Ellen, as she helped her mistress to undress, wondered greatly what could cause the frequent smile, and the brightened eyes which she instantly noted.
The next morning was a clear, glorious autumnal one; a white mist enveloped the valley, and covered the river and the fields which bordered it, and the long rows of poplars between which it flowed, while the tops of the hills stood out, clear and distinct, bathed in a flood of golden sunshine, and the sky above was like a sapphire for clearness and depth of hue.
Sara drank in deep draughts of the sweet, bracing air, and as she looked around, her heart swelled within her, and an impulse which for months had slumbered–had been as though it had never inspired her, animated her once more–the desire, namely, to take her brush in her hand, and picture that scene as once she would have had great joy in doing. But after first arriving at Mein Genügen she had had such an impulse often, and nothing had come of it; when she had tried to reduce it to action, she had been so disheartened with the dulness, the utter absence of life, of the old strength and craft, that it was now long since she had renewed the attempt. This morning, though the impulse was at first strong within her, she shook her head, and decided not to make an attempt which must end in disappointment. She opened her book, and tried to be interested in that.
Soon the effort succeeded. It was an Italian history, which she had found amongst Falkenberg’s books, and the page at which she opened it pictured that scene in which il rè galantuomo, contrary to the advice of his great minister, and other wise and potent counsellors, had insisted on preserving in the speech from the throne which he was to utter on opening parliament, an allusion to the sufferings of his people, and his own sensibility to them. That ‘cry of anguish’–that grido di dolore of which the King spoke, has now become historical. Sara did not remember even to have read of it before, or, if she had, she had passed it by, and forgotten it. What drew her attention to it on this occasion was a mark in pencil beside the sentence, and at the foot of the page, on the margin, the words, in her husband’s handwriting:
‘Surely a fine subject for a picture, treated either allegorically or
literally.–R. F.’
Sara’s hands, with the book in them, sank gradually, and she raised her face, full of musing and reflection, towards the clear hill-tops, whose bases and all beneath were swathed in mist.
‘It would make a grand picture,’ she mused, ‘for all who knew the allusion. Il grido di dolore.... When Victor Emmanuel spoke those words they were prophetic of the release of his people–of their salvation. There spoke the deliverer. The scene should not be all a cry of anguish; there should be a tone of hope as well. It would be best treated allegorically, I believe. I suppose, if I treated it as I should wish, I should be called narrow and feminine in my idea. No doubt I should make it personal–turn Italy into a human being–bring my own experience to bear upon it–what has my language been of late but a grido di dolore; more shame for me, no doubt! I wonder how he thought of its being represented. I wish I knew. Surely any real representation of the thing should show not only the lower creature crying aloud in its agony, but the strong spirit which has heard its cry and will raise it up.’
Again she looked across towards the hills. The mist had almost all cleared away. The river was now perceptible, winding in silver links towards Coblenz; the poplars and the fields, the red-roofed villages and the peaceful homesteads, all came into view. Upon her spirit, too, fell a peace which it was long since she had experienced. She went into the house, and found that the post had come in, and that breakfast awaited her. There was one letter for her, and that was from Falkenberg. Throwing off her hat and shawl, she eagerly opened and read it. It was from Rio–so far had they progressed in their wanderings–and it gave her a graphic account of their recent expeditions, of the glowing beauty of the Brazilian scenery, and of the odd, eccentric habits of his companion.
‘I think you would like him, though. He has real original genius beneath all his whimsicalities, and some of his sketches are masterly.’ Then he went on to say that their movements were undecided; they did not know whether to make a further journey or to return to Europe.
He made many inquiries after her health, her pursuits, her happiness, and begged her to write very soon. ‘You cannot tell with what eagerness I look for your letters. You will not quarrel with me for saying this, since I am such a long way off. Sometimes the longing to see your face is so intense that I feel as if I must start up, and be off then and there–auf der stelle; but do not be dismayed. The aberration, when it comes, is only temporary. You need not dread my bursting in upon you suddenly, without preparation; that is, if you will keep me pacified by some more letters like your last one.’