Part 9
"Lady Caroline," we are told by Lord Melbourne's biographer, Dr. Dunckley, "became the mistress of many accomplishments. She acquired French and Latin, and had the further courage, Mr. Torrens tells us, to undertake the recital of an ode of Sappho. She could draw and paint, and had the instinct of caricature. Her mind was brimming with romance, and, regardless of conventionality, she followed her own tastes in everything. In conversation she was both vivacious and witty." Such was Lady Caroline Ponsonby when she married William Lamb. The marriage proved an extremely unhappy one. Lady Caroline's whole life was a series of flirtations--deliberately planned, as a matter of fact, and yet entered upon with such mad rushes of passion as to seem merely the result of some irresistible impulse. A son was born to the couple, but he brought no joy, for as he grew up he developed an infirmity of intellect amounting almost to imbecility. The life of the young people was "an incessant round of frivolous dissipation." The after-supper revels often lasted till daybreak. But this brought no happiness, and both husband and wife came to realize that marriage had been, for them, a troublesome affair. About this time Lord Byron appeared on the scene. "Childe Harold" had brought him sudden fame. He had traveled in the East, was the hero of many escapades, had been sufficiently wicked to win the admiration of certain ladies of romantic tendencies, and altogether created quite a _furor_ through the peculiar charms of his handsome face and dashing ways. He sought and obtained an introduction to Lady Caroline. He came to call the next day when she was alone, and for the next nine months almost lived at Melbourne House. They called each other by endearing names, and exchanged passionate verses. They were constantly together, and the intimacy caused much scandalous comment. It lasted until Byron became tired of it all, and announced his intention of marrying. The marriage to a cousin of Lady Caroline aroused the fierce jealousy of the latter, who proceeded to perform a little melodrama of her own, first trying to jump out of a window and then stabbing herself--not so deep that it would hurt--with a knife.
Such escapades could have but one result. There came a separation, of course; but some traces of the early love remained in both, and when Lady Caroline was dying, William Lamb was summoned from Ireland. The final parting was not without tender affection on both sides, and William felt his loss deeply.
In this brief sketch the reader of Mrs. Ward's novel will recognize Kitty Ashe in every line. The portraiture is very close. Cliffe takes the place of Lord Byron without being made to resemble him. But he serves to reveal the weakness of Kitty's character. Even Kitty's mischievous work in writing a book, which came near ruining her husband's career, was an episode in the life of Caroline Lamb. She wrote a novel in which Byron and herself were the principal characters, and their escapades were paraded before the world in a thin disguise which deceived nobody.
Of Mrs. Ward's later books there is little to say, so far as scenes and "originals" are concerned. In "Fenwick's Career" the little cottage where the artist and his wife lived was in reality the summer home of Mrs. Ward's daughter Dorothy. It stands on the slope of a hill near the Langdale Pikes in Westmoreland, commanding a view of surpassing loveliness.
In the "Testing of Diana Mallory" the scenery is all taken from the country near Stocks, the summer home of the novelist.
In "Daphne," or "Marriage a la Mode," Mount Vernon, Washington, Niagara Falls, and an imaginary English estate supply the necessary scenery, and these are not described with real interest, for the author, contrary to her usual custom, is here writing with a fixed didactic purpose. But a chapter incidentally thrown in reflects the novelist's impressions of a visit to the White House as the guest of President Roosevelt--an experience which interested her greatly. In "the tall, black-haired man with the meditative eye, the equal, social or intellectual, of any Foreign Minister that Europe might pit against him, or any diplomat that might be sent to handle him," it is easy to recognize Mr. Root. Secretary Garfield is "this younger man, sparely built, with the sane handsome face--son of a famous father, modest, amiable, efficient." Secretary Taft, with whom, apparently, the distinguished author did not really become acquainted, is lightly referred to as "this other of huge bulk and height, the hope of a party, smiling already a Presidential smile as he passed."
It has been said of this book that it does an injustice to America. But such was assuredly far from the author's intent. Mrs. Ward, who is one of the keenest observers of English and European public men, pays a high compliment in the remark that "America need make no excuses whatever for her best men.... She has evolved the leaders she wants, and Europe has nothing to teach them." She is attacking the laxity of the divorce laws in certain American States, and in doing so is actuated by motives which every high-minded American must applaud. The English general who berates American institutions is held up to ridicule, and the most agreeable woman in the book--perhaps the only agreeable one--is an American. Daphne, through whom the author condemns the evil, is not a typical American girl, but, with evident intent to avoid offense, is made the daughter of a foreigner.
As a matter of fact, Mrs. Ward's feelings toward America are of the kindliest nature, and, whatever may be said of the merits of "Marriage a la Mode" as a work of fiction, in condemning an abuse which nobody can defend she has performed a real service.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] 1908.
VI
A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES
VI
A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES
We caught our first glimpse of Maggiore from a window in Stresa, late in the afternoon of a charming day in early spring. In spite of the lateness of the hour, with all the enthusiasm of amateurs, we proceeded to make a photograph of the charming scene. Ruskin was right when he declared Maggiore to be the most beautiful of all the Italian lakes;--at least, we felt willing to admit this, even though we had not yet seen the others. In the foreground were the green lawns and white paths of a well-kept park, skirting the lake; then a wide stretch of water, roughened by the wind so that its surface, usually smooth, was now dotted with whitecaps, dancing and sparkling in the afternoon sun; across the water to the left, the village of Pallanza, pushing itself far out into the lake, and thrown into strong relief by the high mountains at its back; far away in the distance, the white-capped summit of some Alpine range; and above it all, the most beautiful of blue Italian skies.
We gazed long upon the scene, until the twilight began to deepen. Soon two figures appeared at the entrance to the park, one a woman in a green velvet gown, the other a man in a long flowing mantle of the style peculiar to Italy. They seemed in earnest conversation, now approaching each other with vigorous but graceful gestures, now falling back a step or two and again advancing. The man would throw his cloak over his left shoulder; then, when his earnestness caused it to slip away, he would throw it back again, repeating the movement over and over. We could almost fancy overhearing Lorenzo say:--
"In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont";
and hearing Jessica reply:--
"And in such a night Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, And ne'er a true one."
The little pantomime seemed all that was needed to complete the romance of the scene, while the gathering twilight lent its aid.
The Lago di Maggiore, known to the Romans as Lacus Verbanus, is the westernmost as well as the largest of three lovely lakes which lie on the southern slope of the Alps, in an area not greater than that of the State of Rhode Island. The Lago di Como, or Lacus Larius, is the easternmost of the group, while the Lago di Lugano, smaller, but not less beautiful, lies between the other two.
There is a peculiar delicacy of beauty about these lakes like an exquisitely tinted rosebud or the perfume of apple blossoms. The ruggedness of aspect common to most mountain lakes is here lost in the soft luxuriance of the green shores, the sparkling waters, and the rich blue sky. The hills are lined with terraces of green vineyards, interspersed with the pink of peach and almond blossoms. Camellias and azaleas brighten the gardens. Mulberry trees, olives, and cypresses, mingling with their sturdy Northern companions, the spruces and pines, cast their varied foliage against the brown of the near-by mountains. In the distance the snow-clad peaks of the Alps interpose their white mantles between the blue of the sky and the warmer tones of the hillsides, while here and there picturesque villages stand out on projecting promontories to lend an additional gleam of whiteness to the landscape.
Mingling with the charm of all this natural beauty and intensifying it are the atmosphere of poetry and romance which one instinctively feels, and the more tangible associations with history, literature, science, art, and architecture which are constantly suggested as one makes the tour of the lakes.
In the morning we found our places on the upper deck of the little steamer that makes a zigzag journey through Maggiore. No sooner had the boat started than we heard sweet strains of music and a chorus of well-modulated male voices. The night before we had had a miniature play for our special benefit. Can it be possible that now we are to have Italian opera? They were only a party of native excursionists, but we were genuinely sorry when they disembarked at the next landing.
Leaving Stresa, famous as the home of Cavour, when that great statesman was planning the creation of a united Italy, we soon came in sight of Isola Bella. As it lay there in the bright sunlight, its green terraces and tropical foliage, its white towers and arcaded walls reflected in the blue waters of the lake, the snowy mountains forming a distant background and a cloudless blue sky surmounting the whole, we thought it beautiful. But in this, it seems, our taste was at fault, and while admiring we ought to have been criticizing. It was like spending an evening with genuine enjoyment at the theater, only to find out the next morning from the critic of the daily newspaper that the play was poor, the acting only ordinary, and the applause merely an act of generosity. Southey wrote of it, "Isola Bella is at once the most costly and the most absurd effort of bad taste that has ever been produced by wealth and extravagance." A more recent English writer condemns its "monstrous artificialities." He declares that "the gardens are a triumph of bad taste," and that "artificial grottoes, bristling with shells, terrible pieces of hewn stone, which it would be an offense to sculpture to term statuary, offend the eye at every turn." Another says that it is "like a Perigord pie, stuck all over with the heads of woodcocks and partridges," while some one else thinks it "worthy the taste of a confectioner."
On the other hand, our own distinguished novelist, Mrs. Edith Wharton, found much to be admired:--
The palace has ... one feature of peculiar interest to the student of villa architecture, namely, the beautiful series of rooms in the south basement, opening on the gardens, and decorated with the most exquisite ornamentation of pebble-work and sea-shells, mingled with delicate-tinted stucco. These low-vaulted rooms, with marble floors, grotto-like walls, and fountains dripping into fluted conches, are like a poet's notion of some twilight refuge from summer heats, where the languid green air has the coolness of water: even the fantastic consoles, tables, and benches, in which cool glimmering mosaics are combined with carved wood and stucco painted in faint greens and rose-tints, might have been made of mother-of-pearl, coral, and seaweed for the adornment of some submarine palace.
It was the fashion to admire the island before it became the rule to condemn its artificiality. Bishop Burnet visited Maggiore in 1685, fourteen years after the Count Vitaliano Borromeo had transformed the island from a barren slate rock into a costly summer residence. He thought it "one of the loveliest spots of ground in the world," and wrote, "there is nothing in all Italy that can be compared with it." At a much later time, Lord Lytton allowed himself to rise to the heights of enthusiasm:--
"O fairy island of a fairy sea, Wherein Calypso might have spelled the Greek, Or Flora piled her fragrant treasury, Culled from each shore her zephyr's wings could seek,-- From rocks where aloes blow.
"Tier upon tier, Hesperian fruits arise: The hanging bowers of this soft Babylon; An India mellows in the Lombard skies, And changelings, stolen from the Lybian sun, Smile to yon Alps of snow."
The charge of artificiality must be admitted. A bare rock cannot be transformed into a thing of beauty and escape the charge. The ten terraces are a series of walls, built in the form of a pyramid and covered with earth, transported from the mainland at great expense. Orange and lemon trees, amid a profusion of tropical foliage, are thus made to wave their fragrant branches in the face of Alpine snows. Is not this worth while? The truth is that Lake Maggiore is so rich in the kind of beauty which the hand of Nature has provided that the creations of man--the villas, the gardens, the vineyards, the villages nestling close to the water's edge, and the pilgrimage churches high up on the mountain-sides--seem only to accentuate the charm.
The Isola dei Pescatori, or Island of the Fishermen, lying near the "Beautiful Island," forms a striking contrast. If distance is needed to lend enchantment and conceal the lavish expenditure of wealth on the Isola Bella, it is needed still more to hide the squalor and avoid the odor of the poor fishermen's island. Yet the latter, seen from the steamer's deck, is far more picturesque than its more pretentious neighbor. The third of the Borromean group is known as the Isola Madre. It has seven terraces, surmounted by an unused villa. Its gardens are full of roses, camellias, and all kinds of beautiful plants, lemons, oranges, myrtle, magnolia, and semi-tropical trees in great profusion. Less popular than Isola Bella, it is considered by many far more attractive.
Two villages lying farther south on the western shore of the lake are worthy of at least passing mention:--Belgirate and Arona. The former was the home, in the late years of his life, of the great master of Italian prose, Manzoni, whose novel, "I Promessi Sposi," was thought by Scott to be the finest ever written. He was a man of the people, greatly beloved by his countrymen for his benevolence, tender sympathy, and warmth of affection. Arona was the home of the patron saint of the Italian lakes, Carlo Borromeo. A colossal statue, sixty-six feet high on a pedestal of forty feet, built to his memory in 1697, is one of the sights of the region. St. Charles was born in 1537. At the age of twenty-three he was made a cardinal by his uncle, Pope Pius IV. Inheriting great wealth, he devoted his revenues to charity, sometimes living on bread and water and sleeping on straw. Traveling as a missionary, he visited the remotest villages and almost inaccessible shepherds' huts high up on the mountains. He is best remembered for his self-sacrifice and heroic devotion to the people in the great plague at Milan in 1575. But the great saint was a hater of heretics and caused many of them to be put to death. Nor was he without enemies among those of his own faith. A Franciscan monk once fired upon him, but he escaped as if by miracle, the bullet glancing from the heavy gold embroidery of his cope--a demonstration that gold lace is not always a wholly superfluous decoration.
Our little steamer zigzagged back and forth, stopping at many villages, until finally Luino was reached. This busy little town was the birthplace of Bernardino Luini, the illustrious disciple of Leonardo da Vinci, whose frescoes adorn many of the Italian churches. It was also the scene of one of Garibaldi's brave exploits, though an unsuccessful one. Here we left the steamer for a short ride by tramway to Ponte Tresa, on Lake Lugano, where another little boat was waiting. Although usually regarded as one of the Italian lakes, the greater portion of Lugano is in Swiss territory. Most tourists make it the gateway from the north into Italy, passing through its most populous town, Lugano, which, with its neighbor, Paradiso, lines the shores of a beautiful blue bay, guarded on either side by high mountains, clothed with groves of oak and chestnut set off by vineyards and gardens on the lower slopes. To the front Monte Caprino rises straight up from the water like one huge, solitary rock, keeping stern watch over the soft luxuriance of the towns. San Salvatore is the sentinel on the right, while Monte Bri and Monte Boglia are on duty at the left. Lugano was the home of the Italian patriot, Mazzini, who has been called the prophet of Italian unity, as Garibaldi was its knight-errant and Cavour its statesman.
On the eastern side of the lake and farther to the south is Monte Generoso. We saw it only from the steamer, but it ought to be seen at close range, for it is covered with woods and pastures and commands a view of the chain of lakes that is said to be unsurpassed in all Italy. We maintained our zigzag journey, however, until Porlezza was reached, where another little train stood ready to carry us over to Lake Como.
For kaleidoscopic revelations of Nature's choicest scenes and rarest beauties, the descent from the highlands to the town of Menaggio could scarcely be equaled. The train moved slowly through the vineyards and gardens, gradually descending, until with a sudden turn the whole northern end of Como burst gloriously into view. Never was sky a lovelier blue and never did water more splendidly reflect its azure hue. Far away the snowy Alps gave a touch of the sublime to a view of surpassing grandeur. In a moment the scene changed, and Bellagio with its white villas stood before us, separating the two arms of the lake. Then Varenna with its solitary tower, and finally, at the edge of the water, the village of Menaggio itself.
"How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets Thy open beauties or thy lone retreats,-- Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales Thy cliffs: the endless waters of thy vales: Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, Each with its household boat beside the door."
So sang Wordsworth in the days of his youth.
Slowly winding our way down the precipitous slopes, we reached at last the end of the railway, and a third steamer closed the experiences of the day by carrying us safely to Cadenabbia. "That was Italy! and as lovely as Italy can be when she tries." So the poet Longfellow wrote to James T. Fields in 1868. And every one who has been there can appreciate the poet's feeling when he wrote:--
"I ask myself, Is this a dream? Will it all vanish into air? Is there a land of such supreme And perfect beauty anywhere? Sweet vision! Do not fade away; Linger until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day And all the beauties of the lake."
Above Cadenabbia and reached by a winding path through terraces of vineyards, there is a bit of woods, made brilliant at this time of the spring by a wealth of wild cherries, peaches, and almonds in full blossom, and by the tall, luxuriant growths of rhododendrons, now covered in thick profusion with huge clusters of splendid pink and purple blossoms. A shady spot near the edge of the woods, where there was a table and some chairs, made a convenient place where we could rest after our climb, and view Longfellow's vision of "supreme and perfect beauty." The grand and majestic beauty of Maggiore and the more modest but sweeter loveliness of Lugano were but the preparation for the glorious, satisfying perfection of Como, the most beautiful of all the lakes, "a serene accord of forms and colors."
Lake Como is famous, not alone for its beauty, but for the many associations of history, science, art, and literature. For centuries its shores have been thickly set with costly villas--the homes of wealth and luxury, and not infrequently of learning and culture. The elder Pliny, whose habits of industry were so great that he worked on his prodigious "Natural History" even while traveling at night in his carriage, was born at the city of Como, as was also his gifted nephew. Volta, the great physicist and pioneer in electrical science, Pope Innocent III, and Pope Clement XIII were all natives of the same place. The Cathedral of Como is one of the most splendid in northern Italy. The churches scattered all along the shores of the lake, as well as the villas, are a delight to students of art and architecture. They are filled with paintings of great interest and valuable works of sculpture.
Historically, although not conspicuous in the great events of the world's progress, the lake has been the theater of many stirring scenes, particularly in mediaeval times. Halfway between Menaggio and the northern end of the lake lies a rocky promontory known as Musso, the site in the sixteenth century of a great and almost impregnable castle. It was the center of the activities of one of the ablest, wickedest, and most picturesque figures in the history of Italy. His name was Gian Giacomo de Medici, although he was not related to the famous Florentine family. He is best known by the name of "Il Medeghino." He is described as a man of medium stature, broad-chested, and of pallid but good-humoured countenance, and possessed of a keen and searching glance. He was kind to his family and possessed the affection of his soldiers; he was temperate and not given to the indulgence of the senses; and he gave liberally to charity and to the encouragement of art. But he was a murderer, traitor, liar, and all-round villain of the first magnitude. If San Carlo Borromeo was the patron saint of the Italian lakes, his uncle, Il Medeghino, was their presiding demon. He began his career at the age of sixteen by killing another youth--an act for which he was banished from Milan, but which became the stepping-stone to a successful campaign of ambition, based upon crime and bloodshed.