Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 20
CHAPTER XX.
I saw the guardian Cupid of our town
Dressed in a mercantile, staid suit of brown;
A wig he wore—a slate was on his knee,
On which he cast up sums industriously;
Complexion, morning—hair, like midnight dark—
Balance, good county interest and a park;
Sings like an angel—dances like a grace—
Chances from Grosvenor Square to Connaught Place.
But while with this arithmetic amused,
His bow and arrows lay behind unused.
Milton.
"We must not be too exquisite—
We live by admiration."
Wordsworth.
"I wish," said Lady Mandeville, as she and Emily met on a crowded staircase, "you would let me recommend my coiffeur to you."
"A gentleman most devoted," observed her husband, "to the science. Aware that appearance is every thing in this world, he holds it little less than a sin to neglect it. Meeting him stepping like a feather, or as light as one of his own curls, I stopped to ask Signor Julio Rosettini why he had not been in attendance during the last fortnight; and knowing how dear fame is to genius, I assured him I had scarcely known Lady Mandeville to be herself. That 'I was too good,' and that 'my perceptions of the beautiful were exquisite,' were his no less flattering rejoinders. He then proceeded to inform me that a porter had first ran against him with a square trunk, and then knocked him down for being in the way. 'You know, milor, your countrymen of the canaille are very independent—of course my face was cut, and even the humblest of Beauty's slaves would not enter her presence disfigured.' There's a professor of pommade divine for you!'"
Emily laughed and said, "indeed, I shall expect to have 'a Cupid ambushed in each curl' under the skilful hands of Signor Julio. I will try his power to-morrow."
Now, it is a very debateable point in my mind, whether any woman ever thanks another for recommending either coiffeur, modiste, or any of those modern artisans of the graces—it is a tacit reflection on her previous appearance. But Emily was far too new to think of that impertinent independence—a taste of her own; she therefore received the advice with juvenile thankfulness. Moreover, she recollected having heard Lorraine admire the classic perfection of Lady Mandeville's head. Motives are like harlequins—there is always a second dress beneath their first.
The next night, her glance at the glass was certainly a very satisfactory one; and, in all that pleasant consciousness which attends a new dress, she entered the drawing-room. Here a slight disappointment awaited her—Lorraine had gone to another party, and was only to join them at Mrs. Grantham's. Emily turned away from the fire-place, though there was a mirror over it, and sat down in a large arm-chair, and picked, leaf by leaf, the beautiful rosebuds which she had that very afternoon chosen with such care from the crimson multitude of their companions.
It is a very different thing to be first seen, without competitor except your own shadow, to being but one in a crowd—your head, and perhaps one arm, only visible—the first glossiness of the ringlet, and the first freshness of the white tulle, departed for ever. These are heavy disappointments at nineteen, and even a little later. Her eyes grew large and dark with the tears that, in a moment after, were checked—shame put down sorrow, but not till the lashes glistened with momentary brightness. But in youth, happiness deferred turns into hope. "I won't dance, and I'll sit near the door," thought Emily.
A sort of fatality attends resolutions—they are so very rarely kept. For the first time, whether it was from having been accustomed to see her dance lately, Lady Alicia bethought her Miss Arundel would like a partner. She also caught the particularly low bend of a Mr. Granville, and instantly introducing him to Emily, sunk back in her chair with an appearance of heroic exertion.
Mr. Granville was at present on sufferance in society—working his slow way, and trying to be useful and agreeable, in order that he might reach the proud pre-eminence of being neither. Who he was, was rather debateable ground—what he had, was more easily answered: he came out on the strength of his uncle's will. Some persons skate into society—others slide. Mr. Granville belonged to the latter class. He had an otto-of-rose smile, a low voice, large white hands, and a large white handkerchief. You could not be rude to him, for he took it as a personal compliment. To a gentleman's opinion he deferred—with a lady's he agreed: while his own idea of conversation was a series of commonplace questions, which seemed only asked that he might be of the same opinion as your answer. To sum up—he danced indefatigably, and complained of the heat. The linked sweetness of the quadrille was indeed long drawn out; but, bad as this was, worse remained behind. The dance ended, and he introduced a friend—as if such a man had any business with a friend!
Mr. Marechal had written a small volume of poems, and conceived he had a character to support—somewhat needless to support what so few knew he had assumed. During the first part of the quadrille, he was absent—during the last, eloquent. He asked Emily if she did not dote upon Byron, and idolise Italy: he candidly confessed that he only existed by moonlight. "Of course, you understand that by existence I mean the awakening of the higher faculties of the soul." He remarked, that dancing was a remnant of ancient barbarism—talked a little of the time wasted in such unintellectual pursuits—dwelt on the heartlessness of society—and finished with a practical proof of his assertion, by handing Emily to a seat between too old ladies, whose nodding plumes soon closed over her like a hearse.
They say parties are so very delightful: I have my doubts—and doubts, like facts, are stubborn things. I put the chaperones out of the question—we will suppose the few sacrificed for the good of the many—and we know martyrdom has its pride and pleasure—and pass on to the young, for whose enjoyment these parties are ostensibly given. The age where the mere delight of dancing with a grown-up person suffices unto itself, is soon past. The ball assumes its nominative case, and requires an object; and flirtation—the adopted child of ennui—relieves the more serious business of matrimonial speculation. The worst of this pretty sort of half-and-half indolent excitement is, that it unidealises the heart—to a woman especially. And love is either annihilated by the deadly weight of calculation, or evaporates in the light fumes of vanity. A few years of feverish hopes, a few more of envious fears, and the complexion is faded, and the game over. How much of endeavour and of disappointment, of rivalry and mortification, have been crowded into a few brief years!
The difference between a woman's career and a man's is this; if a man has not had all the success in life his "young ambition dreamed," he has usually carved out some sort of path; if, for example, he is not, as he intended, Lord Chancellor, he has probably a very pretty practice on the circuit, and has a respectable share in the hangings and transportations. It is the reverse with women. She who aimed at a coronet may sometimes end with a curate; but she is equally likely to end, like Christabelle, in nothing—that social nonentity, an old maid.
Among the higher classes, the Lady Mary or Lady Sophia of the family become as very heir-looms at the country-seat as the heavy arm-chairs worked by their great-aunts, only not half so picturesque. In the middle class of life, they keep their brother's house till he marries; then they quarrel with his wife, whose influence, in that class at least, amounts to absolute monarchy; then they reside in a small private family, where they enact the part of Iris at Thetis' wedding—find out that it is very dull, and wander from boarding-house to boarding-house, carrying the events of one to the inventions of another, till they are about as much dreaded and disliked as the visits of the tax-gatherer; in short, they are a sort of moral excise.
I knew an old lady—the very beau idéal of black satin and blonde, whose dignity was self-respect, and whose courtesy was one half kindness—who used to say on any slight instance of carelessness or extravagance on the part of her grand-daughters, "You don't consider what it requires to make a woman fit to be married." One feels rather inclined to reverse her phrase, and say, "You don't consider what it requires to make a woman fit to be an old maid."
Feeling is very much in the way of philosophy; and Emily was much more employed in thinking how completely the large plumes and larger sleeves of her neighbours concealed her, than in speculations on the dancers. To add to her misfortunes, Mr. Marechal occupied the small vista hitherto allowed to terminate in her profile, with an attitude. Sitting opposite a pier-glass has its disadvantages; however, when things come to the worst, they mend.
"Mr. Marechal," said one of the ladies, "will you fetch my cloak—I feel it cold."
"I was just going," replied the languid lyrist, "to make you the very same request; for I suffer greatly from the draught of your feathers."
To be rude is as good as being clever. The pleasure of repeating Mr. Marechal's reply quite consoled the lady for fetching her own cloak; and she moved off, to Emily's great satisfaction, which satisfaction had, however, to stand the test of another very dull half hour. Long before any less interested glance could have discovered his entrance, her eye rested on Lorraine. "O how superior he looks to every one else!" was her first thought. The next moment cheek and eye brightened with pleasure—for he crossed the room, engaged her for the next dance, and took his place by her side.
Alas! we give our own colouring to the actions of others. Edward acted upon a mere kindly impulse. He saw Miss Arundel sitting by herself, and looking with a weariness worthy of a watch-tower. There was as much pity as preference in his choice: but the one is a much more flattering reason to assign than the other. Can we wonder that at nineteen Emily drew the pleasanter conclusion? With spirits and smiles equally bright, she took the wreath that night from her hair. Too excited for sleep, with all that glad restlessness, which, if not happiness, is as like it as any thing we know—that very night she sat down and wrote a long letter to her uncle. Its tone was not quite so philosophical as it had been about the heartless insipidity of a London season.