“No, you would not,” said her husband; “you would not like England at all; you would call it triste beyond measure. It is one of those countries of which a native should be proud, but which has no amusement for a stranger, precisely because full of such serious and stirring occupations to the citizens. The pleasantest countries for strangers are the worst countries for natives (witness Italy), and vice versa.”
Teresa shook her dark curls, and would not be convinced.
“And where is Castruccio?” asked Maltravers.
“In his boat on the lake,” replied Teresa. “He will be inconsolable at your departure: you are the only person he can understand, or who understand him; the only person in Italy—I had almost said in the whole world.”
“Well, we shall meet at dinner,” said Ernest; “meanwhile let me prevail on you to accompany me to the Pliniana. I wish to say farewell to that crystal spring.”
Teresa, delighted at any excursion, readily consented.
“And I too, mamma,” cried the child; “and my little sister?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Maltravers, speaking for the parents.
So the party was soon ready, and they pushed off in the clear genial noontide (for November in Italy is as early as September in the North) across the sparkling and dimpled waters. The children prattled, and the grown-up people talked on a thousand matters. It was a pleasant day, that last day at Como! For the farewells of friendship have indeed something of the melancholy, but not the anguish, of those of love. Perhaps it would be better if we could get rid of love altogether. Life would go on smoother and happier without it. Friendship is the wine of existence, but love is the dram-drinking.
When they returned, they found Castruccio seated on the lawn. He did not appear so much dejected at the prospect of Ernest’s departure as Teresa had anticipated; for Castruccio Cesarini was a very jealous man, and he had lately been chagrined and discontented with seeing the delight that the De Montaignes took in Ernest’s society.