I bethought me of the somewhat stern interrogatory, ‘Where is Lamia?’ and merely observed that Veronica was superintending the final operations of the maid in the matter of repacking, and probably would wish not to be disturbed.
‘How strange!’ said Lamia, ‘and how tastes differ! The smell of canvas covers and leather straps is particularly disagreeable to me; whereas the island of Zante itself could not be more fragrant than the scent of these violets and oranges, to say nothing of the magnolia flowers overhead, and that delightful son of the sunshine at my feet. And to think that, say thirty-six hours ago, I roused you and the Poet from your slumbers to look upon a snow-white world! I daresay you will think me very capricious, but this is the garden that I love.’
‘Les absens ont toujours tort,’ said the Poet, emerging from a shady avenue behind her. At the sound of his voice she rose somewhat hastily, as though a performance quite good enough for me was scarcely consonant with the half-courtly veneration she entertains for him; gave the oranges in her lap and a franc-piece to the smiling young urchin, who thought her more fascinating than ever, and said reproachfully, ‘Then why do you absent yourself?’
‘That was hardly what I meaned,’ he replied. ‘I was referring rather to the position of inferiority you assign to the garden that we love, because it is now far away from us. But you are quite right, and are going to Italy in the proper spirit. Whatever you see there, admire consumedly, and you cannot be far wrong.’
‘Are we not in Italy already?‘ ‘Almost. Its vestibule is Provence.’
I suppose it is because we are very simple folk, and lead at home a rather primitive life, that we find everything new which most other people find familiar, and so many things attractive that the bulk of the world treat as undeserving of attention. Along that magical coast, where we turned our gaze first to the sea-fringe, then to the hill declivities, then back again to the white-laced bays, and never being able to determine which were the more beautiful, I observe that persons who have travelled many hundreds of miles in order to enjoy the sunshine and glamour of the South, are well content to make this entrancing journey in a railway carriage, pulling down the blinds if the sun be a trifle too hot, and conning their newspaper or turning over the leaves of some conventional novel, in any case. That was not our way of travelling, which was a good deal more leisurely and more old-fashioned. We should have liked to find ourselves behind Veronica’s ponies, but our hired vehicle did well enough; and, while we never asked our cheerfully communicative driver to quicken his pace, we frequently begged him to slacken it, and over and over again bade him halt altogether. Although, save to Lamia, the road was no new one, we all alike had fresh unsophisticated eyes for it, and all of us found it a veritable wonder-world. Indeed, I could not help reflecting that we behaved very much as we behave at home in the garden that we love, declaring that the last blue creek, or the last secular olive-grove, was the most wonderful we had yet seen, for no better reason than that it was the last.
‘And they told me,’ said Lamia, ‘that the scenery is so monotonous, and that bay follows bay, and mountain repeats mountain, with provoking uniformity. Why, there are not any two alike. I only wish human beings were as diverse.’
‘It all depends,’ said the Poet, ‘whether you look lovingly or unlovingly, passionately or dispassionately. One must be intoxicated by scenery, in order to appreciate it. Tranquil survey is not enough, and scrutinising curiosity is fatal.’
‘I am sure,’ said Lamia, ‘Veronica is not intoxicated. She is tranquillity itself.’