Maiden Voyages

by Mary Morris

  Nothing daunted, the comical youth returned to the charge; “Signorina,” he began somewhat plaintively, “I would so much like to see your butterflies.”

  I gave my consent and said he might see them tomorrow, as they looked prettier in the day time. This was a poser, for a moment, and then he persisted in saying that to him they would look prettier at night. And then I followed the idea, he evidently conjectured that to see my butterflies would entail a visit to my bedroom, but as I did not intend to have my virgin room invaded by him or anybody else, I said, “Very well, so you shall see them, and if you and your friend like to go and wait in the Salon, I will bring them down and show them to you.” This was one too many for him; he was quite disconcerted at last. I wished them both goodnight just inside the hotel, and never again did I set eyes on the comical youth and his companions.

  The tall Italian, with the dark beard, was more attentive than ever the next day, begging hard that I would not decide to leave for Syracuse, so soon as the following Saturday. But I was obdurate. The more he wished me to stay, the more for that very reason alone, if for no other, did I intend to go. However, when he took it almost as a matter of course that I should go out with him that evening, I raised no objections, and the next day we spent the long afternoon in the Villa Belmonte, a wild, rambling garden, half cultivated, half left to run to ruin. It came on to rain, a soft, warm saturating rain, which made me feel I was in England, as I heard the rain-drops dripping on the leaves, and smelt the sweet scent. But he never forced himself upon me as others might have done, through those long hours we spent alone together, for he was a high-bred gentleman, though I did not then know that he was a baron.

  [Next morning, despite the Baron’s pleas, Miss Fountaine left Palermo for Girgenti (“the ruined temples are very famous but I do not care for antiquities”), Syracuse (“a flat uninteresting place”) and Taormina (“I was half wishing myself back in Palermo—ah, where would the men be if it wasn’t for the vanity of women?”). There she set out, with Pancrazio, the son of the hotel keeper, as a guide.]

  We had not gone very far on our way before he began to tell me how, from the first moment he had seen me, he had thought that I was “si jolie, si blanche.” He had never seen anyone “si blanche” before, and so on. I must do him the justice to say that his eloquence, especially in a language that was not his own, quite astonished me. He told me how each time he had seen me, he had found that I was “encore plus jolie qu’il avait pensé,” and how he had become more and more “amoureux” in consequence. I said I was sure that in a few days he would begin to feel much better, and though he insisted his feelings would be unchanged “always, always,” I laughed, refusing to believe he meant what he was saying.

  All this time we were slowly wending our way up Monte Venere. No wonder these southern natures are quick and passionate when every scene around them is such sensuous loveliness! A world of blue and tideless seas, and gleaming, sunny shores—blue the atmosphere, blue the glittering sea far below, blue the distant mountains on the shores of Italy, and I laughed from sheer delight at the scene beneath my feet. Not so my companion; miserable and dejected, he saw not the loveliness around us, his dark eyes fixed their gaze upon me! We had now nearly reached the summit of the mountain, I had a fall, and cut my knee—a punishment, my companion said it was, for having been so unkind to him. So I sat down to rest on some rocks, while he sat at my feet, and we sighed in unison, for in truth I now pitied him—he was still telling me the same story that man has told to woman since creation, pleading in accents that were almost irresistible, but what was I to do? I could not so lower myself as to allow the son of an hotel proprietor to kiss me!

  I was glad enough when this conversation was interrupted by two men approaching, and one of them, apparently a German tourist, raising his hat, began speaking to me in English (he probably recognized me by my butterfly net), saying he was the bearer of a message to me from an Italian gentleman with a dark beard at Palermo, evidently the Baron, and even at that moment, I felt gratified to find that he had not yet forgotten me.

  In the meantime the morning had clouded over, and soon heavy rain began to fall; my red sunshade was utterly useless against such a torrent and we both soon became drenched to the skin. At last we reached a cottage, and I was given into the charge of a peasant woman, who lighted a stove of hot ashes, and having taken off some of my things to dry them, lent me one of her own dresses to wear in the meantime. Then Pancrazio came in, and I sat warming and drying myself over the stove, chatting with the peasants, and rather enjoying the novelty of the situation. My companion had no thought except for me, and that his own jacket had never been dried at all he didn’t even seem to notice. Before leaving we each wrote something in a sort of visitors’ book (for this cottage was evidently a constant refuge for strangers), and Pancrazio said that by and by when I should have gone away from Taormina, he would come up here alone and read over and over again what we had written together. But I need hardly say that I made no more expeditions with Pancrazio as my companion.

  At Messina the Crinacria was a large commercial hotel, full of nothing but men as usual, and though I had really tried to be as unnoticeable as the circumstances would admit of, I soon knew well enough that I was noticed, very appreciably too, by more than one of them. I found myself at dinner sitting next a newcomer, who was certainly possessed of a person to advantage, and who was not troubled with bashfulness or reserve. He spoke French with great fluency, so we talked and laughed together all dinner time (much to the apparent chagrin of a gentleman opposite who himself had cast admiring glances at me but had never yet spoken), so that I forgot all my resolutions of being more reserved, and when he suggested that we should go out for a stroll after dinner, I readily assented. As it was Sunday the band was playing in the Piazza Municipale, and I felt proud of the man on whose arm I leant, for he was tall and well-favoured, with an audacity which in a man never fails to inveigle itself into the good graces of a woman. I readily received his compliments and pretty speeches, yet I felt an inward misgiving, for I knew well enough what this was leading up to, nor was it long in coming.

  When I returned to the hotel, what was I going to do, he asked, looking hard into my face. I pretended not to notice. “I believe I am going to bed right away,” I replied—an answer he seemed well satisfied with. After a moment’s pause, however, he went on to say: “And I—what am I going to do?” To which I promptly answered, laughing, that he must do as he pleased. This put him off his stroke for a minute, but he soon began again, this time going straight to the point. He hoped that we could complete our relationship, and that I would permit him to come to my room. I felt subdued and rather unhappy as I answered that I didn’t do that sort of thing. Had I never tried it, he asked, apparently with some surprise. “Then you’ll have to try tonight with me!” But I only repeated as before “Je ne fais pas ça” and hoped that this would end the matter.

  We now left the brilliantly lighted Piazza, walking up a street, and then down on to the Marina. What a night it was, the vast infinite heavens above us studded with myriads of worlds. What more was he asking than what was justly due to the nature God had given him?

  My hand trembled in his grasp, and yet I would not have had him loosen it for one moment. But he never knew as I gazed out over the gleaming waters, towards the dark Calabrian mountains, so cold and impassive as I stood beside him, so decidedly had I declined to go out with him in a boat, or drive in a carriage—he never knew how nearly he had conquered.

  We shook hands, and wished each other goodnight just inside the Hotel, I purposely wishing the porters etc. to see that our relation ended there. But had it ended there?

  I thought so, but evidently he thought differently. I had been upstairs in my room about half an hour, and was in my nightgown, almost ready to get into bed, when I distinctly heard a knock at the door. I took no notice, but soon another knock came, and then someone spoke in a loud whisper, his voice trembling, I suppose wi
th excitement. I thought of the prayer I had said with my Mother far away in England on the eve of my departure. What would her feelings be if she could see me now? At last he said, “Mile, is your door closed?”

  “Yes,” I said in a stern voice. He tried it, and the lock was none so secure either. When he asked again, “Mile are you going to open the door?” I replied shortly that I wasn’t, and that when he was tired he could go. Soon afterwards I heard his retreating footsteps.

  The day after this I was sitting in a small public garden near the Crinacria when I saw my companion of last night coming towards me. He addressed me just as though nothing had happened. I vouchsafed no reply whatever. He asked if I were angry with him, and began all sorts of explanations. My momentary anger had quite melted away and had he but known it I was smiling in spite of myself under my sunshade. Having received a reply in the affirmative to his question if I found his society but little agreeable, he walked off. The moment he was gone I could not help feeling sorry I had sent him so abruptly away.

  However, there was the dinner that evening at the hotel, when I supposed I should again sit next him—rather embarrassing too that would be, after what had just passed. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and the gentleman opposite looked relieved, as well as somewhat surprised, when he saw me come in and take my place without a single sign of recognition passing between me and the man with whom only the previous evening I had been so intimate. But his joy was of short duration: in a large mirror opposite I and my friend on the left could see each other quite plainly all the time, and though I managed successfully to withstand the close scrutiny he would occasionally turn round and bestow upon me, the effect of us peeping at each other through the mirror upset my gravity at last, I relaxed into a smile, and he saw his advantage in a moment. He had not gained quite so much as he chose to fancy, for I declined to go out with him again that evening, but peace was proclaimed, and our poor vis-à-vis discomforted.

  When I retired, on the landing at the foot of the last flight of stairs leading up to my room I saw in the dim light a tall figure waiting. I would have passed him by, but he detained me to entreat me again to come out with him, if only for five minutes.

  I was quite infatuated by this man, and I might never have such a lover as he was again, but I was obdurate. “Well, you are a woman of spirit. Come with me again this evening, only for a little while,” he said. He asked if I was annoyed because he had come to my room last night, and I said I was. “But you said yourself that I could come,” he replied and he repeated my very words: “You can come if you like but you will find the door locked,” which alas was true enough, so he had me there, but I still persisted, saying I was really too tired.

  And so I left him, angry enough, I dare say. Perhaps if I had not known that this man was not really the least in love with me I might have yielded to him; as it was, a certain pride made me still determined to snub him all I could. So when I passed him by, just inside the hotel the next morning, I only just acknowledged his salutation, hurrying past with a shrug of the shoulders, pretending not to see that he advanced to speak with me. I doubt if being snubbed like this before the porters added to the charm of it, and I never saw him again, though sometimes I found myself wishing he would come back.…

  Before I came to Sicily, I had through the kindness of Uncle Lawes received letters of introduction from an Italian in London, through which I had already made the acquaintance of Signor Vitale (a coleopterist), who one day brought to see me a young Italian, who it seemed was prepared to be my knight in attendance on all occasions. Many, many happy hours we spent together, roving over the hills round Messina, beneath a glorious sky, with the same pursuit in view, for he, like me, had “una vera passione per le farfalle,” and indeed the very butterflies themselves were not more light-hearted than we. Almost like two children together, I and this dark-eyed youth would chase the glorious Charaxes Iasius, which occurred quite commonly on the arbutus-covered slopes of Gravitelli, quarrelling and disputing sometimes in hot discussions, while the music of the beautiful language in which we always conversed would add power and grace to our words. Then we would sit down and eat our luncheon beneath the shade of an olive tree, and it would seem as though the whole of nature’s world, the flowers, the sunshine and the butterflies, were only made and created for us two, as we sat or lounged. And though it is a very pleasant thing to have a lover, and consequently a somewhat unpleasant thing to have lost one, I soon began to find that a good long day out butterflying with Signor Amenta, making several good catches, went a good way towards healing the wound. A regular “butterfly companion,” ready to comply with my every whim and to give me all he caught, was not an advantage to be met with every day. True, if I went back to Palermo I should spend my time mooning about with the Baron, but Amenta was young and rather good-looking, while the Baron, in my opinion, was neither though I knew many people (especially mammas) would consider him to be both. Then again Amenta shared my passion for butterflies, against which the Baron talked English really remarkably well; and last, but by no means least, the Baron was in love with me, while I had not the smallest reason to suppose otherwise than that if I and Amenta were the only two people left in the world the race of mankind would die out. And yet we were as happy together as the day was long.

  During these years of travel, there are amongst the rest places I love to dream of, and surely Monte Ciccia will rank with these. The way was long, the broad, dry river-bed with its burning hot sands often made me foot-sore, and the ascent up the rocky side of the mountain was steep and arduous, but a breeze fresh from the ocean would fan our heated brows the moment we gained the summit. And then, too, such a world of flowers and butterflies into which we presently descended on the other side! Tall orange marigolds grew in rank profusion beneath the slender shades of the umbrella pines, while the hot winds would murmur through their branches, and far, far below lay the blue straits of Messina, and in a mist of heat the Calabrian mountains shimmered and glowed. And Pandora, the Argynnis of southern shores, thronged the flowers of the marigolds, or swept in their regal grace over the ferns and rich vegetation. And by and by we would descend by another way to which we had come up, hot and thirsty with our day’s chase, and longing to reach the spot where we would stop and drink from a mountain spring.

  There was another Argynnis too on Monte Ciccia besides Pandora, which neither of us seemed to know for certain, Amenta stating that it was A. Addipe, var. Cleodoxa (which I knew it was not), while he declared it could not be A. Niobe, var. Eris, as that did not occur in Sicily. So it remained a disputed point between us, and in fact it was the capture of this insect that made me resolve I would go back to Palermo for a few days at least, and show it to Ragusa.

  So I left Messina, and said goodbye to Amenta. The day before we had not gone out butterflying, but he came in during the afternoon for music, for which he had quite a genius, and more than once on our “off” butterfly days, he had come to play to me and accompany me in some of my songs. That day he said he was not well, and complained of a pain in his head, which I was not altogether surprised at, as he always persisted in wearing a black, felt hat out butterflying, in spite of all I could say in favour of a broad brimmed straw. And now he was telling me that perhaps he would die, and no one would care if he did! I suggested his parents were likely to feel some regrets at his demise, for really I was perfectly unaware of the sentiments which were prompting him to speak like this.

  Next day I found myself back at Palermo. The Baron met me on the stairs as I came in, and I could not feel otherwise than flattered by the warm welcome he gave me, but my business here was with Ragusa, and I lost no time in taking him a specimen of “our butterfly.” He looked at it with great interest, said in any case it was new for Sicily, and finally decided to send off the example I had brought with me to a German entomologist of his acquaintance. I even feebly hoped that my dream would be realised of discovering a new kind of butterfly, which should be called t
he “Hurleyensis” (after Hurley); but that this discovery should be one of the larger members of the genus Argynnis seemed too good to be true.

  GERTRUDE BELL

  (1868–1926)

  When Vita Sackville-West dropped in on the leading English scholar and expert on Middle East affairs in Baghdad, Gertrude Bell was asked if she would like to have tea with King Faisal. With a saluki at her feet, Bell talked to Sackville-West of world affairs, gardening, and the heat. Few women—or men—of the time had explored so thoroughly the diverse landscapes of Syria (from which the following excerpt is drawn), Iraq along the Euphrates River, Turkey, and Assyria. In 1914, she traveled into the heart of the Arabian desert. An intrepid observer of cultures, Bell became an inspiration to travelers interested in desert peoples. She was named political adviser to King Faisal of Iraq, a job she told Sackville-West about with zest that afternoon in Baghdad before they strolled to the palace for more tea and cake with the King.

  from THE DESERT AND THE SOWN

  There could scarcely have been a better example of the freedom with which the Druzes control their own affairs than was offered by an incident that took place on the very evening of my arrival. It has already been intimated on the authority of Fendi that the relations between the Mountain and the Desert were fraught with the usual possibilities of martial incident, and we had not spent an afternoon in Salkhad without discovering that the great raid that had occurred some months previously was the topic that chiefly interested Nasīb and his brother. Not that they spoke of it in their conversations with me, but they listened eagerly when we told of the raid on the Hassaniyyeh and the part the Sukhūr had played in it, and they drew from us all we knew or conjectured as to the present camping grounds of the latter tribe, how far the raiders had come, and in which direction retreated. The muleteers overheard men whispering at the street corners, and their whispers were of warlike preparations; the groups round Mikhāil’s fire, ever a centre of social activity, spoke of injuries that could not be allowed to pass unnoticed, and one of the many sons of Muhammad’s uncle had provided that famished Beyrouti with a lunch flavoured with dark hints of a league between the Wādi Sirhan and the Beni Sakhr which must be nipped in the bud ere it had assumed alarming proportions. The wave of the ghazu can hardly reach as far as Salkhad itself, but the harm is done long before it touches that point, especially in the winter when every four-footed creature, except the mare necessary for riding, is far away in the southern plain.