CHAPTER V. _La Villa Cimarosa, October

How like a dream--a delicious, balmy, summer night’s dream--is this life I am leading! For the first time have I tasted the soothing tranquillity of domestic life. A uniformity, that tells rather of security than sameness, pervades every thing in this well-ordered household, where all come and go as if under the guidance of some ruling genius, unseen and unheard. Sir Gordon, too, is like a father; at least as I can fancy a father to be, for I was too early left an orphan to preserve my memory of either parent. His kindness is even more than what we call friendship. It is actually paternal. He watches over my health with all the unobtrusive solicitude of true affection; and if I even hint at departure, he seizes the occasion to oppose it, not with the warmth of hospitality alone, but a more deeply-meaning interest that sometimes puzzles me. Can it be that he recognises in my weakened frame and shrunken cheek, greater ravages of disease than I yet feel or know of? Is it that he perceives me nearer the goal than as yet I am aware? It was yesterday, as we sat in the library together, running over the pages of an almanac, I remarked something about my liking to travel by moonlight, when, with a degree of emotion that amazed me, he said, “Pray do not talk of leaving us; I know that in this quiet monotony there may be much to weary you; but remember that you are not strong enough for the world, did you even care to take your place in it as of old. Besides,”--here he faltered, and it was with a great effort that he resumed--“besides, for _my_ sake, if the selfishness of the request should not deter you, for _my_ sake remain with us some time longer.”

I protested most warmly, as I had all reason to do, that for years past I had never known time pass on so happily; that in the peaceful calm we lived, I had tasted a higher enjoyment than all the most buoyant pleasures of healthier and younger days had ever given me. “But,”--I believe I tried to smile as I spoke,--“but recollect, Sir Gordon, I have got my billet: the doctors have told me to go, and die, at Naples. What a shock to science if I should remain, to live, at Como!”

“Do so, my dearest friend,” said he, grasping my hands within both of his, while the tears swam in his eyes; “I cannot--I dare not--I have not strength to tell you, all that your compliance with this wish will confer on me Spare me this anguish, and do not leave us.” As he uttered these words he left me, his emotion too great to let me reply.

The sick man’s selfishness would say, that his anxiety is about that wasting malady, whose ravages are even more plainly seen than felt.

Turn the matter over how I will, I cannot reconcile this eager anxiety for my remaining with any thing but a care for myself. It is clear he thinks me far worse than I can consent to acknowledge. I do not disguise from myself the greater lassitude I experience after a slight exertion, a higher tension of the nervous system, and an earlier access of that night fever, which, like the darkness of the coming winter, creeps daily on, shortening the hours of sunlight, and ushering in a deeper and more solemn gloom; but I watch these symptoms as one already prepared for their approach, and feel grateful that their coming has not clouded the serenity with which I hope to journey to the last.

Kind old man! I would that I were his son, that I could feel my rightful claim to the affection he lavishes on me; but for _his_ sake it is better as it is! And Miss Howard--Lucy, let me call her, since I am permitted so to accost her--what a blessing I should have felt such a sister to be, so beautiful, so kind, so gently feminine! for that is the true charm. This, too, is better as it is. How could I take leave of life, if I were parting with such enjoyments?

She is greatly changed since we came here. Every day seems to gain something over the malady she laboured under. She is no longer faint and easily wearied, but able to take even severe exercise without fatigue; her cheek has grown fuller, and its rosy tint is no longer hectic, but the true dye of health; and instead of that slow step and bent-down head, her walk is firm and her air erect; while her spirits, no longer varying from high excitement to deep depression, are uniformly good and animated. Life is opening in all its bloom to her, as rapidly as its shadows are closing and gathering around me. Were it mine to bestow, how gladly would I give what remains of flickering life to strengthen the newly-sprung vitality, her light step, her brilliant smile and dark blue eye! That coming back to health, from out of the very shadow of death, must be a glorious sensation! The sudden outbursting of all this fair world’s joys, on a spirit over which the shade of sickness has only swept, and not rested long enough to leave its blight. I think I read in that almost heroic elevation of sentiment, that exquisite perception of whatever is beautiful in Lucy, the triumph of returning energy and health. She is less fanciful and less capricious, too. Formerly, the least remark, in which she construed a difference of opinion, would distress or irritate her, and her temper appeared rather under the sway of momentary impulse than the guidance of right principle. Now, she accepts even correction, mildly and gratefully, and if a sudden spark of former haste flash forth, she seems eager to check and repress it; she acts as though she felt that restored health imposed more restraint and less of self-indulgence than sickness. How happy if one were only to bring out of the sick chamber its teaching of submission, patience, and gratitude, and leave behind its egotism and its irritability! This she would appear to aim at; and to strive is to win.

And now I quit this chronicling to join her. Already she is on her way to the boat, and we are going to see Pliny’s villa; at least the dark and shadowy nook where it once stood. The lake is still as a mirror, and a gorgeous mirror it is, reflecting a scene of faëry brilliancy and beauty. She is waving her handkerchief to me to come. “_Vengo, subito_.”

This has been a delightful day. We rowed along past Melzi till we came under the tall cliffs near Bellagio; and there, in a little bay, land-locked and shaded by olive-trees, we dined. I had never seen Sir Gordon so thoroughly happy. When Lucy’s spirits have been higher, and her fancy has taken wilder and bolder wings, he has usually worn a look of anxiety through all his admiring fondness. To-day, she was less animated than she generally is--almost grave at times--but not sad; and I think that “Grandpapa” loved her better in this tranquil mood, than in those of more eager enjoyment. I believe I read his meaning, that, in her highest flow of spirits, he dreads the wear and tear consequent on so much excitement; while in her more sombre days he indulges the hope that she is storing up in repose the energies of future exertion. How it takes off the egotism of sickness to have some one whose ever-watchful care is busy for our benefit! how it carries away the load of “self,” and all its troubles! while I.... But I must not dwell on this theme, nor disturb that deep sense of gratitude I feel for all that I possess of worldly advantage, were it no more than this blessing, that on quitting life I leave it when my sense of enjoyment has mellowed into that most lasting and enduring one, the love of quiet, of scenery, of converse with old friends on by-gone events--the tranquil pleasures of age tasted without the repining of age!

Lucy bantered me to-day upon my inordinate love of ease, as she called it, forgetting that this inactivity was at first less from choice than compulsion; now, it is a habit, one I may as well wear out, for I have no time left to acquire new ones. She even tried to stimulate my ambition, by alluding to my old career and the rewards it might have opened to me. I could have told her that a father or an uncle at the “Council” was of more avail than a clever despatch or a well-concluded treaty; that some of our ablest Ministers are wasting life and energy at small, obscure, and insignificant missions, where their functions never rise beyond the presentation of letters of congratulation or condolence, attendance on a court ball, or a _Te Deum_ for the sovereign’s birthday; while capacities that would be unnoticed, if they were not dangerous, have the destinies of great events in their keeping. True, there is always the Foreign Office as the “_Cour d’Appel_” and, whatever may be the objections--grave and weighty they certainly are at times--against those parliamentary interrogations by which the Minister is compelled to reveal the object and course of his dealings with foreign nations, there is one admirable result,--our foreign policy will always be National. No Minister can long pursue any course in defiance of the approval of Parliament; nor can any Parliament, in our day, long resist the force of public opinion.

While, therefore, Nicholas or Metternich may precipitate the nations they rule over into a war, where there is neither the sympathy nor the prejudices of a people involved, _we_ never draw the sword without a hearty good will to wield it.

To what end all this in reference to Lucy Howard’s question? None whatever; for, in truth, I was half flattered by the notion that the shattered, storm-beaten wreck, could be supposed sea-worthy, and so I promised amendment. How pleasant it was, sitting Tityrus-like, to dream over high rewards and honours! She, at least, seemed to think so; for whether to stimulate my ardour, or merely following the impulse of her own, I know not, but she certainly dwelt with animation and delight on the advantages of a career that placed one almost _au pied d’égal_ with sovereigns. “I am sure,” said she, “that you cannot look upon those who started in the race with yourself, without some repinings that others, whom you know to be inferior to you, have passed you; and that men whom you would never have thought of as competitors, are now become more than equals.”

If I accede to this opinion to a certain extent, still I must protest against any feeling of real regret when I think that success is much oftener obtained by what is called a “lucky hit,” than by years of zealous and intelligent exertion. I have known a man obtain credit for stopping a courier--waylaying him, I might rather call it--and taking by force a secret treaty from his hand, while the steady services of a life-long have gone unrewarded. These things have an evil influence upon diplomacy as a “career;” they suggest to young men to rely rather on address and dexterity than upon “prudence and forethought.” Because Lord Palmerston discourses foreign politics with a certain gifted and very beautiful Countess, or that M. Guizot deigns to take counsel from a most accomplished Princess of Russian origin, every small _Attaché_ thinks he is climbing the short road to fame and honours by listening to the _fadaise_ of certain political _boudoirs_, and hearing “pretty ladies talk” about Spielberg and Monkopf. When the Northern minister sent his son to travel through the world, that he might see with his own eyes by what “commonplace mortals states were governed,” he might have recommended to his especial notice Plenipo’s and Envoys Extraordinary. From time to time, it is otherwise. Lord Castlereagh, whatever detraction party hate may visit on his home politics, was a consummate Ambassador. Not of that school which Talleyrand created, and of which he was the head, but a man of unflinching courage, high determination, and who, with a strong purpose and resolute will, never failed to make felt the influence of a nation he so worthily represented. With this, he was a perfect courtier; the extreme simplicity of his manner and address was accompanied by an elegance and a style of the most marked distinction. Another, but of a different stamp, was Lord Whitworth; one on whom all the dramatic passion and practised outrage of Napoleon had no effect whatever.

Sir Gordon remarked, that in this quality of coolness and imperturbability he never saw any one surpass his friend, Sir Robert Darcy. One evening when playing at whist, at Potzdam, with the late King of Prussia, his Majesty, in a fit of inadvertence, appropriated to himself several gold pieces belonging to Sir Robert. The King at last perceived and apologised for his mistake, adding, “Why did you not inform me of it?” “Because I knew your Majesty always makes restitution when you have obtained time for reflection.” Hanover was then on the _tapis_, and the King felt the allusion. I must not forget a trait of that peculiar sarcastic humour for which Sir Robert was famous. Although a Whig--an old blue-and-yellow of the Fox school--he hated more than any man that mongrel party which, under the name of Whigs, have carried on the Opposition in Parliament for so many years; and of that party, a certain well-known advocate for economical reforms came in for his most especial detestation: perhaps he detested him particularly, because he had desecrated the high ground of Oppositional attack, and brought it down to paltry cavillings about the sums accorded to poor widows on the Pension List, or the amount of sealing-wax consumed in the Foreign Office. When, therefore, the honourable and learned gentleman, in the course of a continental tour, happened to pass through the city where Sir Robert lived as ambassador, he received a card of invitation to dinner, far more on account of a certain missive from the Foreign Office, than from any personal claims he was possessed of. The Member of Parliament was a _gourmand_ of the first water; he had often heard of Sir Robert’s _cuisine_--various travellers had told him that such a table could not be surpassed, and so, although desirous of getting forward, he countermanded his horses, and accepted the invitation.

Sir Robert, whose taste for good living was indisputable, no sooner read the note acceding to his request than he called his _attachés_ together, and said, “Gentlemen, you will have a very bad dinner to-day, but I request you will all dine here, as I have a particular object in expressing the wish.”

Dinner-hour came; and after the usual ceremony the party were seated at table, when a single soup appeared: this was followed by a dish of fish, and then, without _entrée_ or _hors d’oevre_, came a boiled leg of mutton, Sir Robert premising to his guest that it was to have no successor: adding, “You see, sir, what a poor entertainment I have provided for you; but to this have the miserable economists in Parliament brought us--next session may carry it further, and leave us without even so much.” Joseph was sold, and never forgot it since.

I saw, that while Sir Gordon and I discussed people and events in this strain, Lucy became inattentive and pre-occupied by other thoughts; and on charging her with being so, she laughingly remarked that Englishmen always carry about with them the one range of topics; and whether they dine in Grosvenor Square, or beneath an olive-tree in the Alps, the stream of the table-talk is ever the same. “Now a Frenchman,” said she, gaily, “had uttered I cannot say how many flat sentimentalisme about the place we are in; a German had mysticised to no end; and an Italian would have been improvising about every thing, from the wire that restrained the champagne cork to the woes of enchained Italy. Tell us a story, Mr. Templeton.”

“A story! What shall it be? A love story? a ghost story? a merry, or a sad one?”

“Any of these you like, so that it be true. Tell me something that has actually happened.”

“That is really telling a secret,” said I; “for while truth can be, and oftener is, stranger than fiction, it is so, rather from turning ordinary materials to extraordinary uses--making of every-day people singular instances of vice and virtue--than for any great peculiarity in the catastrophes to which they contribute.”

“Well, I don’t believe in the notion of everyday people. I have a theory, that what are so summarily disposed of in this fashion are just as highly endowed with individualities as any others. Do you remember a beautiful remark, made in the shape of a rebuke, that Scott one day gave his daughter for saying that something was ‘Vulgar?’ ‘Do you know what is the meaning of the word vulgar? It is only common; and nothing that is common, except wickedness, can deserve to be spoken of in terms of contempt: and when you have lived to my years, you will be disposed to agree with me in thanking God that nothing really worth having or caring about in this world is _uncommon_.’”

“When I said ordinary, every-day people, don’t mistake me; I meant only those who, from class and condition, follow a peculiar ritual, and live after a certain rubric of fashion; and who, hiding themselves under a common garment, whose cut, colour, and mode are the same, are really undistinguishable, save on great and trying occasions.

“Kings, for instance! whom great diplomatic folks are supposed to see a great deal of, and know in all the terms of an easy intimacy.

“But how do we see them? In an armour of reserve and caution, never assumed to any one else. The ease you speak of is all assumed. It is the conventional politeness accorded to a certain station. Kings, so far as I have seen, are never really engaging, save to a great minister out of power. Then their manner assumes all its attractiveness; on the principle, perhaps, that Curran paid his homage to the antique Hercules,--that _his_ day might yet come uppermost, and he would not forget the friend who visited him in adversity.”

“Well, to come back, tell us a story. Let it be what you will, or of where and whom you please, so that it last while we are rowing homeward. Monologue is always better than conversation by moonlight.

“But stay; what are the lights we see yonder, glancing from amid the trees? And there, now, see the bright blaze that has sprung up, and is reflected red and lurid on the lake below. It is a ‘Festa’ of the Church; for hear, the bells are ringing merrily from the mountain-top, and there go the people in procession, climbing the steep path towards the summit.”

Wonderful superstition! that has fashioned itself to every phase and form of human nature--now, sending its aid to the darkest impulses of passion, as we see in Ireland--now, conforming to the most simple tastes of an unthinking people; for these peasants here are not imbued with the piety of the Church--they only love its gauds. It is to the Tyrol you must go to witness the real devotional feeling of a people.

“Well, shall I tell you a story?”

“No; I am weaving one, now, for myself!”