Indian Summer

by William Dean Howells

  XIV

  When he entered the beautiful old garden, its benison of peace fell uponhis tumult, and he began to breathe a freer air, reverting to hispurpose to be gone in the morning and resting in it, as he strolled upthe broad curve of its alley from the gate. He had not been there sincehe walked there with one now more like a ghost to him than any of thedead who had since died. It was there that she had refused him; herecalled with a grim smile the awkwardness of getting back with her tothe gate from the point, far within the garden, where he had spoken.Except that this had happened in the fall, and now it was early spring,there seemed no change since then; the long years that had elapsed werelike a winter between.

  He met people in groups and singly loitering through the paths, andchiefly speaking English; but no one spoke to him, and no one invadedthe solitude in which he walked. But the garden itself seemed to knowhim, and to give him a tacit recognition; the great, foolish grottobefore the gate, with its statues by Bandinelli, and the fantasticeffects of drapery and flesh in party-coloured statues lifted high oneither side of the avenue; the vast shoulder of wall, covered thick withivy and myrtle, which he passed on his way to the amphitheatre behindthe palace; the alternate figures and urns on their pedestals in thehemicycle, as if the urns were placed there to receive the ashes of thefigures when they became extinct; the white statues or the colossalbusts set at the ends of the long alleys against black curtains offoliage; the big fountain, with its group in the centre of the littlelake, and the meadow, quiet and sad, that stretched away on one sidefrom this; the keen light under the levels of the dense pines andilexes; the paths striking straight on either hand from the avenuethrough which he sauntered, and the walk that coiled itself through thedepths of the plantations; all knew him, and from them and from thewinter neglect which was upon the place distilled a subtle influence, acharm, an appeal belonging to that combination of artifice and naturewhich is perfect only in an Italian garden under an Italian sky. He wasright in the name which he mockingly gave the effect before he felt it;it was a debauch, delicate, refined, of unserious pensiveness, a smilingmelancholy, in which he walked emancipated from his harassing hopes, andkeeping only his shadowy regrets.

  Colville did not care to scale the easy height from which you have themagnificent view, conscious of many photographs, of Florence. Hewandered about the skirts of that silent meadow, and seeing himselfunseen, he invaded its borders far enough to pluck one of those largescarlet anemones, such as he had given his gentle enemy. It was tiltingthere in the breeze above the unkempt grass, and the grass was beginningto feel the spring, and to stir and stretch itself after its wintersleep; it was sprinkled with violets, but these he did not molest. Hecame back to a stained and mossy stone bench on the avenue, fronting apair of rustic youths carved in stone, who had not yet finished somegame in which he remembered seeing them engaged when he was therebefore. He had not walked fast, but he had walked far, and was warmenough to like the whiffs of soft wind on his uncovered head. The springwas coming; that was its breath, which you know unmistakably in Italyafter all the kisses that winter gives. Some birds were singing in thetrees; down an alley into which he could look, between the high walls ofgreen, he could see two people in flirtation: he waited patiently tillthe young man should put his arm round the girl's waist, for thefleeting embrace from which she pushed it and fled further down thepath.

  "Yes, it's spring," thought Colville; and then, with the selfishness ofthe troubled soul, he wished that it might be winter still andindefinitely. It occurred to him now that he should not go back to DesVaches, for he did not know what he should do there. He would go to NewYork: though he did not know what he should do in New York, either.

  He became tired of looking at the people who passed, and of speculatingabout them through the second consciousness which enveloped the sadsubstance of his misgivings like an atmosphere; and he let his eyelidsfall, as he leaned his head back against the tree behind his bench. Thentheir voices pursued him through the twilight that he had made himself,and forced him to the same weary conjecture as if he had seen theirfaces. He heard gay laughter, and laughter that affected gaiety; thetones of young men in earnest disquisition reached him through the veil,and the talk, falling to whisper, of girls, with the names of men in it;sums of money, a hundred francs, forty thousand francs, came in hightones; a husband and wife went by quarrelling in the false security ofEnglish, and snapping at each other as confidingly as if in thesanctuary of home. The man bade the woman not be a fool, and she askedhim how she was to endure his company if she was not a fool.

  Colville opened his eyes to look after them, when a voice that he knewcalled out, "Why, it is Mr. Colville!"

  It was Mrs. Amsden, and pausing with her, as if they had passed him indoubt, and arrested themselves when they had got a little way by, wereEffie Bowen and Imogene Graham. The old lady had the child by the hand,and the girl stood a few paces apart from them. She was one of thosebeauties who have the property of looking very plain at times, andColville, who had seen her in more than one transformation, now beheldher somehow clumsy of feature, and with the youth gone from her aspect.She seemed a woman of thirty, and she wore an unbecoming walking dressof a fashion that contributed to this effect of age. Colville was awareafterward of having wished that she was really as old and plain as shelooked.

  He had to come forward, and put on the conventional delight of agentleman meeting lady friends.

  "It's remarkable how your having your eyes shut estranged you," saidMrs. Amsden. "Now, if you had let me see you oftener in church, wherepeople close their eyes a good deal for one purpose or another, I shouldhave known you at once."

  "I hope you haven't lost a great deal of time, as it is, Mrs. Amsden,"said Colville. "Of course I should have had my eyes open if I had knownyou were going by."

  "Oh, don't apologise!" cried the old thing, with ready enjoyment of histone.

  "I don't apologise for not being recognisable; I apologise for beingvisible," said Colville, with some shapeless impression that he ought toexcuse his continued presence in Florence to Imogene, but keeping hiseyes upon Mrs. Amsden, to whom what he said could not be intelligible."I ought to be in Turin to-day."

  "In Turin! Are you going away from Florence?"

  "I'm going home."

  "Why, did _you_ know that?" asked the old lady of Imogene, who slightlynodded, and then of Effie, who also assented. "Really, the silence ofthe Bowen family in regard to the affairs of others is extraordinary.There never was a family more eminently qualified to live in Florence. Idare say that if I saw a little more of them, I might hope to reach theyears of discretion myself some day. _Why_ are you going away? (You seeI haven't reached them yet!) Are you tired of Florence already?"

  "No," said Colville passively; "Florence is tired of me."

  "You're quite sure?"

  "Yes; there's no mistaking one of her sex on such a point."

  Mrs. Amsden laughed. "Ah, a great many people mistake us, both ways. Andyou're really going back to America. What in the world for?"

  "I haven't the least idea."

  "Is America fonder of you than Florence?"

  "She's never told her love. I suspect it's merely that she's more usedto me."

  They were walking, without any volition of his, down the slope of thebroad avenue to the fountain, where he had already been.

  "Is your mother well?" he asked of the little girl. It seemed to himthat he had better not speak to Imogene, who still kept that littledistance from the rest, and get away as soon as he decently could.

  "She has a headache," said Effie.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," returned Colville.

  "Yes, she deputed me to take her young people out for an airing," saidMrs. Amsden; "and Miss Graham decided us for the Boboli, where shehadn't been yet. I've done what I could to make the place attractive.But what is an old woman to do for a girl in a garden? We ought to havebrought some other young people--some of the Inglehart boys. But we'rerespectable, we Americans abroad; we'r
e decorous, above all things; andI don't know about meeting _you_ here, Mr. Colville. It has a very badappearance. Are you sure that you didn't know I was to go by here atexactly half-past four?"

  "I was living from breath to breath in the expectation of seeing you.You must have noticed how eagerly I was looking out for you."

  "Yes, and with a single red anemone in your hand, so that I should knowyou without being obliged to put on my spectacles."

  "You divine everything, Mrs. Amsden," he said, giving her the flower.

  "I shall make my brags to Mrs. Bowen when I see her," said the old lady."How far into the country did you walk for this?"

  "As far as the meadow yonder."

  They had got down to the sheet of water from which the sea-horses of thefountain sprang, and the old lady sank upon a bench near it. Colvilleheld out his hand toward Effie. "I saw a lot of violets over there inthe grass."

  "Did you?" She put her hand eagerly into his, and they strolled offtogether. After a first motion to accompany them, Imogene sat downbeside Mrs. Amsden, answering quietly the talk of the old lady, andseeming in nowise concerned about the expedition for violets. Except fora dull first glance, she did not look that way. Colville stood in theborder of the grass, and the child ran quickly hither and thither in it,stooping from time to time upon the flowers. Then she came out to wherehe stood, and showed her bunch of violets, looking up into the facewhich he bent upon her, while he trifled with his cane. He had a veryfatherly air with her.

  "I think I'll go and see what they've found," said Imogene irrelevantly,to a remark of Mrs. Amsden's about the expensiveness of Madame Bossi'sbonnets.

  "Well," said the old lady. Imogene started, and the little girl ran tomeet her. She detained Effie with her admiration of the violets tillColville lounged reluctantly up. "Go and show them to Mrs. Amsden," shesaid, giving back the violets, which she had been smelling. The childran on. "Mr. Colville, I want to speak with you."

  "Yes," said Colville helplessly.

  "Why are you going away?"

  "Why? Oh, I've accomplished the objects--or no-objects--I came for," hesaid, with dreary triviality, "and I must hurry away to other fields ofactivity." He kept his eyes on her face, which he saw full of apassionate intensity, working to some sort of overflow.

  "That is not true, and you needn't say it to spare me. You are goingaway because Mrs. Bowen said something to you about me."

  "Not quite that," returned Colville gently.

  "No; it was something that she said to me about you. But it's the samething. It makes no difference. I ask you not to go for that."

  "Do you know what you are saying, Imogene?"

  "Yes."

  Colville waited a long moment. "Then, I thank you, you dear girl, and Iam going to-morrow, all the same. But I shan't forget this; whatever mylife is to be, this will make it less unworthy and less unhappy. If itcould buy anything to give you joy, to add some little grace to the goodthat must come to you, I would give it. Some day you'll meet the youngfellow whom you're to make immortal, and you must tell him of an oldfellow who knew you afar off, and understood how to worship you for anangel of pity and unselfishness. Ah, I hope he'll understand, too!Good-bye." If he was to fly, that was the sole instant. He took herhand, and said again, "Good-bye." And then he suddenly cried, "Imogene,do you wish me to stay?"

  "Yes!" said the girl, pouring all the intensity of her face into thatwhisper.

  "Even if there had been nothing said to make me go away--should youstill wish me to stay?"

  "Yes."

  He looked her in the starry, lucid eyes, where a divine fervourdeepened. He sighed in nerveless perplexity; it was she who had thecourage.

  "It's a mistake! You mustn't! I am too old for you! It would be a wrongand a cruelty! Yes, you must let me go, and forget me. I have been toblame. If Mrs. Bowen has blamed me, she was right--I deserved it; Ideserved all she could say against me."

  "She never said anything against you. Do you think I would have let her?No; it was I that said it, and I blamed you. It was because I thoughtthat you were--you were--"

  "Trifling with you? How could you think that?"

  "Yes, I know now how it was, and it makes you seem all the grander tome. Did you think I cared for your being older than I was? I never caredfor it--I never hardly thought of it after the very first. I tried tomake you understand that, and how it hurt me to have you speak of it.Don't you think that I could see how good you were? Do you suppose thatall I want is to be happy? I don't care for that--I despise it, and Ialways hate myself for seeking my own pleasure, if I find myself doingit. I have seen enough of life to know what _that_ comes to! And whathurt me worst of all was that you seemed to believe that I cared fornothing but amusing myself, when I wished to be something better,higher! It's nothing whether you are of my age or not, if--if--you carefor me."

  "Imogene!"

  "All that I ask is to be with you, and try to make you forget what'sbeen sad in your life, and try to be of use to you in whatever you aredoing, and I shall be prouder and gladder of that than anything thatpeople _call_ happiness."

  Colville stood holding her hand, while she uttered these ideas andincoherent repetitions of them, with a deep sense of powerlessness. "IfI believed that I could keep you from regretting this--"

  "What should I regret? I won't let you depreciate yourself--makeyourself out not good enough for the best. Oh, I know how it happened!But now you shall never think of it again. No; I will not let you. Thatis the only way you could make me regret anything."

  "I am going to stay," said Colville. "But on my own terms. I will bebound to you, but you shall not be bound to me."

  "You doubt me! I would rather have you go! No; stay. And let me prove toyou how wrong you are. I mustn't ask more than that. Only give me thechance to show you how different I am from what you think--how differentyou are, too."

  "Yes. But you must be free."

  "Well."

  "What are they doing so long there?" asked Mrs. Amsden of Effie, puttingher glasses to her eyes. "I can't see."

  "They are just holding hands," said the child, with an easy satisfactionin the explanation, which perhaps the old lady did not share. "He alwaysholds my hand when he is with me."

  "Does he, indeed?" exclaimed Mrs. Amsden, with a cackle. She added,"That's very polite of him, isn't it? You must be a great favourite withMr. Colville. You will miss him when he's gone."

  "Yes. He's very nice."

  Colville and Imogene returned, coming slowly across the loose, neglectedgrass toward the old woman's seat. She rose as they came up.

  "You don't seem to have succeeded so well in getting flowers for MissGraham as for the other ladies. But perhaps you didn't find herfavourite over there. What is your favourite flower, Miss Graham? Don'tsay you have none! I didn't know that I preferred scarlet anemones. Werethere no forget-me-nots over there in the grass?"

  "There was no occasion for them," answered Colville.

  "You always did make such pretty speeches!" said the old lady. "And theyhave such an orphic character, too; you can interpret them in so manydifferent ways. Should you mind saying just what you meant by that one?"

  "Yes, very much," replied Colville.

  The old lady laughed with cheerful resignation. She would as lief reportthat reply of his as another. Even more than a man whom she couldentangle in his speech she liked a man who could slip through the toilswith unfailing ease. Her talk with such a man was the last consolationwhich remained to her from a life of harmless coquetries.

  "I will refer it to Mrs. Bowen," she said. "She is a very wise woman,and she used to know you a great while ago."

  "If you like, I will do it for you, Mrs. Amsden. I'm going to see her."

  "To renew your adieux? Well, why not? Parting is such sweet sorrow! Andif I were a young man I would go to say good-bye to Mrs. Bowen as oftenas she would let me. Now tell me honestly, Mr. Colville, did you eversee such an exquisite, perfect _creature_?"

  "Oh, that's as
king a good deal."

  "What?"

  "To tell you a thing honestly. How did you come here, Mrs. Amsden?"

  "In Mrs. Bowen's carriage. I sent it round from the Pitti entrance tothe Porta Romana. It's waiting there now, I suppose."

  "I thought you had been corrupted, somehow. Your zeal iscarriage-bought. It _is_ a delightful vehicle. Do you think you couldgive me a lift home in it?"

  "Yes, indeed. I've always a seat for you in my carriage. To Hoteld'Atene?"

  "No, to Palazzo Pinti."

  "This is deliciously mysterious," said Mrs. Amsden, drawing her shawl upabout her shoulders, which, if no longer rounded, had still a charmingdroop. One realises in looking at such old ladies that there are womenwho could manage their own skeletons winningly. She put up her glasses,which were an old-fashioned sort, held to the nose by a handle, andperused the different persons of the group. "Mr. Colville concealing aninward trepidation under a bold front; Miss Graham agitated but firm;the child as much puzzled as the old woman. I feel that we are a veryinteresting group--almost dramatic."

  "Oh, call us a passage from a modern novel," suggested Colville, "ifyou're in the romantic mood. One of Mr. James's."

  "Don't you think we ought to be rather more of the great world for that?I hardly feel up to Mr. James. I should have said Howells. Only nothinghappens in that case!"

  "Oh, very well; that's the most comfortable way. If it's only Howells,there's no reason why I shouldn't go with Miss Graham to show her theview of Florence from the cypress grove up yonder."

  "No; he's very particular when he's on Italian ground," said Mrs.Amsden, rising. "You must come another time with Miss Graham, and bringMrs. Bowen. It's quite time we were going home."

  The light under the limbs of the trees had begun to grow more liquid.The currents of warm breeze streaming through the cooler body of the airhad ceased to ruffle the lakelet round the fountain, and the naiads rodetheir sea-horses through a perfect calm. A damp, pierced with the freshodour of the water and of the springing grass, descended upon them. Thesaunterers through the different paths and alleys were issuing upon themain avenues, and tending in gathering force toward the gate.

  They found Mrs. Bowen's carriage there, and drove first to her house,beyond which Mrs. Amsden lived in a direct line. On the way Colvillekept up with her the bantering talk that they always carried ontogether, and found in it a respite from the formless future pressingclose upon him. He sat with Effie on the front seat, and he would notlook at Imogene's face, which, nevertheless, was present to some innervision. When the porter opened the iron gate below and rang Mrs. Bowen'sbell, and Effie sprang up the stairs before them to give her mother thenews of Mr. Colville's coming, the girl stole her hand into his.

  "Shall you--tell her?"

  "Of course. She must know without an instant's delay."

  "Yes, yes; that is right. Oh!--Shall I go with you?"

  "Yes; come!"