“I had rather he made me a fool than that I thought he was one,” she said, after a long pause.
“Here is the Custom House,” said Colonel Leyland, changing the subject.
They had come to the land of Ach and Ja. Miss Raby sighed; for she loved the Latins, as everyone must who is not pressed for time. But Colonel Leyland, a military man, respected Teutonia.
“They still talk Italian for seven miles,” she said, comforting herself like a child.
“German is the coming language,” answered Colonel Leyland. “All the important books on any subject are written in it.”
“But all the books on any important subject are written in Italian. Elizabeth—tell me an important subject.”
“Human Nature, ma’am,” said the maid, half shy, half impertinent.
“Elizabeth is a novelist, like her mistress,” said Colonel Leyland. He turned away to look at the scenery, for he did not like being entangled in a mixed conversation. He noted that the farms were more prosperous, that begging had stopped, that the women were uglier and the men more rotund, that more nourishing food was being eaten outside the wayside inns.
“Colonel Leyland, shall we go to the Grand Hôtel des Alpes, to the Hôtel de Londres, to the Pension Liebig, to the Pension Atherley-Simon, to the Pension Belle Vue, to the Pension Old-England, or to the Albergo Biscione?”
“I suppose you would prefer the Biscione.”
“I really shouldn’t mind the Grand Hôtel des Alpes. The Biscione people own both, I hear. They have become quite rich.”
“You should have a splendid reception—if such people know what gratitude is.”
For Miss Raby’s novel, The Eternal Moment, which had made her reputation, had also made the reputation of Vorta.
“Oh, I was properly thanked. Signor Cantù wrote to me about three years after I had published. The letter struck me as a little pathetic, though it was very prosperous: I don’t like transfiguring people’s lives. I wonder whether they live in their old house or in the new one.”
Colonel Leyland had come to Vorta to be with Miss Raby; but he was very willing that they should be in different hotels. She, indifferent to such subtleties, saw no reason why they should not stop under the same roof, just as she could not see why they should not travel in the same carriage. On the other hand, she hated anything smart. He had decided on the Grand Hôtel des Alpes, and she was drifting towards the Biscione, when the tiresome Elizabeth said: “My friend’s lady is staying at the Alpes.”
“Oh! if Elizabeth’s friend is there that settles it: we’ll all go.”
“Very well’m,” said Elizabeth, studiously avoiding even the appearance of gratitude. Colonel Leyland’s face grew severe over the want of discipline.
“You spoil her,” he murmured, when they had all descended to walk up a hill.
“There speaks the military man.”
“Certainly I have had too much to do with Tommies to enter into what you call ‘human relations.’ A little sentimentality, and the whole army would go to pieces.”
“I know; but the whole world isn’t an army. So why should I pretend I’m an officer. You remind me of my Anglo-Indian friends, who were so shocked when I would be pleasant to some natives. They proved, quite conclusively, that it would never do for them, and have never seen that the proof didn’t apply. The unlucky people here are always trying to lead the lucky; and it must be stopped. You’ve been unlucky: all your life you’ve had to command men, and exact prompt obedience and other unprofitable virtues. I’m lucky: I needn’t do the same—and I won’t.”
“Don’t then,” he said, smiling. “But take care that the world isn’t an army after all. And take care, besides, that you aren’t being unjust to the unlucky people: we’re fairly kind to your beloved lower orders, for instance.”
“Of course,” she said dreamily, as if he had made her no concession. “It’s becoming usual. But they see through it. They, like ourselves, know that only one thing in the world is worth having.”
“Ah! yes,” he sighed. “It’s a commercial age.”
“No!” exclaimed Miss Raby, so irritably that Elizabeth looked back to see what was wrong. “You are stupid. Kindness and money are both quite easy to part with. The only thing worth giving away is yourself. Did you ever give yourself away?”
“Frequently.”
“I mean, did you ever, intentionally, make a fool of yourself before your inferiors?”
“Intentionally, never.” He saw at last what she was driving at. It was her pleasure to pretend that such self-exposure was the only possible basis of true intercourse, the only gate in the spiritual barrier that divided class from class. One of her books had dealt with the subject; and very agreeable reading it made. “What about you?” he added playfully.
“I’ve never done it properly. Hitherto I’ve never felt a really big fool; but when I do, I hope I shall show it plainly.”
“May I be there!”
“You might not like it,” she replied. “I may feel it at any moment and in mixed company. Anything might set me off.”
“Behold Vorta!” cried the driver, cutting short the sprightly conversation. He and Elizabeth and the carriage had reached the top of the hill. The black woods ceased; and they emerged into a valley whose sides were emerald lawns, rippling and doubling and merging each into each, yet always with an upward trend, so that it was 2,000 feet to where the rock burst out of the grass and made great mountains, whose pinnacles were delicate in the purity of evening.
The driver, who had the gift of repetition, said: “Vorta! Vorta!”
Far up the valley was a large white village,
