THE PLEASURE OF RETALIATING HUMILIATION.--CONSTANCE’S DEFENCE
OF FASHION.--REMARKS ON FASHION.--GODOLPHIN’S WHEREABOUT.--FANNY
MILLINGER’S CHARACTER OF HERSELF.--WANT OF COURAGE IN MORALISTS.
It was a proud moment for Constance when the Duchess of Winstoun and
Lady Margaret Midgecombe wrote to her, worried her, beset her, for a
smile, a courtesy, an invitation, or a ticket to Almack’s.
They had at first thought to cry her down; to declare that she was
plebeian, mad, bizarre, and a blue. It was all in vain. Constance rose
every hour. They struggled against the conviction, but it would not do.
The first person who confounded them with a sense of their error was the
late King, then Regent; he devoted himself to Lady Erpingham for a whole
evening, at a ball given by himself. From that hour they were assured
they had been wrong: they accordingly called on her the next day.
Constance received them with the same coldness she had always evinced;
but they went away declaring they never saw any one whose manners were
so improved. They then sent her an invitation! she refused it; a second!
she refused; a third, begging her to fix the day!!! she fixed the day,
and disappointed them. Lord bless us!--how sorry they were, how alarmed,
how terrified!--their dear Lady Erpingham must be ill!--they sent every
day for the next week to know how she was!
“Why,” said Mrs. Trevor to Lady Erpingham,--“why do you continue so
cruel to these poor people? I know they were very impertinent, and so
forth, once; but it is surely wiser and more dignified now to forgive;
to appear unconscious of the past: people of the world ought not to
quarrel with each other.”
“You are right, and yet you are mistaken,” said Constance: “I do
forgive, and I don’t quarrel; but my opinion, my contempt, remain the
same, or are rather more disdainful than ever. These people are not
worth losing the luxury we all experience in expressing contempt. I
continue, therefore, but quietly and without affectation, to indulge
that luxury. Besides, I own to you, my dear Mrs. Trevor, I do think that
the mere insolence of titles must fairly and thoroughly be put down, if
we sincerely wish to render society agreeable; and where can we find a
better example for punishment than the Duchess of Winstoun?”
“But, my dear Lady Erpingham, you are thought insolent: your friend,
Lady ----, is called insolent, too;--are you sure the charge is not
merited?”
“I allow the justice of the charge; but you will observe, ours is
not the insolence of rank: we have made it a point to protect, to the
utmost, the poor and unfriended of all circles. Are we ever rude to
governesses or companions, or poor writers, or musicians? When a man
marries below him, do we turn our backs on the poor wife? Do we not, on
the contrary, lavish our attention on her, and throw round her equivocal
and joyless state the protection of Fashion? No, no! _our_ insolence is
Justice! it is the chalice returned to the lips which prepared it; it is
insolence to the insolent; reflect, and you will allow it.”
The fashion that Constance set and fostered was of a generous order;
but it was not suited to the majority; it was corrupted by her followers
into a thousand basenesses. In vain do we make a law, if the general
spirit is averse to the law. Constance could humble the great; could
loosen the links of extrinsic rank; could undermine the power of titles;
but that was all! She could abase the proud, but not elevate the general
tone: for one slavery she only substituted another,--people hugged the
chains of Fashion, as before they hugged those of Titular Arrogance.
Amidst the gossip of the day Constance heard much of Godolphin, and all
spoke of him with interest--even those who could not comprehend his very
intricate and peculiar character. Separated from her by lands and seas,
there seemed no danger in allowing herself the sweet pleasure of hearing
his actions and his mind discussed. She fancied she did not permit
herself to _love_ him; she was too pure not to start at such an idea;
but her mind was not so regulated, so trained and educated in sacred
principle, that she forbade herself the luxury to _remember._ Of his
present mode of life she heard little. He was traced from city to city;
from shore to shore; from the haughty noblesse of Vienna to the gloomy
shrines of Memphis, by occasional report, and seemed to tarry long in no
place. This roving and unsettled life, which secretly assured her of her
power, suffused his image in all tender and remorseful dyes. Ah! where
is that one person to been vied, could we read the heart?
The actress had heard incidentally from Saville of Godolphin’s
attachment to the beautiful countess. She longed to see her; and when,
one night at the theatre, she was informed that Lady Erpingham was in
the Lord Chamberlain’s box close before her, she could scarcely command
her self-possession sufficiently to perform with her wonted brilliancy
of effect.
She was greatly struck by the singular nobleness of Lady Erpingham’s
face and person: and Godolphin rose in her estimation, from the justice
of the homage he had rendered to so fair a shrine. What a curious trait,
by the by, that is in women;--their exaggerated anxiety to see one who
has been loved by the man in whom they themselves take interest: and the
manner which the said man rises or falls in their estimation, according
as they admire, or are disappointed in, the object of his love.
“And so,” said Saville, supping one night with the actress, “you think
the world does not overlaud Lady Erpingham?”
“No: she is what Medea would have been, if innocent--full of majesty,
and yet of sweetness. It is the face of a queen of some three thousand
years back. I could have worshipped her.”
“My little Fanny, you are a strange creature. Methinks you have a dash
of poetry in you.”
“Nobody who has not written poetry could ever read my character,”
answered Fanny, with naivete, yet with truth. “Yet you have not much of
the ideal about you, pretty one.”
“No; because I was so early thrown on myself, that I was forced to make
independence my chief good. I soon saw that if I followed my heart
to and fro, wherever it led me, I should be the creature of every
breath--the victim of every accident: I should have been the very soul
of romance; lived on a smile; and died, perhaps, in a ditch at last.
Accordingly, I set to work with my feelings, and pared and cut them down
to a convenient compass. Happy for me that I did so! What would have
become of me if, years go, when I loved Godolphin, I had thrown the
whole world of my heart upon him?”
“Why, he has generosity; he would not have deserted you.”
“But I should have wearied him,” answered Fanny; “and that would have
been quite enough for me. But I did love him well, and purely--(ah! you
may smile!)--and disinterestedly. I was only fortified in my resolution
not to love any one too much, by perceiving that he had _affection_ but
no _sympathy_ for me. His nature was different from mine. I am _woman_
in everything, and Godolphin is always sighing for a _goddess!_”
“I should like to sketch your character, Fanny. It is original, though
not strongly marked. I never met with it in any book; yet it is true to
your sex, and to the world.”
“Few people could paint me exactly,” answered Fanny. “The danger is
that they would make too much or too little of me. But such as I am,
the world ought to know what is so common, and, as you think, so
undescribed.”
And now, beautiful Constance, farewell for the present! I leave you
surrounded by power, and pomp, and adulation. Enjoy as you may that for
which you sacrificed affection!