Chapter II: Aquaviva

If we are to accept the testimony of Louis XV., an experienced judge in such matters, the beauty of his granddaughter, eldest child of Don Philip of Parma, was in need of no servile flattery to recommend it. The little Infanta was, in truth, at seventeen, most that heart could desire, sweet, unaffected, full of charm and playfulness. Indeed, in the eyes of some, she erred on the side of condescension, being a little disposed, like her father, to familiarity with her inferiors. Yet, on right occasion, she could assume a pretty air of dignity, consciously summoned, one might think, to the protection of a yielding over-lovable disposition. She could not bear to hurt; and though she was wilful, and possessed, and could not always resist the temptation to indulge, a strong sense of humour, her atonements generally more than expiated the faults that induced them. To men, her eyes seemed always asking pardon for the cruelty of their own kindness.

The pretty princess was born in December. She arrived, “when all sweets were over, to bless the year,” even like our own little princess Elizabeth, who came with the snow one Childermas day, and passed away with it, like other holy innocents, in her brief spring. Isabella’s full name was Isabelle Marie Louise Antoinette--either so, or written in Italian, or Spanish, as you please. To her kinsfolk she was always Isabelita. They spoke French for the most part in Parma; for although Don Philip was a son of the fifth haughty monarch of that name of Spain, his royal spouse was by far the more forceful spirit of the pair, a true and steadfast daughter of France, and her will and tastes prevailed above those of her vain good-natured husband. Wherefore it was that this twelfth year of the duke’s enjoyment of his Italian possessions found the court largely weeded of its original Spanish dependants, and savouring more of Paris than of Madrid in its councils and pastimes.

Isabella commonly spoke French; and so, through long habit of resignation, did her _gouvernante_, the Marquise de Gonzalès, a fat old _rabâcheuse_, who, wishful long ago to escape this tiresome servitude of hers, had only been induced to stay on in view of the inability of the ducal exchequer to settle her account. She was a twaddling, scandalmongering old woman, who “passait pour aimer l’intrigue”--not the best mentor for an impressionable young girl, one would think. But, indeed, the old lady’s wits were never the servants of her inclinations, and I think Isabella measured her fairly enough, her pretence and her harmlessness, and was never, though she dutifully submitted, more or Jess, to her duennaship, in the least danger of imbibing from her principles derogatory to her maidenhood. At the same time the girl, not ignorant of the financial difficulties which had almost persistently beset the duchy, was prepared to suffer sweetly enough the almost arrogant show of authority which the Marquise’s consciousness of grievance emboldened her to assume.

The two drove out one fair June morning to visit the gardens of the queer old Aquaviva, a whimsical _protégé_ of the young lady. They lay, these gardens, a mile or two from Colorno, along the right bank of the little river Parma, and were designed for nothing else than the production of perfumery. The _gouvernante_, hot and languid, elected to remain in the carriage under the shadow of a friendly group of trees; so Isabella alighted alone. She had hardly entered the garden, through a green gate in a hedge, before she was launched upon a very wilderness of flowers. Or at least so it might have appeared to one who knew nothing of the inner economics of that profuse and dazzling disorder. Here were roses, not by the bed but by the acre, bickering flame, as the heat-haze dances from the ground, of orange and crimson and scarlet; fields of jasmine in orderly rows, knitted in like hop-binds with horizontal stakes, and loading the air with perfume; plantations of yellow cassia, of jonquil, of tuberose, of geranium, each, on inspection, seen to be differentiated from all others, the whole forming a vast mosaic of flower groups, whose pattern symbolised the triumph of Aquaviva over some natural conditions obstructive of his enterprise. For Aquaviva, transferring at one time his little capital and his extensive knowledge from the flower-farms of Grasse in the Cannes Valley, where he had been horticulturally educated, to his native plains of Colorno, which were quite a degree higher in latitude, had had to circumvent and conquer many difficulties before establishing his gardens on the productive footing which was to make of them something more than a joy to the eye and a feast to the nostrils.

Isabella walked on, steeped, half drugged in the scents, which rose like incense on all sides. There were men working here and there, bronzed Italian _lavoranti_, who uncapped to Madonna as she passed, and felt the sweet place sweeter for her presence. She knew all its intricacies and details--the sheds for raising seed, the pergolas, the nurseries, the sunk tanks of water alive with wriggling gnat-larvæ, the little gleaming channels interlacing all. There was something about the riotous profusion of the spot, so greenly remote from the formal alleys and studied perspectives of Colorno, which touched a strange nerve in her as of some shadowy remembrance, the mystery of antique forgotten things. She loved it; and its owner and presiding genius, whom the marquise patronised and detested, was a prime favourite of hers.

Wending her way, everywhere by great bushes of lavender and rosemary, she came presently upon the old gardener himself, busy near the laboratory, a central bungalow where were achieved the processes of _macération_ and _enfleurage_--otherwise the capture and storage of the world of fugitive perfumes which diffused themselves around. Aquaviva carried in his sinewy arms a pile of glazed stretchers, like small window sashes, or, a more appropriate simile in these days, like large photographic printing frames, and, seeing Isabella, he paused with a sardonic pucker of the lips.

“Ah!” said he, “I could have sworn it. A right morning for gadflies.”

His _torso_ was like a lean-bellied fiddle, the string which bound his green baize apron round his waist helping the resemblance. Great bent shoulders and thin bent shanks had he, with enormous shoes to his feet and an enormous aquiline nose to his face. His expression was by no means truckling or conciliatory; he knew his value with the dames and exquisites of Parma.

Isabella laughed: “O, grandfather!” she said, “is that the way to greet your princess? See how I sting you with honey for your rudeness.”

“Hey,” said the old man, “hoping to make me drop my frames? But beware. It is the treasure of a dukedom I carry within them.”

She stretched up, and pulled at a frame, trying to peep.

“What is it, avolo mio? Is it lilies, jasmine, violets?”

“It is not for the common ruck. I tell you it is of the ducal brand--the essence of all flowers in one.”

“It is tuberose.”

“Spoken, Madonna, like an intelligent daughter. Between us we shall guess, sooner or later, what is his Excellency’s favourite perfume.”

“Why this is it, is it not?”

“Capital, on my faith. She has guessed it already.”

“Grandfather, I do not like you. I shall be severe. Tell me at once, is the grease on which these flowers are spread well purified in boiling water and nitre?”

“It is well purified, Madonna.”

“Has it since been boiled in a solution of rose-water and benzoin?”

“That is so, Madonna.” He answered with an amused, approving grin.

“And was the grease originally of choice selection?”

“The most choice, Madonna. The butcher who provided the ox who provided the suet is fourth cousin to a saint. The odour of sanctity is over it all from the first.”

“That is very good, then. My father will like to acquire sanctity so easily and so pleasantly.”

“True; on his handkerchief. But Madonna forgets one thing. The fat, thus impregnated, has to be dissolved in alcohol, a very devilish liquor, before the fragrance is released from it. Wherefore sanctity does not count in the result.”

“I was forgetting. So, after all, you brew wicked concoctions, grandfather. I shall ask to have you put in the escalero.”

“Not you. You would not hurt a beetle. Besides, where then would you get your scents?”

“I would distil them from the simple flowers.”

“Pooh! That is what fools imagine. But flowers do not yield their essence to torture, any more than truth comes out of the escalero.”

“I did not mean it really.”

Aquaviva looked at the girl with a grim smile, and wagged his head.

“You holy love!” he said. “How long are you going to keep me in torment with this load?”

She moved, with an exclamation of remorse, to let him pass. Going before her, he deposited his armful of frames within the bungalow, where were already heaped some scores of others.

“Now,” said he, turning round and rubbing his arms; “repeat your lesson, profumiere.”

She put her hands behind her back, as she stood before him.

“I boil and refine my grease,” she said, “in the flowerless time, storing ready a great quantity of it. When the flowers come, each in its season, I gather them and place them on these frames, every one of which is smeared thick with the fat, which has the property of absorbing their fragrance. I pile these frames one on the other to the number of--O, the heaps that you see there; and leave them thus, the light and heat penetrating, for----”

“Go on.”

“Ever so long a time.”

“From twenty-four to thirty-six hours will do.”

“That is what I meant. When the flowers have yielded all they can, I remove them and put fresh ones, and so on until the fat is so fully charged with their fragrance that it can hold no more. I then scrape off the grease, heat it until liquid, then strain it and pour it into bottles, ready for treatment by the perfumers, with their--with their alcohol.”

“Capital. Madonna has my certificate. And now about macération?”

“That is steeping the flowers in cold olive oil. Some, like cassia, answer better to such treatment.”

“Excellent! And so do not talk to me any more about your distillation, which is an inferior process applied only to the leaves, seeds and other parts of perfume-bearing plants, and in its results resembles no more the sweet breath of the blossoms than your ladyship’s vulgar camériste, Fanchette Becquet, resembles your ladyship.”

“Grandfather! What do you know about Fanchette?”

“Only what Bissy has told me, Madonna.”

“And what does Bissy know?”

“Ask him. He has all the wisdom of an owl. You did not come here unattended?”

“Madame de Gonzalès drove with me. She is sleeping in the carriage.”

“I warrant it, the old sluggard. If they shot women, she would be riddled like a pepper-box for a false sentry.”

“You must not speak so of my gouvernante.”

“Well, I will not. If it comes to that, I could forgive all Spaniards for your sake.”

Isabella turned, her slim tallish young figure suddenly erect.

“I will go and look for Bissy,” she said stiffly.

“You will find him in the orange-grove,” called Aquaviva, and returned, grinning, to his work.

Isabella had one of those small revulsions of feeling which sometimes came to her when, it seemed, her natural kindness had been presumed upon. But the mood passed quickly, as she walked beside the beds of flowers. She did not like to think of these pure things yielding their essence to fat; yet, after all, it was an emollient process, not unlike the susceptibility of her sex to soft flattery. She wondered if to lie on a bed of suet would have a persuasive effect upon her own soul, coaxing it to part with its fondest secrets; she was quite sure that distillation by boiling would have the opposite effect. Gardeners certainly were very wise people; they had learned the value of cold oil over hot in extracting the truth from shy natures. How cruel the world was! Would it ever learn in her time the illogic of torture?

Archduke Joseph, in his carriage not so far away, was already unconsciously formulating in his mind a like proposition. But he lived to answer it in an enlightened fashion.

The orange grove was Aquaviva’s pride. He had nursed it through long years into a flourishing condition; for in those latitudes, where snow often fell thickly in the winter, it was no easy task to protect and cherish the sensitive trees. The grove was situated in a little green glade near the river. So enclosed was it within trees and juniper hedges, so hushed and fragrant were its depths, one might have thought oneself in an antique bower sacred to love--a place where silence itself stole into blossom, and needed no more than the shock of a butterfly’s entrance to shatter it into a myriad scented stars. So still was it that the bubbling coo of a dove, the plop of a fish in the stream hard by, sounded, when they sounded, almost discordant. For true it is that noise, like size, is relative. The man who lives amongst engines can find balm of nights in “barking dogs and crowing cocks”; a student in a voiceless hermitage is driven to madness by a bluebottle.

The trees were all in flower; and, as if that were not fragrance enough, the grassy floor of the grove was sown everywhere with clumps of violets, many late blossoms on which still lingered out their beauty. They too needed protection, but in another way--protection from the sapping sun which the others loved and monopolised. So that here were light and shadow at their sweetest.

As Isabella entered the grove, she came plump upon the minor apparition she sought--Bissy, to wit, in shirt and breeches and an enormous straw hat. He looked like a gnome, who had taken refuge from a crow under a great mushroom, and come away with it on his head. Its weight seemed to bow his little legs, withal his important spirit walked unconscious of the burden. Or, rather, stooped at the moment, for Bissy, hands on knees, was peering intently into a violet patch, a basket of blossoms standing on the grass by his side.

Bissy, incidentally, was Aquaviva’s grandson and only relative. He was presumably a boy, but of unknown age. His squeezed elfin face showed the gravity of a man of forty. He took himself immensely seriously, regarding the flower-farm as his heritage, invited or merited no rebuke, worked solemnly within his limits, and took no fantastic risks. And yet the boy was in him somewhere, as naughty Isabella loved to prove by probing. It was just possible, so to speak, to scratch the horticulturist and find the mudlark.

“Bissy,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes: “what do you know of Fanchette Becquet?”

The imp did not even start. He just looked inquiringly round with his large owlish eyes, then straightened himself to his four foot six of stature.

“It is blood that amuses Mamselle Fanchette,” he answered promptly. “That is what I know about her, Excellency.”

“Blood, you nasty boy!” cried the young lady, with a little nose of disgust.

“Look you, Madonna,” said Bissy; “I know what I say. She comes to see the gardens once or twice, and to praise the scents--to ask them too: a little rose-water for her kerchief, some geraniums to put in her bosom, a spray of rosemary for her garters. She is a poor maid; her salary is paid irregularly--which I do not believe; she will justify the gift through her recommendations. But that is all nothing to her passion for the orange-grove. I tell her what I will tell you about these trees. They are grafted on a stock of lemon; they are planted in a good clayey soil, enriched with both animal manure and rotted leaf-mould; their roots are ventilated with plenty of broken charcoal. But since they are gross feeders, there is something else. It is blood from the butchers that they are greedy at times to drink; and it is that which pleases Mamselle Fanchette. Her eyes glitter like a tiger’s. ‘I like to hear that,’ she says. ‘They are brave trees, and earn their right to be the wedding tokens of women who love brave men’--and she sniffs at the blossoms as if she found a new savour in them. O, she loves blood!”

“You take a symbol for a sentiment,” cried Isabella--“you do, you horrid boy. I know Fanchette better than you, and she would not hurt a mouse. Why do you try to spoil my pretty grove for me. I think I will never come here again.”

“I should be sorry for that,” said Bissy gravely.

“Then do not say such things any more. What were you peering at when I came in?”

Bissy wiped his right hand on his breeches; then nipping the lady’s tender little palm in it, drew Isabella to the violet clump.

“Bend down and look in,” he said.

She obeyed; and there was a monstrous toad returning her gaze. Its golden eyes stared unwinking at her; its slow throat pulsated.

“Do you know, Bissy,” whispered the girl, after a moment’s pause, “that he has a wonderful jewel in his head.”

“Bagattella!” said Bissy. “Who told you so?”

“That is not respectful, Bissy. I know because I know--that should be enough for you. Come away, and I will tell you the reason.”

She had a lively imagination, and she “made up” on the spot:--

“When the first mother ate the forbidden fruit, she found a stone in it, which her little white teeth could not crack. So she took the stone from her pretty mouth and threw it away. But it was really the stone, and not the flesh, which contained the secret of the tree of knowledge, so that she gained nothing by her disobedience, as it has always been easy to see. But a toad, being the lowliest thing on earth, crept, and found the stone and tried to swallow it, which it has never been able to do to this day, though you may see it all puffed and swollen with the effort. For the stone stuck in its head, where it still remains for anybody to find.”

Bissy put out his underlip with polite incredulity.

“If anybody knows, anybody can have it.”

“Ah!” said Isabella; “you are a very clever Bissy; but there is something more. One must not take life in recovering the stone, since it contains the principle of all life; and therefore, if you kill the toad, as you must do to gain the stone, you will find nothing for your pains.”

“Which toad?” said Bissy.

“Why, this one.”

“But it is not the only toad in the world.”

“It is the only toad that matters to my story,” said Isabella. “What a little plague you are with your questions. Come, I want to see my golden lily. Is it full out yet?”

“Yes, Madonna,” said Bissy.

“I will race you there--quick--is anybody looking?”

The imp hesitated, glowed a little, then put himself in position.

“One, two, three--off!”

They ran across the grove, out of it by a green opening, and so on to the slope of sward bending to the backwater visible from the ford. Isabella, flushed and dishevelled, was first by a yard or two.

“O!” she cried; “the love! Bissy, I must have it; Bissy, I must.”

Gravity shook its head judicial.

“There’s no way but to wade; and through the mud.”

“Wade, then.”

“I am too little; and I have no love for the water, Madonna.”

“Then I shall go myself; and you shall look on.”

“I am your servant, Madonna; it is my duty to obey.”

“O, what an excellent servant! He will not stir from his post, though I drown.”

Laughing and wilful she stepped into the water, staggered a little, found her balance and went cautiously forward. The mud sucked at her dainty shoes, captured one, and still she was not deterred. She had almost reached the prize, when the sound of rolling wheels broke upon her ears. She paused aghast. We have heard what followed.