LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

that nevertheless carried the unmistakable weight of sincerity:

      "You know, the Memoriale is hardly considered a very good specimen of architecture. Some of the statuary is good, in the modern style, but you can see for yourself— those little pillars and columns that support nothing at all, and have no raison d'etre, what do they mean?" "Nothing, of course," said Zella in tones of conviction. But she was inwardly vexed and distressed at having appeared ignorant and wanting in artistic perception. One might surely have assumed with safety that any building in Rome was a suitable object for admiration, thought Zella with some indignation.

      When the Baronne, with the peculiarly abrupt manner that was characteristic of her, and that always made Zella nervous, asked her what she liked best in Rome, Zella could only stammer agitatedly:

      "Oh, St. Peter's, I think, and—and the Forum." "Ah, young people like size. To be sure, they are very beautiful, and you will like St. Peter's more and more as you go there oftener. It is not learnt at one visit, nor at two. And what about modern Italy's little effort—the Victor Emmanuel monument?" inquired the Baronne, with twinkling eyes.

      Zella might have taken warning from her tone, but she felt with relief that here she was sure of her ground, and replied with aplomb:

      "Oh, well, of course some of the statues are nice; but as a whole I did not like the architecture much—there are so many little pillars and columns that seem to have no raison d'etre."

      She felt that her judgment was, at all events where Grand'mère was concerned, triumphantly vindicated, and was proportionately disconcerted when the Baronne broke into her short, abrupt laugh.

      "I understood, on the contrary, that you had admired it this morning, and personally I am inclined to agree with you. It is only Stéphanie who is so ultra-fastidious, with her love of the ancient. The Memoriale, to my mind, is a fine bit of contrast with the old grey buildings all round, and the blue sky behind; but I know little of architecture," said the Baronne, shrugging her shoulders. "But you, Zella, you should learn to have the courage of your own opinions, my good little one."

      Zella, though much out of countenance, was impelled to speak in her own defence.

      "You see, Grand'mère, I know I make mistakes. I do not know much about art yet," said Zella reluctantly; "but my taste is being formed every day, isn't it?"

      The last aphorism was her father's, uttered by him the day before.

      "That is perfectly true, and I did not intend to hurt your feelings, child," said the Baronne gravely and politely. "If your taste in art was perfect at fourteen years old, you would be a little miracle; and we do not want miracles, excepting those sanctioned by the Church. But it is better to make an occasional mistake in good faith than to derive your opinions wholesale from another source, however reliable."

      "Yes, Grand'mère, I see."

      Zella felt grateful to the Baronne for immediately leaving the subject.

      It was a continual surprise to her that neither her grandmother nor her aunt ever seemed to have any desire of improving the occasion. To her father's unvarying indulgence she was used, but it was gratifying always to be treated by Grand'mère and Tante Stéphanie as though she were a grown-up person, fully entitled to the consideration due from one adult to another. All that was required of her were certain rather old-fashioned forms of respect to which she had been brought up as a matter of course, and those outward expressions of good-breeding which were almost as natural to Zella as to the Baronne herself. In two months' time Zella felt as though her life at Boscombe and at Villetswood belonged equally to some dream-like and far-remote past, and as though the routine of her days in Rome would constitute the remainder of her life. She did no lessons, excepting an hour's French reading every afternoon to her grandmother, when, to her secret surprise and annoyance, her French accent was subject to frequent corrections. Her father undertook to teach her Italian, and set about it by speaking Italian at meals whenever he remembered it; and the most educational items in Zella's days were the long expeditions to churches, galleries, and museums, with her Aunt Stéphanie. And never did Zella acknowledge to herself that these expeditions generally seemed to her wearisome, and merely the lengthy and necessary preliminary that must be gone through before the welcome interruption of tea.

      IX

       Table of Contents

      THEY spent Christmas in Rome.

      Hitherto, Christmas to Zella had meant a general sense of holiday and extra enjoyment, and a liberal interchange of presents. That the 25th of December might be looked upon in any other way was somewhat of a revelation to her.

      Tante Stéphanie religiously kept the fast ordained by her Church all through Advent, and Zella discovered, through the admiring comments of the loquacious manservant Hippolyte, who had accompanied his ladies from Paris to Rome, that she also rose daily to attend the successive Masses from five o'clock onwards at San Silvestro.

      The Baronne spoke of Midnight Mass as a matter of course, in spite of the intense cold and her tendency to bronchitis, and Louis de Kervoyou was anxious that his daughter should see all the ceremonies so amply celebrated in the churches of Rome.

      Zella began to feel that Christmas partook of the nature of her expeditions with her aunt—an artistic and educational progress that one could never own to be rather wearisome.

      On Christmas Eve she received a letter from Mrs. Lloyd-Evans that again seemed to throw a different light on the approaching festival.

      "One feels, Zella dear," wrote her aunt, in a large illegible hand, " that this can only be a very sad Christmas for you, the first without dear, dear mother—and for poor papa, too. You must try and be as much comfort to him as you can, though one cannot help thinking it is rather sad that you should be so far away from England and Villetswood, for Christmas is, after all, the season so especially associated with Home and all those whom one loves."

      A reflective sadness was shed upon Zella as she read.

      Last Christmas a party had assembled at Villetswood, and Zella tried to recall in mournful retrospect every pleasure that had been so joyously crowded into one festive week, although, as a matter of fact, she felt as though it had all happened in some far-distant past, too distant for any very poignant emotions of regret, however appropriate. She said tentatively to the Baronne: "I have a letter from Aunt Marianne: would you like to see it, Grand'mère?"

      "Thank you, my dear, but you had better tell me what her news is," scrupulously replied the Baronne, who held that all personal correspondence should be treated as sacred.

      "It is a long letter. It made me feel rather homesick," said Zella wistfully. She was always a little bit afraid that Grand'mère would think any display of emotion in bad taste, but the Baronne said very kindly:

      "My poor Zella! It is very natural. You are away from England, and that is a long distance at your age. Do you wish to go back?"

      Zella did not like to say " Yes," as she was presumably in Rome in order to be near her grandmother and aunt, and felt that to say " No " would sound inconsistent.

      She replied indirectly:

      "I have not been home to Villetswood since October."

      "Places do not run away," returned the Baronne with much common-sense. "Time passes, little one, and you will find yourself there again."

      "But shall I? said Zella. "Does papa mean to take me back there, ever?"

      "Has he not told you so?"

      "He has never spoken to me about it, or—or about anything," mournfully said Zella, who meant, by the ambiguous word "anything," her dead mother.

      "Then, child, you must respect his silence," replied the Baronne decisively. "I need not tell you that in such masters one doesn't ask questions: n'est se pas? Co ne se fait pas."

      Zella, who would in this case undoubtedly have asked questions had she

Скачать книгу