaded by a pink parasol. There was another parasol in the phaeton too--I thought I could even recognise Sir Gordon’s figure in the last boat: but as I looked the sky became suddenly overcast, and round the rocky point, where but a moment before the whole cliff lay reflected in the water, there now came splashing waves, tumbling wildly by, till the whole creek suddenly was covered by them; dark squalls of wind sweeping over the water, tossing the two boats to and fro, and even heaving up the huge steamer itself, till her bows were bathed in foaming cataracts. The suddenness of the tempest--for such it really was--was a grand and sublime “effect” in such a scene: but I could no longer enjoy it, as there seemed to be actual danger in the situation of the two boats, which, from time to time, were hidden between the swelling waves. At last, but not without a struggle, they reached the packet, and I could plainly see, by the signs of haste on board, that the captain had not been a very willing spectator of the scene. The luggage was soon on board, and the figures of the lighter boat followed quickly after.

Scarcely was this effected when the boats were cast off, and again the paddle-wheels splashed through the water. The gale at this instant increased: for no sooner was the steamer’s bow to the wind, than the waves went clean over her, washing her deck from stem to stern, and dashing in columns of spray over the dark funnel. A great stir and commotion on deck drew off my attention from the boats; and now I heard a hoarse voice calling through a speaking-trumpet to those in the boats. They, however, either did not hear or heed the command, for they rowed boldly towards the shore, nor once paid any attention to the signals which, first as a flag, and afterwards as a cannon-shot, the steamer made for them.

While I was lost in conjecturing what possibly all this might mean, the vessel once more rounded to her course, and with full steam up breasted the rolling water, and stood out towards the middle of the lake. A fisherman just then ran his boat in to land, in a little creek beneath me, and from him I asked an explanation of the scene.

“It’s nothing, Signor, but what one sees almost every day here,” said he, jeeringly: “that ‘_canaille_’ of Pellagino have taken people out to the steamer, and would not wait to bring them back again; and now, they must go to Como, whether they will or no.”

This explanation seemed the correct one, and appeared to be corroborated by the attitude of the party on shore, for there stood the phaeton, still waiting, although all chance of the others’ returning was totally by-gone. Concluding that, Sir Gordon thus carried off without his will, his servants might possibly need some advice or counsel--for I knew they were all English, except the Courier--I hastened down to the jetty, to offer them such aid as I possessed. As I came nearer, I was more convinced that my suspicions were correct. About thirty ragged and not over-prepossessing-looking individuals were assembled around the phaeton; some busily pressing the groom, who stood at the horses’ heads, with questions he could not answer; and others imploring charity with all that servile tone and gesture your Italian beggar is master of. Making my way through this assemblage, I accosted the groom, who knew me to be an acquaintance of his master’s, and instead of replying to me, at once cried out,--“Oh, Miss Lucy, here is Mr. Templeton! You need not be afraid, now.” I turned at once, and instead of a lady’s-maid, as I had believed the figure to be, beheld a very lovely but delicate-looking girl, who with an expression of considerable anxiety in her features, was still following the track of the departing steam-boat. At the mention of my name she looked hurriedly around, and a deep blush covered her face as she said,--

“I am so happy to see Mr. Templeton! Perhaps he will forgive me if I make the first moment of our acquaintance the burden of a request?” And then, in a very few words, she told me how her Grandfather, having gone on board the steamer to give some particular orders and directions about his baggage, was unwillingly carried off, leaving her with only a groom, who could speak no language but his own. She went on to say, that they had taken the Villa Cimarosa on the lake, and were then proceeding thither by Lecco, when this _mésaventure_ occurred.

“I now must ask Mr. Templeton’s counsel how to act--whether to return to the inn at Varenna, and wait there till I can hear from my Grandfather, or venture on to Como with the carriage?”

“If you will take my carriage, Miss Howard, it will be here in a few minutes. My servant is a most experienced traveller, and will not suffer you to endure the slightest inconvenience; and I will follow in yours.

“But perhaps you cannot travel in an open carriage? I have heard that your health is delicate.”

“I prefer it greatly.”

“And I too----”

She stopped suddenly, feeling that she was about to utter what might seem an ungracious acknowledgment. There was such an evident regret in the dread of having offended me, that, without pausing to reflect, I said,--

“There is another alternative; I am a very safe whip, and if you would permit me to have the honour of accompanying you, I should be but too happy to be your escort.”

She tried to answer by a polite smile of acceptance, but I saw that the proposition was scarcely such as she approved of, and so at once I added,--

“I will spare you the pain of rejecting my offer; pray, then, abide by my first suggestion. I see my carriage coming along yonder.”

“I don’t know,” said she, with a kind of wilfulness, like that of one who had been long accustomed to indulgence; “it may seem very capricious to you, but I own I detest post-horses, and cracking whips, and rope-harness. You shall drive me, Mr. Templeton.”

I replied by a very sincere assurance of how I esteemed the favour, and the next moment was seated at her side. As I stole a glance at the pale but beautifully-formed features, her drooping eyelashes, dark as night, and her figure of surpassing symmetry and grace, I could not help thinking of all the straits and expedients I had practised for three entire days to avoid making her acquaintance. As if she had actually divined what was then passing in my mind, she said,--

“You see, Mr. Temple ton, it was like a fate; you did your utmost not to meet us, and here we are, after all.”

I stammered out a very eager, but a very blundering attempt at denial, while she resumed,--

“Pray do not make matters worse, which apologies in such cases always do. Grandpapa told me that ill health had made you a recluse and avoid society. This, and the mystery of your own close seclusion, were quite enough to make me desirous to see you.”

“How flattered I should have been had I suspected so much interest could attach to me! but, really, I dreaded to inflict upon a very old friend what I found to be so tiresome, namely, my own company.”

“I always heard that you were fastidious about going into society; but surely a visit to an old friend, in a foreign country too, might have escaped being classified in this category?”

“I own my fault, which, like most faults, has brought its own penalty.”

“If this be meant to express your deep affliction at not coming to us, I accept the speech in all its most complimentary sense.”

I bowed in acquiescence, and she went on:--

“You must forgive me if I talk to you with a freedom that our actual acquaintanceship does not warrant, for, while _you_ never heard of me before, _I_ have been listening to stories and narratives about _you_, I cannot say how long.”

“Indeed! I scarcely suspected Sir Gordon had more than remembered me.”

“I did not say that Grandpapa was my informant,” said she, laughing. “Lady Catherine Douglas--the Collingwoods--the Grevilles--and then that delightful person, Madame de Favancourt,--all spoke of you.... For which of my catalogue was that blush intended, Mr. Templeton?”

“I was only yielding to a very natural sentiment--call it shame, pride, or pleasure--that so many fair friends should have deemed me worthy a place in their memory. Is Mary Greville married?”

“Yes; about a month since she accepted the hand she had, it is said, some half-dozen times rejected.”

“Sir Blake Morony?”

“The same: an intolerable bore, to my thinking; and, indeed, I believe to poor Mary’s, too. But, then, ‘the’ man did not offer. Some say, he was bashful; some, that he dreaded what he need not have dreaded--a refusal; and so, Mary went but to the Cape when her father became Governor there; and, like all governors’ daughters, took a husband from the staff.”

“She was very pretty, but----”

“Say on; we were never more than mere acquaintances.”

“I was going to add, a most inveterate flirt.”

“How I do detest to hear that brought as an accusation against a girl, from the very kind of person that invariably induces the error!--Young men like Mr. Templeton, who, entering life with the prestige of ability and public success, very naturally flatter the vanity of any girl by their attentions, and lead to a more buoyant character of mind and a greater desire to please, which are at once set down as coquetry. For my own part, I greatly prefer old men’s society to young one’s, from the very fact that one is permitted to indulge all the caprices of thought or fancy without incurring the offensive imputation of a design on his heart.”

“I should not always give a verdict of acquittal even in such cases.”

“Very likely not. There are old men whose manner and bearing are infinitely more attractive than the self-satisfied, self-relying composure of our modern young ones. Any thing, however, even boyish awkwardness, is preferable to your middle-aged gentleman, who, with a slight bald spot on his head, and a very permanent flush on his cheek, adds the stately pomp of his forty autumns to a levity that has no touch of younger days.”

“Heaven help us! what are we to do from thirty to fifty-five or sixty?”

“Marry, and live in the country. I mean, do not be young men about town. _Apropos_ to nothing--are we not, this instant, in the very scene of Manzoni’s novel, ‘I Promessi Sposi?’”

“Yes; the whole of our journey to-day lies through it, from Lecco to Como; or rather, more to the northward again--what they call here, the ‘Brianza.’”

“The scene deserved better actors, in my opinion. I have always thought it a very tiresome story, even among that most tiresome class--Pure love-tales.”

“What say you to the ‘Bride of Lammermoor?’”

“That it is only inferior to ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ But how many interests are there brought up before the reader in either of these--all subordinate to the great one--but all exciting mingled and conflicting emotions! The author, in neither case, was satisfied to dwell on the daily and nightly sighings of a love-stricken pair. He knew better than to weave his web of one tissue. In fact, the Master of Ravens-wood is more the slave of his own blighted ambition than of his love, which, at best, was only an element in his feeling of abasement.”

“And yet, how faithfully was his love returned! Nothing short of a true passion meets such requital.”

“If you said, that no heart incapable of feeling ever inspired such, I would agree with you; but I fancy that women are often imposed upon, by supposing that they possess the entire affection of those they know capable of strong attachments.”

“That may possibly be true; but I suspect that in the world--in the middle of that life where we daily meet and form friendships--there is very little time or opportunity for any thing above a passing feeling of admiration, that seldom reaches esteem. The Honourable Miss Tollemache meets Captain Fitzherbert of the Guards. They are introduced and dance together--the lady is pretty--the Captain amusing--they have a large number of mutual acquaintances, whom they quiz and praise by turns, with sufficient agreement to be mutually pleased. They separate; and the Captain asks if the lady really have ‘twenty thousand pounds fortune.’ Match-making aunts and mothers arrange preliminaries; and the young people have leisure to fail in love after the most approved fashion: that is, they meet very often, and talk more together, than common acquaintances are wont to do; but their talk is of Grisi and Lablache, of the Duke’s fete at Chiswick, and Lord Donnington’s yacht excursion to Malta. If the gentleman have a confidence to evoke, it is, possibly, the state of his mind on the approaching ‘Derby.’ Now I would ask, How much of mutual esteem, or even knowledge, grows out of all this?”

“Pretty much the same amount as exists in a French marriage, where M. le Marquis having ‘_fait ses farces_,’ is fain to marry, being somewhat too deep in debt to continue what his years admonish him to abandon. Mademoiselle is brought from the convent, or the governess’s apartment, to sign the contract and accept her husband. There is enough in the very emancipation she obtains to be pleasurable, not to speak of a grand _trousseau_, diamonds, cashmeres, and the prettiest equipage in Paris.”

“Hence,” said I, “we seem agreed, that one must not choose a wife or husband _à la mode Anglaise ni Française_.

“I believe not,” said she, laughing; “for if marriages be made in heaven, they are about the strangest employment for angels I ever heard of.”

“It entirely depends on how you regard what are commonly called accidents and chances, as to the interpretation you give that saying. If you see, in those curious coincidences that are ever occurring in life, nothing more than hazard, you at once abandon all idea of governing human actions. If, on the other hand, you read them too implicitly, and accept them as indications for the future, you rush into fatalism. For my own part, I think less of the events themselves, than as they originate or evoke sentiments in two parties, who, though previously known to each, only discover on some sudden emergency a wonderful agreement in sentiment and feeling. In the ordinary detail of life they had gone on, each ignorant of the other’s opinions: so long as the wheels of life revolved freely and noiselessly, the journey had called for nothing of mutual interest; but some chance occurrence, some accidental rencontre occurs, and they at once perceive a most fortuitous similarity in taste or thinking. Like people who have suddenly discovered a long-persisted-in mistake, they hasten to repair the past by sudden confidences. Let me give an instance, even though it be almost too bold a one for my theory. A friend of mine, who had served some years with great distinction in the East, returned to England in company with a brother officer, a man of high family, knowing and known to every one of a certain standing in London. My friend, who, from a remote province, had no town acquaintances, was, however, speedily introduced by his friend, and, heralded by his reputation, was greatly noticed in society. He soon wearied of a round of dissipations, wherein the great, if not the only interest, lies in knowledge of the actors; and was one night stealing away from a large evening party, secretly resolving that it should be his last ball. He had, by dint of great labour and perseverance, reached the last salon, and already-caught glimpse of the stair beyond, when his progress was suddenly arrested by a very sweet but excited voice, saying--‘One moment, sir; may I beg you will release my scarf.’ He turned and beheld a very handsome girl, who was endeavouring to disengage from her shoulders a rich scarf of lace, one end of which was caught in the star he wore on his breast--a decoration from the Nizam. He immediately began to detach the delicate tissue from its dangerous situation. But his address was inferior to his zeal, so that he continually received admonitions as to greater care and caution, with mingled laments over the inevitable mischief that must follow. Something abashed by his own awkwardness, his nervousness made him worse, and he muttered to himself in German, thinking it was a safe tongue for soliloquy--‘Why will ladies wear such preposterous finery?--the spider’s web is not so fragile.’ To which at once the lady replied, in the same language,--‘If men are vain enough to carry a coat full of ‘_crachats_’ and orders, ladies ought, at least, to be careful how they pass them.’ He blushed at the tart rebuke, and in his eagerness he tore a little hoop or mesh of the scarf. ‘Oh, pray sir, permit me! It is real Brussels!’ and so saying, she at once began, with a skill very different from his, the work of disentanglement. My friend, however, did not desist, but gave what aid he could, their fingers more than once meeting. Meanwhile a running fire of pleasantry and smartness went on between them, when suddenly his brother officer came up, saying,--

“‘Oh! Lydia, here is my friend Collyton. I have been so anxious you should know him; and he leaves to-morrow.’

“‘I hope he will permit me to rescue my scarf first,’ said the lady, taking no heed of the introduction.

“‘I am so sorry--I really am in despair,’ said Collyton, as the lady, growing at last impatient, tore the frail web in order to get free.

“‘It was all your fault, sir, remember that--or rather that of your star, which I’m sure I wish the Sirdar, or the Nizam, had reserved for a more careful wearer.’

“‘I never deemed it would have done me such service,’ said Collyton, recovering courage; ‘without it, I should have passed on, and you would never have taken the trouble to notice me.’

“‘There, sir, I must leave you your prize,’ said she, smartly, as, taking the arm of her partner, she joined the waltzers; while Collyton stood with the folds of a Brussels veil draped gracefully on his arm.

“He went home; spent half the night disengaging the intricate web, and the next day called to restore it, and apologise for his misfortune; the acquaintance thus casually formed ripened into mutual liking, and, after a time, into a stronger feeling, and in the end they were married; the whole of the event, the great event of every life, originating in the porcupine fashion of the Nizam’s star and the small loops of a Brussels-lace scarf! Here, then, is my case; but for this rencontre they had never met, save in the formal fashion people do as first acquaintances. Without a certain collision, they had not given forth the sparks that warmed into flame.”

“I call that a pure chance, just as much as--as----”

“Our own meeting this morning, you were about to say,” said I, laughingly; and she joined in the mirth, but soon after became silent and thoughtful. I tried various ways of renewing our conversation; I started new topics, miles remote from all we had been talking of: but I soon perceived that, whether from physical causes or temperament, the eager interest she exhibited when speaking, and the tone of almost excited animation in which she listened, seemed to weary and exhaust her. I therefore gradually suffered our conversation to drop down to an occasional remark on passing objects; and so we travelled onwards till, late in the afternoon, we found ourselves at the gate of a handsome park, where an avenue of trellised vines, wide enough for two carriages to pass, led to a beautiful villa, on the terrace of which stood my old friend, Sir Gordon Howard, himself.

For a few moments he was so totally engrossed by the meeting with his grandaughter that he did not even perceive me. Indeed, his agitation was as great as it might reasonably have been had years of absence separated them, instead of the few brief hours of a twenty miles’ drive; and it was only as she said, “Are you forgetting to thank Mr. Templeton, Papa?” that he turned round to greet me with all the warmth of his kindly nature.

It was to no purpose that I protested plans already formed, engagements made, and horses written for; he insisted on my staying, if not some weeks--some days--and at last, hours, at the Villa Cimarosa. I might still have resisted his kind entreaties, when Miss Howard, with a smile and a manner of most winning persuasiveness, said, “I wish you would stay,”--and------here I am!