“Every one, Mademoiselle, every one, as they were standing beneath the terrace t' other evening. I overheard Count Labinski say it to Captain Onslow; and then my Lady took it up, and said, 'You are quite right, gentlemen; there is nothing that approaches her in beauty.'”
“Nina! dear Nina!” said Kate, covering her flushed face with both hands.
“The Count de Melzi was more enthusiastic than even the rest. He vowed that he had grown out of temper with his Raffaelles since he saw you.”
A hearty burst of laughter from Kate told that this flattery, at least, had gone too far. And now she resumed her seat at the writing-table. It was of the Splugen Pass and Como she had been writing; of the first burst of Italy upon the senses, as, crossing the High Alps, the land of the terraced vine lay stretched beneath. She tried to fall back upon the memory of that glorious scene as it broke upon her; but it was in vain. Other and far different thoughts had gained the mastery. It was no longer the calm lake, on whose mirrored surface snow-peaks and glaciers were reflected; it was not of those crags, over which the wild-fig and the olive, the oleander and the mimosa, are spreading, she could think. Other images crowded to her brain; troops of admirers were before her fancy; the hum of adulation filled her ears; splendid salons, resounding with delicious music, and ablaze with a thousand wax-lights, rose before her imagination, and her heart swelled with conscious triumph. The transition was most abrupt, then, from a description of scenery and natural objects to a narrative of the actual life of Florence:
“Up to this, Nelly, we have seen no one, except Mr. Jekyl,
whom you will remember as having met at Baden. He dines here
several days every week, and is most amusing with his funny
anecdotes and imitations, for he knows everybody, and is a
wonderful mimic. You 'd swear Dr. Grounsell was in the next
room if you heard Mr. Jekyl' s imitation. There has been
some difficulty about an opera-box, for Mr. Jekyl, who
manages everybody, will insist upon having Prince
Midchekoff's, which is better than the royal box, and has
not succeeded. For this reason we have not yet been to the
Opera; and, as the Palace has been undergoing a total change
of decoration and furniture, there has been no reception
here as yet; but on Tuesday we are to give our first ball.
All that I could tell you of splendor, my dearest Nelly,
would be nothing to the reality of what I see here. Such
magnificence in every detail; such troops of servants, all
so respectful and obliging, and some dressed in liveries
that resemble handsome uniforms! Such gold and silver plate!
such delicious flowers everywhere on the staircase, in the
drawing-room, here, actually, beside me as I write! And, oh,
Nelly, if you could see my dress! Lace, with bouquets of red
camellia, and looped up with strings of small pearls. Think
of me, of poor Kate Dal ton, wearing such splendor! And,
strange enough, too, I do not feel awkward in it. My hair,
that you used to think I dressed so well myself, has been
pronounced a perfect horror; and although I own it did shock
me at first to hear it, I now see that they were perfectly
right. Instead of bands, I wear ringlets down to my very
shoulders; and Nina tells me there never was such an
improvement, as the character of my features requires
softening. Such quantities of dress as I have got, too! for
there is endless toilette here; and although I am now
growing accustomed to it, at first it worried me dreadfully,
and left me no time to read. And, a propos of reading, Lady
Hester has given me such a strange book, 'Mathilde,' it is
called; very clever, deeply interesting, but not the kind of
reading you would like; at least, neither the scenes nor the
characters such as you would care for. Of course I take it
to be a good picture of life in another sphere from what I
have seen myself; and if it be, I must say there is more
vice in high society than I believed. One trait of manners,
however, I cannot help admiring, the extreme care that every
one takes never to give even the slightest offence; not only
that the wrong thing is never said, but ever even suggested.
Such an excessive deference to others' feelings bespeaks
great refinement, if not a higher and better quality. Lady
Hester is delightful in this respect. I cannot tell you how
the charm of her manner grows into a fascination. Captain
Onslow I see little of, but he is always good-humored and
gay; and as for Sir Stafford, he is like a father in the
kindliness and affection of his cordiality. Sydney I miss
greatly; she was nearly of my own age, and although so much
superior to me in every way, so companionable and
sisterlike. We are to write to each other if she does not
return soon. I intended to have said so much about the
galleries, but Mr. Jekyl does quiz so dreadfully about
artistic enthusiasm, I am actually ashamed to say a word;
besides, to me, Nelly, beautiful pictures impart pleasure
less from intrinsic merit than from the choice of subject
and the train of thoughts they originate; and for this
reason I prefer Salvator Rosa to all other painters. The
romantic character of his scenery, the kind of story that
seems to surround his characters, the solemn tranquillity of
his moonlights, the mellow splendor of his sunsets, actually
heighten one's enjoyment of the realities in nature. I am
ashamed to own that Raffaelle is less my favorite than
Titian, whose portraits appear to reveal the whole character
and life of the individual represented. In Velasq'uez there
is another feature—”
Here came an interruption, for Nina came with gloves to choose, and now arose the difficult decision between a fringe of silver filigree and a deep fall of Valenciennes lace, a question on both sides of which Mademoiselle Nina had much to say. In all these little discussions, the mock importance lent to mere trifles at first amused Kate, and even provoked her laughter; but, by degrees, she learned not only to listen to them with attention, but even to take her share in the consultation. Nina's great art lay in her capacity for adapting a costume to the peculiar style and character of the wearer; and, however exaggerated were some of her notions on this subject, there was always a sufficiency of shrewd sense and good taste in her remarks to overbear any absurdity in her theory. Kate Dalton, whose whole nature had been simplicity and frankness itself, was gradually brought to assume a character with every change of toilette; for if she came down to breakfast in a simple robe of muslin, she changed it for a costume de paysanna to walk in the garden, and this again for a species of hunting-dress to ride in the Cascini, to appear afterwards at dinner in some new type of a past age; an endless variety of these devices at last engaging attention, and occupying time, to the utter exclusion of topics more important and interesting.
The letter was now to be resumed; but the clew was lost, and her mind was only fettered with topics of dress and toilette. She walked out upon the terrace to recover her composure; but beneath the window was rolling on that endless tide of people and carriages that swells up the great flood of a capital city. She turned her steps to another side, and there, in the pleasure-ground, was George Onslow, with a great horse-sheet round him, accustoming a newly purchased Arabian to the flapping of a riding-skirt. It was a present Sir Stafford had made her the day before. Everything she saw, everything she heard, recalled but one image, herself! The intoxication of this thought was intense. Life assumed features of delight and pleasure she had never conceived possible before. There was an interest imparted to everything, since in everything she had her share. Oh! most insidious of all poisons is that of egotism, which lulls the conscience by the soft flattery we whisper to ourselves, making us to believe that we are such as the world affects to think us. How ready are we to take credit for gifts that have been merely lent us by a kind of courtesy, and of which we must make restitution, when called upon, with what appetite we may.
For the time, indeed, the ecstasy of this delusion is boundless. Who has not, at some one moment or other of his life, experienced the entrancing delight of thinking that the world is full of his friends and admirers, that good wishes follow him as he goes, and kind welcomes await his coming? Much of our character for good or evil, of our subsequent utility in life, or our utter helplessness, will depend upon how we stand the season of trial. Kate Daiton possessed much to encourage this credulity; she was not only eminently handsome, but she had that species of fascination in her air which a clever French writer defines as the feminine essence, “plus femme que les autres femmes.” If a very critical eye might have detected in her manner and address certain little awkwardnesses, a less exacting judgment would have probably been struck with them as attractions, recalling the fact of her youth, her simplicity, and the freshness of her nature. Above all other charms, however, was the radiant happiness that beamed out in every word and look and gesture; such a thorough sense of enjoyment, so intense a pleasure in life, is among the very rarest of all gifts.
There was enough of singularity, of the adventurous, in the nature of her position, to excel all the romance of her nature; there was more than enough of real splendor around her to give an air of fact and truth to the highest flights of her imagination. Had she been the sole daughter of the house and name, flatteries and caresses could not have been lavished on her more profusely; her will consulted, her wishes inquired, her taste evoked on every occasion. And yet, with all these seductions about her, she was not yet spoiled not yet! Home and its dear associations were ever present to her mind; her humble fortune, and that simple life she used to lead, enforcing lessons of humility not yet distasteful. She could still recur to the memory of the little window that looked over the “Murg,” and think the scenery beautiful. Her dear, dear papa was still all she had ever thought him. Nelly was yet the sweet-tempered, gentle, gifted creature she worshipped as a sister; even Hanserl was the kind, quaint emblem of his own dreamy “Vaterland.” As yet no conflict had arisen between the past and the present, between the remembrance of narrow fortune and all its crippling exigencies, and the enjoyment of wealth that seems to expand the generous feelings of the heart. The lustre of her present existence threw, as yet, no sickly light over the bygone; would it might have been always so!