YES AND NO.
VOL. I.
_Lately Published, by the same Author_,
In 2 vols. small 8vo. price 14s.
MATILDA:--A TALE OF THE DAY.
THE FOURTH EDITION.
“Blush I not?
Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek?
Is not my crime there?”
YES AND NO:
A TALE OF THE DAY.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “MATILDA.”
Che sì e no nel capo mi tenzona.
DANTE.
At war ’twixt _will_ and _will not_.
SHAKSPEARE.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1828.
LONDON:
IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET.
PREFACE.
There are two different charges to which the Author of a work like
the following may expect to be subject--either that he has copied too
closely from other fictions, or that he has sketched too pointedly from
individual nature. To one of these he may inadvertently have rendered
himself liable by seeing much of men; to the other, by reading little
of novels.
To the accusation of plagiarism, if urged, the Author can only plead
the conscious innocence of any such intention: to the imputation of
personality, unless well supported, he would be unwilling to attempt a
serious answer; fearing that, in so doing, he might justly be charged
with “the puff indirect,” in supposing his characters so well drawn, as
to convey to any one the notion of individual identity. But for this,
however, he could most sincerely protest, that he is not aware of any
intentional resemblance in any one character or passage.
It would be certainly flattering if the reader of a work like this
should leave it with a general impression, that similar persons in such
circumstances, either have, or would have acted in a similar manner;
but the Author is in this instance no more conscious that they have
done so already, than that they will do so hereafter; and has just as
much intention to be prophetic as to be personal.
The writer of the following pages owns, with gratitude, that the
unexpected favour shown to his former little production, was the
parent of the present; but he is aware, at the same time, that this
is not a birth to boast of--that popularity is no inheritance; but,
on the contrary, as was once said by perhaps the only living writer
who never could have had occasion to apply it to himself: “The public
will expect the new work to be ten times better than its predecessor;
the author will expect that it should be ten times more popular; and
it is a hundred to ten that both are disappointed.” This is no doubt
generally true; and one may at least imitate, in the humility of one’s
anticipations, him who is, in every other respect, inimitable.
YES AND NO.
CHAPTER I.
----From infancy
They have convers’d, and spent their hours together;
And though the one hath been an idle truant,
Omitting the sweet benefit of time;
----Yet hath the other
Made use and fair advantage of his days.
His years are young, but his experience old;
His head unmellow’d, but his judgment ripe;
He is complete in feature and in mind,
With all good grace, to grace a gentleman.
SHAKSPEARE.
“And bring wax candles,” said the tallest and apparently the youngest
of the two travellers, who had just alighted from that almost obsolete
mode of conveyance, a hack post-chaise, at the door of a small but
celebrated country inn, on one of the great posting roads of England.
There was nothing in the mode of this arrival which had called for
particular care of the new comers from any of the busy inmates of the
inn, nor had it therefore broken in upon their regular routine of
bustling inattention.
One of the travellers had thrown himself upon a most uninviting sofa,
and if his present position could for a moment have been mistaken for
repose, it afforded the most conclusive evidence of the dislocating
discomforts of the hack chaise, after which it was considered a welcome
change.
His companion, (the tall gentleman mentioned above,) continued pacing
the small apartment to stretch his legs, an unnecessary task, as,
compass-like, two strides measured its limits backwards and forwards.
Upon the next appearance of a waiter, loaded with writing-boxes,
dressing-cases, &c., he repeated his former order in a more
authoritative tone--“Take away these,” (with a contemptuous
intonation,) “and bring wax candles.” This order evidently excited the
attention of the waiter towards him who gave it; the idea of a hack
post-chaise being generally connected in the mind of the knight of the
napkin with such gregarious animals as little boys going to school
with a single guinea for pocket-money, or briefless barristers going
the circuit without the remotest hope even of that single guinea.
Hastening to execute the first part of the command, the scrutiny which
he still continued of him from whom he received it, prevented that
perpendicular precision which could alone render the removal of the
culprit “mutton-fats” perfectly inoffensive. And “Boots,” laden with
portmanteaus and travelling-bags, meeting them on the threshold of the
door, the gentle zephyrs by which he was accompanied, caused their
sudden extinction, and carried back their odour as far as the upturned
nostrils of the gentleman on the sofa, who had hitherto taken no part
in the arrangement.
“So like you, Germain!” he exclaimed, as he started up.
“What’s like me,” replied the other, laughing, “an awkward waiter, or a
nasty smell?”
“No--that restless vanity which gives you such an unhealthy craving for
the good word of all alike who cross your path, however unimportant
or worthless their opinion may be. You could not bear that even in an
inn, you should be confounded with the common herd, and were impatient
to buy distinction at the price of a pair of wax candles. This is what
is so like you--‘seeking the bubble reputation even in a _waiter’s_
mouth.’”
This tirade was borne by the other with an imperturbable placidity,
which habitual experience of the like must have joined with
constitutional good-humour to produce.
“My dear Oakley,” he replied, “do for once drop the cynic this last
night; remember, though constant fellowship has given you the right to
say whatever you please to me, that our complete separation is about
to take away your power of doing so--and I would fain hope that some
little regret at what the future will deprive you of, might soften the
exercise of the privilege the past has given you.”
He paused a moment; and Oakley, who really liked him better than any
one else in the world, seeming silenced by this appeal, and not showing
any inclination to resume his attack, Germain continued:--
“Besides, I really don’t see how the no very uncommon peculiarity of
preferring wax candles to tallow, should subject one to have one’s
whole character dissected.”
“Germain,” resumed Oakley, quietly, but almost solemnly, “you have
alluded to our long fellowship through boyhood and youth: you are right
in having done so, for the kindly feelings which that has ripened,
will, I trust, long survive our present separation; when, had it been
the kindred ties of cousinship alone which coupled our names, the
black coat on the back of the one, for the death of the other, would
probably have first reminded the survivor that the deceased had ever
existed. For as different as our characters, are likely to be our
pursuits. Indeed, so strange to me seem all professions of regard, that
I may as well resume a tone of reproof, or you will already be unable
to recognise your old friend. But call it by what name you like, it
is sincere regard for you which induces me to tell you, once again,
Germain, that you have a most unhappy facility of character which will
lead you to spend your fortune in acquiring things you don’t want,
and waste your time in doing things you don’t like; and that, in over
anxiety for other people’s approbation, you will soon forfeit your own.”
“However I may feel convinced I am in the right, I never could get
the better of the argument with you: perhaps that very quality which
you call facility, (meaning weakness,) and which I call candour,
predisposes me whilst I am listening to you, to acknowledge there is
some truth in what you are saying, and your firmness of character which
some might mistake for obstinacy, prevents your ever yielding a tittle.
But I will put it fairly to you, whether any one would have supposed
the sentiments you have just uttered, to be those of a young man of
one-and-twenty, and whether you think it was any advantage at that age
to have acquired the character you did last month at Paris, where,
as we were always seen together, they compared us to English summer
weather. I was the smiling sunshiny morning, and you were the cold
cloudy evening that followed.”
“There,” interrupted Oakley, “that is what I complain of: it is never
your own opinion upon any subject. What people said at Paris you
repeat. But that can make no impression upon me, though it is all
in confirmation of my argument that it does but too much upon you.”
And as he said this, he began stirring the fire violently, perhaps
instinctively, at the mention of an English summer’s evening, for it
was the 10th of August, and the weather was truly national.
“There,” said Germain, “as you have interrupted me, I must interrupt
you. Look! you have put out the fire with your violence; that is what
I complain that you do in society, which you enter, as stiff and as
cold as a poker, and attempt to carry all by storm. Now I should have
insinuated myself gently, and have soon been received with reviving
warmth, and partaken of its influence. Much as you know, you have yet
to learn the magic of manner.”
“The gilding that makes falsehood and folly pass current,” muttered
Oakley, as the entrance of the landlady herself with the first dish
prevented further reply. This unusual condescension on the part of the
portly dame towards travellers in a chatter-box, (as a post-chaise is
denominated by its familiars,) was entirely produced by that order of
Germain’s which had originated the late discussion between himself
and his friend. They had at first been considered as common-place
guests, every-day sort of customers, but the wax candles threw a new
light upon their characters; and as soon as it was promulgated in
the bar that the gentlemen in “the _Sun_” had asked for wax lights,
then the possibility that they might be greater men than had been at
first supposed, seemed to break at once on the whole establishment.
The landlady, even at the sacrifice of her _papillottes_, prepared to
head the enlivening procession. The landlord looked out for one of the
illegitimate offspring, born of the clandestine connexion of sloe-juice
and raspberry vinegar, in hopes that claret would next be asked for,
and the waiter prepared to throw away a random shot or two of “my
Lord,” and “your Lordship,” which he thought could do no harm, whether
they hit the right mark or not. The visits of the landlord and landlady
were “few and far between,” and could not be felt as interruptions, but
the waiter seemed determined, if possible, to gratify his curiosity at
the expense of the patience of its objects. Nothing could get him out
of the room.
In the mean time, our travellers found occupation enough before them
to prevent their unbroken silence from being irksome. But when in
despair at their taciturnity, the waiter at length took his leave,
Germain broke out.
“It may be your taste to go through life as if every man’s hand was
against you, and yours equally against every man; but I don’t see how
it can ever be a reproach to any one to be able hereafter to say, ‘I
have bought golden opinions from all sorts of people.’”
“What an accidentally apt quotation!” retorted Oakley. “You may well
say ‘golden’ opinions, for yours are bought, and that with gold. It is
such golden opinions that will continue to procure for you attachment
like that of Mademoiselle Zephyrine, friendship like that of Monsieur
Partout.”
Towards the conclusion of Oakley’s last sentence, the waiter had
returned with a second instalment of mutton-chops, followed by an
assistant with the reserve of mashed potatoes.
“Hush--hush!” interrupted Germain, who had particular reasons for not
wishing the point last mentioned to be argued in open court.
The fact alluded to was this:--Every one knows that there is always
a “rage” at Paris, and this--be it hero or man-monkey--book or
bonnet--singer or monster--supersedes in its ephemeral existence every
other object of attraction. This rage of the moment when Germain first
went to Paris was Mademoiselle Zephyrine, _première danseuse_ at the
Grand Opéra. The list of her admirers comprised all, and every degree.
As was once said or sung by a witty friend of mine of a celebrated
English actress,
“Her flowing curls entangled earls,
Her ancles county members.”
It was absolutely necessary for every one who had any pretensions to
taste, to be to a certain point in love with her; but Germain, who
was always very susceptible, passed this certain point, and committed,
accordingly, manifold follies.
At this time, however, a useful and ornamental acquaintance of his,
Monsieur Partout, came to his assistance. This convenient friend had
previously endeavoured to initiate him into the mysteries of the
_Salon_, at appreciating the charms of which he had found him rather
slow, and he now came to communicate the pleasing intelligence that
Zephyrine admired his “maintien” and “air noble,” that she had quite
a _sentiment_ for him, in short, that she preferred him decidedly to
all her other admirers. It never occurred to Germain that any part of
that decided preference could be at all attributed to the very handsome
settlement obscurely hinted at by Partout, and immediately executed by
him; till the illusion was dispersed by hearing, one fine morning,
that this _fidus Achates_, this faithful friend, had gone bodkin
between settlement and sentiment in a _chaise de poste_ on a provincial
professional trip to Bordeaux. His vanity had been deeply wounded by
the ridicule of the whole transaction--it had hastened his departure
from Paris, and any allusion to it was still disagreeable.
Oakley and Germain had been (as indeed they have stated for themselves)
educated almost like brothers. They were both orphans, and related
on the female side, their mothers having been sisters. Germain had
inherited an ample, if not splendid, paternal property. Oakley had very
great expectations from a maternal uncle; his mother (who had made
an imprudent match) being the elder sister of the two. His present
destination was to answer the first summons of his uncle to visit him.
He and Germain had just returned from a continental tour, had dropped
carriages and couriers at Calais, and it being the dead time of year
in London, had passed through that smoky wilderness without stopping.
Germain had resisted Oakley’s request that he would accompany him to
their joint uncle, partly because the old gentleman, whom he had never
seen, had the reputation of being a gloomy recluse, and no one had a
more instinctive horror than Germain of putting himself in a situation
to be bored; and partly because he could not bear the appearance
of interfering with what had always been considered as Oakley’s
expectations in that quarter: and as the character of this unknown
uncle was notoriously capricious, there was no telling what fancies he
might take if his two nephews presented themselves together.
Germain’s present intention therefore was to take the opportunity of
paying a visit to an old private tutor of his, Mr. Dormer, who lived at
a pretty pastoral parsonage, about fifty miles from the spot where he
and his friend were about to separate.
It was with this person, and at this parsonage, that he had passed
almost the only period during his education, that he had been divided
from Oakley. For when they both left school, he not being considered
steady enough to be trusted at college so soon as his friend, had
therefore been sent to this intermediate purgatory, as at the time he
called it--yet afterwards, he found his time pass pleasantly enough
there; and whilst he gave to Oakley, as a reason for his visit, that
“it was a proper attention to the best old fellow in the world,”
there came into his calculations of the expediency of it, certain
recollections of one Fanny Dormer, whose unbounded admiration of him,
during his stay there, had been by no means unwelcome, and had called
for a return in kind from him. In short, when he went away, he had
felt as if actually in love--and though the time that had intervened,
and other impressions which had interposed, had occasionally caused
him a little to doubt, upon recollecting some of the boyish couplets
in which he used to celebrate her charms, whether there might not
be almost as much imagination in the facts, as poetry in the metre,
yet the thought of seeing her again caused a pleasing sensation as
he called to mind the cheerful eye, the fresh fair skin, and the
frequent display of the most brilliantly white teeth in the world,
which followed the ever-ready laugh at the worst of his jokes. And when
the friends separated for the night, though the ample justice done to
the late supper might have been supposed likely to make disagreeable
impressions survive upon a restless pillow, yet it was upon the fancied
form, not of Mademoiselle Zephyrine, but of Fanny Dormer, that his eyes
closed, as he slowly dropped asleep.