Part 64 (1/2)
”Your national character, like your language, is so full of incongruities and contradictions that I am not ashamed to own myself unequal to master it; but it strikes me that both one and the other usurp freedoms that are not permitted to others. At all events, I am rejoiced that he has gone. It is the most wearisome thing in life to negotiate with one too near you. Diplomacy of even the humblest kind requires distance.”
”You agree with the duellist, I perceive,” said he, laughing, ”that twelve paces is a more fatal distance than across a handkerchief: proximity begets tremor.”
”You have guessed my meaning correctly,” said she; ”meanwhile, I must write to _her_ not to come here. Shall I say that we will be in Florence in a day or two?”
”I was just thinking of those Serravezza springs,” said Upton; ”they contain a bi-chloride of potash, which Staub, in his treatise, says, 'is the element wanting in all nervous organizations.'”
”But remember the season,--we are in mid-winter; the hotels are closed.”
”The springs are running, Princess; 'the earth,' as Mos-chus says, 'is a mother that never ceases to nourish.' I do suspect I need a little nursing.”
The Princess understood him thoroughly. She well knew that whenever the affairs of Europe followed an unbroken track, without anything eventful or interesting, Sir Horace fell back upon his maladies for matter of occupation. She had, however, now occasion for his advice and counsel, and by no means concurred in his plan of spending some days, if not weeks, in the dreary mountain solitudes of Serravezza. ”You must certainly consult Zanetti before you venture on these waters,” said she; ”they are highly dangerous if taken without the greatest circ.u.mspection;” and she gave a catalogue of imaginary calamities which had befallen various ill.u.s.trious and gifted individuals, to which Upton listened with profound attention.
”Very well,” sighed he, as she finished, ”it must be as you say. I'll see Zanetti, for I cannot afford to die just yet. That 'Greek question'
will have no solution without me,--no one has the key of it but myself.
That Panslavic scheme, too, in the Princ.i.p.alities attracts no notice but _mine_; and as to Spain, the policy I have devised for that country requires all the watchfulness I can bestow on it. No, Princess,”--here he gave a melancholy sigh,--”we must not die at this moment. There are just four men in Europe; I doubt if she could get on with three.”
”What proportion do you admit as to the other s.e.x?” said she, laughing.
”I only know of one, madame;” and he kissed her hand with gallantry.
”And now for Florence, if you will.”
It is by no means improbable that our readers have a right to an apology at our hands for the habit we have indulged of lingering along with the two individuals whose sayings and doings are not directly essential to our tale; but is not the story of every-day life our guarantee that incidents and people cross and re-cross the path we are going, attracting our attention, engaging our sympathy, enlisting our energies, even in our most anxious periods? Such is the world; and we cannot venture out of reality. Besides this, we are disposed to think that the moral of a tale is often more effectively conveyed by the characters than by the catastrophe of a story. The strange, discordant tones of the human heart, blending, with melody the purest, sounds of pa.s.sionate meaning, are in themselves more powerful lessons than all the records of rewarded virtue and all the calendars of punished vice. The nature of a single man can be far more instructive than the history of every accident that befalls him.
It is, then, with regret that we leave the Princess and Sir Horace to pursue their journey alone. We confess a liking for their society, and would often as soon loiter in the by-paths that they follow as journey in the more recognized high-road of our true story. Not having the conviction that our sympathy is shared by our readers, we again return to the fortunes of Glencore.
When Lord Glencore's carriage underwent the usual scrutiny exercised towards travellers at the gate of Florence, and prying officials poked their lanterns in every quarter, in all the security of their ”caste,”
two foot travellers were rudely pushed aside to await the time till the pretentious equipage pa.s.sed on. They were foreigners, and their effects, which they carried in knapsacks, required examination.
”We have come a long way on foot to-day,” said the younger in a tone that indicated nothing of one asking a favor. ”Can't we have this search made at once?”
”Whisht! whisht!” whispered his companion, in English; ”wait till the Prince moves on, and be polite with them all.”
”I am seeking for nothing in the shape of compliment,” said the other; ”there is no reason why, because I am on foot, I must be detained for this man.”
Again the other remonstrated, and suggested patience.
”What are you grumbling about, young fellow?” cried one of the officers.
”Do you fancy yourself of the same consequence as Milordo? And see, he must wait his time here.”
”We came a good way on foot to-day, sir,” interposed the elder, eagerly, taking the reply on himself, ”and we 're tired and weary, and would be deeply obliged if you'd examine us as soon as you could.”
”Stand aside and wait your turn,” was the stern response.
”You almost deserve the fellow's insolence, Billy,” said the youth; ”a crown-piece in his hand had been far more intelligible than your appeal to his pity.” And he threw himself wearily down on a stone bench.
Aroused by the accent of his own language, Lord Glencore sat up in his carriage, and leaned out to catch sight of the speaker; but the shadow of the overhanging roof concealed him from view. ”Can't you suffer those two poor fellows to move on?” whispered his Lords.h.i.+p, as he placed a piece of money in the officer's hand; ”they look tired and jaded.”
”There, thank his Excellency for his kindness to you, and go your way,”