Part 2

It will be seen that Mr. and Mrs. Adam have the right feeling towards “little sister cat and little brother dog,” as St. Francis of Assisi would have called them. This suits us very well, and oddly enough, Villino Loki is a kind of paradise for things of fur and feather. Cat and dog live in a strange harmony. To see Loki kiss Bunny, or Bunny clasp Arabella round the neck, is as pleasing a sight as you could imagine. And if Kitty-Wee occasionally boxes Loki with a kind of delicate compactness, it is with her claws in. As for Juvenal, the butler, whose pantry is full of singing birds, no sense of etiquette will restrain him from public blandishments when Loki is on the scene. George, the footman, can be heard addressing him—Loki—in back passages, as “My loved one!” And Tom, the old long-haired English cat, rules the kitchen.

[Sidenote: THE VICISSITUDES OF TOM]

Tom has reached the patriarchal age of eighteen years, and is cherished by the master of the Villino. He has had many vicissitudes. He was stung by an adder during our very first summer, years ago, on these moors, and lay for a day in a coma with one paw swollen the size of a child’s arm, to be saved by doses of brandy and milk. A few years later he was caught in a trap. How he got free no one knows, but we found him crawling, piteously complaining, with a shattered leg. With the help of the cook, who followed the tradition of the establishment and was Tom’s slave, the leg was set with strips of firewood, the bone being very successfully mended. It so happened that the Master of the House had, about the same time, snapped his _tendo-plantaris_ at tennis; and it was a sight to see them both when they stumped down the wooden passages—the master dot-and-go-one on his crutches, Thomas following in his splints, dot-and-go-three.

The amateur surgery, however, was not completely successful. Though Thomas’ bone knit, the poor mangled flesh remained unhealed, and at last the cook conveyed her darling in a basket to the most celebrated London animal doctor. Thereafter ensued a time of horrible suspense. Telegrams went briskly backwards and forwards. Dr. Jewell “doubted if he could save the limb.” Tom’s adoring family could not contemplate the tragedy therein implied. “Better euthanasia!” we wired. “Will do my best for little cat,” the sympathetic Æsculapius of God’s humble creatures replied. Hope and devotion triumphed. Tommy returned to us with three legs in large fur trousers, the fourth as close as a mouse. The fur thereon has never grown to full length again. We fear it will never grow now.

Dear old Tom is toothless, and he is getting a little bald on the top of his head; but he is a beautiful creature still, and a dandy. His four spats are always of an almost startling snowiness; his shirt-front ditto. He is not very fond of any of the other animals, and was so revolted by Kitty-Wee’s _mésalliance_ that she could not show her face in the kitchen without his instantly using as severe language as ever John Knox to Queen Mary. “Hussy!” was the mildest of his terms.

II

Where we live, high on the southern moorlands of Surrey, the desolation of winter never seems to reach us; unless, indeed, upon certain days of streaming rains, or weeping mists that rush rapid and ghost-like up the valley, and blot out the world from view. But those days would be dreary anywhere and in any season.

Our funny little house, more like an Italian “Villino,” perhaps, than anything English, stands high, midway between the rolling shoulders of moor and the green-wooded dip of the valley. And the moor has always colour in it. There are some sunset days when it seems not so much to reflect as to give out rose and purple and carmine. And now in January it is a wonderful copper-brown, with the tawny of dying Bracken and the yellow of young Gorse. And opposite to us a belt of birchwood is purple against solemn green of pine. And the purple and solemn green run right down together to the bright verdure of fields and dells; then up again to moorland, where the fir trees march up once more against the sky.

There are Larches in these woods, and Oaks, so that the spring tints are almost as wonderful as the autumn. When the Furze and Broom are all guinea-gold on the moor, the young Bracken begins to creep in green patches that are pure joy. Later on the Bell-heather breaks into a deep rose which, with the sun on it, holds such a glory of colour that you could scarce find its match in an old Cathedral window. And when this splendour begins to turn to russet, then comes the tender silvery amethyst of the Ling, and spreads a mantle all over those great shoulders of wild land that is of the exact hue most beautiful to contrast with the full summer woods and the blue of an August sky; a combination so matchless for colour-loving eyes that it seems as if one’s soul were not big enough to hold the complete impression. And when our Delphiniums rear themselves against this background, we feel, looking on it all, as if we could sing for the mere rapture of it; or—having no voice—roll in the grass like Loki or like Bunny.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: A LITTLE PLACE OF ONE’S OWN]

For a long time we—Loki’s Grandfather and Grandmother—had said to each other that we must have a week-end cottage. We were so tired of hiring other people’s houses, summer after summer, and of the labour ‹not unattended by some pleasurable excitement on Loki’s Grandmother’s part› of pulling their furniture about, and hiding away all the family portraits and the choicest works of art, to make the alien spaces tolerable to one’s own individuality. So tired, too, of the boredom and worry of having to restore everything to its pristine ugliness and hang up the enlarged photographs and the dreadful oil paintings on the walls once more—a tedious task, albeit enlivened on one occasion by the thrilling discovery that, having consigned these treasures to an oak chest in the hall, most of them had grown fur; and that on another the oil painting of your detested landlady, in middle Victorian chignon and the hump of the period, has received a scratch on the nose which no copious application of linseed oil will disguise. We always detest our landlady ... though not as much as we loathe the tenants who may happen to hire a house of ours.

At the end of each summer, therefore, we would make elaborate calculations to prove what a great economy it would be to have a little place of our own. Finally these plans and desires crystallized into action. When Loki’s Grandfather returned from a round of inspection to the hotel where we were staying in the district we fancied, and told Loki’s Grandmother that he had visited a funny little house with a terrace upon which he “saw her”—in his own phraseology—she was extremely sceptical. And when we drove down the hill to view his discovery, and were literally dropped from the side road through a perfunctory gate into the steepest little courtyard it is possible to imagine, and she beheld green stains on the rough-cast wall of the white small house, her scepticism increased to scoffing point. She was blind to the charms of the pretty pillared porch. The narrowness of the entrance passage filled her with disdain. Though she grudgingly admitted a possibility in the drawing-room, it was not until we emerged upon the terrace that her preventions vanished.—That rise and fall of moorland in such startling proximity, and the way in which the house and its terraces seemed to cling to the hillside and be perched in space between the giant curves and the dip of the valley beyond, fairly took her breath away. An artist friend described the first impression of the view in these words: “It is so sudden!” For a long time, even after the queer, fascinating spot had become our own, this wonder of “suddenness” always seized us.

It still seems incomprehensible to us that anyone could have desired to dispossess himself of so attractive a place—an Italian “Villino” on the Surrey Highlands is not to be found every day.

But, after all, it only became a Villino after our ownership. It was just a small white house on the hillside before that. Heather and Gorse, Bramble and Bracken pressed hard upon the small area of the property which was at all cultivated, between densely growing clumps of pine and holly.

[Sidenote: THE FIRST TRANSFORMATIONS]

The courtyard is no longer dank: it is widened, levelled, and walled in against its high fir-grown strip of bank. It is guarded by bright green wooden gates, and three sentinel Cypresses that begin to mark the Italian note.

As for the lower reach—the Reserve Garden now—which in former days was a dumping-ground for horrors of broken glass, potsherds and tin cans ‹a dreary patch of weeds and couch grass withal›, it is unrecognizable. Especially this year, when, to the herbaceous border, to the espaliered apple-trees, and to the neat little turfed walks, we have added a Rose-Garden between screens of rustic woodwork which are to blaze in the full luxuriance of the adorable Wichuriana tribe.

Where the jungle waxed thickest, fair paths have been cleared. An avenue bordered by a double row of tall slender Pines runs from top to bottom of the hill, with a view of our neighbour’s buttercup field on the one hand, and of our own Bluebell and May-tree glade on the other. It requires a positive effort of imagination to recall that this was a literally impenetrable thicket when we first came.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: A VILLINO ON SURREY HILLS]

Nor is the house less altered. As it was hinted before, a small white Surrey house has, by some singular, scarcely intentional process, become enchanted into an Italian Villino. Of course, some structural alterations were necessary.

On entering the red-tiled hall ‹once the pantry!›, at the end of which the glass door giving on the terrace frames Verrochio’s little naked boy, struggling with his big fish, flanked on each side by Cypresses, you might easily fancy yourself at Fiesole or Bello Sguardo, but for the unmistakable northern stamp of the moorland beyond. Passing through the other glass doors into the inner hall, the first object to meet the eye is the big della Robbia over the gracious figure of the Madonna kneeling against a blue sky with dear little green clouds upon it. Through the open dining-room door you have a vision, all golden orange, of different deep shades. The Scotch builder we employed for the construction of the two new wings opined that “the scheme was verra’ daring.” Personally, every time we go in, it warms the cockles of our hearts. We had the golden-hued carpet especially dyed. We chose the tangerine distemper for the walls. We had, indeed, considerable difficulty in obtaining the higher note for the curtains. Antique chairs, with seats and backs of brown leather tooled like old bindings, we brought from Rome; from whence also came the yellow marble sideboard table on its gilt-carved legs, above which a bronzed cast of Gian di Bologna’s Mercury springs out from that orange wall on a flamboyant gilt bracket, with a grace we have never seen that adorable conception display anywhere else. We found a handsome, but anæmic, oak fitment in this room, filling the whole right wall with cupboards, panelled overmantel, and bookshelves. It is no longer anæmic, but polished by our industry to a pleasing depth of amber gloss.

[Sidenote: THE DORATORE’S ANTIQUES]

So Italy walked into the little white Surrey house almost as soon as the doors were open to us. But it is in the drawing-room that she has mostly established her self. It is so filled with dear Roman things that we can think ourselves back again in that haunt of all joy, when we cross its threshold. It is full of associations of delightful days, of quaint beings. There is the rococo _paravent_, gilt and carved in most delicate extravagance, which we bought of the _doratore_ in the Piazza Nicosia. That fire-screen—a real Bernini, once the frame of an altar-piece—now holds in its strong bold oval a pane of glass where perhaps some wan Madonna shewed her seven-pierced heart. The _doratore_ picked up these things in old villas and disused churches. His booth was indeed a sight to see.—Having recently been on a visit to Rome, Loki’s “great-aunt” was naturally charged with many commissions in that quarter. Armed with a letter of directions from the Italian scholar of the family, she and a Lancashire maid wandered down there one misty afternoon in November, at an hour when all the crazy little houses of the ancient Piazza seem to fold up and huddle together in the purple Roman dusk.

The _doratore’s_ wares winked through the dimness; and having duly knocked their heads against wreaths of dangling frames in his doorway, the pilgrims proceeded to steer a perilous path among the heaps of gilded _débris_ within.

The _doratore_, made visible only by his paper cap, was seated in a nest of angels, tinkering at a fat cherub and whistling gaily. Hearing steps he poked his head through the large oval of an empty mirror, and stared unconcernedly at the visitors, whose advance was punctuated by cataclysms of falling frames, church candlesticks, and other “_oggetti religiosi_.”

At the fifth or sixth tumble, he rolled away from his angels with unimpaired cheerfulness, and apologized.

“_Scusi, scusi!_” Smilingly he picked up a broken wing and a bit of acanthus leaf. “_Scusi!_” again. “Aha! a letter!”

Here the fat laugh merged into a bellow which made the walls ring, and brought a dirty little urchin tumbling down a ladder from some loft overhead. The urchin diving under a heap of prostrate apostles, produced a stick with an iron spike, which he held respectfully under his patron’s chin. The doratore stuck a candle on the spike, lit it, and with the flame in fearful proximity to his bearded face, proceeded to open the letter.

“Aha! from the noble family at Villino Loki!” Here he took off his cap with a flourish and did not replace it. “The _signor Inglese_, is he well?—_Mi piace._ And the _gentilissima signorina_ who does me the honour to write?—_Mi piace, mi piace._ And Mama?—Better?—_Bonissimo!_ Please the good God to bring her again to Rome. But not this month,” waving a warning finger before his nose. “In April. In the _primavera_, Rome is as salubrious as she is beautiful. Now what does Mama want? Brackets? Angels?—_Ecco._”

He pointed to a pair of fantastic creatures that jutted out like gargoyles under the ceiling. “What? Not pretty? _Ma! Scusi!_ they are _antichi bellissimi_—they come from a castle in the Abruzzi; there is not their match in Rome.” Snapping the candle from the imp, on whose locks it was unheededly guttering, he waved it round his own head, waking up unexpected companies of saints on the walls and making pools of light and darkness among the golden hillocks.

“They are exactly the noble family’s taste,” said the _doratore_, replacing his cap with an air of finality. “She said _cinquanta lire_—she shall have them for _quaranta_!”

Recognizing that this incident was closed, Loki’s aunt thought she would do a deal on her own account, and picking up a little antique frame, fell back on the only Italian word she knew:

“_Quanto?_”

The _doratore_ unexpectedly priced the frame at twenty-five lire, and cheap at that, and all of a sudden the little shop was filled with confusion. The would-be purchaser wished to take away her prize, the _doratore_, misunderstanding, vociferated that nothing would be broken on the sea-journey; the Lancashire maid struck in with English addresses for the other wares; finally, the candle-bearer was sent flying round the corner to fetch a friend who, by the grace of God, had the gift of tongues.

Breathless, he returned, with a bundle of rags hobbling along on a crutch, by his side.

“_Benissimo!_” exclaimed the _doratore_, with a sigh of relief. “This gentleman, _signora_, is a friend of all the artists in Rome! He knows English, French, German—everything!”

He then performed the ceremonious rites of introduction! “Signor Guiseppi Renzo, a person of great worth and learning.—The noble lady belonging to the family of my cherished patrons, i Castelli.”

The bundle of rags swept off its battered hat with a flourish, disclosing a wall-eye and a three-weeks-old beard, and remarked, in Italian, that the weather was beautiful for the time of the year.

“But not so beautiful as in spring,” said the _doratore_ encouragingly. Upon which Loki’s aunt bowed too, and smiled and murmured, “Oh! _si_, _si_—I mean no.” And then feeling dreadfully uncouth and ill-mannered in presence of so much courtesy, picked up her frame again and looked helpless. Instantly the interpreter warmed to his office. In fluent if curious English, he ascertained her wishes, and then communicated them with much gesticulation to the _doratore_, who slapped a fat forehead, exclaiming in a contrite manner, “_Va bene, va bene!_” Finally, the imp was dispatched on a last errand in search of a little open carriage, and having carefully wrapped the frame in a copy of the “_Corriere_” produced from his own pocket, the bundle of rags hobbled out into the Piazza, where he and the _doratore_ stood bareheaded to wish the ladies a safe journey to England, and a speedy return to Rome.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: MORE BRIC-A-BRAC]

It is little wonder that the _doratore_ should cherish us. The drawing-room of the Villino on the Surrey hill is chiefly furnished out of his store. Therefrom come the Venetian chairs, the huge _Goldoni_ armchair, the two cabinets of rusty gold. The hanging cabinet is full of Venetian glass, picked up—of all places—at that roaring cheap emporium, Finocchi’s, in the hideous modern corso fitly dedicated to _Vittorio Emanuele_. ‹To think these bubbles of ethereal loveliness, these liquid curves, these foam-frail phantasies, should have been discovered, unshattered, in such a spot!› There from the walls a wistful _Giovannino_, with pious, sentimental, guileless head inclined, looks down from his golden background, a true bit of early Siennese simplicity and faith. He came to us from the talons of a voluble Jew in the _Via due Macelli_, from which unclean grasp were likewise rescued those meek companions, “St. Bernardino of Siena” and “St. Antoninus,” on the opposite wall. St. Bernardino’s face is quite out of drawing, but, nevertheless, rarely has any presentment been more impregnated with holy benignity. The gentle pair hang just above a statue of Polyhymnia.... Oh! that “_Manifattura di Signa_,” in the dark purlieus of the Via Babuino! It is a blessing that we only discovered it the last week of our four months’ stay in Rome, and that our resources were then at a low ebb; else, indeed, the exiguous limits of our new country home never would have held our purchases. Another “Madonna” between the rose-coloured curtains in the narrow window.

Yes, indeed, there are a great many “Madonnas” about the place. There is an undeniably papistical atmosphere.—An old gentleman, of developed intellectuality, who stumbled in upon us shortly after our establishment, could not conceal the horrible impression it made upon him. His thoughts would have been easy to read even if the hurry of his adieux had not so plainly proclaimed his disgust. Seeing his eyes fixed upon the majolica statuette in question, we ‹perhaps with a little malice› informed him that it was known as the “_Madonna del Bacio_.” It was then he rose, not quite swallowing down his “Faugh!”

[Sidenote: AN OLD-TIME NOTE]

“You had not expected to find such superstition abroad in an enlightened age,” we murmured politely. We cling to these old-world symbols—some of us by conviction, others for mere love of the beautiful past.—A little mistake? The wrong house, say you? How could we have been so stupid as not to guess!—Of course, you wanted the bungalow at the other end of the village. Yes, Mrs. Ludwigsohn is everything that you can desire to meet. Up-to-date cap-a-pie. Socialism, rationalism, suffragism. You can begin on the suffrage: she will saw the air with her right hand in a convincing platform manner. A delightful, capable woman! She feeds her infants scientifically on proteids. And there are Röntgen pictures—anatomical, you know—in the hall, that you will find more inspiring than della Robbia. Oh, you will get on with her splendidly. We know her ... slightly. Indeed, we blush when we think of our one and only meeting: it was so inharmonious on our part. She began to argue—and instantly had us in a cleft stick: “Soul?” she exclaimed, fiercely interrupting an incautious remark. “Soul? there is no such thing. I deny it.—Prove,” she cried, “prove I have a soul!”

Poor lady, how could we? No—the Villino is certainly no place for the higher critic; for the lady of ’isms. We are not rationalistic in our tastes; we love old and simple things; prefer to take much for granted in life and enjoy the good peace that is vouchsafed.

III

[Sidenote: SIX GARDENING VIRTUES]

When we first began to own a garden we could not bring ourselves to wait in patience for developments. We expected our beds to bloom as by magic. We vehemently ordered pot-plants because no seedlings could be expected to “do anything” in June; and the disproportion between our bills and the result filled us with dismay. But a garden is at once the most delightful and cunning of teachers. How kindly are the virtues it inculcates!—Patience, faith, hope, tenderness, gratitude, resignation, things in themselves as fragrant and beautiful as the flowers, or like the herbs, a little repellent of aspect, but sweet in their bruised savour.

Now we have even been taught to take pleasure and comfort from the vision of the beds in their winter preparation, where with the believer’s eye, we anticipate the fulfilment of the spring. In the little Dutch Garden under the new wing, the two long beds between the clipped Bilberry hedges are full of compact cushions of Forget-me-not. Through these the green noses of the china-blue Hyacinths, that are to make lakes of colour and scent at the end of March, are beginning to push upwards.

The winter has been very mild.—Another garden lesson: too much spoiling in infancy is bound to produce forwardness in the young, and the inevitable result of withering snubs!

When the Hyacinths have faded, the Forget-me-nots will have spread a sheet of tender beauty over the unsightliness. ‹Did we mention that a garden teaches charity?› And between this flying scud of blue foam the Darwin Tulips will have already reared bold green snake heads which will gradually become invaded by tints of mauve, rose, dark purple, until the day when their glorious chalices will open, as if cut out of living jewels, translucent to the light.

[Sidenote: DUTCH BULBS AND ROSES]