CHAPTER II.
I stood on the day of my arrival looking from the drawing-room window on the back grounds of Elmore Court. The lilacs had not yet shaken all their blossoms from the stems. The sun had not yet deepened the transparent green of the leaves. The grass was knee deep. The apple-trees were in full flower. The lilies had opened their white breasts to the ravishment of the bees. Over the sky sailed the tenderest, most pallid clouds. From the leaf-draped covert rushed a storm of song—a commingling of a thousand voices of birds. And right overhead hung a hawk, poised in the sunshine like an image of stone.
How different from the war of the streets! how different this nimble ether from the smoke-charged air of London! How sweet this murmurous repose, unthreatened by the beetle-browed organ-grinder, by the iron-throated costermonger! Who for this natural music of the trees would not forego the clamorous contortions of the opera-singer? Who for this fragrant air, this sunlighted scene, would not abandon the fevered atmosphere, the gaslit glory, the silly civilities of the London ball-room?
I welcomed the mood. I applauded the full-voiced emotion of my heart. For I wished to sympathise with nature; to interpret with reverence her symbols; to receive with homage her messages. I desired to feel my soul kindling beneath her gaze; to dilate with the power and calm of her inspirations; to ravish from her lips her thoughts, and from her eyes her visions.
I left the window and entered the library. The furnishing of this I had made my peculiar care. Handsome shelves were ranged around the room, laden with books. I had at least exercised judgment in my selection. I had rummaged the libraries of the best booksellers in London; and had culled from every branch of the tree of knowledge specimens of its choicest fruit.
Mrs. Williams had done her work well. The servants she had hired were neat and deft. The house from attic to basement was clean to purity. Looking through the window-pane was like gazing at objects through a rarified atmosphere.
I had a talk with her on the evening of my arrival.
“I suppose you know pretty well everybody here?”
“I almost think I do, Sir.”
“Who are your ‘quality?‘”
“We have no titles in these parts, Sir. I doubt if the whole population of Cliffegate is five hundred souls, man and boy. We have a few genteel families living around, but they are mostly poor.”
“Then there is no society?”
“Lor, no, Sir!” she replied with a smile.
“I noticed a church. You have a clergyman, of course?”
“Yes, Sir; Mr. Toulmin. He lives at the parsonage with his lady and niece. ‘Tis an old square house on the south side of the church. Maybe you noticed it, Sir. Then there’s Mr. Fisher the curate, and the two Miss Loaders, who play the organ and teach at the Free School.”
“I see. The old story. Every little village has its group of worthies who circle round the parson. Is that the society?”
“There are two or three more families, Sir, besides the widow, your neighbour. But she’s not to be counted. She keeps much to herself.”
“I suppose she hasn’t got over the loss of her husband?”
“I don’t think it’s that, Sir. Some say she’s fanciful; others that she’s a bit stiffish ; and I’ve heard it whispered she’s a bit wrong”—and here Mrs. Williams significantly tapped her forehead. “But that’s mere wild talk.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mrs. Fraser.”
“I suppose the poor woman’s abused because she won’t make one of the parsonic satellites, eh? If that’s the case, I am afraid you must expect to hear no good spoken of me. I mean to know no one—no one!” I added emphatically; “and that reminds me: should anybody call, you must say, and always say, I am out.”
“Yes, Sir; but I fear you’ll find it very dull.”
“Not I. I have my books.”
“Yet—you’ll pardon me, Sir—I should be sorry if you refused to see company a little. I’ve often heard father, who was a bit of scholard in his way, say that the mind’s like a piece of elastic that grows useless by over-stretching.”
“No doubt,” I answered laughing; “but don’t fear that I shall overstrech my mind.” And here the conversation ended.
I had proposed to set to work so soon as as I should have become familiar with the new existence I had entered on. Certainly this sober repose was a great change from the life I was used to. I knew likewise that study is best pursued in accustomed haunts. There is a distraction in novelty that makes diligence very impossible sometimes. Added to this, the crisp sunshine, the shrewd sweet air, stirred life to her innermost sources, and excited an appetite for their enjoyment abroad. I also wanted to get my grounds into order; and the gardener would demand my supervision. And there was a certain pleasure, to which I was not insensible, in contemplating my new possessions, in admiring my furniture, in disposing afresh the ornaments and contriving more striking coups d’œil.
I did not fear that my resolution of study would wax faint. I only desired to surround it with the most favourable conditions for its operation.
To a bachelor all things are possible. I who had affirmed it a bad policy to spend money on other men’s belongings soon found myself growing prodigal in my orders. I hired two gardeners, when I had vowed one would suffice. They encroached upon my ignorance of their calling. They seduced me into numerous purchases. They made me improve the greenhouses. The water-supply was inconvenient; wells had to be sunk. The fountain was choked and the pipes had to come up.
All this found me profitless occupation.
From time to time cards were left on me: Mr. Toulmin’s, Mr. Slark’s, the curate’s and others. I tossed them contemptuously aside. I had not come to Cliffegate for society. Who would leave London for a Caspian Sea of Slarks and Toulmins and curates?
When at last I set to work, I did so energetically. I kept my fancied rewards steadily in view. I was rich enough to contest for a seat in Parliament, and I was resolved to carry to that arena a mind enriched with an intimate knowledge of books and the ripe conceptions of meditation.
But a weakness which I might have anticipated soon manifested itself. I was without the experience or capacity to direct my studies. Desultory reading would but store my mind with learning that instead of brightening would lumber it—instead of accelerating would encumber its movements. The discovery was a blow. It was plain I stood in need of help. The judgment of a superior or at least a more practised intellect to direct my choice, to help me to form my opinions, and to animate my indolence, I found would be essential. The vessel, indeed, was equipped; her sails were set; a propitious breeze blew; but the helmsman was wanting.
I advertised for a companion.
Some days passed and then letters poured in on me. The insolence of want found a curious illustration in these replies. Of the hundred applicants all professed themselves as possessed of qualifications superior to those I had enumerated. But none of them satisfied me. Perhaps choice was embarrassed by quantity. I fancied, too, that I missed something in their tone—something my instincts knew but could not name.
A few days later I found a letter on my breakfast-table. The handwriting was foreign. I opened it and read:
“Berners Street, June 18th, 18—.
“Sir,—In reply to your advertisement, dated the 7th of June, I beg to offer myself as a candidate for the situation you offer. I am an Italian by birth, but I have resided long in England and flatter myself I am a complete master of the language.
“My knowledge of the learned tongues will, I trust, be illustrated by the assurance that I have published in Italian a translation of the ‘Idylliums of Theocritus,’ which has won the applause of many eminent foreign scholars, whose testimonies to its excellence I can produce. I have also printed an edition of the works of Apollonius Rhodius and of Coluthus Lycopolitas. I am also the author of an Italian life of Tibullus.
“Of mathematics I must avow myself ignorant, my taste never having led me to that study. But in literature, both ancient and modern, I may account myself a proficient. I have little doubt that you will find me equal to the discharge of any duties it may be your pleasure to impose. I am a poor man; and though I could earn a competence by teaching at schools and colleges, yet the situation you offer is the one that would most meet my wishes.
- “I have the honour to be, Sir,
- “Your humble servant,
- “Pietro Martelli.“
There was one particular reason for my replying to this letter. The writer was an Italian. It was a necessary part of my scheme that I should at least profess an acquaintance with European literature. French, German, and even Spanish (this language I could read but not speak) I knew. But I was ignorant of Italian; and of Italian it was necessary that I should be master. I had a fair idea of the wealth of that language, and of its value as a vehicle of exquisite inspirations. I knew what modern literature owed to it; and to remain ignorant of the source whence had sprung many of the chief refinements of modern thought would be to remain incapable of properly appreciating those refinements themselves.
In my reply I told him he was at liberty to take up his residence in my house at any date that suited him. I named the income I was prepared to pay, and concluded by assuring him he would not find his time severely occupied by his duties.
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