Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI.
We should be grateful to that fairy queen,
Sweet Fancy; she who makes dreams tangible,
And gives the outer world wherein we live
Light from the inner one, where feelings dwell,
And poetry, and colours beautiful,
Shedding a charm upon our daily life,
And keeping yet some childhood in the heart.
"I was quite alarmed yesterday while dining with Mr. Morland, to find him, Miss Arundel, so great an admirer of yours. I entreat," said Lorraine, "that you will not destroy my beau idéal of sixty and singlehood."
"Vain fears!" replied Emily, laughing. "A lover may give up his mistress, but not a philosopher his system. It would be bad taste in him to marry again; and such an argument would with him be decisive. Good taste is his religion, his morality, his standard, and his test. I remember Mr. Delawarr was telling a story of a most shocking murder that a man had committed—beating his wife's brains out with a hammer. 'Bad taste' said Mr. Morland; 'very bad taste!' At first I thought he alluded to the murder; but I after wards found it was the mode in which the murder was committed."
Edward Lorraine.—"Allowing for a little feminine exaggeration, you are not far wrong. Mr. Morland carries his principle to its extent; but in his hands it is an excellent rule of action. To avoid the ridiculous, and pursue the beautiful, would be equally his rule for the statesman and the upholsterer. Consistency of action, attention to results, and also to present benefit on the one side, and harmony of colour and graceful effect on the other, he urges arise from the same principle under different circumstances—viz. good taste! His house and his conduct, his dress and his language, are equally perfect. He lives a short distance out of London. 'I must have,' I have often heard him say, 'quiet; so I avoid living in a street—I look upon my fine old trees—my growth of summer flowers, links between myself and nature. I grow too worldly, and I freshen my imagination with my roses. I grow disputatious and discontented among volumes of feverish study, vain aspirings, and useless information; I open one of my windows, and in so doing shake a shower of blossoms from the clematis. I step out into the sunshine, and feel rejoiced to think there is a bright side still in the world. I live near town, for I am yet unwilling the age should leave me far behind it. I have old friends with whom I talk of the past, and young ones with whom I talk of the present. In youth one only grows romantic in solitude; but in old age one grows selfish. I have no interests to jar against those of others; society, therefore, calls forth my more kindly feelings. I have a noble fortune; and, what is more, I know the value of it, both as it regards myself and others. I have an excellent library of my own, and a subscription to a circulating one—an admirable cook—and a cellar where the sunshine of many a summer is treasured. I have much experience, and a little philosophy. I own the vanity of many a former anxious pursuit; but am equally ready to own I did not see the vanity of it at the time. I am now well content to be spectator of the world's great stage with kindness—my still remaining link with its present actors.' Confess, Miss Arundel, this is all in very good taste."
Miss Arundel.—"I trust you are not hoping for an argument in expecting me to deny it; and I must add, I have seen few persons in London whom I liked so much, perhaps because his kind manner puts me so much in mind of my uncle."
"But I have interrupted you. What were the leaves you were so carefully turning?" and Edward took up a number of Martin's Illustrations of Milton.
"I never," said Emily, "have my idea of a palace realised but in these pictures—the halls of porphyry through which Prince Ahmed was led to the throne of his fairy queen—or those of a thousand pillars of black marble, where the young king sat an enchanted statue."
Edward Lorraine.—"I should like to be the Czar, if it were only to give some millions of my barbarians employment in erecting a palace after Martin's design. It would be for their benefit. The monarch must be noble as his dwelling; and my ideas would be exalted as my roof, and my actions imitate the beauty and regularity of my pillars."
Miss Arundel.—"Do not you think his landscapes have the same magnificent spirit of poetry in them as his architecture? Look at these trees, each one a temple—these rocks, yet warm with the lightning flash, which has just rent a fearful chasm. I know not why, but I never see a stream of his painting but I recall those lines of Coleridge's:
'Where Alph, the sacred river, ran,
Down to a sunless sea.'
If he had lived in the days of the Caliphs, Zobeide would have chosen him to paint the palace of pictures she wagered with Haroun Alraschid."
Edward Lorraine.—"What an illustrator he would be of the Arabian Nights! His pencil would be like the wand of their own genii; the lamp itself could not call up a more gorgeous hall than he would. Think of those magnificent windows, of which even a king had not gems enough in his treasury to finish only one; or what would he not image of the enchanted garden itself, where the grapes were rubies, the flowers of pearl, and the mysterious shrine where burnt the mystic lamp. I would assemble them in a picture-gallery, where once a year I would ask my friends to a banquet, sacred to the memory of M. de Caillaud."
Miss Arundel.—"And drink his health in Shiraz wine."
Edward Lorraine.—"I would do as he has done—mix it with some of his native Champagne. I think the extent of our obligations to that most perfect of translators has never been felt. Compare his with the versions that have since come—
'Sad dreams, as when the spirit of youth
Returns again in sleep, and leads us back
In mournful mockery o'er the shining track'
of the enchanted world of genii, sultans, and princesses. The reason is, they give us the literal story, and foolishly pique themselves on the accuracy of their translation, and their knowledge of Arabic. Caillaud, on the contrary, did as Shakespeare did, who, out of the stupid novels of Cynthio, extracted a Romeo and Juliet. He modelled his raw matériel, and told the story with his own especial grace, in addition to what is a national gift to his countrymen, l'art de conter. By the by, I think it among the great honours to French literature, that one of its most original branches, fairy tales, is peculiarly its own. I believe the Children in the Wood, Whittington and his Cat, and Little Red Ridinghood, are those only, of all our popular tales, which have an English origin. Now, the first rather belongs to our simple and beautiful ballad school; the next, a Utilitarian might have written as a good encouraging lesson of poverty rising into wealth—a tale in the very spirit of la nation boutiquière; and as for Little Red Ridinghood, the terror, the only feeling it is calculated to produce, is beneath the capacity of any critic past five years of age.
"But look at the imagination, the vivacity, of the others: we read them in childhood for the poetry of their wonders, and in more advanced life for their wit; for they are the Horaces of fairy land. The French have the very perfection of short stories in their literature—little touches like the flight of a shining arrow. I remember one that began: 'There was once a king and queen, very silly people, but who loved each other as much as if they had been wiser, perhaps more.' Then, again, speaking of some fairy portent: 'They could not at all understand it—therefore took it for granted it was something very terrible or very fine;' or, again, 'The queen was for ever in an ill humour, but had the best heart in the world.' We English have no word that translates that of persiflage; and for this reason, a nation only wants words for the things it knows—and of this we have no understanding. An exquisite distinction I once heard made between wit and humour, appears to me admirably to apply to that of the French and English—that humour differs from wit in being more nearly allied with pathos. Thus it is with us islanders—we can be merry, but not lively; and mirth brings its own reaction. Lord Byron wrote quite as an Englishman when he said
'Laughter
Leaves us so doubly saddened shortly after.'"
Emily Arundel.—"How well I remember sitting under a favourite old chestnut-tree, with a huge folio of tales filled with pictures—kings and queens, always with their crowns on their heads—and fairies, with large hoops, and wings on their shoulders! "
Edward Lorraine.—"Talking of wings—with what magnificent plumes does Martin invest his angels, as if tinged by every ray of sunshine they caught in their descent to the earth; and their size, too, gives such an idea of power!"
Emily Arundel.—"But to go back to supposing subjects for his pictures. What do you say to the midnight fête in the gardens of Scherzyrabade, when the Caliph visited his beautiful favourite? Think of the hundred black slaves, with their torches of scented wax—the guards with their gorgeous turbans and glittering cimeters—the lighted galleries of the palace—the gardens with their thousand lamps—the sparkling fountains—and the lake, one gigantic mirror of the whole festival."
Edward Lorraine.—"As only inferior to my own subject: every one has his favourite hero; and mine, the only gentleman Rome ever possessed, is Lucullus. I have a very disrespectful feeling towards your great men who piqued themselves on wearing an old cloak, and who resorted to peeling turnips as an elegant employment for their leisure hours. Lucullus conquered; and, after energy and exertion, sought refinement and repose. He cultivated his thoughts instead of his radishes; and he studied that union of luxury and philosophy, which is the excellence of refinement. My picture is 'Lucullus at supper.'"
Emily Arundel.—"Nay, I cannot admit the superiority of your subject."
Edward Lorraine.—"Because you have not considered it. I suppose him at supper that night when he gave that superb reply, dictated in the noblest spirit of self-appreciation, 'Lucullus sups with Lucullus to-night!' Conqueror of Asia! victor of Mithridates! you were worthy of your glory! First, imagine a noble hall, of that fine blue which the walls of Portici yet preserve, supported by Corinthian pillars of the purest Parian marble; scatter round a few pieces of exquisite sculpture—a Venus, of beauty as ideal as its dream—a nymph, only less lovely—an Apollo, the personification of the genius which first imagined, and then bodied forth his likeness—a few busts, each one a history of the immortal mind—and in the distance a huge portal unfolds, whence are issuing slaves, in all the gorgeous variety of Eastern costume, approaching a table bright with purple grapes—the ruby cherries, his own present of peace to Italy—flasks of wine, like imprisoned sunbeams, whether touched with the golden light of noon, or the crimson hues of sunset—goblets of crystal, vases of gold and silver, or the finely-formed Etruscan; and above, a silver lamp, like an earthly moon. There are two windows—in the one a violet-coloured curtain, waved back by the wind, just discovers a group of Ionian girls; their black hair wreathed with flowers, and holding lutes, whose sweet chorus is making musical the air of a strange land with the songs of their own. The other window has the rich Italian evening only shut out by the luxuriant branches of a myrtle; and beyond is a grove of cypress, a small and a winding river—
'A fairy thing,
Which the eye watches in its wandering.'
Seated on the triclinium in the midst is a middle-aged man, with a high and noble brow; the fine aquiline nose, so patrician, as if their eagle had set his own seal on his warlike race; an expression of almost melancholy sweetness in his mouth, but of decision in the large meditative blue eye: on one side a written scroll, bearing the name of Plato, has just dropped from his hand; and on the other a beautiful youth kneels to announce to him, 'that Lucullus sups with Lucullus to-night.' Mr. Morland has a vacant niche in his breakfast-room: I really must call his attention to this."
"You could never do so better than to-day," said that identical gentleman, entering the little drawing-room where they were seated.
"I have just been persuading Delawarr to leave politics, parchments, places, and plans, for my acacias, now in full bloom, and some of my most aromatic Burgundy. Lady Alicia, like a good wife, has consented to accompany him; and I am come to insist on you young people following the example of your elders; and, moreover, I have a little girl of mine with whom I wish Miss Arundel to be delighted. You are to set off at once, toilette de matin: you know ladies never dress but for each other; and that pretty green silk will be just in keeping with my shrubbery. Now, I only allow you five minutes to place your bonnet just the least in the world on the left side. You must trust to genius, not to study, to-day." And, in spite of the thousand-and-one delays that always intervene before a party of pleasure sets off, ten minutes had not elapsed before the whole party were on the road.
It had been settled that Lorraine was to drive Emily in his phaeton. It is true the sun was full in her eyes, the wind high, and the dust, which is just mud in high spirits, flew round them in clouds; but Emily found her ride delightful. Is it not Wordsworth, who, in his quality of philosopher and poet says,
"It is the heart does magnify this life,
Making a truth and beauty of its own?"
About the beauty we entirely agree with him —touching the truth, we are not quite so certain: but poets often mistake, and philosophers still oftener. Emily's own feelings coloured all with themselves. Generally speaking, she rather wanted animation: what are called high spirits are quite as much habitual as constitutional. Living with people much older than herself—an aunt never much put out of her way by any thing—and an uncle, whose stately courtesy of the old school was tinctured by a native timidity which age itself never entirely conquers—she had not been accustomed to give way to those impulses of a moment's gaiety which break forth in gay laugh and bounding step. Or is there a prophetic spirit in the human mind, which makes those of the keenest feelings often appear cold; an intuitive, though unowned, fear, repressing sensations of such deep and intense power? They can not feel only a little; and they shrink, though with an unconscious dread, from feeling too much.
But to-day Emily's gaiety took its tone from the bright sunshine. Both herself and Edward in that gay mood which makes its own enjoyment, and enjoys every thing: they were soon on the beautiful common leading to Roehampton, where villas, which seem, like Beatrice's idea of King Pedro for a husband, made only for holydays—the luxuriant meadows, varying, as the passing clouds turn them, from bright glittering to the richest and darkest green—here shrubberies, whose flowering shrubs overhung the road, scenting the air with a moment's fragrance as they passed—then, again, the close-cut hawthorn hedge, like a green knoll, from which some unshorn branch occasionally rose, covered with a few late blossoms of May.
A turn in the road brought them to the group of fine old elms which overshadowed Mr. Morland's gate. Out they sprung from the carriage—gaily laughing at the idea of welcoming the master to his own house—and Edward acted as guide through the serpentine walk that led to the library. The boughs met overhead—every step brought down a shower of coloured and fragrant leaves—till they stopped on the lawn. Genoa's princely merchants never freighted vessel with velvet of softer texture or richer green. Suddenly a sweet voice, singing, like a bird, for the pleasure of singing, came from the room; and, putting back a branch covered with a thousand of the little crimson Ayrshire roses, they stepped through the window, and saw a girl, apparently about thirteen, engaged, with all the earnestness with which childhood follows its pursuits, in placing flowers in divers vases. It was evident no small share of taste and industry was be stowed on the task; their entrance, however, interrupted the progress of some scarlet geranium towards some myrtle—the child started—and her first intention of a rapid flight was evidently only checked by natural politeness—or, rather, that inherent kindness, out of which cultivation afterwards extracts the most graceful courtesy. Shyness is too much a mere impulse in very early youth to be lasting; and reserve was lost in the dismay of the intelligence that her father was returning before she had finished the decoration of his room, with which she meant to surprise him. Nothing like a little trouble for the beginning of acquaintance—assistance was readily offered, and as readily accepted—and all the vases were in their places, and Helen not a little delighted with her new friends; when the rest of the party made their appearance.
Dinner had been ordered at once; and luncheon (that cruel destruction of our best feelings, as the Ettrick Shepherd calls it,) having been omitted, there was sufficient hunger to do justice to a banquet the most refined in its perfection. Not that hunger does a cook justice. "I do not like people that are hungry," says Ude; "hungry people eat any thing: I would have my dishes create of themselves an appetite; I do not wish them to be wanted till they are tasted, and then to eat is a compliment."
But it was on the dessert Mr. Morland piqued himself. It was served in the room Helen had been so anxious to ornament. The delicate colour of the fruit—the fragrant spirit of the Burgundy—the icy coolness of the claret—were not destroyed by an atmosphere already heavy with soup and fish, and heated by two courses of culinary triumph: no! the air, pure and clear, was only imbued with the sweetness of the strawberry, or the breath of the roses from the window—while the garden beyond reminded you how fresh was the fruit which heaped the silver baskets.
It is true enough for a proverb, that the pleasantest parties are those of which the least can be told. To make a recital entertaining, there must be a little touch of the ridiculous—a few sparkles of satire—the excellence of a sarcasm lies, like a cimeter, in its keenness;—and they enjoyed themselves too much to be witty—"la sauce vaut le poisson;" and hence it is that, even when good-natured people do say a clever thing, it rarely tells—and all to-day were in a good humour.
Perhaps that which had the most delighted the visitors was their host's daughter—for Helen was one of the very sweetest creatures that ever blushed or smiled: there was a refinement in her simplicity—an infection in her gaiety—a something touching in her affectionate manners, that drew their fascination all from the same source—they were all so perfectly natural. She appeared much younger than she was—for Helen was in reality fifteen; but both the aunt with whom she resided, and her father, were old-fashioned enough to wish her childhood to be as long as possible. The mind may be cultivated, the manners formed, and the girl have acquired the polish of the woman; but how much of buoyant spirits must have been quelled—how much of enjoyment lost in the acquisition!
Childhood is not often a happy season—it is too much forced and controlled, and nature too much exiled from the fairest spot in all her domain; but it can be a glad and guileless time—and Helen's had been a very happy childhood.
But the dark or bright day finds its end in night, and again the phaeton retraced the morning's road. Every tree and field were now silvered with the soft moonlight—there was a repose around which even the voice seemed too rudely to break. They were both silent—but did Emily find the evening's silence less delightful or less dangerous?
"How infinitely," said Lorraine at last, "I prefer a night like this—a sky broken by a thousand clouds—to one entirely cloudless! The clear sky is too forcible a contrast to ourselves—it is too bright, too calm for sympathy with our troubled state—I almost dislike the perfect repose in which I can have no part—while the shadows that to-night gather round the moon seem to have a fellow-feeling with our checkered existence."
Emily made no answer—a sudden weight had fallen on her spirits—her eyes were full of unbidden tears—a voice seemed to arise within her, and to say, "To-night—even to-night—you stand on the threshold of your fate: happiness is only turning one last and lonely look before it leaves you for ever."
People talk—and wisely, too—of the folly of presentiments; but let the thoughts speak their secret, will they assert their disbelief? Our nature has many mysteries—the moral and physical world are strangely allied; the weight on the air presages the hurricane—the darkness on the heaven the tempest—why may not destiny have its signs, and the heart its portents, and the nameless sadness that oppresses the spirits forbode the coming sorrow? But Emily only thought of hers as a weakness—she strove to shake it off. The lamps now grew brilliant—the houses gathered into streets—while imagination, as usual, took flight before realities—and they arrived at home, gaily discussing the chances of to-morrow's ball. Once in her own room, fatigue and sentiment were terribly at variance—and sleep is a true pleasure, if one had not to get up in the morning. Do not tell me of the happiness of life, when every day begins with a struggle and a sacrifice. To get up in the morning, both in the enjoyment it resigns and the resolution it requires, is an act of heroism.