A Love Story
knows every turn of the disorder. From her, Henry, may you learn all."
Thus did George conclude his tale of passion; which Delmé mused over,
but refrained from commenting on.
Soon afterwards, George's calèche, in which he daily took exercise, was
announced as being at the door. The brothers entered, and left Floriana.
Chapter X.
The Calèche.
"The car rattling through the stony street."
For an easy conveyance, commend us to a Maltese calèche! Many a time,
assaulted by the blue devils, have we taken refuge in its solacing
interior--have pulled down its silken blinds, and unseeing and unseen,
the motion, like that of the rocking-cradle to the petulant child of
less mature growth, has restored complacency, and lulled us to good
humour. The calèche, the real calèche, is, we believe, peculiar to
Malta. It is the carriage of the rich and poor--Lady Woodford may be
seen employing it, to visit her gardens at St. Antonio; and in the
service of the humblest of her subjects, will it be enlisted, as they
wend their way to a picnic in the campagna. Every variety of steed is
put in requisition for its draught.
We may see the barb, with nostril of fire, and mane playing with the
wind, perform a curvet, as he draws our aristocratic
countrywoman--aristocratic and haughty at least in Malta, although,
in England, perhaps a star of much less magnitude.
We may view too the over-burthened donkey, as he drags along some aged
vehicle, in which four fat smiling women, and one lean weeping child,
look forward to his emaciated carcase, and yet blame him for being slow.
And thou! patient and suffering animal, whose name has passed into a
proverb, until each vulgar wight looks on thee as the emblem of
obstinacy,--maligned mule! when dost thou appear to more advantage, more
joyous, or more self-satisfied, than when yoked to the Maltese calèche?
Who that has witnessed thee, taking the scanty meal from the hand of
thine accustomed driver, with whinnying voice, waving tail, thy long
ears pricked upwards, and thy head rubbing his breast, who that has
seen thee thus, will deny thee the spirit of gratitude?
Most injured of quadrupeds! if we ascend the rugged mountain's path,
where on either side, precipices frown, and the pines wave far--far
beneath--when one false step would plunge us, with our hopes, our fears,
and our vices, into the abyss of eternity; is it not to thee we trust?
Calumniated mule! go on thy way.
This world's standard is but little to be relied on, whether it be for
good, or whether it be for evil.
The motion of a calèche, such as we patronised, is an easy and luxurious
one--the pace, a fast trot or smooth canter, of seven miles an hour--and
with the blinds down, we have communed with ourselves, with as great
freedom, and as little fear of interruption, as if we had been crossing
the Zahara. The calèche men too are a peculiar and happy race--attentive
to their fares--masters of their profession--and with a cigar in their
cheek dexter, will troll you Maltese ditties till your head aches. Their
costume is striking. Their long red caps are thrown back over their
necks--their black curls hang down on each side of the face--and a
crimson, many-folded sash, girds in a waist usually extremely small.
Their neck, face, and breast, from continued exposure to the sun, are a
red copper colour. They are always without shoes and stockings; and even
our countrywomen, who pay much attention to the costume of their
drivers, have not yet ventured to encase their brawny feet in the
mysteries of leather. They run by the side of their calèches, the reins
in one hand--the whip in the other--cheering on their animals by a
constant succession of epithets, oaths, and invocations to their
favourite saint.
They are rarely fatigued, and may be seen beside their vehicles, urging
the horses, with the thermometer at 110°, and perhaps a stout-looking
Englishman inside, with white kerchief to his face, the image of languor
and lassitude.
Their horses gallop down steeps, which no English Jehu dare attempt; and
ascend and descend with safety and hardihood, stone steps which occur in
many parts of Valletta; and which would certainly present an
insurmountable obstacle to our steeds at home.
The proper period, however, to see a calèche man in his glory, is during
the carnival. Every calèche is in employ; and many a one which has
reposed for the twelvemonth previous, is at that time wheeled from its
accustomed shed, and put in requisition for some of pleasure's votaries.
Long lines of them continue to pass and repass in the principal street.
Their inmates are almost universally of the fair sex, and of the best
part of it, the young and beautiful. Cavaliers, with silken bags,
containing bon-bons, slung on their left arm, stand at intervals, ready
to discharge the harmless missiles, at those whom their taste approves
worthy of the compliment. Happy the young beauty, who, returning
homewards, sees the carpet of her calèche thickly strewn with these
dulcet favours! The driver is now in his element! He ducks his head, as
the misdirected sweetmeat approaches; he has an apt remark prompt for
the occasion. As he nears too the favoured inamorato, for whom he well
knows his mistress' sweetest smile is reserved--who already with his
right hand grasping the sugared favours, is prepared to lavish his whole
store on this one venture--how arch his look--how roguish his eye--as he
turns towards his donna, and speaks as plainly as words could do, "See!
there he is, he whom you love best!"
Ah! well may we delight to recal once more those minute details! ah!
well may we remember how--when our brow was smoothed with youth, as it
is now furrowed with care--when our eye sparkled from pleasure, as it is
now dimmed from time, or mayhap, tears--well may we love to remember,
how our whole hearts were engrossed in that mimic warfare. How
impatiently did we watch for _one_, amidst that crowded throng, for
one--whose beauty haunted us by day, and whose smile we dreamt over by
night. Well do we recal with what unexampled ingenuity, we laboured to
befit the snow white egg for a rare tenant--attar-gul. Well do we
remember how that face, usually so cloudless, became darkened almost to
a frown, as our heart's mistress saw the missile approach her. What a
radiant smile bewitched us, as it burst on her lap, and filled the air
with its fragrance! Truly we had our reward!
Delmé and George took a quiet drive, and enjoyed that sweet interchange
of ideas, that characterises the meeting of two brothers long absent
from each other.
They went in the direction of St. Julian's, a drive all our Maltese
friends will be familiar with. The road lay almost wholly by the sea
side. A gentle breeze was crisping the waters, and served to allay the
heat, which, at a more advanced period of the season, is by no means an
enviable one. Sun-shine seemed to beam on George's mind, as he once more
spoke of home ties, to one to whom those home ties were equally dear.
And gratefully did he bask in its rays! Long used to the verdant but
tame, beautiful but romantic landscapes, which the part of England he
resided in presented; the scenery around him, novel and picturesque,
struck Sir Henry forcibly. To one who has resided long in Malta, its
scenes may wear an aspect somewhat different. The limited country--the
ceaseless glare--the dust, or rather the pulverised rock--the
ever-present lizard, wary and quick, peeping out at each crevice--the
buzzing mosquito, inviting the moody philosopher to smite his own
cheek,--these things may come to be regarded as real grievances.
But Delmé, as a visitor, was pleased with what he saw. The promising
vineyards--the orange groves, with their glowing fruit and ample
foliage, "looking like golden lamps" in a dark night of leaves--the
thick leaves of the prickly pear--the purple sky above him, lending its
rich hue to the sea beside--the architectural beauties of the
cottages--the wide portico of the mansions--the flat terrace with its
balustrade, over which might be seen a fair face, half concealed by the
faldette, smilingly peering, and through whose pillars might be noted a
pretty ancle, and siesta-looking slipper--these were novelties, and
pleasing ones! Their drive over, Delmé felt more tranquil as to George's
state of mind, and more inclined to look on the bright side, as to his
future fortunes.
Acmé was waiting to receive them, and as she scanned George's features,
Delmé could not but observe the affectionate solicitude that marked her
glance and manner.
Let it not be thought we would make vice seductive!
Fair above all things is the pure affection of woman! happy he who may
regard it his! he may bask without a shade of distrust in its glorious
splendour, and permanently adore its holy beauty.
While, fascinating though be the concentred love of woman, whether
struggling in its passion--enraptured in its madness--or clinging and
loving on in its guilt: Man--that more selfish wanderer from virtue's
pale, that destroyer of his own best sympathies--will find too late that
a day of bitterest regret must arrive: a day when love shall exist no
more, or, linked with remorse, shall tear--a fierce vulture--at his very
heart strings.
Chapter XI.
The Colonel.
"Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace."
Delmé strolled out half an hour before his brother's dinner hour, with
the intention of paying a visit of ceremony to the Colonel of George's
regiment. His house was not far distant. It had been the palazzo of one
of the redoubted Knights of St. John; and the massive gate at which Sir
Henry knocked for admittance, seemed an earnest, that the family, who
had owned the mansion, had been a powerful and important one. The door
was opened, and the servant informed Delmé, that Colonel Vavasour was on
the terrace.
The court yard through which they passed was extensive; and a spring
"Of living water from its centre rose,
Whose bubbling did a genial softness fling."
Ascending a lofty marble staircase, along which were placed a few
bronzed urns, Delmé crossed a suite of apartments--thrown open in the
Italian mode--and passing through a glass door, found himself on a wide
stone terrace, edged by pillars.
Immediately beneath this, was an orange grove, whose odours perfumed the
air. Colonel Vavasour was employed in reading a German treatise on light
infantry tactics. He received Sir Henry with great cordiality, and
proposed adjourning to the library. Delmé was pleased to observe, for it
corresponded with what he had heard of the man; that, with the exception
of the chef d'oeuvres of the English and German poets, the Colonel's
library, which was an extensive one, almost wholly consisted of such
books as immediately related to military subjects, or might be able to
bear on some branch of science connected with military warfare. Pagan,
and his follower Vauban, and the more matured treatises of Cormontaigne,
were backed by the works of that boast of the Low Countries, Coehorn;
and by the ingenious theories, as yet _but_ theories, of Napoleon's
minister of war, Carnot.
Military historians, too, crowded the shelves. _There_ might be noted
the veracious Polybius--the classic Xenophon--the scientific
Cæsar--the amusing Froissart, with his quaint designs, and quainter
discourses--and many an author unknown to fame, who in lengthy quarto,
luxuriated on the lengthy campaigns of Marlborough or Eugene; those wise
commanders, who flourished in an era, when war was a well debated
scientific game of chess; when the rival opponents took their time,
before making their moves; and the loss of a pawn was followed by the
loss of a kingdom. _There_ might you be enamoured with even a soldier's