The lending of books, the lectures on botany, the
lessons on the guitar, were all set forth; the catalogue winding
up with that stupendous master-stroke, the easy-chair invented
by the doctor.
lessons on the guitar, were all set forth; the catalogue winding
up with that stupendous master-stroke, the easy-chair invented
by the doctor.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v21 to v25 - Rab to Tur
Antonio,' published in 1855, is written in a style as far as
possible from the modern manner. The author does not fill his can-
vas with figures, and then stand off, a dispassionate observer, to see
how they look and move. He is frankly the partisan, the protector,
of his hero and heroine; and prodigal in gifts to them of beauty,
character, and charm. He crowns his Lucy with golden hair, his
Antonio with dark curls, the one the complement of the other. His
language is old-fashioned; and through his limpid sentences walk
"Lucy the fair," "Antonio the noble. » The story rests on supports
which, though firm, are slender. Lucy Davenne, a young English
girl, accompanied by her father, an insular, prejudiced, wealthy baro-
net, traveling by carriage along the Cornice road, is overturned at a
dangerous pass and seriously injured. The parish doctor of the little
town of Taggia happens to rescue her, carries her to an inn, and
afterward attends her with patience and skill through a long invalid-
ism. The romance which grows softly, sweetly, daily, before our eyes,
is revealed by no gesture, no sound. Not a whisper, even to the
reader, breaks the silence of perfect reserve, entire reticence. The
unspoken love has a larger life, and permeates the atmosphere; it is
a part of the fragrance of the flowers; it is breathed in the cool
wind, tremulous with feeling. And perfect art leaves it so,-un-
analyzed, undefined.
Long and lovely are their days in the little osteria on the olive-
crowned height, the rainbow-colored Mediterranean at their feet, and
the snow mountains piercing the northern horizon. Pleasant the
hours when they drive along the silvery tract of road that undulates
among palms and olives, from the bending coast to frowning hills,
whose outlines are veiled in mists of mother-of-pearl. But when they
wake from their day-dream, and Lucy is forced to return to England,
the reader, with Dr. Antonio, can only submit. Parental authority is
supreme in Italian eyes; and Antonio, poet and dreamer, has the
practicality of his race and station.
After the lapse of years, Lucy, now the widow of an English lord,
returns to Italy, with the unconfessed purpose of seeing Antonio
again. He has thrown himself into politics, and become an author-
ity in the Liberal party. They meet, but scarcely an hour of inter-
course is vouchsafed them; for a crisis has come in the affairs of the
country. The battle of Novara is fought and lost; and Antonio is
captured, tried, and sentenced to imprisonment for life on the gloomy
promontory which overlooks Ischia. The calamity which befalls her
lover makes of the timid Lucy a very Machiavelli. With what art the
## p. 12473 (#531) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12473
author shows the change! how prodigal of self, of money, of charm
to win her way! And finally it is done. The boat which is to res-
cue him passes under the prison walls, hands are stretched out to
save him, he has but to leap into the soft darkness of the Italian
night; but he does not come. The astonished, the indignant messen.
gers bring back to Lucy a little note, the letters formed by holes
pierced in the paper.
"There are five here besides myself: all noble fellows, the least
of them worth ten of me. I cannot desert them. You cannot save
us all; leave me to my fate. Providence has assigned me my place
among the sufferers. Perhaps our trials will be reckoned to our
country. Pray that it may be so. Pray for Italy.
Your own A-. »
God bless you.
The unuttered romance ends in failure and death. Does the sen-
timentalist protest that the real Antonio would not have submitted to
fate, or taken his country for a mistress when love failed? Antonio
was a character called out of the unordered individualities of Italian
life, and patriotism with him might well have been the absorbing
passion. And what of the vain sacrifice, the immolation to an idea,
which bound him to his chains when his duty was to love? For
Antonio there was no choice. The high resolve, the senseless, noble,
quixotic action, was but the expression of his ideal.
Ruffini was a man of one book; a dignified and interesting figure.
THE IDYL AT A CLOSE
From Dr. Antonio'
IT
IT WAS one of those hot sultry days in the month of August, so
trying to the nerves of sensitive people, and during which
Nature, as it were, herself exhausted, seems to come to a
standstill. Shooting through a thin veil of white clouds, as
through a burning-glass, the rays of the sun poured down upon
the earth volumes of heavy malignant heat. No leaf stirred,
no bird was singing; the very cicadas had suspended their shrill
chirp. The only sound that occasionally broke the ominous still-
ness was the plaintive cry of the cuckoo calling to its mate.
Lucy had tried drawing, gardening, practicing, sleeping, all
with no success; and now lay panting on a sofa. "Here you are
at last! " said she, as Dr. Antonio walked in: "I have been long-
ing for you these two hours. I feel so ill. "
"Indeed! " exclaimed Antonio, turning white: "what is the
matter with you? I met Sir John on his way to the count's not
## p. 12474 (#532) ##########################################
12474
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
an hour ago, and he never breathed a syllable about your being
unwell. "
"I said nothing about the matter to papa," answered Lucy:
"he is uneasy enough already at not having heard from Aubrey. "
"You mean your brother? "
"Yes: Aubrey was to write by the Indian mail, which we see
has arrived, and without bringing any letter from him. "
"I am very sorry for that," said Antonio. "But tell me all
about yourself. You have not been coughing, have you? "
"No, but I feel very uncomfortable: so faint—so oppressed-
so hot. "
"No wonder. Everybody suffers more or less from this
weather. Let me feel your pulse. -There is no fever. It is
this confounded sirocco that tells on your nerves. Now just lie
down again quietly," — and he arranged the pillows under her
head,- «<
Miss
and I will try to make you more comfortable.
Hutchins," he added, walking away, "will you make a glass of
strong lemonade for Miss Davenne? the juice of two lemons in
half a tumbler of water-lukewarm water, if you please. "
"Yes, sir," answered the lady's-maid, in the most mellifluous
voice at her command. Miss Hutchins, be it known, was quite
conquered: a hard conquest, but Antonio had achieved it. The
once stiff abigail now courted his notice, and prided herself in
carrying out his directions.
-
Presently Antonio reappeared, followed by Speranza, both of
them looking like Jacks-in-the-green on a May morning, or like a
bit of Birnam Wood, from the quantity of cut boughs they were
carrying. They spread them all over the floor; then, Rosa bring-
ing in a watering-pot, the doctor watered the branches several
times, saying, "This will soon cool us, provided we let in no
air from the furnace without. " He shut up the glass door, and
let down the green curtain over it so as to create a twilight.
"Do you like your lemonade? " he asked, as Lucy put down her
glass.
"Very much it is so refreshing. "
"Do you feel inclined to go to sleep? "
"No," said Lucy: "are you going? "
"Not unless you feel sleepy. You do not? Very well. Shall
I read to you? " continued Antonio, going to the book-shelves
near the piano, and coming back with a book; "shall I read you
something from your favorite poet, Giusti ? "
## p. 12475 (#533) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12475
"What a clever man you are! " said Lucy, instead of answer-
ing the question. "I feel better already. What is to become of
me when you are no long-” The rest of the phrase was lost
in a burst of tears.
Poor Antonio stood still, with the book in his hand and large
tears in his eyes,- within an ace of crying also. Fortunately
for him, something stuck in his throat at this moment and neces-
sitated his clearing it violently. Having by this means recov-
ered his voice, he said, "See how nervous you are: you weep
without the least cause, as if you were going away to-morrow.
Don't you know the Italian proverb, 'Prendi tempo e camperai'? "
His tone was that of a mother chiding her pet child. There
ensued a pause, during which Lucy by degrees recovered from
her emotion.
"Doctor," said she all at once, "do you believe in presenti-
ments? "
"Not a bit," replied Antonio briskly; "I believe in the si-
rocco. »
You are wrong, then," said Lucy gravely. "Did you not
tell me once of sensitive plants which foretold storms? Well, I
am one of them. I am sure that some misfortune is about to
happen to me. I feel it in the air. "
"You feel the treacherous south wind, that is what you feel.
A shower of rain will put your discomfort and presentiments all
to flight. "
Lucy shook her head incredulously; then said, "Will you read
to me? anything you choose. "
"Let us try 'Il Brindisi di Don Girella. ' It is so droll, it will
make you laugh;" and carrying a chair close to the glass door,
in order to profit by the little light that stole in through it, he
began reading.
We have reasons of our own for particularizing as minutely
as possible the details of this domestic scene, and the position.
with regard to each other of reader and listener. A little to the
right of the glass door, at some five or six paces from it, stood
sidewise the sofa on which Lucy was lying, her face towards the
light. She had on a white muslin gown with a blue sash; her
broad-brimmed straw hat was hanging by its blue ribbons on a
corner of the back of the sofa, just over her head. Miss Hutch-
ins, her arms crossed before her, sat at the large table in the
## p. 12476 (#534) ##########################################
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GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
centre of the room, busily engaged in trying to swallow a series
of obstinate yawns that would not be suppressed. Opposite to
Lucy- that is, to the left of the glass door, but so close to it
that the green curtain touched his book—was seated Antonio.
Well, the reading had been going on for some time, and
more than once had the condensed vis comica of the inimitable
poet brought a faint smile on Lucy's pale face. By degrees,
however, her perception of the author's meaning became fainter
and fainter; and the rich melodious voice of the reader, soothing
her like the murmuring of a brook, lulled the sweet girl into
that state which is not yet sleep, yet neither is it waking, but a
voluptuous compound of the two. All on a sudden a heavy foot-
step is heard coming up the stairs. Lucy started up: "Who
can that be? " faltered she with a shudder. At the same instant
the glass door is flung open with a crash, a colossal figure stalks
in noisily, and "Halloa, Lucy, my girl," roars out a voice like
thunder, as the living tower stoops down to kiss the prostrate
form. "Here you are at last! Heyday! What is all this? By
Jove! with your green boughs and watering-pots you look as pas-
toral as one of the shepherdesses in a ballet. Une chaumière et
ton cœur. Ah! ah! nothing is wanting to the idyl, as they used
to say at Eton; d— it, not even the shepherd!
>>>>
"Aubrey! " cried Lucy in a tone of reproach, but could say no
more.
The oath and witty sally, we need scarcely remark, were
aimed at our friend the doctor. Antonio had received such a
violent slap from the door, when Aubrey entered, as to be nearly
felled to the ground; and in the effort to recover his balance, his
chair was upset. The new-comer turned round at the noise, saw
Antonio, and uttered the silly vapid joke about the shepherd.
The eyes of the two men met in no friendly way. Aubrey's
haughty scowl, curled lip, and somewhat aggressive demeanor,
evinced little good-will to the object of his present scrutiny.
Antonio's firm-set lips, ashy-pale countenance, and collected look
of self-defense, gave evidence of his scenting the near approach
Thus they stood, confronting each other, types of two
fine races, two such as even Greece and Rome had seldom seen
the like of the one, fair, rosy, blue-eyed; (Lucy's very eyes! )
the other, dark as a tempest: the Englishman taller by nearly a
head than his tall antagonist, square-chested, broad-shouldered in
proportion, the very ne plus ultra of muscular development and
## p. 12477 (#535) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12477
strength; the Italian less bulky but as firmly knit, springy and
supple as a tiger, with iron nerves and sinews, ready servants of
the indomitable will betrayed in the sombre fire of his eyes. God
grant that they may never meet in anger, for theirs will be like
the meeting of two thunder-clouds!
This mutual survey did not last ten seconds; but even that
time sufficed to develop between the two a strong feeling of an-
tipathy. Lucy, woman-like, divined it, and her increasing terror
loosened her tongue. "My brother, Captain Davenne: Dr. Anto-
nio, my doctor,-papa's best friend. " The words broke the spell.
Captain Davenne bowed slightly, as did Dr. Antonio. A parting
recommendation to Lucy to keep quiet, and to go to bed early
if she did not feel better in the evening, and the doctor with-
drew.
Aubrey began kicking about in the most uproarious manner
all the chairs and arm-chairs that were in the room, every fresh
kick eliciting a fresh start from Lucy; till at last, having dis-
posed them somewhat symmetrically by the side of the sofa, he
stretched his ponderous limbs on this extempore couch, talking
loudly all the while. Lucy was thus made aware, between one
kick and the other, of the string of lucky circumstances which
had procured for her so unexpectedly the blessing of her broth-
er's company. They were briefly these: The invalid brother offi
cer, whose duties had devolved upon Aubrey, recovering more
rapidly than had been anticipated, Captain Davenne had in con-
sequence been enabled to sail by the very Indian mail the arrival
of which, without a letter from him, had caused Sir John's un-
easiness in the morning. What was the use of writing when he
should reach England at the same time as his letter? In London
he had met Tom Carnifex,- eldest son of Lord Carnifex,- who
had just received a hasty summons from his father to join him
at Florence as quickly as he could. Tom had offered Aubrey a
place in his britschka; Aubrey had accepted it, and here he was.
Of the stranger he had found in his sister's company, of the
pleasant or unpleasant impression made on him by the sight, not
a single word.
Who so surprised and happy and elated as Sir John, when on
entering the room soon after, the first thing his eyes fell upon
was his long-missed treasure, Aubrey, seated by the side of his
sister? Sir John would, had his sense of decorum permitted,
## p. 12478 (#536) ##########################################
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GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
have done foolish things. How proudly and fondly he gazed on
the "boy," as he called him! Truth to say, Aubrey's Herculean
proportions and handsome features must have excited the admi-
ration of a more impartial judge than his father. The baronet's
eager inquiries immediately brought forth a second edition of
Aubrey's statements just related; and then began between father
and son a brisk fire of queries and answers, like hammers plying
in quick succession on an anvil. No wonder they had much to
say to one another, considering their ten years' separation. They
rattled on uninterruptedly, until John Ducket's advent to lay the
cloth for dinner put an end to their effusions. Captain Davenne
complimented John on his good looks; an honor which spread
on John's grave face a grin of intense complacency. The two
gentlemen then adjourned to Sir John's own room, from whence
they were shortly after summoned forth by the announcement
that dinner was on the table. Aubrey ate and drank enough for
two; and as he ate and drank, his praises of the fare, the wines,
the situation, rendered still more impressive by sundry oaths and
tremendous peals of laughter, which made plates, glasses, decan-
ters, and the very glass door ring again, grew louder and louder.
"By-the-by, my dear boy," said the baronet, "at what inn did
Carnifex leave you? "
"At none," was the answer. "I left my portmanteau at a
kind of pot-house, where he changed horses. I say, John, you
must go there after dinner and have my portmanteau brought
here. "
"I am afraid," said Sir John, "that there is no room for
you here: it is a mere nutshell; there is not a hole to spare, I
know. "
"Never mind," retorted Aubrey: "à la guerre comme à la
guerre; I can sleep on the sofa, or on the ground, anywhere.
Here I am, and here I mean to stay; for I suppose you won't
turn me out by force. "
This being Aubrey's ultimatum, from which it was clear that
no reasons, however good, would divert him, a short consultation
ensued between Sir John and John Ducket, the upshot of which
was that John should manage to find a resting-place for him-
self where he could, and that his room should be made as com-
fortable as possible for his young master. To be of service to
Aubrey, John would have willingly slept in the fields.
## p. 12479 (#537) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12479
Dinner over, Captain Davenne, to Sir John's great amaze-
ment and consternation, lighted an enormous cigar. "First-rate
cigar," said he, puffing away: "I hope you don't dislike the smell,
Lucy; I know my father doesn't. " Lucy protested she had no
objection to it—she rather liked it than not. Now the truth
was that she could not bear it. What was it that forced from
her an assertion so little consonant with the truth? Lucy almost
unconsciously felt a sort of necessity to humor her brother.
Poor, timid, weak Lucy! How many of thy sisters have I seen,
as candid and artless as thou art, sin in a like and worse way,
to propitiate such bears as this brother of thine! For all which
sins, let us hope, not the weak, sensitive things will be called to
account some day, but the blustering, overbearing rulers in whose
violence the sins originated.
Sir John neither openly admitted nor contradicted Aubrey's
declaration as to himself: it might be he did not feel sure how
a flat denial on his part would be received, or it might be that
he chose on the first day of reunion to be indulgent. He only
prudently proposed a levée en masse to the garden, where they
would have coffee.
The usual hour for Antonio's evening call was now past, and
no Antonio had appeared. "I hope the doctor is not going to
give us the slip," said Sir John, after he had consulted his watch
two or three times. "My son's company is no good reason why
I should not have my friend's also. I wish you very much to
make his acquaintance, Aubrey: as nice a man, this Dr. Anto-
nio, as you could meet anywhere,- quite a gentleman; we are
under infinite obligations to him. " And then Sir John told his
son all over again the story of the overturn, and the Italian's
timely help, already related in sundry letters to India; and warm-
ing with the subject, the baronet went on to enlarge on all the
unremitting attention Antonio had paid to Lucy, and how ingen-
iously he had contrived to amuse her during her confinement to
the house.
The lending of books, the lectures on botany, the
lessons on the guitar, were all set forth; the catalogue winding
up with that stupendous master-stroke, the easy-chair invented
by the doctor. To all of which discourse Aubrey listened with
an attention quite edifying, and an appearance of great grati-
fication, a gratification made more evident as he watched the
pleasure the details afforded to his darling sister, on whose glow-
ing countenance the sympathizing brother's eyes rested all the
while.
-
## p. 12480 (#538) ##########################################
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GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
"I long to shake hands with this phoenix of doctors," said
Aubrey, "and apologize for my rudeness. I suppose it was he I
found here this morning? "
"Yes," said Lucy.
"What do you say," continued Aubrey, speaking to Sir John,
but looking at his sister, "to our going and laying violent hands
on this forgetful friend of yours, and dragging him captive here?
ha ha ha! "
"Ah, do! " said Lucy, with sparkling eyes, and inwardly call-
ing herself all sorts of names for having so unkindly misjudged
her brother. Sir John agreeing immediately to the proposal,
Captain Davenne lit a fresh cigar, and out they sallied. As they
passed through the garden-gate, Aubrey was seized by a violent
fit of laughing.
"What are you laughing at? " asked Sir John, perplexed.
"Why, this is such a devilish queer house-such a wrong-
sided look about it. I would give something to carry it bodily
to London, and show it at a shilling a head. I bet something no
one would credit that Sir John and Miss Davenne had lived con-
tentedly weeks in it. I verily believe Hutchins and John have
forgotten what a decent room is like. "
Sir John felt his son's words as a personal reproach. He
hung his head.
"Apropos de bottes» (Aubrey had been in love with a French
actress at Madras, and spoke French fluently, and liked to show
that he did), "the old Duke of B asked after you. "
"Very kind of him," said the baronet, his features expanding.
"How is the old gentleman ? "
"As fresh as ever," said Aubrey. "He wondered what had
become of you. Indeed, everybody does: Lady Deloraine most
of all, at whose house I met theian ambassadress, and her
daughter-in-law Lady Charlotte Tuicy, both of them full of sus-
picions about your absence, and willing to join in any conspiracy
for carrying you off by force from your mysterious hiding-place. '
"God forbid they should put their threat in execution! " said
the baronet chuckling. "But talking of carrying off, have you
heard of that pretty business of Fanny Carnifex's elope->
"Blast the cowardly Italian beggar! " yelled out Aubrey. « I
have heard all about it. "
"Are they married, at least? " asked Sir John with an effort.
«< They are; but it is a matrimonial alliance that won't last
long. Fanny will soon be a jolly widow, I can tell her. "
## p. 12481 (#539) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12481
"How do you mean? " inquired Sir John, surprised.
Aubrey stopped short, slowly raised his right arm, held it out
as if taking aim, and with a clack of his tongue, imitated the
report of a pistol. "Tom Carnifex is one of the best shots in
England, my dear sir," said he carelessly, by way of explanation.
The acting of this little scene was so splendidly natural, there
was in the look of the performer something so savage, that Sir
John could not help a shudder. However desirable it might have
once seemed to him that the offender should be made an example
of, it was no part of Sir John's programme of to-day to be pres-
ent at the execution.
Engrossed by such pleasant converse and anticipations, the
chief of the Davenne dynasty and his heir had come in sight of
Dr. Antonio's poor dwelling just as its tenant, in no very pleas
ant mood, was issuing from the door. Antonio was little pre-
pared for the present warm greeting from the surly stranger of
a few hours back, who now, shaking him heartily by the hand,
made a sort of laughing apology for having been so unceremoni
ous in the morning. Though rather taken by surprise, the Ital-
ian returned Aubrey's advances in as kindly a spirit as he could
summon on such short notice; and the three, Antonio in the
middle, walked back to the Osteria, where they found the count,
between whom and young Davenne an introduction in due form
took place. The evening passed, if not as quietly as usual, not
the less agreeably, perhaps, for being rather noisy. Captain
Davenne was in the most communicative of humors, and rattled
away famously, laughing a good deal at his own jokes and sto-
ries, drinking freely all the while of what he called lemonade; and
so it was, only with a strong infusion of old Jamaica rum. Some
of his tiger-hunting adventures, which he told with great spirit,
were listened to with thrilling interest,- Antonio translating for
the count, who had learnt about as much English as Sir John had
Italian. Lucy retired early, but not before she had seen a real
good-will and friendship springing up between her brother and
her doctor and friend. Let us hope that she slept well, poor girl.
As ten struck, Sir John and Antonio according to habit sat down
to their game of chess, which was on the baronet's part a series
of continual blunders. His thoughts were otherwise engaged.
When Lucy, about eight next morning, after her early bath
and one
or two hours of additional rest, crossed the anteroom
on her way out, she found her brother already installed on the
sofa, and yawning violently.
XXI-781
## p. 12482 (#540) ##########################################
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GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
"Where are you going? " asked Aubrey.
"To water my flowers. I have a nice little garden of my
own: come and look at it. "
Aubrey raised his long length, went, looked at it, and admired
it. The garden was not her own making, was it? Oh no! Spe-
ranza had made it; Speranza, the landlady's daughter, a very nice
girl. Dr. Antonio had given Lucy most of the plants. "Are they
not beautiful ? »
"Very," said Aubrey; adding, "Do you know, Lucy, I am quite
in love with that doctor of yours? "
"Are you? " said Lucy, looking up at him with such beaming
eyes!
"I have seldom seen a more commanding figure than his; and
he is very gentleman-like, certainly. I wish he were an English
duke. "
"Why? " said Lucy. "I assure you he is quite contented
with his lot. "
"Because if he were, young lady, you would make a hand-
some couple. " Lucy grew scarlet. "As it is," pursued Aubrey
slowly, in a clear, cruel, stern voice,-"as it is, I would rather
see you dead and buried than married to that man. "
The little watering-pot slipt out of her hand, and her knees
gave way.
"D it! " cried Aubrey, raising her from the ground, "you
needn't take fright at a mere supposition! " And without another
word he passed his powerful arm round his sister's waist, and
led her up the stairs to the sofa. This was the first and the
last time that Antonio's name was mentioned between them.
The doctor called, as was his wont, during the morning; but
instead of his usual warm recognition from Lucy he received
a silent bow. Her cheeks were dreadfully pale, her eyes red.
He inquired about her health, and got a hurried answer that
she was very well. He would have felt her pulse: there was
no need, she assured him,- she was very comfortable. When
he stooped over her shoulder to examine her drawing, she recol-
lected that she had left a brush in her room which was indis-
pensable at that moment, and got up to fetch it. There was a
constraint about poor Lucy which Antonio had never seen. His
heart contracted painfully. That Aubrey was the cause of the
sweet girl's altered looks and manner, Antonio had not the least
doubt; but how and why? Was he, Antonio, in any way con-
nected with this new state of things? To solve the mystery he
## p. 12483 (#541) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12483
would have willingly shed his blood. Oh for ten seconds alone
with her, but ten, to ask one question, receive one answer!
He loitered longer than he generally did, to take advantage of a
possible chance. In vain. There stood between him and her a
moving Chinese wall.
―――
Four days passed without the situation mending. Aubrey had
taken such a fancy to the wretched Osteria that neither the
count's pressing invitations, nor his father's exhortations to take
his horse and go and enjoy the fine scenery, could prevail upon
the colossal dragoon to leave its precincts for a moment; unless
Lucy did, which was commonly the case in the evening, when
he would put her arm under his and fondly support her steps.
All the rest of the day, from seven in the morning to eleven
at night, Aubrey would spend indoors, most of the time stretched.
at full length, smoking and indulging in his favorite beverage;
or shaking the poor inn with his ponderous strides. His most
gracious smile and heartiest squeeze of the hand was for Antonio,
to whom he had taken such a liking that for nothing in the
world would Aubrey have missed a minute of his new friend's
company. A boisterous, rather vulgar, lively, good-tempered, com-
panionable fellow, this young Davenne, easily satisfied with every-
thing and everybody, making light of the inconveniences of his
far from comfortable room down-stairs, never hinting by word or
look at any the least wish on his part to leave his present quar-
ters. His conversation with Sir John turned almost exclusively,
it is true, on London (the London, we mean, whose existence is
acknowledged by people of rank and fashion), London gayeties,
the illustrious relatives and acquaintances of the Davenne fam-
ily, or the general regret at the baronet's prolonged absence, and
so on. But nine times out of ten it was Sir John himself who
broached the subject; and then, was it not natural and proper
for a dutiful son to dwell on such topics as were palpably the
most agreeable to his father?
It
Meanwhile the healthy bloom was fading fast from Lucy's
cheek, and her head drooped like a lily deprived of sunshine.
was not enough that poor Lucy was to be weaned all at once
from the joys and benefits of the friendly intercourse which habit
had made a sweet necessity to her But she had to wear a mask,
and act a part too cruelly at variance with her feelings. Why
she was compelled to do so she scarcely knew; but a mysteri-
ous warning from within told her that only at such a cost might
something awful be averted. Her heart was full of strange
## p. 12484 (#542) ##########################################
12484
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
misgivings and fears. Aubrey's show of friendship to Antonio,
far from reassuring her, added to her uneasiness. It was clear,
even to her inexperienced eye, that all that extreme good-will was
assumed, a mere display; and being so, what could be Aubrey's
motive? And the saddened girl brooded till her head grew
giddy over the hostility of the two young men's first meeting,
the significant hint given to her on the morrow, and Aubrey's
sudden change of manner.
No pleasant early associations connected with the boy came
to counteract the painful impressions aroused by the full-grown
man. Aubrey, be it remembered, had spent his boyhood at Eton;
and of his holidays Lucy recalled little, excepting her terrors for
her doll, and for a favorite kitten it had been his delight to tor-
ment. But there was no want of clearness in her perceptions
with regard to his six-months' stay at home previous to his en-
tering the army. The almost daily quarrels between father and
son, her mother all in tears, the gloom that pervaded the family,
Aubrey's angry scowl, and something worse, in return for her
childish attempts at conciliation (she was scarcely ten years old
at the time), and the fear in which she stood of him: such were
Lucy's sole recollections, such the images and feelings linked in
her memory with that brother of hers. Intervening years had
softened, but not obliterated, these impressions; and the Aubrey
that to the day of his arrival figured in his sister's mind was
anything but the type of youthful dutifulness and affection.
What she had now seen of him brought the conviction home to
her that the man had kept the promise of the boy. Lucy from
the first had felt afraid of him. His boisterous ways and over-
bearing manners, his frequent oaths and coarse mirth, told cruelly
on her nerves, and wounded all the sympathies of her refined
nature.
-
Delicate, sensitive organizations like Lucy's have an inborn
horror of violence in any shape: it is with them a dissolving
element, something incompatible with their being, from which
they shrink as instinctively as those plants to which Miss Da-
venne had likened herself in her last conversation with Dr.
Antonio, shrink from the touch of a hand. On these grounds
alone would the pressure of Aubrey's presence have been too
much for Lucy. How incomparably more so when fancy ob-
scurely hinted at the possible bursting of that violence, of which
she stood in such awe, in a direction where much of her grateful
affection and reverence lay!
## p. 12485 (#543) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12485
On the fourth day from his son's arrival, Sir John gave a
farewell dinner, and announced to the small but select party-
the count, the mayor, Dr. Antonio, etc. —that his departure was
fixed for the day after the next. Aubrey might watch his sister
as much as he pleased, Lucy did not wince. Indeed, her misery
was such that she felt almost relieved by the announcement.
her!
So that she may but say, "Thank you, Dr. Antonio: God
bless you and your country! "- so that she may but say this to
him freely, as her heart prompts, without restraint, with no eye
upon her, Lucy will depart in peace. This thought is ever upper-
most in her mind; nay, she has no thought but this one, which
presses on her temples like a crown of thorns,— to thank and
bless him. It would look so unfeeling not to do so. This man
has been all forbearance, all gentleness, all kindness to her. What
could a friend, a brother, a father, do more than he has done for
"Bless you and your country. " She murmurs the words to
herself; she would fain write them down for him, but that they
look so cold on paper. He has no idea, she is sure, of the depth
of her gratitude, of all that she is feeling. Fool that she was,
not to have let him know when time was her own,- when no
dark cloud cast its shadow between them; on one of these bright
mornings frittered away in general conversation on the balcony;
on one of these moonlit evenings spent by the water's edge, so
near that the silvery wave came creeping lovingly to their very
feet. Oh, those sweet strolls in the garden,- those boatings on
the blue sea,- that blessed trip to Lampedusa! Oh that she
could recall one minute, only one, of that past!
Vain yearnings, vain imaginings!
Unrelenting time rolls.
on, the day is come, the very hour of departure is at hand, and
Lucy has found no opportunity of unburdening her heart. She
sits on her invalid-chair looking vacantly before her, as though
in a dream; Aubrey and Antonio stand in the balcony and dis-
cuss the English policy in India, Antonio with a very pale face
and unwonted animation of manner; Sir John paces the room,
meditating a farewell speech, casting now and then a disconso-
late glance at his daughter; Hutchins is bustling up and down,
in and out, in a state of flurry and excitement; John Ducket left
for Nice in the morning to make room for the captain in the
rumble; and poor Hutchins has been working for two.
She an-
nounces that the horses are to the carriage. "Now, Lucy," says
the baronet encouragingly. Aubrey is already at his sister's side,
## p. 12486 (#544) ##########################################
12486
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
and helps her to rise. Hutchins has noticed a small basket
hanging on Lucy's arm, and offers to carry it for her; Lucy
draws it back hurriedly, and frowns on her maid. A handful
of poor withered, almost colorless flowers, once so blue,- such is
the treasure she clings to so closely.
As Sir John and the doctor go down the steps, followed by
Aubrey and Miss Davenne, a number of persons assembled in
the garden take off their hats and caps and wave them in the
air. Sir John's tongue cleaves to his palate, and he gives up his
speech. He even thinks it prudent to proceed to the shaking of
hands in silence. Those who choose to kiss his hand - Prospero,
his younger brother, their aged mother-all are free to do so
now. Sir John offers no resistance. Meanwhile Aubrey hurries
Lucy on to the little gate where the carriage is waiting. Rosa
and Speranza, and a little in the rear, Battista, are crying like
fountains. Lucy returns half unconsciously the warm caresses
of the two women, who kiss her hands and clothes, and cling
desperately to their young benefactress, until Aubrey with an
oath jerks her into the carriage. Antonio helps the baronet in.
"Pleasant journey, Sir John; buon viaggio, signorina, take care
of yourself. " The signorina does not say a word, does not
smile, does not bow, but stares at the kind face-the kind face
that dares not even smile, alas! for it feels the evil eye resting
on it.
A clack from the postilion; a shout from the assembled
bystanders, "Buon viaggio, il signore gli accompagni; "— the pon-
derous machine rolls up the lane, and the kind face disappears.
Lucy arouses from her trance: "Papa, are we going? " and she
bursts into a passion of tears. It was like the giving way of a
dam in a river. Papa fairly gives way too, hugs the suffering
child to his bosom, and father and daughter mingle their tears.
While this passes within, Aubrey, in the rumble, lights a fresh
cigar from the one he had been smoking.
Those left behind stood on the highway watching the fast
diminishing carriage. They watched till it disappeared. Poor
Antonio was sick at heart, and would fain throw off his mask.
But no: he must listen to the idle verbiage of the count and the
mayor, who insisted on accompanying him home. He reached it
at last, threw himself upon his bed, and-man is but man after
all
wept like a child.
―――
## p. 12487 (#545) ##########################################
12487
JALĀL-AD-DİN RŪMĪ
(A. D. 1207-1273)
BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON
HE appellation Rūmī, or Syrian, is given to the Persian poet
Jalāl-ad-din because most of his life was passed at Iconium
in Rum, or Asia Minor. His full name is recorded as
Jalāl-ad-din Mohammed Rūmī; he is generally known as Jalāl-ad-din,
or "Splendor of the Faith," but it is convenient to record his name,
according to Western methods, under the simple form Rūmi.
This Persian poet may best be remembered as the founder of the
Maulavi sect of dervishes, or the whirling dervishes as they are often
called; whose austerity of life, mystic philosophy, enthusiastic devo-
tion, and religious ecstasy superinduced by the whirling dance, are
familiar to readers of Eastern literature. The writings of Jalāl-ad-dīn,
like Jāmī, Nizāmī, and others, breathe the religious spirituality of
Sufi philosophy: the world and all that is comprised therein is but
a part of God, and the universe exists only through God; the Love
Divine is all-pervading, and the rivers of life pour their waters into
the boundless ocean of the supreme soul; man must burnish the
mirror of his heart and wipe away the dross of self that blurs the
perfect image there. This is a keynote to the "Rumian's" religious
and mystic poetry.
Jalāl-ad-din Rūmi was not only himself renowned, but he inherited
renown from a noble father and from distinguished ancestors. The
blood of the old Khvarismian kings flowed in his veins. He was
born in Balkh, Bactria, A. D. 1207. The child's father was a zealous
teacher and preacher, a scholar whose learning and influence won for
him so great popularity with the people of Balkh as to arouse the
jealous opposition of the reigning Sultan. Obliged to leave his native
city, this worthy man wandered westward with his family, and ulti-
mately settled in Syria, where he founded a college under the gener-
ous patronage of the Sultan of Rūm, as Asia Minor is termed in the
Orient. He died honored with years and with favors, at a moment
when his son had recently passed into manhood.
Upon his father's death Jalāl-ad-din succeeded to the noble teach-
er's chair, and entered upon the distinguished career for which his
natural gifts and splendid training had destined him. He was already
## p. 12488 (#546) ##########################################
12488
JALAL-AD-DIN RUMI
married; and when sorrow came in the untimely death of a son, and
in the sad fate of a beloved teacher, his life seems to have taken on
a deeper tinge of sombre richness and a fuller tone of spiritual
devotion, that colors his poetry. Revered for his teaching, his purity
of life, and his poetic talents, the "Rumian's" fame soon spread, and
he became widely followed. Among many anecdotes that are told of
his upright but uneventful life is a sort of St. Patrick story, that
ascribes to him supernatural power and influence.
possible from the modern manner. The author does not fill his can-
vas with figures, and then stand off, a dispassionate observer, to see
how they look and move. He is frankly the partisan, the protector,
of his hero and heroine; and prodigal in gifts to them of beauty,
character, and charm. He crowns his Lucy with golden hair, his
Antonio with dark curls, the one the complement of the other. His
language is old-fashioned; and through his limpid sentences walk
"Lucy the fair," "Antonio the noble. » The story rests on supports
which, though firm, are slender. Lucy Davenne, a young English
girl, accompanied by her father, an insular, prejudiced, wealthy baro-
net, traveling by carriage along the Cornice road, is overturned at a
dangerous pass and seriously injured. The parish doctor of the little
town of Taggia happens to rescue her, carries her to an inn, and
afterward attends her with patience and skill through a long invalid-
ism. The romance which grows softly, sweetly, daily, before our eyes,
is revealed by no gesture, no sound. Not a whisper, even to the
reader, breaks the silence of perfect reserve, entire reticence. The
unspoken love has a larger life, and permeates the atmosphere; it is
a part of the fragrance of the flowers; it is breathed in the cool
wind, tremulous with feeling. And perfect art leaves it so,-un-
analyzed, undefined.
Long and lovely are their days in the little osteria on the olive-
crowned height, the rainbow-colored Mediterranean at their feet, and
the snow mountains piercing the northern horizon. Pleasant the
hours when they drive along the silvery tract of road that undulates
among palms and olives, from the bending coast to frowning hills,
whose outlines are veiled in mists of mother-of-pearl. But when they
wake from their day-dream, and Lucy is forced to return to England,
the reader, with Dr. Antonio, can only submit. Parental authority is
supreme in Italian eyes; and Antonio, poet and dreamer, has the
practicality of his race and station.
After the lapse of years, Lucy, now the widow of an English lord,
returns to Italy, with the unconfessed purpose of seeing Antonio
again. He has thrown himself into politics, and become an author-
ity in the Liberal party. They meet, but scarcely an hour of inter-
course is vouchsafed them; for a crisis has come in the affairs of the
country. The battle of Novara is fought and lost; and Antonio is
captured, tried, and sentenced to imprisonment for life on the gloomy
promontory which overlooks Ischia. The calamity which befalls her
lover makes of the timid Lucy a very Machiavelli. With what art the
## p. 12473 (#531) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12473
author shows the change! how prodigal of self, of money, of charm
to win her way! And finally it is done. The boat which is to res-
cue him passes under the prison walls, hands are stretched out to
save him, he has but to leap into the soft darkness of the Italian
night; but he does not come. The astonished, the indignant messen.
gers bring back to Lucy a little note, the letters formed by holes
pierced in the paper.
"There are five here besides myself: all noble fellows, the least
of them worth ten of me. I cannot desert them. You cannot save
us all; leave me to my fate. Providence has assigned me my place
among the sufferers. Perhaps our trials will be reckoned to our
country. Pray that it may be so. Pray for Italy.
Your own A-. »
God bless you.
The unuttered romance ends in failure and death. Does the sen-
timentalist protest that the real Antonio would not have submitted to
fate, or taken his country for a mistress when love failed? Antonio
was a character called out of the unordered individualities of Italian
life, and patriotism with him might well have been the absorbing
passion. And what of the vain sacrifice, the immolation to an idea,
which bound him to his chains when his duty was to love? For
Antonio there was no choice. The high resolve, the senseless, noble,
quixotic action, was but the expression of his ideal.
Ruffini was a man of one book; a dignified and interesting figure.
THE IDYL AT A CLOSE
From Dr. Antonio'
IT
IT WAS one of those hot sultry days in the month of August, so
trying to the nerves of sensitive people, and during which
Nature, as it were, herself exhausted, seems to come to a
standstill. Shooting through a thin veil of white clouds, as
through a burning-glass, the rays of the sun poured down upon
the earth volumes of heavy malignant heat. No leaf stirred,
no bird was singing; the very cicadas had suspended their shrill
chirp. The only sound that occasionally broke the ominous still-
ness was the plaintive cry of the cuckoo calling to its mate.
Lucy had tried drawing, gardening, practicing, sleeping, all
with no success; and now lay panting on a sofa. "Here you are
at last! " said she, as Dr. Antonio walked in: "I have been long-
ing for you these two hours. I feel so ill. "
"Indeed! " exclaimed Antonio, turning white: "what is the
matter with you? I met Sir John on his way to the count's not
## p. 12474 (#532) ##########################################
12474
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
an hour ago, and he never breathed a syllable about your being
unwell. "
"I said nothing about the matter to papa," answered Lucy:
"he is uneasy enough already at not having heard from Aubrey. "
"You mean your brother? "
"Yes: Aubrey was to write by the Indian mail, which we see
has arrived, and without bringing any letter from him. "
"I am very sorry for that," said Antonio. "But tell me all
about yourself. You have not been coughing, have you? "
"No, but I feel very uncomfortable: so faint—so oppressed-
so hot. "
"No wonder. Everybody suffers more or less from this
weather. Let me feel your pulse. -There is no fever. It is
this confounded sirocco that tells on your nerves. Now just lie
down again quietly," — and he arranged the pillows under her
head,- «<
Miss
and I will try to make you more comfortable.
Hutchins," he added, walking away, "will you make a glass of
strong lemonade for Miss Davenne? the juice of two lemons in
half a tumbler of water-lukewarm water, if you please. "
"Yes, sir," answered the lady's-maid, in the most mellifluous
voice at her command. Miss Hutchins, be it known, was quite
conquered: a hard conquest, but Antonio had achieved it. The
once stiff abigail now courted his notice, and prided herself in
carrying out his directions.
-
Presently Antonio reappeared, followed by Speranza, both of
them looking like Jacks-in-the-green on a May morning, or like a
bit of Birnam Wood, from the quantity of cut boughs they were
carrying. They spread them all over the floor; then, Rosa bring-
ing in a watering-pot, the doctor watered the branches several
times, saying, "This will soon cool us, provided we let in no
air from the furnace without. " He shut up the glass door, and
let down the green curtain over it so as to create a twilight.
"Do you like your lemonade? " he asked, as Lucy put down her
glass.
"Very much it is so refreshing. "
"Do you feel inclined to go to sleep? "
"No," said Lucy: "are you going? "
"Not unless you feel sleepy. You do not? Very well. Shall
I read to you? " continued Antonio, going to the book-shelves
near the piano, and coming back with a book; "shall I read you
something from your favorite poet, Giusti ? "
## p. 12475 (#533) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12475
"What a clever man you are! " said Lucy, instead of answer-
ing the question. "I feel better already. What is to become of
me when you are no long-” The rest of the phrase was lost
in a burst of tears.
Poor Antonio stood still, with the book in his hand and large
tears in his eyes,- within an ace of crying also. Fortunately
for him, something stuck in his throat at this moment and neces-
sitated his clearing it violently. Having by this means recov-
ered his voice, he said, "See how nervous you are: you weep
without the least cause, as if you were going away to-morrow.
Don't you know the Italian proverb, 'Prendi tempo e camperai'? "
His tone was that of a mother chiding her pet child. There
ensued a pause, during which Lucy by degrees recovered from
her emotion.
"Doctor," said she all at once, "do you believe in presenti-
ments? "
"Not a bit," replied Antonio briskly; "I believe in the si-
rocco. »
You are wrong, then," said Lucy gravely. "Did you not
tell me once of sensitive plants which foretold storms? Well, I
am one of them. I am sure that some misfortune is about to
happen to me. I feel it in the air. "
"You feel the treacherous south wind, that is what you feel.
A shower of rain will put your discomfort and presentiments all
to flight. "
Lucy shook her head incredulously; then said, "Will you read
to me? anything you choose. "
"Let us try 'Il Brindisi di Don Girella. ' It is so droll, it will
make you laugh;" and carrying a chair close to the glass door,
in order to profit by the little light that stole in through it, he
began reading.
We have reasons of our own for particularizing as minutely
as possible the details of this domestic scene, and the position.
with regard to each other of reader and listener. A little to the
right of the glass door, at some five or six paces from it, stood
sidewise the sofa on which Lucy was lying, her face towards the
light. She had on a white muslin gown with a blue sash; her
broad-brimmed straw hat was hanging by its blue ribbons on a
corner of the back of the sofa, just over her head. Miss Hutch-
ins, her arms crossed before her, sat at the large table in the
## p. 12476 (#534) ##########################################
12476
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
centre of the room, busily engaged in trying to swallow a series
of obstinate yawns that would not be suppressed. Opposite to
Lucy- that is, to the left of the glass door, but so close to it
that the green curtain touched his book—was seated Antonio.
Well, the reading had been going on for some time, and
more than once had the condensed vis comica of the inimitable
poet brought a faint smile on Lucy's pale face. By degrees,
however, her perception of the author's meaning became fainter
and fainter; and the rich melodious voice of the reader, soothing
her like the murmuring of a brook, lulled the sweet girl into
that state which is not yet sleep, yet neither is it waking, but a
voluptuous compound of the two. All on a sudden a heavy foot-
step is heard coming up the stairs. Lucy started up: "Who
can that be? " faltered she with a shudder. At the same instant
the glass door is flung open with a crash, a colossal figure stalks
in noisily, and "Halloa, Lucy, my girl," roars out a voice like
thunder, as the living tower stoops down to kiss the prostrate
form. "Here you are at last! Heyday! What is all this? By
Jove! with your green boughs and watering-pots you look as pas-
toral as one of the shepherdesses in a ballet. Une chaumière et
ton cœur. Ah! ah! nothing is wanting to the idyl, as they used
to say at Eton; d— it, not even the shepherd!
>>>>
"Aubrey! " cried Lucy in a tone of reproach, but could say no
more.
The oath and witty sally, we need scarcely remark, were
aimed at our friend the doctor. Antonio had received such a
violent slap from the door, when Aubrey entered, as to be nearly
felled to the ground; and in the effort to recover his balance, his
chair was upset. The new-comer turned round at the noise, saw
Antonio, and uttered the silly vapid joke about the shepherd.
The eyes of the two men met in no friendly way. Aubrey's
haughty scowl, curled lip, and somewhat aggressive demeanor,
evinced little good-will to the object of his present scrutiny.
Antonio's firm-set lips, ashy-pale countenance, and collected look
of self-defense, gave evidence of his scenting the near approach
Thus they stood, confronting each other, types of two
fine races, two such as even Greece and Rome had seldom seen
the like of the one, fair, rosy, blue-eyed; (Lucy's very eyes! )
the other, dark as a tempest: the Englishman taller by nearly a
head than his tall antagonist, square-chested, broad-shouldered in
proportion, the very ne plus ultra of muscular development and
## p. 12477 (#535) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12477
strength; the Italian less bulky but as firmly knit, springy and
supple as a tiger, with iron nerves and sinews, ready servants of
the indomitable will betrayed in the sombre fire of his eyes. God
grant that they may never meet in anger, for theirs will be like
the meeting of two thunder-clouds!
This mutual survey did not last ten seconds; but even that
time sufficed to develop between the two a strong feeling of an-
tipathy. Lucy, woman-like, divined it, and her increasing terror
loosened her tongue. "My brother, Captain Davenne: Dr. Anto-
nio, my doctor,-papa's best friend. " The words broke the spell.
Captain Davenne bowed slightly, as did Dr. Antonio. A parting
recommendation to Lucy to keep quiet, and to go to bed early
if she did not feel better in the evening, and the doctor with-
drew.
Aubrey began kicking about in the most uproarious manner
all the chairs and arm-chairs that were in the room, every fresh
kick eliciting a fresh start from Lucy; till at last, having dis-
posed them somewhat symmetrically by the side of the sofa, he
stretched his ponderous limbs on this extempore couch, talking
loudly all the while. Lucy was thus made aware, between one
kick and the other, of the string of lucky circumstances which
had procured for her so unexpectedly the blessing of her broth-
er's company. They were briefly these: The invalid brother offi
cer, whose duties had devolved upon Aubrey, recovering more
rapidly than had been anticipated, Captain Davenne had in con-
sequence been enabled to sail by the very Indian mail the arrival
of which, without a letter from him, had caused Sir John's un-
easiness in the morning. What was the use of writing when he
should reach England at the same time as his letter? In London
he had met Tom Carnifex,- eldest son of Lord Carnifex,- who
had just received a hasty summons from his father to join him
at Florence as quickly as he could. Tom had offered Aubrey a
place in his britschka; Aubrey had accepted it, and here he was.
Of the stranger he had found in his sister's company, of the
pleasant or unpleasant impression made on him by the sight, not
a single word.
Who so surprised and happy and elated as Sir John, when on
entering the room soon after, the first thing his eyes fell upon
was his long-missed treasure, Aubrey, seated by the side of his
sister? Sir John would, had his sense of decorum permitted,
## p. 12478 (#536) ##########################################
12478
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
have done foolish things. How proudly and fondly he gazed on
the "boy," as he called him! Truth to say, Aubrey's Herculean
proportions and handsome features must have excited the admi-
ration of a more impartial judge than his father. The baronet's
eager inquiries immediately brought forth a second edition of
Aubrey's statements just related; and then began between father
and son a brisk fire of queries and answers, like hammers plying
in quick succession on an anvil. No wonder they had much to
say to one another, considering their ten years' separation. They
rattled on uninterruptedly, until John Ducket's advent to lay the
cloth for dinner put an end to their effusions. Captain Davenne
complimented John on his good looks; an honor which spread
on John's grave face a grin of intense complacency. The two
gentlemen then adjourned to Sir John's own room, from whence
they were shortly after summoned forth by the announcement
that dinner was on the table. Aubrey ate and drank enough for
two; and as he ate and drank, his praises of the fare, the wines,
the situation, rendered still more impressive by sundry oaths and
tremendous peals of laughter, which made plates, glasses, decan-
ters, and the very glass door ring again, grew louder and louder.
"By-the-by, my dear boy," said the baronet, "at what inn did
Carnifex leave you? "
"At none," was the answer. "I left my portmanteau at a
kind of pot-house, where he changed horses. I say, John, you
must go there after dinner and have my portmanteau brought
here. "
"I am afraid," said Sir John, "that there is no room for
you here: it is a mere nutshell; there is not a hole to spare, I
know. "
"Never mind," retorted Aubrey: "à la guerre comme à la
guerre; I can sleep on the sofa, or on the ground, anywhere.
Here I am, and here I mean to stay; for I suppose you won't
turn me out by force. "
This being Aubrey's ultimatum, from which it was clear that
no reasons, however good, would divert him, a short consultation
ensued between Sir John and John Ducket, the upshot of which
was that John should manage to find a resting-place for him-
self where he could, and that his room should be made as com-
fortable as possible for his young master. To be of service to
Aubrey, John would have willingly slept in the fields.
## p. 12479 (#537) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12479
Dinner over, Captain Davenne, to Sir John's great amaze-
ment and consternation, lighted an enormous cigar. "First-rate
cigar," said he, puffing away: "I hope you don't dislike the smell,
Lucy; I know my father doesn't. " Lucy protested she had no
objection to it—she rather liked it than not. Now the truth
was that she could not bear it. What was it that forced from
her an assertion so little consonant with the truth? Lucy almost
unconsciously felt a sort of necessity to humor her brother.
Poor, timid, weak Lucy! How many of thy sisters have I seen,
as candid and artless as thou art, sin in a like and worse way,
to propitiate such bears as this brother of thine! For all which
sins, let us hope, not the weak, sensitive things will be called to
account some day, but the blustering, overbearing rulers in whose
violence the sins originated.
Sir John neither openly admitted nor contradicted Aubrey's
declaration as to himself: it might be he did not feel sure how
a flat denial on his part would be received, or it might be that
he chose on the first day of reunion to be indulgent. He only
prudently proposed a levée en masse to the garden, where they
would have coffee.
The usual hour for Antonio's evening call was now past, and
no Antonio had appeared. "I hope the doctor is not going to
give us the slip," said Sir John, after he had consulted his watch
two or three times. "My son's company is no good reason why
I should not have my friend's also. I wish you very much to
make his acquaintance, Aubrey: as nice a man, this Dr. Anto-
nio, as you could meet anywhere,- quite a gentleman; we are
under infinite obligations to him. " And then Sir John told his
son all over again the story of the overturn, and the Italian's
timely help, already related in sundry letters to India; and warm-
ing with the subject, the baronet went on to enlarge on all the
unremitting attention Antonio had paid to Lucy, and how ingen-
iously he had contrived to amuse her during her confinement to
the house.
The lending of books, the lectures on botany, the
lessons on the guitar, were all set forth; the catalogue winding
up with that stupendous master-stroke, the easy-chair invented
by the doctor. To all of which discourse Aubrey listened with
an attention quite edifying, and an appearance of great grati-
fication, a gratification made more evident as he watched the
pleasure the details afforded to his darling sister, on whose glow-
ing countenance the sympathizing brother's eyes rested all the
while.
-
## p. 12480 (#538) ##########################################
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GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
"I long to shake hands with this phoenix of doctors," said
Aubrey, "and apologize for my rudeness. I suppose it was he I
found here this morning? "
"Yes," said Lucy.
"What do you say," continued Aubrey, speaking to Sir John,
but looking at his sister, "to our going and laying violent hands
on this forgetful friend of yours, and dragging him captive here?
ha ha ha! "
"Ah, do! " said Lucy, with sparkling eyes, and inwardly call-
ing herself all sorts of names for having so unkindly misjudged
her brother. Sir John agreeing immediately to the proposal,
Captain Davenne lit a fresh cigar, and out they sallied. As they
passed through the garden-gate, Aubrey was seized by a violent
fit of laughing.
"What are you laughing at? " asked Sir John, perplexed.
"Why, this is such a devilish queer house-such a wrong-
sided look about it. I would give something to carry it bodily
to London, and show it at a shilling a head. I bet something no
one would credit that Sir John and Miss Davenne had lived con-
tentedly weeks in it. I verily believe Hutchins and John have
forgotten what a decent room is like. "
Sir John felt his son's words as a personal reproach. He
hung his head.
"Apropos de bottes» (Aubrey had been in love with a French
actress at Madras, and spoke French fluently, and liked to show
that he did), "the old Duke of B asked after you. "
"Very kind of him," said the baronet, his features expanding.
"How is the old gentleman ? "
"As fresh as ever," said Aubrey. "He wondered what had
become of you. Indeed, everybody does: Lady Deloraine most
of all, at whose house I met theian ambassadress, and her
daughter-in-law Lady Charlotte Tuicy, both of them full of sus-
picions about your absence, and willing to join in any conspiracy
for carrying you off by force from your mysterious hiding-place. '
"God forbid they should put their threat in execution! " said
the baronet chuckling. "But talking of carrying off, have you
heard of that pretty business of Fanny Carnifex's elope->
"Blast the cowardly Italian beggar! " yelled out Aubrey. « I
have heard all about it. "
"Are they married, at least? " asked Sir John with an effort.
«< They are; but it is a matrimonial alliance that won't last
long. Fanny will soon be a jolly widow, I can tell her. "
## p. 12481 (#539) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12481
"How do you mean? " inquired Sir John, surprised.
Aubrey stopped short, slowly raised his right arm, held it out
as if taking aim, and with a clack of his tongue, imitated the
report of a pistol. "Tom Carnifex is one of the best shots in
England, my dear sir," said he carelessly, by way of explanation.
The acting of this little scene was so splendidly natural, there
was in the look of the performer something so savage, that Sir
John could not help a shudder. However desirable it might have
once seemed to him that the offender should be made an example
of, it was no part of Sir John's programme of to-day to be pres-
ent at the execution.
Engrossed by such pleasant converse and anticipations, the
chief of the Davenne dynasty and his heir had come in sight of
Dr. Antonio's poor dwelling just as its tenant, in no very pleas
ant mood, was issuing from the door. Antonio was little pre-
pared for the present warm greeting from the surly stranger of
a few hours back, who now, shaking him heartily by the hand,
made a sort of laughing apology for having been so unceremoni
ous in the morning. Though rather taken by surprise, the Ital-
ian returned Aubrey's advances in as kindly a spirit as he could
summon on such short notice; and the three, Antonio in the
middle, walked back to the Osteria, where they found the count,
between whom and young Davenne an introduction in due form
took place. The evening passed, if not as quietly as usual, not
the less agreeably, perhaps, for being rather noisy. Captain
Davenne was in the most communicative of humors, and rattled
away famously, laughing a good deal at his own jokes and sto-
ries, drinking freely all the while of what he called lemonade; and
so it was, only with a strong infusion of old Jamaica rum. Some
of his tiger-hunting adventures, which he told with great spirit,
were listened to with thrilling interest,- Antonio translating for
the count, who had learnt about as much English as Sir John had
Italian. Lucy retired early, but not before she had seen a real
good-will and friendship springing up between her brother and
her doctor and friend. Let us hope that she slept well, poor girl.
As ten struck, Sir John and Antonio according to habit sat down
to their game of chess, which was on the baronet's part a series
of continual blunders. His thoughts were otherwise engaged.
When Lucy, about eight next morning, after her early bath
and one
or two hours of additional rest, crossed the anteroom
on her way out, she found her brother already installed on the
sofa, and yawning violently.
XXI-781
## p. 12482 (#540) ##########################################
12482
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
"Where are you going? " asked Aubrey.
"To water my flowers. I have a nice little garden of my
own: come and look at it. "
Aubrey raised his long length, went, looked at it, and admired
it. The garden was not her own making, was it? Oh no! Spe-
ranza had made it; Speranza, the landlady's daughter, a very nice
girl. Dr. Antonio had given Lucy most of the plants. "Are they
not beautiful ? »
"Very," said Aubrey; adding, "Do you know, Lucy, I am quite
in love with that doctor of yours? "
"Are you? " said Lucy, looking up at him with such beaming
eyes!
"I have seldom seen a more commanding figure than his; and
he is very gentleman-like, certainly. I wish he were an English
duke. "
"Why? " said Lucy. "I assure you he is quite contented
with his lot. "
"Because if he were, young lady, you would make a hand-
some couple. " Lucy grew scarlet. "As it is," pursued Aubrey
slowly, in a clear, cruel, stern voice,-"as it is, I would rather
see you dead and buried than married to that man. "
The little watering-pot slipt out of her hand, and her knees
gave way.
"D it! " cried Aubrey, raising her from the ground, "you
needn't take fright at a mere supposition! " And without another
word he passed his powerful arm round his sister's waist, and
led her up the stairs to the sofa. This was the first and the
last time that Antonio's name was mentioned between them.
The doctor called, as was his wont, during the morning; but
instead of his usual warm recognition from Lucy he received
a silent bow. Her cheeks were dreadfully pale, her eyes red.
He inquired about her health, and got a hurried answer that
she was very well. He would have felt her pulse: there was
no need, she assured him,- she was very comfortable. When
he stooped over her shoulder to examine her drawing, she recol-
lected that she had left a brush in her room which was indis-
pensable at that moment, and got up to fetch it. There was a
constraint about poor Lucy which Antonio had never seen. His
heart contracted painfully. That Aubrey was the cause of the
sweet girl's altered looks and manner, Antonio had not the least
doubt; but how and why? Was he, Antonio, in any way con-
nected with this new state of things? To solve the mystery he
## p. 12483 (#541) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12483
would have willingly shed his blood. Oh for ten seconds alone
with her, but ten, to ask one question, receive one answer!
He loitered longer than he generally did, to take advantage of a
possible chance. In vain. There stood between him and her a
moving Chinese wall.
―――
Four days passed without the situation mending. Aubrey had
taken such a fancy to the wretched Osteria that neither the
count's pressing invitations, nor his father's exhortations to take
his horse and go and enjoy the fine scenery, could prevail upon
the colossal dragoon to leave its precincts for a moment; unless
Lucy did, which was commonly the case in the evening, when
he would put her arm under his and fondly support her steps.
All the rest of the day, from seven in the morning to eleven
at night, Aubrey would spend indoors, most of the time stretched.
at full length, smoking and indulging in his favorite beverage;
or shaking the poor inn with his ponderous strides. His most
gracious smile and heartiest squeeze of the hand was for Antonio,
to whom he had taken such a liking that for nothing in the
world would Aubrey have missed a minute of his new friend's
company. A boisterous, rather vulgar, lively, good-tempered, com-
panionable fellow, this young Davenne, easily satisfied with every-
thing and everybody, making light of the inconveniences of his
far from comfortable room down-stairs, never hinting by word or
look at any the least wish on his part to leave his present quar-
ters. His conversation with Sir John turned almost exclusively,
it is true, on London (the London, we mean, whose existence is
acknowledged by people of rank and fashion), London gayeties,
the illustrious relatives and acquaintances of the Davenne fam-
ily, or the general regret at the baronet's prolonged absence, and
so on. But nine times out of ten it was Sir John himself who
broached the subject; and then, was it not natural and proper
for a dutiful son to dwell on such topics as were palpably the
most agreeable to his father?
It
Meanwhile the healthy bloom was fading fast from Lucy's
cheek, and her head drooped like a lily deprived of sunshine.
was not enough that poor Lucy was to be weaned all at once
from the joys and benefits of the friendly intercourse which habit
had made a sweet necessity to her But she had to wear a mask,
and act a part too cruelly at variance with her feelings. Why
she was compelled to do so she scarcely knew; but a mysteri-
ous warning from within told her that only at such a cost might
something awful be averted. Her heart was full of strange
## p. 12484 (#542) ##########################################
12484
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
misgivings and fears. Aubrey's show of friendship to Antonio,
far from reassuring her, added to her uneasiness. It was clear,
even to her inexperienced eye, that all that extreme good-will was
assumed, a mere display; and being so, what could be Aubrey's
motive? And the saddened girl brooded till her head grew
giddy over the hostility of the two young men's first meeting,
the significant hint given to her on the morrow, and Aubrey's
sudden change of manner.
No pleasant early associations connected with the boy came
to counteract the painful impressions aroused by the full-grown
man. Aubrey, be it remembered, had spent his boyhood at Eton;
and of his holidays Lucy recalled little, excepting her terrors for
her doll, and for a favorite kitten it had been his delight to tor-
ment. But there was no want of clearness in her perceptions
with regard to his six-months' stay at home previous to his en-
tering the army. The almost daily quarrels between father and
son, her mother all in tears, the gloom that pervaded the family,
Aubrey's angry scowl, and something worse, in return for her
childish attempts at conciliation (she was scarcely ten years old
at the time), and the fear in which she stood of him: such were
Lucy's sole recollections, such the images and feelings linked in
her memory with that brother of hers. Intervening years had
softened, but not obliterated, these impressions; and the Aubrey
that to the day of his arrival figured in his sister's mind was
anything but the type of youthful dutifulness and affection.
What she had now seen of him brought the conviction home to
her that the man had kept the promise of the boy. Lucy from
the first had felt afraid of him. His boisterous ways and over-
bearing manners, his frequent oaths and coarse mirth, told cruelly
on her nerves, and wounded all the sympathies of her refined
nature.
-
Delicate, sensitive organizations like Lucy's have an inborn
horror of violence in any shape: it is with them a dissolving
element, something incompatible with their being, from which
they shrink as instinctively as those plants to which Miss Da-
venne had likened herself in her last conversation with Dr.
Antonio, shrink from the touch of a hand. On these grounds
alone would the pressure of Aubrey's presence have been too
much for Lucy. How incomparably more so when fancy ob-
scurely hinted at the possible bursting of that violence, of which
she stood in such awe, in a direction where much of her grateful
affection and reverence lay!
## p. 12485 (#543) ##########################################
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
12485
On the fourth day from his son's arrival, Sir John gave a
farewell dinner, and announced to the small but select party-
the count, the mayor, Dr. Antonio, etc. —that his departure was
fixed for the day after the next. Aubrey might watch his sister
as much as he pleased, Lucy did not wince. Indeed, her misery
was such that she felt almost relieved by the announcement.
her!
So that she may but say, "Thank you, Dr. Antonio: God
bless you and your country! "- so that she may but say this to
him freely, as her heart prompts, without restraint, with no eye
upon her, Lucy will depart in peace. This thought is ever upper-
most in her mind; nay, she has no thought but this one, which
presses on her temples like a crown of thorns,— to thank and
bless him. It would look so unfeeling not to do so. This man
has been all forbearance, all gentleness, all kindness to her. What
could a friend, a brother, a father, do more than he has done for
"Bless you and your country. " She murmurs the words to
herself; she would fain write them down for him, but that they
look so cold on paper. He has no idea, she is sure, of the depth
of her gratitude, of all that she is feeling. Fool that she was,
not to have let him know when time was her own,- when no
dark cloud cast its shadow between them; on one of these bright
mornings frittered away in general conversation on the balcony;
on one of these moonlit evenings spent by the water's edge, so
near that the silvery wave came creeping lovingly to their very
feet. Oh, those sweet strolls in the garden,- those boatings on
the blue sea,- that blessed trip to Lampedusa! Oh that she
could recall one minute, only one, of that past!
Vain yearnings, vain imaginings!
Unrelenting time rolls.
on, the day is come, the very hour of departure is at hand, and
Lucy has found no opportunity of unburdening her heart. She
sits on her invalid-chair looking vacantly before her, as though
in a dream; Aubrey and Antonio stand in the balcony and dis-
cuss the English policy in India, Antonio with a very pale face
and unwonted animation of manner; Sir John paces the room,
meditating a farewell speech, casting now and then a disconso-
late glance at his daughter; Hutchins is bustling up and down,
in and out, in a state of flurry and excitement; John Ducket left
for Nice in the morning to make room for the captain in the
rumble; and poor Hutchins has been working for two.
She an-
nounces that the horses are to the carriage. "Now, Lucy," says
the baronet encouragingly. Aubrey is already at his sister's side,
## p. 12486 (#544) ##########################################
12486
GIOVANNI DOMENICO RUFFINI
and helps her to rise. Hutchins has noticed a small basket
hanging on Lucy's arm, and offers to carry it for her; Lucy
draws it back hurriedly, and frowns on her maid. A handful
of poor withered, almost colorless flowers, once so blue,- such is
the treasure she clings to so closely.
As Sir John and the doctor go down the steps, followed by
Aubrey and Miss Davenne, a number of persons assembled in
the garden take off their hats and caps and wave them in the
air. Sir John's tongue cleaves to his palate, and he gives up his
speech. He even thinks it prudent to proceed to the shaking of
hands in silence. Those who choose to kiss his hand - Prospero,
his younger brother, their aged mother-all are free to do so
now. Sir John offers no resistance. Meanwhile Aubrey hurries
Lucy on to the little gate where the carriage is waiting. Rosa
and Speranza, and a little in the rear, Battista, are crying like
fountains. Lucy returns half unconsciously the warm caresses
of the two women, who kiss her hands and clothes, and cling
desperately to their young benefactress, until Aubrey with an
oath jerks her into the carriage. Antonio helps the baronet in.
"Pleasant journey, Sir John; buon viaggio, signorina, take care
of yourself. " The signorina does not say a word, does not
smile, does not bow, but stares at the kind face-the kind face
that dares not even smile, alas! for it feels the evil eye resting
on it.
A clack from the postilion; a shout from the assembled
bystanders, "Buon viaggio, il signore gli accompagni; "— the pon-
derous machine rolls up the lane, and the kind face disappears.
Lucy arouses from her trance: "Papa, are we going? " and she
bursts into a passion of tears. It was like the giving way of a
dam in a river. Papa fairly gives way too, hugs the suffering
child to his bosom, and father and daughter mingle their tears.
While this passes within, Aubrey, in the rumble, lights a fresh
cigar from the one he had been smoking.
Those left behind stood on the highway watching the fast
diminishing carriage. They watched till it disappeared. Poor
Antonio was sick at heart, and would fain throw off his mask.
But no: he must listen to the idle verbiage of the count and the
mayor, who insisted on accompanying him home. He reached it
at last, threw himself upon his bed, and-man is but man after
all
wept like a child.
―――
## p. 12487 (#545) ##########################################
12487
JALĀL-AD-DİN RŪMĪ
(A. D. 1207-1273)
BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON
HE appellation Rūmī, or Syrian, is given to the Persian poet
Jalāl-ad-din because most of his life was passed at Iconium
in Rum, or Asia Minor. His full name is recorded as
Jalāl-ad-din Mohammed Rūmī; he is generally known as Jalāl-ad-din,
or "Splendor of the Faith," but it is convenient to record his name,
according to Western methods, under the simple form Rūmi.
This Persian poet may best be remembered as the founder of the
Maulavi sect of dervishes, or the whirling dervishes as they are often
called; whose austerity of life, mystic philosophy, enthusiastic devo-
tion, and religious ecstasy superinduced by the whirling dance, are
familiar to readers of Eastern literature. The writings of Jalāl-ad-dīn,
like Jāmī, Nizāmī, and others, breathe the religious spirituality of
Sufi philosophy: the world and all that is comprised therein is but
a part of God, and the universe exists only through God; the Love
Divine is all-pervading, and the rivers of life pour their waters into
the boundless ocean of the supreme soul; man must burnish the
mirror of his heart and wipe away the dross of self that blurs the
perfect image there. This is a keynote to the "Rumian's" religious
and mystic poetry.
Jalāl-ad-din Rūmi was not only himself renowned, but he inherited
renown from a noble father and from distinguished ancestors. The
blood of the old Khvarismian kings flowed in his veins. He was
born in Balkh, Bactria, A. D. 1207. The child's father was a zealous
teacher and preacher, a scholar whose learning and influence won for
him so great popularity with the people of Balkh as to arouse the
jealous opposition of the reigning Sultan. Obliged to leave his native
city, this worthy man wandered westward with his family, and ulti-
mately settled in Syria, where he founded a college under the gener-
ous patronage of the Sultan of Rūm, as Asia Minor is termed in the
Orient. He died honored with years and with favors, at a moment
when his son had recently passed into manhood.
Upon his father's death Jalāl-ad-din succeeded to the noble teach-
er's chair, and entered upon the distinguished career for which his
natural gifts and splendid training had destined him. He was already
## p. 12488 (#546) ##########################################
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JALAL-AD-DIN RUMI
married; and when sorrow came in the untimely death of a son, and
in the sad fate of a beloved teacher, his life seems to have taken on
a deeper tinge of sombre richness and a fuller tone of spiritual
devotion, that colors his poetry. Revered for his teaching, his purity
of life, and his poetic talents, the "Rumian's" fame soon spread, and
he became widely followed. Among many anecdotes that are told of
his upright but uneventful life is a sort of St. Patrick story, that
ascribes to him supernatural power and influence.
