Francesca Carrara/Chapter 42
CHAPTER XV.
"Most happy state, that never tak'st revenge
For injuries received, nor dost fear
The court's great earthquake, the grieved truth of change,
Nor none of falsehood's savoury lies dost hear;
Nor know'st hope's sweet disease, that charms our sense,
Nor its sad cure—dear bought experience."
Sir Robert Ker to Drummond, anno 1624.
It was the day previous to that fixed for their departure, that Guido and Francesca were seated in their chamber for the last time. Both were silent and somewhat sad—for no place was ever yet left without regret. We grow attached unconsciously to the objects we see every day. We may not think so at the time—we may he discontented, and used to talk of their faults; but let us be on the eve of quitting them for ever, and we find that they are dearer than we dreamed.
The love of the inanimate is a general feeling. True, it makes no return of affection, neither does it disappoint it; its associations are from our thoughts and emotions. We connect the hearth with the confidence which has poured forth the full soul in its dim twilight; on the wall we have watched the shadows, less fantastic than the creations in which we have indulged; besides the table, we have read, worked and written. Over each and all is flung the strong link of habit—it is not to be broken without a pang.
"What numbers are passing by!" exclaimed Guido, who had been leaning in the window. "Good Heavens! to think that of all this multitude, not one will regret or even remember us! How hard it is to draw the ties of humanity together!—how strange the indifference with which we regard beings whose hopes, feelings, joys, and sorrows, are the same as our own! Perhaps there may be individuals who have never inspired or experienced affection;—should we pity or envy them?"
"Pity them—only that such a lot is impossible. Even the very robbers, of whose ferocity we were wont to hear such tales in our own land, have usually possessed some redeeming trait which arose out of a yearning towards their kind. Do you recollect a story my nurse told us of a Sicilian bandit, the terror of the country?—how he saved a young child from a cottage on fire, brought it up delicately, and far removed from his own pursuits; while, at his execution, his chief regret was the future provision for that boy?"
"I can believe such an instance—can believe love taking strong root amid cruelty, poverty, suffering, and danger, rather than in the withering atmosphere of this crowded city—this miscalled social, but really heartless, life; where petty interests distract the mind, and mean desires absorb the heart. From the beginning of the show to the end, vanity is the sole stimulus and reward of action—vanity, that never looks beyond the present."
"Nay," replied Francesca, "you exaggerate. The truth is, we begin life with too exalted ideas—our wishes and our expectations go together. We are soon forced to lower our standard; and this depreciation brings at first coldness, distress, and distrust, but also wisdom. We learn not to anticipate so much, and to cling with firmer faith to those whose truth has been proved. Courtesy from the many, kindness from the few, and affection from the individual, become the limit of our hopes; and. even that moderate limit must prepare for exceptions,"
They were interrupted by the entrance of an unlooked-for visitor, the Chevalier de Joinville.
"I have just heard," said he, "from Bournonville, of your intended departure, and thought I might venture to come and offer my good wishes for your safe arrival, to say nothing of the pleasure I promise myself in seeing you again, and more beautiful than ever."
He said the truth; for her noble and regular beauty, so rarely seen in such classical perfection, always struck the eye most forcibly, when accustomed only to the more ordinary run of the merely pretty. Francesca was really glad to see him; her original dislike had passed away, and there was a kindness in his visit and manner doubly grateful when contrasted with the neglect of so many others. After a few inquiries, soon made and soon answered among those who have no interests in common, the conversation turned on general topics. And here they had much to ask and hear. The Chevalier was, as usual, au fait at all the anecdotes of the court, which had been exceedingly gay, owing to the visit of Madame de Savoie and her daughter, the Princess Marguerite.
"Will she," asked Francesca, "be our future Queen? Remember, I know as little of what has been going on in Paris as if I had already crossed the sea."
"The whole visit, replied the Chevalier, "Has been a failure. Peace and the Infanta have carried the day; and the bride is to come from beyond the Pyrenees, not the Alps."
"Is the Princess Marguerite pretty?"
"Royally so—not more; but an excellent actress. She showed her disappointment as little as she did her expectations. Truly, it was a severe task, for she had to appear amused and indifferent for the whole party. Madame de Royale did nothing but weep, till the Cardinal consoled her by a pair of diamond ear-rings set in jet,—"the most becoming things," as she asserted. I am afraid their effect was not very visible on her."
"Was there not some talk," asked Guido, "of a marriage between the Duc de Savoie and Mademoiselle?"
"Yes; and it served him as a pretext to turn his share of the visit into a mere expedition of gallantry. He has the portraits of all the unmarried princesses of Europe in his cabinet; among others, that of Mademoiselle was hung in the most conspicuous place. Now he says, 'I have seen her, and am cured.' It has reached the ears of the lady, who is furious."
"Next to her birth," said Francesca, "Mademoiselle piques herself on her beauty, I believe?"
"She said the other morning, with the utmost calmness," replied the Chevalier, "when Monsieur was rallying her on her déshabillé de voyage, 'I am handsome enough to do without dress—I like it to be seen, now and then, that I can trust my face by itself."
"A pleasant state of mind," cried Francesca; "that entire repose in the conviction of your own perfection! But to return to your noble visitors. Surely Madame de Savoie must have felt the position in which she had placed her daughter?"
"Yes, but she talked it away. She uses a whole language to herself. Her discourse is an avalanche of words, beneath which the hearers are overwhelmed. And then her confidence! it goes to the extent of a romance—she confides every thing. I'll tell you an anecdote, out of many, that she relates of herself. Monsieur de Savoie is most dévoué to your charming sex, and one of his favourites had given him a greyhound. During a short journey from the court, he left this greyhound to his mother's care, with many injunctions to watch over its safety. That night, when she was alone in her chamber, she flung herself on her knees before the dog, addressing it with the most tender epithets. 'How dearly do I love thee! how happy am I to have thee, reminding me of thy master! If he were here I should be satisfied. I have not seen him since the morning, and the moments appear to me hours in his absence; at least, when he again caresses thee, paint to him the sensations of my heart.'"
"I do not," exclaimed Guido, "marvel so much at these extravagances of affection as at their being publicly repeated. To express any emotion seems to me the most difficult thing in the world."
"She got out of the ridicule very well," replied De Joinville, "by throwing over it a little tinge of sentiment. 'I do not mind,' said she, observing a general smile, 'your laughing at the excess of my love to my son. I own I feel capable of doing all sorts of foolish things for his sake.'"
"I could not have believed," remarked Francesca, "had I not witnessed it since my residence in your country, how the reality and the affectation of feeling can exist together. Before I left our solitary home, the very exhibition of emotion would have tempted me to doubt its truth. Now, I observe that some affect, as others shun, display; yet the feeling is equally true in both."
"Talking of display, half the court is in ecstasies about the romantic devotion of la Marquise de la Beaume to the memory of the Duc de Candale. He was a great admirer of hers, and, on his journey to and from Catalonia, invariably paused to pay his homage at Lyons, where she resided. She has cut off all her long fair hair—absolutely her principal ornament. There are always two sides to a story; and the other version of this is, that the beautiful hair was severed out of pique to the husband, not out of tenderness to the lover's manes. The Marquis had, in a most husbandly and hard-hearted manner, refused his consent to a fête which Madame's heart was set upon giving. The next morning, desirous of making his peace, and yet keeping his resolution, he entered while her toilette was going on, and began to admire the luxuriant and bright hair that fell over her shoulders. Without speaking a word, she snatched up the scissors, and, cutting off her curls with relentless rapidity—'Voilà, Monsieur!' said she, throwing them towards him, and turning her back."
"It puts me in mind," exclaimed Guido, "of one of our Italian harlequins, who, greatly enraged with some one beyond his reach, says, 'As I can't kill my enemy, I will kill myself—I must be revenged on some one.' "
"Alas!" said De Joinville, "I must take my leave, for the Cardinal holds a levee to-day, and let those fail in attendance who want nothing. Now, I want a benefice which is just vacant. You have no idea how poor the court is; nobody is rich, except Mazarin and l'Abbé Fouquet. I am half tempted to cry with Madame Thurine, 'How happy are our servants! they, at least, get Christmas boxes.'"
He then rose, and wished them farewell—"Only a temporary farewell," added he, as he reached the door. "I have too good an opinion of your taste not to expect you back again. Absence teaches appreciation by the force of contrast—you will regret us, and return."
Without waiting for their answer, he left the room.
Both Guido and Francesca were surprised, even hurt, at the ease of his farewell. They felt so much more than he did, and were ashamed of the feeling. The truth is, that they had still a world of kindliness and affection in their young and unused hearts, which had long passed away from De Joinville. He dreaded the trouble much more than the pain of emotion; he could not altogether escape the many chains of life, but he wore them as lightly as possible. His love was gallantry, his friendship liking, and his business amusement. His philosophy was to s'égayer on the route from the cradle to the coffin; and sometimes I have thought his system the right one. When I have marked, as all must do, the disappointment that rewards the noblest efforts, the agony that attends the most generous affections, I have asked, Is it not better to waste life than to use it? The vain question of a mood of profitless dejection—the most unprofitable state in which we can indulge!