"The men of sense, those idols of the shallow, are very inferior
to the men of Passions. It is the strong passions which, rescuing
us from sloth, can alone impart to us that continuous and earnest
attention necessary to great intellectual efforts."--HELVETIUS.
WHEN Ferrers returned that day from his customary ride, he was surprised
to see the lobbies and hall of the apartment which he occupied in common
with Maltravers, littered with bags and /malles/, boxes and books, and
Ernest's Swiss valet directing porters and waiters in a mosaic of
French, English, and Italian.
"Well!" said Lumley, "and what is all this?"
"Il signore va partir, sare, ah! mon Dieu!--/tout/ of a sudden."
"O-h! and where is he now!"
"In his room, sare."
Over the chaos strode Ferrers, and opening the door of his friend's
dressing-room without ceremony, he saw Maltravers buried in a fauteuil,
with his hands drooping on his knees, his head bent over his breast, and
his whole attitude expressive of dejection and exhaustion.
"What is the matter, my dear Ernest? You have not killed a man in a
duel?"
"No."
"What then? Why are you going away, and whither?"
"No matter; leave me in peace."
"Friendly!" said Ferrers; "very friendly! And what is to become of
me--what companion am I to have in this cursed resort of antiquarians
and lazzaroni? You have no feeling, Mr. Maltravers!"
"Will you come with me, then?" said Maltravers, in vain endeavouring to
rouse himself.
"But where are you going?"
"Anywhere; to Paris--to London."
"No; I have arranged my plans for the summer. I am not so rich as some
people. I hate change: it is so expensive."
"But, my dear fellow--"
"Is this fair dealing with me?" continued Lumley, who, for once in his
life, was really angry. "If I were an old coat you had worn for five
years you could not throw me off with more nonchalance."
"Ferrers, forgive me. My honour is concerned. I must leave this place.
I trust you will remain my guest here, though in the absence of your
host. You know that I have engaged the apartment for the next three
months."
"Humph!" said Ferrers, "as that is the case I may as well stay here.
But why so secret? Have you seduced Madame de Ventadour, or has her
wise husband his suspicions? Hein, hein!"
Maltravers smothered his disgust at this coarseness; and, perhaps, there
is no greater trial of temper than in a friend's gross remarks upon the
connection of the heart.
"Ferrers," said he, "if you care for me, breathe not a word
disrespectful to Madame de Ventadour: she is an angel!"
"But why leave Naples?"
"Trouble me no more."
"Good day, sir," said Ferrers, highly offended, and he stalked out of
the chamber; nor did Ernest see him again before his departure.
It was late that evening when Maltravers found himself alone in his
carriage, pursuing by starlight the ancient and melancholy road to Mola
di Gaeta.
His solitude was a luxury to Maltravers; he felt an inexpressible sense
of relief to be freed from Ferrers. The hard sense, the unpliant,
though humorous imperiousness, the animal sensuality of his companion
would have been torture to him in his present state of mind.
The next morning, when he rose, the orange blossoms of Mola di Gaeta
were sweet beneath the window of the inn where he rested. It was now
the early spring, and the freshness of the odour, the breathing health
of earth and air, it is impossible to describe. Italy itself boasts few
spots more lovely than that same Mola di Gaeta--nor does that halcyon
sea wear, even at Naples or Sorrento, a more bland and enchanting smile.
So, after a hasty and scarcely-tasted breakfast, Maltravers strolled
through the orange groves, and gained the beach; and there, stretched at
idle length by the murmuring waves, he resigned himself to thought, and
endeavoured, for the first time since his parting with Valerie, to
collect and examine the state of his mind and feelings. Maltravers, to
his own surprise, did not find himself so unhappy as he had expected.
On the contrary, a soft and almost delicious sentiment, which he could
not well define, floated over all his memories of the beautiful
Frenchwoman. Perhaps the secret was, that while his pride was not
mortified, his conscience was not galled--perhaps, also, he had not
loved Valerie so deeply as he had imagined. The confession and the
separation had happily come before her presence had grown--/the want of
a life/. As it was, he felt as if, by some holy and mystic sacrifice,
he had been made reconciled to himself and mankind. He woke to a juster
and higher appreciation of human nature, and of woman's nature in
especial. He had found honesty and truth where he might least have
expected it--in a woman of a court--in a woman surrounded by vicious and
frivolous circles--in a woman who had nothing in the opinion of her
friends, her country, her own husband, the social system in which she
moved, to keep her from the concessions of frailty--in a woman of the
world--a woman of Paris!--yes, it was his very disappointment that drove
away the fogs and vapours that, arising from the marshes of the great
world, had gradually settled round his soul. Valerie de Ventadour had
taught him not to despise her sex, not to judge by appearances, not to
sicken of a low and a hypocritical world. He looked in his heart for
the love of Valerie, and he found there the love of virtue. Thus, as he
turned his eyes inward, did he gradually awaken to a sense of the true
impressions engraved there. And he felt the bitterest drop of the
fountains was not sorrow for himself, but for her. What pangs must that
high spirit have endured ere it could have submitted to the avowal it
had made! Yet, even in this affliction he found at last a solace. A
mind so strong could support and heal the weakness of the heart. He
felt that Valerie de Ventadour was not a woman to pine away in the
unresisted indulgence of morbid and unholy emotions. He could not
flatter himself that she would not seek to eradicate a love she
repented; and he sighed with a natural selfishness, when he owned also
that sooner or later she would succeed. "But be it so," said he, half
aloud--"I will prepare my heart to rejoice when I learn that she
remembers me only as a friend. Next to the bliss of her love is the
pride of her esteem."
Such was the sentiment with which his reveries closed--and with every
league that bore him further from the south, the sentiment grew
strengthened and confirmed.
Ernest Maltravers felt there is in the affections themselves so much to
purify and exalt, that even an erring love, conceived without a cold
design, and (when its nature is fairly understood) wrestled against with
a noble spirit, leaves the heart more tolerant and tender, and the mind
more settled and enlarged. The philosophy limited to the reason puts
into motion the automata of the closet--but to those who have the world
for a stage, and who find their hearts are the great actors, experience
and wisdom must be wrought from the Philosophy of the Passions.