Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
"Yet mark the fate of a whole sex."—Pope.
"Look on this picture, and on this."—Shakespeare.
"I beg to deny the honourable gentleman's assertion."
Debates: Morning Chronicle.
The pleasantest, indeed the only pleasant parties, at their house, were the small dinners, in which Mr. Delawarr excelled: it was said he rather piqued himself upon them. Among the many distinguished in mind, body, and estate, whose countenances were most frequently reflected in the covers to the dishes (most unprepossessing mirrors they are), was a Mr. Morland, a self-acting philosopher, i.e. one whose philosophy was exerted for his own benefit—that philosophy we are so apt only to exert for others. He was a widower—had eschewed politics—never gave advice, but often assistance—read much, but wrote not at all—bought a few pictures—had the perfection of a cook—loved conversation; and a little judicious listening had made Miss Arundel a first-rate favourite.
Considering how much the ears are cultivated with all the useless varieties of "lute, sackbut, and psaltery," it is wonderful their first great quality should be so neglected; it shows how much common sense is overlooked in our present style of education. Now, considering that it is the first step to general popularity—(that general popularity, to be turned, like a patriot's, to particular account)—considering that it is the great general principle of conciliation towards East Indian uncles and independent aunts, it shows how much real utility is forgotten, when the science of listening is not made a prominent branch of instruction. So many act on the mistaken principle, that mere hearing is listening—the eyes, believe me, listen even better than the ears—there ought to be a professor of listening. We recommend this to the attention of the London University, or the new King's College; both professing to improve the system of education. Under the head of listening, is to be included the arts of opportune questionings and judicious negatives—those negatives which, like certain votes, become, after a time, affirmatives.
Mr. Morland.—"So you were at Lady Mandeville's ball last night? The primeval curse is relaxed in favour of you young ladies. How very happy you are! "
Emily rather differed in opinion; however, instead of contradicting, she only questioned. "I should really like to know in what my superlative felicity consists."
Mr. Morland.—"You need not lay such a stress on the monosyllable my: it is the lot of your generation; you are young, and youth every hour gives that new pleasure for which the Persian monarch offered a reward; you are pretty."—Emily smiled—"all young ladies are so now-a-days"—the smile shadowed somewhat—"you have all the luxury of idleness, which, as the French cooks say of le potage, is the foundation of every thing else."
Emily.—"I am sure I have not had a moment's time since I came to town—you cannot think how busy I have been."
Mr. Morland.—"Those little elegant nothings—those rainbow-tinted bead-workings of the passing hours, which link the four-and-twenty coursers of the day in chains light as that slender native of Malta round your neck. I'll just review a day for you: Your slumber, haunted by some last night's whisper 'fairy sound,' is broken by the chiming of the little French clock, which, by waking you to the music of some favourite waltz, adds the midnight pleasures of memory to the morning pleasures of hope. The imprisoned ringlets are emancipated; 'fresh as the oread from the forest fountain,' you descend—you breathe the incense of the chocolate—not more I hope—and grow conversational and confidential over the green tea, which, with a fragrance beyond all the violets of April, rises to your lip, 'giving and taking odours.' A thousand little interesting discussions arise—the colour of the Comte de S.'s moustache—the captivation of Colonel F's curls: there are partners to be compared—friends to be pitied—flirtations to be noted—perhaps some most silvery speech of peculiar import to be analysed.
"After breakfast, there are the golden plumes of your canary to be smoothed—the purple opening of your hyacinths to be watched—that sweet new waltz to be tried on the harp —or Mr. Bayly, that laureate of the butterflies, has some new song. Then there are flowers to be painted on velvet—the new romance to be read—or some invention of novel embellishment to be discussed with your Mlle. Jacinthe, Hyacinthe, or whatever poetic name may euphoniously designate your Parisian priestess of the mirror.
"Luncheon and loungers come in together—a little news and a little nonsense—and then you wonder at its being so late. The carriage and the cachemere are in waiting—you have been most fortunate in the arrangement of your hat—never did flowers wave more naturally or plumes fall more gracefully. Your milliner has just solicited your attention to some triumph of genius—you want a new clasp to your bracelet—
'Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!'
Complexion and constitution are alike revived by a drive in the Park—a white glove rests on the carriage window—and some 'gallant gray' or chestnut Arabian is curbed into curvets and foam by its whispering master.
"I will allow you to dream away the dinner-hour—what young lady would plead guilty to an appetite? Then comes that hour of anxious happiness—that given to the political economy of the toilette. I rather pique myself on my eloquence; but 'language, oh, how faint and weak!' to give an idea of the contending claims of tulle, crape, &c. &c. We will imagine its deliberations ended in decision. Your hair falls in curls like a sudden shower of sunshine, or your dark tresses are gathered up with pearls. You emerge, like a lady lily, delicate in white—or the youngest of the roses has lent its colour to your crape; your satin slipper rivals the silver-footed Thetis of old; and in a few minutes you are among the other gay creatures 'of the element' born of Collinet's music; and among the many claimants for your hand one is the fortunate youth. Midnight passes—and I leave you to your pillow,
'Gentle dreams, and slumbers light.'
"So much for your past—now for your future. The season is nearly at an end—the captured coronet has crowned your campaign—parchments are taking the place of pasteboard; you are bewildered in blushes and blonde—diamonds and satin supersede your maiden pearls and gauze—another fortnight, and you are being hurried over the continent with all the rapidity of four horses and felicity, or else giving a month to myrtles, moonlight, and matrimony. Of your consequent happiness I need not speak: 'tis true your duties take a higher character—you have a husband to manage—a visiting-list to decide—perhaps have the mighty duties of patroness to balls, charities, concerts, and Sunday schools to perform. But I have finished:—the advantages of a house and carriage of your own, the necessity of marriage, I trust you are too well an educated young lady not fully to understand."
"Now, out upon you, Miss Arundel!" said Lady Mandeville—a lady, both of beauty and bel esprit, who sat near her, "to encourage, by smile and silence, so false a painter of our destiny. Do you not see the veiled selfishness of such sophistry? Our said happiness is but the excuse of our exclusion. Whenever I hear a man talking of the advantages of our ill-used sex, I look upon it as the prelude to some new act of authority."
Mr. Delawarr.–"Ah! you resemble those political economists who, if they see a paragraph in the paper one day rejoicing over the country's prosperity, examine its columns the see what new tax is to be suggested."
Lady Mandeville.–"On grounds of utility I object to false impression being made on Miss Arundel's mind; it is her destiny to be miserable, and I were no true friend did not act the part of a friend, and impress upon her the disagreeable necessity."
Mr. Morland.–"Then you would join in the prayer of the Indian heroine, in the Prairie, 'Let not my child be a girl, for very sorrowful is the lot of woman?'"
Lady Mandeville.–"Most devoutly. Allow me to revise Mr. Morland's picture, and, for Jeanne qui rit, give the far truer likeness of Jeanne qui pleure. I will pass over the days of pap and petting, red shoes and blue sash, as being that only period when any thing of equality subsists between the sexes; and pass on to the time when all girls are awkward, and most of them ugly—days of back-boards and collars, red elbows, French, Italian, musical and calisthenic exercises. Talk of education! What course of Eton and Oxford equals the mental fatigues of an accomplished young lady? There is the piano, the harp—the hands and feet equally to be studied—one to be made perfect in its touch, the other in its tread; then, perhaps, she has some little voice, which is to be shaken into a fine one—French and Italian are indispensable—geography, grammar, histories ancient and modern; there are drawings, in crayons and colours—tables to be painted, and also screens—a little knowledge of botany and her catechism, and you have done your best towards giving your daughter that latest of blessings, as the Edinburgh and Westminster Reviews call it, a solid education. It is true, as soon as the great purpose of feminine existence, marriage, is accomplished, the labour and expense of years will be utterly forgotten and wasted; but you have not the less done your duty. Emerged from the dull school-room, the young lady comes out: period of heart-burnings and balls—of precaution and pretension—of the too attractive younger brother—of the too necessary elder one—time of love and lectures—the Mount Ararat between the purgatory of the school-room, and the paradise of an eligible offer:
'The horizon's fair deceit,
Where earth and heaven but seem, alas! to meet.'
I do not feel my spirits equal to dwelling on the wretchedness of an unappropriated débutante, that last stage of maiden misery; but suppose our aspirant safely settled in some park in the country, or some square in town—Hymen's bark fairly launched—but
'Are the roses still fresh by the bright Bendemeer?'
A woman never thoroughly knows her dependence till she is married. I pass also the jealousies, the quarrels, the disgusts, that make the catholic questions and corn-bills of married life—and only dwell on one particular: some irresistible hat, some adorable cap, some exquisite robe, has rather elongated your milliner's list of inevitables—I always think the husband's answer greatly resembles the judge's response to the criminal, who urged he must live,—'I do not see the necessity.' Is not this just the reply for a husband when the fair defaulter urges she must dress? How will he ejaculate, 'I do not see the necessity.' Truly, when my milliner sends in her annual account of enormities, like Corneille's Curiatius, 'j'ai pitié, de moi-même.'"
No debate ever ending in conviction, it is of little consequence that here the conversation was interrupted by that rise of feminine stocks which usually takes place during the second glass of claret.