Long as she had now been known to Lady Mandeville, she had only once
before seen her at her own house. She now found her reclining upon a sofa
in an apartment more prettily than magnificently ornamented:—a shawl was
thrown gracefully over her; and her hair, in dark auburn ringlets, half
concealed her languishing blue eyes. Lady Mandeville was at this time no
longer in the very prime of youth. Her air and manner had not that high
polish, which at first sight seduces and wins. On the contrary, it rather
was the reverse, and a certain pedantry took off much from the charm of
her conversation. Yet something there was about her, which attracted.
She seemed sincere too, and had less of that studied self-satisfied air,
than most women, who affect to be well informed.
“I am glad you are come, my loved friend,” she said, extending her hand
to Calantha when she entered. “I have just been translating an Ode of
Pindar:—his poetry is sublime: it nerves the soul and raises it above
vulgar cares;—but you do not understand Greek, do you? Indeed to you it
would be a superfluous acquisition, married as you are, and to such a
man.”—Lady Avondale, rather puzzled as to the connection between domestic
happiness, and the Greek language, listened for further explanation;—but
with a deep sigh, her lovely acquaintance talked of her fate, and referred
to scenes and times long passed, and utterly unknown to her. She talked
much too of injured innocence, of the malignity of the world, of her
contempt for her own sex, and of the superiority of men.
Children as fair, and more innocent than their mother, entered whilst she
was yet venting her complaints. A husband she had not;—but lovers. What
man was there who could see her, and not, at all events wish himself of
the number! Yet she assured Lady Avondale, who believed her, that she
despised them all; that moreover she was miserable, but vicious; that
her very openness and frankness ought to prove that there was nothing to
conceal. The thought of guilt entered not at that time into Calantha’s
heart; and when a woman affirmed that she was innocent, it excited in
her no other surprise, than that she should, for one moment, suppose her
so barbarous, and so malevolent, as to think otherwise. Indeed there
seemed to her as great a gulph between those she loved, and vice, as
that which separates the two extremes of wickedness and virtue; nor had
she yet learned to comprehend the language of hypocrisy and deceit.
Though the presence of the children had not made any difference, the
entrance of three gentlemen, whom Lady Mandeville introduced to Lady
Avondale, as her lovers, gave a new turn to the conversation; and here it
should be explained, that the term lover, when Lady Mandeville used it,
was intended to convey no other idea than that of an humble attendant,—a
bearer of shawls, a writer of sonnets, and a caller of carriages. “With
Lord Dallas you are already acquainted,” she said, sighing gently. “I
wish now to introduce to you Mr. Clarendon, a poet: and Mr. Tremore, what
are you? speak for yourself; for I hardly know in what manner to describe
you.” “I am anything, and everything that Lady Mandeville pleases,” said
Mr. Tremore, bowing to the ground, and smiling languidly upon her. Mr.
Tremore was one of the most unsightly lovers that ever aspired to bear
the name. He was of a huge circumference, and what is unusual in persons
of that make, he was a mass of rancour and malevolence—gifted however
with a wit so keen and deadly, that with its razor edge, he cut to the
heart most of his enemies, and all his friends. Lord Dallas, diminutive
and conceited, had a brilliant wit, spoke seldom, and studied deeply
every sentence which he uttered. He affected to be absent; but in fact
no one ever forgot himself so seldom. His voice, untuned and harsh,
repeated with a forced emphasis certain jests and bon mots which had been
previously made, and adapted for certain conversations. Mr. Clarendon
alone seemed gifted with every kind of merit:—he had an open ingenuous
countenance, expressive eyes, and a strong and powerful mind.
The conversation alternately touched upon the nature of love, the use
and beauty of the greek language, the pleasures of maternal affection,
and the insipidity of all English society. It was rather metaphorical
at times:—there was generally in it a want of nature—an attempt at
display: but to Calantha it appeared too singular, and too attractive to
wish it otherwise. She had been used, however, to a manner rather more
refined—more highly polished than any she found out of her own circle
and family. A thousand things shocked her at first, which afterwards
she not only tolerated, but adopted. There was a want of ease, too, in
many societies, to which she could not yet accustom herself; and she
knew not exactly what it was which chilled and depressed her when in
the presence of many who were, upon a nearer acquaintance, amiable and
agreeable. Perhaps too anxious a desire to please, too great a regard
for trifles, a sort of selfishness, which never loses sight of its own
identity, occasions this coldness among these votaries of fashion. The
dread of not having that air, that dress, that refinement which they
value so much, prevents their obtaining it; and a degree of vulgarity
steals unperceived amidst the higher classes in England, from the very
apprehension they feel of falling into it. Even those, who are natural,
do not entirely appear so.
Calantha’s life was like a feverish dream:—so crowded, so varied, so
swift in its transitions, that she had little time to reflect; and when
she did, the memory of the past was so agreeable and so brilliant, that
it gave her pleasure to think of it again and again. If Lord Avondale
was with her, every place appeared even more than usually delightful;
but, when absent, her letters, no longer filled with lamentations on
her lonely situation, breathed from a vain heart the lightness, and
satisfaction it enjoyed.
It may be supposed that one so frivolous and so thoughtless, committed
every possible fault and folly which opportunity and time allowed. It
may also be supposed, that such imprudence met with its just reward;
and that every tongue was busy in its censure, and every gossip in
exaggerating the extraordinary feats of such a trifler. Yet Calantha,
upon the whole, was treated with only too much kindness; and the world,
though sometimes called severe, seemed willing to pause ere it would
condemn, and was intent alone to spare—to reclaim a young offender.