# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 54

CHAPTER VIII.
"You're very welcome.” Shakespeare.
"Yet the charmed spell
Which summons man to high discovery
Is ever vocal in the outward world,
Though they alone may hear it who have hearts
Responsive to its tone. The gale of spring,
Breathing sweet balm over the western waters,
Called forth that gifted old adventurer
To seek the perfumes of spice-laden winds
Far in the Indian isles."
Cambridge Prize-Poem: the North-west Passage.
G. S. Venables.
"Don't you, Mandeville, take an especial interest in your young plantations, and say to yourself, 'How much more taste I have in the disposition of oak, elm, and beech, than my ancestors had!'"
"To what does this allusion, whose truth I confess, tend?" said her husband, smiling.
"Why, I want you to sympathise with me in my rejoicing over Emily's improvement; you ​know I set it all down to my own judicious advice and exquisite example."
"You need not put on a deprecating look; I am not going to find a single fault. Emily is wonderfully improved—she has lost all that was painful, and retained all that was pleasing, in her timidity; and to her own natural graces she has added divers acquired ones, for which I do confess she is greatly indebted to you; and then she is so very much prettier than I ever gave her credit for being."
"That is," said Lady Mandeville, "because now you always see her dressed to advantage."
"Nay, Ellen, you will not tell me that a pretty gown makes a pretty woman."
"It does a great deal towards it; but you gentlemen always run away with some vague idea of white-muslin and cottage-bonnet simplicity, which you call dress—which in reality ought to be numbered among the fine arts, and requires both natural and cultivated taste. Now, Emily had the one, but wanted the other. During her first season she was left to her own inventions—the heaviest of misfortunes to a young damsel. Lady Alicia was just 'ivorie neatly fashioned;' and Emily came up to town a domestic darling and rural beauty. Her self-​estimate was at once true and false—true, as regarded the really pretty face she did possess; false, as regarded the effect to be produced by the said face. She was not so much vain, as convinced of her own importance, from having been all her life the principal object in her own circle; finding herself suddenly of little consequence, she shrank back into all her natural timidity, and left London with a great stock of mortification, a little sentiment, and having acquired more knowledge than wisdom."
"Wisdom," observed Lord Mandeville, "Is only knowledge well applied."
"My pretty protégée was very little likely to turn hers to much account. Remember how we found her—living in the most entire seclusion, cherishing grief like a duty, nursing all sorts of fancies 'vain and void,' neglecting herself, indulging in the most morbid sensibility, and having every probability of wasting the best days of her life in sickly seclusion, and either dying of a consumption, or, when she came to the romantic age in woman—I mean between forty and fifty—marrying some fortune-hunter who could talk sentiment, or resembled her first love. Nous avons changé tout cela. A beauty and an heiress—coming out under my ​auspices! think of the effect Emily Arundel will produce next season."
"Why not marry her at once to Cecil Spenser?" said Lord Mandeville, abruptly.
There is a most characteristic difference in the way a man and a woman take to introduce a desired topic: the one, like a knight, claps spurs to his steed, and rides straight into the field; the other, like an Indian, fights behind cover, and watches her opportunity; the knight often misses the enemy, the Indian never. Lord Mandeville was more abrupt than ingenious.
"I marry Emily to Mr. Spenser!" said the lady, with a most meek air of utter inability; "really I do think she may be allowed a choice of her own. I cannot take her feelings, as well as her ringlets, under my charge. You give me credit for authority which I not only do not possess, but should be sorry to acquire."
"Well, Ellen, you must have your own way: but this I must say, Emily Arundel is a girl of whose strong feelings I think even your penetration is scarcely aware."
"Truly I am one very likely to encourage romance in any young lady! Did you ever know me to patronise moonlight walks, or talk ​even forgivingly of cottages and roses? and have I not a natural antipathy to honeysuckle?"
"'And raillery takes the field for reason:'
it is vain to argue with a woman: just like walking in London on a rainy day, for every step forward, you slide back two at least; and even as the mud slips from under you, so does her mind. I wish, Ellen, you were a little more reasonable."
"You should have thought of that before you married me; but now your misfortune is irreparable,
'Till gentle Death shall come and set you free.'
And there is the carriage; so now for our drive—I want to make some purchases in La Strada."
How very satisfactory those discussions must be, where each party retains their own opinion! Presentiments—those clouds, indicative of change, which pass over the mind—what are they? They come, and they come not. Who shall deny but that some events "cast their shadows before;" while others, and those, too, the great ones of our life, come suddenly and without sign:
"As ships that have gone down at sea
When heaven was all tranquillity?".
Surely some presentiment ought to have informed both Emily and Lady Mandeville of the event that day was to bring forth. It came not; and they set off for the gay shops of La Strada, as if only a few yards of riband had depended on that morning. They were all in the very act of returning to the carriage, when who should emerge from a small, mean-looking jeweller's shop but Edward Lorraine? Emily saw him first—how soon we recognise the object uppermost in the mind!—she did not, however, even attempt to speak—her cheek grew pale—her heart seemed to stop beating—she almost felt as if she wished him not to recognise them: the next minute they all met, and Lady Mandeville was the first to exclaim,
"Mr. Lorraine! now what chance brought you here?"
"A most fortunate one," replied Edward; and mutual and cordial greetings took place,—though there was something very satisfactory to Cecil Spenser in Emily's silence, and cold and distant bow. There are a great many false things in this world, but none are so false as appearances.
"Of course you will accompany us home," said Lord Mandeville.
​ "I suppose you are just arrived."
"I arrived yesterday."
Inquiries of that small kind with which conversation after absence always commences among friends, occupied the way to the carriage. Lorraine was installed in the vacant place, the other two gentlemen following on horseback. Lady Mandeville was in the best of all possible humours—she was really glad to see Edward on his own, and delighted to see him on Emily's account. In short, to use the favourite newspaper phrase for all cases of escape, whether from fire, water, or mailcoachmen (we mean their driving), his appearance was "quite providential." She was only anxious about Miss Arundel's looks—they were irreproachable. The pretty little mouth, all unconsciously, had broken into "dimples and smiles," the eyes darkened and danced in their own delight, and their colour was like that of the young rose when it puts back its green hood from its cheek, crimson with the first kisses of the morning. A little judicious encouragement soon led her to take part in the conversation,—and the drive seemed ended almost before it had begun. Edward could not help pausing on the steps of the hall, to ​express his admiration of the great improvement in Emily. "What a lovely creature she is grown!" Lady Mandeville gave him the very sweetest of smiles.
Their early dinner was ready; and some of the party, at least, were very happy. Lord Mandeville partially forgot the interests of his young friend in the charm of Edward's conversation. Cecil was the only one who was in the "winter of discontent;" but it was very hard to be placed himself between a French countess—young, pretty, and exacting the amount of such demands in full—and a Miss Arabin, an English heiress, whose designs upon him had grown from amusing to alarming. He had not even the consolation of sitting opposite to Emily; she was on the other side, between the Countess' husband—a man whom nothing abstracted from the glorious science to which, as he said, he had for years devoted every faculty of his body and his mind, viz. eating. To enjoy his dinner first, and afterwards to reflect on that enjoyment, comprised the whole of his estimate of table duties: as for talking, it was sometimes matter of necessity, but never of pleasure. It was said he only married in order to have a ​wife to talk for him; and if any one asked him how he did, his constant reply was, mais demandez à ma femme. There was no hope, therefore, of his distracting Emily's attention from the handsome Lorraine on the other side. How is human happiness ever to be arranged, when the same cause produces such different effects? Emily's satisfaction was utterly irreconcilable with Cecil's. In the position of the table she could imagine no change for the better. Poor Cecil resigned himself in despair to the gaiety of the Countess, and the sentiment of the heiress. He turned from the bright black eyes of the one to the soft blue eyes of the other, and he escaped from a smile only to be lost in a sigh. Miss Arabin looked at him, la belle Comtesse laughed at him. Please to remember there are two ways of laughing at a person; and Madame de St. Ligne had often had the pretty French madrigal applied to her:
"Elle a très bien cette gorge d'albâtre,
 Ce doux parler, et ces beaux yeux;
Mais, en effet, ce petit ris folâtre
 C'est à mon gré ce qui lui sied le mieux."
To be laughed at with eyes full of compliment, and a mouth whose teeth were little seed-pearls, ought to have been rather pleasant; ​but Cecil was not in a humour to be pleased. Miss Arabin, seeing he was graver than his wont, looked as sad as she conveniently could—gravity and sensibility being, with her, synonymous. She talked of withered flowers and blighted feelings—of the worthlessness of fortune when weighed in the scale of affection—and of the little real happiness there is in this world; till Cecil took refuge from them both, by being suddenly most deeply interested in a discussion carrying on opposite to him, about the facilities of going by steam to Timbuctoo. The consequence was, that Miss Arabin said he was such a coxcomb, and Mde. de St. Ligne that he was si bête.
"To me," remarked Lord Mandeville, "there is something very melancholy in the many valuable lives which have been sacrificed during the course of African discovery. But I believe that travelling is as much a passion as love, poetry, or ambition. What of less force than a passion could, in the first instance, induce men to fix their thoughts on undertakings whose difficulties and dangers were at once so obvious and so many? What but a passion (and the energy of passion is wonderful) could support them through toil, hardship, and suffering—all in ​the very face of death—and for what? But true it is, that of any great exertion in which the mind has part, the best reward is in the exertion itself."
"I do not know any thing," observed Mr. Brande, "that has more moved my sympathy than Bruce's position on his return home. After all he had suffered, and, still more, all he had overcome, to find, when he arrived in his own country, having performed one of the most extraordinary undertakings that was ever accomplished by a single individual,—to find, I say, on his return, that he was a by-word and a mockery; his honourable feelings as a gentleman insulted by disbelief of his assertions; and his own high sense of difficulties dared and overcome, laid in the dust by sneer and ridicule, which must have entered into his very soul, and left their own littleness behind."
"Or," returned Lord Mandeville, "what do you say to Columbus returning laden with irons from his own discovered world, which, to this very day, does not even bear his name?"
"Why, I say," exclaimed Cecil, "that I do not see the advantage of taking much trouble about any thing."
"I cannot agree with you," said Edward.
​ "The imagination makes the delight of the exertion which itself supports. The feeling with which Columbus saw the gleam of that white-winged bird which avouched that land was near—the breath of leaves and spices, sweet airs whose sweetness was of the 'earth, earthy'—the dim outline of the shore becoming gradually distinct, as the night-shade broke away from the face of morning and a new world,—I do think that such a feeling might be weighed in the balance with thousands of disgusts and disappointments, and find them wanting, and not pressing down the scale."
"I believe," observed Lady Mandeville, "that our greatest enjoyments go into the smallest space: they are like essences—the richer the more they are concentrated. One drop of the attar condenses a whole valley of roses."
"But, sir," said Mr. Brande—who, being a traveller himself, considered that their injuries were personal ones—"look at the long years of obloquy and wrong, of taunts and doubts, which embittered Bruce's return home."
"I can only repeat,—think of his feelings when he stood by the three mystic and sacred fountains, and saw the morning sun shine on ​their deep waters, and could say to himself, 'I alone, and unaided, have done what kings, at the head of banded armies, tried to do and failed. I am the Alexander of the Nile.' I say of these fountains, what Scott says of a martial company,
''Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,
One glance at their array.'
"Besides, do you hold as nothing his own consciousness of right?"
"Why, sir," replied Mr. Brande, "truth is a good thing—a very good thing—but one likes to have it believed; and a traveller has a right to his honours, as a labourer to his hire."
"Ah!" said Lady Mandeville, "I see how it is. Mr. Brande would like his Travels to Timbuctoo to go through some dozen editions—to enlist the whole alphabet after his name, as fellow of this society, and fellow of the other—honorary member of half the continental institutes—some score of silver and gold medals laid in red morocco cases on his table—his name to be affixed to some red or yellow flower, never heard of but in a book, nor seen but in a print—or to have some rock christened as an island in honour of him—also, to have his picture taken and engraved."
​ "Add to these, my lady," replied the traveller, laughing, "the privilege of telling my own stories after dinner uncontradicted."
"I thank you," said Lorraine, "for reinforcing my favourite theory, which maintains that a love of talking is the great feature of the present time. Steam is not half so much its characteristic as speechifying."
"Our monopoly of talking," observed Lady Mandeville, "Is being transferred to you gentlemen. I saw some English newspapers the other day, and I must say, London just now seems visited with the plague of tongues. Why, there is our friend Mr. Delawarr, every evening—poor unhappy Wednesday not now excepted—gets up and speaks at the rate of ten miles an hour, or, I should rather say, ten hours a mile, to judge by the little progress he makes. When did any of us ever say a quarter so much?"
"The supply," replied Lord Mandeville, "in this case, does not create the demand. What woman could ever find listeners willing to go such lengths?"
"There, now!" exclaimed Mde. de Ligne, "that speech is just your belle alliance of persiflage and politeness: half of what vos autres ​Anglais call witty speeches, are only rude. Who but an Englishman would have thought of telling a woman she would not be listened to?"
"Perhaps a Turk," replied Lord Mandeville.
"Ah, you see you are forced to seek a likeness to yourself among barbarians," returned the lady.
"Do you regret or rejoice at the prospect of returning to England?" asked Lorraine of Emily.
"I count the days. I have been surprised—delighted—with a great deal that I have seen; but I quite pine to behold the old hall, and be at home again."
"Ah, Emily!" exclaimed Lady Mandeville, "you are intensely English. I believe, in your heart, you think the ruins so called of Sir John Arundel's chapel, which said ruins consist of a broken wall and some scattered bricks, are more picturesque than all the mouldering temples, half marble and half acanthus, to be found in Italy; and I am persuaded one great reason why you want to be at home again, is to see if your myrtle-tree is grown taller than yourself."
"I, for one," said Edward, "sympathise in Miss Arundel's reminiscences. I do not go quite the length of the modern philosopher, ​who asserts that our nature is not wholly sophisticated so long as we retain our juvenile predilection in favour of apple-dumpling; but I do think that the affection which clings to the home of our childhood—the early love which lingers round the flowers we have sown, the shrubs we have planted—is, though a simple, a sweet and purifying influence on the character. I cannot help thinking, that the drooping bough, the fairy-like rose, lend something of their own grace to one who has loved them and made them her companions."
"Now," ejaculated Lady Mandeville, "I expect to hear, as a finish, that you have fallen in love with some mountain nymph, who has found your heart weak and large enough to contain herself, crook, flock, simplicity and all."
"I plead guilty," said Edward, "to no such pastoral taste."
"A gentleman's idea of simplicity always amuses me," returned Lady Mandeville. "I have nothing to say against Nature—and I have no doubt a lady made by her would be a very charming person; but where is unsophisticated nature to be found? where is the beauty, however rustic or rural she may be, without some ​touch of art? And if nature is to be modelled, let it be by refinement, grace, and education. Again I say, I laugh at your idea of simplicity. It always puts me in mind of the heroines in novels, from Sir Walter Scott's Di Vernon downwards. In order to give an idea of beauty unspoiled by art, the heroine's hat falls off, and her hair falls down, while she looks lovely in dishevelled ringlets. Now, they quite forget two things: first, that though the hat may come off, it is by no means a necessary consequence that the hair should come down too; and, secondly, if it did, the damsel would only look an untidy fright. And your notions of simplicity in real life are just as consistent."
"Do you not think," asked Mde. de Ligne, "that there are some faces which a simple style suits?"
"Agreed," replied Lady Mandeville; "but I hope you call such style only
'The carelessness yet the most studied to kill.'"
"How beautiful," said Mr. Brande, "Is the simplicity of the ancient statues!"
"Yet they would have been," retorted Lady Mandeville, "just as natural in an uneasy or an ungraceful attitude; but the sculptor had the ​good taste to select the attitude most pleasing, the folds of drapery the most harmonious."
"Lady Mandeville only contends," said Edward, "that Nature should make, not a sacrifice, but an offering to the Graces."
"Few things have struck me more since my arrival in Italy," said Mr. Brande, "than the little real love my countrymen have for the fine arts; they may affect 'a taste,' but 'they have it not.' I should have wondered still more at this want, had I not felt it in myself. I have seen others hurrying, and I have hurried, from collection to collection, from gallery to gallery, with nothing but the fear of the future before my eyes—that future which, when we return home, makes it an imperative necessity to say we have seen such things. We rise up early in the morning, and late take rest—we crowd time and memory, for the sake of one pleasant remark, 'Well, I do declare it is quite wonderful that you could manage to see so much in so short a time!'"
"Our English taste for the fine arts," said Lord Mandeville, "may be classed under two heads—ostentatious and domestic. Our nobility and gentry buy fine pictures and statues as they do fine furniture, to put in fine rooms. ​They are indications of wealth—articles of luxury—bought far more with reference to what others will think, than to what we ourselves will feel. A gentleman fills his gallery with paintings, and his sideboard with plate, on the same principle. Then, as to objects of art that attain the greatest popularity among us—which are they? Portraits of ourselves, our wives, children, brothers, uncles, nephews, nieces, and cousins. We like paintings of horses, bulls, dogs, &c.; or we like small scenes from common life—children, especially if they are naughty—and a set of breakfast or tea-things are irresistible. In sculpture, who will deny our preference for busts, or our passion for monuments? What are the casts which enjoy most plaster-of-Paris popularity? Napoleon in his cocked hat—the Duke of Wellington—Tam-o'Shanter and Souter Johnny—though even these yielded in attraction to china Madame Vestris or Liston as broom-girls."
"The prettiest casts that ever found favour in our island eyes," added Lorraine, "were the reading and writing Cupids. People bought them out of compliment to their own little chubby cherubs. 'Pretty dears!' I once heard ​a woman say—'bless their nice little fat arms!'"
"Look at the enthusiasm," rejoined Mr. Brande, "about the works of art at Rome. The story of the barber—I have forgotten the artist's name—who flung himself at the cardinal's feet, and implored him to take away his life, but not the picture which had been painted beneath his roof,—is a simple fact. The very postilions rein up their horses, and point out to strangers, with a gesture of pride, the first glimpse of St. Peter's. It would be long enough before one of Mr. Newman's post-boys stopped on Highgate Hill to point out the cupola of St. Paul's."
"And yet," said Lorraine, "we are not without some sort of attachment to it—I do think we attach an idea of respect ability to St. Paul's."
"Perhaps," returned Lady Mandeville, "from its vicinity to the Bank—to say nothing of its utility to set watches by."
"Our insular imagination is the exact reverse," observed Lord Mandeville, "of the Italians': theirs delights in outward impressions—ours dwells on internal impressions; theirs is the imagination of the ideas—ours of the ​feelings; they create a world—we exaggerate the influences of the one in which we live. Whether in painting or in poetry, we are egotists—we like what we can bring home to ourselves. Byron is our poet of passion—because it is passion we have felt, or fancied we have felt or could feel. Wordsworth is our poet of philosophy—because we all think we have practised, or could practise, his philosophy. The groundwork of the imagination of the Italians is fancy—that of the English is sentiment."
"It is curious to observe," said Mr. Brande, "the varieties of national character. The laws of the universe"———
"Nay," exclaimed Lady Mandeville, "pray keep a discussion on the laws of the universe till we are in England—it will accord with the reigning whim. While reforming and settling as we are now doing, to arrange for the whole world will be a small matter. But such a weighty business is too much for this land of sunshine and rose—I move we do adjourn the meeting."
"It is an old privilege of mine," said Lorraine, "to bring my adventures to your feet. I have really been sufficiently romantic lately for recital. May I find audience 'meet, though ​few?'" Lady Mandeville and Emily were standing side by side—both smiled acquiescence. "The balcony of the fountain is the very place wherein to enact a scene from Boccacio."