The meagre sun that for thirteen pallid February days had shone with no
more brilliance than a rushlight stuck amid the cobwebs of a garret,
poured down at last his profuse glories, and Curtain Wells woke up to a
fine morning and the burden of conscious existence, with an effort all
the more completely unanimous on account of its reputation as an inland
Spa. Residence there implied an almost monastick ideal of regularity.
Other shrines of AEsculapius, falling from their primitive purity of
worship, might set up for adoration a hooped Venus or bag-wigged Cupid,
but Curtain Wells would never admit so naked and misleading a pair of
Immortals. Her fountains ministered to bodily ailments--Vapours, Winds,
Gouts, Quinsies, Consumptions, Fevers quartan and tertian--without
pretending to the power of love-philtres or the sparkle of the Castalian
Spring. 'Tis true, romantick dusk or sunset candlelight might consecrate
the vows of many a shepherd and shepherdess, but those stretched hours
of dalliance were always understood to be the sensuous reward of a
strict matutinal discipline.
Consequently Curtain Wells woke up as to a bugle-call. Casement-hangings
were flung back, shutters unbarred and, wonderful to relate, an
occasional window-sash creaked and subsided. A simultaneous toilet would
be followed by a simultaneous visit to the cleansing springs. Drums,
routs, auctions, ridottos, and masquerades did not avail to keep their
votaries abed. Perchance a velvet patch would hide the wearer's secret
blemish less artfully; beneath young Miss Kitcat's eyes there might be a
deeper violet than the state of her health warranted; my lady Bunbutter
newly arrived from scurrilous Bath might see her nose sharpen to a
richer carmine point; but half-past eight o'clock would behold them all
bound for the Pump Room, somewhat reticent perhaps, a little fretful
even, yet completely subjugated by their self-imposed renunciation.
St. Simon's clock struck the half-hour of seven, and the birds who live
tropick days in the eternal summer of chintz curtains seemed to crow
remorsefully at any sluggard who was inclined longer to indulge his
laziness. The sun spangled their plumage with innumerable pin-points of
light until they began to glow with all the astonishing dyes of printed
fabricks. They glowed and ruffled until the sluggard forsook his couch
and, creeping over the chilly floor, flung them back into a day-long
folded tranquillity. Here, then, is an excellent opportunity to catch a
few of our fine characters unaware. Follow the guidance of my Muses and
you will see hero and heroine, comedian, villain, and chorus stripped of
all outward aids to beauty. You may trust the modesty of Clio and
Melpomene who will certainly treat their own sex with discretion and
admit you to the keyhole not a moment before it becomes your disposition
of mind. Pray do not expect a wanton exhibition because you are holding
on to the draperies of two pagan young women.
See that fine house in the middle of the Crescent. Mark the flambeaux
guttering and sputtering into an odorous death. Note the flattened
Ionick columns which lend it such an air of superiority, and the extra
story, and the fat bow-windows on either side of the door. Look well at
the door with its cornice of airy Cupids for ever playing Hide and Seek
behind solemn urns and festoons of carven flowers.
That is the Great House where Beau Ripple lives. Do you wonder at the
early hour of rising when you know that his decree was responsible for
the united achievement? I cannot think you do; especially if you have
read his _Epigrams_ published by Mr. Scratch at the Sign of the _Claw_
in Paul's Churchyard--those epigrams with razor-keen edge translated
into Latin by Doctor Fumble and into Greek by the Reverend Mr. Tootell.
We read how, in ancient days, tyrants beguiled their political victims
with Impromptus of their own composition and at Curtain Wells it was
esteemed an honour to be reprimanded in such polished prose. Mr. Ripple
scorned the easy allurements of metre and, although in himself he summed
up the profound artificiality of his age, he was wont to say that Verse
as a form of composition possessed all the disadvantages of prose
without any of the advantages.
Let us take a glimpse at the Great Man in the Great House while the
little maid is pondering the gaudy Valentine stuck in a crack of the
basement-steps by the sweep's apprentice.
That carpet of mellow hue was presented by the Captain of an East
Indiaman, much addicted to wind. It muffles the footsteps of the
courtiers who throng the stairs, and secures a respectful calm. It even
enables us to reach the door of his bedchamber unheralded, but as,
invisible and armed with reverence, we cross the threshold, the Great
Beau is nowhere to be seen. We observe his bedclothes dignified even in
disarray, we see the open patchbox, the bottles of Eau de Luce and Eau
de Chypre, the black sattin tie and the wig on the stand, but not until,
instinct with awe, we drop our eyes, do we behold two pink feet and the
Circumference of the least austere portion of his anatomy wrapped, it is
true, in embroidered dressing gown, and with the bedspread hung about it
like a pall, yet nevertheless an unmistakeable Circumference protruding
from beneath the bed. Diana very wisely killed Actaeon for overlooking
her toilet, and I doubt we deserve the same penalty, for when, the
errant button in his hand, we see the Beau emerge with purple cheeks and
oaths innumerable, a certain conviction steals over our shocked
sensibility that the Great little Man is only mortal after all, of the
same temper and anatomy as ourselves, and, as the gods know very well,
this is a mighty dangerous and revolutionary discovery.
There stood Beau Ripple dancing and d--g, while a monologue with
appropriate action went somehow like this:
_Beau._ D---- all buttons for being round.
Then he danced.
_Beau._ D---- all pins for dropping upon the floor and the chambermaids
for not picking them up, and my own feet for treading on them.
Then he danced again.
_Beau._ D---- all beds for being wide.
Then he danced.
_Beau._ D---- my eyes, I shall be late for the waters.
Then he danced to his mirrour. And the mirrour showed a man of ripe age
with smooth round face and a pair of very blue eyes.
_Beau._ And d---- you, Ripple, for a clumsy old fool.
Hereupon the Great little Man beamed at himself, for the nature of him
was so truly kind that he could not be crossed by himself for long, and
as for the world, his severity never upset the balance of a well-turned
phrase. He was an urbane man, one who had presumably lived all his life
in prim and decorous cities but, since he will preside over this story
of mine, we shall learn more about him as we go along.
Further round the Crescent, Mrs. Choke let furnished apartments to
valetudinarian bachelors, and in one of the brightest of these, Mr.
Francis Vernon sat before his looking glass contemplatively combing his
wig. His closely cropped curly hair accentuated the lines of a profile
already inclined to sharpness, just as his red lips enhanced the
surrounding paleness of his complexion. He combed his wig very much as a
man strokes a cat. The caress half-felt loses itself in speculation, and
just now Mr. Vernon was gazing at the wrought-iron balcony of the
opposite house where Miss Phyllida Courteen, all swansdown and rosy
cheeks, was plucking half a dozen snowdrops from a bough-pot. These were
to be enclosed in a note and sent by the hand of the first
pleasant-looking passer-by to Miss Sukey Morton in the Western
Colonnade. And the aforesaid Miss Morton would, in the estimation of
Miss Courteen, simper and blush and confide in her dear Phyllida that,
though she had known he admired her and indeed, had proffered her a
dropped fan more than once at the Monday Assemblies, yet never, _never_
had she for a moment imagined that he would _dare_ to send her a
Valentine, and if he had, she would have _died_ rather than take it,
yes, _died_, for _what_ she would do when she passed him next Monday
evening, she could not _think_, especially as he was _known_ to be
partial to her, and her Mechlin pinner was quite ruined by the
_abominable_ wax-candles they would use just because the P---- of
W---- was not coming that year after all.
Miss Courteen was so much charmed by this loquacious dream that she
began to compose an appropriate verse destined to be wrapped round the
green stalks of the flowers.
_The snowdrop's white_
_And so are you. . ._
The smallest foot in the world beat time upon the balcony making the
iron bars on which she stood vibrate in twanging chords, but failed to
summon from the caves of Poesy an echo worthy of the snowdrop's white.
"The last line is monstrous easy," she thought.
_The bluebell's blue!_ and the accumulation of liquids and labials has
enchanted her mouth to such a delicious pout that Mr. Vernon is leaning
forward and combing his wig more contemplatively than ever, for,
although he cannot see his charmer's lips, he feels sure from the
attitude of her whole body that her face is infernally captivating, and
the memory of her last whispered good-bye assails him and kindles a
leaping flame at the back of his hazel eyes.
Such a merciless regard as ours penetrates to the heart and we know that
Mr. Vernon is wondering what on earth will come of his affair with Miss
Courteen, and speculating how much she will inherit, and whether
matrimony is quite so expensive a joy as his friends make out. The
thought of money writes an ugly twisted line across his high smooth
forehead, and this line broadens into a hundred little tributary lines
as he thinks of his debts. So he brings himself back to the obstacles of
life in rather a gloomy frame of mind and faces the necessity of his
toilet in such a depression of spirits that he selects a suit to match
his mood. And that is the reason why Mr. Francis Vernon wore purple
sattin on Valentine morning.
All this while, Miss Courteen is quite unable to invent that odious
third line, and though she taps her foot to aerial musick and pulls a
chestnut curl right over her nose and twists it round her fingers and
wonders whether 'white' is a notably difficult word to rhyme, she never
succeeds, and just when she has almost succeeded, her mother's voice
sounds from the floor above. This disposes of inspiration altogether,
for though her mother's voice is very melodious and sounds prodigiously
pleasant as it murmurs 'Spadille' or 'Manille' over the card-tables, it
will allow no competition, and drives all invisible musick far away.
"Coming, dear mamma," says Phyllida just as Mr. Vernon decides to wear
purple and just as we step out of Mrs. Choke's front door thinking it
can no longer be indiscreet to follow our Muses to the scene of Mrs.
Courteen's toilet.
As we cross the road glittering in the sunshine with last night's rain,
we see a tall young gentleman writing busily in a set of ivory tablets
as he strolls quietly along the pavement. Mr. Lovely, the young
gentleman, looks up very quickly as a three-cornered note flutters down
and lodges in a fold of his ruffles. Miss Courteen who felt the note
falling, and thinks that after all she need not make more than a pretty
attempt to save it, peers over the railing into the upturned face of the
young gentleman who bows very low and sweeps his hat round in a very
grand curve, and begs to apologize for the awkwardness of his ruffles in
thus intercepting a lady's note. And you and I, my inquisitive
companion, stand still for a moment and watch the picture, remembering
it is merry Valentine morn. The maid with wide eyes and crimson cheeks
nestling in swansdown and the young man of the laughing expectant face,
in his peach-coloured velvet suit, seem somehow to have caught the
spirit of the day: they make us think of broken stiles, of hedges heavy
with may, of blue and white April noons, of lambs, and children with
pinafores a-flutter gathering cowslip-posies on a wind-washed down, and
of all the old and dear delights of Spring.