+LEAVES FROM A LADY’S DIARY+
_March 13th._—I have, of late, greatly neglected my journal, not from
want of time, neither for lack of incident nor material for thought and
feeling—rather the reverse.
Since my last musical reception, I have not penned one line. Oh! that
night is a kind of era in my life. I then made the acquaintance of a
remarkable man—perhaps _the_ most uncommon person I ever met. It is not
only that he is very, very handsome, nor highly intellectual, nor most
refined in manners—it is that, over and above all these qualifications,
he possesses, in a wonderful degree, the power of attraction—magnetism,
if you will—the _je ne sais quoi_ of the French. You forget self in his
presence, and think of him only. I cannot analyze my feelings. I only
know, that, as the soft and musical tones of that voice fell on my ear,
as I felt the magic of that glance in my inmost soul, the words uttered
by Lady Caroline Lamb, when first she beheld Byron, came unbidden to my
memory, and seemed to me as a foreboding of sorrow—
“That pale face is my fate!”
I murmured, as a vague terror crept over me.
On the morning we received Mr. D’Arcy’s first visit—Mary and myself—our
conversation turned upon spiritual manifestations. I sat and
listened—for my own experience and the clairvoyant powers of Ella had
long since set me wondering. D’Arcy, it appears, is a firm believer. He
recounted to us the circumstances which led to his conversion.
Lilian—what a sweet name! Ah! instead of pitying, I almost envied her.
Did _he_ not say that he had loved her fondly—that he still wore her
miniature next his heart? Happy Lilian! Would I could change with
thee—to have drained the cup of intoxicating bliss to the dregs, and
then to die, to pass away in the freshness of youth—hopes
undeceived—trust unshaken—loving, beloved, regretted, happy Lilian! See
the reverse, fair spirit, and pity poor Evelyn’s far sadder fate! Behold
her as the wretched wife of one totally unsuited to her—then, as the
murderess of the noble, the loving Reginald—lastly, as the faithless
betrothed of the generous-hearted Balzano; and wherefore? Because she is
not of the happy “few, who find what they love or could have loved,” and
who, therefore, are influenced through life by “accident, blind contact,
and the _strong necessity of loving_,”—that touchstone of woman’s
weakness and folly.
* * * * *
_21st._—My Ella’s birthday. She is now fifteen, and in the eyes of a
partial mother, the loveliest of God’s feminine creation. Mr. D’Arcy
brought her a bouquet of the most priceless hot-house flowers of the
purest white—emblematic, he said, of her ethereal nature. How good of
him to think of her. Though but a child, she doubtless reminds him of
his Lilian. I have observed those limpid and unfathomable eyes of his
fixed upon her more than once in silent contemplation. He is now a
frequent visitor—perhaps _too_ frequent. There are flowers so fair,
fruits so tempting, that we forget the danger which lurks within. We
inhale their perfume; we press to our lips their luscious juice, and _we
perish_.
* * * * *
_31st._—The first mild day of spring. The air from the conservatory
enters laden with the breath of flowers. I feel the blood pulsating in
my veins with unusual ardor. There is a bouquet of Parma violets by my
side, sent by _him_. Their perfume inebriates my senses; an indefinable
charm penetrates my whole being. If, after all, he loves me! Oh! hush!
foolish heart be still. Such happiness is not for earth. And yet, I
think he is not indifferent. Friendship from him is preferable to love
from another—yes, it would content me. But then, friends part, to meet
again God alone knows _when_. This is terrible; and what is friendship
when love intervenes, for another. Oh! that thought is torture. Why,
what an ingenious self-tormentor am I. Why search the possible future to
embitter the happy reality of the present. If the worst comes I can
_die_—no, WE CANNOT DIE, we live; live forever with an eternal passion
in the heart, when we make of a mere mortal the “god of our idolatry.”
* * * * *
_April 15th._—This evening, it being my reception day, and a few
intimates having collected in our _salon_, the conversation turned upon
love and jealousy.
“I cannot,” observed D’Arcy, “understand the simultaneous existence of
these two passions in one bosom.”
“How,” cried one of the party, “has not jealousy been termed the ‘child
of insatiate love?’”
“Nay, rather,” rejoined D’Arcy, “has not Tennyson more aptly described
this passion as ‘dead love’s harsh heir jealous pride.’ Where true love
exists, believe me, there can be no jealousy.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, and I felt the warm blood mount to my temples, “Mr.
D’Arcy is right. True love must be based on esteem, and cannot,
therefore, live without perfect confidence.”
“You have divined me,” said D’Arcy, with that smile of rare sweetness
peculiar to him; “jealousy originates in mistrust, and is, therefore, an
insult when unfounded.”
“But supposing you had cause,” said another of the circle.
“Then,” replied he, with an almost stern severity, “I should no longer
love.”
“Ah! ah! monsieur,” said a pretty little Frenchwoman, “I differ, quite.
As for me, I am jealous; as a wolf—a tiger.”
A general laugh followed this innocent and truly French sally, from all
but D’Arcy, who bowing profoundly, and with an air of inimitable, mock
humility, said:
“Then, madame, I am most unhappy, for I can never make love to you.”
“This is growing too serious,” I said; “let me introduce to you, Mr.
D’Arcy, as a poet, and my friend, Miss Mildmay, as a musician second
only to Rossini. Ella will sing you a song of their joint composition.
It is really charming.”
I here transcribe the words, which, with the music, met with great
success:
THE SPIRIT OF LOVE.
My spirit dwelleth in myrtle bowers,
Where the breezes wax faint with the perfume of flowers,
And the queen rose blushes a brighter hue,
As I shed o’er her leaves, the early dew.
On a sunbeam I sit enthron’d in light,
And chase with my wand the shades of night,
And oft beneath the moon’s pale beam
I weave with sweet fancies the maiden’s dream.
Deep in the woods, the nightingale
Telleth to me her love-lorn tale;
With the glorious lark, I soar on high
As her thrilling notes ring thro’ earth and sky.
I love to skim o’er the pathless seas,
Syren-like, singing sweet melodies,
And the home-sick mariner feels my power
In the loneliness of that star-lit hour.
But, oh! far more do I love to sip
The fragrant dew on beauty’s lip,
To braid each tress of her wavy hair,
And tinge with bright blushes her cheek so fair:
O’er the poet’s couch my spirit bendeth,
And my form with his visions softly blendeth,
While he whose soul sweet music fires
I glad with the strains of the seraph choirs.
* * * * *
_April 27th._—The old adage, “Love is blind,” is by no means true, at
least in my case. Cupid for me never fails to put on a pair of
magnifying glasses, which have the power of exaggerating alike the
virtues and defects of those who have with me entered the lists of the
tournament of love. I have detested many an admirer for “trifles light
as air,” cruelly criticising his dress, voice, manner, or tastes; and I
once took a fancy to a person, mainly because his gloves fitted
exquisitely—and had the other qualities corresponded, my fancy would,
doubtless, have taken other shape. But, to return. To what a severe
scrutiny have I not subjected Philip D’Arcy; but, “alas! and
well-a-day,” I find no fault in him. Men frequently term him
effeminate-looking; and it is true, that he is formed in a delicate,
rather than a robust mould; but this suits well with that spiritual
style of beauty so pre-eminent in him: and who could fail to read in the
_pose_ of that noble head, in the expression of the compressed and
chiselled lips, moral grandeur, indomitable will. Women, too, frequently
call him cold. Ah! they have not marked, as I have, that glance of flame
which (rarely, it is true) flashes from the depth of those orbs, usually
so serene, so untroubled. The volcano may be smouldering, but it is not
extinct. Long years of self-control may have schooled the heart; but its
pulses, nevertheless, throb warmly, passionately, humanly, still.
* * * * *
_May 8th._—Mr. D’Arcy possesses, in a remarkable degree, the power of
affecting the heart and imagination with what remains unspoken. He sets
you thinking. In his presence, you brush the rust from your mind, and
new ideas flow in upon you. To-day, he spoke to us of Swedenborg, and of
the charming and consoling doctrine of that great Christian seer; that
however lonely our earthly lot, however mistaken we may have been in our
choice of a mate, those who by perseverance in well doing eventually
become angels, will, sooner or later, meet with their true conjugal
partner—their other self—in a higher sphere. A beautiful philosophy, and
not unreasonable, when we consider that love, in its true sense, is the
strongest and purest, as well as the most exquisitely delightful
sentiment of our nature: nor would the Creator have implanted this
passion in our souls, but that He intended to satisfy it to the full;
if, therefore, sad experience shows how rarely on earth we are truly
mated, it follows, logically, that this sweetest and tenderest of the
spirit’s yearnings looks for realization in a higher sphere of being.
Such, at least, is D’Arcy’s firm belief; such also, he tells me, is that
of many of the most eminently intellectual and spiritual of his
countrymen and countrywomen. Mary is, of course, charmed: she says there
is, at last, some chance for her.
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