She held out her hand, and as he took it he answered, "I do not quite understand what you mean?"
Flora smiled, turned away, and went up the steps as Mrs. Adair and Mr. Lyne wished him good-day. He stood for a moment until he saw them go into the convent, and then walked slowly away murmuring to himself, "What could she have meant by saying, 'You must feel that it was your fault?'... The look, too, which accompanied those words seemed to ask some question.... But what is all this to me?"
He quickened his pace, and soon arrived at his apartments in the Piazza di Trajana.
On Friday morning—the morning of the Eltons' soirée—Marie Arbi, who had been with the Adairs since the Monday before, was in a state of great excitement, mingled with no little terror, about her first ball. Flora could but laugh at the timid fears of the world's novice, for she knew that her prettiness and simplicity would amply cover any want of self-possession, and, indeed, render her doubly attractive.
One moment Marie was in ecstasies of delight with her dress and wreath; the next she would rush into the drawing-room to Flora and ask a score of questions. Then she would declare that she knew she should be horribly gauche, and looked half ready to cry over her anticipated awkwardness. But a word from Flora about her toilette would set her off again into a rapture of admiration, and, with all a Frenchwoman's delight in the details of dress, she would descant on each particular of it. All this made Flora think of her own first ball, and of how comparatively indifferent she was about it, although she really was fond of dancing; but she had never possessed any of that almost childish gaiety which characterised Marie.
A few minutes before nine o'clock the important business of dressing was satisfactorily completed, and the young ladies went into the drawing-room to Mrs. Adair, who was already dressed. Both the girls were in white. Marie's dress was trimmed with lily of the valley and pink convolvulus; she wore a wreath to match this trimming, and necklace and earrings of topaz. Flora's was looped up with bunches of scarlet geraniums, and a spray or two of the same flowers gleamed through the masses of her hair; she wore a band of pearls round her neck, and earrings to correspond. Marie was, according to all rule, by far the prettier of the two, as she stood there with her black eyes dancing merrily, and her full red lips parted in eager expectation; her short plump figure harmonised, too, so well with the child-like expression of her face. Flora looked well also, and her slighter and more delicately formed figure gave to her a grace which was quite her own.
"I hear the carriage!" Flora exclaimed, "so let us put on our cloaks. Mrs. Elton said that the music was to begin exactly at nine, and it is striking that now; so we shall not be too early at all events."
At the door of the brilliantly lighted saloon they were received by Mrs. Elton and Mary. Did the latter feel a qualm of conscience as she greeted Flora, after she had been plotting so against her? No change of countenance betrayed any such feeling. She looked as usual, calm and dignified, as she motioned to her to pass on, saying, "A little farther on in the room you will meet Charles and Helena, who will find seats for you."
The entrance of the Adair party was followed by that of Mr. and Mrs. Penton. She looked queen-like in her training dress of black velvet, which well displayed her majestic bearing; and the smallness of her head was rendered especially remarkable by the way in which her hair was dressed. It was combed back plainly from her forehead, plaited up tightly at the back, and surmounted by a magnificent tiara of pearls. Her fair round-faced husband looked the character of a gentleman farmer quite as well as she did that of a queen. Immediately afterwards came a number of gentlemen, and among them were Signor Lanzi, Mr. Mainwaring, Mr. Caulfield, Mr. Lyne, and Mr. Earnscliffe.
The music-room, which was rather small, was quite full, and the room next to it nearly so, when Helena went to ask her mother if she wished the music to begin. On her way, however, she discreetly managed to pass close to Mr. Caulfield, and to exchange a few words with him. He cast a questioning glance towards the place where Mrs. Elton stood, as if to ask if there was any hope of her looking favourably on him. Helena shook her head and turned away. In a few moments she returned with her mother and Mary, and the music began.
There were but short intervals between the pieces, so by a little after ten, as the last notes of one of Beethoven's sonatas died away, they were answered from the other end of the room by the inspiriting tones of the Overland Mail Galop. This was a special favourite of Helena's, and she had asked the leader of the band to commence with it; accordingly a few bars of it were played; then there was a pause in order to give the couples time to form.
What a scene of confusion there was at that moment! The girls looking anxiously to see if the right one was coming to them; the gentlemen rushing about seeking for those to whom they were, or wished to be, engaged. Gradually the ladies and their partners paired off into the dancing-room, so that single couples could easily be distinguished.
Mr. Lyne, in his usual deliberate way, waited until the first rush was over, and then he went up to Flora and asked for the honour of her hand for this galop.
"I am not engaged," she answered; "but you will oblige me very much if you will dance with my friend instead of with me. She is a little shy, as it is her first ball, so it would be pleasant for her to begin by dancing with one whom she has met before. You will do this, will you not?" and she looked up smilingly at him.
"I would do much more than that to oblige Miss Adair," replied Mr. Lyne, and he offered his arm to Marie. She hesitated to accept Flora's partner, but the latter insisted.
As they went into the dancing-room Flora looked after them with an expression of amusement at Mr. Lyne's answer, which she supposed was meant to be very complimentary, but which was in reality just the contrary; implying as it did, that to give up a dance with her was a very slight sacrifice indeed.
Meanwhile Mary and Helena Elton went about to see if all their friends had partners. They did not adopt the fashionable style of leaving people to get on as well as they can whether they know any one or not.
Mr. Caulfield was watching Helena with longing eyes. She had told him that she could not give him the first dance, so he felt half inclined to do the doloroso, by not dancing it at all, and he really thought that he could have refrained had the band played anything but that "Overland Mail." To stand still during such a galop was more than nature could bear, so as he saw Helena going towards Flora with a man "in tow," as he expressed it, to be introduced to her, he hastened in the same direction, and said in a low voice as he passed her, "Well, if I can't have you, I'll have the best dancer in the room," and the next minute he was making his bow to Flora.
"Why did you not say, 'Miss Adair, I want you to dance with me faute de mieux?'" she said laughingly, as she took his arm.
"By Jove, Miss Adair, I would rather have you for a partner than almost any one in the room; you do go the pace to such perfection!"
She blushed as she felt how humbling it was to be told by Mr. Caulfield that he had chosen her for such a reason; but she knew that he meant it as a very great compliment, and therefore she thought it was unreasonable to be annoyed at it, so she answered lightly, "Well, let us begin."
Mary had asked Mr. Earnscliffe if he would allow her to get him a partner, but he replied, "Thank you, I very seldom dance; especially these dances." He bowed, turned away, and joined some gentlemen who were talking in another part of the room. Mary looked annoyed, and murmured to herself, "He might at least have asked me to dance a quadrille, if only from mere politeness. Ah! I see that I shall never succeed, but, at least, I need no longer to fear a rival in Flora Adair. My plan is working well," and a sinister expression came into her eyes as Flora passed with Mr. Caulfield.
The dancing continued with unflagging spirit until supper was announced, and even then it ceased only because the musicians went away to take some refreshments. Helena, however, considered that it would be too sad to lose such a delightful opportunity of dancing and flirting with Mr. Caulfield, so she managed to induce some obliging lady to sit down to the piano and play a valse. In a moment his arm was round her waist and away they twirled, enjoying intensely the pleasure of stealing a march on the "dragoness," as Mr. Caulfield irreverently persisted in calling Mrs. Elton. Their example was at once followed by all the lovers of dancing, who always prefer the supper dances to any others.
Marie seemed to have got over her shyness, and was quite a focus of attraction; her naïveté, and even her blunders in English, attracted every one, and she became a general favourite.
"Time flies when it should linger most," and Mr. Caulfield thought that this was the truest of all things, as Mary came to tell them that the people were coming back from supper. There was a deep recess in one of the rooms, in which was an ottoman. Here they had seated themselves, and were making plans for bright hours to come. For the moment they appeared to have forgotten the existence of a "dragoness" who might possibly prevent the realisation of visions so fair, but it was forcibly called to their recollection by Mary, who exclaimed, "Helena, how can you be so imprudent? In another moment mamma would have caught you!"
"Not while I have such a dear, thoughtful prig of a sister to guard me," replied Helena, as she jumped up and kissed her; then waving her hand to Mr. Caulfield, she glided away humming, "Addio del passato bei sogni sorridenti." A few minutes afterwards she was seen walking into the supper-room leaning on Mr. Mainwaring, and looking as demure as possible.
To Mary's surprise and delight Mr. Earnscliffe came and asked her to dance the next quadrille with him. As she took his arm she saw Mr. Lyne and Flora Adair coming towards them, and said, "Let us ask them to form part of our set."
He bowed and led her to them, but he did not speak. Mary said, "I am so glad that I chanced to see you, Flora; will you be our vis-à-vis?" The stereotyped answer, "With pleasure," was given, and they took the places opposite to each other. How often in the world are these two words uttered mechanically and untruly.
Mary was looking unusually pleased and animated. Not so was Flora. She felt puzzled about Mr. Lyne. His marked attention to her during the whole evening, and his—for him—devoted manner, made her wonder if so wild an idea as his imagining himself in love with her could have got into his head; but she rejected such a supposition as absurd, and persuaded herself that his increasing attention to her might be the effect of champagne, which would quickly wear off, and that it would be best to treat it lightly, so she tried to appear gay and amused. She little knew how closely she was watched, and how false an interpretation was given to whatever she did.
In taking the usual promenade after the dance, they passed the recess where Mary found Helena and Mr. Caulfield after supper. Pointing to the seat, Mr. Lyne said to her—
"Will you rest here a little, Miss Adair?"
"Thank you; I would rather rejoin mamma."
"Nay, Miss Adair, I beg you to grant me a few moments."
She did not see how she could well refuse, so she allowed him to take her to the ottoman. She seated herself, and he took the place beside her. How she wished to say to him, "If you are going to propose to me, I pray you not to do so, and it will save us both pain." But of course she could say nothing of the kind, and must leave him to take his own course; she had already done all that she could to avoid the threatened conversation. He did not keep her long in suspense, but plainly and directly asked her to be his wife.
"Oh, Mr. Lyne!" she answered, "I am so sorry that this should have occurred; for although I feel deeply gratified by your preference, I would much rather not have had that gratification than be obliged, as I am, to inflict the pain of a refusal upon you."
"Pray hear me for a moment, Miss Adair," he exclaimed, eagerly, "before you give so decided an answer. Your mother has given her full approbation to my suit, and my family would be enchanted to receive you among them; for myself, I can truly say that I have the highest possible respect and admiration for you, and you have always appeared to like me. I would do everything to make you happy—agree to anything you could desire. What obstacle, then, is there to your marrying me?"
She looked at him in amazement, and was on the point of giving him rather a sharp answer; but remembering that more or less a refusal must give him pain, she felt that it would be unwomanly not to make hers as gentle as she could; therefore she determined to restrain herself, and after a little hesitation she said—
"There is one grand objection, Mr. Lyne. I feel no love for you, and I could not do you the wrong of marrying you without loving."
"Oh! if that's all, I'll forgive you the wrong. I will try to win your love, and I am too sensible to want that sort of romantic love about which some people rave. Indeed, I do not think it in the least necessary to the happiness of marriage."
This was too much for Flora; she forgot all her good resolutions, and retorted with heightened colour, "I dare say you do not; you probably think, as I have heard good people in France say, that l'amour n'est rien dans le mariage, c'est une affection—un dévouement chrétien, qui doit exister entre les époux, et cet amour ne vient qu'après le mariage. Perhaps you would be satisfied with that sort of thing!"
No sooner had the words escaped her than she felt heartily ashamed of herself, and she added, humbly, "Forgive me; I have been rude and ungrateful. I have no excuse to offer save that I was carried away by momentary excitement. This is a subject upon which I feel very strongly, and I cannot, as I know many estimable people do, look upon marriage as a sort of half religious, half social duty, for which suitable position and fortune, without any prominent incompatibility of disposition, are the only requisites. If I have ever misled you as to my sentiments towards you, believe me, Mr. Lyne, that it was unintentional. I never thought of you in any other way than as a friend, and, until this evening, I never imagined that you otherwise regarded me—surely we are too unsuited to each other for anything more."
"Yes, I do feel now that we are unsuited to each other; yet I never admired you more than I do at this moment. As to your having misled me, the fault, if any, was all my own. I might have seen how reluctant you were to grant me these few minutes, and yet I would persevere, so you are perfectly free from blame. Whatever pain you may have caused me I freely forgive. Remember also, Miss Adair, that should you ever want a friend you will find a true one in me."
"Of that I am sure."
He looked gratified, pressed her hand, and murmured, "God bless you!" and then left her.
Flora felt so unhappy that it was difficult for her to prevent the tears which stood in her eyes from falling. She had fortunately refused to engage herself for the dance which was now beginning, pleading a wish to rest before the cotillon which was to follow it, so she had a little time to recover herself.
This conversation was not long in passing, yet, short as it was, Mr. Earnscliffe had observed it,—he saw the parting, and the tears in her eyes afterwards, yet he never doubted that she had accepted Mr. Lyne, and he thought to himself, "What! even in the first moments, is she bewailing the sale which she has made of herself, and the wrong she is doing to him? I suppose she is not quite hardened as yet in her rôle, and that it costs her a few tears to act it—soon enough it will become a second nature to her!... What soulless things women are! And I was once so silly as to worship them; but I was cured of that folly long ago. This is only another proof of their worthlessness; and that, too, in one of whom I felt half inclined to believe better things. How she excited my curiosity as we walked home the other day from the Farnese Palace! I could not comprehend her.... Well, at all events I will go and say good-bye to her, since we may perhaps never meet again."
As soon as he got close to where she was sitting he said, "I am come to bid you farewell, Miss Adair. I leave Rome to-morrow."
She started as she heard his voice, for she had been leaning her head upon her hand, and had not seen him approach, and now, as he took the vacant place beside her, she looked rather confused, and felt very much at a loss for something to say, so she repeated, "Leaving Rome to-morrow?"
"Yes, I am going to the neighbourhood of Naples; it is so beautiful there in spring."
"I should imagine so; spring is beautiful everywhere, and in Southern Italy it must be doubly so."
He did not answer, and, to break the silence, she added, "We go in the very opposite direction—northwards. I am longing to see Venice."
"But you do not go immediately," he rejoined; looking at her inquiringly, "you remain here some time longer, and then you begin your travels?" he laid a slight stress on your.
"No, we go at once. What should we remain here for when all our friends are gone? New scenes give variety, and—for the time at least—interest."
Her tone was sad and listless as she said this, and again he fixed his full blue eyes on her face with a meditative and a questioning gaze. She wondered what he meant by looking at her thus, as if he would read her very thoughts, and feeling that it was most unpleasant to be gazed at in this way, she exclaimed, "Mr. Earnscliffe!"
He was on the point of saying, "And Mr. Lyne goes with you, of course?" when the sound of his name, uttered by Flora, arrested his words: had they been spoken, he must have discovered his mistake; but, alas! they were not, and she continued, "Will you take me to mamma?"
This annoyed him, yet he stood up at once and offered her his arm. As they went she said, "I must thank you once more and for the last time, as we say good-bye to-night, for all your kindness to me when my ankle was sprained,—it was so good-natured of you to condescend to come and lighten my close imprisonment. I cannot say how grateful I feel to you."
"There is no cause for gratitude, Miss Adair; I did nothing for you beyond what I was bound in justice to do." It was now her turn to feel annoyed. "Besides, I enjoyed those hours very much."
"Wonderful! I thought you hated women too much to derive pleasure from their society?"
"Hate them, Miss Adair!—ah! I should do anything but that if I could only trust them. How different this life would be if they were only true! if they were not, as the best of them are—even those to whom it costs a pang to act so—ever ready to sell themselves for wealth and position."
Flora became scarlet. Mr. Earnscliffe noted that vivid flush, and considered it to be caused by consciousness of guilt, whilst in reality it was from a sense of injured innocence. A few minutes before she had been called upon to decide between wealth and possible dependence and humiliation—humiliation in the eyes of the world—and she had chosen the latter; but it was useless as a proof of the falseness of that sweeping accusation—in honour she was bound not to speak of it. She waited until the rush of excited feeling had subsided a little, and then said quietly—
"I know that you are wrong, Mr. Earnscliffe—we are not all ready to sell ourselves; there are many women who would refuse any man, no matter what advantages he could offer them, if they did not really love him."
His eyes flashed and he exclaimed, "You!" but he stopped suddenly, changed his tone, and added in his usual cold, polite manner, "Here is Mrs. Adair; but I see that she is speaking to some one, so I will not interrupt her; and now allow me to wish you Addio, e felice viaggio!"
He held her hand for a moment, whilst he looked at her again with one of those searching glances which had annoyed her before. Mrs. Adair turned round just as he left her, and said, "Why, Flora, how tired you look! Here is Marie as fresh and gay as ever!"
The gentlemen now came to claim them for the cotillon. Marie was engaged to dance with Charles Elton, and Flora with Mr. Caulfield; but Mrs. Adair said to him, "I really think that Flora ought not to dance any more, she appears to be so tired."
Flora saw Mr. Caulfield's look of annoyance, and answered with a smile—although it was rather a weary one if the truth must be told—"Not so much so, mamma, that I cannot fulfil my engagement," and she took Mr. Caulfield's arm.
At last the cotillon came to an end, and it was with a feeling of relief at not being obliged to talk or dance any more that Flora followed her mother down the stairs and got into their carriage, Marie declaring that she wished the ball was going to begin again.
The Eltons' ball, that ball to which our friends Flora Adair, Marie Arbi, and the two Elton girls had looked forward with so much eagerness, was over. Had it brought them pleasure or pain? To Helena and Marie it had brought pleasure; but to Flora and Mary, pain. Mary felt that, although she had succeeded in prejudicing Mr. Earnscliffe against Flora, she had not advanced one step towards winning his admiration for herself; and when Helena congratulated her on his having danced with her—that being an honour which he did not often confer on any one—she answered bitterly, "You mistake, Helena; Mr. Earnscliffe danced with his hostess's eldest daughter, and not with Mary Elton!"
Yet the more the attainment of the object upon which she had set her heart seemed remote, the more wildly did she long for it. To gain Mr. Earnscliffe's love, or even to hinder another from possessing it, she would stoop to any, even the most unworthy, means. Hers was a powerful passion, but it was a passion for evil rather than for good; it was not a passion of devotedness but of selfishness; she would sacrifice his happiness to her love, and not her love to his happiness. Evidently she did not know that a woman's happiness consists "in another's love become her own." The song of Solomon represents the love of the Saviour and His Church under the type of human love;—the Christian marriage ceremony says, "Let a woman be subject to her husband in all things, as the Church is subject to Christ;" and Saint Paul tells "wives" to "be subject to their husbands as unto God!" It is in such submission, and in such alone, that a woman's happiness consists. Short-sighted people call this bondage, but it is that bondage in which alone is true liberty!... To serve truly is indeed to reign!
"What?" we hear young ladies, ay, and old ones too, exclaim—"Are we never to do what we like,—never to think of pleasing ourselves? A curious notion of happiness indeed!" Nevertheless it is the only true one. Woman was created to be "a help meet for man;" her ministry in the world is one of love, and she can never be really happy save in fulfilling the end for which she was created. A mere preference, accompanied by calm affection and esteem, will never enable a woman to be to her husband what the Church is to her Lord. It must be a feeling such as Leibnitz speaks of when he says, "To love, is to place our happiness in the happiness of another;"—and as an illustrious French writer beautifully describes it, so beautifully that we would not venture to translate it, and must be pardoned for quoting somewhat at length in a foreign tongue—"L'amour ne s'arrête pas à l'acte de choix, il exige le dévouement à l'être choisi. Choisir, c'est préférer un être à tous les autres; se dévouer, c'est le préférer à soi-même. Le dévouement, c'est l'immolation de soi à l'objet aimé. Quiconque ne va pas jusque là n'aime pas. La préférence toute seule n'implique en effet qu'un goût de l'âme qui a besoin de s'epancher dans la cause d'où il sort, goût honorable et prècieux sans doute, mais qui se bornant là n'aboutit qu'à se rechercher soi-même dans un autre que soi. Si beaucoup d'affections s'arrêtent à ce point, c'est que beaucoup d'affections ne sont qu'un egoïsme deguisé, on eprouve un attrait, on s'y abandonne, on croit aimer, on a peut-être des lueurs de l'amour veritable, mais l'heure du dévouement arrivée, on reconnait à l'impuissance du sacrifice la vanité du sentiment qui nous préoccupait sans nous posséder."
When a woman loves, she creates happiness, so to say, for herself and for those around her, and obtains so much the greater recompense the less she seeks it. In this submission she is immeasurably more free than if she had no law but that of her own will, just as a true Christian is more free than those who follow their own opinions, for "where the law is, there is liberty."
All this was indeed a sealed fountain to Mary Elton; her idea of happiness was not centred in "another's happiness become her own," but in the triumph of her own unbridled will. Yet she was rather to be pitied than blamed. The too popular code, alas! now-a-days is, that anything like real ardent feeling is to be ruthlessly crushed down. In this she was educated, and, being of a less impulsive disposition than her sister, she succumbed more to this training. She was like a vigorous young tree whose owner willed that it should grow in a particular form, quite regardless of the one which nature intended it to take, and for this purpose had bound and constrained it with what he thought to be strong bands; but one day a strange hand cut one of those bands, and at once all the others gave way: the tree then rebounded from its constraint, and took a more natural form, and the trainer found with dismay that it had grown wild and unmanageable. He had but produced deformity; had he helped to develop the plant, and not tried to force it from its natural bent, it would have grown in the beauty of its own unity: under his hands it had become a deformed and an unsightly thing!
Such, too, was Mary Elton. Her mother had tried to swathe her mind and heart in bands of unnatural propriety and worldliness, and for a time she seemed to have succeeded. Mr. Earnscliffe was the strange hand which chanced to cut one of the bands, and thus caused all the others to give way; then her natural strength of feeling burst forth, rank and untrained. Had her mother carefully directed and not endeavoured to crush this, it would have made her character as beautiful as it was strong. Unfortunately Mrs. Elton had not done so, and the result was, that in all probability nothing less powerful than that religion of which Mary knows nothing could show her the difference between a "disguised egotism," in which one only seeks one's self in another, and love, which is an immolation of one's self to the beloved object.
We must leave her alone with her gloomy retrospections, which were not the less dark and unpleasing from the partial success which had attended her planning. She was haunted by the consciousness of having acted falsely as well as meanly towards Flora; for she as well as Mr. Earnscliffe had seen the parting between her and Mr. Lyne, and she judged it more truly than he had done. Since then she felt certain—if indeed she ever doubted it—that Mr. Lyne would never be more than a friend to Flora; yet she had done all she could to make Mr. Earnscliffe believe that they were to be married, and she knew that in this she had been successful.
Helena's remembrances of the ball were as bright as Mary's were dark. She dwelt with heartfelt delight on all the enjoyment which it had afforded her, and, as Mary listened to her, her smile grew brighter and more genial than usual. Her protecting affection for her sister was the one virtue amidst many faults—the one feeling from which she could draw unalloyed pleasure.
A contrast not altogether dissimilar might have been witnessed between Flora and Marie. The latter was all animation, and related with infinite zest her adventures of the previous night; while the former spoke but little, and appeared tired and weary. She could not help feeling that she had behaved somewhat unkindly towards Mr. Lyne. She was angry with herself for not having sooner seen that he meant to propose, and that she had not taken care to prevent his doing so; still, were she in a palace of truth, she would probably have been obliged to confess that it was not the remembrance of the pain which she had inflicted on Mr. Lyne that weighed most heavily upon her spirits, but rather Mr. Earnscliffe's conduct to herself. Save to shake hands with her in the beginning of the evening, he had not approached her until just before the cotillon when his manner and words appeared so unaccountable to her.
We have already said that there is no greater pang than that of being misunderstood by one whom we esteem, and the sharpness of the pang increases with the strength of our affection. Thus Flora felt most bitterly the injustice to herself which Mr. Earnscliffe implied when he said how different it would be if women were not—as even the best of them are—ready to sell themselves to the first man who asks them to marry him, if he can give them wealth or position. It was certainly not a pleasant farewell, and she sighed as she thought that probably she would never know again such pleasure as she had felt in his society. Even the memory of it was more to her than any other actual enjoyment had been; nevertheless she did not deem herself in love. A day after a ball seemed to possess a fatality for Flora; she found this day a very sad one, yet the time may come when, by comparison with others, she may perhaps think it had brought her happiness.
Fortunately for her their approaching departure from Rome, and the preparations necessary for it, did not leave her much time for brooding. As usual, the week after Easter saw Rome thinning rapidly. Some of our acquaintances were going to the south, others to the north: for the former were bound the Eltons, Pentons, Mr. Lyne, Mr. Caulfield and Mr. Earnscliffe, and for the latter the Blakes and the Adairs.
On the Tuesday after the ball, at seven in the morning, a large travelling carriage stood before the door of the Adairs' apartments. It was open, and in it was seated Mrs. Blake. Mina was in the cabriolet, and her uncle, Mr. Vincent Blake, who had joined them a few days before on his way from the East, and who was to return with them to Ireland, was standing on the flags inspecting the packing of the luggage. The Adairs were to complete the party; and as soon as they came down, Mr. Blake hurried them into the carriage with Mrs. Blake—that is, Mrs. Adair and Marie. Flora was to go in the cabriolet with Mina; and having handed her up, and taken his own seat beside the coachman, he gave the word to start; the whip was flourished, and off they went, the wheels rattling noisily over the pavement to the merry accompaniment of the bells round the horses' necks.
At the Porta del Popolo they were obliged to halt, in order to have their passports examined. Mr. Blake got down, and went into the office. During the delay which this caused, Mina and Flora stood up to take "one last long look" at Rome, that city which, it is said, few—even of those who have suffered there—ever leave without a feeling of regret and a desire to return. It is a strange fascination which Rome possesses even for those who are aliens within her walls! We know how one of the most celebrated of these apostrophises her:—
If Rome is so dear to those who regard her only as a standing record of a mighty past, what must she be to those to whom she is not merely a
but a living mother of a living world—the heart, the centre, the capital of Christendom itself!
Mina and Flora were fond of Rome for both of these reasons. Flora loved it especially as the scene of the happiest hours she had ever known, and so she could not leave it without a feeling of sadness and a longing to return. How often do we yearn to revisit places where we have been happy, even when all around us has changed!
After a few moments Mr. Blake reappeared with the passports all in order. A scudo has a particularly accelerating effect on the movements of Roman officials. At length they bade adieu to Rome, yet not to its memories and associations, for their route lay along the far-famed Flaminian Way.
There is surely no such pleasant travelling for pleasant people as vetturino! When it is through a beautiful country, in fine weather, and with intimate friends, it is truly delightful. The irregular meals, furnished from the contents of capacious baskets, the ever-changing scene, the never-ending variety of flowers and foliage, the newness of all around, the expectation of coming events, the evenings at country inns, where the very "roughing" gives zest to a life so different from the regularity of ordinary existence; the unflagging chatter, the buoyant spirits,—these, yes, and a thousand other charms, tend to make such happy journeys the sunniest of sunny spots in the pilgrimage of life. As for the cabriolet, if a pair of lovers could only get possession of it, it would be the perfection of human enjoyment—a sort of moving elysium. Ah! this is a picture upon which we must not dwell, or we might be teased by importunate wishes to have it realised, and so become dissatisfied with the dull plodding routine of stay-at-home days.
Our new friend, Mr. Blake, was tall, stout, and nearly sixty, but withal strong and healthy in appearance. His fair, florid complexion, large features, and light blue eyes, and, indeed, the whole expression of his countenance, gave strong indications of good-humour and benevolence; nor was there any visible want in it of intellectual power. He proved a most amusing and instructive companion, having travelled over this route more than once before. He pointed out to Mina and Flora the objects of note and of classic interest, quoted scraps from the Latin poets, which he rendered into extempore English for them. The position of Civitta Castellana called forth his loudest praises, and he talked much of the days when it was the proud capital of the Valisci, who dared to contend with Rome herself, even in the days of her warlike glory; and he made them laugh heartily over the story of Camillus and the schoolmaster. Some years before, Mr. Blake had spent a few days at Civitta Castellana, exploring the beautiful neighbourhood with some friends, and he related many anecdotes of their excursions, declaring that there were few things more enjoyable than such excursions made in agreeable company.
The girls assured him that it was not necessary to impress that upon their minds, as they could easily believe how delightful it would be so to wander about in such beautiful scenery. To make it perfect, they said, there should be a Valerie de Ventadour, and an Ernest Maltravers to re-people each scene for her with the heroes and legends of old, to unroll before her the lore of the ancient historians and poets, and thus to light it up again with a light once its own. And Flora laughingly added—
"Now, Mr. Blake, you will be obliged to play Ernest Maltravers to one of us."
"Indeed, young lady! and do you mean to imply that 're-peopling some lonely scene for you, with the heroes and legends of old, unrolling before you the lore of the ancients, and thus lighting it up with a light once its own,' would be at all the same thing done by a rough, grey-headed old man, as by an Ernest Maltravers? If so, I am afraid I must say that you are a sad deceiver. Now, I'll lay a wager on it you are thinking of some one who could play Ernest Maltravers to your Valerie de Ventadour, very much to your satisfaction?"
Mr. Blake chuckled with delight as he saw Flora get red and turn away her head.
Thus the day passed quickly away, and about five in the evening they arrived at Civitta Castellana, where they were to sleep on the first night of their journey.
It took them about six days to travel from Rome to Florence by this route. Were we to follow them step by step, we should be writing a guide-book and not a story. Nevertheless, we cannot pass by in silence two such spots as the Falls of Terni and Assisi. Byron says that the view of the falls either from above or below is worth that of all the cascades and torrents of Switzerland put together. The Staubach, Reichenfels, are rills in comparative appearance. Who could forget his description of the contrast between the "giant element leaping from rock to rock with delicious bound," and the lovely smiling valley by which the falls are surrounded? It is indeed
Then the church of Assisi, with all its wealth of interest! To the lover of the picturesque, of art, or of religion, it has special attractions. Dante sings the loveliness of its site; Cimabue and Giotto's works adorn its walls, and mark the progress of painting; and Saint Francis throws over it a halo which dims the glory of poet and artist, and makes Assisi—for those who know and love his life—another holy land. Such is the creative power of charity or love. Centuries ago, Saint Francis died in self-imposed poverty and privation, barely covered with the cloak of another; yet hardly had the grave closed over him, when a structure, matchless even in Italy, was built in his honour, and the precious germs of love and self-sacrifice which he planted in the hearts of his spiritual children went on fructifying until his Order spread itself throughout Christendom, and now blesses the world almost in spite of itself.
Our friends thought that if this route could boast of Assisi alone, it would have been almost unrivalled; but Assisi was only its crowning point. It traverses a track of country, for upwards of two hundred miles, where beauty, history, and poetry combine to give a charm to all around. The vale of Clitumnus and its stream—
the lake of Thrasimene, where Hannibal and his swarthy hosts revelled in their sanguinary victory over the brave Flaminius; the towns perched on mountain-tops, and surrounded by deep romantic ravines, where still stand a ruined arch or pier to tell of the massive bridges which once spanned them—the colossal works of the mighty Romans.
It was altogether so delightful a journey, that to some at least of our party it caused a feeling of regret when about six o'clock on Sunday evening they reached the top of the hill of San Donato, and for the first time looked upon Firenze la bella, and the beautiful view over the valley of the Arno. They quickly descended to the Porta san Nicolo, by which they entered the city—crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, drove along the Lung' Arno, passing the arcades of the Uffizi, and the Piazza di Santa Trinita, and drew up at one of the hotels which face the river. And here, in beautiful Florence, let us leave them to repose.
On the morning after their arrival our travellers—the younger ones especially—were all impatience to see something of the fair city of Florence, so famed, moreover, for the beauty of its position; and the scene, as they looked from the windows of the hotel, inclined them to join in singing its praises.
The fine quay of the Lung' Arno; the river itself flowing along calmly, and glittering beneath the sun's bright rays; the hill on the opposite side with its olive-trees and gardens, relieved here and there by an imposing building, were all beautiful seen from a distance. The narrow dusty roads between high walls, the faded and dried-up appearance of all around, are then hidden; but a closer view raises a sigh for the lovely lanes with their flowery hedges, and the fresh green verdure of our own dear country, or even of the neighbourhood of Rome, where the dampness of the climate counteracts the effect of the scorching sun, and prevents, in some degree, the washed-out look which is so striking everywhere about Florence. When our friends come to explore that which looks so pretty from the hotel windows, they may, perhaps, be tempted to think that the beauty of the country round Florence has been overrated, and, were it not rash to say so, even to prefer the charms of some of the other towns which they passed through on their way from Rome. They must, however, visit the "lions" within the gates before they extend their excursions beyond them; and although it is very possible that they may be slightly disappointed with the latter, they certainly cannot be with the former. With such treasures as those which adorn her galleries of the Uffizi, the Pitti, and the Belle Arti, surely Florence could afford to be surnamed la brutta instead of la bella! Yes, she might well dispense with all exterior loveliness, and pointing to the long line of celebrated men to whom she has given birth, say, in the words of the mother of the Gracchi, "Here are my jewels!" As it is, Nature too has been bountiful to Florence, for she has undoubtedly given her a large share of beauty in addition to all the rest.
Their first visit was to the Uffizi, and in the far-famed tribune they saw, with wondering eyes, Mr. and Mrs. Penton, and her brother, Mr. Barkley. As they shook hands with Mrs. Penton, and expressed some surprise at seeing them there, since they supposed them to be in Naples, she replied, "We did go to Naples on the evening after Mrs. Elton's ball, and we spent a week there; then Edmund"—looking towards Mr. Barkley, who was in another part of the room—"came to us from Sicily; we sailed direct to Leghorn, and arrived here yesterday."
"You certainly have lost no time," said Mrs. Adair; "for we came straight from Rome, and yet we only arrived yesterday. We travelled however by the Perugia route, which is a long one, but oh, how beautiful!"
"So every one says. We were, however, pressed for time, and therefore we had to get over the ground as quickly as possible; but how we shall ever tear Edmund away from Florence is more than I can say. You know my brother, do you not?"
"Yes,—that is, Flora and I know him, but the Blakes have never met him; he would, I am sure, find Mr. Blake a delightful companion; he knows Florence so well, and is quite an enthusiastic admirer of its works of art; in fact, he is a most desirable guide to them."
"Then please to ask him if I may introduce my brother; to make his acquaintance would be quite a trouvaille for Edmund." Mrs. Penton was one of those who like to introduce French words into their conversation. "Gerald and I, not being such worshippers of painting, should be quite exhausted if we attempted to keep pace with him; it is so fatiguing to look up at pictures for any length of time. We have been here more than an hour already, and I do not want to be tired before the afternoon, when we intend to drive in the Cascine to see the beau monde of Florence; so it will be an excellent thing if we can get Edmund and Mr. Blake together, and then I can make Gerald take me home."
Accordingly Mrs. Adair turned to Mr. Blake, who was near to them, examining a picture, and said that Mrs. Penton wished to introduce him to her brother; and Mrs. Penton added, "Edmund will have a double pleasure in making your acquaintance, as Mrs. Adair tells me you are a connaisseur here."
"It is indeed true that I am a warm admirer of the great treasures which Florence contains, but I have no claim to the title of connaisseur. I shall be most happy, however, to be introduced to your brother, and to give him any information I possess about the Florentine galleries,—they are old acquaintances of mine, but strangers, I suppose, to him."
"Yes, it is our first visit to Florence; we only arrived yesterday. Let us go to Edmund!"
They crossed to Mr. Barkley, and his sister—laying her hand upon his shoulder—said, "Edmund, I have just met Mrs. Adair, her daughter, and some friends of theirs, whom I had the pleasure of meeting in Rome. Mr. Blake knows Florence à cœur, I believe, and he kindly says that this knowledge is at your service: Mr. Blake—my brother, Mr. Barkley."
They bowed, and Mr. Barkley said, "I am most grateful for your kind offer, Mr. Blake, and shall gladly avail myself of it."
After a few moments of conversation Mrs. Penton said, "You must speak to the Adairs, Edmund; but first tell me, where is Gerald?"
"I think he went into that room," pointing to the door on the left side of the tribune.
"Will you then take me to my husband, Mr. Blake, while Edmund goes to the Adairs?"
Mrs. Penton made this request in the manner and tone of voice of one who feels certain that any man—even an old one—would be pleased at being asked to walk with her.
Mr. Barkley was like Mrs. Penton, but handsomer, and, apparently, of superior intelligence. His complexion was dark—if black hair, eyebrows, and moustache, with grey eyes and a pale face, constitute the dark style; his well-formed forehead was almost ivory-like in its whiteness, his nose straight and finely cut, and his mouth small and sufficiently expressive, without, however, being very remarkable for that distinctive quality. He was just the sort of man that the greatest number of women rave about,—quite a héros de roman, with his tall, straight figure, and air of refinement. Nevertheless there was something wanting; it was not a face which gave one the idea that its possessor was a man of courage—we mean moral courage, or fortitude; nor did his fair and delicately-moulded hands redeem his face: they were not hands formed for a firm grasp, or to hold on steadfastly through time and difficulty. He was, however, generally considered to be quite an Adonis, a lady-killer. Of this he was fully conscious, but he had far too keen a sense of what is really worthy to be admired ever to betray this consciousness in his manner or conversation; and towards women he was almost chivalrous in his courtesy and deference,—another reason, doubtless, why he was so great a favourite with them.
Meanwhile he went to speak to the Adairs, and was introduced to Mrs. Blake, Mina, and Marie.
Mrs. Penton returned in a few moments with her husband and Mr. Blake, and, addressing her brother, she said, "Edmund, Gerald and I are going; but I suppose you will not come with us?"
"Nay; here is something more attractive," answered Mr. Barkley, with a smile and a bow towards the three girls who were standing together.
"But you will come to drive in the Cascine, will you not? There will, I suppose, be plenty of attraction for you there, in the youth and beauty of Florence."
"Then you may depend upon me."
Did Mrs. Penton divine what her brother's wishes were? For she turned to Mrs. Adair, and said, "We shall have a vacant seat in the carriage; will you allow one of your young ladies to accompany us?"
"With pleasure."
"Then I will call at a little after four. But which of them am I to have the honour of chaperoning?"
"Marie," replied Flora, quickly. "Mina and I are great walkers, and shall probably go for a walk in the country with Mr. Blake."
Mr. and Mrs. Penton left the tribune, but the rest of the party remained. Mr. Blake and Mr. Barkley agreed to go on the following day to the Accademia delle belle Arti and also to San Marco. "I know a good little Padre there," said Mr. Blake, "who will show us everything. He and I are the best of friends, although I cannot help regretting his blindness in matters of faith. And I dare say he has the same sort of feeling towards me."
"No doubt he has," replied Mr. Barkley, laughingly; "and I, as you probably know, side with the Padre."
"Oh, yes,—I know that you do; so I must be upon my guard, as you will be two to one. But the ladies have gone on; we had better follow them."
They left the tribune, and went into the small rooms on the right-hand side of it, and there they found the ladies. Marie and Flora were standing together,—the former talking eagerly of the goodness of Flora in wishing her to drive with the Pentons instead of herself. To all of which Flora answered—
"I deserve no praise whatever, for I really do not care to go. I shall be quite as much pleased to have a nice long walk, which would only tire you. You don't know, Mignonne, how often an appearance of goodness may spring from indifference. You may indeed enjoy your drive without imagining that I have made any sacrifice whatsoever in not going."
Just then Mr. Barkley joined them, and asked what they were talking about so earnestly?
"My share in the conversation," said Flora, "consisted in trying to persuade Marie that I am not making any sacrifice in giving her my place for the drive this afternoon,—indeed, as I have already told her, I shall prefer a walk to driving up and down a public promenade, with nothing but fashion to look at."
It is probable that an Adonis like Mr. Barkley found it rather difficult to believe that any girl should prefer a walk with other ladies, or, at least, with an old gentleman, to a drive in his society; and he said, with a smile, "It is fortunate for our vanity that at least one of you wishes to come out with us. We shall do everything in our power to make it an agreeable drive to Mademoiselle——I have not caught her name."
"Arbi," replied Flora.
"Thank you;" then turning to Marie, he continued—"Then, Mademoiselle Arbi, we may expect to have the pleasure of your company this afternoon?"
"Oui, Monsieur," replied Marie, blushing. Whenever she was eager about anything, or particularly shy, as she was at that moment, she spoke French.
Flora now moved on after the others, who had gone into the next room, and Marie followed her as closely as possible, in terror at the thought of having to keep up a tête-à-tête talk with Mr. Barkley.
The conversation now became general, and naturally turned upon painting; so, between talking of, and admiring, the many beautiful works contained in the Uffizi, the hours sped on until past two o'clock. It was then decided that they should go home for luncheon, and take a rest before the fatigues of the afternoon began.
After leaving the gallery, they stopped to flâner a little in the Arcades. Mr. Barkley had succeeded very fairly in dispelling Marie's shyness of him. He made her laugh merrily at his account of some of his adventures in Sicily, and his ridiculous mistakes in the language, which he then knew but slightly. His French, however, was perfect; and this was to Marie a great boon. He purposely lingered at one of the stalls, explaining something which he had pointed out to her, until the others had got into the Piazza della Signoria; and having thus managed that she should walk home with him, he exclaimed, "I declare they are half way across the Piazza! What a hurry they are in! But do not tire yourself; we shall easily keep them in sight, and that is all we require. But that we must do, or we should not find our way to our hotels."
He took care, however, not to overtake them before they reached the hotel, at the door of which they had to wait a minute or two for Marie. When she and her cavalier did come up, Mr. Blake said, "Can you find the road to your abode, Mr. Barkley; or shall I accompany you?"
"Thank you, it is so near that I cannot mistake my way. Good morning."
At breakfast on Tuesday morning the plans for the day were talked over. Mr. Blake began by saying, "I suppose you know, ladies, that I am engaged to go with Mr. Barkley to the Accademia at eleven; but in the afternoon I shall be at your service."
"Which is a polite intimation, uncle," said Mina, "that our company is not wished for in the morning."
"Really, I never thought about your coming with us, for after we have been to the Accademia we are to go to San Marco; and you know that ladies are not permitted to pass the outer cloister. There's one of your pretty Roman rules for you!"
"Not badly turned, uncle. I suppose that closing observation was intended to excite our indignation, and so make us forget the truth that you do not want us to go with you. But don't be afraid,—we shall have no design upon you; indeed, before we came down we had agreed to go to the Pitti."
"Then the morning is disposed of; and what do you mean to do in the afternoon?"
"Mamma and Marie are going to drive with the Pentons," answered Flora, "and as for the rest of us, we have not thought about what we shall do."
"Then you two girls had better come with me to San Miniato. The church is well worth a visit, and the walk round the hill upon which it stands is most lovely. Will you come also, Agatha?"
"Perhaps," replied his sister-in-law; "if I am not very tired after the Pitti. My going, however, is not a matter of any importance; the girls can go with you whether I do or not."
"Well then, young ladies, I shall be ready for you at any time after three; and now, adieu for the present."
The ladies remained some time longer at the breakfast table laughing at Marie's animated description of the people whom she saw on the Cascine on the day before, and at the theatre in the evening. She was most enthusiastic in her praise of Mrs. Penton and her brother's kindness, and asked naively if Englishmen—meaning natives of the United Kingdom—were generally as handsome and as charming as Mr. Barkley, adding that there were not any so nice at Mrs. Elton's ball.
"You think so, Mignonne, do you?" said Flora. "Well, I should say that, had he been at Mrs. Elton's, he would not have been unrivalled, or perhaps unsurpassed."
"But who den, Flore, was so seducing (séduisant) as he?"
"Oh! I should say this person; somebody else would say that person; it is all an affair of taste, you know," answered Flora, smiling at the question itself, and also at the very literal translation of séduisant, as she stood up and went to look out of the window. Marie jumped up and followed her, put her arm round her waist, and leaning her little curly head upon Flora's shoulder, she looked up coaxingly at her and said, "Flore, will you not tell your Mignonne who it is dat you have found better than Mr. Barkley chez Madame Elton?"
"What a little goose you are, Marie. I did not speak of any one in particular. I only said that he would not have been unrivalled. You know—as I also said—that it is all a matter of taste. Helena Elton, I dare say, would prefer Mr. Caulfield."
"Mr. Caulfield! But you are not of her advice, Flore?"
"Opinion you mean, Mignonne, and not advice, which is the English for conseil. For your satisfaction I am glad to be able to say that I do not agree with Helena; and as you are going again to enjoy this afternoon the society of the person who suits your taste best, I consider that you are a most enviable little being. But see, they are all gone,—we must go also."
Marie held up her fair face for a kiss, which was cordially given, and then they left the room.
The difference in their characters, as shown in their manner, was most striking. Marie was shy in the simple acceptation of the word, but she was not reserved. She knew nothing of Flora's bugbear—that dread of importuning or wearying others. As soon as Marie had got over the childish timidity which she always felt on a first acquaintance, she was demonstratively affectionate. It never crossed her simple little mind that her caresses might bore any one; so that whilst Flora would stand at a distance from those whom she liked, longing to be near them, yet afraid to go to them without a word or look which seemed to call her, Marie would at once run to her favourites, throw her arms round their necks, and tell them how much she loved them, without stopping to think whether they wanted her or not.
How Flora envied this simplicity, and wished that she had a little more of it. It would have saved her so much pain; but it is one of those things which cannot be acquired, at least by a person like Flora, who could not summon up sufficient courage even to touch the hand of any one whom she liked extremely, unless she were unmistakably made to feel that it would give pleasure. Flora had said after reading Marie's history, "We shall be such contrasts!" and so they were; but this difference of disposition only seemed to make them greater friends.
But it is time for us to leave the ladies, and follow the two gentlemen to the Accademia. As it was Mr. Barkley's first visit to Florence, he had still most of Beato Angelico's masterpieces to see. He had indeed seen his works, on the day before, at the Uffizi, and the "Crowning of the Blessed Virgin," in the Louvre, was an old familiar friend to him; but another treat was now in store for him, for Beato Angelico was his master-painter.
On their way they talked of the different subjects from his pencil which they were about to see, and especially of the "Descent from the Cross" and the "Last Judgment." Mr. Barkley said that he meant to keep these for a bonne bouche, and begged to be taken straight to il Beato's "poem in painting," the "Life of our Lord." Mr. Blake could not help rallying his friend a little about his desperate enthusiasm for the Frate, which he thought somewhat extravagant.
"But here we are," he exclaimed, "so you will soon be gratified. I shall, as you wish, take you straight to the 'Life of our Lord,' and then leave you to your ecstasies for a time. When I come back, be pleased to impart some of them to me."
Accordingly Mr. Blake left him to the contemplation of this august history, and did not join him again for a considerable time, which he spent in paying long visits to his favourite pictures. He was not at a loss for occupation during this time, as a most varied experience and a fair share of study had rendered him capable of really enjoying fine paintings.
When he did at length return to Mr. Barkley, he found him at the closing subject—the "Last Judgment;" not the great picture on that subject, but an older one, and asked, "Well?"
"Well!" echoed Mr. Barkley, "this is art indeed! Here we see that the painter had a higher aim in view than that of displaying his own talent in originality of design, or even correctness of outline. These indeed have not been neglected, but they have been used only as means to a great end, and that end was to teach a sublime lesson. Each of these thirty-eight compartments is a study in itself, a study in which the mind of the angelic painter speaks to us through his works, causing us to know, and by knowing, to love something of 'the splendour of unity'—the Beautiful itself. To produce this—you will agree with me—is the highest triumph of art. Where this is not, what do we see but the works of copyists, who portray, more or less well, what they see with their mortal eyes?"
"I quite agree with you that we cannot rightly call anything a work of real art which is not in some degree a creation, and a teacher, whose purpose it is to draw us from the lower and material world to the contemplation of higher things. But we must have a standard of truth, and therefore I cannot altogether share in your admiration of Angelico's 'History of our Lord,' as there are many things represented in it for which we have no authority, and in some places the meaning is obscure and unintelligible. Much of it seems to be inspired rather by the mystic imagination of a pious monk than by the grand and simple written record of our Saviour's life upon earth, the beauty of which these paintings ought only to illustrate. When your favourite keeps to this he is truly great, as in the 'Descent from the Cross,' for instance."
"Ah, true! Will you forgive me if I say that you can hardly seize all the speaking beauty depicted in this great history? I do not say this, as you will believe, in any way to depreciate your judgment, but in regard only to the extent of your belief."
"I do not quite catch your meaning. Have we not an unerring standard to direct us here?"
"The letter of Scripture, no doubt?... Yes, you have that, but you have it surely without the spirit. Moreover, you have, so to say, dislocated yourselves from the family traditions of Christianity—from the memory of Christendom; and having lost this, and therewith all traditional intercourse with the past, you hopelessly seize upon our first written records, and in them alone have you any knowledge or faith. The living voice which from age to age has handed down every detail of the glory of Christ and His saints, is silent for you. You are strangers here, and these family records, which to us are so precious, are the objects of your suspicion, are even rejected by you as unworthy of belief; it is thus, I mean, that you are unable to seize all the speaking beauty depicted here."
"Would you have us then to accept as truth the wild fantasies of individual painters?... It is far too much."
"Most assuredly not; that would, I should say, be to fall into another snare like the very one which has already caught you. When I said that you can hardly seize all the beauty of il Beato's poem on our Lord, my meaning was, that having rejected the recognised sources of sacred Tradition, you can receive nothing but what is written; although, by the way, even there it is said that 'there are also many other things which Jesus did, which if they were written the whole world itself could not contain the books that should be written.' Think for a moment: if you so confine the works of art to the text of Scripture, how greatly you limit and narrow their field, and how many great pictures, which through ages Christendom has honoured as its family heirlooms, you will be forced to condemn as false. You object to the touching scene of Saint Veronica—to this exquisite painting of Jesus carrying His Cross and meeting His blessed Mother on her way to Calvary. Scripture does not say that He did meet her; therefore, to you it appears to be a deviation from truth; but these facts are household words in Christendom, resting upon the highest of all moral certainty—Christian Tradition. The spoken testimony of His chosen companions and the dogmas of our faith, in harmony with the loving memory of Christendom, hand down these family records to us with holy and unerring care. You would hardly believe how jealous we are of any mutilation of them. Numberless, however, would be the great pictures which must thus seem to you to be false or unintelligible, whilst to us they are rich in truth and supernatural meaning. I love Saint Paul's cry, 'Be ye enlarged!' You know not how much you lose even of Scripture itself;—the very parables of our Lord, which, you will remember, are not so to those 'to whom it is given to know,' are parables indeed, or at very best but beautiful histories, to you."
"You are too hard upon us. I grant you that the principle of limitation, in our sense, fully admitted and carried into practice, would go far to strip our galleries of their treasures, and leave us without connection with the past. I am a sincere lover of art, and I am old enough to have the courage to confess to you that the consequences of the proper application of such a principle terrify me. I frankly acknowledge that it would hardly leave a monument standing of more than a few centuries old, and how few, I fear even to say. I comfort myself by the hope that the great storm has already past, and there I rest, with the principle still in my belief, that you must not venture into the work of God—Scripture itself,—there all is holy, because all is Divine. The parables are far more to us—believe me—than beautiful histories."
"Let me explain what I have expressed with, I hope, pardonable enthusiasm. It is not a question, as you seem to suppose, of criticising the divine work, but of appreciating it in a greater or lesser degree. You will grant us, I think, the larger comprehension of what was intended to be, to some, simply parables or riddles. In the parable of the prodigal son, for instance, we learn how God receives repentant sinners. The young man leaves his father's house, and, in a far country, wastes his substance in wrong-doing; he soon feels the want of the spiritual life which he has squandered away, and of which there is a famine in that country. Still he cleaves to one of the chief citizens there, who sends him to feed swine; but his hunger is unappeased. At last he resolves to return to his father and confess his error and his sin. His father runs to meet him while he is yet a great way off, and falls upon his neck and kisses him. Then He says to His servants, 'Clothe him quickly with the robe of innocence, put the ring of adoption upon his finger, the shoes of safe direction upon his feet, offer the Holy Sacrifice, and feed him with the food of life, for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found!' Here, we have Dogma, Tradition, and Scripture, harmoniously illustrating this, as indeed all the other parables. To us they are neither riddles nor beautiful histories, but sublime declarations and proofs of the divinity of our faith, since to us—by our Divine teaching—'it is given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of God.' Now how would one of your painters portray this? Were he merely to represent it as Scripture relates it, it would be simply a riddle; or did he attempt a higher meaning, there would be evident discrepancy between the truth of Scripture and your belief and practice. So that should he aim at anything beyond drawing graceful figures and giving dramatic effect to his picture, he would be forced to abandon the subject altogether, or turn to us for its true illustration. So it is, and it is a very momentous fact that no country fallen away from Christian unity ever produces real artists; it may even outstrip all the rest in material discoveries and progress—'the children of this world,' you know, 'are wiser in their generation than the children of light'—but it has lost the Divine power of creation. Like Mirabeau to Barnave, we may indeed say to each of them, 'There is no divinity in thee!' You may find painters who can copy a dog to a hair, a blade of grass, a battle, anything that the eye of man can see and measure; but you will never find an Angelico where 'the evidence, the light, the splendour of unity' is no longer intact."