CHAPTER XVIII.
"Spirit of Love! soon thy rose-plumes wear
The weight and the sully of canker and care;
Falsehood is round thee—Hope leads thee on,
Till every hue from thy pinion is gone;
But one bright moment is all thine own,
The one ere thy visible presence is known.
When, like the wind of the south, thy power,
Sunning the heavens, sweetening the flower,
Is felt, but not seen, thou art soft and calm
As the sleep of a child—the dewfall of balm.
Fear has not darkened thee—Hope has made
The blossom expand, it but opens to fade.
Nothing is known of those wearing fears
Which will shadow the light of thy after-years.
Then thou art bliss:—but once throw by
The veil which shrouds thy divinity,
Stand confessed, and thy quiet is fled;
Wild flashes of rapture may come instead,
But pain will be with them. What may restore
The gentle happiness known before?"
The Improvisatrice.
There was a considerable change in the tone of Emily's epistles. Pleasures were not considered quite so insipid—nor was our young lady quite so philosophical as she had been; she owned, that now town was full it was very delightful; and mentioned casually, in a postscript, that Mr. Lorraine was a great acquisition to their circle.
No one can deny Lady Charlotte Bury's assertion, that no well-regulated young female will ever indulge in a species of amusement so improper as flirtation; but it must be admitted, that having a pleasant partner is preferable to not dancing, and that a little persiflage, a little raillery, a little flattery, go far to make a partner pleasant. We are afraid these three parts only want a fourth—sentiment—to make up what is called flirtation,—at least, the Misses Fergusson pronounced that Miss Arundel flirted shamefully with Mr. Lorraine. This was said one evening when, after having waltzed—animated at once by pleasure and a desire to please—with the grace of a Greek nymph (or, at least, our idea of one) and the ear of a nightingale (we take it for granted that a nightingale's ear for time must be exquisite)—she sat down with Edward on a vacant window-seat.
"Love," thought Lady Mandeville to herself, "is said to spring from beauty. I am rather inclined to reverse the genealogy. I pique myself upon my penetration, and will never trust it again, if my young friend is not improving her complexion, and losing her heart somewhat rapidly;—well, I think her to-night a most lovely creature."
Lady Mandeville remembered how different she looked seated by Lady Alicia at her first ball; but to-night
The heart's delight did, like a radiant lamp,
Light the sweet temple of her face.
She was placed so that her delicately cut features were seen in profile; the head a little thrown back, a little turned away—that half withdrawing attitude so graceful and so feminine; the mouth half opened, as if listening with such unconscious intenseness that the breath was rather inhaled than drawn—its least sound suppressed; the beautiful crimson of excitement glowed on the cheek, that rich passionate colour it can know but once—a thousand blushes gathered into one aurora; her eyes were entirely veiled by the long lashes, not from intention, but impulse, intuitively aware of his every glance,—she herself knew not that to look into his face was impossible. Ah! there is no look so suspicious as a downcast one.
Emily was now in the happiest period of love—perhaps its only happy one; she felt a keener sense of enjoyment, a pleasure in trifles, a reliance on the present; her step was more buoyant, her laugh more glad; she felt a desire to be kind to all around, and her nature seemed all gaiety but for its sweetness.
"Love's first steps are upon the rose," says the proverb—"its second finds the thorn." Like the maiden of the fairy tale, we destroy our spell when we open it to examine in what characters it is written. In its ignorance is its happiness; there is none of the anxiety that is the fever of hope—no fears, for there is no calculation—no selfishness, for it asks for nothing—no disappointment, for nothing is expected: it is like the deep quiet enjoyment of basking in the bright sunshine, without thinking of either how the glad warmth will ripen our fruits and flowers, or how the dark clouds in the distance forebode a storm.
I doubt whether this morning twilight of the affections has the same extent of duration and influence in man that it has in woman; the necessity of exertion for attainment has been early inculcated upon him—he knows, that if he would win, he must woo—and his imagination acts chiefly as a stimulus. But a woman's is of a more passive kind; she has no motive for analysing feelings whose future rests not with herself: more imaginative from early sedentary habits, she is content to dream on, and some chance reveals to herself the secret she would never have learnt from self-investigation. Imbued with all the timidity, exalted by all the romance of a first attachment, never did a girl yet calculate on making what is called a conquest of the man she loves. A conquest is the resource of weariness—the consolation of disappointment—a second world of vanity and ambition, sighed for like Alexander's, but not till we have wasted and destroyed the heart's first sweet world of early love.
Let Lord Byron say what he will of bread and butter, girlhood is a beautiful season, and its love—its warm, uncalculating, devoted love—so exaggerating in its simplicity—so keen from its freshness—is the very poetry of attachment: after-years have nothing like it. To know that the love which once seemed eternal can have an end, destroys its immortality; and, thus brought to a level with the beginnings and endings—the chances and changes of life's common-place employments and pleasures—and, alas! from the sublime to the ridiculous there is but a step—our divinity turns out an idol—we are grown too wise, too worldly, for our former faith—and we laugh at what we wept before: such laughter is more bitter—a thousand times more bitter—than tears.
Emily was in the very first of the golden age of unconscious enjoyment—a period which endures longer in unrequited love than any other; the observance and display of another's feelings do not then assist to enlighten us on our own.
Lorraine's imagination was entirely engrossed by Adelaide Lorimer. He had first seen her in a situation a little out of the common routine of introduction; she was quite beautiful enough to make a divinity of—and her grace and refinement were admirable in the way of contrast to the prettiness and simplicity of which he had just been thoroughly tired in Norway. Now it is an admitted fact in moral—or, we should say, sentimental—philosophy, that one attachment precludes another—and that to be sensible of the attractions of one lady, is to be blind to those of the rest. Edward thought Miss Arundel "a great acquisition to their circle," and a very pretty sweet creature; but he never even thought of falling in love with her, and certainly she did not think of it either. Thus, matters stood at present—very sufficient to give a shadowy softness to her eyes, and brilliancy to her blush. And yet the camellia japonicas (those delicate white flowers, which seemed as if carved in ivory by some sculptor whose inspiration has been love till all that is beautiful is to him something sacred), and the geraniums in the window behind, could have witnessed that their conversation had been carried on in a tone of exclusive gaiety, and that the only arrows flung round were those of laughing sarcasm.
Strangers and friends had been alike passed in gay review—strangers, for their dress and manners; and friends—our friends always share the worst—to dress and manners added tempers, opinions, and habits—their whole internal and external economy. It is a wise law of nature, that we only hear at second-hand what is said of us, when, at least, we can comfort ourselves with disbelief. His Satanic majesty did not know how to tempt Job; instead of making him hear his friends talk to him—though that was bad enough—he should have made him hear them talk of him; and if that did not drive him out of all patience, I know not what would.
"Nothing," at length observed Emily, "strikes me so much as the little appearance of enjoyment there is in any present—our faces, like our summers, want sunshine; my uncle would quote Froissart, who says of our ancestors, 'the English, after their fashion, s'amusent moult tristement.' Look at the quadrille opposite—it boasts not a single smile; I am inclined to ask, with some foreigner, 'Are these people enjoying themselves?'"
"We must first make," replied Edward, "due allowance for climate and constitution—we must make another for fashion: we live in an age of re-action; the style of loud talking, laughing, or what was termed dashing, lies in the tomb of the Duchess of Gordon. We are in the other extreme—and I answer your question by another: Do you mean to affront me, by supposing I could enjoy myself? What pitiable ignorance of pleasure, on my part, does the question insinuate!"
"I am, then, to imagine, that the highest style of fashion is, like that of ancient art, the beauty of repose? You account for the indifference of the gentlemen—how do you account for the gravity of the young ladies?"
"You speak as if you considered a ball a matter of pleasure, not business! Do you imagine a girl goes through her first season in London, with the view of amusing herself? Heavens! she has no time to waste in any such folly. The first campaign is conquest and hope—the second, conquest and fear—the third, conquest and despair. A ball-room is merely—'Arithmetic and the use of figures taught here.' A young lady in a quadrille might answer, like a merchant in his counting-house, 'I am too busy to laugh—I am making my calculations.'"
"La nation boutiquière," laughed Emily.
"Ah, good!" exclaimed Lorraine. "Do look how sedulously those two young ladies have made room for that thin, bilious-looking, elderly gentleman, to hear more conveniently Malibran's last song."
"He sat by me at dinner the other day. Do you know, I am quite interested in him—I pity his situation so much! The conversation took what you would call a most English strain, about domestic felicity; and he spoke in a tone of such strong personal feeling of the cruel opposition of circumstance to affection! I have arranged his little romance in my own mind. Has he not for years 'dragged at each remove the lengthened chain' of an early and vain attachment—too poor to marry?"
"Nothing like the couleur de rose of the imagination—I wish it could be condensed into curtains for my dressing-room. This gentleman, who has so excited your sympathy as too poor to marry, has only about ten thousand a-year; but, as he once observed, wives and servants are so expensive now-a-days, they require almost as much as one's self."
"Who is that gentleman who has just entered, with such an air of captivating condescension? He always gives me the idea of having stepped out of the Spectator—one of the Cleontes and Orlandos of other days, whose very bow annihilated one's peace of mind. I have a vision of him, with lace ruffles, and his mistress's portrait on his snuff-box—keeping a portfolio of billets doux, and talking of the last sweet creature that died for him, with a 'Well, it was really too cruel!'"
"You are right—Mr. Clanricarde is born too late; the reputation of a conqueror, whether of hearts or kingdoms, is now philosophically demonstrated to be worthless. Utility is fast annihilating the empire of the sigh or the sword: a hero is pronounced to be dangerous, or, worse, useless—and Alexanders and Richelieus are equally out of keeping with our time. Mr. Clanricarde's theory of sentiment is rather original: he says he quite agrees with Montesquieu's doctrine of the influence of climate; he therefore argues that this external effect must be counteracted by an internal one, and takes up an attachment as the best resource against the fogs, rains, and snows of our island. He changes his mistresses with the weather: in sunshine, by way of contrast, he devotes himself to some languid beauty—in gloom to some piquant coquette. I rallied him the other day on his homage this June to the lively and witty Miss Fortescue. 'Yes, summer is setting in with its usual severity,' replied he—'one must have a resource.'"
"He is a practical reproach to our barometer," rejoined Emily: "but do you not think the inconvenience of such rainy seasons is more than compensated by the pleasure of grumbling at them?"
"Our national safety-valve: a Frenchman throws his discontent into an epigram, and is happy—an Englishman vents his on the weather, and is satisfied. Heaven help our minister through a fine summer! it would inevitably cost him his place; for our English grumbling is equally distributed between the weather and politics, and the case would be desperate when confined to the last."
"Are not the Misses M'Leod dressed beautifully to-night?"
"We agree. Ah, Miss Arundel, what a duty it is in a woman to dress well! Alas, that a duty so important should ever be neglected! Dress ought to be part of female education; her eye for colouring, her taste for drapery, should be cultivated by intense study. Let her approach the mirror as she would her harp or her grammar, aware that she has a task before her, whose fulfilment, not whose fulfilling, is matter of vanity. Above all, let her eschew the impertinence of invention; let her leave genius to her milliner. In schools, there are the drawing, French, and dancing days; there should also be dressing days. From sandal to ringlet should undergo strict investigation; and a prize should be given to the best dressed. We should not then have our eyesight affronted by yellows and pinks, greens and blues, mingled together; we should be spared the rigidity of form too often attendant on a new dress; and no longer behold shawls hung on shoulders as if they were two pegs in a passage."
"A frivolous employment you find, truly, for our sex!"
"A frivolous employment! This comes of well-sounding morality shining in a sentence. Frivolous in an education devoted to attraction! No sonata will do so much execution as your aërial crêpe over delicate satin; and your cadences never produce half the effect of your curls."
"But consider the time your system would require."
"But consider the time really and truly given to the toilette. My system would require but half—for it would be judiciously employed."
"You gentlemen have strange notions on these subjects; you have some visionary fancy of a heroine all white muslin and simplicity, whose ringlets never come out of curl, and who puts a few natural flowers, which make a point of not fading, in her hair."
"I have a particular antipathy to white muslin; and I think natural flowers like natural pleasures—their beauty is soon past. No; I prefer a noble confidence in your milliner using your own taste only in selection; and also that confidential intercourse between yourself and your clothes as if you were accustomed to each other. Do not take up your boa as if it were the rope with which you meant to hang yourself; nor wrap your shawl round you as if it were your shroud. But you, Miss Arundel, understand well what I mean."
There was a very graceful emphasis on the you; but Emily certainly blushed deeper than the occasion required. For the first time, Lady Alicia was petitioned to keep the carriage waiting half an hour for "one more waltz;" and "Oh, such a delightful ball, sir!" was Emily's account to Mr. Delawarr the next morning at breakfast.
If, as a pretty little French woman once observed, a young lady's delight in a ball is not always raisonnable, at least she always has quelque raison.
I own that life is very wearisome—that we are most miserable creatures—that we go on through disappointments, cares, and sorrows, enough for a dozen of poems; still, it has pleasant passages—for example, when one is young, pretty, and a little in love. What a pity that we cannot remain at fifteen and five and twenty! Or, second thoughts are best—I dare-say then we should sink under the ennui of enjoyment, or be obliged to commit suicide in self-defence.
It is a fact, as melancholy for the historian as it is true, that though balls are very important events in a young lady's career, there is exceedingly little to be said about them:—they are pleasures all on the same pattern,—the history of one is the history of all. You dress with a square glass before you, and a long glass behind you; your hair trusts to its own brown or black attractions, either curled or braided,—or you put on a wreath, a bunch of flowers, or a pearl bandeau; your dress is gauze, crape, lace, or muslin, either white, pink, blue, or yellow; you shower, like April, an odorous rain on your handkerchief; you put on your shawl, and step into the carriage; you stop in some street or square; your footman raps as long as he can; you are some time going up stairs; you hear your name, or something like it, leading the way before you. As many drawing-rooms are thrown open as the house will allow,—they are lighted with lamps or wax lights, there is a certain quantity of china, and a certain number of exotics; also a gay-looking crowd, from which the hostess emerges, and declares she is very glad to see you. You pass on; you sit a little while on a sofa; a tall or a short gentleman asks yon to dance,—to this you reply, that you will be very happy; you take his arm and walk to the quadrille or waltz; a succession of partners. Then comes supper: you have a small piece of fowl, and a thin slice of ham, perhaps some jelly, or a few grapes,—a glass of white wine, or ponche à la romaine. Your partners have asked you if you have been to the Opera; in return you question them if they have been to the Park. Perhaps a remark is hazarded on Miss Fanny Kemble. If you are a step more intimate, a few disparaging observations are made on the entertainment and the guests. Some cavalier hands you downstairs; you recloak and re-enter the carriage with the comfortable reflection, that as you have been seen at Mrs. So-and-so's ball, Mrs. Such-a-one may ask you to hers.
Now, is not this a true page in the annals of dancing? A little sentiment in the case alters the whole affair. Emily's day of philosophical reflection in a ball-room was either past or to come. There are many odd things in society; but its amusements are the oddest of all. Take any crowded party you will, and I doubt if there are ten persons in the room who are really pleased. To do as others do, is the mania of the day. I will tell you a story.
Once upon a time a lady died much regretted; for she was as kind-hearted an individual as ever gave birth-day presents in her life, or left legacies at her death. When they heard the intelligence, the whole of a married daughter's family were in great distress,—the mother cried bitterly, so did her two eldest daughters, as fitting and proper to do. The youngest child of all, a little creature who could not in the least recollect its grandmother, nevertheless retired into a corner, and threw its pinafore over its face. "Poor dear feeling little creature!" said the nurse, "don't you cry too." "I'm not crying," replied the child; "I only pretend."
Regret and enjoyment are much the same; people are like the child,—they only pretend.