In the summer of eighteen hundred and fifty I arrived in England,
charged with a delicate political mission from abroad. Confidential
persons were semi-officially connected with me, whose exertions I was
authorised to direct, Monsieur and Madame Rubelle being among the
number. Some weeks of spare time were at my disposal, before I entered
on my functions by establishing myself in the suburbs of London.
Curiosity may stop here to ask for some explanation of those functions
on my part. I entirely sympathise with the request. I also regret that
diplomatic reserve forbids me to comply with it.
I arranged to pass the preliminary period of repose, to which I have
just referred, in the superb mansion of my late lamented friend,
Sir Percival Glyde. HE arrived from the Continent with his wife. I
arrived from the Continent with MINE. England is the land of domestic
happiness—how appropriately we entered it under these domestic
circumstances!
The bond of friendship which united Percival and myself was
strengthened, on this occasion, by a touching similarity in the
pecuniary position on his side and on mine. We both wanted money.
Immense necessity! Universal want! Is there a civilised human being who
does not feel for us? How insensible must that man be! Or how rich!
I enter into no sordid particulars, in discussing this part of the
subject. My mind recoils from them. With a Roman austerity, I show my
empty purse and Percival’s to the shrinking public gaze. Let us allow
the deplorable fact to assert itself, once for all, in that manner, and
pass on.
We were received at the mansion by the magnificent creature who
is inscribed on my heart as “Marian,” who is known in the colder
atmosphere of society as “Miss Halcombe.”
Just Heaven! with what inconceivable rapidity I learnt to adore that
woman. At sixty, I worshipped her with the volcanic ardour of eighteen.
All the gold of my rich nature was poured hopelessly at her feet. My
wife—poor angel!—my wife, who adores me, got nothing but the shillings
and the pennies. Such is the World, such Man, such Love. What are we
(I ask) but puppets in a show-box? Oh, omnipotent Destiny, pull our
strings gently! Dance us mercifully off our miserable little stage!
The preceding lines, rightly understood, express an entire system of
philosophy. It is mine.