cried she, turning scarlet and tossing her fair head into the air like a
startled stag, and she drew her hand away quickly and decidedly, though
not roughly. He stammered a lowly apology. In the very middle of it she
said, softly, ‘Good-by, Mr. Hardie,’ and swept with a gracious little
courtesy through the door-way, leaving him spell-bound.
“And so the virginal instinct of self-defence carried her off swiftly and
cleverly. But none too soon; for, on entering the house, that external
composure her two mothers, Mesdames Dodd and Nature, had taught her, fell
from her like a veil, and she fluttered up the stairs to her own room
with hot cheeks, and panted there like some wild thing that has been
grasped at and grazed. She felt young Hardie’s lips upon the palm of her
hand plainly; they seemed to linger there still,—it was like light but
live velvet. This and the ardent look he had poured into her eyes set
the young creature quivering. Nobody had looked at her so before, and no
young gentleman had imprinted living velvet on her hand. She was alarmed,
ashamed, and uneasy. What right had he to look at her like that? What
shadow of a right to go and kiss her hand? He could not pretend to think
she had put it out to be kissed; ladies put forth the back of the hand
for that, not the palm. The truth was, he was an impudent fellow, and she
hated him now, and herself too, for being so simple as to let him talk to
her. Mamma would not have been so imprudent when she was a girl.
“She would not go down, for she felt there must be something of this kind
legibly branded on her face: ‘Oh! oh! just look at this young lady! She
has been letting a young gentleman kiss the palm of her hand, and the
feel has not gone off yet; you may see that by her cheeks.’”
“_Jan. 14th._ A sorrowful day. He and I parted, after a fortnight of the
tenderest affection, and that mutual respect without which neither of
_us_, I think, could love long. I had resolved to be very brave; but we
were alone, and his bright face looked so sad; the change in it took me
by surprise, and my resolution failed: I clung to him. If gentlemen could
interpret as we can, he would never have left me. It is better as it
is. He kissed my tears away as fast as they came; it was the first time
he had ever kissed more than my hand,—so I shall have that to think of,
and his dear, promised letters; but it made me cry more at the time, of
course. Some day, when we have been married years and years, I shall tell
him not to go and pay a lady for every tear, if he wants her to leave
off.” [Julia’s Diary.]
“‘Oh, how good you are! oh, how I love you!’
“And she flung a tender arm round his neck, like a young goddess making
love; and her sweet face came so near his he had only to stoop a little,
and their lips met in a long, blissful kiss.
“That kiss was an era in her life. Innocence itself, she had put up her
delicious lips to her lover in pure, though earnest, affection; but the
male fire with which his met them made her blush as well as thrill, and
she drew back a little, abashed and half scared, and nestled on his
shoulder, hiding a face that grew redder and redder.”
* * * * *
Burton, in his “Anatomy of Melancholy,” notices those irritating
coquettes, Aretine’s Lucretia, and Philinna, in Lucian, the former of
whom boasted that she had a suitor who loved her dearly, but the more
eagerly he wooed the more she seemed to neglect and to scorn him, and
what she commonly accorded to others—freedom in social intercourse, even
to the extent of osculation—she refused to him; while the latter, in the
presence of her sweetheart Diphilus, kissed Lamprius, his co-rival, in
order to whet the jealousy of the favorite. Our modern novelists give
very little space to character and conduct of this sort, but in the way
of provokingly cool indifference in the sterner sex to the charms and
fascinations of the fair, we find such instances as this, which occurs
in Mühlbach’s “Joseph the Second and his Court,” in an interview between
Kaunitz, the prime minister, and La Foliazzi:
“‘_Vraiment_, you are very presuming to suppose that I shall trouble
myself to come in the carriage’ replied Kaunitz, contemptuously. ‘It is
enough that, the coach being there, the world will suppose that I am
there also. A man of fashion must have the name of possessing a mistress;
but a statesman cannot waste his valuable time on women. You are my
mistress, _ostensibly_, and therefore I give you a year’s salary of four
thousand guilders.’
“‘You are an angel—a god!’ cried La Foliazzi, this time with genuine
rapture. ‘You come upon one like Jupiter, in a shower of gold.’
“‘Yes, but I have no wish to fall into the embraces of my Danaë. Now,
hear my last words. If you ever dare let it transpire that you are not
really my mistress, I shall punish you severely. I will not only stop
your salary, but I will cite you before the committee of morals, and you
shall be forced into a marriage with somebody.’
“The singer shuddered and drew back. ‘Let me go at once into my boudoir.
Is my breakfast ready?’
“‘No; your morning visits there begin to-morrow. Now go home to Count
Palffy, and do not forget our contract.’
“‘I shall not forget it, prince,’ replied the signora, smiling. ‘I await
your coach this evening. You may kiss me if you choose.’ She bent her
head to his and held out her delicate cheek, fresh as a rose.
“‘Simpleton,’ said he, slightly tapping her beautiful mouth, ‘do you
suppose that the great Kaunitz would kiss any lips but those which, like
the sensitive mimosa, shrink from the touch of man? Go away. Count Palffy
will feel honored to reap the kisses I have left.’
“He gave her his hand, and looked after her, as with light and graceful
carriage she left the room.”
* * * * *
Sir Walter Scott, in his “Rob Roy,” tells us how Frank Osbaldistone, in
a moment of confusion and hesitancy, failed to return the half-proffered
embrace of Diana Vernon, as she took leave of him on her way to the
seclusion of conventual life, and how his absence of mind cost him many
a bitter pang afterwards. It reminds one of Michael Angelo, who, at
sixty, was enamored of a beautiful widow who died. The great painter and
sculptor ever afterwards repented that he had not kissed her forehead
and cheeks, as well as her hand, at the hour of parting:
“Miss Vernon had in the mean time taken out a small case, and, leaning
down from her horse towards me, she said, in a tone in which an effort at
her usual quaint lightness of expression contended with a deeper and more
grave tone of sentiment, ‘You see, my dear coz, I was born to be your
better angel. Rashleigh has been compelled to yield up his spoil, and
had we reached this same village of Aberfoil last night, as we purposed,
I should have found some Highland sylph to waft to you all these
representatives of commercial wealth. But there were giants and dragons
in the way; and errant knights and damsels of modern times, bold though
they be, must not, as of yore, run into useless danger. Do not you do so
either, my dear coz.’
“‘Diana,’ said her companion, ‘let me once more warn you that the evening
waxes late, and we are still distant from our home.’
“‘I am coming, sir, I am coming. Consider,’ she added, with a sigh, ‘how
lately I have been subjected to control; besides, I have not yet given my
cousin the packet, and bid him farewell—forever. Yes, Frank,’ she said,
‘_forever_! There is a gulf between us,—a gulf of absolute perdition;
where we go you must not follow; what we do you must not share in.
Farewell,—be happy!’
“In the attitude in which she bent from her horse, which was a Highland
pony, her face, not perhaps altogether unwillingly, touched mine.
She pressed my hand, while the tear that trembled in her eye found
its way to my cheek instead of her own. It was a moment never to be
forgotten,—inexpressibly bitter, yet mixed with a sensation of pleasure
so deeply soothing and affecting as at once to unlock all the floodgates
of the heart. It was _but_ a moment, however; for, instantly recovering
from the feeling to which she had involuntarily given way, she intimated
to her companion she was ready to attend him, and, putting their horses
to a brisk pace, they were soon far distant from the place where I stood.
“Heaven knows, it was not apathy which loaded my frame and my tongue
so much that I could neither return Miss Vernon’s half embrace, nor
even answer her farewell. The word, though it rose to my tongue, seemed
to choke in my throat, like the fatal _guilty_, which the delinquent
who makes it his plea knows must be followed by the doom of death. The
surprise, the sorrow, almost stupefied me. I remained motionless, with
the packet in my hand, gazing after them, as if endeavoring to count the
sparkles which flew from the horses’ hoofs. I continued to look after
even these had ceased to be visible, and to listen for their footsteps
long after the last distant trampling had died in my ears. At length,
tears rushed to my eyes, glazed as they were by the exertion of straining
after what was no longer to be seen. I wiped them mechanically and almost
without being aware that they were flowing, but they came thicker and
thicker; I felt the tightening of the throat and breast,—the _hysterica
passio_ of poor Lear,—and, sitting down by the wayside, I shed a flood
of the first and most bitter tears which had flowed from my eyes since
childhood.”
* * * * *
The admirers of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter” will not forget
the caprices of little Pearl.
“‘Dost thou know thy mother now, child?’ asked Hester, reproachfully,
but with a subdued tone. ‘Wilt thou come across the brook and own thy
mother, now that she has her shame upon her, now that she is sad?’
“‘Yes, now I will!’ answered the child, bounding across the brook and
clasping Hester in her arms. ‘Now thou art my mother indeed! and I am thy
little Pearl!’
“In a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew down her
mother’s head and kissed her brow and both her cheeks. But then, by a
kind of necessity that always impelled this child to alloy whatever
comfort she might chance to give with a throb of anguish, Pearl put up
her mouth and kissed the scarlet letter too!
“‘That was not kind,’ said Hester. ‘When thou hast shown me a little
love, thou mockest me!’”
“Whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive with every
petted child towards a dangerous rival, or from whatever caprice of her
freakish nature, Pearl would show no favor to the clergyman. It was only
by an exertion of force that her mother brought her up to him, hanging
back, and manifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces, of which, ever
since her babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety, and could
transform her mobile physiognomy into a series of different aspects,
with a new mischief in them, each and all. The minister, painfully
embarrassed, but hoping that a kiss might prove a talisman to admit him
into the child’s kindlier regards, bent forward and impressed one on her
brow. Hereupon Pearl broke away from her mother, and, running to the
brook, stooped over it and bathed her forehead until the unwelcome kiss
was quite washed off and diffused through a long lapse of the gliding
water.”
“Pearl either saw and responded to her mother’s feelings, or herself felt
the remoteness and intangibility that had fallen around the minister.
While the procession passed, the child was uneasy, fluttering up and down
like a bird on the point of taking flight. When the whole had gone by,
she looked up into Hester’s face.
“‘Mother,’ said she, ‘was that the same minister that kissed me by the
brook?’
“‘Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl,’ whispered her mother. ‘We must not
always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.’
“‘I could not be sure that it was he, so strange he looked,’ continued
the child: ‘else I would have run to him and bid him kiss me now before
all the people, even as he did yonder among the dark old trees. What
would the minister have said, mother? Would he have clapped his hand over
his heart, and scowled on me, and bid me begone?’
“‘What should he say, Pearl,’ answered Hester, ‘save that it was no time
to kiss, and that kisses are not to be given in the market-place? Well
for thee, foolish child, that thou didst not speak to him.’”
“The minister withdrew his dying eyes from the old man and fixed them on
the woman and the child.
“‘My little Pearl,’ said he, feebly,—and there was a sweet and gentle
smile over his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose; nay, now
that the burden was removed it seemed almost as if he would be sportive
with the child,—‘dear little Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now? Thou wouldst
not yonder in the forest; but now thou wilt?’
“Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief in
which the wild infant bore a part had developed all her sympathies, and
as her tears fell upon her father’s cheek they were the pledge that she
would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the
world, but be a woman in it. Towards her mother, too, Pearl’s errand as a
messenger of anguish was all fulfilled.
“‘Hester,’ said the clergyman, ‘farewell!’
“‘Shall we not meet again?’ whispered she, bending her face down close
to his. ‘Shall we not spend our immortal life together? Surely, surely,
we have ransomed one another, with all this woe! Thou lookest far into
eternity with those bright, dying eyes!’”
* * * * *
In the endless recurrence of “the old story,” the consecutive and
unintermitting reproduction of the pictures
“of the primitive, pastoral ages,
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,”
we can find no touches more exquisite than these from Rev. Charles
Kingsley’s “Yeast;”
“They parted with a long, lingering pressure of the hand, which haunted
her young palm all night in dreams. Argemone got into the carriage,
Lancelot jumped into the dog-cart, took the reins and relieved his heart
by galloping Sandy up the hill and frightening the returning coachman
down one bank and his led horses up the other.
“‘_Vogue la Galère_, Lancelot! I hope you have made good use of your
time?’
“But Lancelot spoke no word all the way home, and wandered till dawn in
the woods around his cottage, kissing the hand which Argemone’s hand had
pressed.” [Ch. vii.]
“Entranced in wonder and pleasure, Argemone let her eyes wander over
the drawing. And her feelings for Lancelot amounted almost to worship,
as she apprehended the harmonious unity of the manifold conception, the
rugged boldness of the groups in front, the soft grandeur of the figure
which was the lodestar of all their emotions, the virginal purity of
the whole. And when she fancied that she traced in those bland aquiline
lineaments, and in the crisp ringlets which floated like a cloud down to
the knees of the figure, some traces of her own likeness, a dream of a
new destiny flitted before her, she blushed to her very neck; and as she
bent her face over the drawing and gazed, her whole soul seemed to rise
into her eyes, and a single tear dropped upon the paper. She laid her
hand over it and then turned hastily away.
“‘You do not like it? I have been too bold,’ said Lancelot, fearfully.
“‘Oh, no, no! It is so beautiful, so full of deep wisdom! But—but—You may
leave it.’
“Lancelot slipped silently out of the room, he hardly knew why; and when
he was gone, Argemone caught up the drawing, pressed it to her bosom,
covered it with kisses, and hid it, as too precious for any eyes but her
own, in the furthest corner of her secrétaire.
“And yet she fancied that she was not in love!” [Ch. x.]
“‘Argemone! speak; tell me, if you will, to go forever; but tell me first
the truth. You love me!’
“A strong shudder ran through her frame, the ice of artificial years
cracked, and the clear stream of her woman’s nature welled up to the
light, as pure as when she first lay on her mother’s bosom. She lifted up
her eyes, and with one long look of passionate tenderness she faltered
out,—
“‘I love you!’
“He did not stir, but watched her with clasped hands, like one who in
dreams finds himself in some fairy palace and fears that a movement may
break the spell.
“‘Now, go,’ she said; ‘go and let me collect my thoughts. All this has
been too much for me. Do not look sad; you may come again to-morrow.’
“She smiled, and held out her hand. He caught it, covered it with kisses,
and pressed it to his heart. She half drew it back, frightened. The
sensation was new to her. Again the delicious feeling of being utterly
in his power came over her, and she left her hand upon his heart, and
blushed as she felt its passionate throbbings.
“He turned to go,—not as before. She followed with greedy eyes her
new-found treasure; and as the door closed behind him she felt as if
Lancelot was the whole world and there was nothing beside him, and
wondered how a moment had made him all in all to her; and then she sunk
upon her knees and folded her hands upon her bosom, and her prayers for
him were like the prayers of a little child.”
The colors of these pictures are painfully heightened by contrast with
the gloom of the valley of the shadow of death, through which Argemone
was soon afterwards summoned to pass.
* * * * *
The treatment of this theme—a theme which is unfailingly attractive to
both sexes, to youth with its yearnings and promptings, to age with its
retrospects and reminiscences—deserves further selections.
In “The Broken Pitcher” of Zchokke, the delightful German story-teller,
is a pleasing scene which shows how the current of love ran smoothly at
last, and how the ambitious plans of a match-making parent were defeated:
“As they entered the parsonage she looked at him affectionately, and,
seeing his bright eyes moistened with tears, she whispered in his ear,
‘_Dear Colin_.’ Then he bent down and kissed her hand. At this, the door
of a room was opened, and the venerable form of Father Jerome stood
before them. Just then the young folks seemed seized with giddiness,
for they held fast to each other for support. I do not know whether it
was the effect of the hand-kissing, or of their veneration for the good
Father.
“Mariette handed him the myrtle-wreath. He placed it around her brow,
and said, ‘_Children, Love one another!_’ beseeching Mariette in the
most tender and touching manner to love Colin. It seems that the old
gentleman had either misunderstood the bridegroom’s name on account of
his deafness, or had forgotten it in consequence of his failing memory,
and thought of course that Colin must be the bridegroom.
“Mariette’s heart was softened by the exhortation of the pious priest,
and with tears and sighs she said, ‘I love him already, and have long
loved him, but he always hated me.’
“‘I hated you, Mariette?’ exclaimed Colin; ‘ever since you came to La
Napoule my soul has lived in you alone. Oh, Mariette! how could I ever
entertain the hope that you had any regard for me?’
“‘Why did you avoid me, Colin, and prefer the society of my companions to
mine?’
“‘Oh, Mariette! I was tossed about on a sea of fear and trembling, of
anxiety and love, whenever I saw you. I had not the courage to approach
you, and if I was not near you I was most miserable.’ As they talked so
earnestly, the good father thought they were quarrelling: so he put his
arms around them, brought them gently together, and said, in an imploring
tone, ‘My dear, dear children, love one another!’
“Then sank Mariette upon Colin’s breast; Colin threw his arms around her,
and both faces beamed with unspeakable delight. They forgot the priest,
forgot everything. Colin’s lips were pressed to Mariette’s sweet mouth.
It was only a kiss, yet a kiss of loveliest forgetfulness. Both were
completely wrapped up in each other. Both had so entirely lost their
recollection that, without knowing what they did, they involuntarily
followed the delighted Father Jerome into the church, and before the
altar.”
* * * * *
In “Fair Harvard” is another narrow escape of two loving hearts from
separation:
“The sight of Miss Campbell’s grief recalled Wentworth to his senses.
“‘Forgive me!’ he cried, passionately. ‘I knew not what I said. My love
for you has made me beside myself. It was my wounded vanity that spoke.
It is my misfortune, not your fault, that you did not love me. Tell me
that you forgive me. Though I love you more than all the world besides, I
will never see you again.’
“‘Never again, Wentworth?’ The girl raised her head, a smile broke
through her tears, her lips quivered with tenderness.
“‘Darling, I will never leave you!’ cried her happy lover, and caught her
half reluctant in his arms, and set love’s sweet seal upon his vow.
“A diviner beauty shone from the girl’s fair face; a tenderer light
beamed from her sunny eyes.
“‘Dearest!’ she whispered,—the magic of her voice unlocked the gates
of sense, filled the air with visions of beauty, and called over the
laughing waves the music of heavenly choirs,—‘Dearest, tell me again that
you love me.’ She sank upon her lover’s breast transfigured.
“‘Dearest!’ she again whispered, ‘will you love me always as now?’
“‘Always, darling, always! Would that now were forever? Nay, love, I
would give my hope of immortal life to win this moment of delight!’
“‘Hush! hush!’ the girl clung closer to her lover.
“‘Not such love, but that you will always be noble and true, and—and will
love no one else so well.’”
* * * * *
In Charlotte Brontë’s masterpiece, Jane Eyre returns to Thornfield after
the long separation enforced by a painful adventure. She learns, upon
revisiting the old familiar scenes, of the destruction of Thornfield Hall
by fire, and of the violent death of the maniac wife. She finds that the
lonely and sightless Rochester is an occupant of Ferndean manor-house,
and she glides quietly into his parlor unannounced:
“‘This is you, Mary, is it not?’
“‘Mary is in the kitchen,’ I answered.
“He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but, not seeing where I stood,
he did not touch me. ‘Who is this? who is this?’ he demanded, trying, as
it seemed, to _see_ with those sightless eyes,—unavailing and distressing
attempt! ‘Answer me,—speak again!’ he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
“‘Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilled half of what was in
the glass,’ I said.
“‘_Who_ is it? _What_ is it? Who speaks?’
“‘Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here; I came only this
evening,’ I answered.
“‘Great God! what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has
seized me?’
“‘No delusion, no madness; your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion,
your health too sound for frenzy.’
“‘And where is this speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I _cannot_ see, but
I must feel, or my heart will stop, and my brain burst. Whatever—whoever
you are—be perceptible to the touch, or I cannot live.’
“He groped; I arrested his wandering hand and prisoned it in both mine.
“‘Her very fingers!’ he cried; ‘her small slight fingers! If so, there
must be more of her.’
“The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder,
neck, waist—I was entwined and gathered to him.
“‘Is it Jane? _What_ is it? This is her shape,—this is her size——’
“‘And this is her voice,’ I added. ‘She is all here; her heart, too. God
bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.’
“‘Jane Eyre! Jane Eyre!’ was all he said.
“‘My dear master,’ I answered, ‘I am Jane Eyre; I have found you out. I
am come back to you.’
“‘In truth? In the flesh? My living Jane?’
“‘You touch me, sir,—you hold me, and fast enough; I am not cold like a
corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?’
“‘My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her
features; but I cannot be so blessed after all my misery. It is a dream;
such dreams as I have had at night, when I clasped her once more to my
heart, as I do now; and kissed her as thus—and felt that she loved me,
and trusted she would not leave me.’
“‘Which I never will, sir, from this day.’
“‘Never will, says the vision! But I always woke and found it an
empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned,—my life dark, lonely,
hopeless,—my soul athirst and forbidden to drink,—my heart famished and
never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will
fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you; but kiss me before
you go,—embrace me, Jane.’
“‘There, sir; and there!’