Mathew. Now trust me you have an exceeding fine lodging
here, very neat and private.
Boladil. Ay, sir: sit down, I pray you. Master Mathew,
in any case possess no gentlemen of our acquaintance with
notice of my lodging. Not that I need to care who know it,
for the cabin is convenient; but in regard I would not be too
popular and generally visited as some are.
BEN JONSON.—Every Man in his Humour.
Returned from their honeymoon, Blanche
and Cecil began to look about them, and
examine the state of their prospects. Her
father had refused, as we have seen, to
countenance the match; so that from him neither
patronage nor money could be expected.
Cecil called upon several of his influential
friends, to see if any "gentlemanly situation"
was open to his acceptance. I need not say
how fruitless were those applications.
Yet "something must be done," he constantly
observed. A wife was a responsibility
which made him serious; and despairing of—for
the present at least—obtaining any consul-ship
or government office suitable to his
pretensions, he determined to make a name in
literature or art. That name would either be
the means of enriching him, as an admiring
public enriches a favourite, or else would give
him a greater "claim" on patrons.
Cecil was vain and ambitious, and from his
boyhood upwards had been desirous of creating
for himself a reputation equal if not
surpassing those whose names he heard sounded
in every society. But, although he was very
clever and unusually accomplished, he had as
yet taken no serious steps towards that lofty
object. He wanted that energetic will which
must nerve every man who attempts to do
great things; "to scorn delights and live
laborious days." He was unequal to the
perpetually-renewing sacrifice which lies at the
bottom of all great achievements in art,
literature, or science; the sacrifice, not of one
temptation, not of one advantage, but of
constant temptations. The artist is as one who,
spending day after day in a luxuriant garden,
must resist the temptation of culling the
flowers that grow to his hand, of fruits that
glisten before his eyes, and subduing the
natural desire of man for instant fruition, consent
to pass by these temptations, and, with spade
and hoe, proceed to that work which, after
much stedfast labour, much watchful care,
will in due season produce fruits and flowers
equal to those around him. The delight of
seeing his labour crowned with such results;
of watching the nursling of his care thus
growing up into matchless beauty, is a delight
more rapturous than the enjoyment of all the
other fruit could have given him. But, nevertheless,
that delight is purchased by a sacrifice
of present small enjoyments for future pleasures
of a higher kind; and the sacrifice of
the present to the future is that which
ordinary men are perhaps least able to accomplish.
Cecil wanted the animal energy and resolution
necessary for empire over himself.
Much as he wished for reputation, he could
not nerve himself to the labour of creating it.
He was conscious of a certain power, and
flattered himself that he could at any time
succeed, whenever he chose to make an effort.
But he could not make the effort. Parties of
pleasure could not be refused; pleasant books
could not be left unread; concerts and
musical societies could not be declined. In short,
one way and another, he "never found time"
to devote himself to any work. There were
so many "calls upon his time;" he had so
many engagements; his days were so broken
in upon.
Thus had he gone on idling and dreaming;
coveting reputation, but shrinking from the
means; dissipating his talent in album
sketches, fancy portraits, album verses, and
drawing-room ballads. His sketches were
greatly admired; his verses were in request;
his music was sung; and everybody said,
"How amazingly clever he is! What he might
do, if he chose!"
But now poverty came as a stimulus to
exertion. It was now a matter of necessity
that he should work; and with cheerful
confidence he sketched out the plan of his
career.
His first step was to advertise in the Times
for board and lodging on moderate terms, as
their income was too small for an establishment
of their own; and Blanche had never
been initiated into the mysteries of housekeeping.
To judge from the number of answers
he received, one would imagine that a certain
class of the English people were bitten with a
singular mania—that of taking houses "too
large for them," and the consequent desire
"to part with the upper portion" to a genteel
married couple, or a quiet bachelor. Why
will people thus shirk the truth? Why not
say at once that they are poor, and want their
rent and taxes paid?
Well, among these answers there was one
which particularly struck Cecil. It was from
a widow living at Notting Hill. Omnibuses
passing the door every ten minutes; the quiet,
unpretending comforts of a home; strictest
attention to the respectability of the inmates,
and sixty pounds a year for a married couple's
board and lodging, were the inestimable
advantages offered to the advertiser. The
situation and the terms so well suited Cecil's
present position, that he determined to look at the
place.
The boarding-houses of London are of every
possible description; from splendour to pinching,
almost squalid poverty. That kept by
Mrs. Tring was a type of its class, and merits
a fuller description than I shall be able to
give of it. The first aspect of it produced a
chill upon Cecil. He had taken Blanche with
him; and on arriving they were shown into
the front parlour, with the information that
Mrs. Tring would be "down directly."
It must be a beautiful room, indeed, which
can be agreeable in such moments. I know
few things more unsatisfactory than that of
waiting for a stranger in a strange house.
But the cold, cheerless, rigid, poverty-stricken
appearance of Mrs. Tring's parlour, would
at all times have made Cecil uncomfortable:
how much more so now that he was
contemplating living there! The drab who
officiated as maid, with flaunting cap-ribands,
slip-shod feet, and fiery hands,—a synthesis of
rags and dirt,—came in to light the fire; a
proceeding which only made the room colder
and more uncomfortable than before, besides
the addition of smoke.
The parlour had a desolate appearance.
All the chairs were ranged in order against
the wainscot, as if no one had sat in them
for months. Not a book, not a bit of
needlework, not even a cat betrayed habitation.
The settled gloom seemed to have driven
away all animated beings from its prosaic
solitude. The furniture was old, dingy,
scrupulously clean, invalided, melancholy; it did
not seem as if it had been worn to its present
dinginess, but as if it had darkened under
years of silence and neglect.
The Kidderminster carpet was of a plain,
dark pattern, selected for its non-betrayal of
stains and dirt; it was faded indeed, but
in nowise worn. The hearth rug was rolled
up before the fender. In the centre of the
room was a square table, covered with a
dark-green cloth, on which some ancient ink spots
told of days when it had been used. Six
black horse-hair chairs with mahogany backs,
and one footstool retiring into a corner—a
portrait of a gentleman, executed in a style
of stern art, dark red curtains, and two large
shells upon the mantelpiece, complete the
inventory of this parlour, which in Mrs. Tring's
establishment was set apart for the
reception of visitors, and those who came to
treat with her for board and lodging.
The want of comfort of this room did not
arise from its appearance of poverty so much
as from its cold pinched look. It was a
poverty which had no poetry in it—nothing
picturesque, nor careless and hearty. Between
it and the parlour of poor people in general,
there was just the difference between a woman
dressed in a silk dress which has been dyed,
then has faded, and is now worn with a
bonnet which was once new, and a woman
dressed in plain, common, but fresh
wholesome-looking gingham, which she wears with
as much ease as if it were of the costliest
material. It had the musty smell of an
uninhabited room, and the melancholy aspect
of a room that was uninhabitable. A sordid
meanness was plainly marked upon it,
together with an attempt at "appearances,"
which showed that it was as ostentatious as
the means allowed. It was genteel and desolate.
Cecil looked at Blanche to see what
impression it had made upon her; but the mild
eyes of his beloved seemed to have noticed
nothing but his presence, which was sufficient
for her happiness. It suddenly occurred
to him, that the more wretched the
appearance of his home, the more likely would
Vyner be to relent when he heard of it; and
this thought dissipated his objections to the
place.
Mrs. Tring shortly entered, with very
evident marks of having just attired herself to
receive them. Her presence was necessary
to complete the picture; or rather, the room
formed a fitting frame for the portrait of the
mistress.
Mrs. Tring was the widow of a curate, who,
astounding and paradoxical as the fact may
appear, had not left her with an indefinite
number of destitute children. No: for the
benefit of the Statistical Society the fact shall be
recorded. Mrs. Tring, though a curate's wife,
had never borne a child; she had been left
penniless but childless. When I say penniless,
I use, of course, merely a well-sounding
word. The literal truth is, that although he
left her no money, he had left her the means
of earning a subsistence, by opening her house
as one in which single ladies, single
gentlemen, and married people could be lodged
and boarded at a very moderate sum. The
furniture was her own. Her boarders paid
her rent, taxes, dress, and little expenses; and
thus Mrs. Tring contrived to live, but not
without a hard struggle! It was barely a
subsistence, and even that was precarious.
Her personal appearance was not pleasantly
prepossessing. She was horribly thin: with a
yellow withered face, which seemed to have
been sharpened by constant struggles to gain
farthings, and constant sorrows at disbursing
pence. She wore a black net cap, and a black
silk dress, white at the seams from age, the
shape of which had outlived a thousand
fashions, and taxed the most retentive memory
to specify when it had been the mode. It was
a low dress, and a piece of net fastened by a
large brooch served to conceal her yellow
shoulders.
In manner she was stiff, uneasy, and yet
servile. She spoke with a sort of retention of
her breath, and an intensity of mildness, as if
she feared, that unless a strong restraint were
exercised, she should burst forth into
vehemence; she agreed, unreservedly, to everything
said, as if, had she ventured to contradict
a word, it would have infallibly betrayed
her temper.
To her visitors she displayed all her
amiability, and acceded to every proposition with
such good-humoured alacrity, that terms were
soon agreed upon. For the sum of sixty
pounds per annum, payable monthly in
advance, they were to have the back bed-room on
the second floor, unfurnished, and their meals
with the family: these meals to consist of a
breakfast at nine, luncheon at one, dinner at
five, and tea at eight.
"We live plainly," said Mrs. Tring, "but
wholesomely; luxuries are, of course, out of
the question, yet my inmates have always been
satisfied."
"As I have not the slightest doubt we shall
be," replied Cecil; "I like simple food. What
other inmates are there, pray?"
"The front bed-room on the second floor is
occupied by an old gentleman who was in a
government office, and is now living on his
pension: a charming person, though a little
deaf. The room next to his belongs to an
Irish widow, a Mrs. Merryweather—I don't
know whether you are acquainted with her, sir?"
Cecil smilingly replied, that he had not that
honour.
"I thought you might, sir; she has seen
a great deal of society, and is a very lively
lady. In the room above hers, we have a Miss
Bachelor, a maiden lady—very gifted, sir.
She teaches music in some of the best families.
The third back is let to a Mr. Roberts, a
young gentleman in the city, who only
breakfasts with us."
Cecil bowed on receiving this information,
which promised him that the fellow-boarders
would, at least, afford some amusement to
make up for the dreariness of the house. He
announced his intention of taking up his abode
there on the morrow. Accordingly, having
moved what furniture he possessed, with some
necessary additions, into the room he was now
to call his own, and having hired in town a
painting-room, which he fitted up for writing
as well as painting, and moved his piano into
it, he took his young bride to Mrs. Tring's
house, and there they installed themselves,
with some merriment at the shifts to which
the want of space forced them.
It was late in the evening when they took
possession, and they preferred not presenting
themselves to their fellow boarders until the
morning.
"This is a sorry home to bring you to,
dearest," he said, as the servant, having lighted
his candles and asked if he had any orders to
give, left the room.
Blanche twined her arms round his neck,
and said tenderly to him: "Can that be a
sorry home where love resides?"
"No, Blanche, no," he replied, kissing her
forehead, "I was wrong. Love creates its own
palaces; and we shall be as happy here, as if
we had a splendid seat. We are starting
anew in the world—it is well to start from low
ground, because the smallest ascent has then
its proper value. Here will I build myself a
name that shall make you an envied wife."
"I am already enviable—ought I to wish
for more?"
What a delightful evening they spent,
arranging their property in the most convenient
places, and then sitting over the fire discussing
future plans radiant in the far-off sunshine
of Hope. That little room—what a world it
was! In the corner stood their bed,—in the
centre a round table,—in another corner a
small bookcase—by the window a toilet table.
Nothing could be more cozy, they said.
O, 'tis a paradise the heaven of earth;
Didst thou but know the comfort of two hearts
In one delicious harmony united,
As to joy one joy, and think both one thought,
Live both one life, and therein double life;
To see their souls meet at an interview
In their bright eyes, at parley in their lips,
Their language kisses.*
* Chapman.--All Fools.
Next morning at breakfast Mrs. Tring's
inmates assembled, and the new comers were
duly introduced to their future companions.
The breakfast was plain, and passed off rather
uncomfortably, a feeling of restraint checking
merriment. As the boarders descended one
by one, and were presented to Cecil and his
wife, an unanimity in commonplaces formed
the staple of remark, and every one seemed
unwilling to unbend before having closely
scrutinized the new comers. Small communications
respecting the state of the health,
and of the good or bad night's rest, were
confidentially whispered in corners; while daring
prophecies on the subject of the weather were
more audibly pronounced.
Mr. Revell, the ex-official, ate in solemn
silence; Mrs. Merryweather, the lively Irish
lady, was patronizing and polite; Miss
Bachelor, as demure as a well-fed cat; Mr. Roberts,
a dapper clerk with a rosy face and well-oiled
hair, was the only person apparently
undaunted by the presence of strangers, and
rattled on with more confidence than wit,
until the half hour warned him of the
approach of his omnibus, when he buttoned his
single-breasted frock-coat up to the neck,
passed on to his red fingers a close-fitting pair
of doe-skin gloves, rolled the silk of his
umbrella into the smallest possible compass,
and departed with the indelible conviction of
being "about the neatest dressed man to be
met in a day's walk."
Breakfast did not last long. Mr. Revell
then engaged himself in assiduous study of the
second day's Times, the only vestige of a
paper which found its way into that forlorn
place. Mrs. Tring departed to look after her
household concerns, leaving her boarders to
their usual chat in the back parlour, until
their bed-rooms were ready for their reception.
Mrs. Merryweather began to unbend, and
Cecil feared that her liveliness might prove
more tiresome than her reserve. She was
a great talker of inconceivable small talk;
launched upon the endless sea of personal
reminiscence, she told stories with all the
minute detail of a professed conteur, excited
attention by the ample paraphernalia of an
anecdote, and baulked it by ending without a
point. Of all bores, this species is the worst:
it is the bore obtrusive and inevitable. Other
bores can, with some adroitness, be managed,
they do not unchain your attention; but
the story-teller fastens upon your attention
by artful preparations, and though you have
been disappointed a hundred times, experience
is of no use, for your interest is
involuntarily accorded on every succeeding
occasion.
To escape from the torrent of talk which was
thus loosened upon him, Cecil sat down to the
piano, and ran his fingers over the keys, after
which he begged Miss Bachelor to favour the
company with a taste of her quality. After
the necessary hesitation and apologies, she sat
down. From a teacher of music he anticipated
a sort of railway rattle; but Miss
Bachelor agreeably disappointed him by the
modest execution of a sonata by Dussek: it
was a mild, feeble, performance, unpretending
as the performer, and infinitely preferable to
Mrs. Merryweather's stories. He then sang
a duet with Blanche, then a solo, and then
another duet. This concluded, he observed
that Mrs. Merryweather had retired, and he
followed her example.
"I can't say much for our society," he said
to his wife, as they went out for a stroll.
"We shall not see much of it, you
know. We have our own room," replied
Blanche.
"True; but while I am at work?"
"I can think of you!"
There was no reply to this, but to press the
arm that leaned on his, closer to his side, and
to look fondly in her loving face.
During their walk, they discussed their
plans again with that inexhaustible interest
which the future always has to the young and
struggling; and they returned to dinner with
a good appetite.
A significant smile was exchanged between
Mrs. Merryweather and Miss Bachelor, and
then between the ladies and Mr. Revell, as a
handsome piece of ribs of beef was placed
upon the table. Cecil noticed it, but failed
to comprehend its meaning. He observed
also that the hostess carved, and would by no
means consent to his relieving her of the
trouble; a procedure which the exiguity of
the single slice placed upon each plate fully
explained.
"May I trouble you for a little horse-radish?"
he suddenly asked.
Mrs. Merryweather and Miss Bachelor—astonishment
snatching up their eyebrows—simultaneously
ceased eating. Mr. Revell,
whose deafness prevented his astonishment,
ate on. Ask for horse-radish! There was
something bewildering in the very extravagance
of the expectation.
In silence, they awaited Mrs. Tring's reply.
"Horse-radish!" said that lady, with intense
suavity. "Dear me! how very forgetful of
me. But we never eat it ourselves; and it
never occurred to me that you might like it.
Very forgetful; very forgetful, indeed."
"Pray, do not say a word about it. I
care very little for it—only a matter of
habit."
Emboldened by this audacity in the newcomer,
Miss Bachelor ventured to think she
could eat another cut of beef. Mrs. Tring,
scowlingly, and in the most repressed tone,
suggested the propriety of keeping a
corner for the second course; to which Miss
Bachelor assented, now fairly unable to
conceive the immensity of the revolution which
the appearance of the Chamberlaynes had
created. A second course! Visions of
pheasants—perhaps even grouse—darkened her
bewildered brain.
Mr. Revell, as usual, had heard nothing, but
sent up his plate for a second help; to all
Mrs. Tring's shouts about "keeping a corner,"
imperturbably answering, "Yes, rather well
done; and a bit of fat."
Mrs. Merryweather remembered how on
one occasion she was dining at Colonel James's
who had married an old schoolfellow of hers,
the daughter of the man who for so many
years kept the What's-the-name hotel in
Jermyn Street, where the Polish count stayed
so many weeks, and was so like Thaddeus of
Warsaw, only his name was Winsky, and he
came from Cracow, and about whom there
was that tragical story; how one night as he
was walking down Regent Street, when he
was suddenly felled by a blow on the head,
and was taken senseless to his hotel. It was
a most extraordinary occurrence, and excited
a great deal of talk at the time; but
Mrs. Merryweather could not at that instant
remember the exact circumstances. But,
however, that was neither here nor there. What
she was going to say was, that her old
school-fellow had married Colonel James—quite the
gentleman—and often invited her to dinner;
very good dinners they were too; plenty of
wine and delicacies of the season—peas when
they first came in, and all that sort of thing;
well, one day—she never could forget it, live
as long as she might—she had eaten so plentifully
of the first course, a delicious saddle of
mutton, that when the game arrived—she had
not anticipated game—she was scarcely able
to touch it; and Colonel James, with his
usual affability, observed, "Ah, Mrs. Merryweather,
you should have kept a corner for
the second course."
This thrilling anecdote being ended, the
beef was removed. Cecil was not a little
amused when he saw that an apple pudding
constituted this famous second course. But
as, in the memory of man and boarder, no
precedent for such an extravagance as pudding
with hot meat had been known at Mrs. Tring's,
the ladies were quite satisfied that
such a second course should appear at all.
The only misgiving in their minds, was
whether such cheer was to become habitual;
or was it simply an illusive and treacherous
display for that occasion only?
A Dutch cheese followed the pudding, and
there the dinner terminated.
Accustomed as Blanche and Cecil had been
to the luxuries and refinements of their
station, it may be supposed that this ignoble
boarding-house was very repugnant to them,
and that they suffered bitterly from the change.
It was not so, however. Change is so pleasant
to every human being, that, provided it
be abrupt and striking enough to produce a
vivid sense of contrast, it is eminently
agreeable. The man who most enjoys a
well-appointed table, whose pride it is to have
his dinners served with the care and
splendour bestowed upon banquets, will also
enjoy "roughing it," and picking the leg of a
fowl with no fork but his fingers, no plate
but a hunch of bread. We like from time
to time to feel ourselves superior to
conveniences, superior to our wealth and its
advantages.
The change was quite abrupt enough to
make Cecil and his wife enjoy it; and on
retiring to rest that night, they were as happy
as affection could make them.
Si modo dignum aliquid elaborare et efficere velint,
relinquenda conversatio amicorum
et jucunditas urbis, deserenda
cetera officia, utque ipsi dicunt,
in nemora et lucos, id est, in
solitudinem recedendum est.
TACITUS.—De Oratoribus.
The splendours of the first day were never
renewed. Exhausted munificence sank quietly
back into ancient close-fistedness. Mrs. Tring
had given one banquet, but every day was not
to be a holiday, as Mrs. Merryweather and Miss
Bachelor mournfully confessed, when, on the
succeeding morning, they found themselves
returned to the salt butter, drenched tea, and
implacable coffee, from which they had been
one morning released. Still more dolorous
was the aspect of the dinner. A return was
made to the primitive allowance of one potato
for each person, and the bread was as stale as
before.
Cecil was of course chary of making complaints,
but as he could not eat salt butter, quietly
contented himself with dry toast: a proceeding
which gained him the respect of Mrs. Tring, as
it saved just so much butter. It was an
ill-advised act, however, as it gave her the courage
to make several other petty retrenchments—too
petty for him to speak about—yet, nevertheless,
annoying. He had not been there a
fortnight before he determined on not staying
beyond the three months for which he had
taken his room. Having thus made up his
mind that the annoyances were but temporary,
he was enabled to bear them with tolerable
stoicism.
Mrs. Tring had to make a living out of her
boarders, and as she accepted such very low
terms, the reader may imagine what nice
calculations and minute economies were necessary.
The house was, indeed, a field of battle,
wherein, by adroit generalship, she every day
gained a victory. The living was pitiable, and
Cecil was forced, in self-defence, to keep a
small provision in a store closet, from which he
and his wife satisfied the appetite which
Mrs. Tring's fare had stimulated, not appeased. It
sometimes went so far as his sending out for a
chop, which he cooked in his little room, over
his dwarf fire. Nevertheless, with all the extra
expenses into which scanty fare forced him,
the place was remarkably convenient from its
cheapness; and they both supported the little
discomforts with happy light-heartedness.
Cecil was full of projects. He had begun a
picture of considerable pretensions, the
conception of which was not without grandeur: it
was Nero playing while he gazed upon the
blazing city of Rome. He had also sketched
the libretto of a comic opera, of which he was
to write both words and music. Gay and
lighthearted as the hopeful and employed
always are, the best qualities of his nature were
brought out, and Blanche adored him, if
possible, more than ever. Work—which was given
to man that he might learn to know his excellence,
and to know the pleasure which attends
the full development of every faculty—work
crowded the hours with significance, and gave
to life a purpose; and Love illumined with its
sunshine the difficult path which stretched
itself before him. Never, no never, had Cecil
known happiness till that time. He had
squandered the riches of his nature as he had
squandered the heritage of his parents; and
now he came to know the value of what he had
lost. A serious ambition occupied him, a
happy affection blessed him.
Oh! who shall paint the luminous picture of
their quiet life, which, to ordinary eyes, was so
prosaic and insignificant! In that miserable
house, where meanness hourly struggled with
adversity, there was a small room, which was
parlour, bed-room, and sometimes kitchen, all
in one; and from the contemplation of which,
when you were told that in it lived a pair who
had been reared in luxury and refinement, you
would have turned away with painful pity.
Yet were the secret history of that seemingly
unfortunate pair known, your pity would
change into envy, as those four miserable
walls changed into a temple of Love, Youth,
and Hope.
Poverty—a word of terror—is only terrible
to the rich. The poor are not really the
unhappy, for happiness is wholly independent of
our worldly goods and chattels. If poverty has
its hardships, wealth has its annoyances. If
wealth can satisfy caprices, when satisfied they
do not give the same delight as the cheap
enjoyments from time to time indulged in by
the poor. All things are precious in proportion
to the difficulty of obtaining them, and the
very facilities of wealth take from enjoyments
their zest.
What makes poverty terrible is its proximity
to want. And as want itself is often a thing of
degree, the rich imagine that any deprivation
of their accustomed indulgences must necessarily
be a serious evil. But, in truth, the
human mind is so constituted as to adapt itself
to every condition, and to draw from its own
health the requisites of happiness.
Blanche and Cecil were poor, but they had
visions of future wealth and prosperity; meanwhile
they had the glorious certainty of mutual
affection, which irradiated their humble home,
and made each hour of their lives worth more
than all Peru could purchase.
One morning while Cecil was in his studio,
smoking a cigar and contemplating the sketch
of his picture on the easel, with the air of a
man who profoundly meditates on the details
of a great conception, Blanche was in her
room at Notting-hill, making the essence of
coffee with a French machine, which they had
purchased (unable to drink the incomprehensible
mixture Mrs. Tring set before them)
when a carriage drove up to the door. Blanche
did not hear it, as her room was situated at
the back. It was with great surprise, therefore,
that she saw her mother and Rose rush
into the room, and bound into her arms.
After the first hearty embraces and
inquiries were over, Blanche became aware of the
condition in which she was found, and blushed.
It was not that she herself felt ashamed of
her poverty, but she was hurt at the reflections
which must necessarily arise in their minds
respecting the folly of her marriage; so she
hastened, in rather a precipitate and clumsy
manner, to assure them how exquisitely happy
she was.
"Thank God for that!" exclaimed Mrs. Meredith
Vyner. "Then I have nothing to
reproach myself with for not having
interfered—for not putting a stop to Cecil's
attentions—which I very early noticed, let me tell
you. The only thing I now desire is to bring
your papa round; but he is so obstinate! I
do my utmost—but I almost begin to fear that
my intercession only makes him more
resolved; and I suspect if we were never to
mention the subject to him, he would relent
very speedily. But depend upon me, my dear,
for looking after your interests."
"Dearest mama!" said Blanche, gratefully
kissing her.
"As soon as I see him relenting, I will
contrive to throw him in your way—and you can
then manage him yourself—but do not attempt
to see him till I give you the word."
"I will be guided by you."
Rose was unusually grave and silent.
Blanche noticed it, and noticed also that she
looked ill.
"I have been unwell," Rose said; "but I
am getting better now. A slight fever, that
is all."
"And how is Marmaduke Ashley?" asked Blanche.
"Very well; we saw him yesterday; in
fact we see him very often now," Mrs. Vyner
answered; "somehow or other he has always
some commission to execute for one of us,
and as he is an agreeable companion, we make
much of him."
"And how gets on the flirtation with Violet?"
"Why—pretty much as usual. I suspect
it is only a flirtation just yet; or else he is
kept at a respectful distance, for you know
dear Violet is not the most affable of
beauties."
"And Julius, Rose, how is he?"
"Indeed, I cannot tell you," quietly answered
Rose.
"You can't! What! do you mean to say,
Rose, that——."
"He is in Italy, I believe," she said,
interrupting her sister, but showing no more
emotion on her face than if she were speaking
of the most indifferent person.
Blanche was not deceived, however; she
knew her sister's love for Julius, and divined
a quarrel.
"That is the slight fever!" she mentally
exclaimed; and then comparing her lot with
that of her two sisters, felt it was infinitely
preferable.
After a two hours' chat, they rose to depart.
The real purpose of Mrs. Vyner's visit was
to give Blanche fifty pounds, which her father
had sent her, in accordance with the arranged
plan that she was to suppose it came from her
mother.
"And now before I go, dear Blanche,"
said Mrs. Vyner, "I have to give you an
earnest of your not being forgotten by me,
however your father may act. Money from
him, he vows, is out of the question; he will
not give a sixpence. But out of my own
privy purse, I shall from time to time take
care of you. There, dear girl, take that;
The gift is sma', but love is a'.
I have set aside this fifty pounds——"
She was interrupted by Blanche throwing
her arms round her neck, and hugging her
tightly, while tears of gratitude stood in her
eyes, and she murmured "Dearest, kindest,
mama!"
Rose, who was equally taken by surprise at
this coup-de-theatre, also sprang up and kissed
her mother, exclaiming,—
"Oh! I wish Violet were here!"
Mrs. Vyner understood the wish, and looked
delighted.
"One day," she said, with the meekness of
a martyr, "she will learn to know me."
It was an exciting scene. Blanche and
Rose were affected, as kind hearts always are
at any action which bears the stamp of
kindness; and Mrs. Vyner was affected, as most
people are when they have done a generous
action, with a certain inward glow of noble
pleasure.
For do not suppose that she remembered
at this moment whence the money actually
came. Not she. In her excitable mind, the
means were lost in the end. She had given
the money, she had aroused the gratitude of
the two girls, and as far as her feeling of the
matter went, she felt just as if the money had
been hers. Indeed, so truly was she possessed
with this idea, so actually generous did
she feel in that moment of excitement, that
on opening her purse to take out the notes,
she found another ten-pound note beside it,
really her own, and taking it also out she said
as she presented it,—
"There, you may as well have that too—you
will find plenty of use for it—and I shall
not miss it. There. Only be happy, and
trust in me."
The sudden impulse which led her to do
this—to complete as it were the action which
she had begun with such applause—to
redouble the effect of what had already been
created—will be understood by all who have
known, and knowing have analyzed, such
characters as Mrs. Vyner; to others it will
appear a gross inconsistency.
Or fia dunque giammai, che tu, Ozio, possi esser grato
veramente, se non quando succedi a degne occupazioni. L'ozio
vile et inerte voglio, che ad un animo generoso sia la maggior
fatica, che aver egli possa, se non gli rappresenta dopo lodabile
esercizio e lavoro.
GIORDANO BRUNO.—Spaccio.
The consequences of this little scene were
manifold.
"Papa," said Violet to her father on the
following day, "you have done what I knew
you would do, and what I accept as a presage
for the future."
"And what is that, my dear?"
"Sent Blanche some money."
"Who told you so?" exclaimed he, greatly
surprised.
"I divined it," she answered, with a quiet
smile.
"You ... you are mistaken, Violet, ... I
send ... I have renounced her."
"Yes, but your heart speaks for her in
secret, and in secret you send money. Though
I question whether sixty pounds..."
"Fifty," interrupted her father.
"Oh, then, you did know of it?" she said,
archly.
Meredith Vyner bit his lip.
"Sixty was the sum Mama gave, at any
rate, because Rose, who was present, told me so."
"Kind, generous creature!" ejaculated
Vyner. "She must have added the other
ten from her own purse. Violet, you have
guessed aright, but keep the secret, unless
you wish me to withhold even my underhand
charity from your wretched sister."
Violet promised to do so; but how great
was her scorn of her mother's hypocrisy, when
she thus found her suspicions verified! From
her knowledge of her father and mother, she
had at once guessed the real state of the case,
and confusedly, but strongly, suspected the
motive of the latter.
This was the way in which their mutual
hatred was nourished. Violet was not a dupe,
and her mother saw that she was not.
On Cecil, the influence of this gift was
fatal.
"This comes most fortunately," he said;
"for not only do I now begin to see that
our income is barely sufficient to meet our
scanty expenditure, but the more I advance
in my 'Nero,' the more am I impressed with
the necessity for not hurrying it. All great
works demand time and labour. Were I to
hurry the execution I should spoil it, and
too much depends upon success for me to
be precipitate."
He was sincere in saying so; he was his
own dupe in asserting that what he most
needed was ample leisure in which to elaborate
his conception. He caught at the excuse
offered to his idleness, and like all men, covered
his weakness in the imposing folds of an
aphorism. The brain is singularly fertile in
inventing plausible reasons to excuse weaknesses.
Labour is a sublime necessity: it is beneficence
under a rude aspect. But although so
beneficent to man, it is radically antipathetic
to his nature. All men are constrained to work.
Poverty or ambition are the invariable
taskmasters, and it is only by dint of the strong
stimulus of want, or the stronger dictates of
indomitable will, that human nature, vagabond
as are its tendencies, can be made to persevere
in the tasks set before it.
What wonder, then, if men under all
conditions avidly seize upon every occasion
which enables them for a moment to escape
from the tyranny of work? What wonder if
this weak, wayward, susceptible Cecil, who had
laboured cheerily under the impulsion of
necessity, now forgot the sweet delights of his
daily task, and relapsed into his old habits of
dreaming idleness?
There was no longer any remarkable hurry.
His daily existence did not depend upon the
immediate accomplishment of his task. He
could wait, he could mature his plans, he could
work only when the inspiration came to him;
there was no need to harass an unwilling;
brain, he could bide his time. To any one
who knew him, it would be easy to foresee
that from the moment he was released from
the immediate necessity of labour, his time
would be frittered away in sterile efforts. It
is only genius, which, goaded by an irresistible
inward impulse to transmute into art all that
it has felt, labours with courageous love, and
sings because it cannot choose but sing. Talent
of every kind needs an external stimulus, and
Cecil was a man of talent, not a man of genius.
Blanche confirmed him in his opinions;
partly, perhaps, out of sincere belief in him
and in all he said, which made her think he
could not be in error; partly, also, out of a
little egotism of love which made her rejoice
in every hour that he could snatch from labour
to spend at her side. He was so loveable,
that she would deserve pardon, even if her
sex's ignorance of life had not concealed from
her the enormity of her fault. There was
something so caressing in his manner, that few
people withstood it; and to her he was the
perfection of tenderness, delicacy and
amiability. Persons of his lively, susceptible
organization, are usually fascinating in their
manners—there is a laisser aller (which in him
was tempered with perfect good breeding), a
frankness, a gaiety, and a general consideration
for the feelings and opinions of others, founded
on a desire of universal approbation, which
create more regard than great qualities in a
less agreeable exterior. If he was charming
to others, what was he to the wife he loved!
She wished to have him with her, and he
was but too glad to gratify her wish. A little
excursion to Richmond occupied one day; a
visit to some Exhibition broke in upon another.
There were always pleasant walks and satisfactory
excuses. He was not idle, he said; his
brain was working, his ideas were gradually
becoming clearer; the details stood out more
distinctly in his imagination; and 'Nero' would
benefit by this delay.
The effect of alms is always enervating,
however it may relieve a present want; and the
contributions of Mrs. Vyner were a species of
alms. This was the case with Cecil. His sense
of independence—his healthy confidence in
his own powers—becomes destroyed. Had
Vyner made a distinct allowance to his
daughter, it would have then formed a certain
part of their income, and Cecil would have no
more relaxed his efforts than he did when his
own small but definite income was all he could
rely on. But this uncertain charity—this
indefinite alms-giving which Mrs. Vyner's
first gift seemed to indicate, had the injurious
effect of all unascertained indeterminate
assistance: it made Cecil rely on it as on a
fund.
In this mental analysis I am exhibiting
motives in all their nudity, but the reader will
not suppose that because I drag them into the
light of day, they were as clear to Cecil, in
whose breast they were enveloped in the
sophisms and obscurities with which men hide
from themselves their own infirmities.
As Cecil sat after breakfast smoking his
cigars, and watching the graceful involutions
of the clouds he puffed before him, he honestly
believed that he was not wasting his time.
Because he occasionally arrested his wandering
thoughts, and fixed them on his plans for
'Nero,' or for his Comic Opera, he fancied he
was maturing them. He mistook reveries for
meditation. And because in those hours of
pensive idleness he made but trifling progress
in the elaboration of his plans, he imagined
that elaboration must necessarily be slow, and
demanded more time. Thus his very infirmity
was alimented, and each day's error
only made the original mistake more plausible.
Who has indulged in all the enchantment of
the world of reverie, wherein materials are so
plastic, and triumphs are so easy,—when man
seems to be endowed with the god-like privilege
of creation, and his thoughts take shape
without an effort, passing from the creative
mind into the created act, without the hard
obstacle of a medium,—who is there, I say,
that, having known such intellectual triumph,
has not felt humbled and discouraged when,
descending from the region of reverie and
intention, to that of reality and execution, he has
become aware of the immensity of labour, of
hard resolute labour to be undergone before
he can incarnate his ideas into works? The
unwritten poems—the unpainted pictures—the
unnoted melodies are, it is often said,
transcendantly superior to those poems, pictures, and
melodies which artists succeed in producing.
Perhaps so; but the world justly takes no
account of unaccomplished promises, of unfought
victories. What it applauds is the actual victory
won in earnest struggle with difficulty; the
heroes it crowns are those who have enriched
them with trophies, not those who might have
done so.
But Cecil was content to dream of victory—to
"dally with the faint surmise" of beauty—to
plan, to hope, to dream—but not to act.
He would stand before his easel, looking at his
canvass, or playing listlessly with the colours
on his palette, but never boldly using his
pencil; and because "ideas" did not come to
him in that irresolute mood, he threw the
palette down, lighted a cigar, and declared
himself unfit for work that day.
He then would seat himself at the piano to
try if Euterpe were more propitious. His
fingers running over the keys would naturally
suggest to him some melody that he liked; it
was played, of course, or a fragment of it—then
another fragment; then he began to sing—his
voice was good, and it pleased him to hear it.
In this way another hour or so would pass, and
he would then take up his hat and stroll out.
Day after day was this miserable farce of
"awaiting inspiration" played with the same
success.
Enthusiastic artists and critics will assuredly
award him their esteem, and proclaim him a
genuine artist—a real genius—when they hear
that Cecil had a profound contempt for
"mechanical fellows," who sat down to their work
whether under "inspiration," or under the
mere impulse to finish what they have begun.
He was really eloquent in his scorn of the
"drudges." Genius, in his eyes, was a divine
caprice. It came and went in moments of
excitement: a sort of intermittent phrenzy.
Being a scholar, he entirely approved of
Plato's theory to that effect, as developed in
the dialogue of Ion. The business of an artist
was consequently to await those moments, and
then to set himself to work, when his soul was
stung to ecstacy by overpowering visions of
beauty.
There is, in the present day, an overplus of
raving about genius, and its prescriptive rights
of vagabondage, its irresponsibility, and its
insubordination to all the laws of common
sense. Common sense is so prosaic! Yet it
appears from the history of art that the real
men of genius did not rave about anything of
the kind. They were resolute workers, not
idle dreamers. They knew that their genius
was not a phrenzy, not a supernatural thing at
all, but simply the colossal proportions of
faculties which in a lesser degree, the meanest
of mankind shared with them. They knew
that whatever it was, it would not enable them
to accomplish with success the things they
undertook, unless they devoted their whole
energies to the task.
Would Michael Angelo have built St. Peter's,
sculptured the Moses, and made the walls of
the Vatican sacred with the presence of his
gigantic pencil, had he awaited inspiration
while his works were in progress. Would
Rubens have dazzled all the galleries of Europe,
had he allowed his brush to hesitate? would
Beethoven and Mozart have poured out their
souls into such abundant melodies? would
Göthe have written the sixty volumes of his
works,—had they not often, very often, sat down
like drudges to an unwilling task, and found
themselves speedily engrossed with that to
which they were so averse?
"Use the pen," says a thoughtful and subtle
author, "there is no magic in it; but it keeps
the mind from staggering about!"* This is an
aphorism which should be printed in letters of
gold over the studio door of every artist. Use
the pen or the brush; do not pause, do not
trifle, have no misgivings; but keep your mind
from staggering about by fixing it resolutely
on the matter before you, and then all that
you can do you will do: inspiration will not
enable you to do more. Write or paint: act,
do not hesitate. If what you have written or
painted should turn out imperfect, you can
correct it, and the correction will be more
efficient than that correction which takes place
in the shifting thoughts of hesitation. You
will learn from your failures infinitely more
than from the vague wandering reflections of
a mind loosened from its moorings; because
the failure is absolute, it is precise, it stands
bodily before you, your eyes and judgment
cannot be juggled with, you know whether a
certain verse is harmonious, whether the rhyme
is there or not there; but in the other case
you not only can juggle with yourself but do
so, the very indeterminateness of your thoughts
makes you do so; as long as the idea is not
positively clothed in its artistic form, it is
impossible accurately to say what it will be.
The magic of the pen lies in the concentration
of your thoughts upon one object. Let your
pen fall, begin to trifle with blotting-paper,
look at the ceiling, bite your nails, and
otherwise dally with your purpose, and you waste
your time, scatter your thoughts, and repress
the nervous energy necessary for your task.
Some men dally and dally, hesitate and trifle
until the last possible moment, and when the
printer's boy is knocking at the door, they
begin: necessity goading them, they write
with singular rapidity, and with singular
success; they are astonished at themselves. What
is the secret? Simply this; they have had no
time to hesitate. Concentrating their powers
upon the one object before them, they have
done what they could do.
Impatient reader! if I am tedious, forgive
me. These lines may meet the eyes of some
to whom they are specially addressed, and may
awaken thoughts in their minds not unimportant
to their future career.
Forgive me, if only because I have taken
what is called the prosaic side! I have not
flattered the shallow sophisms which would
give a gloss to idleness and incapacity. I have
not availed myself of the splendid tirades, so
easy to write, about the glorious privileges of
genius. My "preaching" may be very
ineffectual, but at any rate it advocates the
honest dignity of labour; let my cause excuse
my tediousness.
These are the arts, Lothario, which shrink acres
Into brief yards—bring sterling pounds to farthings,
Credit to infamy; and the poor gull,
Who might have lived an honoured easy life,
To ruin and an unregarded grave.
Beaumont and Fletcher.
Cecil was rattling away on his piano one
afternoon, fancying he was composing, when
the door opened, and in walked a gentleman
enveloped in a pea-coat, whom Cecil saluted
warmly as Frank Forrester; and after endless
questions and vociferous laughter on both
sides, they both sat down to indulge in rapid
biographical reminiscences from the time of
their last meeting.
Frank Forrester was, in every sense of the
word, a man about town. He was tall and
well-made, and when young must have been
handsome. Although not yet forty, he looked
much older, from the effects of constant
debauchery. You could not look at him
without misgivings. His well-shaped head was
bald from the forehead to the crown, and this
baldness he vainly endeavoured to conceal by
carefully combing the thin long hair over it
which grew at the sides, and which he allowed
to grow very long for that purpose. I don't
know why, but there is always something
particularly unpleasant in this endeavour to
conceal baldness: it is a subterfuge which
deceives no one, but which is resented as an
attempt to deceive. In Forrester's case,
perhaps, there was mingled a disagreeable
conviction that he was too young to be bald in
the ordinary course of things; and those thin
straggling hairs were all that had withstood
the midnight fevers and the morning headaches
of his reckless life. His deep-lined
brow and finely arched eyebrows surmounted
two light greenish-grey eyes, not unlike those
of a fox in expression. A dark rim, encircling
those eyes, spoke plainly in confirmation of
the bald head, and was further strengthened
by the sallow complexion, stained by a hundred
orgies. His mouth was large, (the upper
lip adorned with a manly moustache carefully
trimmed and combed,) and displayed teeth
which a shark might not have disowned.
His nose was high and haughty—curved like
those of the race of Israel—a nose that
commanded the other features, and which sounded
like a trumpet when he blew it.
He was dressed in a style, which, though
heterogeneous in its details, had a certain
homogeneity of effect. A black-satin stock,
the falls of which were united by two enormous
turquoise pins chained together; a blue
pea-jacket, such as only sailors formerly permitted
themselves, covered his frock-coat. Very
staring plaid trousers, cut gaiter-wise, to fit
tight over the instep of his bottes vernies,
completed his attire, if we add yellow kid gloves,
and a resplendent gold and crystal mounted
cane made out of the sword of a sword-fish.
This somewhat slang costume was worn in
such a manner that it did not seem slang.
Forrester had the "air of a gentleman,"
which carried off more perilous things than
his costume. He looked, indeed, something
of a blackleg; but it was the nobleman turned
blackleg.
Frank Forrester was not exactly a leg, he
was rather a sponge. Not over scrupulous in
borrowing money, he never directly cheated.
To ask for a cool hundred which he was certain
of never repaying, which, indeed, he never
intended to repay, was not in his eyes
dishonourable; but to cheat at cards or dice was
a crime with which he had never even sullied
his imagination. The son of an undertaker,
well to do in the world, he had been brought
up as most boys are brought up, with a slight
infusion of religion administered in weekly
doses, and a wavering code of ethics
enunciated and illustrated in a random and
somewhat contradictory manner. When his father
died he found himself at the head of a thriving
business which he detested, and in possession
of a good round sum of money, which he did
not class in the same category as the business.
Gifted with a jovial and genial humour, great
animal spirits, and the audacity of a parvenu,
he very quickly "realized," i.e. disposed of
the business, and began his merry career.
While he was spending his money he made
some acquaintances, and learned some experience,
which enabled him, when all was spent,
to turn his acquisitions to advantage, and
make them support him. Like the noble
spendthrift turned blackleg, he lost a fortune
in acquiring the dexterity to gain one; or,
rather, learned from those who sponged upon
him how he could sponge on others.
Never was there a more agreeable sponge,
and no wonder that affluent greenhorns,
desirous of "seeing life," should be glad to see it
under his auspices and in his company. It could
not be too highly paid. It was well worth the
champagne and cool hundred. If a young
booby must squander away the hard-won earnings
of a careful father, it was right, Frank said,
that he should have some pleasure for his money,
and how was that pleasure to be obtained? By
money? Not a bit of it! By science; and he,
Frank, understood the science of spending, and
"flattered himself that he did know how to
make the hours roll swiftly and smoothly,
provided any one were ready to grease the wheels."
Frank knew everything, and could do everything,
that a man about town is expected to
know or do. He was unequalled at billiards,
strong at whist and écarté, adroit at hazard,
great in culinary and cellar knowledge, knew
London as well as his alphabet, and, as he
expressed it, could give the most knowing "a
wrinkle or two on some point or other."
One of his "wrinkles" is worth specifying.
He was the first who ever got into parliament
by the simple and ingenious procedure which
has since had several imitators. He stood for
a borough (which, for weighty reasons, shall
be nameless), where he was an utter stranger.
It was one of those admirable boroughs where
the workings of our electioneering system
are shown to perfection, since almost every
voter had his price. So notoriously corrupt
was it, that one of the candidates unblushingly
announced on his placards:—
"Electors! Remember this: those who vote for
* * * will not go unrewarded!"
It was a compact little borough, purchaseable
at a price not difficult to calculate. The
astonishment of Frank Forrester's friends,
when they heard of his standing for * * * may
be conceived. He replied that he was sure
patriotism, pure unmixed British independence,
was the thing voters wished for now-a-days.
His placards were flaming with splendid
sentences. His speeches were worthy of Cato of
Utica. Not a man did he bribe; not a drop
of beer did he allow.
"Lor, sir!" said an independent voter to
him, "it's no use your standing if so be you're
not good for a drop o' drink. We always
expects a little, 'lectioneering time."
"My good friend," replied Frank, drawing
himself up, magnificent in virtue, "you have
utterly mistaken me. I scorn to influence any
one. If my principles do not speak for me, I
am content to be rejected. If the voters are
desirous of having a real representative—one
who reflects their passions, echoes their
prejudices, advocates their interests, and argues
their causes—I am the man. If they want
one who will buy their votes—whose hold is
not on their convictions, but on their cupidity,
I am not—I say emphatically, I am not their
man!"
The baffled voter shook his head dubiously,
and muttered, "Well, well, it won't do, it
won't do!"
"It shall do!" majestically retorted Frank.
And it came to pass as the voter said, and as
Frank said.
The returning officer announced that Frank
Forrester, Esq., had obtained eleven votes.
"Electors!" said Frank, with imperturbable
gravity, "I thank you for the confidence you
have displayed.—(A laugh.) I repeat it—I
thank you! You have returned my rival, and
by an overwhelming majority—I hope your
confidence there has not been misplaced. For
myself, I still cherish the hope of one day
representing you.—(Hear! hear! and cries of
Try the tin next time!) Upon what do I found
that hope? Upon the sincerity of my
principles! You have witnessed how little I
attempted to cajole or bribe you.—(More fool
you! shouted several.) I have bought no
man's vote.—(Howls of contempt.) Yet you have
unsought, unbought, given me eleven votes.
Electors! on those eleven votes I build my
hope—I may say, my certainty—of representing
you. This imposing minority suffices my
ambition."
Only the eleven voters, to whom he had
communicated his plan of action, and one or
two of his special friends, appreciated the
irony which was concealed by the magnificent
buffoonery of this address. But the mystery
was soon revealed. Frank petitioned against
his antagonist's return. The upshot was, that
the liberal briber —— was convicted of
corruption, his election annulled, and Frank, on
the shoulders of his "imposing minority," was
carried into parliament.
Frank Forrester, as an M.P., was the
torment of the whigs, who were never sure of
his vote. Although, therefore, his name is
not to be found in Hansard; although he
neither made a motion, nor seconded one
during the whole of his parliamentary career;
times were so "ticklish," that his vote was of
importance, and he made the most of it by
never absenting himself from a division, and
by the impossibility of parties calculating
on which side he would vote. This power
he converted into patronage, and many were
the little clerkships and small situations which
he was enabled to bestow on deserving young
men; whether he was actuated by pure
philanthropy towards the young men, or by a
desire for the establishment of closer
commercial relations with their parents, he never
disclosed; but it was observable that the
young men had invariably substantial ready
money fathers, and that Frank was invariably
more assiduous at chicken-hazard after those
acts of well-timed patronage.
Frank belonged to a stylish club, and had
a numerous set of acquaintances; but they
were almost exclusively males. A good fellow—a
jolly dog—a knowing card—and a loose
fish: those were the appellatives by which he
was usually distinguished. He lived upon
confiding young men, and an occasional turn
of the wheel of fortune. He had always some
new acquaintance—or rather, let me say, some
inseparable friend, whom he introduced into
the glories and pleasures of "life." This
friendship was inviolable as long as the young
man's property lasted; but as soon as the
silly gull began to request repayment of loans,
or to lower himself in his patron's eyes, by
retrenchment of his expenditure, then Frank
was either called away from London for a
few weeks, or discovered some splendid young
fellow who really never allowed him a moment's
leisure. Frank seldom quarrelled with
his victims—he wanted heartlessness for that:
and he never "cut" them.
Frank had "formed" Cecil, and as, when
completely formed, Cecil had gone abroad,
leaving Frank with a richer pupil, no shadow
had darkened their friendship; and on Cecil's
return, he found the same jovial hearty manner,
in spite of his dilapidated means. This
convinced him of Frank's regard, and from that
moment he had made him the chosen
confidant of all his schemes.
No man can be a great enemy, but under the name of a
friend; if you are a cuckold, it is your friend only that makes
you so, for your enemy is not admitted to your house; if you
are cheated in your fortune, 'tis your friend that does it, for
your enemy is not made your trustee; if your honour or good
name is injured, 'tis your friend that does it still, for your
enemy is not believed against you.
WYCHERLEY.—Plain Dealer.
"Well, Frank, and how goes the world with
you?" said Cecil, after having made him
acquainted with the present state of his affairs.
"Tollollish!" replied Frank. "I have an
ingenious youth in training, who, I am sorry to
say, is nearly trained or drained. Picked him
up abroad—genus snob, very distinct! But
snob's money I find quite as available as any
other. I was going from Verviers to Cologne
this summer, when in the deserted first-class
carriage into which I ensconced myself, there
stepped a flaxen-haired youth, of the unmistakeable
"gent" style—the only real substitute
for a "gentleman." He was soon after followed
by a lathy boy, all skin and bone, with trousers
either shrunk by washing, or considerably
outgrown, and fastened with immeasureable straps.
The swagger of this boy was worth money to
see. He entered into familiar conversation at
once, and favoured me with some biographical
particulars, which were eminently trivial. At
last he took out his cigar-case, and offering it
to me, with an air of exquisite assumption
said,—
"Do you do anything in this way?"
"Not so early in the day."
"Lord, it doesn't matter to me what's the
time o' day, I'm always ready to blow a cloud,
I can tell you."
"Indeed," said I, with perfect gravity.
"Oh, yes. Do try one. I dare say it won't
disagree with you. It's all fancy."
"You seem to be a fast fellow."
"I believe you."
"Do you come from London?"
"No; I'm a Southampton boy. We do it
in prime style there, I can tell you."
"Oh, you do?"
"Don't we, that's all!"
"Were those trousers built in Southampton?—they're
devilish stylish—so uncommon, too!"
"Yes," replied the innocent youth, in all the
verdure of his nature. "Yes, they were built
at Southampton—but I don't call them
anything—merely put on to travel in—you should see
my fawn kerseys and my plaids!"
"What, better cut?"
"Oh, no comparison."
"I should like very much to have your
Schneider's address. I am going to Southampton
on my return to England. I suppose
if I were to mention your name——"
"Lord, yes, that would be sure to do it. But
he isn't a cheap tailor, mind you."
The "gent" was leaning his head out of
window, nearly suffocated with suppressed
laughter, and from time to time encouraging
me with fierce winks to proceed.
"There," said my lathy patron, "I have
written his address on one of my cards—just
show him my name, and you'll find it all
right."
"Pray, sir," I asked, as if suddenly eager in
poultry, "when you left Southampton, what
was the price of a young goose?"
This was too much for the "gent," who
burst out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
The viridity of the Southampton youth was
great, but this laughter opened his eyes. He
coloured, and exclaimed,—
"Oh, you want to chaff, do you? But it
won't do. I sha'n't bite. I'm not such a fool
as I look."
"That's very possible—Heaven forbid you
should be!" said I; whereupon a fresh burst of
laughter from snob primus, who vowed that the
youth was "sold."
At the next station, lath left our carriage;
and "gent" instantly began expressing to me
his delight at the way I had "sold the snob;"
which led to his becoming in turn communicative,
and informing me that he had just
"sacked a little tin," which it was his intention
"to spend like a brick." From that moment I
took him into my confidence. I have trained
him. I have taught him how to dine—which
he had once imagined consisted in eating what
money could procure. I have taught him to
live. He is no longer a snob; at least, he
doesn't betray himself. But—and, damn my
whiskers! this is the sad part of the business—it
is the way with so many of them—now, just
as he is becoming companionable, his purse is
running low."
Frank sighed as he thus finished his tale, but
quickly changing the subject, he said,—
"Come, let's take a turn, and look in at the
club."
"No, Frank, I must work."
"Nonsense! What's the use of puddling all
day over your work—you only stupify yourself.
Come."
"There's some truth in what you say, I
believe; the brain gets muddled by long
application. Yet my picture isn't half finished
yet—half!—not a quarter."
"Never mind; leave it for to-day. Damn
my whiskers! I must have you to-day."
Cecil's irresolution was soon conquered; he
took his hat, and went out with his chum.
They strolled down to the club, where Cecil
had not shown himself since his marriage. The
heartiness of his welcome greatly flattered him;
he felt that he was a favourite; success cheered
him; his spirits rose; he became unusually
brilliant.
"You must dine with us to-day, Cis," said
Frank.
"Impossible, my dear fellow."
"Don't know the word, Cis. I have said
you dine with us—four—jolly party; and you
dine: damn my whiskers!"
"But my wife——."
"Well? Inestimable Benedict, you are not
tied to her apron-string, are you? You have
not submitted to the tyranny of the weaker
sex? You are master?"
"I am; certainly I am; but——."
"You have never dined from home before.
You shake your head. Very well, now is the
time to begin."
"My dear Frank, you must know me well
enough to know that I should have no scruple
in following my own wishes; and although I
have not yet dined from home, I have no sort
of fear that when I choose to do it, my wife
will make a remark. But in the present case
she will be alarmed—she has no idea of my
coming down here. My hours have been very
regular, and if I were not to present myself at
five o'clock, she would be seriously concerned
about me."
"Yes, yes, it's always by that unnecessary
'concern' that women begin. What the devil
is there to be concerned about? The sooner
you accustom her to the accidents of life—to
the impromptu parties and unexpected
absences—the smoother will your life be."
"When you are married, Frank, you can
manage as you please, but for me your system
won't do. I love my wife, and my constant
care is to make her happy."
Frank looked at him with an indescribable
mixture of astonishment, incredulity, and pity;
then, as a thought seemed to occur to him
said,—
"But look here, Cis, the thing is easy. Just
scribble a line to tell her not to expect you,
that you are dining at the club, and one of
the men shall take it. Will that satisfy you?"
"Perfectly."
"Then do it."
Cecil wrote thus:—
"MY OWN SWEET PET!
"Do not wait dinner for me to-day, as I
am forced to dine with some influential people
at the club. But I shall hurry away as soon
as possible, and be with you before ten. A
hundred kisses.
"CECIL."
The dinner was excellent, and the guests in
high spirits. The "influential people" of
whom Cecil spoke, were the great Frank
himself, young Hudson (the youth in training and
the amphytrion), and Tom Chetsom, jolly Tom
Chetsom. The wines were not spared; and
by the time the smoking-room was sought for
a quiet cigar and cup of coffee, to assist the
slow elaborate digestion of those who had
dined well, Cecil was in that peculiar state
which I would christen moral drunkenness.
He was not tipsy: nor near it. His walk was
as steady, his eye as free in its movements, his
vision as undisturbed as before dinner. But
although neither in his gait nor conversation
he betrayed the least influence of wine, yet
within he felt a sort of torpor—the strong
desire for a sensation which makes men reckless
how they procure it, and which makes them
passively adopt any plan likely to arouse them
from the heavy deadening lethargy in which
their faculties are enveloped.
The smoking-room soon became intolerable
to him. He wanted movement—excitement.
The theatre was proposed. They went. But
the heat, the glare of the lights, the dazzle, and
confusion of the whole place, made Cecil
worse. They left the house.
"What shall we do?" said jolly Tom
Chetsom, as they stood under the portico of Drury-lane.
Hudson proposed the Coal-Hole; but Frank
reminding him that it was too early, he was
distinctly of opinion that he should not go
home till morning, till daylight did appear.
"I tell you what, Tom," said Frank, "isn't
it one of Hester's soirées to-night? Suppose
we go there: she'll be charmed to know Cis—he's
half a literary man, and wholly a painter."
"Good idea!" said Tom. "Will you go,
Chamberlayne?"
"Anywhere. Let's start."
"Come along, then."
And they drove to Cadogan-place.
Quid enim dulcius libero et ingenuo animo et ad voluptates
honestas nato quam videre plenam semper et frequentem
domum suam concursu splendidissimorum hominum?
TACITUS.—De Oratoribus.
Le mariage se propose la vie, tandis que l'amour ne se
propose que le plaisir.
BALZAC.—Mémoires de Deux Jeunes Mariées.
While they are driving to Cadogan-place, let
us cast a retrospective glance at the fortunes
of the authoress of Gleams and Glooms, to
whose soirée they are wending.
Hester Mason had achieved a part of her
ambition: she held a salon in London. How
she contrived and maintained that, would take
long to narrate in detail, as it was only by
steady perseverance and admirable ingenuity
she succeeded. On first eloping with Sir
Chetsom, she had the tact never once to
mention a settlement; indeed when he, in a
moment of tenderness, alluded to the subject, she
playfully put her hand upon his mouth and
said,—"Oh, don't begin to talk of money, or
I shall think you have bought me. You are
not going to leave me, are you?"
"Leave you, Hester?"
"Yes, leave me. It looks like it. I am
poor I know; but rich in your love. Make me
independent, and you will think it no hardship
for me to be left; it is always so with men!"
A sigh followed this. Sir Chetsom was
ravished; the dupe was fooled to the top of
his bent. Hester marked the effect, and from
that moment knew her power. From that
moment he denied her nothing. The time
would come, she foresaw, when he would be
completely her slave, and that was the time to
make conditions.
Meanwhile, she impressed him with the
notion of the necessity for their liaison being
hidden from the world. If people did not
respect her, they would not envy him. If she
were not something more than his mistress, he
would be not better than the common herd of
men who have their "follies." Appearances
should be preserved for all sakes. Sir Chetsom
admitted the truth of this, reserving to
himself the privilege of disclosing his secret at
the club, by intelligible hints and half-confidences.
He had given her a house; he had brought
there the nucleus of a literary and artistic
society. Hester received every Wednesday
evening, and as her parties had a certain
piquancy, they were well attended. The great
difficulty was to get women. That is always
the stumbling-block of an equivocal position.
Men are willing enough to go anywhere, if
they are amused, and to ask no questions, or
at least to affect no prudery. With women,
the case is wholly different. Accordingly,
with what untiring perseverance do women in
equivocal positions manœuvre to obtain the
presence of virtuous women at their houses!
How they pet them, how full of delicate attentions
and substantial kindness! What cajoleries,
what adroit insinuations, what flattering
prospects they set forth to dazzle their "dear
friends"! What twaddle they will listen to
for hours, with the eagerness of curious
interest; what confidences accept! It is one of
the most amusing scenes in the comedy of
society to witness the grateful attentions of a
woman who is not "received," to those of her
female acquaintance who shut their eyes to her
real position, or are ignorant of it. You see
a pretty, lively, clever, graceful, dashing
woman of the world exerting all her coquetries
to cajole some ugly, stupid, awkward, under-bred
woman whose "countenance" she wants.
She imagines that the presence of a few
"modest women," no matter what their unattractiveness,
will give her salon an air comme il
faut. But it deceives no one. It only renders
her salon a little less agreeable.
Hester managed, as others manage, to collect
a few complaisant woman, and a man or
two old enough, stupid enough, and
respectable enough to keep them in countenance;
and she had a salon.
Sir Chetsom Chetsom was rich and lavish.
Without asking for it, Hester contrived to
have almost everything she wished for. His
vanity, at first only tickled by the conquest,
was now always alive to the maintenance of
that conquest. She made him feel that his
position was insecure: it was done delicately,
but it was done. To the dread of being left by
her in favour of another, was soon added the
dread of losing her for her own sake. He had
become accustomed to her. She amused him,
occupied him, captivated him. When she
pouted, he was in despair; when she caressed
him, he was in raptures. The old boy was
alternately alarmed at her perception of the
difference in their ages, and flattered at the
conviction that, in spite of that difference, she
really loved him. She was always playing
upon two themes. First theme.—Why should
I waste my youth and love upon a selfish old
monster? Second theme.—How infinitely
preferable is the love of a man who has seen
the world, and lost the first illusions of youth,
to the capricious tenderness of a boy!
Give those themes to a clever woman, and
imagine the variations she would play upon
them!
Although Hester had achieved a part of her
ambitious plans, it must not be supposed that
she was either satisfied or happy. She had
kicked the dust of Walton from her feet. She
was in the capital, and surrounded by luxury.
She had a salon to which many celebrities
were visitors. But neither Sir Chetsom nor
her visitors could make Gleams and Glooms
popular. Not a copy was sold. Not a journal
of any standing took the least notice of it.
Some exaggerated criticisms, bristling with
notes of admiration, and sonorous with epithets
of praise, did indeed appear; but they
appeared in journals of no character, and bore
the evident stamp of the puff direct. She
sent a copy, with a flattering letter, to every
author whose name rose above the herd into
some distinction. From the majority, she
received no acknowledgment; from a great
many came letters instantaneously acknowledging
the "receipt" of the volume, but not
a word on its contents; from some few poets
she received general and vague flatteries,
together with copies "from the authors" of
their last new poems. A delicate attention,
expressive of this golden rule—praise me and
I'll praise you.
Having consoled herself with the conviction
that the age was a prosaic age averse to poetry,
she began a novel, hoping to gain celebrity by
that.
In noting the latent causes of her dissatisfaction,
I have said nothing of Sir Chetsom.
That she was not happy, while forced to act
the degrading character of mistress to such a
man, will be understood; she used him as
the ladder by which to ascend the height
which beckoned in the distance; but she
thoroughly despised him, and at times
despised herself.
On the Wednesday evening chosen by Frank
Forrester for the introduction of Cecil to the
fair muse, Hester was looking particularly
well. A flush of animation gave a tint to
her cheek, and additional fire to her dark eyes.
In her raven hair a string of costly pearls were
woven; large glittering bracelets encircled her
well-shaped arms; and a black velvet dress
set off to perfection her handsome bust, which
was lavishly displayed. She was seated on
the sofa propounding some humanitarian
doctrine, when the four were announced. She
rose graciously. Tom Chetsom apologized for
the liberty he had taken in bringing
Mr. Chamberlayne, who was very desirous of the
honour, &c.
"Any friend of yours will always be welcome,
Mr. Chetsom," she said, smiling, "and
Mr. Chamberlayne particularly so. I have
often heard his name, and always accompanied
by some flattering epithet."
Cecil bowed.
Frank then presented Hudson, and Cecil
noticed, that although she also received him
with a gracious smile, there was a marked
difference in her manner. Strange animals
that we are! this flattered him exceedingly.
The rooms were full; and conversation was
lively in groups. It was a curious assembly
when the details were examined, and had little
of that éclat which Hester had imagined in her
dreams. The men for the most part were
neither young nor aristocratic; they were—at
least some of them—not positively unknown
to fame; small reputations, current only in
literary circles—scarcely heard beyond those
circles; men of talent, men of worth, men of
energy and of ambition, but scarcely at ease in
society. Mixed with these were a few of Sir
Chetsom's club-men, a few harmless
respectabilities, and a few—very few women.
One of these women was requested to oblige
with one of her charming performances, and her
harp was wheeled into the centre of the room.
It is one of the penalties attached to the
condition of such women as Hester, that if their
dear female friends have any little accomplishment,
they must be implored to exhibit it.
In any other society, Miss Blundell would no
more have been asked to perform, than Gunter's
waiters would be asked to dance. But
to secure Miss Blundell, Hester could not
avoid inviting her to play. If Hester wanted
countenance, Miss Blundell wanted admiration.
And it was really comic to see the mistress
of the house threading the crowd of
visitors, and entreating their attention to the
fantasia with which Miss Blundell was about
to favour them.
The hubbub of conversation was almost
stilled, and Miss Blundell advanced to take
possession of her harp.
"She's ugly enough for a genius," whispered
Frank to Hester. Hester put her finger
on her lip to command his silence.
Frank's observation was just. Miss Blundell
was not handsome. Of an age so uncertain
that it is denominated a "certain age,"
she wore her black hair in a girlish crop.
On a low, square, rugged forehead sparkled a
Sévigné. Wondering eyebrows overarched two
sunken eyes; a graceless nose and insignificant
mouth did not tempt an artist to fix them
on his canvass. In accordance with the
juvenility of her style, she was robed in white
muslin, displaying a scraggy tawny neck,
fierce and protuberant shoulder-blades, and
disreputable arms. Certainly nothing but great
skill could exonerate such ugliness.
She began by a rattling sweep over the
strings, and an audacious display of elbows.
Having thus fixed attention, she paused and
sought inspiration from the ceiling. Genius
always does. I know not what mystic
influence there may be in a white-washed
plafond; but it appears there is something of the
kind, since rhymes, tropes, and melodies are
drawn therefrom. Miss Blundell found music
there. A few seconds of silent invocation
brought down the muse, and she flogged the
harp into the Gustavus galop.
There are players of no feeling, and players
of too much feeling. Miss Blundell was of
the latter class. She despised execution (with
some private reasons for so doing), and thought
music should have a soul. Feeling was all
in all with her, and feeling she threw into
everything. Even this mad, giggling, joyous,
whirling, rattling galop was not free from
her sentimental caprice. She began con spirito,—
which suddenly changed, at the fourth bar,
from allegro vivace to an ad libitum rallentando,
expressive of the deepest emotion, the player's
eyes thrown upwards as if in rapt devotion.
These notes,
died away in a "billowy ecstacy of woe,"
immediately succeeded by a fiery allegro, which
again subsided into a pathetic rallentando:
An ironical murmur of applause followed this
display, and Hester pressed her hand as she
thanked, complimented, and led her back
again to the sofa.
"Was it not charming?" she asked Frank,
in a tone intentionally audible.
"Amazing!" replied he; then adding, in an
under tone, "she is the Orpheus of private
life: as witness the effect she produces on the
animals here. I hope she hasn't turned the
cream."'
"You are a sad man—so satirical!"
"Not I. Your friend delights me; she's
original."
"Well, I am no musician myself; but I
believe she is."
"Yes, as cats are musicians."
Hester laughed, and turned to Cecil; but
Frank instantly recalled her attention, by
saying,—
"Do tell me who is that old buffer leaning
against the mantelpiece. Is it Miss Blundell's
brother?"
"Yes."
"Of course—I knew it—he could be nobody
else's brother. Do study him. He'll
do for your novel. Look at him, Cis.
Observe that blue coat, is it not immeasurably,
audaciously, sublimely impossible! The short
waist, the large collar, like a horse-collar,
the brass buttons, and scanty skirt! When was
it made? In what dim remoteness of the
mythic ages was it conceived and executed?
What primitive and most ancient Briton first
wore it? By Jove! I must ask the address
of his tailor."
"No, no, Frank, for God's sake, don't."
"Then the flaming shawl-waistcoat, the
grey trousers strapped so tightly over those
big many-bunioned feet, the eye-glass, the
flower in his button-hole, the withered smiling
face, the jaunty juvenility of this most withered
individual! Really, Miss Mason, you ought to
make a collection from us all, for the privilege
of seeing this unedited burlesque, this fabulous
curiosity! He is a mummy unembalmed!"
The drollery of Frank's manner was irresistible,
and both Hester and Cecil were bursting
with laughter, when the unconscious object
approached them, and asked Hester whether
some one else would not add to the harmony
of the evening.
"I am quite sure," he added, with a gallant
bow, "that to your numerous accomplishments
you add the gift of song."
Hester excused herself.
"You look like a singer," said Frank to
him with perfect gravity. "I see it in your
manner. Is it not so?"
A withered smile and feeble shake of the
head was Mr. Blundell's answer.
"Well, well, I suppose all the musical
genius of the family is centred in your
charming sister. What a player! What a
touch—or rather what a pull!"
"Humph! yes, not bad."
"So much feeling! Feeling is the thing,
sir. It is soul, passion, poetry. Feeling's
the chap for me! A poet, sir?"
"No."
"You look like one."
"No; I am merely a dabbler. I follow in
the wake of intellectual men. I have some
humour. My friends think me a sort of 'Boz'—that
certainly is my line. But I have no
pretensions."
"Have you written much?"
"A good deal. I have written for 'Blackwood.'"
"Indeed!"
"Yes; but they never printed what I sent
them. I don't know why. Perhaps, because
I am not a Scotchman. They are very jealous
of English writers. Had I been a Scotchman
they would have jumped at my papers; so my
friends tell me."
"The scoundrels!" said Frank; but whether
he meant the Scotchmen, or the friends,
remains undecided.
"My friend Mr. Donkin, the celebrated
epic poet, (the author of 'Mount Horeb,' you
know,) thought my papers very funny, very;
but 'Blackwood' actually rejected some
poems of his, as well as a 'Dissertation on the
conditions of the Intellectual Epopæ.' Do
you write, sir?"
"Yes; letters."
Blundell was puzzled. He could not from
Frank's manner detect whether this was a
naïveté or a sarcasm.
"A very literary employment too," said
Cecil, "according to the landlady of one of
my friends. He was looking at apartments in
Brighton, and before concluding, he asked his
landlady whether she had other lodgers?
"'Only one gentleman, sir,' she said, 'rather
an eccentric gentleman. I suppose you know
him, sir, it's Mr. Shakspeare.'
"'I have not the pleasure of knowing
Mr. Shakspeare.'
"'Don't you, sir? He's the great writer!'
"'Ah, the great writer!'
"'Yes; but lor, sir, writer as he is, he has only
written two letters all the time he has been in
my house!'
Blundell laughed feebly, though a funny
man—a sort of "Boz" his friends told him;
he did not see the joke, but laughed because
the others laughed.
At this moment Sir Chetsom Chetsom was
announced. "How late you are!" said Hester,
reproachfully; but she paid him no attention
during the rest of the evening, and his
manner to her was eminently respectful.
Cecil was amused. He conversed with
some clever men, and was flattered by his own
success; he was a really good talker, often
brilliant, always amusing. Hester took a
great fancy to him, and engaged him in several
discussions on rather perilous topics for a
young man and a young woman to discuss.
In them Cecil felt uneasy. He was not on
equal ground in talking to a young woman,
and although she piqued him to continue, he
felt himself at a disadvantage.
"You forget," he said at last, in the midst of an
argument on marriage, "that I am a married
man, and therefore cannot espouse your view."
"Truly, but why can you not? Because
the present odious law of marriage is all in
favour of the men."
"I demur to that."
"Men make the laws, and make them for
their own advantage. Think of the gross
injustice! Women must not only be rigorously pure,
but must even be kept in ignorance as complete
as watchfulness will admit of; but a man
may have had a hundred low amours, and no
father refuses to give him a daughter. Purity,
which is supposed to be woman's greatest
virtue, is never thought of in a man. Why
should not a girl demand that her lover
be as pure as herself? Why should woman
be hopelessly disgraced for that which in a
man is venial? I know what you will say;
but I repeat that marriage is an unholy
institution. Think of the suicides committed by
women who have been seduced; did you ever
hear of the seducer shooting himself? Think
of the wretched wives who have died broken-hearted,
of the outcasts of society—outcasts
for that which disgraces no man. What is it
all owing to? the law of marriage! Beside
the fearful crimes and desperate acts which
the law of marriage causes, look at the
thousands of young, healthy, affectionate girls,
who wither in unblessed virginity, who never
know the joys of maternity. And mark the
glorious inconsistency of men: you keep us
ignorant, you keep us from equal privileges,
you shut us from the world of action, and your
sole argument for it is, that nature has unfitted
us for it; that we are inferior creatures, whose
organization is specially adapted to the bearing,
rearing, and nursing of children; yet this,
for which alone we were created, your barbarous
law of marriage denies to a frightful number;
wretched girls who wither in the hope of
finding husbands."
"That the law of marriage," answered
Cecil, "transmutes a desire into a crime is
very true. But the law of property is open
to the same objection. A man covets your
money or your plate; the law of property
forces him either to break into your house,
perhaps to murder you, or to restrain his
desires. But because men are hanged for
murder, no one really wishes to abolish the
law of property; because men are transported
and imprisoned for frauds and felonies, it is no
argument against a law of property."
"That I admit."
"Then surely you must admit, that although
the law of marriage may punish those who
infringe its precepts, it is not therefore to be
abolished."
"No; but there is this difference: the
principles of justice and moral education may
control the desire of despoiling or defrauding
another of his property, but human passion
owns no such stern control. Love is beyond
volition. The husband cannot will to love his
wife, the wife cannot will not to love another.
Reason is powerless against the passion,
because the woman loves before she is aware of
it. She does not see the danger till she is
enveloped in it. Marriage is indissoluble, but
passion is capricious. It is foolish, impious,
for a human being to swear that he will love
another eternally. Passion in its intensity
always believes in its eternity. But who can
answer for the continuance of love? Who
can say, I will not change? Because we
foresee no change, are we to shut our eyes to
the experience of ages: to our own experience
even, which tells too plainly of the mutability
of passion? Yet marriage is indissoluble!"
"And rightly so," said Cecil, "for this one
reason—whatever is inevitable soon ceases to
be a hardship; the very power which human
beings have of adapting themselves to almost
any condition, makes them accept their fate
with tranquillity, provided that fate be
certain and unequivocal. Passion is, as you say,
mutable, capricious. But in the generality of
cases, the mere consciousness of the indissolubility
of the marriage tie acts as a check upon
the roving fancy."
Hester shook her head.
"This much I will grant," continued Cecil,
"that as a matter of sentiment, as a mere
question of love, I think you are in the main
correct; but as a matter of practical civilization,
as a civil institution which regards the
whole framework of society, I think
you—pardon me—altogether wrong."
The clock on the mantelpiece struck one
as he said this, and its sharp, thin note struck
like ice upon his heart, as he remembered
that his beloved Blanche was sitting up
awaiting him, and had been since ten o'clock.
He took a hasty leave of Hester, promising
to renew the conversation some other evening,
and, with a whisper to Frank, withdrew.
Hester saw him depart, with a vague feeling
of regret. To understand this, we must
not only recall the sudden friendship all have
known sometimes to spring up in one evening's
intercourse, but we must also consider
Hester's peculiar position. She was then just
recovering from the shock her illusions had
sustained with reference to men of genius. In
her provincial and poetical ignorance, she had
imagined that every man of remarkable powers
must be captivating in appearance. Apollo
in the shape of Vulcan was a monstrosity
which had never distorted her dreams. I do
not mean that she supposed every distinguished
poet, novelist, or critic was as handsome
as a guardsman. She was prepared for
daring oddities of appearance; and was more
likely to be captivated by the "flashing eyes
and floating hair," by the wild irregularities of
an inspired face, than by the lineal correctness
of a beauty man. But she was prepared to
find singularity and youth: a striking appearance
joined to all the ardour and impetuosity
of youth. In both was she deceived. The
men she saw were for the most part undistinguishable
in appearance from the rest of the
world, and when distinguishable, not picturesquely
so. Above all, they were not young.
It is rather curious at first, to one unfamiliar
with the artistic world, to see how little youth
is to be met with amongst the celebrities.
Our young poets are middle-aged men; our
rising authors are bald; our distinguished
painters are passing into the "sere and yellow
leaf;" our very "young Englanders" are
getting gray and pursy.
The truth is, life is short and art is long;
and although a privileged man does sometimes
in the ardour of youth reach the summit
of reputation by a bound, either from the
prodigal richness of his genius, or from having
hit the favour of the movement, yet, as a
general rule, celebrity is slowly gained, and
not without many years of toilsome effort.
Mastery requires immense labour. Before
the proper power over materials can be gained,
the artist must have spent enormous labour;
and before that power can be exerted in any
striking way, the artist must have lived much,
suffered much, and observed much. Celebrity
is not easily gained now-a-days. The lavish
abundance of talent daily, weekly, and monthly
squandered upon fugitive productions, makes
it no easy matter to rise above the ordinary
level; while the multiplicity of works so far
exceeds all reading powers to keep pace with
them, that, for an author to gain more than
a limited and temporary reputation, it is
necessary he should either be very lucky, or
very earnest, hard-working, resolute, and
clever. But before he has attained sufficient
mastery to command respect, the gray hairs
begin to show themselves. He must have
made many efforts, struck many blows, before
the way is opened to him, before the world
will recognise him.
What a shock then to Hester, when she
found, one after the other, all were middle-aged
men. The ardour and freshness in their
works was but the reminiscence of a youthhood
which required the mastery of manhood
to mould it. The men she had admired, of
whom she had made idols, when she saw them
as they were, with deep-lined faces, thin hair,
deficient teeth, and all the signs of premature
middle age, created a feeling of disappointment
almost amounting to disgust. She forgot
that in straining their voices to be heard
above the crowd, they had grown husky by
the time they had succeeded.
Cecil was the first young handsome man
whom she had seen, and who, although not
yet known to fame, had a sort of drawing-room
reputation; she was charmed with him;
his wit, vivacity, gentlemanly manner, and
handsome countenance, were all calculated to
make a deep impression upon her. Without
acknowledging to herself the interest she felt
in him, she allowed her thoughts to dwell
upon what he had said, and how he had
looked, rather more than was safe for her
peace of mind.
When Blanche received Cecil's note, informing
her that he was to dine at the club, she felt
truly glad. Ill as she could spare his company,
especially in such a house as Mrs. Tring's, she
felt glad. The good little thing forgot her own
loss in the idea of his pleasure. She was so
delighted that he was going to enjoy himself
for once among his old friends. After the
miserable fare of their boarding-house, how
he would relish the cuisine of his club! He
wanted a little change. He wanted relaxation:
he overworked himself.
This was the way little Blanche accepted her
husband's first absence from home. I dare say,
thin-lipped madam, you wholly disapprove of
her simplicity; you think she did not
understand men and husbands; that she showed
false generosity. You would not have taken
it so quietly—not you! In her place, you
would at once have seen through the selfishness
and want of attention which permitted
a husband, so newly married, to leave his wife
in that way, and return to his vile bachelor
haunts. In her place, you would have sat up
for him, cowering under a huge shawl, careful
that the candles should be burnt to the last
inch, you having allowed the fire to go out; and
you would have received him either in the
sullen dignity of silence, or with hot,
fast-falling tears.
In her place,—But Blanche, my dear madam,
had not your thin lips and fretful organization.
She was an innocent, artless, affectionate, little
creature, adoring her husband, believing herself
unworthy of him, and only happy in his happiness.
She lived for him. If he was happy by
her side, it gave her exquisite delight; if he
was happy, away from her, she felt, indeed, the
void of his absence; but the thought of his
being amused, took from absence its pain.
Jealousy she had none. Her trusting nature
could not harbour it: certain of his love, to
question it would be profanity.
So till ten o'clock she occupied herself
cheerily enough. After that, she began to
expect him. Eleven struck. "He has been
kept later than he intended," she said.
A novel was on the table. She began to
read it. Cecil's face was constantly dancing
on the page; and, once or twice, when the
author mentioned convivial dinners, she pictured
to herself Cecil surrounded by admirers,
the wine passing freely, no one heeding the
time; and, as the clock struck twelve, she said,
"He is greatly amused."
There was something of the sublime devotion
of woman's love in this quiet reflection, which,
as in all generosity, had its own sweet
recompense. The thought made her happy, and hid
from her the fact that it was twelve o'clock,
and she was waiting for him.
She continued her novel.
Cecil was hurrying home, very uneasy at
having stayed out so late. The stupor which
wine had occasioned was quite gone, and he
began to reproach himself for having
accompanied Chetsom to Hester's. He had never
left Blanche before. How could she have
passed her evening? What would her anxiety
be when ten, then eleven, then twelve, then
one o'clock struck, and he not home? What
excuse should he make?
Nothing can better express the difference
between Cecil and Blanche, than these two
thoughts:—
"He is greatly amused!"
"What excuse shall I make?"
The confidence and love of the one is not
more distinctly indicated by the first, than the
weakness of the other is by the second.
No excuse was needed. When he arrived
home, instead of reproaches, silent or
expressed, he was met with kisses and joyous
questions. All she seemed curious about was,
how he had been amused. For herself, she
had passed the time pleasantly enough. Her
work and her novel had amused her. Oh, he
wasn't to think himself of such consequence:
existence was not insupportable without
him—for a few hours!
Cecil took both her hands in his, and,
pressing his lips upon her lovely eyes, felt
deeply, inexpressibly, what a treasure he had
got; but he said nothing; nor was it necessary
to say it. She understood him.
Cecil was careful not to whisper a word of
Hester's equivocal position to Blanche, who
imagined Miss Mason to be some worthy old
maid.
On the following Wednesday, Cecil again
went to Hester's, and again spent a pleasant
evening. He there met some painters, whom
he was desirous to know. This gave a colouring
of business to his visits—a pretext to
himself, for Blanche needed none.
The more Hester saw of Cecil, the more he
engaged her fancy, and, at last, her affections.
Of this he was wholly unconscious. His own
love for his wife was an amulet against all
Hester's coquetries. But although no harm
as yet had come to his affections, through
this acquaintance with Hester, who could say
that it would long continue thus? Cecil must
discover her affection in time, and then...
Yet into this peril did Blanche innocently
urge him. She knew he was amused there;
she knew he there extended his acquaintance
among artists; and she was happy that he
should take the relaxation of one evening
in the week.
The peril was, however, twofold: it was not
only that Cecil should be entangled by
Hester—that was an uncertainty; it was also—and
this more certain—that the poor, struggling
artist, by nature indolent, and by accident now
pampered in his indolence, should, in these
club dinners and conversaziones, once more
have the desire for luxury awakened in him,
and a distaste for his present condition render
it insupportable.
This latter peril was perhaps the more
formidable of the two. Cecil fell into it.
The oftener he went to his club—he had
never ceased paying his subscription, having
always had the prospect of very soon being
in a condition to belong to a club with
propriety—the oftener he went there, the greater
his disgust at the gloomy house and niggardly
fare of the home he had chosen. Unhappily
he could not leave it. Partly, because his
funds made its cheapness all important; partly,
because he still hoped its beggary would work
upon Meredith Vyner's feelings.