Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 39
CHAPTER XV.
A most delightful person! I said "yes:"
To such a question how could I say less?
And yet I thought, half pedant and half fop,
If this you praise, where will eulogium stop?"
The day after their arrival, the Mandevilles being engaged to a family dinner, where they could not well take a stranger, Emily accepted the invitation of a Mrs. Trefusis, with whom, to use the lady's own expression, she was "a prodigious favourite." And to Mrs. Trefusis' accordingly she went, and was received with that kind of manner which says, "You see I mean to make a great deal of you, so be very much obliged." At dinner Miss Arundel was placed next a gentleman; her hostess having previously whispered, "I think you will have a treat."
When a person says, "Were you not delighted with my friend Mr. A, B, C, or D?—I placed you next him at dinner, as I was sure his wit would not be thrown away upon you"—the "you" dwelt on in the most complimentary tone—is it possible to answer in the negative? Not even in the palace of truth itself. You cannot be ungrateful—you will not be undeserving—and you reply, "Mr.is a most delightful person." Your affirmative is received and registered, and you have the comfort, perhaps, of hearing your opinion quoted, as thinking him so superior—while you really consider the gentleman little better than a personified yawn.
Emily was not yet impertinent or independent enough to have opinions of her own, or she might have differed from her hostess's estimate of Mr. Macneil. Mrs. Trefusis valued conversation much as children do sweetmeats—not by the quality but the quantity: a great talker was with her a good talker—silence and stupidity synonymous terms—and "I hate people who don't talk," the idéale and morale of her social creed. It was said she accepted her husband because he did not ever allow her to slip in an affirmative. An open carriage and a sudden shower drove her one day into desperation and Lady Alicia's; unexpected pleasures are always most prized; and half an hour's lively conversation with Miss Arundel, rescuing her from the double dulness of heavy rain and Lady Alicia, excited a degree of gratitude which constituted Emily a favourite for a fortnight at least. She had as yet had no opportunity of acknowledgment, and she now expressed her partiality by placing her next Mr. Macneil at dinner.
In every man's nature some one leading principle is developed—in Macneil this was self-satisfaction. It was not vanity—that seeks for golden opinions from all ranks of men; it was not conceit—for that canvasses, though more covertly, for admiration; but Macneil was vain en roi—he took homage as a right divine—and whether in love or law, learning or literature, classics or quadrilles, there existed for him a happy conviction that he was the perfection of each. At college he used to drink porter of a morning while reading for his degree, to express, as he said, the exuberance of his genius (query, is genius, then, incompatible with examination and a university?) He married for the pleasure of stating how very much his wife was in love with him. Great part of his reputation rested on always choosing the subject his auditor was most likely to know nothing about. To young gentlemen he talked of love—to young ladies, of learning; and we always think, what we do not comprehend must be something very fine: for example, he dilated to Emily on the music of Homer's versification, and the accuracy of Blackstone's deductions.
As they went up stairs, Mrs. Trefusis whispered, "Did you ever meet so entertaining a man? he never stopped talking once all dinner." He had, certainly, some natural advantages as a wit: he was thin, bilious-looking, and really was very ill-natured—and half the speeches that have a run in society, only require malice to think them, and courage to utter them. Still, it is difficult to affix any definite character to Mr. Macneil. He had neither that sound learning which industry may acquire, nor that good sense which is unacquirable; and as for wit, he had only depreciation; he was just the nil admirari brought into action.
On arriving in the drawing-room, Emily gladly sought refuge in a window-seat; her hearing faculty was literally exhausted; she felt, like Clarence,
"A dreadful noise of waters in her ear."
Luckily, it was a period when none are expected to talk, and few to listen. Is it not Pelham who wonders what becomes of servants when they are not wanted;—whether, like the tones of an instrument, they exist but when called for? About servants we will not decide; but that some such interregnum certainly occurs in female existence on rising from table, no one can doubt who ever noted the sound of the dining and the silence of the drawing-room.
Women must be very intimate to talk to each other after dinner. The excitement of confidence alone supplies the excitement of coquetry; and, with that peculiar excellence which characterises all our social arrangements, people who meet at dinner are usually strangers to each other.
Very young people soon get acquainted; but then they must be very young. Few general subjects have much feminine attraction; women are not easily carried, not exactly out of themselves (for selfishness is no part of the characteristic I would describe), but out of their circle of either interests, vanities, or affections. A woman's individuality is too strong to take much part in those abstract ideas which enter largely into masculine discussion. Ask a woman for an opinion of a book—her criticism will refer quite as much to the author as to his work. But, while on the subject of this "silent hour," what an unanswerable answer it is to those who calumniate the sex as possessing the preponderance of loquacity! Men do talk much more than women. What woman ever stood and talked seven hours at or about a schoolmaster, as has been done? What woman ever goes to charities, to vestries, &c. for the mere sake, it seems to me, of speaking? But "If lions were painters" is as true now as in the days of Æsop. Goëthe said of talking, what Cowper said of domestic felicity, that it was
"The only bliss that had survived the fall."
Mrs. Trefusis was quite of this opinion. The present quiet was as dreadful to her as to a patriot. She moved from place to place, from person to person. To one lady she spoke of her children—hinted that the measles were very much about—and mentioned an infallible remedy for the toothache. The blonde of one lady threw her into raptures—the bérêt of another. She endeavoured to animate one of her more juvenile friends by mentioning a conquest she had made the evening before, which conquest Mrs. Trefusis made herself for the necessities of the moment. All in vain, the drawing-room seemed, as some one says of the mountain-tops, "dedicated to immortal silence."
An able general is never without a resource, and Mrs. Trefusis opened the piano; and the could-nots and would-nots, and colds and hoarsenesses, made for a few moments a very respectable dialogue, which ended with Emily's sitting down to the instrument; and Emily did sing most exquisitely. She had that clear, bird-like voice which is divided between sadness and sweetness, whose pathos of mere sound fills the heart with that vague melancholy which defies analysis; and her articulation was as perfect as her expression. Some one said of her singing, that it was the music of the nightingale, gifted with human words and human feelings.
A shadow fell on the book from which she was singing; and at the close she turned round to receive the painful politeness of Mr. Macneil. Heaven help me from the soi-disant flattery of those who compliment as if it were a duty, not a pleasure, who make a speech as if they expected you to make a curtsy at the conclusion; and while giving you what they politely inform you is your due, yet nevertheless expect you to be grateful for it. Mr. Macneil was one of this class—a Columbus of compliments, who held that your merits were new discoveries of his own, and you were to be surprised as well as pleased.
But individual excellence was too unworthy a theme long to engross Mr. Macneil; and from Miss Arundel's singing, he proceeded to singing in general, which, he observed, was a very pretty amusement—asked if she had heard Lalande—avowed that, for his part, Italian music was all he thought worth listening to—which, considering Emily had just finished an English ballad, was a delicate compliment indeed; and walked off, nothing doubtful of hers, in all the fulness of self-satisfaction.
A Miss Martin was now entreated to favour the company. She was an heiress, therefore a beauty, and in both these qualities considered she ought to be simple and timid. The first of these was effected by a crop curled in the neck à l'enfant; and the second by being twice as long as anybody else in crossing a room—there were so many little hesitations; by looking down sedulously (old Mr. Lushington once said to her, "I hope you find the carpet entertaining!"); by a little nervous laugh, and such interesting ignorance. Her mother, moreover, was always saying, "Really, my sweet Matilda is so timid, it is quite terrible."
Three armies might have been brought to combat with half the encouragement it took to bring the timid Matilda to the harp. One gentleman was entreated to stand before, another behind—to say nothing of the side couples—as the fair musician could not bear to be looked at while she played dear mamma's favourite air. "Dear mamma " was an enormous edifice of white satin and diamonds, which one laments over, as one does over a misapplied peerage, that ever some people should possess them.
It is very provoking to have all one's associations, whether from history or fairy land, destroyed. A countess ought to be young and beautiful—a duchess stately and splendid—your earl gallant and graceful—your baron one touch more martial, as if he had five hundred belted vassals waiting at his call; and as for diamonds, they ought to be kept as sacred as a German's thirty-six quarterings, to which nothing ignoble might approach. Happy were the beauties of Henry or Richard, when fur, jewels, satins, were especial to their order, and the harsh, dull, dry laws themselves arrayed their defence and terrors against the meaner herd, who but imitate to destroy, and copy to profane.
Mrs. Martin seemed as if just glittering from a diamond shower-bath, or rather, as if, when interred (we cannot call it dressed) in her satin and blonde, her attendant had caught up her jewel-box, and thrown its contents at random over her. In truth, it was just such a barley-sugar-temple look as well suited the daughter of a sugar baker. Her father had been a millionaire.
It is the fashion in the present day, from the peer to the prince, to affect the private gentleman. Good, if they mean in the end to abolish all hereditary distinctions; but wrong, if they mean still to preserve those "noble memories of their ancestors." We do now too much undervalue the influence of the imagination, which so much exalts the outward shew by which it is caught. We forget there is no sense so difficult to awaken as common sense. Kings risked their crowns when they left off wearing them; thrones were lost before, to some bold rival who fought his way sword in hand; but Charles was the first monarch dethroned by opinion. The belief in the right divine, or "that divinity which doth hedge a king," disappeared with their gold crown and sceptre.
"You are not going yet, Charles?" said the hostess to her handsome nephew. "It is so early. Whither are you going?"
"To bed. I am sitting for my picture, and must sleep for a complexion."
"And you, Mrs. Lorraine?"
"Oh, I have five other parties to go to."
"Well," said Mrs. Trefusis—a little vexed that hers was breaking up so soon; and philosophy, ill-nature, and truth, are the three black graces, born of disappointment—"I always feel inclined to address you inveterate party-goers, with the man's speech at his wife's funeral: 'Ah, why, my dearest neighbours, make a trouble of a pleasure?'"
She was not far wrong. Perhaps pleasure is, like virtue, but a name. Still, pleasure might be a little pleasanter; for surely there can be no great enjoyment in stepping from carriage to drawing-room, and from drawing-room to carriage—turning friends into acquaintance from the mere fact of meeting them so seldom, and annihilating conversation—for the flowers of wit must indeed be forced ones that spring up in five minutes. However, there is many a wise saw to justify these modern instances. Sages bid us look to the future—and we go to parties to-day for the sake of to-morrow saying we were there. The imaginative gods of the Grecians are dethroned—the war like deities of the Scandinavians feared no longer; but we have set up a new set of idols in their place, and we call them Appearances.