THE POETESS IN LONDON.
Quid enim dulcius libero et ingenuo animo et ad voluptates honestas
nato quam videre plenam semper et frequentem domum suam concursu
splendidissimorum hominum?
TACITUS.--_De Oratoribus._
Le mariage se propose la vie, tandis que l'amour ne se propose que le
plaisir.
BALZAC.--_Mémoires de Deux Jeunes Mariées._
While they are driving to Cadogan-place, let us cast a retrospective
glance at the fortunes of the authoress of _Gleams and Glooms_, to
whose soirée they are wending.
Hester Mason had achieved a part of her ambition: she held a salon in
London. How she contrived and maintained that, would take long to
narrate in detail, as it was only by steady perseverance and
admirable ingenuity she succeeded. On first eloping with Sir
Chetsom, she had the tact never once to mention a settlement; indeed
when he, in a moment of tenderness, alluded to the subject, she
playfully put her hand upon his mouth and said,--"Oh, don't begin to
talk of money, or I shall think you have _bought_ me. You are not
going to leave me, are you?"
"Leave you, Hester?"
"Yes, leave me. It looks like it. I am poor I know; but rich in
_your love_. Make me independent, and you will think it no hardship
for me to be left; it is always so with men!"
A sigh followed this. Sir Chetsom was ravished; the dupe was fooled
to the top of his bent. Hester marked the effect, and from that
moment knew her power. From that moment he denied her nothing. The
time would come, she foresaw, when he would be completely her slave,
and that was the time to make conditions.
Meanwhile, she impressed him with the notion of the necessity for
their _liaison_ being hidden from the world. If people did not
respect her, they would not envy him. If she were not something more
than his mistress, he would be not better than the common herd of men
who have their "follies." Appearances should be preserved for all
sakes. Sir Chetsom admitted the truth of this, reserving to himself
the privilege of disclosing his secret at the club, by intelligible
hints and half-confidences.
He had given her a house; he had brought there the nucleus of a
literary and artistic society. Hester received every Wednesday
evening, and as her parties had a certain piquancy, they were well
attended. The great difficulty was to get women. That is always the
stumbling-block of an equivocal position. Men are willing enough to
go anywhere, if they are amused, and to ask no questions, or at least
to affect no prudery. With women, the case is wholly different.
Accordingly, with what untiring perseverance do women in equivocal
positions manœuvre to obtain the presence of virtuous women at
their houses! How they pet them, how full of delicate attentions and
substantial kindness! What cajoleries, what adroit insinuations,
what flattering prospects they set forth to dazzle their "dear
friends"! What twaddle they will listen to for hours, with the
eagerness of curious interest; what confidences accept! It is one of
the most amusing scenes in the comedy of society to witness the
grateful attentions of a woman who is not "received," to those of her
female acquaintance who shut their eyes to her real position, or are
ignorant of it. You see a pretty, lively, clever, graceful, dashing
woman of the world exerting all her coquetries to cajole some ugly,
stupid, awkward, under-bred woman whose "countenance" she wants. She
imagines that the presence of a few "modest women," no matter what
their unattractiveness, will give her salon an air _comme il faut_.
But it deceives no one. It only renders her salon a little less
agreeable.
Hester managed, as others manage, to collect a few complaisant woman,
and a man or two old enough, stupid enough, and respectable enough to
keep them in countenance; and she had a salon.
Sir Chetsom Chetsom was rich and lavish. Without asking for it,
Hester contrived to have almost everything she wished for. His
vanity, at first only tickled by the conquest, was now always alive
to the maintenance of that conquest. She made him feel that his
position was insecure: it was done delicately, but it was done. To
the dread of being left by her in favour of another, was soon added
the dread of losing her for her own sake. He had become accustomed
to her. She amused him, occupied him, captivated him. When she
pouted, he was in despair; when she caressed him, he was in raptures.
The old boy was alternately alarmed at her perception of the
difference in their ages, and flattered at the conviction that, in
spite of that difference, she really loved him. She was always
playing upon two themes. First theme.--Why should I waste my youth
and love upon a selfish old monster? Second theme.--How infinitely
preferable is the love of a man who has seen the world, and lost the
first illusions of youth, to the capricious tenderness of a boy!
Give those themes to a clever woman, and imagine the variations she
would play upon them!
Although Hester had achieved a part of her ambitious plans, it must
not be supposed that she was either satisfied or happy. She had
kicked the dust of Walton from her feet. She was in the capital, and
surrounded by luxury. She had a salon to which many celebrities were
visitors. But neither Sir Chetsom nor her visitors could make
_Gleams and Glooms_ popular. Not a copy was sold. Not a journal of
any standing took the least notice of it. Some exaggerated
criticisms, bristling with notes of admiration, and sonorous with
epithets of praise, did indeed appear; but they appeared in journals
of no character, and bore the evident stamp of the puff direct. She
sent a copy, with a flattering letter, to every author whose name
rose above the herd into some distinction. From the majority, she
received no acknowledgment; from a great many came letters
instantaneously acknowledging the "receipt" of the volume, but not a
word on its contents; from some few poets she received general and
vague flatteries, together with copies "from the authors" of their
last new poems. A delicate attention, expressive of this golden
rule--praise me and I'll praise you.
Having consoled herself with the conviction that the age was a
prosaic age averse to poetry, she began a novel, hoping to gain
celebrity by that.
In noting the latent causes of her dissatisfaction, I have said
nothing of Sir Chetsom. That she was not happy, while forced to act
the degrading character of mistress to such a man, will be
understood; she used him as the ladder by which to ascend the height
which beckoned in the distance; but she thoroughly despised him, and
at times despised herself.
On the Wednesday evening chosen by Frank Forrester for the
introduction of Cecil to the fair muse, Hester was looking
particularly well. A flush of animation gave a tint to her cheek,
and additional fire to her dark eyes. In her raven hair a string of
costly pearls were woven; large glittering bracelets encircled her
well-shaped arms; and a black velvet dress set off to perfection her
handsome bust, which was lavishly displayed. She was seated on the
sofa propounding some humanitarian doctrine, when the four were
announced. She rose graciously. Tom Chetsom apologized for the
liberty he had taken in bringing Mr. Chamberlayne, who was very
desirous of the honour, &c.
"Any friend of yours will always be welcome, Mr. Chetsom," she said,
smiling, "and Mr. Chamberlayne particularly so. I have often heard
his name, and always accompanied by some flattering epithet."
Cecil bowed.
Frank then presented Hudson, and Cecil noticed, that although she
also received him with a gracious smile, there was a marked
difference in her manner. Strange animals that we are! this
flattered him exceedingly.
The rooms were full; and conversation was lively in groups. It was a
curious assembly when the details were examined, and had little of
that éclat which Hester had imagined in her dreams. The men for the
most part were neither young nor aristocratic; they were--at least
some of them--not positively unknown to fame; small reputations,
current only in literary circles--scarcely heard beyond those
circles; men of talent, men of worth, men of energy and of ambition,
but scarcely at ease in society. Mixed with these were a few of Sir
Chetsom's club-men, a few harmless respectabilities, and a few--very
few women.
One of these women was requested to oblige with one of her charming
performances, and her harp was wheeled into the centre of the room.
It is one of the penalties attached to the condition of such women as
Hester, that if their dear female friends have any little
accomplishment, they must be implored to exhibit it. In any other
society, Miss Blundell would no more have been asked to perform, than
Gunter's waiters would be asked to dance. But to secure Miss
Blundell, Hester could not avoid inviting her to play. If Hester
wanted countenance, Miss Blundell wanted admiration. And it was
really comic to see the mistress of the house threading the crowd of
visitors, and entreating their attention to the fantasia with which
Miss Blundell was about to favour them.
The hubbub of conversation was almost stilled, and Miss Blundell
advanced to take possession of her harp.
"She's ugly enough for a genius," whispered Frank to Hester. Hester
put her finger on her lip to command his silence.
Frank's observation was just. Miss Blundell was not handsome. Of an
age so uncertain that it is denominated a "certain age," she wore her
black hair in a girlish crop. On a low, square, rugged forehead
sparkled a _Sévigné_. Wondering eyebrows overarched two sunken eyes;
a graceless nose and insignificant mouth did _not_ tempt an artist to
fix them on his canvass. In accordance with the juvenility of her
style, she was robed in white muslin, displaying a scraggy tawny
neck, fierce and protuberant shoulder-blades, and disreputable arms.
Certainly nothing but great skill could exonerate such ugliness.
She began by a rattling sweep over the strings, and an audacious
display of elbows. Having thus fixed attention, she paused and
sought inspiration from the ceiling. Genius always does. I know not
what mystic influence there may be in a white-washed _plafond_; but
it appears there is something of the kind, since rhymes, tropes, and
melodies are drawn therefrom. Miss Blundell found music there. A
few seconds of silent invocation brought down the muse, and she
flogged the harp into the Gustavus galop.
There are players of no feeling, and players of too much feeling.
Miss Blundell was of the latter class. She despised execution (with
some private reasons for so doing), and thought music should have a
soul. Feeling was all in all with her, and feeling she threw into
everything. Even this mad, giggling, joyous, whirling, rattling
galop was not free from her sentimental caprice. She began _con
spirito_,--
[Illustration: music fragment]
which suddenly changed, at the fourth bar, from _allegro vivace_ to
an _ad libitum rallentando_, expressive of the deepest emotion, the
player's eyes thrown upwards as if in rapt devotion. These notes,
[Illustration: music fragment]
died away in a "billowy ecstacy of woe," immediately succeeded by a
fiery _allegro_, which again subsided into a pathetic _rallentando_:
[Illustration: music fragment]
An ironical murmur of applause followed this display, and Hester
pressed her hand as she thanked, complimented, and led her back again
to the sofa.
"Was it not charming?" she asked Frank, in a tone intentionally
audible.
"Amazing!" replied he; then adding, in an under tone, "she is the
Orpheus of private life: as witness the effect she produces on the
animals here. I hope she hasn't turned the cream."'
"You are a sad man--so satirical!"
"Not I. Your friend delights me; she's original."
"Well, I am no musician myself; but I believe she is."
"Yes, as cats are musicians."
Hester laughed, and turned to Cecil; but Frank instantly recalled her
attention, by saying,--
"Do tell me who is that old buffer leaning against the mantelpiece.
Is it Miss Blundell's brother?"
"Yes."
"Of course--I knew it--he _could_ be nobody else's brother. Do study
him. He'll do for your novel. Look at him, Cis. Observe that blue
coat, is it not immeasurably, audaciously, sublimely impossible! The
short waist, the large collar, like a horse-collar, the brass
buttons, and scanty skirt! When was it made? In what dim remoteness
of the mythic ages was it conceived and executed? What primitive and
most ancient Briton first wore it? By Jove! I must ask the address
of his tailor."
"No, no, Frank, for God's sake, don't."
"Then the flaming shawl-waistcoat, the grey trousers strapped so
tightly over those big many-bunioned feet, the eye-glass, the flower
in his button-hole, the withered smiling face, the jaunty juvenility
of this most withered individual! Really, Miss Mason, you ought to
make a collection from us all, for the privilege of seeing this
unedited burlesque, this fabulous curiosity! He is a mummy
unembalmed!"
The drollery of Frank's manner was irresistible, and both Hester and
Cecil were bursting with laughter, when the unconscious object
approached them, and asked Hester whether some one else would not add
to the harmony of the evening.
"I am quite sure," he added, with a gallant bow, "that to your
numerous accomplishments you add the gift of song."
Hester excused herself.
"You look like a singer," said Frank to him with perfect gravity. "I
see it in your manner. Is it not so?"
A withered smile and feeble shake of the head was Mr. Blundell's
answer.
"Well, well, I suppose all the musical genius of the family is
centred in your charming sister. What a player! What a touch--or
rather what a pull!"
"Humph! yes, not bad."
"So much feeling! Feeling is the thing, sir. It is soul, passion,
poetry. Feeling's the chap for me! A poet, sir?"
"No."
"You look like one."
"No; I am merely a dabbler. I follow in the wake of intellectual
men. I have some humour. My friends think me a sort of 'Boz'--that
certainly is my line. But I have no pretensions."
"Have you written much?"
"A good deal. I have written for 'Blackwood.'"
"Indeed!"
"Yes; but they never printed what I sent them. I don't know why.
Perhaps, because I am not a Scotchman. They are very jealous of
English writers. Had I been a Scotchman they would have jumped at my
papers; so my friends tell me."
"The scoundrels!" said Frank; but whether he meant the Scotchmen, or
the friends, remains undecided.
"My friend Mr. Donkin, the celebrated epic poet, (the author of
'Mount Horeb,' you know,) thought my papers very funny, very; but
'Blackwood' actually rejected some poems of his, as well as a
'Dissertation on the conditions of the Intellectual Epopæ.' Do you
write, sir?"
"Yes; letters."
Blundell was puzzled. He could not from Frank's manner detect
whether this was a _naïveté_ or a sarcasm.
"A very literary employment too," said Cecil, "according to the
landlady of one of my friends. He was looking at apartments in
Brighton, and before concluding, he asked his landlady whether she
had other lodgers?
"'Only one gentleman, sir,' she said, 'rather an eccentric gentleman.
I suppose you know him, sir, it's Mr. Shakspeare.'
"'I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. Shakspeare.'
"'Don't you, sir? _He's the great writer!_'
"'Ah, the great writer!'
"'Yes; but lor, sir, _writer as he is_, he has only written two
letters all the time he has been in my house!'
Blundell laughed feebly, though a funny man--a sort of "Boz" his
friends told him; he did not see the joke, but laughed because the
others laughed.
At this moment Sir Chetsom Chetsom was announced. "How late you
are!" said Hester, reproachfully; but she paid him no attention
during the rest of the evening, and his manner to her was eminently
respectful.
Cecil was amused. He conversed with some clever men, and was
flattered by his own success; he was a really good talker, often
brilliant, always amusing. Hester took a great fancy to him, and
engaged him in several discussions on rather perilous topics for a
young man and a young woman to discuss. In them Cecil felt uneasy.
He was not on equal ground in talking to a young woman, and although
she piqued him to continue, he felt himself at a disadvantage.
"You forget," he said at last, in the midst of an argument on
marriage, "that I am a married man, and therefore cannot espouse your
view."
"Truly, but why can you not? Because the present odious law of
marriage is all in favour of the men."
"I demur to that."
"Men make the laws, and make them for their own advantage. Think of
the gross injustice! Women must not only be rigorously pure, but
must even be kept in ignorance as complete as watchfulness will admit
of; but a man may have had a hundred low amours, and no father
refuses to give him a daughter. Purity, which is supposed to be
woman's greatest virtue, is never thought of in a man. Why should
not a girl demand that her lover be as pure as herself? Why should
woman be hopelessly disgraced for that which in a man is venial? I
know what you will say; but I repeat that marriage is an unholy
institution. Think of the suicides committed by women who have been
seduced; did you ever hear of the seducer shooting himself? Think of
the wretched wives who have died broken-hearted, of the outcasts of
society--outcasts for that which disgraces no man. What is it all
owing to? the law of marriage! Beside the fearful crimes and
desperate acts which the law of marriage causes, look at the
thousands of young, healthy, affectionate girls, who wither in
unblessed virginity, who never know the joys of maternity. And mark
the glorious inconsistency of men: you keep us ignorant, you keep us
from equal privileges, you shut us from the world of action, and your
sole argument for it is, that nature has unfitted us for it; that we
are inferior creatures, whose organization is specially adapted to
the bearing, rearing, and nursing of children; yet this, for which
alone we were created, your barbarous law of marriage denies to a
frightful number; wretched girls who wither in the hope of finding
husbands."
"That the law of marriage," answered Cecil, "transmutes a desire into
a crime is very true. But the law of property is open to the same
objection. A man covets your money or your plate; the law of
property forces him either to break into your house, perhaps to
murder you, or to restrain his desires. But because men are hanged
for murder, no one really wishes to abolish the law of property;
because men are transported and imprisoned for frauds and felonies,
it is no argument against a law of property."
"That I admit."
"Then surely you must admit, that although the law of marriage may
punish those who infringe its precepts, it is not therefore to be
abolished."
"No; but there is this difference: the principles of justice and
moral education may control the desire of despoiling or defrauding
another of his property, but human passion owns no such stern
control. Love is beyond volition. The husband cannot will to love
his wife, the wife cannot will not to love another. Reason is
powerless against the passion, because the woman loves before she is
aware of it. She does not see the danger till she is enveloped in
it. Marriage is indissoluble, but passion is capricious. It is
foolish, impious, for a human being to swear that he will love
another eternally. Passion in its intensity always believes in its
eternity. But who can answer for the continuance of love? Who can
say, I will not change? Because we foresee no change, are we to shut
our eyes to the experience of ages: to our own experience even, which
tells too plainly of the mutability of passion? Yet marriage is
indissoluble!"
"And rightly so," said Cecil, "for this one reason--whatever is
inevitable soon ceases to be a hardship; the very power which human
beings have of adapting themselves to almost any condition, makes
them accept their fate with tranquillity, provided that fate be
certain and unequivocal. Passion is, as you say, mutable,
capricious. But in the generality of cases, the mere consciousness
of the indissolubility of the marriage tie acts as a check upon the
roving fancy."
Hester shook her head.
"This much I will grant," continued Cecil, "that as a matter of
sentiment, as a mere question of love, I think you are in the main
correct; but as a matter of practical civilization, as a civil
institution which regards the whole framework of society, I think
you--pardon me--altogether wrong."
The clock on the mantelpiece struck one as he said this, and its
sharp, thin note struck like ice upon his heart, as he remembered
that his beloved Blanche was sitting up awaiting him, and had been
since ten o'clock. He took a hasty leave of Hester, promising to
renew the conversation some other evening, and, with a whisper to
Frank, withdrew.
Hester saw him depart, with a vague feeling of regret. To understand
this, we must not only recall the sudden friendship all have known
sometimes to spring up in one evening's intercourse, but we must also
consider Hester's peculiar position. She was then just recovering
from the shock her illusions had sustained with reference to men of
genius. In her provincial and poetical ignorance, she had imagined
that every man of remarkable powers must be captivating in
appearance. Apollo in the shape of Vulcan was a monstrosity which
had never distorted her dreams. I do not mean that she supposed
every distinguished poet, novelist, or critic was as handsome as a
guardsman. She was prepared for daring oddities of appearance; and
was more likely to be captivated by the "flashing eyes and floating
hair," by the wild irregularities of an inspired face, than by the
lineal correctness of a beauty man. But she was prepared to find
singularity and youth: a striking appearance joined to all the ardour
and impetuosity of youth. In both was she deceived. The men she saw
were for the most part undistinguishable in appearance from the rest
of the world, and when distinguishable, not picturesquely so. Above
all, they were not young.
It is rather curious at first, to one unfamiliar with the artistic
world, to see how little youth is to be met with amongst the
celebrities. Our young poets are middle-aged men; our rising authors
are bald; our distinguished painters are passing into the "sere and
yellow leaf;" our _very_ "young Englanders" are getting gray and
pursy.
The truth is, life is short and art is long; and although a
privileged man does sometimes in the ardour of youth reach the summit
of reputation by a bound, either from the prodigal richness of his
genius, or from having hit the favour of the movement, yet, as a
general rule, celebrity is slowly gained, and not without many years
of toilsome effort. Mastery requires immense labour. Before the
proper power over materials can be gained, the artist must have spent
enormous labour; and before that power can be exerted in any striking
way, the artist must have lived much, suffered much, and observed
much. Celebrity is not easily gained now-a-days. The lavish
abundance of talent daily, weekly, and monthly squandered upon
fugitive productions, makes it no easy matter to rise above the
ordinary level; while the multiplicity of works so far exceeds all
reading powers to keep pace with them, that, for an author to gain
more than a limited and temporary reputation, it is necessary he
should either be very lucky, or very earnest, hard-working, resolute,
and clever. But before he has attained sufficient mastery to command
respect, the gray hairs begin to show themselves. He must have made
many efforts, struck many blows, before the way is opened to him,
before the world will recognise him.
What a shock then to Hester, when she found, one after the other, all
were middle-aged men. The ardour and freshness in their works was
but the reminiscence of a youthhood which required the mastery of
manhood to mould it. The men she had admired, of whom she had made
idols, when she saw them as they were, with deep-lined faces, thin
hair, deficient teeth, and all the signs of premature middle age,
created a feeling of disappointment almost amounting to disgust. She
forgot that in straining their voices to be heard above the crowd,
they had grown husky by the time they had succeeded.
Cecil was the first young handsome man whom she had seen, and who,
although not yet known to fame, had a sort of drawing-room
reputation; she was charmed with him; his wit, vivacity, gentlemanly
manner, and handsome countenance, were all calculated to make a deep
impression upon her. Without acknowledging to herself the interest
she felt in him, she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon what he had
said, and how he had looked, rather more than was safe for her peace
of mind.