CHAPTER XX. THE VILLA FOSSOMBRONI
The grounds of the Villa Fossombroni were, at the time we speak of, the Chalk Farm, or the Fifteen Acres of Tuscany. The villa itself, long since deserted by the illustrious family whose name it bore, had fallen into the hands of an old Pied-montese noble, ruined by a long life of excess and dissipation. He had served with gallantry in the imperial army of France, but was dismissed the service for a play transaction in which his conduct was deeply disgraceful; and the Colonel Count Tasseroni, of the 8th Hussars of the Guards, was declared unworthy to wear the uniform of a Frenchman.
For a number of years he had lived so estranged from the world that many believed he had died; but at last it was known that he had gone to reside in a half-ruined villa near Florence, which soon became the resort of a certain class of gamblers whose habits would have speedily attracted notice if practised within the city. The quarrels and altercations, so inseparable from high play, were usually settled on the spot in which they occurred, until at last the villa became famous for these meetings, and the name of Fossombroni, in a discussion, was the watchword for a duel.
It was of a splendid spring morning that the two Englishmen arrived at this spot, which, even on the unpleasant errand that they had come, struck them with surprise and admiration. The villa itself was one of those vast structures which the country about Florence abounds in. Gloomy, stern, and jail-like without, while within, splendid apartments opened into each other in what seems an endless succession. Frescoed walls and gorgeously ornamented ceilings, gilded mouldings and rich tracery, were on every side; and these, too, in chambers where the immense proportions and the vast space recalled the idea of a royal residence. Passing in by a dilapidated “grille” which once had been richly gilded, they entered by a flight of steps a great hall which ran the entire length of the building. Though lighted by a double range of windows, neglect and dirt had so dimmed the panes that the place was almost in deep shadow. Still, they could perceive that the vaulted roof was a mass of stuccoed tracery, and that the colossal divisions of the wall were of brilliant Sienna marble. At one end of this great gallery was a small chapel, now partly despoiled of its religious decorations, which were most irreverently replaced by a variety of swords and sabres of every possible size and shape, and several pairs of pistols, arranged with an evident eye to picturesque grouping.
“What are all these inscriptions here on the walls, Baynton?” cried Selby, as he stood endeavoring to decipher the lines on a little marble slab, a number of which were dotted over the chapel.
“Strange enough this, by Jove!” muttered the other, reading to himself, half aloud, “'Francesco Ricordi, ucciso da Gieronimo Gazzi, 29 Settembre, 1818.'”
“What does that mean?” asked Selby.
“It is to commemorate some fellow who was killed here in '18.”
“Are they all in the same vein?” asked the other.
“It would seem so. Here 's one: 'Gravamente ferito,'—badly wounded; with a postscript that he died the same night.”
“What's this large one here, in black marble?” inquired Selby.
“To the memory of Carlo Luigi Guiccidrini, 'detto il Carnefice,' called 'the slaughterer:' cut down to the forehead by Pietro Baldasseroni, on the night of July 8th, 1819.”
“I confess any other kind of literature would amuse me as well,” said Selby, turning back again into the large hall. Baynton had scarcely joined him when they saw advancing towards them through the gloom a short, thickset man, dressed in a much-worn dressing-gown and slippers.
He removed his skull-cap as he approached, and said, “The Count Tasseroni, at your orders.”
“We have come here by appointment,” said Baynton.
“Yes, yes. I know it all. Volkoffsky sent me word. He was here on Saturday. He gave that French colonel a sharp lesson. Ran the sword clean through the chest. To be sure, he was wounded too, but only through the arm; but 'La Marque' has got his passport.”
“You'll have him up there soon, then,” said Baynton, pointing towards the chapel.
“I think not. We have not done it latterly,” said the Count, musingly. “The authorities don't seem to like it; and, of course, we respect the authorities!”
“That's quite evident,” said Baynton, who turned to translate the observation to his friend.
Selby whispered a word in his ear.
“What does the signore say?” inquired the Count.
“My friend thinks that they are behind the time.”
“Per Baccho! Let him be easy as to that. I have known some to think that the Russian came too soon. I never heard of one who wished him earlier! There they are now: they always come by the garden.” And so saying, he hastened off to receive them.
“How is this fellow to handle a sword, if his right arm be wounded?” said Selby.
“Don't you know that these Russians use the left hand indifferently with the right, in all exercises? It may be awkward for you; but, depend upon it, he'll not be inconvenienced in the least.”
As he spoke, the others entered the other end of the hall. The Prince no sooner saw the Englishmen than he advanced towards them with his hat off. “My lord,” said he, rapidly, “I have come to make you an apology, and one which I trust you will accept in all the frankness that I offer it. I have learned from your friend the Duc de Brignolles how the incident of yesterday occurred. I see that the only fault committed was my own. Will you pardon, then, a momentary word of ill-temper, occasioned by what I wrongfully believed to be a great injury?”
“Of course, I knew it was all a mistake on your part. I told Colonel Baynton, here, you'd see so yourself,—when it is too late, perhaps.”
“I thank you sincerely,” said the Russian, bowing; “your readiness to accord me this satisfaction makes your forgiveness more precious to me. And now, as another favor, will you permit me to ask you one question?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Why, when you could have so easily explained this misconception on my part, did you not take the trouble of doing so?”
Selby looked confused, blushed, looked awkwardly from side to side, and then, with a glance towards his friend, seemed to say, “Will you try and answer him?”
“I think you have hit it yourself, Prince,” said Baynton. “It was the trouble, the bore of an explanation, deterred him. He hates writing, and he thought there would be a shower of notes to be replied to, meetings, discussions, and what not; and so he said, 'Let him have his shot, and have done with it.'”
The Russian looked from one to the other as he listened, and seemed really as if not quite sure whether this speech was uttered in seriousness or sarcasm. The calm, phlegmatic faces of the Englishmen,—the almost apathetic expression they wore,—soon convinced him that the words were truthfully spoken; and he stood actually confounded with amazement before them.
Lord Selby and his friend freely accepted the polite invitation of the Prince to breakfast, and they all adjourned to a small but splendidly decorated room, where everything was already awaiting them. There are few incidents in life which so much predispose to rapid intimacy as the case of an averted duel. The revulsion from animosity is almost certain to lead to, if not actual friendship, what may easily become so. In the present instance, the very diversities of national character gave a zest and enjoyment to the meeting; and while the Englishmen were charmed by the fascination of manners and conversational readiness of their hosts, the Russians were equally struck with a cool imperturbability and impassiveness, of which they had never seen the equal.
By degrees the Russian led the conversation to the question by which their misunderstanding originated. “You know my Lord Glencore, perhaps?” said he.
“Never saw, scarcely ever heard of him,” said Selby, in his dry, laconic tone.
“Is he mad, or a fool?” asked the Prince, half angrily.
“I served in a regiment once where he commanded a troop,” said Baynton; “and they always said he was a good sort of fellow.”
“You read that paragraph this morning, I conclude?” said the Russian. “You saw how he dares to stigmatize the honor of his wife,—to degrade her to the rank of a mistress,—and, at the same time, to bastardize the son who ought to inherit his rank and title?”
“I read it,” said Selby, dryly; “and I had a letter from my lawyer about it this morning.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed he, anxious to hear more, and yet too delicate to venture on a question.
“Yes; he writes to me for some title-deeds or other. I did n't pay much attention, exactly, to what he says. Glen-core's man of business had addressed a letter to him.”
The Russian bowed, and waited for him to resume; but, apparently, he had rather fatigued himself by such unusual loquacity, and so he lay back in his chair, and puffed his cigar in indolent enjoyment.
“A goodish sort of thing for you it ought to be,” said Baynton, between the puffs of his tobacco smoke, and with a look towards Selby.
“I suspect it may,” said the other, without the slightest change of tone or demeanor.
“Where is it,—somewhere in the south?”
“Mostly, Devon. There's something in Wales too, if I remember aright.”
“Nothing Irish?”
“No, thank Heaven,—nothing Irish;” and his grim Lordship made the nearest advance to a smile of which his unplastic features seemed capable.
“Do I understand you aright, my Lord,” said the Prince, “that you receive an accession of fortune by this event?”
“I shall, if I survive Glencore,” was the brief reply.
“You are related, then?”
“Some cousinship,—I forget how it is. Do you remember, Baynton?”
“I'm not quite certain. I think it was a Coventry married one of Jack Conway's sisters, and she afterwards became the wife of Sir something Massy. Isn't that it?”
“Yes, that's it,” muttered the other, in the tone of a man who was tired of a knotty problem.
“And, according to your laws, this Lord Glencore may marry again?” cried the Russian.
“I should think so, if he has no wife living,” said Selby; “but I trust, for my sake, he'll not.”
“And what if he should, and should be discovered the wedded husband of another?”
“That would be bigamy,” said Selby. “Would they hang him, Baynton?”
“I think not,—scarcely,” rejoined the Colonel.
The Prince tried in various ways to obtain some insight into Lord Glencore's habits, his tastes and mode of life, but all in vain. They knew, indeed, very little, but even that little they were too indolent to repeat. Lord Selby's memory was often at fault, too, and Baynton's had ill supplied the deficiency. Again and again did the Russian mutter curses to himself over the apathy of these stony islanders. At moments he fancied that they suspected his eagerness, and had assumed their most guarded caution against him; but he soon perceived that this manner was natural to them, not prompted in the slightest degree by any distrust whatever.
“After all,” thought the Russian, “how can I hope to stimulate a man who is not excited by his own increase of fortune? Talk of Turkish fatalism, these fellows would shame the Moslem.”
“Do you mean to prolong your stay at Florence, my Lord?” asked the Prince, as they arose from the table.
“I scarcely know. What do you say, Baynton?”
“A week or so, I fancy,” muttered the other.
“And then on to Rome, perhaps?”
The two Englishmen looked at each other with an air of as much confusion as if subjected to a searching examination in science.
“Well, I shouldn't wonder,” said Selby, at last, with a sigh.
“Yes, it may come to that,” said Baynton, like a man who had just overcome a difficulty.
“You 'll be in time for the Holy Week and all the ceremonies,” said the Prince.
“Mind that, Baynton,” said his Lordship, who wasn't going to carry what he felt to be another man's load; and Baynton nodded acquiescence.
“And after that comes the season for Naples,—you have a month or six weeks, perhaps, of such weather as nothing in all Europe can vie with.”
“You hear, Baynton!” said Selby.
“I've booked it,” muttered the other; and so they took leave of their entertainer, and set out towards Florence. Neither you nor I, dear reader, will gain anything by keeping them company, for they say scarcely a word by the way. They stop at intervals, and cast their eyes over the glorious landscape at their feet. Their glances are thrown over the fairest scene of the fairest of all lands; and whether they turn towards the snow-capt Apennines, by Vall'ombrosa, or trace the sunny vineyards along the Val' d' Arno, they behold a picture such as no canvas ever imitated; still, they are mute and uncommunicative. Whatever of pleasure their thoughts suggest, each keeps for himself. Objects of wonder, strange sights and new, may present themselves, but they are not to be startled out of national dignity by so ignoble a sentiment as surprise. And so they jog onward,—doubtless richer in reflection than eloquent in communion; and so we leave them.
Let us not be deemed unjust or ungenerous if we assert that we have met many such as these. They are not individuals,—they are a class; and, strange enough too, a class which almost invariably pertains to a high and distinguished rank in society. It would be presumptuous to ascribe such demeanor to insensibility. There is enough in their general conduct to disprove the assumption. As little is it affectation; it is simply an acquired habit of stoical indifference, supposed to be—why, Heaven knows!—the essential ingredient of the best breeding. If the practice extinguish all emotion, and obliterate all trace of feeling from the heart, we deplore the system. If it only gloss over the working of human sympathy, we pity the men. At all events, they are very uninteresting company, with whom longer dalliance would only be wearisome.