Works of Ellen Wood, page 1315
Her next view of the majestic mountains, under whose shadow she was now to live, was again an early morning at sunrise. It was their last day’s journey, and as they neared the end her husband, either for business reasons or that he was growing impatient to introduce his wife to her new home, hurried onwards. Contrary to their usual custom, they had posted all night; the cushions of the carriage so arranged by a clever contrivance that the delicate young wife was able to recline in comfort, thus avoiding a fatigue she could scarcely have gone through.
As dawn broke and the sun rose, Mrs. Wood for the second time looked upon a magic world, and was filled with wonder. But the scene was no longer that unbroken chain which can only be viewed from such a height as Fourviére. Now the mountains towered about her, raising their lofty snow-crowned heads towards the clear blue skies of that southern clime, singularly clear and blue even in the early dawn and cold of winter.
The travellers were surrounded by everything in nature that was grand and gigantic. Their road fringed the very borders of the mountains, now opening out into smiling valleys, now passing into frowning defiles unspeakably magnificent. Small chalets here and there dotted the mountain sides, and fir-trees grew upon many a slope and scented the cold air with their perfume; but signs of life and habitation were few and far between. The wonderful Alps reposing in solitude seemed wrapped in impenetrable silence and mystery. Occasionally a small village would break the monotony: such picturesque villages as were then found crossing the highways of the country. With interest and anxious curiosity Mrs. Wood looked upon this new world, wondering what were the people, their ways, thoughts, customs, amongst whom she was now to live.
These village intervals attracted her more than all else; for, much as she loved the beautiful in nature, mind and sympathies were ever most with men and women. People, not places, were her study and delight; and the villages were so many signs and tokens of human life, where many a simple tragedy was played out, and many a rustic romance, if they could only be known.
The towering snow-capped mountains were flushed with the early sunlight. To our traveller the scene was almost overpowering; mile after mile a succession of surprises, the road now closing in as though forbidding farther progress, and now, by a hidden turn in the pass, opening out into valleys that in their season are warm and lovely and smiling, yielding all the beauties of nature and all the fruits of the earth.
“Is the silence always eternal, always unbroken?” she asked, somewhat anxiously; for all through life the silence and solitude so often found in nature oppressed her with a weight of sadness scarcely to be endured.
As a younger girl, when the family moved into the country for the summer, it occasionally happened that she had to be sent home again. The days would pass, and the loneliness, the weird mystery and solemnity of the trees, to which every one is not susceptible, the absence of life and movement, would so affect her that night after night sleep was banished, and to remain was impossible. She would return home with her governess; and then it was sure to happen that the father, who could never bear to be long separated from his favourite child, would ere many days return also.
These were her happiest times; when every one was away, and she had her father’s undivided care, his quiet, earnest conversation, with which she, of all, was most in touch and sympathy. They would spend hours in each other’s society; charmed hours; playing chess, reading and discussing their favourite authors, sketching together. Or her father would take up his flute, on which he discoursed sweet music, and delight her with quiet airs and melodies, of which she never tired. Soft music, old ballads and melodies, she loved, but nothing loud, such as an orchestra; and for classical music it must be confessed she never cared. The artistic temperament she possessed, but not in music. She was extremely fond of the old English ballads; of the Scotch and Irish songs, such as “Robin Adair” and “Oft in the Stilly Night,” and would listen to them year after year with true pleasure. In later years almost her favourite song was the quiet “Bridge,” set to music by Miss Lindsay. The simple melody and pathetic words appealed to her, and evening after evening she would ask one of her children to sing it, and would never grow weary; if it happened to be sung when she was not in the room, before many bars were over she was almost certain to glide in and take her accustomed seat The son in question possessed a gift for extemporising; thoughts would flow in music brilliant or sad according to the moment, but always soft and quiet. To this also she would listen for ever. “That to me is real music,” she would say; but from anything loud she always retreated. Those were indeed to all about her most emphatically les beaux jours de la vie; ended, alas, for ever. All but two of her children have followed her to the Silent Land; and the happy days and years, the delightful evenings that she filled with a nameless charm, are records of the past.
“Is the silence always eternal, always unbroken?” she asked, as she gazed upon the wonderful Alpine chain. “Shall we be always surrounded by such solitude?”
Her husband smiled. “In the mountains,” he replied, “I fear there is always more or less unbroken silence and solitude. But your home lies in a town, where you will find friends whose pleasure it will be to welcome you and make you miss as little as possible the home you have left. Many are charming, refined and cultivated.”
“The French are more quickly known than the English,” she remarked.
“They are,” he returned. “Their temperament is more sunny, and quite as constant. You will soon have occupation and amusement in abundance — occupation from early morning, when, if it pleases you to accompany your housekeeper to market, you may improve your French by talking to all the old market-women, and listening to their histories.”
“How do you endure the summer in this southern climate?” asked Mrs. Wood, always affected by intense heat with a feeling of approaching calamity. She could never shake it off, and was incapable of the least exertion.
“You know that for the summer months we have our home in the hills,” he replied. “There you will have sheltered gardens to wander in at pleasure; all the beauties of nature to charm you. It is an earthly paradise. You must fill the house with friends, who in turn will like to have you at their own homes when you care to change the scene. Night and day thousands of nightingales will pour out an unceasing flood of song; the groves echo and re-echo with them.”
“And when the song leaves the bird,” said Mrs. Wood, “what then?”
“Then music and melody must be within doors,” laughed her husband. “Our home must be the abode of harmony.”
Of harmony it ever was. The voice of anger or argument was never heard. With a nature self - contained, deeply religious, ever conscious of personal influence and responsibility, it would have been impossible. And melody her husband could always supply when other sources failed.
Both for speaking and singing he had a sweet and refined voice.
He in no way exaggerated the beauties and attractions either of their summer or winter home, towards the latter of which they were now travelling. It was reached about five o’clock in the afternoon, when twilight was already beginning to fall and clothe everything in its sense of mystery.
Then began for Mrs. Henry Wood the new life in the new home. Its first impression ought to have charmed her, and probably did so. No pains had been spared in arranging her surroundings. The house was large and spacious; not a mere “appartement,” as is so often the case in France, even with the wealthy. A large hall adorned with palms and evergreens and a wide old-fashioned staircase led up to the salons decorated with furniture of a bygone period. Exquisite flowers perfumed the rooms, and these alone must have delighted Mrs. Wood. Quaint old china stood upon the consoles and chimney-pieces, and empire clocks — less rare in those days — struck the hours on silver chimes. The artistic furniture was covered in rich amber velvet and satin. Curtains of the same colour and material draped the windows.
As good fortune would have it, from some of these windows the view was magnificent. Towering mountains with their snowcapped peaks raised their heads towards the heavens, blue and brilliant as only the skies of the South can be. Within view flowed a stately and beautiful river, here and there spanned by an ancient picturesque bridge. Surrounding them were other habitations, and in the streets all sights and sounds of life in which Mrs. Wood ever delighted: an interest which never grew less. Her heart-beats kept time and tune to the joys and sorrows of humanity as keenly when youth had passed and the time of sentiment and romance was no more as in the earlier years.
Youth is often impulsive and quixotic, but the steady purpose of later years proves character; and it is this wisdom of age which makes enduring to the end so difficult. With Mrs. Henry Wood heart and sympathies were never dulled, and youth itself refused to forsake her. The portrait which forms the frontispiece to this Memoir was taken when she was nearly seventy, but the artist declared that he could find no sign or trace of age wherewith to indicate the passing of time. Nevertheless, it is a likeness only; the colouring and expression, the life and charm of the face, could not be rendered.
CHAPTER VIII
“I know that this was Life, — the track
Whereon with equal feet we fared;
And then, as now, the day prepared
The daily burden for the back.”
DAYS passed into weeks and months and Mrs. Henry Wood grew familiar with her beautiful surroundings and became happy.
There was a great deal in her new life that could not fail to appeal to her nature. She was devoted to her husband, and his happiness seemed bound up in her. Many acquaintances became her true friends for life, as in the case of Madame de Marseine — with whom we shall presently have to do — ever her earnest and affectionate admirer until she followed her sister, Madame de St. Ange, into the land beyond the veil.
Other friends there were who did all in their power to make her life amongst them as a long and happy dream. Apparently her sojourn might continue there until old age; it seemed improbable, almost impossible, that any change could take place; there was no reason for supposing that it need ever come to an end — that the charming homes would one day pass into other hands and echo with less musical voices. It ought never to have ended, and though in a few years all was to pass away, as yet no shadow had fallen before the coming events. They were still in the future.
Friends rallied round her in those early days, and she could only be sensible of their great kindness — such kindness and charm as only the French can show — and respond to it. In a very few months her quick ear and intelligence had conquered the language, and though she never spoke it with the purity of her husband’s accent, she conversed with almost equal fluency. Thus she was soon able to play the part of sympathetic hostess to perfection, and enter into all the sparkling vivacity of her French acquaintances.
This facility in speaking greatly added to her happiness. She no longer felt as an alien in a foreign land, and grew in touch with her surroundings. As France had become the country of her adoption, she endeavoured to give it a large portion of her heart. And she succeeded. It was her home. Here children were born to her, and the heart of the young wife and mother entwined itself in the shrine of domestic ties and affection — scenes, to a truly good woman, ever sanctified by the holiest and most sacred thoughts and feelings.
Her life, her occupation, her interests were here. As yet she had not begun to write, excepting in secret and on rare occasions, and for many a long year to come she was not to publish anything to the world; but she was ever conscious of a power possessed by few, and dreamed of fame.
She had quickly identified herself with the interests of the humbler classes around her, giving sympathy and help where they were needed; finding a ready welcome everywhere; charming by the brightness of her presence and her gentle animation. The going to market her husband had alluded to in that first journey became one of her pleasures. She was enchanted with the picturesqueness of the scene; the neatness of the comely farmers’ wives and daughters; the manner in which they arranged their wares, more especially the wonderful vegetable stalls — an art peculiar to the South; the sweet scents and colours of the flower-market; and the sparkling air and sunshine which threw a magic over all.
Often she would accompany her housekeeper, another servant following with a large basket for purchases. At first she thought the housekeeper stern in bargaining with the market-women, but soon found the custom universal and necessary. Now and then she would gently remonstrate if she thought things were going too far, and the housekeeper, respectful but uncompromising, had ever the same reply: “Je suis la femme de charge de Madame, — il faut faire son devoir.”
But the day came when Mrs. Wood could talk easily to the market-women, and then great was her influence. There was nothing they would not do for her, and their best was put out of sight until they saw her approaching, when it was triumphantly brought forth with many a significant shake of the head, as if a perfect understanding existed between la belle dame and her devoted marchande.
Sometimes she would quietly summon a servant and depart alone, the housekeeper only discovering treachery when too late. Then she hastened off with as much righteous anger as she dared; perhaps to find Madame on the threshold of the market, returning homeward, amused at the housekeeper’s concerned expression as she beheld the basket of trophies. “Madame would certainly ruin everything; those things had been paid for twice over, without doubt. She must really appeal to Monsieur to exercise his influence with Madame.” Fatal argument; for, if Madame had paid in gold for her marketings where she ought to have given silver, Monsieur would have declared that his wife, like the king, could do no wrong.
Mrs. Wood’s name was a universal stumbling-block amongst the tradespeople and market-women of the town. The W was impossible and could not be conquered, and the name consequently underwent strange transformations. The most common was Oude; and to “Madame Oude” she frequently responded. With others of more imagination it was often distorted into Houdst; and even Loutre became one of her new names. The latter was coined with a sort of unconscious revenge by an old market-woman who kept a fruit stall and invariably had the best in the market. She was also the largest woman in the market, and certainly the ugliest, with an eye which had a habit of looking round the corner, whilst the other remained true to the centre. This gave her an inconceivably comical appearance, and it was impossible to look at her with the gravity due to the gentler sex.
In consequence of her unusual size, Mr. Wood had given her the name of Old Venus; and as Old Venus she soon became universally known. Sometimes a French dame, in absence of mind, would address her as Madame Venus, much to the old woman’s indignation and protest. But continual dropping will wear away a stone, and the time came when she accepted the name with a good grace. “Old Venus!” she would cry, shaking her fat sides with laughter: “Old Venus! It must be on account of my size — it can’t be for my beauty. That name comes from Monsieur Loutre, I know; no one like Monsieur Loutre pour les petites plaisanteries. C’est lui qui nous fait la pluie et le beau temps!”
Old Venus was one of Mrs. Henry Wood’s devoted slaves, and no sooner saw her approaching than she would descend from her perch, her truly ugly countenance beaming with pleasure, sunning over with smiles. Poor Venus recognised goodness and beauty, and, though the one had been denied her, there beat many a less worthy heart in the world than hers. “Bon jour, Madame Loutre,” she would exclaim, her voice gruff and deep, but unmistakably sincere. “Vous etes un rayon du soleil au marché” — a poetical compliment, though roughly spoken. “See what I have put aside, hoping Madame would pay us a visit this fine morning.” Then from some invisible recess out would come baskets of exquisite fruit, which had to be purchased in return for so much devotion.
The day came when Mrs. Wood bade farewell to these beloved scenes and they knew her no more. Sincere and universal was their mourning and lamentation for her departure, and long she dwelt in the hearts of all. Many of her friends she met again in after days, but these faithful and humble women never. Long years ago Old Venus departed this life; and on her death-bed, some years after Mrs. Wood had passed out of her sight, she said to a lady who had come to visit her in her sickness, and was acquainted with Mrs. Wood: “Ah! if my chére Madame Loutre were only in the town and could come to see me, I think I should die happy. She was the most beautiful and the best lady that ever came amongst us.”
“I will tell her what you say when I next write to her,” remarked the visitor.
“Ne manquez pas,” returned the old woman fervently. “Tell her Old Venus is no more, and that one of her last thoughts was of her chére dame, and one of her last wishes for a look at her lovely face.”
But there were other phases of the life of those days, when spring was well advanced and birds were singing. The charming face would be no more seen in the streets, and Old Venus knew it was useless to put away her best: cette bonne Madame Loutre was k la campagne. The scene changed to the mountains and one of those old-fashioned chateaux, with high slate roofs and endless rooms opening into each other, in which France delights. The grounds were beautifully laid out and surrounded by lovely groves, where in the hottest summer days it was ever cool and shady and life was full of charm. Whispering pine-trees stood out vividly against the blue sky, and the air was always clear and exhilarating; terraces and grounds were adorned with statues; and the distant views were marvellous.
They looked down upon a valley whence opened out a wide-spreading plain, in the midst of which, like a silver thread, ran the far-famed river. The gleam of the sun was often reflected upon its waters, and now and then small craft would be seen passing to and fro. In the early morning all nature far and near would frequently be clothed in a purple haze. The colours of sunrise and sunset were often gorgeous and flaming, and in these, more than anything else, Mrs. Wood delighted. The mountain summits would catch the glow of departing day, and everything would change to rose-colour or deeper red, dying out in the growing twilight.
