Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 43
CHAPTER XIX.
"The serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain:
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There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far checkering o'er the pictured windows plays
The wonted faggots' hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth."
Byron.
"I am an Englishman, and I hate the French," is the common expression of our cosmopolite feelings—the French being a generic term for all foreigners. Fashion may court the attachés to an embassy for the sake of their presence and perfumes at a party;—revolutions may occasion an interchange of deputations from the Rotunda to Mesdames les Poissardes—those political nereids who preside over the fish-market, and assist any "glorious cause" that may be in hand:—but these moments of fashion and favour are few and far between, and not very sincere at the best of times. The hatred which is so very cordial among our neighbours still subsists;—the voice of the first gun that peals in defiance over the deep waters at once awakens it; and we return to our old conviction, that one Englishman can beat three Frenchmen any day! [1]
Now, believe we can do a thing, and it is three parts done. For my own simple self, I confess to being very much behind my age. From Cressy to Waterloo, our island watchwords have been Enmity and Victory; and I see no reason why one century should be so much wiser than its predecessors. This national feeling is never more evinced than on the Continent: they herd together after their kind, and Englishman meets Englishman as if they encountered in the deserts round Timbuctoo.
Though Lady Mandeville's influence had been sufficient to induce her husband to go abroad, it was more than it could manage to make him enjoy it. Cecil Spenser's society—who soon shewed he could understand and enter into his views—became a source of great gratification, and his young countryman was almost domesticated at the palazzo. Lord Mandeville, however, was not long in discovering that his friendship was not the only attraction: he was content to share it with Emily Arundel. Aware that a strong and serious attachment is one of the great influences in man's destiny, he was glad that the lot was cast, as he thought, so fortunately.
Emily was a great favourite with him; and he had always viewed the attachment, at whose dénouement between her and Lorraine, Lady Mandeville meant to preside, as a somewhat foolish romance. He saw more clearly than his wife—who would only see what she liked—the entire indifference of the gentleman; and felt glad, for Emily's own sake, that a present lover should put an absent one out of her head, which seemed to him a natural consequence.
Here he, too, was wrong: he judged of one by the many. Emily's generally quiet manner and extreme gentleness gave the idea of a soft and yielding temper. There was no outward sign of a feeling which had been heightened by imagination and nurtured by solitude, till it had become the reigning thought of the present, and the sole hope of the future. The heart entirely engrossed by one, is the last to suspect it can be the object of preference to another. Vanity, the great enlightener on such subjects, is here lost in a more powerful feeling. She never thought of Mr. Spenser in any other character than as a pleasant acquaintance. Moreover, he was the nephew of Mr. Morland, with whom Lorraine was a favourite.
Love is most ingenious in its associations. Events are like the child's play, "Here we go round by the rule of contrary;"—and Miss Arundel's indifference was the great charm with her over-flattered countryman. Rich and highly connected, Cecil had been so much accustomed to have love made to him, that it was an agreeable novelty to have to make it.
Lady Mandeville, who had as much penetration as her husband had judgment, saw at once how matters stood. Clearly perceiving Emily's indifference, she contented herself with a sort of armed neutrality, general carelessness, and occasional sarcasm.
There are many gentlemen who never drink any but sample wines, and never go beyond their first order to a wine-merchant. This would be a very excellent plan to pursue in love affairs; for the beginning is their best part—its only fault is, that it is impossible. In the pleasant little comedy of Charles the Second, the Page complains to Rochester of the many miseries his passion entails upon him. "Your own fault," says the lively Earl; "I told you to skim over the surface like a swallow—you have gone bounce in like a goose." Authors now-a-days are held responsible for all the sentiments of their various characters, no matter how much they differ. I therefore give Mr. Howard Paine great credit for the above philosophical remark.
Winter was now setting in, and the bright charcoal burnt on the hearths of the larger rooms was as comfortable as it was cheerful—even "the glad sun of Italy" is not the worse for a little occasional aid.
Lord Mandeville and Cecil were one morning pacing the large saloon, whose walls, inlaid with a many-coloured mosaic of marble, and floor of white stone, were sufficiently chilly to make the fire very acceptable. To this end Cecil's attention was frequently attracted. In a large black oak arm-chair, whose back and sides were heavy with rich and quaint carving, her small feet supported on a scarlet cushion, which brought out in strong contrast the little black-satin slippers, sat Emily Arundel. On one side, a hand which looked modelled in ivory, with one tinge of the rose, was nearly hidden in the profusion of long auburn ringlets—that rich auburn brown—lighted with sunshine from the head it sustained. From the other side, the clustering hair had fallen back, and left distinctly to view the delicate outline of the face—the cheek, with that earliest pink of the almond-blossom, too fair to be so frail—and the long, dark lash, which, though it hid, yet gave eloquent sign of the eye beneath, for it wore the diamond glisten of tears;—and the studio of no artist, even in that city of painters, could have shewn a more graceful, yet more simple attitude than the one with which she now bent in absorbed attention over the book on her knee. She reached the last page, but still, quite lost in the interest of the story, she never moved, till the book falling to the ground, Cecil took the opportunity of picking it up; and, addressing her, remarked, "Your book has been very fortunate in rivetting your attention."
"It is such a beautiful story."
"Why, Emily," said Lord Mandeville, "you have been crying over it."
He opened the volume;—it was Margaret Lindsay.
"You need not blush so deeply about it; for I own I think it one of the most touching stories I ever read. I wonder very much, that in these days, when literature circulates as generally as money, an edition of Margaret Lindsay has not been printed for circulation among the lower classes. An appetite for reading is eagerly cultivated; but the necessity of proper and wholesome food has not been even yet sufficiently considered. Knowledge is the sine quâ non; but it is forgotten that moral is, to say the least, as useful as historical or scientific knowledge."
"May I," replied Spenser, "hazard an opinion, or rather an impression—that I doubt the great advantage of the biographies of eminent men, who have arisen by their own efforts, being sedulously held up as examples to the lower classes. If great talents really exist, these very instances prove that example was not necessary to call them into action; and if they do not, the apparent ease and the high success which attended those objects of their emulation, are calculated rather to cause delusive hopes than a beneficial effect. Our self-estimate is always a false one, and our hopes ever prophesy our wishes. It seems to me a dangerous thing to dwell so much on those who have 'achieved greatness.' We see how they scaled the mountain, and immediately give ourselves credit for being able to go and do likewise. We forget that a great man does not leave behind him his genius, but its traces. Now, there is no disappointment so bitter as that whose cause is in ourselves."
"I entirely agree with you. In our march of mind we have been somewhat hasty;—we have borne too little in remembrance the Scripture truth, which all experience has confirmed, that the tree of knowledge 'was the knowledge of good and evil.' The beautiful order of the physical can never be extended to the moral world. In diffusing knowledge, there are two dangers against which we should endeavour to guard—that it be not turned to a wrong use, or made subservient to mere display. The last is the worst;—discontent is the shadow of display, and display is the characteristic of our age. Take one of its humblest instances. Our young people go to their divers amusements, not for the purpose of enjoyment, but of display; they require not entertainment, but compliment."
"Do let me tell you an instance, just to illustrate your theory. A little girl was asked 'why her fine new doll was quite thrown aside—always kept in some dark corner: did not she like it?' 'My doll?' said the little creature, 'I hate my doll; she is better dressed than myself.'"
"A case in point. We all hate our dolls, because they are better dressed than ourselves. The worst of display is, that, like other misfortunes, it never comes single. Satiety and mortification are the extremes of vanity, and both are equally attended by envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. If the human mind were like a pond, and could be filled at once, knowledge, like the water, would be its own balance; but as it must be done gradually, it ought to be done carefully—not one part filled to overflowing, while a second is left dry, or a third to stagnate."
"But surely you would not confine knowledge to the higher classes?"
"Certainly not. Knowledge, when only the possession of a few, has almost always been turned to iniquitous purposes. Take, for example, many of those chemical discoveries which now add so much to our amusement and comfort: it is not to be doubted that divers of these were known of old, and used as engines of fraud and deceptive power. The pursuer of science was formerly as eager to conceal, as he is now desirous of blazoning his discoveries. No: I would circulate information as widely as possible; but it should be rather practical than theoretical. There are many books which we do not wish children to read till their judgment is matured. The ignorant are as children. I would with them use similar caution."
"Does it not appear to you that this fashion of universal education arises out of the fallacious system of universal equality? We give rather out of our abundance than our discretion, too little remembering that, if knowledge is power, it is what all cannot tell how to manage. Apollo would have been wise if, before he trusted his son with the reins of his chariot, he had given him a few lessons in driving."
"True," replied Lord Mandeville. "Now, the steps I would take in giving the lower classes education would be, first, to furnish them with religious, and secondly with practical, information. From religion, and that only, can they learn the inherent nature of good and evil. In the sorrows that have afflicted, in the judgments that have befallen, the highest and mightiest, they will learn the only true lesson of equality—the conviction that our destinies are not in our own hands; they will see that no situation in life is without its share of suffering;—and this perpetual reference to a higher power ought equally to teach the rich humility, and the poor devotion. Secondly, I lean rather to giving practical than scientific knowledge. I would distribute books on farming, gardening, and a cheap, simple cookery would be a valuable present: for works of mere amusement, travels plainly written, especially such as, in the wants and miseries of other countries, teach us to value the comforts and advantages of our own;—tales, of which Margaret Lindsay is the very model—piety, submission, and active exertion, placed in the most beautiful and affecting light."
"Since I have thought at all on the subject, it has seemed to me that aught of amusement for the poor is most selfishly neglected: 'merrie England' is certainly a misnomer. We have fêtes, balls, plays, &c. for the middle and higher classes, but nothing of the kind for the lower: even fairs—the last remains of ancient festivals —are being rapidly put down. Pleasure is, in one class, a satiety—in another, a want."
"Your expression of selfish neglect is a true one. Much may be said against the excesses of fairs; still, I think they might have been restrained, instead of suppressed. One great source of amusement—one peculiarly adapted to those who must be attracted by the eye—is too much forgotten: I mean dramatic representations, adapted to the lower classes, and supported by the higher. They might, in the country especially, be made a means of equal entertainment and improvement."
"It is now the custom with many writers to represent the former state of the people of England as one of unmitigated oppression. 'The land groaning beneath the tyranny of its feudal lords,' is a favourite figure of speech; and I doubt not in many instances, justified. Great power is almost always a great evil. Now, the advantage of experience is, that it teaches to separate the bad from the good; and we have too much lost sight of the latter; for kindly feeling and strong attachment must have been generated in the simple fact of amusement being in common. The vassals or tenants collected in the hall for Christmas masking and mumming—the peasant gathering that May-day called out upon the green, drew together ranks whose distance, in our day, occasions forgetfulness on one side, and discontent on the other. The presence of superiors is at once a check and an encouragement. Look to the French for a proof that festivity and inebriety are not inseparable."
"Alas! my dear Spenser, how much easier it is to plan than to perform! Here are we framing schemes of national improvement, at some hundred miles distant from our country. However, I lay 'the flattering unction to my soul' that my present will be my last absence from home."
Lady Mandeville now entered the room from a drive; and flinging down her furred mantle, and drawing an arm-chair to the hearth, prepared to narrate the news of the morning. "As usual, Mde. de Cayleure is the gazette extraordinary of her acquaintance: she is a living instance of the doctrine of attraction—all species of news seem to go naturally to her as to their centre."
"I do wonder, Ellen, what pleasure you can take in that woman's company. A conversation such as hers, always 'seasoned with personal talk,' must necessarily be ill-natured. A discourse that turns entirely on persons, not things, will only admit praise as a novelty or a discovery. General praise is an insipidity; and faults, foibles, and ridicules, are brought forward, if it were only for the sake of variety."
"Nay, now, I am sure Mde. de Cayleure is very good-natured."
"Lively when she is amused, and obliging when not put out of her way: but good-natured I utterly deny. Good nature is one of our calumniated phrases—calumniated because misapplied."
"You know I never contradict one of your definitions. I am too well aware that I have no chance in an argument, Mandeville, with you."
This was a satisfactory termination to the dialogue.
Cecil Spenser left the room for his morning ride, his reflections divided between Lord Mandeville's words and Miss Arundel's looks. The first person he met was Mr. Trevor—a young man who, having a great stock of idleness on hand, was always most happy to bestow some of it on his friends.
"Ah, Spenser," said he, "I have been the whole day looking for you; you have left all the trouble of our excursion on my hands. However, I have prepared every thing;—so, tomorrow we start for Naples."
To own the truth, Cecil had utterly forgotten all about his engagement; and never was memory more disagreeably refreshed. His first thought was the pleasantness of breaking his promise—his second was the necessity of fulfilling it. The pleasant and the necessary are two distinct things. He knew that to Mr. Trevor a companion was an absolute want; and he also knew that companion he had offered to be. As to excuse for now refusing, he had not even the shadow of one; so, with not a little discontent, he went that evening to the Mandevilles, where it somewhat reconciled him to hear that they also intended visiting Naples almost immediately.
Emily looked very pretty, and bade him good bye in a sweet low voice; and Cecil devoted part of that night to wondering what effect his absence would have on her. But I very much doubt whether the knowledge of her perfect indifference would have been any consolation;—and entirely indifferent she was. Her memory reverted—her imagination referred, only to Edward Lorraine.
A woman's love is essentially lonely and spiritual in its nature—feeding on fancy, rather than hope—or like that fairy flower of the East, which floats in, and lives upon, the air. Her attachment is the heathenism of the heart: she has herself created the glory and beauty with which the idol of her altar stands invested. Had Emily known Cecil Spenser before she knew Edward Lorraine, in all probability she would have fallen in love with him. However, our affections are the last things we can give away; for this best reason—they are gone before we are aware. First impressions are very ineffaceable things.
- ↑ "One Frenchman can beat two Portugee,
And one Englishman can beat all three."