‘Please do not think,’ she said, one day, ‘that I have not greatly enjoyed myself here. But what is it—for there is something—that renders life on this lovely strip of coast between the mountains and the sea, after a brief sojourn, not quite satisfactory?’
‘BETWEEN THE MOUNTAINS AND THE SEA’
‘Surely,’ said the Poet, ‘it is the insufficient presence of the Past. Every spot in Europe, as a matter of course, has had a Past of considerable duration; and this lovely tract of country must have had a chequered, and at times a very exciting one. But its visible relics are few. The Roman came and made his roads; the Saracen came and ravaged; feudal bandit harried feudal bandit; and the great bandit of our own century, Bonaparte, dispatched and sometimes accompanied his armies along it. But almost the sole vestiges of its vanished vigour and virility are trivial ruins devoid of architectural beauty; its villages are situated most picturesquely, but they are as devoid of plastic beauty as an eagle’s eyrie; their churches are touching in their devout simplicity, but, alike within and without, lack the impress of the artist’s mind, the artist’s hand. He has not been here; or, if he has, the condottiere has destroyed all traces of his work. Look at the sea. Byron most happily called it ‘the image of Eternity,’ for its Present is exactly like its Past, and its Future will be only like its Present. Man can make no impression on it, nor leave on it any trace of his presence. Therefore, despite its sublimity, most of us at last tire of gazing on it. It lacks human interest. When it smiles, it enchants. When it frowns, it overawes. But we cannot take it to our heart; and something of the heartlessness of the sea attaches to a land where neither poet, architect, nor painter has bequeathed monuments to remind us that here man has aspired and striven, here woman consoled and suffered. But be patient, Lamia. Florence is reserving for you ample compensation.‘
‘And yet you, or Veronica, at least,’ said Lamia, ‘would not let us take up our quarters at or even near,—but perhaps I had better not mention the place. Only all you have said seems to justify those wicked people, who find lemon-gardens and olive-groves insufficient for happiness, and so have enlivened this lovely but unlively coast with casinos, roulette-tables, and pigeon-shoots.’
‘And even the lemon-gardens and olive-groves,‘I said, ‘are fast disappearing. As we have observed only too frequently, they are being ruthlessly cut down, in order that, in their place, Safrano and Marie van Houtte roses may be grown for Vienna, London, and Saint Petersburg.’
‘And then,’ said Lamia, ‘there will be nothing left but the mountains and the sea.’
‘That will be a considerable residuum,’ said the Poet. ‘I happened to overhear a dialogue between them the other day, which, if you are so minded, I shall have much pleasure in repeating to you.’
‘By all means,’ said Veronica. ‘Here, we are in the presence of both; so they will be able to judge if you report their colloquy correctly.’