"My Novel" — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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said the Italian, taking off his cap with his usual urbanity, “pardon the negligence of my people; I am too happy to receive your commands in person.”
“Dr. Rickeybockey?” stammered Frank, much confused by this polite address, and the low, yet stately, bow with which it was accompanied. “I—I have a note from the Hall. Mamma—that is, my mother—and aunt Jemima beg their best compliments, and hope you will come, sir.”
The doctor took the note with another bow, and, opening the glass door, invited Frank to enter.
The young gentleman, with a schoolboy’s usual bluntness, was about to say that he was in a hurry, and had rather not; but Dr. Riccabocca’s grand manner awed him, while a glimpse of the hall excited his curiosity, so he silently obeyed the invitation.
The hall, which was of an octagon shape, had been originally panelled off into compartments, and in these the Italian had painted landscapes, rich with the warm sunny light of his native climate. Frank was no judge of the art displayed; but he was greatly struck with the scenes depicted: they were all views of some lake, real or imaginary; in all, dark-blue shining waters reflected dark-blue placid skies. In one, a flight of steps ascended to the lake, and a gay group was seen feasting on the margin; in another, sunset threw its rose-hues over a vast villa or palace, backed by Alpine hills, and flanked by long arcades of vines, while pleasure-boats skimmed over the waves below. In short, throughout all the eight compartments, the scene, though it differed in details, preserved the same general character, as if illustrating some favourite locality. The Italian did not, however, evince any desire to do the honours of his own art, but, preceding Frank across the hall, opened the door of his usual sitting-room, and requested him to enter. Frank did so rather reluctantly, and seated himself with unwonted bashfulness on the edge of a chair. But here new specimens of the doctor’s handicraft soon riveted attention. The room had been originally papered, but Riccabocca had stretched canvas over the walls, and painted thereon sundry satirical devices, each separated from the other by scroll-works of fantastic arabesques. Here a Cupid was trundling a wheelbarrow full of hearts, which he appeared to be selling to an ugly old fellow, with a money-bag in his hand—probably Plutus. There Diogenes might be seen walking through a market-place, with his lantern in his hand, in search of an honest man, whilst the children jeered at him, and the curs snapped at his heels. In another place a lion was seen half dressed in a fox’s hide, while a wolf in a sheep’s mask was conversing very amicably with a young lamb. Here again might be seen the geese stretching out their necks from the Roman Capitol in full cackle, while the stout invaders were beheld in the distance, running off as hard as they could. In short, in all these quaint entablatures some pithy sarcasm was symbolically conveyed; only over the mantel piece was the design graver and more touching. It was the figure of a man in a pilgrim’s garb, chained to the earth by small but innumerable ligaments, while a phantom likeness of himself, his shadow, was seen hastening down what seemed an interminable vista; and underneath were written the pathetic words of Horace—
“Patriae quis exul
Se quoque fugit?”
[“What exile from his country can also fly from himself?”]
The furniture of the room was extremely simple, and somewhat scanty; yet it was arranged so as to impart an air of taste and elegance to the room. Even a few plaster busts and statues, though bought but of some humble itinerant, had their classical effect, glistening from out stands of flowers that were grouped around them, or backed by graceful screen-works formed from twisted osiers, which, by the simple contrivance of trays at the bottom filled with earth, served for living parasitical plants, with gay flowers contrasting thick ivy leaves, and gave to the whole room the aspect of a bower. “May I ask your permission?” said the Italian, with his finger on the seal of the letter.
“Oh, yes,” said Frank, with naivete.
Riccabocca broke the seal, and a slight smile stole over his countenance. Then he turned a little aside from Frank, shaded his face with his hand, and seemed to muse. “Mrs. Hazeldean,” said he, at last, “does me very great honour. I hardly recognize her handwriting, or I should have been more impatient to open the letter.” The dark eyes were lifted over the spectacles and went right into Frank’s unprotected and undiplomatic heart. The doctor raised the note, and pointed to the characters with his forefinger.
“Cousin Jemima’s hand,” said Frank, as directly as if the question had been put to him.
The Italian smiled. “Mr. Hazeldean has company staying with him?”
“No; that is, only Barney,—the captain. There’s seldom much company before the shooting season,” added Frank, with a slight sigh; “and then, you know, the holidays are over. For my part, I think we ought to break up a month later.”
The doctor seemed reassured by the first sentence in Frank’s reply, and, seating himself at the table, wrote his answer,—not hastily, as we English write, but with care and precision, like one accustomed to weigh the nature of words,—in that stiff Italian hand, which allows the writer so much time to think while he forms his letters. He did not, therefore, reply at once to Frank’s remark about the holidays, but was silent till he had concluded his note, read it three times over, sealed it by the taper he slowly lighted, and then, giving it to Frank, he said,
“For your sake, young gentleman, I regret that your holidays are so early; for mine, I must rejoice, since I accept the kind invitation you have rendered doubly gratifying by bringing it yourself.”
“Deuce take the fellow and his fine speeches! One don’t know which way to look,” thought English Frank.
The Italian smiled again, as if this time he had read the boy’s heart, without need of those piercing black eyes, and said, less ceremoniously than before, “You don’t care much for compliments, young gentleman?”
“No, I don’t indeed,” said Frank, heartily.
“So much the better for you, since your way in the world is made: it would be so much the worse if you had to make it!”
Frank looked puzzled: the thought was too deep for him, so he turned to the pictures.
“Those are very funny,” said he; “they seem capitally done. Who did ‘em?”
“Signoriuo Hazeldean, you are giving me what you refused yourself.”
“Eh?” said Frank, inquiringly.
“Compliments!”
“Oh—I—no; but they are well done: are n’t they, sir?”—
“Not particularly: you speak to the artist.”
“What! you painted them?”
“Yes.”
“And the pictures in the hall?”
“Those too.”
“Taken from nature, eh?”
“Nature,” said the Italian, sententiously, perhaps evasively, “lets nothing be taken from her.”
“Oh!” said Frank, puzzled again. “Well, I must wish you good morning, sir; I am very glad you are coming.”
“Without compliment?”
“Without compliment.”
“A rivedersi—good-by for the present, my young signorino. This way,” observing Frank make a bolt towards the wrong door. “Can I offer you a glass of wine?—it is pure, of our own making.”
“No, thank you, indeed, sir,” cried Frank, suddenly recollecting his father’s admonition. “Good-by, don’t trouble yourself, sir; I know any way now.”
But the bland Italian followed his guest to the wicket, where Frank had