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Sfondrati and the bold promontory separating the lake’s two arms, the one toward Como so voluptuously beautiful, and the one toward Lecco so austere: sublime and enchanting aspects which the most celebrated site in the world, the Bay of Naples, may equal but not surpass. It was with delight that the Countess regained the memories of her first youth and compared them to her present sensations: “Lake Como,” she mused, “is not surrounded, like Lake Geneva, by great fenced-in fields cultivated according to the best modern methods, things suggestive of money and speculation. Here on all sides I see varying hills covered with groves of trees planted by Chance, and which the hand of man has not yet spoiled and forced
to bring in a return
. Amid these wondrously shapely hills sloping down to the lake, I may retain all the illusions of the descriptions in Tasso and Ariosto. Everything is noble and tender, everything speaks of love, nothing recalls the defects of civilization. The villages half-way up the hills are hidden by dense groves, and above the treetops rises the charming architecture of their lovely belfries. If some little field fifty paces wide occasionally interrupts the clumps of chestnuts and wild cherry-trees, the contented eye sees growing there crops more vigorous and happier than anywhere else in the world. Beyond these hills, whose crests afford a glimpse of hermitages one longs to take refuge in, one after the next, the astonished gaze perceives the Alpine peaks, ever covered with snow, and their austerity reminds one of life’s miseries, and just howmuch of them are necessary to increase one’s present joys. The imagination is stirred by the distant sound of the bell in some little hamlet hidden under the trees: such sounds, borne over the waves that sweeten them, assume a tinge of gentle melancholy and resignation, they seem to be telling man: life is fleeting, do not be so hard on the happiness which offers itself to you, make haste to enjoy it!” The language of these ravishing locales, which are unparalleled the world over, restored to the Countess her heart as it was at sixteen. How could she have lived so many years without seeing her lake again? “Is it when old age begins,” she mused, “that happiness finds a refuge?” She bought a boat, which she and Fabrizio and the Marchesa decorated with their own hands, for there was not enough money to pay for such things, despite the castle’s sumptuous state; ever since his disgrace, the Marchese del Dongo had multiplied its aristocratic splendors. For instance, in order to wrest ten feet from the lake, near the famous avenue of plane-trees leading to Cadenabbia, he was constructing an embankment which would cost eighty thousand francs. At its far end was rising, according to the plans of the famous Marchese Cagnola, a mortuary chapel made entirely of enormous granite blocks, and inside it Marchesi, the fashionable sculptor from Milan, was carving him a tomb on which numerous bas-reliefs were to represent the heroic deeds of his ancestors.
    Fabrizio’s elder brother, the Marchesino Ascanio, attempted to join the ladies in their excursions, but his aunt splashed water on his powdered hair, and each day had some new trick to play on his solemnity. Finally the merry group who dared no laugh in his presence was spared the sight of his fat, pale face. They realized he was spying for his father the Marchese, a severe and constantly raging despot who had to be placated ever since his obligatory resignation.
    Ascanio swore to be revenged on Fabrizio.
    There was a storm during which the boat was in some danger; although there was so little money, the two boatmen were paid to say nothing to the Marchese, who had already evidenced a great deal of bad temper at their taking his two daughters along. A second storm came up, unexpectedly severe on this lovely lake: squalls of wind suddenly emerged from opposite directions out of two mountain gorges,and waged