IN WHICH TWO PERSONS, PERMANENTLY UNITED, DISCOVER THAT NO TIE CAN
PRODUCE UNION OF MINDS.
Weeks passed on, and, apparently, Godolphin had reconciled himself to
the disappearance and precarious destiny of Lucilla. It was not in his
calm and brooding nature to show much of emotion; but there was often,
even in the presence of Constance, a cloud on his brow, and the fits
of abstraction to which he had always been accustomed grew upon him more
frequently than ever. Constance had been inured for years to the most
assiduous, the most devoted attentions; and now, living much alone with
Godolphin, she began somewhat to miss them; for Godolphin could be a
passionate, a romantic, but he could not be a very watchful lover. He
had no petits soins. Few husbands have, it is true; nor is it necessary
for husbands in general. But Constance was not an ordinary woman; she
loved deeply, but she loved according to her nature--as a woman proud
and exacting must love. For Godolphin, her haughty step waxed timorous
and vigilant; she always sprang forward the first to meet him on his
return from his solitary ramblings, and he smiled upon her with his
wonted gentleness but not so gratefully, thought Constance, as he ought.
In truth, he had been too much accustomed to the eager love of Lucilla,
to feel greatly surprised at any proof of tenderness from Constance.
Thus, too proud to speak--to hint a complaint, Constance was
nevertheless perpetually wounded, and by degrees (although not loving
her husband less) she taught that love to be more concealed. Oh,
that accursed secretiveness in women, which makes them always belie
themselves!
Godolphin, too, was not without his disappointments. There was something
so bright, so purely intellectual about Constance’s character, that at
times, when brought into constant intercourse with her, you longed for
some human weakness--some wild, warm error on which to repose. Dazzling
and fair as snow, like snow your eye ached to gaze upon her. She had,
during the years of her ungenial marriage, cultivated her mind to
the utmost; few women were so accomplished--it might be learned; her
conversation flowed for ever in the same bright, flowery, adorned
stream. There were times when Godolphin recollected how hard it is
to read a volume of that Gibbon who in a page is so delightful. Her
affection for him was intense, high, devoted; but it was wholly of the
same intellectual spiritualised order; it seemed to Godolphin to want
human warmth and fondness. In fact, there never was a woman who, both by
original nature and after habits, was so purely and abstractedly “mind”
as was Constance; there was not a single trait or taste in her
character that a sensualist could have sneered at. Her heart was wholly
Godolphin’s; her mind was generous, sympathising, lofty; her person
unrivalled in the majesty of its loveliness; all these, too, were
Godolphin’s, and yet the eternal something was wanting still.
“I have brought you your hat, Percy,” said Constance; “you forget the
dews are falling fast, and your head is uncovered.”
“Thank you,” said Percy, gently; yet Constance thought the tone might
have been warmer. “How beautiful is this hour! Look yonder, the sun’s
rays still upon those immortal hills--that lone grey tower amongst the
far plains--the pines around--hearken to their sighing! These are indeed
the scenes of the Dryad and the Faun. These are scenes where we could
melt our whole nature down to love: Nature never meant us for the stern
and arid destinies we fulfil. Look round, Constance, in every leaf of
her gorgeous book, how glowingly is written the one sentence, ‘Love and
be happy!’ You answer not; to these thoughts you are cold.”
“They breathe too much of the Epicurean and his rose-leaves for me,”
answered Constance, smilingly. “I love better that stern old tower,
telling of glorious strife and great deeds, than all the softer
landscape, on which the present debasement of the south seems written.”
“You and your English,” said Godolphin, somewhat bitterly, “prate of the
debasement of my poor Italians in a jargon that I confess almost enrages
me. (Constance coloured and bit her lip.) Debasement! why debasement?
They enjoy themselves: they take from life its just moral; they do not
affect the more violent crimes; they feel their mortality, follow
its common ends, are frivolous, contented, and die! Well; this is
debasement. Be it so. But for what would you exchange it? The hard,
cold, ferocious guilt of ancient Rome; the detestable hypocrisy, the
secret villiany, fraud, murder, that stamped republican Venice? The
days of glory that you lament are the days of the darkest guilt; and man
shudders when he reads what the fair moralisers over the soft and idle
Italy sigh to recall!”
“You are severe,” said Constance, with a pained voice. “Forgive me,
dearest; but you are often severe on my feelings.”
Constance was silent; the magic of the sunset was gone; they walked back
to the house, thoughtful, and somewhat cooled towards each other.
Another day, on which the rain forbade them to stir from home,
Godolphin, after he had remained long silent and meditating, said to
Constance, who was busy writing letters to her political friends, in
which, avoiding Italy and love, the scheming countess dwelt only on busy
England and its eternal politics:
“Will you read to me, dear Constance? my spirits are sad to-day; the
weather affects them.”
Constance laid aside her letters, and took up one of the many books that
strewed the table: it was a volume of one of our most popular poets.
“I hate poetry,” said Godolphin, languidly.
“Here is Machiavel’s history of the Prince of Lucca,” said Constance,
quickly.
“Ah, read that, and see how odious is ambition,” returned Godolphin.
And Constance read, but she warmed at what Godolphin’s lip curled
with disdain. The sentiments, however, drew him from his apathy; and
presently, with the eloquence he could command when once excited,
he poured forth the doctrines of his peculiar philosophy. Constance
listened, delighted and absorbed; she did not sympathise with the
thought, but she was struck with the genius which clothed it. “Ah!” said
she, with enthusiasm, “why should those brilliant words be thus spoken
and lost for ever? Why not stamp them on the living page, or why not
invest them in the oratory that would render you illustrious and them
immortal?”
“Excellent!” said Godolphin laughing; “the House of Commons would
sympathise with philosophy warmly!”
Yet Constance was right on the whole. But the curse of a life of
pleasure is its aversion to useful activity. Talk of the genius that
lies crushed and obscure in poverty! Wealth and station have also their
mute Miltons and inglorious Hampdens.
Alas! how much of deep and true wisdom do we meet among the triflers of
the world! How much that in the stern middle walks of life would have
obtained renown, in the withering and relaxed air of loftier ranks dies
away unheeded! The two extremes meet in this,--the destruction of mental
gifts.