OLD MR. HARRINGTON.
An old man sat in a room above the one just deserted by its inmates. He
was watching the sunset also, with unusual interest, not because it
brought back loving or sad memories, but with an admiration of the sense
alone. With tastes cultivated to their extremest capacity, and a
philosophy of happiness essentially material, this old man permitted no
hour to pass by without gleaning some sensual enjoyment from it, that a
less egotistical person might never have discovered. An epicure in all
things, he had attained to a sort of self-worship, which would have been
sublime if applied to the First Cause of all that is beautiful. His
splendid person was held in reverence, not because it was made in the
image of his God, but for the powers of enjoyment it possessed--for the
symmetry it displayed, and the defiance which it had so long given to
the inroads of time.
As a whole and in detail, this old man was a self-worshipper. Like all
idolaters he was blind to the defects of his earthly god, and if a gleam
of unpleasant self knowledge would occasionally force itself upon his
notice, the conviction only rendered him more urgent to extort homage
from others.
The room in which this old man sat, was a library fitted up expressly
for himself. It was one of his peculiarities that his sources of
enjoyment must be exclusive, in order to be valuable. He would not
willingly have shared a single tint of that beautiful sunset with
another, unless satisfied that the admiration thus excited would give
zest to his own pleasurable sensations.
Thus, with the selfishness of an epicure and the tastes of a savant, he
surrounded himself with the most luxurious elegance. The book-cases of
carved ebony that run along two sides of the apartment, were filled with
rare books, accumulated during his travels, some of them worth their
weight in gold. Doors of plate glass protected their antique and often
gorgeous bindings, and medallions of rare bronzes were inlaid in the
rich carvings of the cornices.
Over the mantle-piece of Egyptian marble, carved to a miracle of art,
hung an original by Guido, one of those ethereal pictures in which the
figures seem to float through the glowing atmosphere, borne onward only
by a gushing sense of their own happiness.
The French windows opposite were filled, like the book-cases, with
plate-glass pure and limpid as water, and two bronze Bacchantes, thrown
into attitudes of riotous enjoyment, held back voluminous folds of
crimson brocade that enriched the light which fell through them. A
variety of chairs stood about, carved like the book-cases, cushioned
with crimson leather and embossed with gold. The ebony desk upon which
the old man's elbow rested, as he looked forth upon the river, was
scattered over with books and surmounted by a writing apparatus of
malachite, whose mate could hardly have been found out of the imperial
_salons_ of Russia.
Everything was in keeping, the luxurious room and the old man whose
presence completed it. If the two persons we have just described seemed
imposing in their moral grandeur, while they sat thoughtfully watching
the sunset, this man with his keen, black eyes, his beard flowing
downward in white waves from the chin and upper lip, which was curved
exactly in the form of a bow, took from the material alone an interest
almost as impressive.
The old man saw his wife pass down in front of the house and descend
toward the river. The black dress and scarlet shawl which she wore,
rendered her a picturesque object in the landscape, and as such the old
man was admiring her. Directly after, his son followed, and another
stately figure was added to the view; but his walk verged toward the
hills, and he was soon lost among the trees.
The old man was vexed at this derangement in his picture; but directly
there came in sight a little boat, ploughing through the golden ripples
cast downward by the sun, and half veiled in the glowing mists of the
river. He watched the boat while it came dancing toward the shore, and
smiled when his wife paused a moment on the bank, as if awaiting its
approach.
"She is right. A figure upon the shore completes the whole thing. One
seldom sees a picture so perfect! Claude Lorraine!--why, his sunsets are
leaden compared to this! Oh, she turns off and spoils the effect by
throwing the willows between us! Why will women be so restless! Now a
female caprice--nothing more--has destroyed the most lovely effect I
ever saw; just as I was drinking it in, too. But the boat is
pretty--yes, yes, that enlivens the foreground--bravo! Capital, Ben,
capital!--that stoop is just the thing; and the youngsters, how
beautifully they group themselves! Hallo! upon my honor, if that young
scamp is not making love to Lina! I don't pretend to know what the
attitude of love-making is!"
The old man fell back in his chair, and drew a hand over his eyes with a
restless motion, muttering uneasily,
"Ralph and Lina? upon my word, I have been blind as a bat. How far has
the thing gone? Has Mabel encouraged it? Does she know? What hand can
James have had in bringing this state of things about? These two
children--why, the thing is preposterous!"
The old man left his easy-chair, as these unpleasant conjectures forced
themselves upon him, and, as if sickened by the landscape he had just
been admiring, shut it out by a jerk of the hand, which brought the
crimson drapery flowing in loose folds from its gilded rods, and gave
the whole room a tent-like seclusion. In the rich twilight thus
produced, the old man walked to and fro, angry and thoughtful. At last
he took his hat and left the house.