"In effect he entered my apartment."--/Gil Blas/.
"'I am surprised,' said he, 'at the caprice of Fortune,
who sometimes delights in loading an execrable author
with favours, whilst she leaves good writers to perish
for want.'"--/Gil Blas/.
IT was just twelve months after his last interview with Valerie, and
Madame de Ventadour had long since quitted England, when one morning, as
Maltravers sat alone in his study, Castruccio Cesarini was announced.
"Ah, my dear Castruccio, how are you?" cried Maltravers, eagerly, as the
opening door presented the form of the Italian.
"Sir," said Castruccio, with great stiffness, and speaking in French,
which was his wont when he meant to be distant--"sir, I do not come to
renew our former acquaintance--you are a great man [here a bitter
sneer], I an obscure one [here Castruccio drew himself up]--I only come
to discharge a debt to you which I find I have incurred."
"What tone is this, Castruccio; and what debt do you speak of?"
"On my arrival in town yesterday," said the poet solemnly, "I went to
the man whom you deputed some years since to publish my little volume,
to demand an account of its success; and I found that it had cost one
hundred and twenty pounds, deducting the sale of forty-nine copies which
had been sold. /Your/ books sell some thousands, I am told. It is well
contrived--mine fell still-born, no pains were taken with it--no
matter--[a wave of the hand]. You discharged this debt, I repay you:
there is a cheque for the money. Sir, I have done! I wish you a good
day, and health to enjoy /your/ reputation."
"Why, Cesarini, this is folly."
"Sir--"
"Yes, it is folly; for there is no folly equal to that of throwing away
friendship in a world where friendship is so rare. You insinuate that I
am to blame for any neglect which your work experienced. Your publisher
can tell you that I was more anxious about your book than I have ever
been about my own."
"And the proof is that forty-nine copies were sold!"
"Sit down, Castruccio; sit down, and listen to reason;" and Maltravers
proceeded to explain, and soothe, and console. He reminded the poor
poet that his verses were written in a foreign tongue--that even English
poets of great fame enjoyed but a limited sale for their works--that it
was impossible to make the avaricious public purchase what the stupid
public would not take an interest in--in short, he used all those
arguments which naturally suggested themselves as best calculated to
convince and soften Castruccio; and he did this with so much evident
sympathy and kindness, that at length the Italian could no longer
justify his own resentment. A reconciliation took place, sincere on the
part of Maltravers, hollow on the part of Cesarini; for the disappointed
author could not forgive the successful one.
"And how long shall you stay in London?"
"Some months."
"Send for your luggage, and be my guest."
"No; I have taken lodgings that suit me. I am formed for solitude."
"While you stay here, you will, however, go into the world."
"Yes, I have some letters of introduction, and I hear that the English
can honour merit, even in an Italian."
"You hear the truth, and it will amuse you, at least, to see our eminent
men. They will receive you most hospitably. Let me assist you as a
cicerone."
"Oh, your /valuable/ time!"
"Is at your disposal: but where are you going?"
"It is Sunday, and I have had my curiosity excited to hear a celebrated
preacher--Mr. ------, who they tell me, is now more talked of than /any
author/ in London."
"They tell you truly--I will go with you--I myself have not yet heard
him, but proposed to do so this very day."
"Are you not jealous of a man so much spoken of?"
"Jealous!--why, I never set up for a popular preacher!--/ce n'est pas
mon metier/."
"If I were a /successful/ author, I should be jealous if the
dancing-dogs were talked of."
"No, my dear Cesarini, I am sure you would not. You are a little
irritated at present by natural disappointment; but the man who has as
much success as he deserves is never morbidly jealous, even of a rival
in his own line. Want of success sours us; but a little sunshine smiles
away the vapours. Come, we have no time to lose."
Maltravers took his hat, and the two young men bent their way to ------
Chapel. Cesarini still retained the singular fashion of his dress,
though it was now made of handsomer materials, and worn with more
coxcombry and pretension. He had much improved in person--had been
admired in Paris, and told that he looked like a man of genius--and,
with his black ringlets flowing over his shoulders, his long moustache,
his broad Spanish-shaped hat, and eccentric garb, he certainly did not
look like other people. He smiled with contempt at the plain dress of
his companion. "I see," said he, "that you follow the fashion, and look
as if you passed your life with /elegans/ instead of students. I wonder
you condescend to such trifles as fashionably-shaped hats and coats."
"It would be worse trifling to set up for originality in hats and coats,
at least in sober England. I was born a gentleman, and I dress my
outward frame like others of my order. Because I am a writer, why
should I affect to be different from other men?"
"I see that you are not above the weakness of your countryman Congreve,"
said Cesarini, "who deemed it finer to be a gentleman than an author."
"I always thought that anecdote misconstrued. Congreve had a proper and
manly pride, to my judgment, when he expressed a dislike to be visited
merely as a raree-show."
"But is it policy to let the world see that an author is like other
people? Would he not create a deeper personal interest if he showed
that even in person alone he was unlike the herd? He ought to be seen
seldom--not to stale his presence--and to resort to the arts that belong
to the royalty of intellect as well as the royalty of birth."
"I dare say an author, by a little charlatanism of that nature, might be
more talked of--might be more adored in the boarding-schools, and make a
better picture in the exhibition. But I think, if his mind be manly, he
would lose in self-respect at every quackery of the sort. And my
philosophy is, that to respect oneself is worth all the fame in the
world."
Cesarini sneered and shrugged his shoulders; it was quite evident that
the two authors had no sympathy with each other.
They arrived at last at the chapel, and with some difficulty procured
seats.
Presently the service began. The preacher was a man of unquestionable
talent and fervid eloquence; but his theatrical arts, his affected
dress, his artificial tones and gestures; and, above all, the fanatical
mummeries which he introduced into the House of God, disgusted
Maltravers, while they charmed, entranced, and awed Cesarini. The one
saw a mountebank and impostor--the other recognised a profound artist
and an inspired prophet.
But while the discourse was drawing towards a close, while the preacher
was in one of his most eloquent bursts--the ohs! and ahs! of which were
the grand prelude to the pathetic peroration--the dim outline of a
female form, in the distance, riveted the eyes and absorbed the thoughts
of Maltravers. The chapel was darkened, though it was broad daylight;
and the face of the person that attracted Ernest's attention was
concealed by her head-dress and veil. But that bend of the neck, so
simply graceful, so humbly modest, recalled to his heart but one image.
Every one has, perhaps, observed that there is a physiognomy (if the
bull may be pardoned) of /form/ as well as face, which it rarely happens
that two persons possess in common. And this, with most, is peculiarly
marked in the turn of the head, the outline of the shoulders, and the
ineffable something that characterises the postures of each individual
in repose. The more intently he gazed, the more firmly Ernest
was persuaded that he saw before him the long-lost, the
never-to-be-forgotten mistress of his boyish days, and his first love.
On one side of the lady in question sat an elderly gentleman, whose eyes
were fixed upon the preacher; on the other, a beautiful little girl,
with long fair ringlets, and that cast of features which, from its
exquisite delicacy and expressive mildness, painters and poets call the
"angelic." These persons appeared to belong to the same party.
Maltravers literally trembled, so great were his impatience and
agitation. Yet still, the dress of the supposed likeness of Alice, the
appearance of her companions, were so evidently above the ordinary rank,
that Ernest scarcely ventured to yield to the suggestions of his own
heart. Was it possible that the daughter of Luke Darvil, thrown upon
the wide world, could have risen so far beyond her circumstances and
station? At length the moment came when he might resolve his
doubts--the discourse was concluded--the extemporaneous prayer was at an
end--the congregation broke up, and Maltravers pushed his way, as well
as he could, through the dense and serried crowd. But every moment some
vexatious obstruction, in the shape of a fat gentleman or three
close-wedged ladies, intercepted his progress. He lost sight of the
party in question amidst the profusion of tall bonnets and waving
plumes. He arrived at last, breathless and pale as death (so great was
the struggle within him), at the door of the chapel. He arrived in time
to see a plain carriage with servants in grey undress liveries, driving
from the porch--and caught a glimpse, within the vehicle, of the golden
ringlets of a child. He darted forward, he threw himself almost before
the horses. The coachman drew in, and with an angry exclamation, very
much like an oath, whipped his horses aside and went off. But that
momentary pause sufficed.--"It is she--it is! O Heaven, it is Alice!"
murmured Maltravers. The whole place reeled before his eyes, and he
clung, overpowered and unconscious, to a neighbouring lamp-post for
support. But he recovered himself with an agonising effort, as the
thought struck upon this heart that he was about to lose sight of her
again for ever. And he rushed forward, like one frantic, in pursuit of
the carriage. But there was a vast crowd of other carriages, besides
stream upon stream of foot-passengers,--for the great and the gay
resorted to that place of worship, as a fashionable excitement in a dull
day. And after a weary and a dangerous chase, in which he had been
nearly run over three times, Maltravers halted at last, exhausted and in
despair. Every succeeding Sunday, for months, he went to the same
chapel, but in vain; in vain, too, he resorted to every public haunt of
dissipation and amusement. Alice Darvil he beheld no more!