The Gods of this world's contests, against whom our poor stripped
individual is commonly in revolt, are, as we know, not miners, they are
reapers; and if we appear no longer on the surface, they cease to
bruise us: they will allow an arena character to be cleansed and made
presentable while enthusiastic friends preserve discretion. It is of
course less than magnanimity; they are not proposed to you for your
worship; they are little Gods, temporary as that great wave, their
parent human mass of the hour. But they have one worshipful element in
them, which is, the divine insistency upon there being two sides to a
case--to every case. And the People so far directed by them may boast of
healthfulness. Let the individual shriek, the innocent, triumphant,
have in honesty to admit the fact. One side is vanquished, according
to decree of Law, but the superior Council does not allow it to be
extinguished.
Diana's battle was fought shadowily behind her for the space of a week
or so, with some advocates on behalf of the beaten man; then it became
a recollection of a beautiful woman, possibly erring, misvalued by a
husband, who was neither a man of the world nor a gracious yokefellow,
nor anything to match her. She, however, once out of the public flames,
had to recall her scorchings to be gentle with herself. Under a defeat,
she would have been angrily self-vindicated. The victory of the ashen
laurels drove her mind inward to gird at the hateful yoke, in compassion
for its pair of victims. Quite earnestly by such means, yet always
bearing a comical eye on her subterfuges, she escaped the extremes of
personal blame. Those advocates of her opponent in and out of court
compelled her honest heart to search within and own to faults. But were
they not natural faults? It was her marriage; it was marriage in
the abstract: her own mistake and the world's clumsy machinery of
civilization: these were the capital offenders: not the wife who would
laugh ringingly, and would have friends of the other sex, and shot her
epigrams at the helpless despot, and was at times--yes, vixenish; a
nature driven to it, but that was the word. She was too generous to
recount her charges against the vanquished. If his wretched jealousy had
ruined her, the secret high tribunal within her bosom, which judged her
guiltless for putting the sword between their marriage tie when they
stood as one, because a quarrelling couple could not in honour play the
embracing, pronounced him just pardonable. She distinguished that he
could only suppose, manlikely, one bad cause for the division.
To this extent she used her unerring brains, more openly than on her
night of debate at The Crossways. The next moment she was off in vapour,
meditating grandly on her independence of her sex and the passions.
Love! she did not know it, she was not acquainted with either the
criminal or the domestic God, and persuaded herself that she never could
be. She was a Diana of coldness, preferring friendship; she could be the
friend of men. There was another who could be the friend of women. Her
heart leapt to Redworth. Conjuring up his clear trusty face, at their
grasp of hands when parting, she thought of her visions of her future
about the period of the Dublin Ball, and acknowledged, despite the
erratic step to wedlock, a gain in having met and proved so true a
friend. His face, figure, character, lightest look, lightest word, all
were loyal signs of a man of honour, cold as she; he was the man to
whom she could have opened her heart for inspection. Rejoicing in her
independence of an emotional sex, the impulsive woman burned with
a regret that at their parting she had not broken down conventional
barriers and given her cheek to his lips in the anti-insular fashion
with a brotherly friend. And why not when both were cold? Spirit to
spirit, she did, delightfully refreshed by her capacity to do so without
a throb. He had held her hands and looked into her eyes half a minute,
like a dear comrade; as little arousing her instincts of defensiveness
as the clearing heavens; and sisterly love for it was his due, a
sister's kiss. He needed a sister, and should have one in her. Emma's
recollected talk of 'Tom Redworth' painted him from head to foot,
brought the living man over the waters to the deck of the yacht. A stout
champion in the person of Tom Redworth was left on British land; but
for some reason past analysis, intermixed, that is, among a swarm of
sensations, Diana named her champion to herself with the formal
prefix: perhaps because she knew a man's Christian name to be dangerous
handling. They differed besides frequently in opinion, when the habit of
thinking of him as Mr. Redworth would be best. Women are bound to such
small observances, and especially the beautiful of the sisterhood, whom
the world soon warns that they carry explosives and must particularly
guard against the ignition of petty sparks. She was less indiscreet
in her thoughts than in her acts, as is the way with the reflective
daughter of impulse; though she had fine mental distinctions: what she
could offer to do 'spirit to spirit,' for instance, held nothing to
her mind of the intimacy of calling the gentleman plain Tom in mere
contemplation of him. Her friend and champion was a volunteer, far
from a mercenary, and he deserved the reward, if she could bestow it
unalarmed. They were to meet in Egypt. Meanwhile England loomed the home
of hostile forces ready to shock, had she been a visible planet, and
ready to secrete a virus of her past history, had she been making new.
She was happily away, borne by a whiter than swan's wing on the sapphire
Mediterranean. Her letters to Emma were peeps of splendour for the
invalid: her way of life on board the yacht, and sketches of her host
and hostess as lovers in wedlock on the other side of our perilous
forties; sketches of the bays, the towns, the people-priests,
dames, cavaliers, urchins, infants, shifting groups of supple
southerners-flashed across the page like a web of silk, and were dashed
off, redolent of herself, as lightly as the silvery spray of the blue
waves she furrowed; telling, without allusions to the land behind her,
that she had dipped in the wells of blissful oblivion. Emma Dunstane, as
is usual with those who receive exhilarating correspondence from makers
of books, condemned the authoress in comparison, and now first saw that
she had the gift of writing. Only one cry: 'Italy, Eden of exiles!'
betrayed the seeming of a moan. She wrote of her poet and others
immediately. Thither had they fled; with adieu to England!
How many have waved the adieu! And it is England nourishing, England
protecting them, England clothing them in the honours they wear. Only
the posturing lower natures, on the level of their buskins, can pluck
out the pocket-knife of sentimental spite to cut themselves loose from
her at heart in earnest. The higher, bleed as they may, too pressingly
feel their debt. Diana had the Celtic vivid sense of country. In England
she was Irish, by hereditary, and by wilful opposition. Abroad, gazing
along the waters, observing, comparing, reflecting, above all, reading
of the struggles at home, the things done and attempted, her soul of
generosity made her, though not less Irish, a daughter of Britain. It
is at a distance that striving countries should be seen if we would have
them in the pure idea; and this young woman of fervid mind, a reader
of public speeches and speculator on the tides of politics (desirous,
further, to feel herself rather more in the pure idea), began to yearn
for England long before her term of holiday exile had ended. She had
been flattered by her friend, her 'wedded martyr at the stake,' as
she named him, to believe that she could exercise a judgement in
politics--could think, even speak acutely, on public affairs. The
reports of speeches delivered by the men she knew or knew of, set her
thrilling; and she fancied the sensibility to be as independent of her
sympathy with the orators as her political notions were sovereignty
above a sex devoted to trifles, and the feelings of a woman who had gone
through fire. She fancied it confidently, notwithstanding a peculiar
intuition that the plunge into the nobler business of the world would be
a haven of safety for a woman with blood and imagination, when writing
to Emma: 'Mr. Redworth's great success in Parliament is good in itself,
whatever his views of present questions; and I do not heed them when I
look to what may be done by a man of such power in striking at unjust
laws, which keep the really numerically better-half of the population
in a state of slavery. If he had been a lawyer! It must be a lawyer's
initiative--a lawyer's Bill. Mr. Percy Dacier also spoke well, as might
have been expected, and his uncle's compliment to him was merited.
Should you meet him sound him. He has read for the Bar, and is younger
than Mr. Redworth. The very young men and the old are our hope. The
middleaged are hard and fast for existing facts. We pick our leaders on
the slopes, the incline and decline of the mountain--not on the upper
table-land midway, where all appears to men so solid, so tolerably
smooth, save for a few excrescences, roughnesses, gradually to be
levelled at their leisure; which induces one to protest that the
middle-age of men is their time of delusion. It is no paradox. They may
be publicly useful in a small way. I do not deny it at all. They must be
near the gates of life--the opening or the closing--for their minds to
be accessible to the urgency of the greater questions. Otherwise the
world presents itself to them under too settled an aspect--unless, of
course, Vesuvian Revolution shakes the land. And that touches only their
nerves. I dream of some old Judge! There is one--if having caught
we could keep him. But I dread so tricksy a pilot. You have guessed
him--the ancient Puck! We have laughed all day over the paper telling
us of his worrying the Lords. Lady Esquart congratulates her husband on
being out of it. Puck 'biens ride' and bewigged might perhaps--except
that at the critical moment he would be sure to plead allegiance
to Oberon. However, the work will be performed by some one: I am
prophetic:--when maidens are grandmothers!--when your Tony is wearing a
perpetual laugh in the unhusbanded regions where there is no institution
of the wedding-tie.'
For the reason that she was not to participate in the result of the old
Judge's or young hero's happy championship of the cause of her sex, she
conceived her separateness high aloof, and actually supposed she was a
contemplative, simply speculative political spirit, impersonal albeit a
woman. This, as Emma, smiling at the lines, had not to learn, was always
her secret pride of fancy--the belief in her possession of a disengaged
intellect.
The strange illusion, so clearly exposed to her correspondent, was
maintained through a series of letters very slightly descriptive, dated
from the Piraeus, the Bosphorus, the coasts of the Crimea, all more or
less relating to the latest news of the journals received on board the
yacht, and of English visitors fresh from the country she now seemed
fond of calling 'home.' Politics, and gentle allusions to the curious
exhibition of 'love in marriage' shown by her amiable host and hostess:
'these dear Esquarts, who are never tired of one another, but courtly
courting, tempting me to think it possible that a fortunate selection
and a mutual deference may subscribe to human happiness:--filled the
paragraphs. Reviews of her first literary venture were mentioned once:
'I was well advised by Mr. Redworth in putting ANTONIA for authoress.
She is a buff jerkin to the stripes, and I suspect that the signature
of D. E. M., written in full, would have cawed woefully to hear that
her style is affected, her characters nullities, her cleverness forced,
etc., etc. As it is, I have much the same contempt for poor Antonia's
performance. Cease penning, little fool! She writes, “with some
comprehension of the passion of love.” I know her to be a stranger to
the earliest cry. So you see, dear, that utter ignorance is the mother
of the Art. Dialogues “occasionally pointed.” She has a sister who may
do better.--But why was I not apprenticed to a serviceable profession or
a trade? I perceive now that a hanger-on of the market had no right to
expect a happier fate than mine has been.'
On the Nile, in the winter of the year, Diana met the Hon. Percy Dacier.
He was introduced to her at Cairo by Redworth. The two gentlemen had
struck up a House of Commons acquaintanceship, and finding themselves
bound for the same destination, had grown friendly. Redworth's arrival
had been pleasantly expected. She remarked on Dacier's presence to Emma,
without sketch or note of him as other than much esteemed by Lord and
Lady Esquart. These, with Diana, Redworth, Dacier, the German Eastern
traveller Schweizerbarth, and the French Consul and Egyptologist
Duriette, composed a voyaging party up the river, of which expedition
Redworth was Lady Dunstane's chief writer of the records. His novel
perceptiveness and shrewdness of touch made them amusing; and his
tenderness to the Beauty's coquettry between the two foreign rivals,
moved a deeper feeling. The German had a guitar, the Frenchman a voice;
Diana joined them in harmony. They complained apart severally of the
accompaniment and the singer. Our English criticized them apart; and
that is at any rate to occupy a post, though it contributes nothing to
entertainment. At home the Esquarts had sung duets; Diana had assisted
Redworth's manly chest-notes at the piano. Each of them declined to
be vocal. Diana sang alone for the credit of the country, Italian and
French songs, Irish also. She was in her mood of Planxty Kelly and
Garryowen all the way. 'Madame est Irlandaise?' Redworth heard the
Frenchman say, and he owned to what was implied in the answering tone of
the question. 'We should be dull dogs without the Irish leaven!' So
Tony in exile still managed to do something for her darling Erin. The
solitary woman on her heights at Copsley raised an exclamation of, 'Oh!
that those two had been or could be united!' She was conscious of a
mystic symbolism in the prayer.
She was not apprehensive of any ominous intervention of another. Writing
from Venice, Diana mentioned Mr. Percy Dacier as being engaged to an
heiress; 'A Miss Asper, niece of a mighty shipowner, Mr. Quintin Manx,
Lady Esquart tells me: money fabulous, and necessary to a younger son
devoured with ambition. The elder brother, Lord Creedmore, is a common
Nimrod, always absent in Hungary, Russia, America, hunting somewhere.
Mr. Dacier will be in the Cabinet with the next Ministry.' No more of
him. A new work by ANTONIA was progressing.
The Summer in South Tyrol passed like a royal procession before young
eyes for Diana, and at the close of it, descending the Stelvio, idling
through the Valtelline, Como Lake was reached, Diana full of her work,
living the double life of the author. At Bellagio one afternoon Mr.
Percy Dacier appeared. She remembered subsequently a disappointment she
felt in not beholding Mr. Redworth either with him or displacing him. If
engaged to a lady, he was not an ardent suitor; nor was he a pointedly
complimentary acquaintance. His enthusiasm was reserved for Italian
scenery. She had already formed a sort of estimate of his character, as
an indifferent observer may do, and any woman previous to the inflaming
of her imagination, if that is in store for her; and she now fell to
work resetting the puzzle it became as soon her positive conclusions had
to be shaped again. 'But women never can know young men,' she wrote
to Emma, after praising his good repute as one of the brotherhood. 'He
drops pretty sentences now and then: no compliments; milky nuts. Of
course he has a head, or he would not be where he is--and that seems
always to me the most enviable place a young man can occupy.' She
observed in him a singular conflicting of a buoyant animal nature with
a curb of studiousness, as if the fardels of age were piling on his
shoulders before youth had quitted its pastures.
His build of limbs and his features were those of the finely-bred
English; he had the English taste for sports, games, manly diversions;
and in the bloom of life, under thirty, his head was given to bend. The
head bending on a tall upright figure, where there was breadth of chest,
told of weights working. She recollected his open look, larger than
inquiring, at the introduction to her; and it recurred when she uttered
anything specially taking. What it meant was past a guess, though
comparing it with the frank directness of Redworth's eyes, she saw the
difference between a look that accepted her and one that dilated on two
opinions.
Her thought of the gentleman was of a brilliant young charioteer in the
ruck of the race, watchful for his chance to push to the front; and she
could have said that a dubious consort might spoil a promising career.
It flattered her to think that she sometimes prompted him, sometimes
illumined. He repeated sentences she had spoken. 'I shall be better
able to describe Mr. Dacier when you and I sit together, my Emmy, and a
stroke here and there completes the painting. Set descriptions are
good for puppets. Living men and women are too various in the mixture
fashioning them--even the “external presentment”--to be livingly
rendered in a formal sketch. I may tell you his eyes are pale blue,
his features regular, his hair silky, brownish, his legs long, his head
rather stooping (only the head), his mouth commonly closed; these are
the facts, and you have seen much the same in a nursery doll. Such
literary craft is of the nursery. So with landscapes. The art of the
pen (we write on darkness) is to rouse the inward vision, instead of
labouring with a Drop-scene brush, as if it were to the eye; because our
flying minds cannot contain a protracted description. That is why the
poets, who spring imagination with a word or a phrase, paint lasting
pictures. The Shakespearian, the Dantesque, are in a line, two at most.
He lends an attentive ear when I speak, agrees or has a quaint
pucker of the eyebrows dissenting inwardly. He lacks mental
liveliness--cheerfulness, I should say, and is thankful to have it
imparted. One suspects he would be a dull domestic companion. He has
a veritable thirst for hopeful views of the world, and no spiritual
distillery of his own. He leans to depression. Why! The broken reed you
call your Tony carries a cargo, all of her manufacture--she reeks of
secret stills; and here is a young man--a sapling oak--inclined to
droop. His nature has an air of imploring me que je d'arrose! I begin
to perform Mrs. Dr. Pangloss on purpose to brighten him--the mind, the
views. He is not altogether deficient in conversational gaiety, and he
shines in exercise. But the world is a poor old ball bounding down a
hill--to an Irish melody in the evening generally, by request. So far
of Mr. Percy Dacier, of whom I have some hopes--distant, perhaps
delusive--that he may be of use to our cause. He listens. It is an
auspicious commencement.'
Lugano is the Italian lake most lovingly encircled by mountain arms, and
every height about it may be scaled with esce. The heights have their
nest of waters below for a home scene, the southern Swiss peaks, with
celestial Monta Rosa, in prospect. It was there that Diana reawakened,
after the trance of a deadly draught, to the glory of the earth and her
share in it. She wakened like the Princess of the Kiss; happily not to
kisses; to no sign, touch or call that she could trace backward. The
change befell her without a warning. After writing deliberately to her
friend Emma, she laid down her pen and thought of nothing; and into
this dreamfulness a wine passed, filling her veins, suffusing her mind,
quickening her soul: and coming whence? out of air, out of the yonder of
air. She could have imagined a seraphic presence in the room, that bade
her arise and live; take the cup of the wells of youth arrested at her
lips by her marriage; quit her wintry bondage for warmth, light, space,
the quick of simple being. And the strange pure ecstasy was not a
transient electrification; it came in waves on a continuous tide;
looking was living; walking flying. She hardly knew that she slept. The
heights she had seen rosy at eve were marked for her ascent in the dawn.
Sleep was one wink, and fresh as the dewy field and rockflowers on her
way upward, she sprang to more and more of heaven, insatiable, happily
chirruping over her possessions. The threading of the town among
the dear common people before others were abroad, was a pleasure and
pleasant her solitariness threading the gardens at the base of the rock,
only she astir; and the first rough steps of the winding footpath, the
first closed buds, the sharper air, the uprising of the mountain with
her ascent; and pleasant too was her hunger and the nibble at a little
loaf of bread. A linnet sang in her breast, an eagle lifted her feet.
The feet were verily winged, as they are in a season of youth when
the blood leaps to light from the pressure of the under forces, like a
source at the wellheads, and the whole creature blooms, vital in every
energy as a spirit. To be a girl again was magical. She could fancy her
having risen from the dead. And to be a girl, with a woman's broader
vision and receptiveness of soul, with knowledge of evil, and winging to
ethereal happiness, this was a revelation of our human powers.
She attributed the change to the influences of nature's beauty and
grandeur. Nor had her woman's consciousness to play the chrysalis in
any shy recesses of her heart; she was nowhere veiled or torpid; she was
illumined, like the Salvatore she saw in the evening beams and mounted
in the morning's; and she had not a spot of seeresy; all her nature
flew and bloomed; she was bird, flower, flowing river, a quivering
sensibility unweighted, enshrouded. Desires and hopes would surely have
weighted and shrouded her. She had none, save for the upper air, the
eyes of the mountain.
Which was the dream--her past life or this ethereal existence? But
this ran spontaneously, and the other had often been stimulated--her
vivaciousness on the Nile-boat, for a recent example. She had not a
doubt that her past life was the dream, or deception: and for the reason
that now she was compassionate, large of heart toward all beneath her.
Let them but leave her free, they were forgiven, even to prayers for
their well-being! The plural number in the case was an involuntary
multiplying of the single, coming of her incapacity during this
elevation and rapture of the senses to think distinctly of that One who
had discoloured her opening life. Freedom to breathe, gaze, climb,
grow with the grasses, fly with the clouds, to muse, to sing, to be
an unclaimed self, dispersed upon earth, air, sky, to find a keener
transfigured self in that radiation--she craved no more.
Bear in mind her beauty, her charm of tongue, her present state of white
simplicity in fervour: was there ever so perilous a woman for the most
guarded and clearest-eyed of young men to meet at early morn upon a
mountain side?