CHAPTER VIII.
My uncle's tale, as repeated here, will no more be broken either by myinterruptions, which were frequent enough, or by his own pauses, butwill be presented in a continuous form.
STORY OF EDGAR VAUGHAN.
"On the following day, when I called at the house in Bloomsbury--then afashionable neighbourhood--to which I had been directed, I was met atthe threshold, with power and warmth, by Peter Green himself, an oldacquaintance of mine, who proved to be Adelaide's brother. My naturehad been too reserved for me to be friendly with him at College, but Ihad liked him much better than any one else, because he was so decidedand straight-forward. The meeting rather surprised me, for Green is nota rare name, and so it had never occurred to me to ask the wearyAdelaide whether she knew one Peter Green, a first-class man ofChristchurch. Peter, who was a most hearty fellow, and full, like hissister, of animal life, overpowered me with the weight of his gratitude,which I did not at all desire or deserve. As, in spite of your rashconclusion, my romantic Clara, I did not fall in love with Adelaide, whobesides her pithsome health and vigour was in many respects astray frommy fair ideal, and more than all, was engaged long ago to the giver ofthe sapphire ring, I need not enlarge upon my friendship with PeterGreen, whom I now began to like in real earnest.
Young as he was, his father's recent death had placed him at the head ofa leading mercantile house, Green, Vowler, and Green, of Little DistaffLane. And young as he was--not more than seven-and-twenty--his mannerswere formed, and his character and opinions fixed, as if he had seen allthe ways, and taken stock of the sentiments of all the civilised world.Present to him any complexity, any conflict of probabilities, any mazewhose ins and outs were abroad half over the universe, and if thequestion were practical, he would see what to do in a moment; if it weretheoretical, he would quietly move it aside. I have known many learnedjudges sum up a case most lucidly, blow away all the verbiage, sweepaside all the false issues, balance the contradictions, illuminate allthe obscurities, and finally lift from its matrix, and lay in thecolourless sunlight the virgin truth, without either dross or polish.All this Peter Green seemed to have done in a moment, without anyeffort, without any reasoning process; not jumping at his conclusion,but making it fly to him. He possessed what an ancient writer, oncehighly esteemed at Oxford, entitles the "wit universal," which confersand comprises the "wit of details." For this power when applied to apractical purpose, a great historian employs a happy expression notwelcomed by our language; he calls it the power to "pontoon theemergency." Excuse my harsh translation, perhaps it is better thanparaphrase.
With all these business qualities, my friend was as merry andunpretentious a man as ever made a bad joke, or laughed at anotherfellow's; liberal also, warm-hearted, and not sarcastic. In a word, hewas a genuine specimen of the noble English merchant, who has done moreto raise this country in the esteem of the world than would a thousandNelsons or Wellingtons.
Now this man discerned at a glance the wretched defects of my nature andposition. An active mind like his could never believe in thepossibility of being happy without occupation. And by occupation hemeant, not the chasing of butterflies, or maundering after foxes, butreal honest Anglo-Saxon work; work that strings the muscles, or knitsthe hemispheres of the brain. And work he would himself, ay, and withall his energies. Not the man was he to tap the table with his pipe,and cry out, "Bravo, Altiora! A little more gin if you please, andchalk it down to the Strike;" but he was the man to throw off his coat,and pitch into the matter before him without many words, though withplenty of thought. Now, this man, feeling deeply indebted to me, andbeginning to like me as my apathy and reserve went to pieces before hisenergy, this man, I say, cast about for some method of making me usefuland happy. Wonderfully swift as he was in pouncing upon the rightthing, I believe it took him at least five minutes to find out theproper course for an impracticable fellow like me. And when he hadfound this out, it took even him a week to draw the snail out of hishole. Years of agreeable indolence, and calm objective indifference,seldom ruffled except at fashionable snobbery, had made of me not aSybarite, or a supercilious censor, much less a waiter on fortune, but acontemplative islander, a Haytian who had been once to Spain, and wouldhenceforth be satisfied with the view of her caravels. But myAdelantado was a man of gold and iron. Green, Vowler, and Green werelargely concerned in the oil and dried fruit business. They hadransacked the olive districts of continental Europe, and found the pricegoing up and the quality going down, so they wanted now to open anotheroil vein.
Peter Green observing my love of uncultured freedom, the only subject onwhich I ever grew warm and rapturous, espied the way to relieve me ofsome nonsense, give my slow life a fillip, and perhaps--oh climax--opena lucrative connexion. He knew, for he seemed to know everything doneor undone by commerce, that there was a glorious island rich in jewelsand marble and every dower of nature, and above all teeming with olives,lemons, and grapes, and citrons; and that this gifted island stillremained a stranger, through French and Genoese ignorance, to our Londontrade. This was the island libelled by Seneca, idolised by its natives,drenched with more blood than all the plains of Emathia, yet mother ofheroes and conquerors of the world--if that be any credit--in a singleword, Corsica. Once or twice indeed our countrymen have attempted toshake hands with this noble race, so ruined by narrow tradition; and inthe end we shall doubtless succeed, as we always do; but the grain ofthe Corsican is almost as stubborn as our own. In fact the staple ismuch the same, the fabric is very different. Bold they are, and manly,simple, generous, and most hospitable, lovers too of their countrybeyond all other nations; but--oh fatal ignorance--industry to them isdrudgery; and labour is an outrage. Worse than all is the fiend of theisland, the cursed Blood-revenge.
"Just the place for you, Vaughan," said the indomitable Peter, "everyone there as dignified as an eagle after stealing a lamb. Noinstitutions to speak of, but the natural one of Vendetta, splendidequality, majestic manhood, lots of true womanhood, and it does all thework that is done, which isn't saying much. Why, my dear Quixotic, theland of Sampiero and Paoli, and where Rousseau was to legislate, only heproved too lazy,--is not that the jockey for you? After all theselevees and masquerades that you so much delight in--you need not scowllike a bandit; it is only because they don't want you, you are just thesame as the rest, or why do you notice the nonsense?--after all thisLondon frippery, Monte Kotondo will be a fresh oyster after devil'dbiscuits."
"True enough, my friend: but an oyster to be swallowed shell and all."
"Well, is not that just what you want? Lime is good for squeamishness.And more than that, you are just the man we want. You can talk Italianwith excellent opera style and sentiment; and you won't be long till youfraternise with the Corsicans. Perhaps they will drive out the French,who don't know what to do with it, and make you their king like Theodoreof Neuhoff; and then you proclaim free trade restricted to the navy ofGreen, Vowler, and Green. But in sober earnest, think of it, my dearVaughan. Anything is better than this cynic indolence. Some of yourviews will be corrected, and all enlarged by travel. A commonsentiment. Yes, the very thing you are short of. All your expenses wepay of course, and give you an honest salary; and all we ask of you isto explore more than a tourist would; and to send us a plain descriptionof everything. You have plenty of observation; make it useful insteadof a torment to you. We know well enough the great gifts of thatisland, but we want to know how they lie, and how we may best get atthem."
"Then you would expect me to make commercial arrangements?"
Peter laughed outright. "I should rather fancy not. Somewhat queer onesthey would be. Platonic no doubt, and panisic, but not altogetheradapted to double entry."
"Then in fact I am to go as a committee of inquiry."
"I have told you all we want. If you make any friends all the better;but that we leave to yourself. Perhaps you'll grow sociable there.Though the Corsican does not sing, 'We won't g
o home till morning,' andbe going home all the time."
"And how long would my engagement last?"
"Till you have thoroughly traversed the country, if you stick to it solong; and then if you quit yourself well, we should commission you forSardinia. What an opening for an idle man, though it would soon killme--so little to do. But you may cut it short when you like. Plenty ofour people would jump at such an offer; but for a country like that wemust have a thorough gentleman. A coarse-mannered bagman would verysoon secure the contents of a fusil. He would be kissing the Corsicangirls, who are wonderfully lovely they say, and their lovers amazinglyjealous; and every man carries a gun. A timid man they despise, aninsolent man they shoot; and most of our fellows are one or the other,or both. But will you undertake it? Yes, or no, on the spot. And Iask you to say 'yes' as a special favour to me."
"Then of course I say yes. When shall I go?"
"To-morrow, if you like. Next month if you prefer it. We can give youintroductions. There is no real danger for a thorough gentleman, or youshould not go for all the olives in Europe. Mind we want a particularsort, very long and taper--Virgil's 'Ray,' in fact. You shall have asample of it. As yet we know but one district of Italy where it grows,but have got scent of it in Corsica. Glorious fellows they are, if halfthat I hear is true, glorious fellows but for their laziness, and that---- Vendetta."
To be brief, I received very clear instructions in writing, and was offfor Bonifazio the following week, in a small swift yacht of my own, aluxury to which I had always aspired, and which I could now for a timeafford. But before I went, your poor father, Clara, protested moststrongly against the scheme, and even came to London in the vain hope ofdissuading me. He had some deep presentiment that it would end darkly,and so indeed it did.
"Ned," said he once more, "there are only two of us, and my dear wife isvery delicate. I have been at Genoa, where those islanders are wellknown, and even there they are rarely spoken of but with a cold shudder.They are a splendid race, I believe, great heroes and all that, but theyshoot a man with no more compunction than they shoot a muffro. Iimplore you, my dear brother, not to risk the last of our family, whereblood flows as freely as water. And your temper, you know, is not thebest in the world. Don't go, my dear fellow, don't go. I shall have tocome and avenge you, and I don't understand Vendetta."
Ah, me! If I had only listened to him. And yet, I don't know. After apleasant voyage we reached the magnificent island, about the middle ofMay. My intention was to skirt round it from the southern extremity,taking the western side first, and touching at every anchorage, whence Iwould make incursions, and return to my little cutter, as the mostconvenient head-quarters. Of course I should have to rough it; but whatyoung man would think twice of that, with an adventurous life beforehim?
I will not weary you, my dear child, with a long description of Corsica.It is a land which combines all the softness and the majesty, all thewealth and barrenness, all the smile and menace of all the world beside.I could talk of it by the hour; but you want to know what I did, and wasdone to, more than what I saw. From the awful rock of Bonifazio, thestreets where men should have no elbows, and the tower of Torrione,along the fantastic coast which looks as if time were a giant rabbit, wetraced the blue and spur-vexed sea, now edged with white, and now withgray, and now with glowing red, until we reached that paradise ofheaven, the garden of Balagna.
CHAPTER IX.
STORY OF EDGAR VAUGHAN.
Let me hold myself. Weak as I am and crippled by premature old age, notthe shortness of my breath, not the numbness of my heart, not even thepalsy of my frame, can quench or check the fire rekindled by the merename of that heavenly valley. To live there only half a minute is wortha day of English life. Life--it is a space to measure, not by pendulumor clock-hand, not by our own strides to and fro (the ordnance scale ofthe million), not even by the rolling sun, and nature's hail andfarewell; but by the well-spring of ourselves, the fount of thought andfeeling. Every single breath I draw of this living air--air the bride ofearth our sire, wedded to him by God Creator, air whose mother-milk wefight for in clusters baulking one another--every breath I draw danceswith a buoyant virtue, sucked, in any other land, but from mountainnipples. Bright air of a rosy blue, where northern eyes are dazed withbeauty, where every flower cuts stars of light, and every cloud issunshine's step; can even lovers parted thus believe themselves divided?Every rock has its myrtle favour, every tree its clematis wreath; underthe cistus and oleander hides the pink to lace its bodice, watched bythe pansy's sprightly eye. Lavishly, as children's bubbles, hoveroverhead oranges, and citrons, lemons, almonds, figs, varied by theblushing peach and the purpling grape. Far behind, and leaning forththe swarthy bosom of the mountain, whose white head leans on the heaven,are ranks on ranks of glaucous olive, giants of a green old age dashedwith silver gray. And oh, the fragrance under foot, the tribute of theground, which Corsica's great son--as we men measure greatness--pinedfor in the barren isle, where the iron of his selfishness entered hisown soul.
These are said to be the largest olive-trees in the world, and of thevery best varieties. Heaps upon heaps the rich fruit lies at the footof the glorious tree; nature is too bountiful for man to heed her gifts.For this district of Balagna, and that of Nebbio further north, myattention had been especially bespoken by my shrewd and sagaciousfriend. Therefore and by reason of the charms around me, here Iresolved to pass the summer; so my vessel was laid up at Calvi, andbeing quartered in Belgodere at a little Inn--"locanda" it should becalled, but I hate interlarding--I addressed myself right heartily tobusiness and to pleasure.
First I had to study the grand Palladian gift. Unless old Seneca was,as the Corsicans say, a great liar, he cannot have been the author ofthat epigram which declares this land a stranger to the peaceful boon.It is impossible to believe that a country so adapted to that tree, sooften colonized by cultured races, can have been so long ungifted withits staff of life. The island itself in that same epigram is utterlymis-described.
As regards the inhabitants, the first line of the well-known couplet isverified by ages; to the second it does not plead guilty now, andprobably never did.
"Law the first revenge. Law the second to live by robbery. Law the third to lie. The fourth to deny any Gods."
The Corsicans, on the contrary, have always been famous for candour,whose very soul is truth, and for superstition, the wen or hump ofreligion. For my own part, loving not that unprincipled[#] fellow hardlabour, towards whom these noble islanders entertain a like antipathy,and loving much any freedom not hostile to my own, I got on with thenatives admirably, for a certain time. Time had reconciled me to theircustom of carrying, instead of cane or umbrella, long double-barrelledguns, whose muzzle they afford the stranger full opportunity ofinspecting. First-rate marksmen are they, but they sling their guns athap-hazard on their backs, and cheek to jowl we come upon the cold metalat the corner of the narrow streets. Tall and powerful men they are,especially the mountaineers; with all the Spaniard's dignity and theItalian's native grace. The women are lithe, erect, and beautifullyformed, with a swan-like carriage, and a free and courteous bearing,such as very few of our high-born damsels own.
[#] "Labor improbus" of Virgil.
The olive-growers frankly gave me all their little information aboutthat tree whose typical virtues they have never cared to learn. Thevariety chiefly grown, or rather which chiefly grows itself, is one theycall the Genoese. The owners afford them very little culture, and manyare too idle even to collect the fruit. There are said to be tenmillion olive-trees in the island; at least they were reckoned up tothat number by order of the Government; then the enumerators grew tired,and left off counting. Whatever number there is might easily betripled, if any one had the energy to graft the oleasters, with whichthe hills are covered. There is also the Saracen olive, and the Sabine,the latter perhaps the Regia of Columella, Raggiaria of Caesalpinus
, andRadius of Virgil. However, though not unlike my sample fruit, it wasnot quite identical, and as my employers wanted a very special sort forvery special qualities, I was as far from my object as ever.
One magnificent summer evening, as I rode along the mountain side nearthe village of Speloncato, suddenly the track turned sharply into awooded dingle. Steeped in the dream of nature's beauty, I was thinkingof nothing at all, as becomes a true Corsican, when I received asharpish knock in the eye. Something fell and lodged in my capaciousbeard. Smarting from the pain. I caught it, and not being able to seeclearly, took it at first for a spent and dropping bullet. But when myeyes had ceased to water, I found in my hand a half-grown olive of thevery kind I had so long been seeking. I drew forth some of my Londonspecimens which had been chemically treated to prevent theirshrivelling, and compared it narrowly. Yes, there could be no doubt;the same pyriform curve, the same bulge near the peduncle, the sameviolet lines in the skin, and when cut open, the same granulation andnucleus. I was truly delighted, at length I should be of some realservice; at least if there were many trees here of this most rarevariety. By riding up the dingle, I soon ascertained that it wasplanted with trees of this sort only, gray old trees of a differenthabit from any other olive. Afterwards I found that it requires adifferent soil, and a different aspect. Full speed I galloped back tothe hamlet of Speloncato, and inquired for the owner of this oliveEldorado. Signor Dezio Della Croce, owner of all this lovely slope, andof large estates extending as far as the road to Corte; in fact thechief proprietor of the neighbourhood. He was, said the peasant withsome pride, a true descendant of the great race of Cinarca, foremost inthe island annals for a thousand years, and of whom was the famousGiudice Della Rocca, Count and Judge of Corsica, six hundred years ago."
At the sound of his name, Giudice opened his great sleepy eyes, andpricked his ears: I promised not to interrupt, but he gave no suchpledge.
"Let the Cinarchesi blood go for its full value; but it was worthsomething to the Della Croce to be descended also from the TuscanMalaspina; for the lands of those great Marquises were now in thepossession of the Signor Dezio. And the Signor had such a daughter, ayoung maiden. Ah, Madonna! The loveliest girl in Corsica. And thevine-dresser crossed himself. As I listened to all this information, Ibegan to look through my unused credentials, which I always carried. Itstruck me that this name of Della Croce was quite familiar to me, thoughI knew not how, until a letter in the sprawling hand of young LaurenceDaldy fell out from among Peter's crabbed characters. Laurence Daldy,my mother's younger son, was now in full career, as a pigeon and aGuardsman, spending at full gallop his dead father's money. TheseDaldys were of Italian origin, the true name being D'Aldis, which aftersome years of English life they had naturalised into Daldy. And now Irecollected that when we Vaughan boys scorned them as ignoble sons ofcommerce, they used to brag about their kinship to the ancient DellaCroce.
Riding up the forest hill, on whose western bluff stands boldly the grayold tower of the Malaspinas, I began of course to make forecasts aboutthe character of my host. My host I knew he needs must be, for Corsicais of all the world the most hospitable spot. Although by this timewell acquainted with the simple island habits, I could not but expect tofind a man of stateliness and surroundings, of stiffness and somearrogance. Now the sun was setting, and the western fire from off thesea glanced in spears of reddening gold into the solemn timeworn keep.All things looked majestic, but a deal too lonely. Where was I toapply, how was I to get in? The narrow doorway overhung with the wreckof some portcullis, was blocked instead with a sort of mantlet like theRoman Vinea; the loopholes on the ground-tier were boarded almost to thetop, the high windows, such as they were, had their rough shuttersclosed. Everything betokened a state of siege and fear. Two or threemagnificent chesnuts, which must have commanded the front of the tower,had been cut down and added to the defences of the approach. Over theseI managed at last to leap my horse, who was by no means a perfecthunter; and there I halted at a loss how to proceed. I had been longenough in Corsica to know, even without a certain ominous gleam from aloophole, and the view in transverse section of a large double-barrelledgun, that the owner of this old mansion was now in the pleasant state ofVendetta.
Expecting every moment to be shot, and nothing said about it, I waved myletter, as a white flag, furiously above my head. Presently thatfrightful muzzle was withdrawn, and the slide pushed back, toreconnoitre me at leisure. I tried, for the first time in my life, tolook like a real Briton; my Corsican ambition was already on the wane.So I sat my horse, and waited; and what came was worth a thousand yearsof waiting.
Round the bastion of the tower, under the rich magnolia bloom, towardsme glided through the rosy shadow the loveliest being that ever movedoutside the gates of heaven. She seemed not to walk but waft along,like the pearly Nautilus. A pink mandile of lightest gauze lit thesable of her clustering hair, and wreathing round her graceful headdeepened the tinge of the nestling cheeks. The lithe faldetta of whitecashmere, thrown hastily over the shoulders, half concealed the flowingcurves of the slender supple form, half betrayed them as it followedevery facile motion. But when she smiled--oh, Clara, I would haveleaped from her father's tower, or into the black caves of theRestonica, for one smile of hers. The dark-fringed lustre of her eyesseemed to dance with golden joy, trusting, hoping, loving all things,pleasure pleased at pleasing. And the gleesome arch of her laughinglips, that never shaped evil word! Oh, my Lily, my own Lily, I shallsee you soon again.
My dear Clara, I ought to know better. I am ashamed of myself. Andafter so many years! But at the first glance of Fiordalisa, my fate wasfixed for this life and the other. I never had loved before. I neverhad cared to look at a girl; in fact I despised them all. Now I paidfor that contemptuous folly. Loving at one glance, loving once, forall, for ever, my heart stood still like the focus of a hurricane; myspeech and every power but that of vision failed me. I dared not try toleave the saddle, such a trembling took me.
It was a visitation unknown in our foggy plains, scoffed at by our prosyrace, but known full well in Southern climes, as the sunstroke of love.My own darling--I can call her nothing less--my own delicious darlingwas quite startled at me. Whether she had a like visitation in a milderform, is more than I can say; but I hope with all my heart she had; forthen, as the Southern tale recites, God placed her hand in mine.
How I got my horse tied up, how I followed her through the sideentrance, and returned her father's greeting, I have not the least idea;all I know is that she smiled, and I wanted nothing more. But I couldnot bear to see her in the true Homeric fashion still maintained inCorsica, waiting on us like a common servant, with her beautiful archedfeet glancing under the brown pelone, and her tapering white arms laiddemurely on her bosom; then at her father's signal how she flew for thepurple grapes or the fragrant broccio! But do what she would, it seemedto become her more than all she had done before. As that form of loveand elegance flitted through the simple room, and those lustrousheavenly eyes beamed with hospitable warmth, Signor Dezio Della Croce,careworn man with beard of snow, seemed at times no little proud of hissweet and only child, but was too proud to show his pride. As for me,he must have thought that I spoke very poor Italian.
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON R. CLAY, SON AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS BREAD STREET HILL
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