Delphi complete works of.., p.268
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells, page 268
“Oh, let us!” cried Imogene, rushing down to the brink. “I don’t want to throw stones into it, but to get near it — to get near to any bit of nature. They do pen you up so from it in Europe!” She stood and watched Colville skim stones over the current. “When you stand by the shore of a swift river like this, or near a railroad train when it comes whirling by, don’t you ever have a morbid impulse to fling yourself forward?”
“Not at my time of life,” said Colville, stooping to select a flat stone. “Morbid impulses are one of the luxuries of youth.” He threw the stone, which skipped triumphantly far out into the stream. “That was beautiful, wasn’t it, Miss Effie?”
“Lovely!” murmured the child.
He offered her a flat pebble. “Would you like to try one?”
“It would spoil my gloves,” she said, in deprecating refusal.
“Let me try it!” cried Imogene. “I’m not afraid of my gloves.”
Colville yielded the pebble, looking at her with the thought of how intoxicating he should once have found this bit of wilful abandon, but feeling rather sorry for it now. “Oh, perhaps not?” he said, laying his hand upon hers, and looking into her eyes.
She returned his look, and then she dropped the pebble and put her hand back in her muff, and turned and ran up the bank. “There’s the carriage. It’s time we should be going.” At the top of the bank she became a mirror of dignity, a transparent mirror to his eye. “Are you going back to town, Mr. Colville?” she asked, with formal state. “We could set you down anywhere!”
“Thank you, Miss Graham. I shall be glad to avail myself of your very kind offer. Allow me.” He handed her ceremoniously to the carriage; he handed Effie Bowen even more ceremoniously to the carriage, holding his hat in one hand while he offered the other. Then he mounted to the seat in front of them. “The weather has changed,” he said.
Imogene hid her face in her muff, and Effie Bowen bowed hers against Imogene’s shoulder.
A sense of the girl’s beauty lingered in Colville’s thought all day, and recurred to him again and again; and the ambitious intensity and enthusiasm of her talk came back in touches of amusement and compassion. How divinely young it all was, and how lovely! He patronised it from a height far aloof.
He was not in the frame of mind for the hotel table, and he went to lunch, at a restaurant. He chose a simple trattoria, the first he came to, and he took his seat at one of the bare, rude tables, where the joint saucers for pepper and salt, and a small glass for toothpicks, with a much-scraped porcelain box for matches, expressed an uncorrupted Florentinity of custom. But when he gave his order in offhand Italian, the waiter answered in the French which waiters get together for the traveller’s confusion in Italy, and he resigned himself to whatever chance of acquaintance might befall him. The place had a companionable smell of stale tobacco, and the dim light showed him on the walls of a space dropped a step or two lower, at the end of the room, a variety of sketches and caricatures. A waiter was laying a large table in this space, and when Colville came up to examine the drawings he jostled him, with due apologies, in the haste of a man working against time for masters who will brook no delay. He was hurrying still when a party of young men came in and took their places at the table, and began to rough him for his delay. Colville could recognise several of them in the vigorous burlesques on the walls, and as others dropped in the grotesque portraitures made him feel as if he had seen them before. They all talked at once, each man of his own interests, except when they joined in a shout of mockery and welcome for some new-comer. Colville, at his risotto, almost the room’s length away, could hear what they thought, one and another, of Botticelli and Michelangelo; of old Piloty’s things at Munich; of the dishes they had served to them, and of the quality of the Chianti; of the respective merits of German and Italian tobacco; of whether Inglehart had probably got to Venice yet; of the personal habits of Billings, and of the question whether the want of modelling in Simmons’s nose had anything to do with his style of snoring; of the overrated colouring of some of those Venetian fellows; of the delicacy of Mino da Fiesole, and of the genius of Babson’s tailor. Babson was there to defend the cut of his trousers, and Billings and Simmons were present to answer for themselves at the expense of the pictures of those who had called their habits and features into question. When it came to this all the voices joined in jolly uproar. Derision and denial broke out of the tumult, and presently they were all talking quietly of a reception which some of them were at the day before. Then Colville heard one of them saying that he would like a chance to paint some lady whose name he did not catch, and “She looks awfully sarcastic,” one of the young fellows said.
“They say she is,” said another. “They say she’s awfully intellectual.”
“Boston?” queried a third.
“No, Kalamazoo. The centre of culture is out there now.”
“She knows how to dress, anyhow,” said the first commentator. “I wonder what Parker would talk to her about when he was painting her. He’s never read anything but Poe’s ‘Ullalume.’”
“Well, that’s a good subject— ‘Ullalume.’”
“I suppose she’s read it?”
“She’s read ‘most everything, they say.”
“What’s an Ullalume, anyway, Parker?”
One of the group sprang up from the table and drew on the wall what he labelled “An Ullalume.” Another rapidly depicted Parker in the moment of sketching a young lady; her portrait had got as far as the eyes and nose when some one protested: “Oh, hello! No personalities.”
The draughtsman said, “Well, all right!” and sat down again.
“Hall talked with her the most. What did she say, Hall?”
“Hall can’t remember words in three syllables, but he says it was mighty brilliant and mighty deep.”
“They say she’s a niece of Mrs. Bowen’s. She’s staying with Mrs. Bowen.”
Then it was the wisdom and brilliancy and severity of Imogene Graham that these young men stood in awe of! Colville remembered how the minds of girls of twenty had once dazzled him. “And yes,” he mused, “she must have believed that we were talking literature in the Cascine. Certainly I should have thought it an intellectual time when I was at that age,” he owned to himself with forlorn irony.
The young fellows went on to speak of Mrs. Bowen, whom it seemed they had known the winter before. She had been very polite to them; they praised her as if she were quite an old woman.
“But she must have been a very pretty girl,” one of them put in.
“Well, she has a good deal of style yet.”
“Oh yes, but she never could have been a beauty like the other one.”
On her part, Imogene was very sober when she met Mrs. Bowen, though she had come in flushed and excited from the air and the morning’s adventure. Mrs. Bowen was sitting by the fire, placidly reading; a vase of roses on the little table near her diffused the delicate odour of winter roses through the room; all seemed very still and dim, and of another time, somehow.
Imogene kept away from the fire, sitting down, in the provisional fashion of women, with her things on; but she unbuttoned her pelisse and flung it open. Effie had gone to her room.
“Did you have a pleasant drive?” asked Mrs. Bowen.
“Very,” said the girl.
“Mr. Morton brought you these roses,” continued Mrs. Bowen.
“Oh,” said Imogene, with a cold glance at them.
“The Flemmings have asked us to a party Thursday. There is to be dancing.”
“The Flemmings?”
“Yes.” As if she now saw reason to do so, Mrs. Bowen laid the book face downward in her lap. She yawned a little, with her hand on her mouth. “Did you meet any one you knew?”
“Yes; Mr. Colville.” Mrs. Bowen cut her yawn in half. “We got out to walk in the Cascine, and we saw him coming in at the gate. He came up and asked if he might walk with us.”
“Did you have a pleasant walk?” asked Mrs. Bowen, a breath more chillily than she had asked if they had a pleasant drive.
“Yes, pleasant enough. And then we came back and went down the river bank, and he skipped stones, and we took him to his hotel.”
“Was there anybody you knew in the Cascine?”
“Oh no; the place was a howling wilderness. I never saw it so deserted,” said the girl impatiently. “It was terribly hot walking. I thought I should burn up.”
Mrs. Bowen did not answer anything; she let the book lie in her lap.
“What an odd person Mr. Colville is!” said Imogene, after a moment. “Don’t you think he’s very different from other gentlemen?”
“Why?”
“Oh, he has such a peculiar way of talking.”
“What peculiar way?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Plenty of the young men I see talk cynically, and I do sometimes myself — desperately, don’t you know. But then I know very well we don’t mean anything by it.”
“And do you think Mr. Colville does? Do you think he talks cynically?”
Imogene leaned back in her chair and reflected. “No,” she returned slowly, “I can’t say that he does. But he talks lightly, with a kind of touch and go that makes you feel that he has exhausted all feeling. He doesn’t parade it at all. But you hear between the words, don’t you know, just as you read between the lines in some kinds of poetry. Of course it’s everything in knowing what he’s been through. He’s perfectly unaffected; and don’t you think he’s good?”
“Oh yes,” sighed Mrs. Bowen. “In his way.”
“But he sees through you. Oh, quite! Nothing escapes him, and pretty soon he lets out that he has seen through you, and then you feel so flat! Oh, it’s perfectly intoxicating to be with him. I would give the world to talk as he does.”
“What was your talk all about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it would have been called rather intellectual.”
Mrs. Bowen smiled infinitesimally. But after a moment she said gravely, “Mr. Colville is very much older than you. He’s old enough to be your father.”
“Yes, I know that. You feel that he feels old, and it’s perfectly tragical. Sometimes when he turns that slow, dull, melancholy look on you, he seems a thousand years old.”
“I don’t mean that he’s positively old,” said Mrs. Bowen. “He’s only old comparatively.”
“Oh yes; I understand that. And I don’t mean that he really seems a thousand years old. What I meant was, he seems a thousand years off, as if he were still young, and had got left behind somehow. He seems to be on the other side of some impassable barrier, and you want to get over there and help him to our side, but you can’t do it. I suppose his talking in that light way is merely a subterfuge to hide his feeling, to make him forget.”
Mrs. Bowen fingered the edges of her book. “You mustn’t let your fancy run away with you, Imogene,” she said, with a little painful smile.
“Oh, I like to let it run away with me. And when I get such a subject as Mr. Colville, there’s no stopping. I can’t stop, and I don’t wish to stop. Shouldn’t you have thought that he would have been perfectly crushed at the exhibition he made of himself in the Lancers last night? He wasn’t the least embarrassed when he met me, and the only allusion he made to it was to say that he had been up late, and had danced too much. Wasn’t it wonderful he could do it? Oh, if I could do that!”
“I wish he could have avoided the occasion for his bravado,” said Mrs. Bowen.
“I think I was a little to blame, perhaps,” said the girl. “I beckoned him to come and take the vacant place.”
“I don’t see that that was an excuse,” returned Mrs. Bowen primly.
Imogene seemed insensible to the tone, as it concerned herself; it only apparently reminded her of something. “Guess what Mr. Colville said, when I had been silly, and then tried to make up for it by being very dignified all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know. How had you been silly?”
The servant brought in some cards. Imogene caught up the pelisse which she had been gradually shedding as she sat talking to Mrs. Bowen, and ran out of the room by another door.
They did not recur to the subject. But that night, when Mrs. Bowen went to say good night to Effie, after the child had gone to bed, she lingered.
“Effie,” she said at last, in a husky whisper, “what did Imogene say to Mr. Colville to-day that made him laugh?”
“I don’t know,” said the child. “They kept laughing at so many things.”
“Laughing?”
“Yes; he laughed. Do you mean toward the last, when he had been throwing stones into the river?”
“It must have been then.”
The child stretched herself drowsily. “Oh I couldn’t understand it all. She wanted to throw a stone in the river, but he told her she had better not. But that didn’t make him laugh. She was so very stiff just afterward that he said the weather had changed, and that made us laugh.”
“Was that all?”
“We kept laughing ever so long. I never saw any one like Mr. Colville. How queerly the fire shines on your face! It gives you such a beautiful complexion.”
“Does it?”
“Yes, lovely.” The child’s mother stooped over and kissed her. “You’re the prettiest mamma in the world,” she said, throwing her arms round her neck. “Sometimes I can’t tell whether Imogene is prettier or not, but to-night I’m certain you are. Do you like to have me think that?”
“Yes — yes. But don’t pull me down so; you hurt my neck. Good night.”
The child let her go. “I haven’t said my prayer yet, mamma. I was thinking.”
“Well, say it now, then,” said the mother gently.
When the child had finished she turned upon her cheek. “Good night, mamma.”
Mrs. Bowen went about the room a little while, picking up its pretty disorder. Then she sat down in a chair by the hearth, where a log was still burning. The light of the flame flickered upon her face, and threw upon the ceiling a writhing, fantastic shadow, the odious caricature of her gentle beauty.
VIII
In that still air of the Florentine winter, time seems to share the arrest of the natural forces, the repose of the elements. The pale blue sky is frequently overcast, and it rains two days out of five; sometimes, under extraordinary provocation from the north a snow-storm whirls along under the low grey dome, and whitens the brown roofs, where a growth of spindling weeds and grass clothes the tiles the whole year round, and shows its delicate green above the gathered flakes. But for the most part the winds are laid, and the sole change is from quiet sun to quiet shower. This at least is the impression which remains in the senses of the sojourning stranger, whose days slip away with so little difference one from another that they seem really not to have passed, but, like the grass that keeps the hillsides fresh round Florence all the winter long, to be waiting some decisive change of season before they begin.
The first of the Carnival sights that marked the lapse of a month since his arrival took Colville by surprise. He could not have believed that it was February yet if it had not been for the straggling maskers in armour whom he met one day in Via Borgognissanti, with their visors up for their better convenience in smoking. They were part of the chorus at one of the theatres, and they were going about to eke out their salaries with the gifts of people whose windows the festival season privileged them to play under. The silly spectacle stirred Colville’s blood a little, as any sort of holiday preparation was apt to do. He thought that it afforded him a fair occasion to call at Palazzo Pinti, where he had not been so much of late as in the first days of his renewed acquaintance with Mrs. Bowen. He had at one time had the fancy that Mrs. Bowen was cool toward him. He might very well have been mistaken in this; in fact, she had several times addressed him the politest reproaches for not coming, but he made some evasion, and went only on the days when she was receiving other people, and when necessarily he saw very little of the family.
Miss Graham was always very friendly, but always very busy, drawing tea from the samovar, and looking after others. Effie Bowen dropped her eyes in re-established strangeness when she brought the basket of cake to him. There was one moment when he suspected that he had been talked over in family council, and put under a certain regimen. But he had no proof of this, and it had really nothing to do with his keeping away, which was largely accidental. He had taken up, with as much earnestness as he could reasonably expect of himself, that notion of studying the architectural expression of Florentine character at the different periods. He had spent a good deal of money in books, he had revived his youthful familiarity with the city, and he had made what acquaintance he could with people interested in such matters. He met some of these in the limited but very active society in which he mingled daily and nightly. After the first strangeness to any sort of social life had worn off, he found himself very fond of the prompt hospitalities which his introduction at Mrs. Bowen’s had opened to him. His host — or more frequently it was his hostess — had sometimes merely an apartment at a hotel; perhaps the family was established in one of the furnished lodgings which stretch the whole length of the Lung’ Arno on either hand, and abound in all the new streets approaching the Cascine, and had set up the simple and facile housekeeping of the sojourner in Florence for a few months; others had been living in the villa or the palace they had taken for years.
The more recent and transitory people expressed something of the prevailing English and American aestheticism in the decoration of their apartments, but the greater part accepted the Florentine drawing-room as their landlord had imagined it for them, with furniture and curtains in yellow satin, a cheap ingrain carpet thinly covering the stone floor, and a fire of little logs ineffectually blazing on the hearth, and flickering on the carved frames of the pictures on the wall and the nakedness of the frescoed allegories in the ceiling. Whether of longer or shorter stay, the sojourners were bound together by a common language and a common social tradition; they all had a Day, and on that day there was tea and bread and butter for every comer. They had one another to dine; there were evening parties, with dancing and without dancing. Colville even went to a fancy ball, where he was kept in countenance by several other Florentines of the period of Romola. At all these places he met nearly the same people, whose alien life in the midst of the native community struck him as one of the phases of modern civilisation worthy of note, if not particular study; for he fancied it destined to a wider future throughout Europe, as the conditions in England and America grow more tiresome and more onerous. They seemed to see very little of Italian society, and to be shut out from practical knowledge of the local life by the terms upon which they had themselves insisted. Our race finds its simplified and cheapened London or New York in all its Continental resorts now, but nowhere has its taste been so much studied as in Italy, and especially in Florence. It was not, perhaps, the real Englishman or American who had been considered, but a forestière conventionalised from the Florentine’s observation of many Anglo-Saxons. But he had been so well conjectured that he was hemmed round with a very fair illusion of his national circumstances.
