Gilbert reminds me that I had arranged my departure hence for to-morrow: this was some weeks back, and now I have no intention of leaving. I cling to this “Happy Valley,” as one clings to life. To me it is indeed such. These days of sunshine and nights of starry brilliancy—this calm, delicious water—these purpled mountains, glowing with richer tints as day wears on, till at sunset they are one blaze of gorgeous splendour,—the very plash of those tiny waves upon the rocky shore are become to me like friendly sights and sounds, from which I cannot tear myself. And Lucy, too, she is to me as a sister, so full of kind, of watchful consideration about me; since her own health is so much restored, all her anxiety would seem for mine. How puzzling is the tone assumed by Sir Gordon towards me! It was only yesterday that, in speaking of his granddaughter, he expressed himself in such terms of gratitude to me for the improvement manifest in her health, as though I had really been the main agent in effecting it. I, whose power has never been greater than a heart-cherished wish that one so fair, so beautiful, and so good, should live to grace and adorn the world she moves in! What a strange race, what a hard-fought struggle, has been going on within me for some time back! Ebbing life contesting with budding affection; the calm aspect of coming death dashed by feelings and thoughts—ay, even hopes I had believed long since at rest. I feel less that I love than that I should love, if life were to be granted to me.
I believe it is the pursuit that in most cases suggests the passion; that the effort we may make to win exalts the object we wish to gain. Not so here, however. If I do love, it has been without any consciousness. It is so seldom that one who has never had a sister learns to know, in real intimacy, the whole heart and nature of a young and lovely girl, with all its emotions of ever-changing hue, its thousand caprices, its weakness, and its pride. To me this study—it has been a study—has given an inexpressible interest to my life here. And then to watch how gradually, almost imperceptibly to herself, the discipline of her mind has been accomplished—checking wild flights of fancy here, restraining rash impulses there, encouraging reflection, conquering prejudices,—all these done without my bidding, and yet palpably through my influence; What pleasant flattery!
One distressing thought never leaves me. It is this,—how will a nature so attuned as hers stand the rude jars and discords of “the world?” for, do how we will, screen the object of affection how we may from its shocks and concussions, the stern realities of life will make themselves felt. Hers is too impassioned a nature to bear such reverses, as the most even current sustains, without injury. The very consciousness of being mistaken in our opinions of people is a sore lesson; it is the beginning of scepticism, to end—who can tell where?
She smiles whenever I lecture her upon any eccentricity of manner, and evidently deems my formalism, as she calls it, a relic of my early teaching. So, perhaps, it may be. No class of people are so unforgiving to any thing like a peculiarity as your Diplomates. They know the value of the impassive bearing that reveals nothing, and they carry the reserve of office into all the relations of private life. She even quizzes me about this, and says that I remind her of the old Austrian envoy at Naples, who never ventured upon any thing more explicit than the two phrases—C’est dure, or C’est sûre, ringing the changes of these upon every piece of news that reached him. How altered am I, if this judgment be correct! I, that was headstrong even to rashness, led by every impulse, precipitate in every thing, ready to resign all, and with one chance my favour to dare nine full against me!
But why wonder if I be so changed? How has life and every living object changed its aspect to my eyes, rendering distasteful a thousand things wherein I once took pleasure, and making of others that I deemed flat, stale, and unprofitable, the greatest charms of my existence? What close and searching scrutiny of motives creeps on with years! what distrust, and what suspicion! It is this same sentiment—the fruit of a hundred self-deceptions and disappointments—makes so many men, as they advance in life, abjure Liberalism in politics, and lean to the side of Absolute Rule. The “Practical” exercises the only influence on the mind tempered by long experience; and the glorious tyranny of St. Peter’s is infinitely preferable to the miscalled freedom of Popular Government. The present Pope, however our Radical friends think of it, is no unworthy successor of Hildebrand; and however plausible be the assumed reforms in his States, the real thraldom, the great slavery, remains untouched! “Hands Free, Souls Fettered,” is strange heraldry.
Why have these thoughts crept over me? I would rather dwell on very different themes; but already, far over the mountains westward, comes the distant sound of strife. The dark clouds that are hurrying over the lofty summit of Monte Brisbone are wafted from regions where armed hosts are gathering, and the cry of battle is heard; and Switzerland, whose war-trophies have been won from the invader, is about to be torn by civil strife. Even in my ride to-day towards Lugano, I met parties of peasants armed, and wearing the cockade of Ticino in their hats, hastening towards Capo di Lago. The spectacle was a sad one; the field labours of the year, just begun, are already arrested; the plough is seen standing in the unfinished furrow, and the team is away to share the fortunes of its owners in the panoply of battle. These new-made soldiers, too, with all the loutish indifference of the peasant in their air, have none of the swaggering effrontery of regular troops, and consequently present more palpably to the eye the sufferings of a population given up to conscription and torn from their peaceful homes to scenes of carnage and bloodshed, and for what?—for an opinion? for even less than an opinion: for a suspicion—a mere doubt.
Who will be eager in this cause on either side? None, save those that never are to mingle in the contest. The firebrand Journalist of Geneva—the dark-intentioned Jesuit of Lucerne; these are they who will accept of no quarter, nor listen to one cry of mercy: such, at least, is the present aspect of the struggle. Lukewarmness, if not actual repugnance, among the soldiery; hatred supplying all the enthusiasm of those who hound them on.
The Howards are already uneasy at their vicinity to the seat of war, and speak of proceeding southward; yet they will not hear of my leaving them. I feel spell-bound, not only to them but to the very place itself; a presentiment is upon me, that, after this, life will have no pleasure left for me—that I go hence to solitude, to suffering, and to death!
A restless night, neither waking nor sleeping, but passed in wild, strange fancies, of reality and fiction commingled; and now, I am feverish and ill. The struggle against failing health is at last become torture; for I feel—alas that I must say it!—the longing desire to live. Towards daybreak I did sleep, and soundly; but I dreamed too—and how happily! I fancied that I was suddenly restored to health, with all the light-heartedness and spring of former days, and returning with my bride to Walcott.
We were driving rapidly up the approach, catching glimpses at times of the old abbey—now a gable—now some richly traceried pinnacle—some quaint old chimney—some trellised porch. She was wild with delight, in ecstasy at the sylvan beauty of the scene: the dark and silent wood—the brown, clear river, beside the road—the cooing note of the wood-pigeon, all telling of our own rural England. “Is not this better than ambition, love?” said I. “Are not leafy groves, these moss-grown paths, more peaceful than the high-roads of fame?” I felt her hand grasp mine more closely, and I awoke—awoke to know that I was dreaming—that my happiness was but a vision—my future a mere mockery.
Why should not Lucy see these scenes? She will return well and in strength. I would that she would dwell, sometimes, at least, among the places I have loved so much. I have often thought of making her my heir. I have none to claim from me—none who need it. There is one clause, however, she might object to, nay, perhaps, would certainly refuse. My grand-uncle’s will makes it imperative that the property should always descend to a Templeton.
What if she rejected the condition? It would fall heavily on me were she to say “No.”
I will speak to Sir Gordon about this. I must choose my time, however, and do it gravely and considerately, that he may not treat it as a mere sick man’s fancy. Of course, I only intend that she should assume the name and arms; but this branch of the Howards are strong about pedigree, and call themselves older than the Norfolks.
So there is no time to be lost in execution of my plan. The Favancourts are expected here to-morrow, on their way to Naples. The very thought of their coming is misery to me. How I dread the persiflage of the beauty “en vogue;” the heartless raillery that is warmed by no genial trait; the spiritless levity that smacks neither of wit nor buoyant youth, but is the mere coinage of the salons! How I dread, too, lest Lucy should imitate her! she so prone to catch up a trait of manner, or a trick of gesture! And Lady Blanche can make herself fascinating enough to be a model. To hear once more the dull recital of that world’s follies that I have left, its endless round of tiresome vice, would be a heavy infliction. Alas, that I should have gained no more by my experience than to despise it! But stay—I see Sir Howard yonder, near the lake. Now for my project!
Another month, or nearly so, has elapsed since last I opened this book; and now, as I look back, I feel like a convict who has slept soundly during the night before his doom, and passed in forgetful-ness the hours he had vowed to thought and reflection. I was reading Victor Hugo’s “Dernier Jour d’un Condamné” last evening, and falling asleep with it in my hand, traced out in my dreams a strange analogy between my own fate and that of the convicted felon. The seductions and attractions of life crowding faster and faster round one as we near the gate of death—the redoubled anxieties of friends, their kinder sympathies—how delightful would these be if they did not suggest the wish to live! But, alas! the sunbeam lights not only the road before us, but that we have been travelling also, and one is so often tempted to look back and linger! To understand this love of life, one must stand as I do now; and yet, who would deem that one so lonely and so desolate, so friendless and alone, would care to live? It is so, however: sorrow attaches us more strongly than joy; and the world becomes dearer to us in affliction as violets give out their sweetest odours when pressed.
Let me recall something of the last few weeks, and remember, if I can, why and how I am here alone. My last written sentence was dated “Como, the 29th October,” and then comes a blank—now to fill it up.
Sir Gordon Howard was standing near the lake as I came up with him, nor was he aware of my approach till I had my hand on his arm. Whether that I had disturbed him in a moment of deep thought, or that something in my own sad and sickly face impressed him, I know not, but he did not speak, and merely drawing my arm within his own, we wandered along the waters edge. We sauntered slowly on till we came to a little moss-house, with stone benches, where, still in silence, we sat down. It belonged to the Villa d’Esté, and was one of those many little ornamental buildings that were erected by that most unhappy Princess, whose broken heart would seem inscribed on every tree and rock around.
To me the aspect of the spot, lovely as it is, has ever been associated with deep gloom. I never could tread the walks, nor sit to gaze upon the lake from chosen points of view, without my memory full of her who, in her exile, pined and suffered there. I know nothing of her history, save what all others know; I am neither defender nor apologist—too humble and too weak for either. I would but utter one cry for mercy on a memory that still is dearly cherished by the poor who dwelt around her, and by whom she is yet beloved.
Whatever were Sir Gordon’s thoughts, it was clear the few efforts he made to converse were not in accordance with them. The rumours of disturbance in Switzerland—the increasing watchfulness on the Lombard frontier—the growing feeling of uncertainty where and how far this new discord might extend—these he spoke of, but rather as it seemed to mask other themes, than because they were uppermost in his mind.
“We must think of leaving this,” said he, after a brief pause. “‘Where to?’ is the question. How would Genoa agree with you?”
“With me! Let there be no question of me.”
“Nay, but there must,” said he, eagerly. “Remember, first of all, that we are now independent of Climate, at least of all that this side of the Alps possesses; and, secondly, bethink you that you are the pilot that weathered the storm for us.”
“Happily, then,” said I, laughing, or endeavouring to laugh, “I may sing,—
“But with us, Templeton—always with us,” said the old man, affectionately.
“Upon one condition, Sir Gordon—short of that I refuse.”
I fear me, that in my anxiety to subdue a rising emotion I threw into these words an accent of almost stern and obstinate resolution; for as he replied, “Name your condition,” his own voice assumed a tone of cold reserve.
It was full a minute before I could resume; not only was the subject one that I dreaded to approach from fear of failure, but I felt that I had already endangered my chance of success by the inopportune moment of its introduction. Retreat was out of the question, and I went on. As much to give myself time for a little forethought, as to provide myself with a certain impulse for the coming effort, as leapers take a run before they spring, I threw out a hasty sketch of the late events of my life before leaving England, and the reasons that induced me to come abroad. “I knew well,” said I, “better far than all the skill of physicians could teach, that no chance of recovery remained for me; Science had done its utmost: the machine had, however, been wound up for the last time—its wheels and springs would bear no more. Nothing remained, then, but to economise the hours, and let them glide by with as little restriction as might be. There was but one alloy to this plan—its selfishness; but when may a man practise egotism so pardonably as when about to part with what comprises it?
“I came away from England, then, with that same sentiment that made the condemned captain beg he might be bled to death rather than fall beneath the axe. I would, if possible, have my last days and hours calm and unruffled, even by fear—little dreaming how vain are all such devices to cheat one’s destiny, and that death is never so terrible as when life becomes dear. Yes, my friend, such has been my fate; in the calm happiness of home here—the first time I ever knew the word’s true meaning—I learned to wish for life, for days of that peaceful happiness where the present is tempered by the past, and hope has fewer checks, because it comes more chastened by experience. You little thought, that in making my days thus blissful my sorrow to part with them would be a heavy recompense.... Nay, hear me out; words of encouragement only increase my misery—they give not hope, they only awaken fresh feelings of affection, so soon to be cold for ever.”
How I approached the subject on which my heart was set I cannot now remember—abruptly, I fear; imperfectly and dubiously I know: because Sir Gordon, one of the most patient and forbearing of men, suddenly interrupted me by a violent exclamation, “Hold! stay! not a word more! Templeton, this cannot be; once for all, never recur to this again!” Shocked, almost terrified by the agitation in his looks, I was unable to speak for some seconds; and while I saw that some misconception of my meaning had occurred, yet, in the face of his prohibition, I could scarcely dare an attempt to rectify it. While I remained thus in painful uncertainty, he seemed, by a strong effort, to have subdued his emotion, and at length said, “Not even to you, my dear friend—to you, to whom I owe the hope that has sustained me for many a day past, can I reveal the secret source of this sorrow, nor say why what you propose is impossible. I dreaded something like this—I foresaw how it might be; nay, my selfishness was such that I rejoiced at it, for her sake. There—there, I will not trust myself with more. Leave me, Templeton; whatever your griefs, they are as nothing compared to mine.”
I left him, and, hastening towards the lake side, soon lost myself in the dark groves of chestnut and olive, the last words still ringing in my ears—“Whatever your griefs, they are as nothing compared to mine.” Such complete pre-occupation had his agitation and trouble over my mind, that it was long ere I could attempt to recall how I had evoked this burst of passion, and by what words I had stirred him so to address me. Suddenly the truth flashed boldly out; I perceived the whole nature of the error. He had, in fact, interrupted iny explanation at a point which made it seem that I was seeking his grandaughter in marriage. Not waiting to hear me out, he deemed the allusions to my name, my family arms, and my fortune, were intended to convey a proposal to make her my wife. Alas! I needed no longer to wonder at his repugnance, nor speculate further on the energy of his refusal. How entertain such a thought for his poor child! It were, indeed, to weave Cyprus with the garland of the Bride!
Impatient any longer to lie under the misconception—at heart, perhaps, vexed to think how wrongfully he must have judged me when deeming me capable of the thought—I hastened back to the Villa, determined at once to rectify the error and make him hear me out, whatever pains the interview should cost either.
On gaining the house I found that Sir Gordon had just driven from the door. Miss Howard, who for two days had been indisposed, was still in her room. Resolving, then, to make my explanation in writing, I went to my room; on the table lay a letter addressed to me, the writing of which was scarcely dry. It ran thus:—
The mystery grew darker and more impenetrable; harassing, maddening suspicions, mixed themselves up in my brain, with thoughts too terrible for endurance. I saw that, in Sir Gordon’s error as to my intentions, he had unwittingly disclosed the existence of a secret—a secret whose meaning seemed fraught with dreadful import; that he would never have touched upon this mysterious theme, save under the false impression my attempted proposal had induced, was clear enough; and, that thus I had unwittingly wrung from him an avowal which, under other circumstances, he had never been induced to make.
I set about to think over every word I had used in our last interview—each expression I had employed, torturing the simplest phrases by interpretations the most remote and unlikely, that thereby some clue should present itself to this mystery: but, charge my memory how I could, reflect and ponder as I might, the words of his letter had a character of more deep and serious meaning than a mere refusal of my proposition, taken in what sense it might, could be supposed to call for. At moments, thoughts would flash across my brain so terrible in their import, that had they dwelt longer I must have gone mad. They were like sudden paroxysms of some agonising disease, coming and recurring at intervals. Just as one of these had left me, weak, worn out, and exhausted, a carriage, drawn by four post-horses, drew up to the door of the Villa, and the instant after my servant knocked at my door, saying, “La Comtesse de Favancourt is arrived, sir, and wishes to see you.”
Who was there whose presence I would not rather have faced?—that gay and heartless woman of fashion, whose eyes, long practised to read a history in each face, would soon detect in my agitated looks that “something had occurred,” nor cease till she had discovered it. In Sir Gordon’s absence, and as Lucy was still indisposed, I had no alternative but to receive her.
Scarcely had I entered the drawing-room than my worst fears were realised. She was seated in an arm-chair, and lay back as if fatigued by her journey; but on seeing me, without waiting to return my greeting of welcome, she asked, abruptly,—
“Where’s Sir Gordon?—where’s Miss Howard? Haven’t they been expecting me?”
I answered, that Sir Gordon had gone over to the Brianza for a day; that Miss Howard had been confined to her room, but, I was certain, had only to learn her arrival to dress and come down to her.
“Is this said de bonne foi?” said she, with a smile where the expression was far more of severity than sweetness. “Are you treating me candidly, Mr. Templeton? or is this merely another exercise of your old functions as Diplomatist?”
I started, partly from actual amazement, partly from a feeling of indignant shame, at the accusation; but, recovering at once, assured her calmly and respectfully that all I had said was the simple fact, without the slightest shade of equivocation.
“So much the better,” said she gaily; “for I own to you I was beginning to suspect our worthy friends of other motives. You know what a tiresome world of puritanism and mock propriety we live in, and I was actually disposed to fear that these dear souls had got up both the absence and the illness not to receive me.”
“Not to receive you! Impossible!” said I, with unfeigned astonishment. “The Howards, whom I have always reckoned as your oldest and most intimate friends——”
“Oh, yes! very old friends, certainly: but remember that these are exactly the kind of people who take upon them to be severer than all the rest of the world, and are ten times as rigid and unforgiving as one’s enemies. Now, as I could not possibly know how this affair might have been told to them——”
“What affair? I’m really quite in the dark to what you allude.”
“I mean my separation from Favancourt.”
“Are you separated from your husband, Lady Blanche?” asked I, in a state of agitation in strong contrast to her calm and quiet manner.
“What a question, when all the papers have been discussing it these three weeks! And from an old admirer, too! Shame on you, Mr. Templeton!”
I know not how it was, but the levity of this speech, given as it was, made my cheek flush till it actually seemed to burn.
“Nay, nay, I didn’t mean you to blush so deeply,” said she, “And what a dear, sweet, innocent kind of life you must have been leading here, on this romantic lake, to be capable of such soft emotions! Oh, dear!” sighed she, weariedly. “You men have an immense advantage in your affairs of the heart; you can always begin as freshly with each new affection, and be as youthful in sentiment with each new love, as we are with our only passion. Now I see it all; you have been getting up a ‘tendre’ here for somebody or other:—not Taglioni, I hope, for I see that is her Villa yonder,—There, don’t look indignant. This same Lake of Como has long been known to be the paradise of danseuses and opera-singers; and I thought it possible you might have dramatised a little love-story to favour the illusion. Well, well,” said she, sighing, “so that you have not fallen in love with poor Lucy Howard——”
“And why not with her?” said I, starting, while in my quick-beating heart and burning temples a sense of torturing pain went through me.
“Why not with her?” reiterated she, pausing at each word, and fixing her eyes steadfastly on me, with a look where no affected astonishment existed; “why not with her?—did you say this?”
“I did; and do ask, What is there to make it strange that one like her should inspire the deepest sentiment of devotion, even from one whose days are so surely numbered as mine are—so unworthy to hope—to win her?”
“Then you really are unaware! Well, I must say this was not treating you fairly. I thought every one knew it, however; and I conclude they themselves reasoned in the same way. Come, I suppose I must explain; though, from your terrified face and staring eyeballs, I wish the task had devolved on some other. Be calm and collected, or I shall never venture upon it.—Well, poor dear Lucy inherits her mother’s malady—she is insane!”
Broken half-words, stray fragments of speech, met my ears, for she went on to talk of the terrible theme with the volubility of one who revelled in a story of such thrilling horror. I, however, neither heard nor remembered more; passages of well-remembered interest flashed upon my mind, but, like scenes lit up by some lurid light, glowed with meanings too direful to dwell on.
How I parted from her—how I left the Villa and came hither, travelling day and night, till exhausted strength could bear no more—are still memories too faint to recall; the realities of these last few days have less vividness than my own burning, wasting thoughts: nor can I, by any effort, separate the terrible recital she gave from my own reflections upon it.
I must never recur to this again—nor will I reopen the page whereon it is written: I have written this to test my own powers of mind, lest I too——
Shakspeare, who knew the heart as none, save the inspired, have ever known it, makes it the test of sanity to recall the events of a story in the same precise order, time after time, neither changing nor inverting them. This is Lear’s reply to the accusation of madness, when yet his intelligence was unclouded,—“I will the matter re-word, which madness would gabble from.”
Another night of fever! The sea, beating heavily upon the rocks, prevented sleep; or worse—filled it with images of shipwreck and storm. I sat till nigh midnight on the terrace—poor Shelley’s favourite resting-place—watching the night as it fell, at first in gloomy darkness, and then bright and starlit. There was no moon, but the planets, reflected in the calm sea, were seen like tall pillars of reddish light; and although all the details of the scenery were in shadow, the bold outlines of the distant Apennines, and of the Ponto Venere and the Island of Palmaria, were all distinctly marked out. The tall masts and taper spars of the French fleet at anchor in the bay were also seen against the sky, and the lurid glow of the fires spangled the surface of the sea. Strange chaos of thought was mine! At one moment, Lord Byron was before me, as, seated on the taffrail of the “Bolivar,” with all canvass stretched, he plunged through the blue waters; his fair brown hair spray-washed and floating back with the breeze; his lip curled with the smile of insolent defiance; and his voice ringing with the music of his own glorious verse. Towards midnight the weather suddenly changed; to the total stillness succeeded a low but distant moaning sound, which came nearer and nearer, and at last a “Levanter,” in all its fury, broke over the sea, and rolled the mad waves in masses towards the shore. I have seen a storm in the Bay of Biscay, and I have witnessed a “whole gale” off the coast of Labrador, but for suddenness, and for the wild tumult of sea and wind commingled, I never saw any thing like this. Not in huge rolling mountains, as in the Atlantic, did the waves move along, but in short, abrupt jets, as though impelled by some force beneath; now, skimming each over each, and now, spiriting up into the air, they threw foam and spray around them like gigantic fountains. As abruptly as the storm began, so did it cease; and as the wind fell, the waves moved more and more sluggishly; and in a space of time inconceivably brief, nothing remained of the hurricane save the short plash of the breakers, and at intervals some one, long, thundering roar, as a heavier mass threw its weight upon the strand. It was just then, ere the sea had resumed its former calm, and while still warring with the effects of the gale, I thought I saw a boat lying keel uppermost in the water, and a man grasping with all the energy of despair to catch the slippery planks, which rose and sank with every motion of the tide. Though apparently far out at sea, all was palpable and distinct to my eyes as if happening close to where I sat. A grey darkness was around, and yet at one moment—so brief as to be uncountable—I could mark his features, beautifully handsome and calm even in his drowning agony; at least so did their wan and wearied expression strike me. Poor Shelley! I fancied you were before me; and, long after the vision passed away, a faint, low cry, continued to ring in my ears—the last effort of the voice about to be hushed for ever. Then the whole picture changed, and I beheld the French fleet all illuminated, as if for a victory; the decks and yards crowded with seamen, and echoing with their triumphant cheers; while on the poop-deck of the “Souverain” stood a pale and sickly youth, thoughtful and sad, his admiral’s uniform carelessly half-buttoned, and his unbelted sword carried negligently in his hand. This was the Prince de Joinville, as I had seen him the day before, when visiting the fleet. I could not frame to my mind where and over whom the victory was won; but disturbed fears for our own naval supremacy flitted constantly across me, and every word I had heard from the French captain who had accompanied me in my visit kept sounding in my ears: as, for instance, while exhibiting the Paixhan’s cannons, he added,—“Now, here is an arm your ships have not acquired.” Such impressions must have gone deeper than, at the time, I knew of, for they made the substance of a long and painful dream; and when, awaking suddenly, the first object I beheld was the French fleet resting still and tranquil in the bay, my heart expanded with a sense of relief unspeakably delightful.
So, then, I must hence. These Levanters usually continue ten or twelve days, and then are followed by the Tramontana, as is called the wind from the Apennines; and this same Tramontana is all but fatal to those as weak as I am. How puzzling—I had almost said, how impossible—to know any thing about climate! and how invariably, on this as on most other subjects, mere words usurp the place of ideas! It is enough to say “Italy,” to suggest hope to the consumptive man; and yet, what severe trials does this same boasted climate involve! These scorching autumnal suns; and cold, cutting breezes, wherever shade is found;—the genial warmth of summer, here; and yonder, in that alley, the piercing air of winter;—vicissitudes that wake up the extremes of every climate, occur each twenty-four hours. And he, whose frail system can barely sustain the slightest shock, must now learn to accommodate itself to atmospheres of every density; now vapour charged and heavy, now oxygenated to a point of stimulation that, even in health, would be felt as over-exciting.
There is something of the same kind experienced here intellectually: the every-day tone of society is trifling and frivolous to a degree; the topics discussed are of a character which, to our practical notions, never rise above mere levity; and even where others of a deeper interest are introduced, the mode of treating them is superficial and meagre. Yet, every now and then, one meets with some high and great intelligence, some man of wide reflection and deep research; and then, when hearing the words of wisdom in that glorious language, which unites Teutonic vigour with every Gallic elegance, you feel what a people this might be who have such an interpreter for their thoughts and deeds. In this way I remember feeling when first I heard Italian from the lips of a truly great and eloquent speaker. He was a small old man, slightly bowed in the shoulders—merely enough so to exhibit to more advantage the greater elevation of a noble head, which rose like the dome of a grand cathedral; his forehead, wide and projecting over the brows which were heavy, and would have been almost severe in their meaning, save for the softened expression of his large brown eyes; his hair, originally-black, was now grey, but thick and massive, and hang in locky folds, like the antique, on his neck and shoulders. In manner he was simple, quiet, and retiring, avoiding observation, and seeking rather companionship with those whose unobtrusive habits made them unlikely for peculiar notice. When I met him he was in exile. Indeed I am not certain if the ban of his offence be recalled; whether or not, the voice of all Italy now invokes his return, and the name of Gioberti is associated with the highest and the noblest views of national freedom.
Well, indeed, were it for the cause of Italy if her progress were to be entrusted to men like this—if the great principles of reform were to be committed to intelligences capable of weighing difficulties, avoiding and accommodating dangers. So late as the day before last I had an opportunity of seeing a case in point. It is but a few weeks since the good people of Lucca, filled with new wine and bright notions of liberty, compelled their sovereign to abdicate. There is no denying that he had no other course open to him; for if the Grand Duke of Tuscany could venture to accord popular privileges, supported as he was by a very strong body of nobles, whose possessions will always assure them a great interest in the state, the little kingdom of Lucca had few, if any, such securities. Its sovereign must either rule or be ruled. Now, he had not energy of character for the one—he did not like the other. Austria refused to aid him—not wishing, probably, to add to the complication of Ferrara; and so he abdicated. Now comes le commencement du fin. The Luccese gained the day: they expelled the Duke—they organised a national guard—they illuminated—they protested, cockaded, and—are ruined! Without trade, or any of its resources, this little capital, like almost all those of the German duchies, lived upon “the Court.” The sovereign was not only the fount of honour, but of wealth! Through his household flowed the only channel by which industry was nurtured: it was his court and his dependants whose wants employed the active heads and hands of the entire city. The Duke is gone—the palace closed—the courtyard even already half grass-grown! Not an equipage is to be heard or seen; not even a footman in a court livery rides past; and all the recompense for this is the newly conferred privileges of liberty, to a people who recognise in freedom, not a new bond of obligation, but an unbridled license of action. The spirit of our times is, however, against this. The inspired grocers, who form the Guardia Civica, are our only guides now; it will be curious enough to see where they will lead us.
When thinking of Italian liberty, or Unity, for that is the phrase in vogue, I am often reminded of the Irish priest who was supposed by his parishioners to possess an unlimited sway over the seasons, and who, when hard-pushed to exercise it, at last declared his readiness to procure any kind of weather that three farmers would agree upon, well knowing, the while, how diversity of interest must for ever prevent a common demand. This is precisely the case. An Italian kingdom to comprise the whole Peninsula would be impossible. The Lombards have no interests in common with the Neapolitans. Venice is less the sister than the rival of Genoa. How would the haughty Milanese, rich in every thing that constitutes wealth, surrender their station to the men of the South, whom they despise and look down upon? None would consent to become Provincial; and even the smallest states would stand up for the prerogative of separate identity.
“A National” Guard slowly paces before the gate, within which Royalty no longer dwells; and the banner of their independence floats over their indigence! Truly, they have torn up their mantle to make a cap of Liberty, and they must bear the cold how they may!
As for the Duke himself, I believe he deserves the epithet I heard a Frenchman bestow upon him—he is a Pauvre Sire! There is a fatal consistency, certainly, about the conduct of these Bourbon Princes in moments of trying emergency! They never will recognise danger till too late to avert it. The Prince of Lucca, like Charles Dix, laughed at popular menace, and yet had barely time to escape from popular vengeance. There was a Ball at the palace on the very night when the tumult attained its greatest importance; frequent messages were sent by the Ministers, and more than one order to the troops given during the progress of the entertainment. A despatch was opened at the supper-table; and as the Crown Prince led out his fair partner—an English beauty, by-the-by—to the cotillon, he whispered in her ear, “We must keep it up late, for I fancy we shall never have another dance in this salle!” And this is the way Princes can take leave of their inheritance; and so it is, the “divine right” can be understood by certain “Rulers of the people.”
If the defence of Monarchy depended on the lives and characters of monarchs, how few could resist Republicanism! though, perhaps, every thing considered, there is no station in life where the same number of good and graceful qualities is so certain to win men’s favour and regard. Maginn used to say, that we “admire wit in a woman as we admire a few words spoken plain by a parrot.”
The speech was certainly not a very gallant one; but I half suspect that our admiration of royal attainments is founded upon a similar principle.
Kings can rarely be good talkers, because they have not gone through the great training-school of talk—which is, conversation. This is impossible where there is no equality; and how often does it occur to monarchs to meet each other, and when they do, what a stilted, unreal thing, must be their intercourse! Of reigning sovereigns, the King of Prussia is perhaps the most gifted in this way; of course, less endowed with that shrewd appreciation of character, that intuitive perception of every man’s bias, which marks the Monarch of the Tuileries, but possessed of other and very different qualities, and with one especially which never can be overvalued—an earnest sincerity of purpose in every thing. There is no escaping from the conviction, that here is a man who reflects and wills, and whose appeal to conscience is the daily rule of life. The Nationality of Germany is his great object, and for it he labours as strenuously—may it be as successfully!—as ever his “Great” predecessor did to accomplish the opposite. What a country would it be if the same spirit of nationality were to prevail from the Baltic to the Black Sea, and “Germany” have a political signification as well as a geographical one!
After all, if we have outlived the age of heroic monarchy, we have happily escaped that of royal débauchés. A celebrated Civil Engineer of our day is reported to have said, in his examination before a parliamentary committee, that he regarded “rivers as intended by Providence to supply navigable canals;” in the same spirit one might opine certain characters of royalty were created to supply materials for Vaudevilles.
What would become of the minor theatres of Paris if Louis XIV., and Richelieu, and the Regency were to be interdicted? On whose memory dare they hang so much of shameless vice and iniquitous folly? Where find characters so degraded, so picturesque, so abandoned, so infamous, and so amusing? What time and trouble, too, are saved by the adoption of this era! No need of wearisome explanations and biographical details of the dramatis persono. When one reads the word “Marquis,” he knows it means a man whose whole aim in life is seduction; while “Madame la Marquise” is as invariably the easy victim of royal artifice.
It might open a very curious view into the distinctive nature of national character to compare the recognised class to which vice is attributed in different countries; for while in England we select the aristocracy always, as the natural subjects for depravity, in the Piedmontese territory all the stage villains are derived from the mercantile world. Instead of a Lord, as with us, the seducer is always a Manufacturer or a Shipowner; and vice a Captain of Dragoons, their terror of domestic peace, is a Cotton-spinner or a Dealer in Hardware.
Let it not be supposed that this originates in any real depravity, or any actual want of honesty, in the mercantile world. No! the whole is attributable to the “Censor.” By his arbitrary dictate the entire of a piece is often re-cast, and so habituated have authors become to the prevailing taste, that they now never think of occasioning him the trouble of the correction. Tradesman there stands for scoundrel, as implicitly as with us an Irishman is a blunderer and a Scotchman a knave. Exercised as this power is, and committed to such hands as we find it in foreign countries, it is hard to conceive any more quiet but effectual agent for the degradation of a national taste. It is but a few weeks back I saw a drama marked for stage representation in a city of Lombardy, in which the words “Pope” and “Cardinal” were struck out as irreverent to utter; but all the appeals—and most impious they were—to the Deity were suffered to remain unmutilated.
And now I am reminded of rather a good theme for one of those little dramatic pieces which amuse the public of the Palais Royal and the Variétés. I chanced upon it in an old French book, called “Mémoires et Souvenirs de Jules Auguste Prévost, premier Valet de Charge de S. A. le Duc de Courcelles.” Printed at the Hague, anno 1742.
I am somewhat sceptical about the veraciousness of many of M. Prévost’s recitals; the greater number are, indeed, little else than chronicles of his losses at Ombre, with a certain Mdlle. Valencay, or narratives of “petits soupers,” where his puce-coloured shorts and coat of ambre velvet were the chief things worthy of remembrance. Yet here and there are little traits that look like facts, too insignificant for fiction, and preserving something of the character of the time to which they are linked. The whole bears no trace of ever having been intended for publication; and it is not difficult to see where the new touches have been laid on over the original picture. It was in all probability a mere commonplace book, in which certain circumstances of daily life got mixed up with the written details of his station in the Duke’s household.
Neither its authenticity nor correctness, however, are of any moment to my purpose, which was to jot down—from memory if I can,—the subject I believe to be invested with dramatic material.
M. Prévost’s narrative is very brief; indeed it barely extends beyond a full allusion to a circumstance very generally known at the time. The events run somewhat thus, or at least should do so, in the piece. At the close of a brilliant fête at Versailles, where every fascination that an age of unbounded luxury could procure was assembled, the King retired to his apartment, followed by that prince of vaudeville characters, the Maréchal Richelieu. His Majesty was wearied and out of spirits; the pleasures of the evening, so far from having, as usual, elevated his spirits and awakened his brilliancy, had depressed and fatigued him. He was tired of the unvarying repetition of what his heart had long ceased to have any share in; and, in fact, to use the vulgar, but most fitting phrase, he was bored!
Bored by the courtiers, whose wit was too prompt to have been unprepared; by the homage, too servile to have any sincerity; by the smiles of beauty, perverted as they were by jealous rivalry and subtle intrigue; and, above all, bored by the consciousness that he had no other identity than such as kingly trappings gave him, and that all the love and admiration he received were accorded to the monarch and nothing to the man.
He didn’t exactly, as novel writers would say, pour his sufferings into Richelieu’s ear, but in very abrupt and forcible expressions he manifested his utter weariness of the whole scene, and avowed a very firm belief that the company was almost as tired of him as he was of the company.
In vain the Maréchal rallies his Majesty upon successes which were wont to be called triumphs; in vain he assures him, that never at any period was the domestic peace of the lieges more endangered by his Majesty’s condescensions: in fact, for once—as will happen, even with Kings now and then—he said truth; and truth, however wholesome, is not always palatable. Richelieu was too subtle an adversary to be easily worsted; and after a fruitless effort to obliterate the gloomy impression of the king, he, with a ready assurance, takes him in flank, and coolly attributes the royal dissatisfaction to the very natural weariness at ever seeing the same faces, however beautiful, and hearing the same voices, however gay and sparkling their wit.
“Your Majesty will not give yourself the credit due of winning these evidences of devotion from personal causes, rather than from adventitious ones. Happily, a good opportunity presents itself for the proof. Your Majesty may have heard of Madame de Vaugirarde, whose husband was killed at La Rochelle?”
“The pretty widow who refuses to come to court?”
“The same, sire. She continues to reside at the antique château of her late husband, alone, and without companionship; and, if report speak truly, the brightest eyes of France are wasting their brilliancy in that obscure retreat.”
“Well, what is to be done? You would not, surely, order her up to Versailles by a ‘lettre de cachet?’”
“No, sire, the measure were too bold; nay, perhaps my counsel will appear far bolder: it is, that since Madame de Vaugirarde will not come to court, your Majesty should go to Madame de Vaugirarde.”
It was not very difficult to make this notion agreeable to the king. It had one ingredient pleasurable enough to secure its good reception—it was new—nobody had ever before dreamt of his Majesty making a tour into the provinces incog. This was quite sufficient; and Richelieu had scarcely detailed his intentions than the King burned with impatience to begin his journey. The wily minister, however, had many things to arrange before they set out; but of what nature he did not reveal to his master. Certain is it that he left for Paris within an hour, hastening to the capital with all the speed of post-horses. Arrived there, he exchanged his court suit for a plain dress, and in a fiacre drove to the private entrance of the Théâtre Français.
“Is M. Duroset engaged?” said he, descending from the carriage.
“He is on the stage, monsieur,” said the porter, who took the stranger for one of the better bourgeois of Paris, coming to secure a good loge by personal intercession with the manager. Now, M. Duroset was at the very moment occupied in the not very uncommon task of giving a poor actor his congé who had just presented himself for an engagement.
As was the case in those days—(we have changed since then)—the Director, not merely content with declining the proffered services, was actually adding some very caustic remarks on the pretension of the applicant, whose miserable appearance and ragged costume might have claimed exemption from his gratuitous lecture.
“Believe me, mon cher,” said he, “a man must have a very different air and carriage from yours who plays ‘Le Marquis’ on the Parisian boards. There should be something of the style and bearing of the world about him—his address should be easy, without presumption—his presence commanding, without severity.”
“I always played the noble parts in the provinces. I acted the ‘Régent’——”
“I’ve no doubt of it; and very pretty notions of royalty the audience must have gained from you. There, that will do. Go back to Nancy, and try yourself at valets’ parts for a year or two—that’s the best counsel I can give you! Adieu! adieu!”
The poor actor retired, discomfited and distressed, at the same instant that the graceful figure of Richelieu advanced in easy dignity.
“Monsieur Duroset,” said the Maréchal, seating himself, and speaking in the voice so habituated to utter commands, “I would speak a few words with you in confidence, and where we might be certain of not being overheard.”
“Nothing could be better than the present spot, then,” said the manager, who was impressed by the style and bearing of his visitor, without ever guessing or suspecting his real rank. “The rehearsal will not begin for half-an-hour. Except that poor devil that has just left me, no one has entered this morning.”
“Sit down, then, and pay attention to what I shall say,” said the Maréchal. The words were felt as a command, and instantly obeyed.
“They tell me, M. Duroset, that a young actress, of great beauty and distinguished ability, is about to appear on these boards, whose triumphs have been hitherto won only in the provinces. Well, you must defer her début for some days; and meanwhile, for the benefit of her health, she can make a little excursion to the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau, where, at a short distance from the royal forest, stands a small château. This will be ready for her reception; and where a more critical taste than even your audiences boast will decide upon her merits.”
“There is but one man in France could make such a proposition!” said the manager, starting back, half in amazement, half in respect.
“And I am exactly that man,” rejoined the Maréchal. “There need never be secrets between men of sense. M. Duroset, the case is this: your beauty, whose manners and breeding I conjecture to be equal to her charms, must represent the character of the widowed Countess of Vaugirarde, whose sorrow for her late husband is all but inconsolable. The solitude of her retreat will, however, be disturbed by the accidental arrival of a stranger, who, accompanied by his friend, will demand the hospitality of the château. Grief has not usurped every faculty and devoir of the fair Countess, who consents the following morning to receive the respectful homage of the travellers, and even invites them, weary as they seem by travel, to stay another day.”
“I understand—I understand,” said Duroset, hastily interrupting this narrative, which the speaker poured forth with impetuous rapidity; “but there are several objections, and grave ones.”
“I’m certain of it,” rejoined the other; “and now to combat them. Here are a thousand louis; five hundred of which M. Duroset will keep—the remainder he will expend, as his taste and judgment may dictate, in the costume of the fair Countess.”
“But Mademoiselle Bellechasse?”
“Will accept of these diamonds, which will become her to perfection. She is not a blonde?”
“No; dark hair and eyes.”
“This suite of pearls, then, will form a most graceful addition to her toilette.”
“They are magnificent!” exclaimed the manager, who, with wondering eyes, turned from one jewel-case to the other; “they are splendid! Nay”—then he added, in a lower accent, and with a glance, as he spoke, of inveterate cunning—“nay, they are a Princely present.”
“Ah, M. Duroset, un homme d’esprit is always so easy to treat with! Might I dare to ask if Mademoiselle Bellechasse is here?—if I might be permitted to pay my respects?”
“Certainly; your Excell——”
“Nay, nay, M. Duroset, we are all incog.” said the Maréchal, smiling good-humouredly.
“As you please, sir. I will go and make a brief explanation to Mademoiselle, if you will excuse my leaving you. May I take these jewels with me? Thanks.”
The explanation was, indeed, of the briefest; and he returned in a few seconds, accompanied by a young lady, whose elegance of mien and loveliness of form seemed to astonish even the critical gaze of Richelieu.
“Madame la Comtesse de Vaugirarde,” said the Director, presenting her.
“Ah, belle Comtesse!” said the Maréchal, as he kissed the tips of her fingers with the most profound courtesy; “may I hope that the world has still charms to win back one whose griefs should fall like spring showers, and only render more fragrant the soil they water!”
“I know not what the future may bring forth,” said she, with a most gracefully-affected sadness; “but for the present, I feel as if the solitude of my ancient château, the peaceful quiet of the country, would best respond to my wishes: there alone, to wander in those woods, whose paths are endeared to me——”
“Admirable!—beautiful!—perfect!” exclaimed Richelieu, in a transport of delight; “never was the tribute of affection more touching—never a more graceful homage rendered to past happiness! Now, when can you set out?”
“To-morrow.”
“Why not to-day? Time is every thing here.”
“Remember, monsieur, that we have purchases to make—we visit the capital but rarely.”
“Quite true; I was forgetting the solitude of your retreat. Such charms might make any lapse of memory excusable.”
“Oh, monsieur! I should be, indeed, touched by this flattery, if I could but see the face of him who uttered it.”
“Pardon me, fair Countess, if I do not respond to even the least of your wishes; we shall both appear in our true colours one of these days. Meanwhile, remember our proverb that says, ‘It’s not the cowl makes the monk.’ When you shall hear this again, it will be in your château of Vaugirarde, and——”
“Is that the consigne, then?” said she, laughing.
“Yes, that is the consigne,—don’t forget it;” and, with a graceful salutation, the Maréchal withdrew to perfect his further arrangements.
There was a listener to this scene, that none of its actors ever guessed at—the poor actor, who, having lost his way among forests of pasteboard and palaces of painted canvass, at last found himself at the back of a pavilion, from which the speakers were not more than two paces distant. Scarcely had the Maréchal departed, than he followed his steps, and made all haste to an obscure auberge outside the barriers, where a companion, poor and friendless as himself, awaited him. There is no need to trace what ensued at this meeting. The farce-writer might, indeed, make it effective enough, ending as it does in the resolve, that since an engagement was denied them at Paris, they’d try their fortune at Fontainebleau, by personating the two strangers, who were to arrive by a hazard at the Château de Vaugirarde.
The whole plot is now seen. They set out, and in due time arrive at the château. Their wardrobe and appearance generally are the very reverse of what the fair Countess expected, but as their stage experiences supply a certain resemblance to rank and distinction—at least to her notions of such—she never doubts that they are the promised visitors, and is convinced by the significant declaration, that if their wayworn looks and strange costume seem little indicative of their actual position, yet the Countess should remember, “It is not the cowl makes the monk.”
The constraint with which each assumes a new character forms the second era of the piece. The lover, far from suspecting the real pretensions he should strive to personate—the Countess, as much puzzled by the secrecy of her guest’s conduct, and by guesses as to his actual rank and fortune. It is while these doubts are in full conflict, and when seated at supper, that the King and Richelieu appear, announced as two travellers, whose carriage being overturned and broken, are fain to crave the hospitality of the château.
The discomfiture of Richelieu and the anger of the King at finding the ground occupied, contrast well with the patronising graces of the mock Countess and the insolent demeanour of the lover, who whispers in her ear that the new arrivals are strolling players, and that he has seen them repeatedly in the provinces. All Richelieu’s endeavours to set matters right, unobserved by the King, are abortive; while his Majesty is scarce more fortunate in pressing his suit with the fair Countess, by whose grace and beauty he is fascinated. In the very midst of the insolent badinage of the real actors, an officer of the household arrives, with important despatches. Their delivery brooks no delay, and he at once presents himself, and, kneeling, hands them to the King. Shame, discomfiture, terror, and dismay, seize on the intruding players. The King, however, is merciful. After a smart reproof all is forgiven; his Majesty sagely observing, that although “the Cowl may not make the Monk,” the Ermine has no small share in forming the Monarch.