THE MASQUERADE.
To form one’s impression of a masked ball from the attempts at this mode
of entertainment in our country, is but to conceive a most imperfect and
erroneous notion. With us, the first _coup d’oeil_ is everything; the
nuns, the shepherdesses, the Turks, sailors, eastern princes, watchmen,
moonshees, milestones, devils, and Quakers are all very well in their way
as they pass in the review before us, but when we come to mix in the
crowd, we discover that, except the turban and the cowl, the crook and
the broad-brim, no further disguise is attempted or thought of. The nun,
forgetting her vow and her vestments, is flirting with the devil; the
watchman, a very fastidious elegant, is ogling the fishwomen through his
glass; while the Quaker is performing a _pas seul_ Alberti might be proud
of, in a quadrille of riotous Turks and half-tipsy Hindoos; in fact, the
whole wit of the scene consists in absurd associations. Apart from this,
the actors have rarely any claims upon your attention; for even supposing
a person clever enough to sustain his character, whatever it be, you must
also supply the other personages of the drama, or, in stage phrase, he’ll
have nothing to “play up to.” What would be Bardolph without Pistol; what
Sir Lucius O’Triuger without Acres? It is the relief which throws out the
disparities and contradictions of life that afford us most amusement; hence
it is that one swallow can no more make a summer, than one well-sustained
character can give life to a masquerade. Without such sympathies, such
points of contact, all the leading features of the individual, making him
act and be acted upon, are lost; the characters being mere parallel lines,
which, however near they approach, never bisect or cross each other.
This is not the case abroad: the domino, which serves for mere concealment,
is almost the only dress assumed, and the real disguise is therefore thrown
from necessity upon the talents, whatever they be, of the wearer. It is
no longer a question of a beard or a spangled mantle, a Polish dress or
a pasteboard nose; the mutation of voice, the assumption of a different
manner, walk, gesture, and mode of expression, are all necessary, and no
small tact is required to effect this successfully.
I may be pardoned this little digression, as it serves to explain in some
measure how I felt on entering the splendidly lit up _salons_ of the
villa, crowded with hundreds of figures in all the varied costumes of a
carnival,--the sounds of laughter mingled with the crash of the music;
the hurrying hither and thither of servants with refreshments; the crowds
gathered around fortune-tellers, whose predictions threw the parties
at each moment into shouts of merriment; the eager following of some
disappointed domino, interrogating every one to find out a lost mask.
For some time I stood an astonished spectator at the kind of secret
intelligence which seemed to pervade the whole assemblage, when suddenly a
mask, who for some time had been standing beside me, whispered in French,--
“If you pass your time in this manner, you must not feel surprised if your
place be occupied.”
I turned hastily round, but she was gone. She, I say, for the voice was
clearly a woman’s; her pink domino could be no guide, for hundreds of the
same color passed me every instant. The meaning of the allusion I had
little doubt of. I turned to speak to Power, but he was gone; and for the
first moment of my life, the bitterness of rivalry crossed my mind. It was
true I had resigned all pretensions in his favor. My last meeting with Lucy
had been merely to justify my own character against an impression that
weighed heavily on me; still, I thought he might have waited,--another day
and I should be far away, neither to witness nor grieve over his successes.
“You still hesitate,” whispered some one near me.
I wheeled round suddenly, but could not detect the speaker, and was again
relapsing into my own musings, when the same voice repeated,--
“The white domino with the blue cape. Adieu.”
Without waiting to reflect upon the singularity of the occurrence, I now
hurried along through the dense crowd, searching on every side for the
domino.
“Isn’t that O’Malley?” said an Englishman to his friend.
“Yes,” replied the other; “the very man we want. O’Malley, find a partner;
we have been searching a _vis-à-vis_ this ten minutes.”
The speaker was an officer I had met at Sir George Dashwood’s. “How did you
discover me?” said I, suddenly.
“Not a very difficult thing if you carry your mask in your hand that way,”
was the answer.
And I now perceived that in the distraction of my thoughts I had been
carrying my mask in this manner since my coming into the room.
“There now, what say you to the blue domino? I saw her foot, and a girl
with such an instep must be a waltzer.”
I looked round, a confused effort at memory passing across my mind; my eyes
fell at the instant upon the embroidered sleeve of the domino, where a
rosebud worked in silver at once reminded me of Catrina’s secret. “Ah,”
thought I, “La Senhora herself!” She was leaning upon the arm of a tall and
portly figure in black; who this was I knew not, nor sought to discover,
but at once advancing towards Donna Inez asked her to waltz.
Without replying to me she turned towards her companion, who seemed as it
were to press her acceptance of my offer; she hesitated, however, for an
instant, and curtsying deeply, declined it. “Well,” thought I, “she at
least has not recognized me.”
“And yet, Senhora,” said I, half jestingly, “I _have_ seen you join a
bolero before now.”
“You evidently mistake me,” was the reply, but in a voice so well feigned
as almost to convince me she was right.
“Nay, more,” said I, “under your own fair auspices did I myself first
adventure one.”
“Still in error, believe me; I am not known to you.”
“And yet I have a talisman to refresh your memory, should you dare me
further.”
At this instant my hand was grasped warmly by a passing mask. I turned
round rapidly, and Power whispered in my ear,--
“Yours forever, Charley; you’ve made my fortune.”
As he hurried on I could perceive that he supported a lady on his arm, and
that she wore a loose white domino with a deep blue cape. In a second all
thought of Inez was forgotten, and anxious only to conceal my emotion, I
turned away and mingled in the crowd. Lost to all around me, I wandered
carelessly, heedlessly on, neither noticing the glittering throng around,
nor feeling a thought in common with the gay and joyous spirits that
flitted by. The night wore on, my melancholy and depression growing ever
deeper, yet so spell-bound was I that I could not leave the place. A
secret sense that it was the last time we were to meet had gained entire
possession of me, and I longed to speak a few words ere we parted forever.
I was leaning on a window which looked out upon the courtyard, when
suddenly the tramp of horses attracted my attention, and I saw by the
clear moonlight a group of mounted men, whose long cloaks and tall helmets
announced dragoons, standing around the porch. At the same moment the
door of the _salon_ opened, and an officer in undress, splashed and
travel-stained, entered. Making his way rapidly through the crowd, he
followed the servant, who introduced him towards the supper-room. Thither
the dense mass now pressed to learn the meaning of the singular apparition;
while my own curiosity, not less excited, led me towards the door. As
I crossed the hall, however, my progress was interrupted by a group of
persons, among whom I saw an aide-de-camp of Lord Wellington’s staff,
narrating, as it were, some piece of newly-arrived intelligence. I had
no time for further inquiry, when a door opened near me, and Sir George
Dashwood, accompanied by several general officers, came forth, the officer
I had first seen enter the ball-room along with them. Every one was by this
unmasked, and eagerly looking to hear what had occurred.
“Then, Dashwood, you’ll send off an orderly at once?” said an old general
officer beside me.
“This instant, my Lord. I’ll despatch an aide-de-camp. The troops shall be
in marching order before noon. Oh, here’s the man I want! O’Malley, come
here. Mount your horse and dash into town. Send for Brotherton and M’Gregor
to quarters, and announce the news as quickly as possible.”
“But what am I to announce, Sir George?”
“That the French are in retreat,--Massena in retreat, my lad.”
A tremendous cheer at this instant burst from the hundreds in the
_salon_, who now heard the glorious tidings. Another cheer and another
followed,--ten thousand _vivas_ rose amidst the crash of the band, as it
broke into a patriotic war chant. Such a scene of enthusiasm and excitement
I never witnessed. Some wept with joy. Others threw themselves into their
friends’ arms.
“They’re all mad, every mother’s son of them!” said Maurice Quill, as he
elbowed his way through the mass; “and here’s an old vestal won’t leave my
arm. She has already embraced me three times, and we’ve finished a flask of
Malaga between us.”
“Come, O’Malley, are you ready for the road?”
My horse was by this time standing saddled at the front. I sprang at once
to the saddle, and without waiting for a second order, set out for Lisbon.
Ten minutes had scarce elapsed,--the very shouts of joy of the delighted
city were still ringing in my ears,--when I was once again back at the
villa. As I mounted the steps into the hall, a carriage drew up,--it was
Sir George Dashwood’s. He came forward, his daughter leaning upon his arm.
“Why, O’Malley, I thought you had gone.”
“I have returned, Sir George. Colonel Brotherton is in waiting, and the
staff also. I have received orders to set out for Benejos, where the 14th
are stationed, and have merely delayed to say adieu.”
“Adieu, my dear boy, and God bless you!” said the warm-hearted old man, as
he pressed my hand between both his. “Lucy, here’s your old friend about to
leave; come and say good-by.”
Miss Dashwood had stopped behind to adjust her shawl. I flew to her
assistance. “Adieu, Miss Dashwood, and forever!” said I, in a broken voice,
as I took her hand in mine. “This is not your domino,” said I, eagerly, as
a blue silk one peeped from beneath her mantle; “and the sleeve, too,--did
you wear this?” She blushed slightly, and assented.
“I changed with the senhora, who wore mine all the evening.”
“And Power, then, was not your partner?”
“I should think not,--for I never danced.”
“Lucy, my love, are you ready? Come, be quick.”
“Good-by, Mr. O’Malley, and _au revoir, n’est-ce pas?_”
I drew her glove from her hand as she spoke, and pressing my lips upon her
fingers, placed her within the carriage. “Adieu, and _au revoir!_” said I.
The carriage turned away, and a white glove was all that remained to me of
Lucy Dashwood!
The carriage had turned the angle of the road, and its retiring sounds were
growing gradually fainter, ere I recovered myself sufficiently to know
where I stood. One absorbing thought alone possessed me. Lucy was not lost
to me forever; Power was not my rival in that quarter,--that was enough for
me. I needed no more to nerve my arm and steel my heart. As I reflected
thus, the long loud blast of a trumpet broke upon the silence of the
night, and admonished me to depart. I hurried to my room to make my few
preparations for the road; but Mike had already anticipated everything
here, and all was in readiness.
But one thing now remained,--to make my adieu to the senhora. With this
intent, I descended a narrow winding stair which led from my dressing-room,
and opened by a little terrace upon the flower-garden beside her
apartments.
As I crossed the gravelled alley, I could not but think of the last time I
had been there. It was on the eve of departure for the Douro. I recalled
the few and fleeting moments of our leave-taking, and a thought flashed
upon me,--what if she cared for me! What if, half in coquetry, half in
reality, her heart was mixed up in those passages which daily association
gives rise to?
I could not altogether acquit myself of all desire to make her believe me
her admirer; nay, more, with the indolent _abandon_ of my country, I had
fallen into a thousand little schemes to cheat the long hours away, which,
having no other object than the happiness of the moment, might yet color
all her after-life with sorrow.
Let no one rashly pronounce me a coxcomb, vain and pretentious, for all
this. In my inmost heart I had no feeling of selfishness mingled with the
consideration. It was from no sense of my own merits, no calculation of my
own chances of success, that I thought thus. Fortunately, at eighteen one’s
heart is uncontaminated with such an alloy of vanity. The first emotions of
youth are pure and holy things, tempering our fiercer passions, and calming
the rude effervescence of our boyish spirit; and when we strive to please,
and hope to win affection, we insensibly fashion ourselves to nobler and
higher thoughts, catching from the source of our devotion a portion of that
charm that idealizes daily life, and makes our path in it a glorious and a
bright one.
Who would not exchange all the triumph of his later days, the proudest
moments of successful ambition, the richest trophies of hard-won
daring,--for the short and vivid flash that first shot through his heart
and told him he was loved. It is the opening consciousness of life, the
first sense of power that makes of the mere boy a man,--a man in all his
daring and his pride; and hence it is that in early life we feel ever prone
to indulge those fancied attachments which elevate and raise us in our own
esteem. Such was the frame of my mind when I entered the little boudoir
where once before I had ventured on a similar errand.
As I closed the sash-door behind me, the gray dawn of breaking day scarcely
permitted my seeing anything around me, and I felt my way towards the door
of an adjoining room, where I supposed it was likely I should find the
senhora. As I proceeded thus, with cautious step and beating heart, I
thought I heard a sound near me. I stopped and listened, and was about
again to move on, when a half-stifled sob fell upon my ear. Slowly and
silently guiding my steps towards the sounds, I reached a sofa, when, my
eyes growing by degrees more accustomed to the faint light, I could detect
a figure which, at a glance, I recognized as Donna Inez. A cashmere shawl
was loosely thrown around her, and her face was buried in her hands. As she
lay, to all seeming, still and insensible before me, her beautiful hair
fell heavily upon her back and across her arm, and her whole attitude
denoted the very abandonment of grief. A short convulsive shudder which
slightly shook her frame alone gave evidence of life, except when a sob,
barely audible in the death-like silence, escaped her.
I knelt silently down beside her, and gently withdrawing her hand, placed
it within mine. A dreadful feeling of self-condemnation shot through me as
I felt the gentle pressure of her taper fingers, which rested without a
struggle in my grasp. My tears fell hot and fast upon that pale hand, as
I bent in sadness over it, unable to utter a word. A rush of conflicting
thoughts passed through my brain, and I knew not what to do. I now had no
doubt upon my mind that she loved me, and that her present affliction was
caused by my approaching departure.
“Dearest Inez!” I stammered out at length, as I pressed her hands to my
lips,--“dearest Inez!”--a faint sob, and a slight pressure of her hand, was
the only reply. “I have come to say good-by,” continued I, gaining a little
courage as I spoke; “a long good-by, too, in all likelihood. You have heard
that we are ordered away,--there, don’t sob, dearest, and, believe me, I
had wished ere we parted to have spoken to you calmly and openly; but,
alas, I cannot,--I scarcely know what I say.”
“You will not forget me?” said she, in a low voice, that sank into my very
heart. “You will not forget me?” As she spoke, her hand dropped heavily
upon my shoulder, and her rich luxuriant hair fell upon my cheek. What a
devil of a thing is proximity to a downy cheek and a black eyelash, more
especially when they belong to one whom you are disposed to believe not
indifferent to you! What I did at this precise moment there is no necessity
for recording, even had not an adage interdicted such confessions, nor can
I now remember what I said; but I can well recollect how, gradually warming
with my subject, I entered into a kind of half-declaration of attachment,
intended most honestly to be a mere _exposé_ of my own unworthiness to win
her favor, and my resolution to leave Lisbon and its neighborhood forever.
Let not any one blame me rashly if he has not experienced the difficulty of
my position. The impetus of love-making is like the ardor of a fox-hunt.
You care little that the six-bar gate before you is the boundary of another
gentleman’s preserves or the fence of his pleasure-ground. You go slap
along at a smashing-pace, with your head up, and your hand low, clearing
all before you, the opposing difficulties to your progress giving half
the zest, because all the danger to your career. So it is with love; the
gambling spirit urges one ever onward, and the chance of failure is a
reason for pursuit, where no other argument exists.
“And you do love me?” said the senhora, with a soft, low whisper that most
unaccountably suggested anything but comfort to me.
“Love you, Inez? By this kiss--I’m in an infernal scrape!” said I,
muttering this last half of my sentence to myself.
“And you’ll never be jealous again?”
“Never, by all that’s lovely!--your own sweet lips. That’s the very last
thing to reproach me with.”
“And you promise me not to mind that foolish boy? For, after all, you know,
it was mere flirtation,--if even that.”
“I’ll never think of him again,” said I, while my brain was burning to make
out her meaning. “But, dearest, there goes the trumpet-call--”
“And, as for Pedro Mascarenhas, I never liked him.”
“Are you quite sure, Inez?”
“I swear it!--so no more of him. Gonzales Cordenza--I’ve broke with him
long since. So that you see, dearest Frederic--”
“Frederic!” said I, starting almost to my feet with, amazement, while she
continued:--
“I’m your own,--all your own!”
“Oh, the coquette, the heartless jilt!” groaned I, half-aloud.
“And O’Malley, Inez, poor Charley!--what of him?”
“Poor thing! I can’t help him. But he’s such a puppy, the lesson may do him
good.”
“But perhaps he loved you, Inez?”
“To be sure he did; I wished him to do so,--I can’t bear not to be loved.
But, Frederic, tell me, may I trust you,--will you keep faithful to me?”
“Sweetest Inez! by this last kiss I swear that such as I kneel before you
now, you’ll ever find me.”
A foot upon the gravel-walk without now called me to my feet; I sprang
towards the door, and before Inez had lifted her head from the sofa, I had
reached the garden. A figure muffled in a cavalry cloak passed near me, but
without noticing me, and the next moment I had cleared the paling, and was
hurrying towards the stable, where I had ordered Mike to be in waiting.
The faint streak of dull pink which announces the coming day stretched
beneath the dark clouds of the night, and the chill air of the morning was
already stirring in the leaves.
As I passed along by a low beech hedge which skirted the avenue, I was
struck by the sound of voices near me. I stopped to listen, and soon
detected in one of the speakers my friend Mickey Free; of the other I was
not long in ignorance.
“Love you, is it, bathershin? It’s worship you, adore you, my
darling,--that’s the word! There, acushla, don’t cry; dry your eyes--Oh,
murther, it’s a cruel thing to tear one’s self away from the best of
living, with the run of the house in drink and kissing! Bad luck to it for
campaigning, any way, I never liked it!”
Catrina’s reply,--for it was she,--I could not gather; but Mike resumed:--
“Ay, just so, sore bones and wet grass, _accadenté_, and half-rations. Oh,
that I ever saw the day when I took to it! Listen to me now, honey; here it
is, on my knees I am before you, and throth it’s not more nor three, may be
four, young women I’d say the like to; bad scran to me if I wouldn’t marry
you out of a face this blessed morning just as soon as I’d look at ye.
Arrah, there now, don’t be screeching and bawling; what’ll the neighbors
think of us, and my own heart’s destroyed with grief entirely.”
Poor Catrina’s voice returned an inaudible answer, and not wishing any
longer to play the eavesdropper, I continued my path towards the stable.
The distant noises from the city announced a state of movement and
preparation, and more than one orderly passed the road near me at a gallop.
As I turned into the wide courtyard, Mike, breathless and flurried with
running, overtook me.
“Are the horses ready, Mike?” said I; “we must start this instant?”
“They’ve just finished a peck of oats apiece, and faix, that same may be a
stranger to them this day six months.”
“And the baggage, too?”
“On the cars, with the staff and the light brigade. It was down there I was
now, to see all was right.”
“Oh, I’m quite aware; and now bring out the cattle. I hope Catrina received
your little consolations well. That seems a very sad affair.”
“Murder, real murder, devil a less! It’s no matter where you go, from
Clonmel to Chayney, it’s all one; they’ve a way of getting round you. Upon
my soul, it’s like the pigs they are.”
“Like pigs, Mike? That appears a strange compliment you’ve selected to pay
them.”
“Ay, just like the pigs, no less. May be you’ve heard what happened to
myself up at Moronha?”
“Look to that girth there. Well, go on.”
“I was coming along one morning, just as day was beginning to break, when I
sees a slip of a pig trotting before me, with nobody near him; but as the
road was lonely, and myself rather down in heart, I thought, Musha! but yer
fine company, anyhow, av a body could only keep you with him. But, ye see,
a pig--saving your presence--is a baste not easily flattered, so I didn’t
waste time and blarney upon him, but I took off my belt, and put it round
its neck as neat as need be; but, as the devil’s luck would have it, I
didn’t go half an hour when a horse came galloping up behind me. I turned
round, and, by the blessed light, it was Sir Dinny himself was on it!”
“Sir Dennis Pack?”
“Yes, bad luck to his hook nose. ‘What are you doing there, my fine
fellow?’ says he. ‘What’s that you have dragging there behind you?’
“‘A boneen, sir,’ says I. ‘Isn’t he a fine crayture?--av he wasn’t so
troublesome.’
“‘Troublesome, troublesome--what do you mean?’
“‘Just so,’ says I. ‘Isn’t he parsecutiug the life out of me the whole
morning, following me about everywhere I go? Contrary bastes they always
was.’
“‘I advise you to try and part company, my friend, notwithstanding,’ says
he; ‘or may be it’s the same end you’ll be coming to, and not long either.’
And faix, I took his advice; and ye see, Mister Charles, it’s just as I was
saying, they’re like the women, the least thing in life is enough to bring
them after us, _av ye only put the ‘comether’_ upon them.”
“And now adieu to the Villa Nuova,” said I, as I rode slowly down the
avenue, turning ever and anon in my saddle to look back on each well-known
spot.
A heavy sigh from Mike responded to my words.
“A long, a last farewell!” said I, waving my hand towards the trellised
walls, now half-hidden by the trees; and, as I spoke, that heaviness of the
heart came over me that seems inseparable from leave-taking. The hour of
parting seems like a warning to us that all our enjoyments and pleasures
here are destined to a short and merely fleeting existence; and as each
scene of life passes away never to return, we are made to feel that youth
and hope are passing with them; and that, although the fair world be as
bright, and its pleasures as rich in abundance, our capacity of enjoyment
is daily, hourly diminishing; and while all around us smiles in beauty and
happiness, that we, alas! are not what we were.
Such was the tenor of my thoughts as I reached the road, when they were
suddenly interrupted by my man Mike, whose meditations were following
a somewhat similar channel, though at last inclining to different
conclusions. He coughed a couple of times as if to attract my attention,
and then, as it were half thinking aloud, he muttered,--
“I wonder if we treated the young ladies well, anyhow, Mister Charles, for,
faix, I’ve my doubts on it.”