The Goddess Wisdom.
To some she is the goddess great;
To some the milch cow of the field;
Their care is but to calculate
What butter she will yield.
From Schiller.
This last conversation with Zanoni left upon the mind of Glyndon a
tranquillising and salutary effect.
From the confused mists of his fancy glittered forth again those happy,
golden schemes which part from the young ambition of art, to play in the
air, to illumine the space like rays that kindle from the sun. And with
these projects mingled also the vision of a love purer and serener than
his life yet had known. His mind went back into that fair childhood of
genius, when the forbidden fruit is not yet tasted, and we know of no
land beyond the Eden which is gladdened by an Eve. Insensibly before
him there rose the scenes of a home, with his art sufficing for all
excitement, and Viola’s love circling occupation with happiness and
content; and in the midst of these fantasies of a future that might
be at his command, he was recalled to the present by the clear, strong
voice of Mervale, the man of common-sense.
Whoever has studied the lives of persons in whom the imagination is
stronger than the will, who suspect their own knowledge of actual life,
and are aware of their facility to impressions, will have observed the
influence which a homely, vigorous, worldly understanding obtains over
such natures. It was thus with Glyndon. His friend had often extricated
him from danger, and saved him from the consequences of imprudence; and
there was something in Mervale’s voice alone that damped his enthusiasm,
and often made him yet more ashamed of noble impulses than weak conduct.
For Mervale, though a downright honest man, could not sympathise with
the extravagance of generosity any more than with that of presumption
and credulity. He walked the straight line of life, and felt an equal
contempt for the man who wandered up the hill-sides, no matter whether
to chase a butterfly, or to catch a prospect of the ocean.
“I will tell you your thoughts, Clarence,” said Mervale, laughing,
“though I am no Zanoni. I know them by the moisture of your eyes,
and the half-smile on your lips. You are musing upon that fair
perdition,--the little singer of San Carlo.”
The little singer of San Carlo! Glyndon coloured as he answered,--
“Would you speak thus of her if she were my wife?”
“No! for then any contempt I might venture to feel would be for
yourself. One may dislike the duper, but it is the dupe that one
despises.”
“Are you sure that I should be the dupe in such a union? Where can I
find one so lovely and so innocent,--where one whose virtue has been
tried by such temptation? Does even a single breath of slander sully the
name of Viola Pisani?”
“I know not all the gossip of Naples, and therefore cannot answer; but I
know this, that in England no one would believe that a young Englishman,
of good fortune and respectable birth, who marries a singer from the
theatre of Naples, has not been lamentably taken in. I would save you
from a fall of position so irretrievable. Think how many mortifications
you will be subjected to; how many young men will visit at your
house,--and how many young wives will as carefully avoid it.”
“I can choose my own career, to which commonplace society is not
essential. I can owe the respect of the world to my art, and not to the
accidents of birth and fortune.”
“That is, you still persist in your second folly,--the absurd ambition
of daubing canvas. Heaven forbid I should say anything against the
laudable industry of one who follows such a profession for the sake of
subsistence; but with means and connections that will raise you in life,
why voluntarily sink into a mere artist? As an accomplishment in leisure
moments, it is all very well in its way; but as the occupation of
existence, it is a frenzy.”
“Artists have been the friends of princes.”
“Very rarely so, I fancy, in sober England. There in the great centre of
political aristocracy, what men respect is the practical, not the ideal.
Just suffer me to draw two pictures of my own. Clarence Glyndon returns
to England; he marries a lady of fortune equal to his own, of friends
and parentage that advance rational ambition. Clarence Glyndon, thus a
wealthy and respectable man, of good talents, of bustling energies then
concentrated, enters into practical life. He has a house at which he can
receive those whose acquaintance is both advantage and honour; he has
leisure which he can devote to useful studies; his reputation, built on
a solid base, grows in men’s mouths. He attaches himself to a party; he
enters political life; and new connections serve to promote his objects.
At the age of five-and-forty, what, in all probability, may Clarence
Glyndon be? Since you are ambitious I leave that question for you to
decide! Now turn to the other picture. Clarence Glyndon returns to
England with a wife who can bring him no money, unless he lets her out
on the stage; so handsome, that every one asks who she is, and every one
hears,--the celebrated singer, Pisani. Clarence Glyndon shuts himself
up to grind colours and paint pictures in the grand historical school,
which nobody buys. There is even a prejudice against him, as not having
studied in the Academy,--as being an amateur. Who is Mr. Clarence
Glyndon? Oh, the celebrated Pisani’s husband! What else? Oh, he exhibits
those large pictures! Poor man! they have merit in their way; but
Teniers and Watteau are more convenient, and almost as cheap. Clarence
Glyndon, with an easy fortune while single, has a large family which his
fortune, unaided by marriage, can just rear up to callings more plebeian
than his own. He retires into the country, to save and to paint; he
grows slovenly and discontented; ‘the world does not appreciate him,’
he says, and he runs away from the world. At the age of forty-five
what will be Clarence Glyndon? Your ambition shall decide that question
also!”
“If all men were as worldly as you,” said Glyndon, rising, “there would
never have been an artist or a poet!”
“Perhaps we should do just as well without them,” answered Mervale. “Is
it not time to think of dinner? The mullets here are remarkably fine!”