Cornelius O'Dowd Upon Men And Women And Other Things In General. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ in the honeymoon. “Isn’t it the dullest, dreariest hole you have ever been in?”

      “Not with you.”

      “Then don’t yawn when you say so. I abhor it. It’s dirty, it’s vulgar, it’s dear.”

      “No, no. It ain’t dear, my love; don’t say, dear.”

      “Billiards perhaps, and filthy cigars, and that greenish bitter – anisette, I think they call it – are cheap enough, perhaps; but these are all luxuries I can’t share in.”

      Here was the cloud no bigger than a man’s hand that presaged the first connubial hurricane. A married friend – one of much experience and long-suffering – had warned me of this, saying, “Don’t fancy you’ll escape, old fellow; but do the way the Ministry do about Turkey – put the evil day off; diplomatise, promise, cajole, threaten a bit if needs be, but postpone;” and, strong with these precepts, I negotiated, as the phrase is, and, with a dash of reckless liberality that I tremble at now as I record it, I said, “You’ve only to say where – nothing but where to, and I’ll take you – up the Rhine, down the Danube, Egypt, the Cataracts – ”

      “I don’t want to go so far,” said she, dryly. “Italy will do.”

      This was a stunner. I hoped the impossible would have stopped her, but she caught at the practicable, and foiled me.

      “There’s only one objection,” said I, musing.

      “And what may that be? Not money, I hope.”

      “Heaven forbid – no. It’s the language. We get on here tolerably well, for the waiter speaks broken English; but in Italy, dearest, English is unknown.”

      “Let us learn Italian, then. My aunt Groves said I had a remarkable talent for languages.”

      I groaned inwardly at this, for the same aunt Groves had vouched for a sum of seventeen hundred and odd pounds as her niece’s fortune, but which was so beautifully “tied up,” as they called it, that neither Chancellor nor Master were ever equal to the task of untying it.

      “Of course, dearest, let us learn Italian;” and I thought how I’d crush a junior counsel some day with a smashing bit of Dante.

      We started that same night – travelled on day after day – crossed Mont Cenis in a snow-storm, and reached the Feder as wayworn and wretched-looking a pair as ever travelled on an errand of bliss and beatitude.

      “In for a penny” is very Irish philosophy, but I can’t help that; so I wrote to my brother Peter to sell out another hundred for me out of the “Threes,” saying “dear Paulina’s health required a little change to a milder climate” (it was snowing when I wrote, and the thermometer over the chimneypiece at 9° Reaumur, with windows that wouldn’t shut, and a marble floor without carpet) – “that the balmy air of Italy” (my teeth chattered as I set it down) “would soon restore her; and indeed already she seemed to feel the change.” That she did, for she was crouching over a pan of charcoal ashes, with a railroad wrapper over her shoulders.

      It’s no use going over what is in every one’s experience on first coming south of the Alps – the daily, hourly difficulty of not believing that you have taken a wrong road and got into Siberia; and strangest of all it is to see how little the natives think of it. I declare I often thought soap must be a great refrigerant, and I wish some chemist would inquire into the matter.

      “Are we ever to begin this blessed language?” said Mrs O’D. to me, after four days of close arrest – snow still falling and the thermometer going daily down, down, lower and lower. Now I had made inquiries the day before from the landlord, and learned that he knew of a most competent person, not exactly a regular teacher who would insist upon our going to work in school fashion, but a man of sense and a gentleman – indeed, a person of rank and title, with whom the world had gone somewhat badly, and who was at that very moment suffering for his political opinions, far in advance, as they were, of those of his age.

      “He’s a friend of Gioberti,” whispered the landlord in my ear, while his features became animated with the most intense significance. Now, I had never so much as heard of Gioberti, but I felt it would be a deep disgrace to confess it, and so I only exclaimed, with an air of half-incredulity, “Indeed!”

      “As true as I’m here,” replied he. “He usually drops in about noon to read the ‘Opinione,’ and, if you permit, I’ll send him up to you. His name is Count Annibale Castrocaro.”

      I hastened forthwith to Mrs O’D., to apprise her of the honour that awaited us; repeating, a little in extenso, all that the host had said, and finishing with the stunning announcement, “and a friend of Gio-berti.” Mrs O’Dowd never flinched under the shock, and, too proud to own her ignorance, she pertly remarked, “I don’t think the more of him for that.”

      I felt that she had beat me, and I sat down abashed and humiliated. Meanwhile Mrs O’D. retired to make some change of dress; but, reappearing after a while in her smartest morning toilette, and a very coquettish little cap, with cherry-coloured ribbons, I saw what the word Count had done at once.

      Just as the clock struck twelve, the waiter flung wide the double doors of our room, and announced, as pompously as though for royalty, “II Signor Conte di Castrocaro,” and there entered a tall man slightly stooping in the shoulders, with a profusion of the very blackest hair on his neck and shoulders, his age anything from thirty-five to forty-eight, and his dress a shabby blue surtout, buttoned to the throat and reaching below the knees. He bowed and slid, and bowed again, till he came opposite where my wife sat, and then, with rather a dramatic sort of grace, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. She reddened a little, but I saw she wasn’t displeased with the air of homage that accompanied the ceremony, and she begged him to be seated.

      I own I was disappointed with the Count, his hair was so greasy, and his hands so dirty, and his general get-up so uncared for; but Mrs O’D. talked away with him very pleasantly, and he replied in his own broken English, making little grimaces and smiles and gestures, and some very tender glances, do duty where his parts of speech failed him. In fact, I watched him as a sort of psychological phenomenon, and I arrived at the conclusion that this friend of Gioberti’s was a very clever artist.

      All was speedily settled for the lessons – hour, terms, and mode of instruction. It was to be entirely conversational, with a little theme-writing, no getting by heart, no irregular verbs, no declensions, no genders. I did beg hard for a little grammar, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It was against his “system,” and so I gave in.

      We began the next day, but the Count ignored me altogether, directing almost all his attentions to Mrs O’D.; and as I had already some small knowledge of the elementary part of the language, I was just as well pleased that she should come up, as it were, to my level. From this cause I often walked off before the lesson was over, and sometimes, indeed, I skulked it altogether, finding the system, as well as Gioberti’s friend, to be an unconscionable bore. Mrs O’D., on the contrary, displayed an industry I never believed her to possess, and would pass whole evenings over her exercises, which often covered several sheets of letter-paper.

      We had now been about five weeks in Turin, when my brother wrote to request I would come back as speedily as I could, that a case in which I held a brief was high in the cause-list, and would be tried very early in the session. I own I was not sorry at the recall. I detested the dreary life I was leading. I hated Turin and its bad feeding and bad theatres, its rough wines and its rougher inhabitants.

      “Did you tell the Count we are off on Saturday?” asked I of Mrs O’D.

      “Yes,” СКАЧАТЬ