The hour of eight found me knocking at the Count's door.The grim serving-man admitted me to the pleasant chamber which should have been mine own.A dozen wax candles burned in sconces, and on the table among fruits and the remains of supper stood a handsome candelabra of silver.A small fire of logs had been lit on the hearth, and before it in an armchair sat a strange figure of a man.He seemed not so much old as aged.I should have put him at sixty, but the marks he bore were clearly less those of time than of life.There sprawled before me the relics of noble looks.The fleshy nose, the pendulous cheek, the drooping mouth, had once been cast in looks of manly beauty.Heavy eyebrows above and heavy bags beneath spoiled the effect of a choleric blue eye, which age had not dimmed.The man was gross and yet haggard; it was not the padding of good living which clothed his bones, but a heaviness as of some dropsical malady.I could picture him in health a gaunt loose-limbed being, high-featured and swift and eager.He was dressed wholly in black velvet, with fresh ruffles and wristbands, and he wore heeled shoes with antique silver buckles.It was a figure of an older age which rose to greet me, in one hand a snuff-box and a purple handkerchief, and in the other a book with finger marking place.
He made me a great bow as Madame uttered my name, and held out a hand with a kindly smile.
"Mr.Hervey-Townshend," he said, "we will speak English, if you please.I am fain to hear it again, for 'tis a tongue I love.Imake you welcome, sir, for your own sake and for the sake of your kin.How is her honourable ladyship, your aunt?A week ago she sent me a letter."I answered that she did famously, and wondered what cause of correspondence my worthy aunt could have with wandering nobles of Italy.
He motioned me to a chair between Madame and himself, while a servant set a candle on a shelf behind him.Then he proceeded to catechise me in excellent English, with now and then a phrase of French, as to the doings in my own land.Admirably informed this Italian gentleman proved himself.I defy you to find in Almack's more intelligent gossip.He inquired as to the chances of my Lord North and the mind of my Lord Rockingham.He had my Lord Shelburne's foibles at his fingers' ends.The habits of the Prince, the aims of the their ladyships of Dorset and Buckingham, the extravagance of this noble Duke and that right honourable gentleman were not hid from him.I answered discreetly yet frankly, for there was no ill-breeding in his curiosity.Rather it seemed like the inquiries of some fine lady, now buried deep in the country, as to the doings of a forsaken Mayfair.There was humour in it and something of pathos.
"My aunt must be a voluminous correspondent, sir," I said.
He laughed, "I have many friends in England who write to me, but I have seen none of them for long, and I doubt I may never see them again.Also in my youth I have been in England." And he sighed as at sorrowful recollection.
Then he showed the book in his hand."See," he said, "here is one of your English writings, the greatest book I have ever happened on." It was a volume of Mr.Fielding.For a little he talked of books and poets.He admired Mr.Fielding profoundly, Dr.Smollet somewhat less, Mr.Richardson not at all.But he was clear that England had a monopoly of good writers, saving only my friend M.Rousseau, whom he valued, yet with reservations.Of the Italians he had no opinion.I instanced against him the plays of Signor Alfieri.He groaned, shook his head, and grew moody.
"Know you Scotland?"he asked suddenly.
I replied that I had visited Scotch cousins, but had no great estimation for the country."It is too poor and jagged," I said, "for the taste of one who loves colour and sunshine and suave outlines." He sighed."It is indeed a bleak land, but a kindly.
When the sun shines at all he shines on the truest hearts in the world.I love its bleakness too.There is a spirit in the misty hills and the harsh sea-wind which inspires men to great deeds.
Poverty and courage go often together, and my Scots, if they are poor, are as untamable as their mountains.""You know the land, sir?" I asked.
