Frances Seymour’s marriage with Lord Trelawny was now celebrated, after
which the whole family left London for Ireland.
Sophia, previous to her departure, reproved Calantha for her obstinacy,
as she called it, in remaining in town. “I leave you with pain,” she
said: “forgive me if I say it, for I see you have no conception of the
folly of your conduct. Ever in extremes, you have acted as I little
expected from the wife of Lord Avondale; but I blame him equally for
giving you such unbounded freedom:—only the very wise and the very
good know how to use it.” “Sophia,” replied Calantha, “I wish not for
reproaches:—have confidence in me:—we cannot all be exactly alike. You
are a pattern of propriety and virtue, and verily you have your reward:—I
act otherwise, and am prepared for censures:—even yours cannot offend
me. Lord Avondale talks of soon returning to Ireland: I shall then
leave this dear delightful London without regret; and you shall find
me when we all meet for the spring at Castle Delaval, just the same, as
when I entered it.” “Never the same,” thought Sophia, who marked, with
astonishment, the change a few months had made.
They were yet speaking, and taking a cold farewell of each other, when
a thundering rap at the door interrupted them, and before Sophia could
retreat, Mr. Fremore, Count Gondimar and Lady Mandeville were ushered in.
A frozen courtesy, and an austere frown, were the only signs of animation
Sophia gave, as she vanished from their view; for she seemed hardly to
have energy sufficient left, to walk out of the room in an ordinary manner.
“You have been ill,” said Lady Mandeville, accosting Calantha. “It is
a week since I have seen you. Think not, however, that I am come to
intrude upon your time: I only called, as I passed your door, to enquire
after you. Mr. Fremore tells me you are about to visit the Princess
of Madagascar. Is this true? for I never believe any thing I hear?”
“For once,” said Calantha, “you may do so; and on this very evening,
my introduction is to take place.” “It is with regret I hear it,” said
Lady Mandeville with a sigh: “we shall never more see any thing of you.
Besides, she is not my friend.” Calantha assured Lady Mandeville her
attachment could endure all sorts of trials; and laughingly enquired
of her respecting her lovers, Apollonius, and the Greek Lexicon she
was employed in translating. Lady Mandeville answered her with some
indifference on these subjects; and having said all that she could in
order to dissuade her against visiting the Princess, took her leave.
That evening, at the hour of ten, Lord Avondale and Mr. Fremore being in
readiness, Calantha drove according to appointment to visit the wife of
the great Nabob, the Princess of Madagascar. Now who is so ignorant as
not to know that this Lady resides in an old-fashioned gothic building,
called Barbary House, three miles beyond the turnpike? and who is so
ignorant as not to be aware that her highness would not have favoured
Lady Avondale with an audience, had she been otherwise than extremely well
with the world, as the phrase is—for she was no patroness of the fallen!
the caresses and _petits mots obligeants_ which dropt from her during
this her first interview, raised Lady Avondale in her own opinion; but
that was unnecessary. What was more to the purpose, it won her entirely
towards the Princess.
Calantha now, for the first time, conversed with the learned of the
land:—she heard new opinions started, and old ones refuted; and she gazed
unhurt, but not unawed, upon reviewers, poets, critics, and politicians.
At the end of a long gallery, two thick wax tapers, rendering “darkness
visible,” the princess was seated. A poet of an emaciated and sallow
complexion stood beside her; of him it was affirmed that in apparently
the kindest and most engaging manner, he, at all times, said precisely
that which was most unpleasant to the person he appeared to praise. This
yellow hyena had, however, a heart noble, magnanimous and generous; and
even his friends, could they but escape from his smile and his tongue,
had no reason to complain. Few events, if any, were ever known to move
the Princess from her position. Her pages—her foreign attire, but genuine
English manners, voice and complexion, attracted universal admiration.
She was beautiful too, and had a smile it was difficult to learn to hate
or to mistrust. She spoke of her own country with contempt; and, even in
her dress, which was magnificent, attempted to prove the superiority of
every other over it. Her morals were simple and uncorrupt, and in matters
of religious faith she entirely surrendered herself to the guidance of
Hoiaouskim. She inclined her head a little upon seeing Lady Avondale;
the _dead_, I mean the sick poet, did the same; and Hoiaouskim, her high
priest, cast his eyes, with unassuming civility, upon Calantha, thus
welcoming her to Barbary House.
The princess then spoke a little sentence—just enough to shew how much
she intended to protect Lady Avondale. She addressed herself, besides,
in many dialects, to an outlandish set of menials; appointing every
one in the room some trifling task, which was performed in a moment by
young and old, with surprising alacrity. Such is the force of fashion
and power, when skilfully applied. After this, she called Calantha: a
slight exordium followed then a wily pointed catechism; her Highness
nodding at intervals, and dropping short epigrammatic sentences, when
necessary, to such as were in attendance around her. “Is she acting?”
said Calantha, at length, in a whisper, addressing the sallow complexioned
Poet, who stood sneering and simpering behind her chair. “Is she acting,
or is this reality?” “It is the only reality you will ever find in the
Princess,” returned her friend. “She acts the Princess of Madagascar
from morning till night, and from night till morning. You may fall from
favour, but you are now at the height: no one ever advanced further—none
ever continued there long.”
“But why,” said Lady Avondale, “do the great Nabob, and all the other
Lords in waiting, with that black horde of savages”—“Reviewers, you mean,
and men of talents.” “Well, whatever they are, tell me quickly why they
wear collars, and chains around their necks at Barbary House?” “It is the
fashion,” replied the poet. “This fashion is unbecoming your race,” said
Lady Avondale: “I would die sooner than be thus enchained.” “The great
Nabob,” quoth Mr. Fremore, joining in the discourse, “is the best, the
kindest, the cleverest man I know; but, like some philosophers, he would
sacrifice much for a peaceable life. The Princess is fond of inflicting
these lesser tyrannies: she is so helplessly attached to these trifles—so
overweaningly fond of exerting her powers, it were a pity to thwart
her. For my own part, I could willingly bend to the yoke, provided the
duration were not eternal; for observe that the chains are well gilded;
that the tables are well stored; and those who bend the lowest are ever
the best received.” “And if I also bow my neck,” said Calantha, “will
she be grateful? May I depend upon her seeming kindness?” The Poet’s
naturally pale complexion turned to a bluish green at this enquiry.
Cold Princess! where are your boasted professions now? You taught Calantha
to love you, by every petty art of which your sex is mistress. She heard,
from your lips, the sugared poisons you were pleased to lavish upon her.
You laughed at her follies, courted her confidence, and flattered her
into a belief that you loved her. Loved her!—it is a feeling you never
felt. She fell into the mire; the arrows of your precious crew were shot
at her—like hissing snakes hot and sharpened with malice and venomed
fire; and you, yes—you were the first to scorn her:—you, by whom she
had stood faithfully and firmly amidst a host of foes—aye, amidst the
fawning rabble, who still crowd your doors, and laugh at and despise
you. Thanks for the helping hand of friendship in the time of need—the
mud and the mire have been washed from Calantha; the arrows have been
drawn from a bleeding bosom; the heart is still sound, and beats to
disdain you. The sun may shine fairly again upon her; but never, whilst
existence is prolonged, will she set foot in the gates of the Palace of
the great Nabob, or trust to the smiles and professions of the Princess
of Madagascar.