"Je connois des princes du sang, des princes etrangers, des
grands seigneurs, des ministres d'etat, des magistrats, et
des philosophes qui fileroient pour l'amour de vous. En
pouvez-vous demander davantage?"*
/Lettres de Madame de Sevigne/
* I know princes of the blood, foreign princes, great lords, ministers
of state, magistrates, and philosophers who would even spin for love of
you. What can you ask more?
"/Lindore./ I--I believe it will choke me. I'm in love * * * Now
hold your tongue. Hold your tongue, I say.
"/Dalner./ You in love! Ha! ha!
"/Lind./ There, he laughs.
"/Dal./ No; I am really sorry for you."
/German Play (False Delicacy)/.
* * * "What is here?
Gold."--SHAKSPEARE.
IT happened that that evening Maltravers had, for the first time,
accepted one of many invitations with which Lord Saxingham had honoured
him. His lordship and Maltravers were of different political parties,
nor were they in other respects adapted to each other. Lord Saxingham
was a clever man in his way, but worldly even to a proverb among worldly
people. That "man was born to walk erect and look upon the stars," is
an eloquent fallacy that Lord Saxingham might suffice to disprove. He
seemed born to walk with a stoop; and if he ever looked upon any stars,
they were those which go with a garter. Though of celebrated and
historical ancestry, great rank, and some personal reputation, he had
all the ambition of a /parvenu/. He had a strong regard for office, not
so much from the sublime affection for that sublime thing,--power over
the destinies of a glorious nation,--as because it added to that vulgar
thing--importance in his own set. He looked on his cabinet uniform as a
beadle looks on his gold lace. He also liked patronage, secured good
things to distant connections, got on his family to the remotest degree
of relationship; in short, he was of the earth, earthy. He did not
comprehend Maltravers; and Maltravers, who every day grew prouder and
prouder, despised him. Still, Lord Saxingham was told that Maltravers
was a rising man, and he thought it well to be civil to rising men, of
whatever party; besides, his vanity was flattered by having men who are
talked of in his train. He was too busy and too great a personage to
think Maltravers could be other than sincere, when he declared himself,
in his notes, "very sorry," or "much concerned," to forego the honour of
dining with Lord Saxingham on the, &c., &c.; and therefore continued his
invitations, till Maltravers, from that fatality which undoubtedly
regulates and controls us, at last accepted the proffered distinction.
He arrived late--most of the guests were assembled; and, after
exchanging a few words with his host, Ernest fell back into the general
group, and found himself in the immediate neighbourhood of Lady Florence
Lascelles. This lady had never much pleased Maltravers, for he was not
fond of masculine or coquettish heroines, and Lady Florence seemed to
him to merit both epithets; therefore, though he had met her often since
the first day he had been introduced to her, he had usually contented
himself with a distant bow or a passing salutation. But now, as he
turned round and saw her, she was, for a miracle, sitting alone; and in
her most dazzling and noble countenance there was so evident an
appearance of ill health, that he was struck and touched by it. In
fact, beautiful as she was, both in face and form, there was something
in the eye and the bloom of Lady Florence, which a skilful physician
would have seen with prophetic pain. And, whenever occasional illness
paled the roses of the cheek, and sobered the play of the lips, even an
ordinary observer would have thought of the old commonplace
proverb--"that the brightest beauty has the briefest life." It was some
sentiment of this kind, perhaps, that now awakened the sympathy of
Maltravers. He addressed her with more marked courtesy than usual, and
took a seat by her side.
"You have been to the House, I suppose, Mr. Maltravers?" said Lady
Florence.
"Yes, for a short time; it is not one of our field nights--no division
was expected; and by this time, I dare say, the House has been counted
out."
"Do you like the life?"
"It has excitement," said Maltravers, evasively.
"And the excitement is of a noble character?"
"Scarcely so, I fear--it is so made up of mean and malignant
motives,--there is in it so much jealousy of our friends, so much
unfairness to our enemies;--such readiness to attribute to others the
basest objects,--such willingness to avail ourselves of the poorest
stratagems! The ends may be great, but the means are very ambiguous."
"I knew /you/ would feel this," exclaimed Lady Florence, with a
heightened colour.
"Did you?" said Maltravers, rather interested as well as surprised. "I
scarcely imagined it possible that you would deign to divine secrets so
insignificant."
"You did not do me justice, then," returned Lady Florence, with an arch
yet half-painful smile; "for--but I was about to be impertinent."
"Nay, say on."
For--then--I do not imagine you to be one apt to do injustice to
yourself."
"Oh, you consider me presumptuous and arrogant; but that is common
report, and you do right, perhaps, to believe it."
"Was there ever any one unconscious of his own merit?" asked Lady
Florence, proudly. "They who distrust themselves have good reason for
it."
"You seek to cure the wound you inflicted," returned Maltravers,
smiling.
"No; what I said was an apology for myself, as well as for you. You
need no words to vindicate you; you are a man, and can bear out all
arrogance with the royal motto /Dieu et mon droit/. With you deeds can
support pretension; but I am a woman--it was a mistake of Nature."
"But what triumphs that man can achieve bring so immediate, so palpable
a reward as those won by a woman, beautiful and admired--who finds every
room an empire, and every class her subjects?"
"It is a despicable realm."
"What!--to command--to win--to bow to your worship--the greatest, and
the highest, and the sternest; to own slaves in those whom men recognise
as their lords! Is such a power despicable? If so, what power is to be
envied?"
Lady Florence turned quickly round to Maltravers, and fixed on him her
large dark eyes, as if she would read into his very heart. She turned
away with a blush and a slight frown--"There is mockery on your lip,"
said she.
Before Maltravers could answer, dinner was announced, and a foreign
ambassador claimed the hand of Lady Florence. Maltravers saw a young
lady with gold oats in her very light hair, fall to his lot, and
descended to the dining-room, thinking more of Lady Florence Lascelles
than he had ever done before.
He happened to sit nearly opposite to the young mistress of the house
(Lord Saxingham, as the reader knows, was a widower and Lady Florence an
only child); and Maltravers was that day in one of those felicitous
moods in which our animal spirits search and carry up, as it were, to
the surface, our intellectual gifts and acquisitions. He conversed
generally and happily; but once, when he turned his eyes to appeal to
Lady Florence for her opinion on some point in discussion, he caught her
gaze fixed upon him with an expression that checked the current of his
gaiety, and cast him into a curious and bewildered reverie. In that
gaze there was earnest and cordial admiration; but it was mixed with so
much mournfulness, that the admiration lost its eloquence, and he who
noticed it was rather saddened than flattered.
After dinner, when Maltravers sought the drawing-rooms, he found them
filled with the customary snob of good society. In one corner he
discovered Castruccio Cesarini, playing on a guitar, slung across his
breast with a blue riband. The Italian sang well; many young ladies
were grouped round him, amongst others Florence Lascelles. Maltravers,
fond as he was of music, looked upon Castruccio's performance as a
disagreeable exhibition. He had a Quixotic idea of the dignity of
talent; and though himself of a musical science, and a melody of voice
that would have thrown the room into ecstasies, he would as soon have
turned juggler or tumbler for polite amusement, as contend for the
bravos of a drawing-room. It was because he was one of the proudest men
in the world, that Maltravers was one of the least /vain/. He did not
care a rush for applause in small things. But Cesarini would have
summoned the whole world to see him play at push-pin, if he thought the
played it well.
"Beautiful! divine! charming!" cried the young ladies, as Cesarini
ceased; and Maltravers observed that Florence praised more earnestly
than the rest, and that Cesarini's dark eye sparkled, and his pale cheek
flushed with unwonted brilliancy. Florence turned to Maltravers, and
the Italian, following her eyes, frowned darkly.
"You know the Signor Cesarini," said Florence, joining Maltravers. "He
is an interesting and gifted person."
"Unquestionably. I grieve to see him wasting his talents upon a soil
that may yield a few short-lived flowers, without one useful plant or
productive fruit."
"He enjoys the passing hour, Mr. Maltravers; and sometimes, when I see
the mortifications that await sterner labour, I think he is right."
"Hush!" said Maltravers; "his eyes are on us--he is listening
breathlessly for every word you utter. I fear that you have made an
unconscious conquest of a poet's heart; and if so, he purchases the
enjoyment of the passing hour at a fearful price."
"Nay," said Lady Florence, indifferently, "he is one of those to whom
the fancy supplies the place of the heart. And if I give him an
inspiration, it will be an equal luxury to him whether his lyre be
strung to hope or disappointment. The sweetness of his verses will
compensate to him for any bitterness in actual life."
"There are two kinds of love," answered Maltravers,--"love and
self-love; the wounds of the last are often most incurable in those who
appear least vulnerable to the first. Ah, Lady Florence, were I
privileged to play the monitor, I would venture on one warning, however
much it might offend yon."
"And that is--"
"To forbear coquetry."
Maltravers smiled as he spoke, but it was gravely--and at the same time
he moved gently away. But Lady Florence laid her hand on his arm.
"Mr. Maltravers," said she, very softly, and with a kind of faltering in
her tone, "am I wrong to say that I am anxious for your good opinion?
Do not judge me harshly. I am soured, discontented, unhappy. I have no
sympathy with the world. These men whom I see around me--what are they?
the mass of them unfeeling and silken egotists--ill-judging,
ill-educated, well-dressed: the few who are called distinguished--how
selfish in their ambition, how passionless in their pursuits! Am I to
be blamed if I sometimes exert a power over such as these, which rather
proves my scorn of them than my own vanity?"
"I have no right to argue with you."
"Yes, argue with me, convince me, guide me--Heaven knows that, impetuous
and haughty as I am, I need a guide,"--and Lady Florence's eyes swam
with tears. Ernest's prejudices against her were greatly shaken: he was
even somewhat dazzled by her beauty, and touched by her unexpected
gentleness; but still, his heart was not assailed, and he replied almost
coldly, after a short pause:
"Dear Lady Florence, look round the world--who so much to be envied as
yourself? What sources of happiness and pride are open to you! Why,
then, make to yourself causes of discontent?--why be scornful of those
who cross not your path? Why not look with charity upon God's less
endowed children, beneath you as they may seem? What consolation have
you in hurting the hearts or the vanities of others? Do you raise
yourself even in your own estimation? You affect to be above your
sex--yet what character do you despise more in women than that which you
assume? Semiramis should not be a coquette. There now, I have offended
you--I confess I am very rude."
"I am not offended," said Florence, almost struggling with her tears;
and she added inly, "Ah, I am too happy!"--There are some lips from
which even the proudest women love to hear the censure which appears to
disprove indifference.
It was at this time that Lumley Ferrers, flushed with the success of his
schemes and projects, entered the room; and his quick eye fell upon that
corner, in which he detected what appeared to him a very alarming
flirtation between his rich cousin and Ernest Maltravers. He advanced
to the spot, and, with his customary frankness, extended a hand to each.
"Ah, my dear and fair cousin, give me your congratulations, and ask me
for my first frank, to be bound up in a collection of autographs by
distinguished senators--it will sell high one of these days. Your most
obedient, Mr. Maltravers;--how we shall laugh in our sleeves at the
humbug of politics, when you and I, the best friends in the world, sit
/vis-a-vis/ on opposite benches. But why, Lady Florence, have you never
introduced me to your pet Italian? /Allons/! I am his match in
Alfieri, whom, of course, he swears by, and whose verses, by the way,
seem cut out of box-wood--the hardest material for turning off that sort
of machinery that invention ever hit on."
Thus saying, Ferrers contrived, as he thought, very cleverly, to divide
a pair that he much feared were justly formed to meet by nature--and, to
his great joy, Maltravers shortly afterwards withdrew.
Ferrers, with the happy ease that belonged to his complacent, though
plotting character, soon made Cesarini at home with him; and two or
three slighting expressions which the former dropped with respect to
Maltravers, coupled with some outrageous compliments to the Italian,
completely won the heart of the poet. The brilliant Florence was more
silent and subdued than usual; and her voice was softer, though graver,
when she replied to Castruccio's eloquent appeals. Castruccio was one
of those men who /talk fine/. By degrees, Lumley lapsed into silence,
and listened to what took place between Lady Florence and the Italian,
while appearing to be deep in "The Views of the Rhine," which lay on the
table.
"Ah," said the latter, in his soft native tongue, "could you know how I
watch every shade of that countenance which makes my heaven! Is it
clouded? night is with me!--is it radiant? I am as the Persian gazing on
the sun!"
"Why do you speak thus to me? were you not a poet, I might be angry."
"You were not angry when the English poet, that cold Maltravers, spoke
to you perhaps as boldly."
Lady Florence drew up her haughty head. "Signor," said she, checking,
however, her first impulse, and with mildness, "Mr. Maltravers neither
flatters nor--"
"Presumes, you were about to say," said Cesarini, grinding his teeth.
"But it is well--once you were less chilling to the utterance of my deep
devotion."
"Never, Signor Cesarini, never--but when I thought it was but the common
gallantry of your nation: let me think so still."
"No, proud woman," said Cesarini, fiercely, "no--hear the truth."
Lady Florence rose indignantly.
"Hear me," he continued. "I--I, the poor foreigner, the despised
minstrel, dare to lift up my eyes to you! I love you!"
Never had Florence Lascelles been so humiliated and confounded. However
she might have amused herself with the vanity of Cesarini, she had not
given him, as she thought, the warrant to address her--the great Lady
Florence, the prize of dukes and princes--in this hardy manner; she
almost fancied him insane. But the next moment she recalled the warning
of Maltravers, and felt as if her punishment had commenced.
"You will think and speak more calmly, sir, when we meet again," and so
saying, she swept away.
Cesarini remained rooted to the spot, with his dark countenance
expressing such passions as are rarely seen in the aspects of civilised
men.
"Where do you lodge, Signor Cesarini?" asked the bland, familiar voice
of Ferrers. "Let us walk part of the way together--that is, when you
are tired of these hot rooms."
Cesarini groaned. "You are ill," continued Ferrers; "the air will
revive you--come." He glided from the room, and the Italian
mechanically followed him. They walked together for some moments in
silence, side by side, in a clear, lovely, moonlight night. At length
Ferrers said, "Pardon me, my dear signor, but you may already have
observed that I am a very frank, odd sort of fellow. I see you are
caught by the charms of my cruel cousin. Can I serve you in any way?"
A man at all acquainted with the world in which we live would have been
suspicious of such cordiality in the cousin of an heiress, towards a
very unsuitable aspirant. But Cesarini, like many indifferent poets
(but like few good ones), had no common sense. He thought it quite
natural that a man who admired his poetry so much as Lumley had declared
he did, should take a lively interest in his welfare; and he therefore
replied warmly, "Oh, sir, this is indeed a crushing blow: I dreamed she
loved me. She was ever flattering and gentle when she spoke to me, and
in verse already I had told her of my love, and met with no rebuke."
"Did your verses really and plainly declare love, and in your own
person?"
"Why, the sentiment was veiled, perhaps--put into the mouth of a
fictitious character, or conveyed in an allegory."
"Oh," ejaculated Ferrers, thinking it very likely that the gorgeous
Florence, hymned by a thousand bards, had done little more than cast a
glance over the lines that had cost poor Cesarini such anxious toil, and
inspired him with such daring hope. "Oh!--and to-night she was more
severe--she is a terrible coquette, /la belle Florence/! But perhaps
you have a rival."
"I feel it--I saw it--I know it."
"Whom do you suspect?"
"That accursed Maltravers! He crosses me in every path--my spirit
quails beneath his whenever we encounter. I read my doom."
"If it be Maltravers," said Ferrers, gravely, "the danger cannot be
great. Florence has seen but little of him, and he does not admire her
much; but she is a great match, and he is ambitious. We must guard
against this betimes, Cesarini--for know that I dislike Maltravers as
much as you do, and will cheerfully aid you in any plan to blight his
hopes in that quarter."
"Generous, noble friend!--yet he is richer, better-born than I."
"That may be: but to one in Lady Florence's position, all minor grades
of rank in her aspirants seem pretty well levelled. Come, I don't tell
you that I would not sooner she married a countryman and an equal--but I
have taken a liking to you, and I detest Maltravers. She is very
romantic--fond of poetry to a passion--writes it herself, I fancy. Oh,
you'll just suit her; but, alas! how will you see her?"
"See her! What mean you?"
"Why, have you not declared love to-night? I thought I overheard you.
Can you for a moment fancy that, after such an avowal, Lady Florence
will again receive you--that is, if she mean to reject your suit?"
"Fool that I was! But no--she must, she shall."
"Be persuaded; in this country violence will not do. Take my advice,
write an humble apology, confess your fault, invoke her pity; and,
declaring that you renounce for ever the character of a lover, implore
still to be acknowledged as a friend. Be quiet now, hear me out; I am
older than you; I know my cousin; this will pique her; your modesty will
soothe, while your coldness will arouse, her vanity. Meanwhile you will
watch the progress of Maltravers; I will be by your elbow; and between
us, to use a homely phrase, we will do for him. Then you may have your
opportunity, clear stage, and fair play."
Cesarini was at first rebellious; but, at length, even he saw the policy
of the advice. But Lumley would not leave him till the advice was
adopted. He made Castruccio accompany him to a club, dictated the
letter to Florence, and undertook its charge. This was not all.
"It is also necessary," said Lumley, after a short but thoughtful
silence, "that you should write to Maltravers."
"And for what?"
"I have my reasons. Ask him, in a frank and friendly spirit, his
opinion of Lady Florence; state your belief that she loves you, and
inquire ingenuously what he thinks your chances of happiness in such a
union."
"But why this?"
"His answer may be useful," returned Lumley, musingly. "Stay, I will
dictate the letter."
Cesarini wondered and hesitated, but there was that about Lumley Ferrers
which had already obtained command over the weak and passionate poet.
He wrote, therefore, as Lumley dictated, beginning with some commonplace
doubts as to the happiness of marriage in general, excusing himself for
his recent coldness towards Maltravers, and asking him his confidential
opinion both as to Lady Florence's character and his own chances of
success.
This letter, like the former one, Lumley sealed and despatched.
"You perceive," he then said, briefly, to Cesarini, "that it is the
object of this letter to entrap Maltravers into some plain and honest
avowal of his dislike to Lady Florence; we may make good use of such
expressions hereafter, if he should ever prove a rival. And now go home
to rest: you look exhausted. Adieu, my new friend."
"I have long had a presentiment," said Lumley to his councillor SELF, as
he walked to Great George Street, "that that wild girl has conceived a
romantic fancy for Maltravers. But I can easily prevent such an
accident ripening into misfortune. Meanwhile, I have secured a tool, if
I want one. By Jove, what an ass that poet is! But so was Cassio; yet
Iago made use of him. If Iago had been born now, and dropped that
foolish fancy for revenge, what a glorious fellow he would have been!
Prime minister at least!"
Pale, haggard, exhausted, Castruccio Cesarini, traversing a length of
way, arrived at last at a miserable lodging in the suburb of Chelsea.
His fortune was now gone; gone in supplying the poorest food to a
craving and imbecile vanity: gone, that its owner might seem what nature
never meant him for: the elegant Lothario, the graceful man of pleasure,
the troubadour of modern life! gone in horses, and jewels, and fine
clothes, and gaming, and printing unsaleable poems on gilt-edged vellum;
gone, that he might not be a greater but a more fashionable man than
Ernest Maltravers! Such is the common destiny of those poor adventurers
who confine fame to boudoirs and saloons. No matter whether they be
poets or dandies, wealthy /parvenus/ or aristocratic cadets, all equally
prove the adage that the wrong paths to reputation are strewed with the
wrecks of peace, fortune, happiness, and too often honour! And yet this
poor young man had dared to hope for the hand of Florence Lascelles! He
had the common notion of foreigners, that English girls marry for love,
are very romantic; that, within the three seas, heiresses are as
plentiful as blackberries; and for the rest, his vanity had been so
pampered, that it now insinuated itself into every fibre of his
intellectual and moral system.
Cesarini looked cautiously round, as he arrived at his door; for he
fancied that, even in that obscure place, persons might be anxious to
catch a glimpse of the celebrated poet; and he concealed his residence
from all; dined on a roll when he did not dine out, and left his address
at "The Travellers." He looked round, I say, and he did observe a tall
figure wrapped in a cloak that had indeed followed him from a distant
and more populous part of the town. But the figure turned round, and
vanished instantly. Cesarini mounted to his second floor. And about
the middle of the next day a messenger left a letter at his door,
containing one hundred pounds in a blank envelope. Cesarini knew not
the writing of the address; his pride was deeply wounded. Amidst all
his penury, he had not even applied to his own sister. Could it come
from her, from De Montaigne? He was lost in conjecture. He put the
remittance aside for a few days; for he had something fine in him, the
poor poet! but bills grew pressing, and necessity hath no law.
Two days afterwards, Cesarini brought to Ferrers the answer he had
received from Maltravers. Lumley had rightly foreseen that the high
spirit of Ernest would conceive some indignation at the coquetry of
Florence in beguiling the Italian into hopes never to be realised, and
that he would express himself openly and warmly. He did so, however,
with more gentleness than Lumley had anticipated.
"This is not exactly the thing," said Ferrers, after twice reading the
letter; "still it may hereafter be a strong card in our hands--we will
keep it."
So saying, he locked the letter up in his desk, and Cesarini soon forgot
its existence.