“Thought would destroy their Paradise.”--GRAY.
MALTRAVERS found Alice as docile a pupil as any reasonable preceptor
might have desired. But still, reading and writing--they are very
uninteresting elements! Had the groundwork been laid, it might have been
delightful to raise the fairy palace of knowledge; but the digging the
foundations and the constructing the cellars is weary labour. Perhaps he
felt it so; for in a few days Alice was handed over to the very oldest
and ugliest writing-master that the neighbouring town could afford.
The poor girl at first wept much at the exchange; but the grave
remonstrances and solemn exhortations of Maltravers reconciled her
at last, and she promised to work hard and pay every attention to her
lessons. I am not sure, however, that it was the tedium of the work that
deterred the idealist--perhaps he felt its danger--and at the bottom of
his sparkling dreams and brilliant follies lay a sound, generous, and
noble heart. He was fond of pleasure, and had been already the darling
of the sentimental German ladies. But he was too young and too vivid,
and too romantic, to be what is called a sensualist. He could not look
upon a fair face, and a guileless smile, and all the ineffable symmetry
of a woman’s shape, with the eye of a man buying cattle for base uses.
He very easily fell in love, or fancied he did, it is true,--but then he
could not separate desire from fancy, or calculate the game of passion
without bringing the heart or the imagination into the matter. And
though Alice was very pretty and very engaging, he was not yet in love
with her, and he had no intention of becoming so.
He felt the evening somewhat long, when for the first time Alice
discontinued her usual lesson; but Maltravers had abundant resources in
himself. He placed Shakespeare and Schiller on his table, and lighted
his German meerschaum--he read till he became inspired, and then he
wrote--and when he had composed a few stanzas he was not contented till
he had set them to music, and tried their melody with his voice. For
he had all the passion of a German for song, and music--that wild
Maltravers!--and his voice was sweet, his taste consummate, his
science profound. As the sun puts out a star, so the full blaze of his
imagination, fairly kindled, extinguished for the time his fairy fancy
for his beautiful pupil.
It was late that night when Maltravers went to bed--and as he passed
through the narrow corridor that led to his chamber he heard a light
step flying before him, and caught the glimpse of a female figure
escaping through a distant door. “The silly child,” thought he, at once
divining the cause; “she has been listening to my singing. I shall scold
her.” But he forgot that resolution.
The next day, and the next, and many days passed, and Maltravers saw but
little of the pupil for whose sake he had shut himself up in a country
cottage, in the depth of winter. Still he did not repent his purpose,
nor was he in the least tired of his seclusion--he would not inspect
Alice’s progress, for he was certain he should be dissatisfied with its
slowness--and people, however handsome, cannot learn to read and write
in a day. But he amused himself, notwithstanding. He was glad of an
opportunity to be alone with his own thoughts, for he was at one of
those periodical epochs of life when we like to pause and breathe a
while, in brief respite from that methodical race in which we run to the
grave. He wished to re-collect the stores of his past experience, and
repose on his own mind, before he started afresh upon the active world.
The weather was cold and inclement; but Ernest Maltravers was a hardy
lover of nature, and neither snow nor frost could detain him from
his daily rambles. So, about noon, he regularly threw aside books
and papers, took his hat and staff, and went whistling or humming his
favourite airs through the dreary streets, or along the bleak waters, or
amidst the leafless woods, just as the humour seized him; for he was not
an Edwin or Harold, who reserved speculation only for lonely brooks and
pastoral hills. Maltravers delighted to contemplate nature in men as
well as in sheep or trees. The humblest alley in a crowded town had
something poetical for him; he was ever ready to mix in a crowd, if it
were only gathered round a barrel-organ or a dog-fight, and listen to
all that was said and notice all that was done. And this I take to be
the true poetical temperament essential to every artist who aspires to
be something more than a scene-painter. But, above all things, he was
most interested in any display of human passions or affections; he
loved to see the true colours of the heart, where they are most
transparent--in the uneducated and poor--for he was something of an
optimist, and had a hearty faith in the loveliness of our nature.
Perhaps, indeed, he owed much of the insight into and mastery over
character that he was afterwards considered to display, to his disbelief
that there is any wickedness so dark as not to be susceptible of
the light in some place or another. But Maltravers had his fits of
unsociability, and then nothing but the most solitary scenes delighted
him. Winter or summer, barren waste or prodigal verdure, all had beauty
in his eyes; for their beauty lay in his own soul, through which he
beheld them. From these walks he would return home at dusk, take his
simple meal, rhyme or read away the long evenings with such alternation
as music or the dreamy thoughts of a young man with gay life before him
could afford. Happy Maltravers!--youth and genius have luxuries all
the Rothschilds cannot purchase! And yet, Maltravers, you are
ambitious!--life moves too slowly for you!--you would push on the
wheels of the clock!--Fool--brilliant fool!--you are eighteen, and a
poet!--What more can you desire?--Bid Time stop for ever!
One morning Ernest rose earlier than his wont, and sauntered carelessly
through the conservatory which adjoined his sitting-room; observing the
plants with placid curiosity (for besides being a little of a botanist,
he had odd visionary notions about the life of plants, and he saw in
them a hundred mysteries which the herbalists do not teach us), when
he heard a low and very musical voice singing at a little distance. He
listened, and recognised, with surprise, words of his own, which he had
lately set to music, and was sufficiently pleased with to sing nightly.
When the song ended, Maltravers stole softly through the conservatory,
and as he opened the door which led into the garden, he saw at the open
window of a little room which was apportioned to Alice, and jutted out
from the building in the fanciful irregularity common to ornamental
cottages, the form of his discarded pupil. She did not observe him, and
it was not till he twice called her by name, that she started from her
thoughtful and melancholy posture.
“Alice,” said he, gently, “put on your bonnet, and walk with me in the
garden: you look pale, child; the fresh air will do you good.”
Alice coloured and smiled, and in a few moments was by his side.
Maltravers, meanwhile, had gone in and lighted his meerschaum, for it
was his great inspirer whenever his thoughts were perplexed, or he felt
his usual fluency likely to fail him, and such was the case now. With
this faithful ally he awaited Alice in the little walk that circled the
lawn, amidst shrubs and evergreens.
“Alice,” said he after a pause; but he stopped short.
Alice looked up at him with grave respect.
“Tush!” said Maltravers; “perhaps the smoke is unpleasant to you. It is
a bad habit of mine.”
“No, sir,” answered Alice; and she seemed disappointed. Maltravers
paused, and picked up a snowdrop.
“It is pretty,” he said; “do you love flowers?”
“Oh, dearly,” answered Alice, with some enthusiasm; “I never saw many
till I came here.”
“Now then I can go on,” thought Maltravers; why, I cannot say, for I do
not see the _sequitur_; but on he went _in medias res_. “Alice, you sing
charmingly.”
“Ah! sir, you--you--” she stopped abruptly, and trembled visibly.
“Yes, I overheard you, Alice.”
“And you are angry?”
“I!--Heaven forbid! It is a _talent_--but you don’t know what that is;
I mean it is an excellent thing to have an ear; and a voice, and a heart
for music; and you have all three.”
He paused, for he felt his hand touched; Alice suddenly clasped and
kissed it. Maltravers thrilled through his whole frame; but there was
something in the girl’s look that showed she was wholly unaware that she
had committed an unmaidenly or forward action.
“I was so afraid you would be angry,” she said, wiping her eyes as she
dropped his hand; “and now I suppose you know all.”
“All!”
“Yes; how I listened to you every evening, and lay awake the whole night
with the music ringing in my ears, till I tried to go over it myself;
and so at last I ventured to sing aloud. I like that much better than
learning to read.”
All this was delightful to Maltravers: the girl had touched upon one of
his weak points; however, he remained silent. Alice continued:
“And now, sir, I hope you will let me come and sit outside the door
every evening and hear you; I will make no noise--I will be so quiet.”
“What, in that cold corridor, these bitter nights?”
“I am used to cold, sir. Father would not let me have a fire when he was
not at home.”
“No, Alice, but you shall come into the room while I play, and I will
give you a lesson or two. I am glad you have so good an ear; it may be a
means of your earning your own honest livelihood when you leave me.”
“When I--but I never intend to leave you, sir!” said Alice, beginning
fearfully and ending calmly.
Maltravers had recourse to the meerschaum.
Luckily, perhaps, at this time, they were joined by Mr. Simcox, the old
writing-master. Alice went in to prepare her books; but Maltravers laid
his hand upon the preceptor’s shoulder.
“You have a quick pupil, I hope, sir?” said he.
“Oh, very, very, Mr. Butler. She comes on famously. She practises a
great deal when I am away, and I do my best.”
“And,” asked Maltravers, in a grave tone, “have you succeeded in
instilling into the poor child’s mind some of those more sacred notions
of which I spoke to you at our first meeting?”
“Why, sir, she was indeed quite a heathen--quite a Mahometan, I may say;
but she is a little better now.”
“What have you taught her?”
“That God made her.”
“That is a great step.”
“And that He loves good girls, and will watch over them.”
“Bravo! You beat Plato.”
“No, sir, I never beat any one, except little Jack Turner; but he is a
dunce.”
“Bah! What else do you teach her?”
“That the devil runs away with bad girls, and--”
“Stop there, Mr. Simcox. Never mind the devil yet a while. Let her first
learn to do good, that God may love her; the rest will follow. I would
rather make people religious through their best feelings than their
worst,--through their gratitude and affections, rather than their fears
and calculations of risk and punishment.”
Mr. Simcox stared.
“Does she say her prayers?”
“I have taught her a short one.”
“Did she learn it readily?”
“Lord love her, yes! When I told her she ought to pray to God to bless
her benefactor, she would not rest till I had repeated a prayer out of
our Sunday School book, and she got it by heart at once.”
“Enough, Mr. Simcox. I will not detain you longer.”
Forgetful of his untasted breakfast, Maltravers continued his meerschaum
and his reflections: he did not cease, till he had convinced himself
that he was but doing his duty to Alice, by teaching her to cultivate
the charming talent she evidently possessed, and through which she might
secure her own independence. He fancied that he should thus relieve
himself of a charge and responsibility which often perplexed him. Alice
would leave him, enabled to walk the world in an honest professional
path. It was an excellent idea. “But there is danger,” whispered
Conscience. “Ay,” answered Philosophy and Pride, those wise dupes that
are always so solemn and always so taken in; “but what is virtue without
trial?”
And now every evening, when the windows were closed, and the hearth
burnt clear, while the winds stormed, and the rain beat without, a lithe
and lovely shape hovered about the student’s chamber; and his wild songs
were sung by a voice which Nature had made even sweeter than his own.
Alice’s talent for music was indeed surprising; enthusiastic and quick
as he himself was in all he undertook, Maltravers was amazed at her
rapid progress. He soon taught her to play by ear; and Maltravers could
not but notice that her hand, always delicate in shape, had lost the
rude colour and roughness of labour. He thought of that pretty hand more
often than he ought to have done, and guided it over the keys when it
could have found its way very well without him.
On coming to the cottage he had directed the old servant to provide
suitable and proper clothes for Alice; but now that she was admitted “to
sit with the gentleman,” the crone had the sense, without waiting for
new orders, to buy the “pretty young woman” garments, still indeed
simple, but of better materials and less rustic fashion; and Alice’s
redundant tresses were now carefully arranged into orderly and glossy
curls, and even the texture was no longer the same; and happiness and
health bloomed on her downy cheeks, and smiled from the dewy lips,
which never quite closed over the fresh white teeth, except when she was
sad--but that seemed never, now she was not banished from Maltravers.
To say nothing of the unusual grace and delicacy of Alice’s form and
features, there is nearly always something of Nature’s own gentility
in very young women (except, indeed, when they get together and fall
a-giggling); it shames us men to see how much sooner they are polished
into conventional shape than our rough, masculine angles. A vulgar boy
requires Heaven knows what assiduity to make three steps--I do not say
like a gentleman, but like a body that has a soul in it; but give the
least advantage of society or tuition to a peasant girl, and a hundred
to one but she will glide into refinement before the boy can make a
bow without upsetting the table. There is sentiment in all women, and
sentiment gives delicacy to thought, and tact to manner. But sentiment
with men is generally acquired, an offspring of the intellectual
quality, not, as with the other sex, of the moral.
In the course of his musical and vocal lessons, Maltravers gently took
the occasion to correct poor Alice’s frequent offences against grammar
and accent: and her memory was prodigiously quick and retentive. The
very tones of her voice seemed altered in the ear of Maltravers; and,
somehow or other, the time came when he was no longer sensible of the
difference in their rank.
The old woman-servant, when she had seen how it would be from the
first, and taken a pride in her own prophecy, as she ordered Alice’s new
dresses, was a much better philosopher than Maltravers; though he was
already up to his ears in the moonlit abyss of Plato, and had filled a
dozen commonplace books with criticisms on Kant.