# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 51

CHAPTER V.
"'Is love foolish, then?' said Lord Bolingbroke.
"'Can you doubt it? answered Hamilton. 'It makes a man think more of another than himself. I know not a greater proof of folly.'" Devereux.
Believing, as I do, that falling in love goes by destiny, and that, of all affairs, those of the heart are those for which there is the least accounting, I have always thought, that to give reasons for its happening, is throwing the said reasons away—a waste much to be deprecated in an age where reasons are in such great request. It is not beauty that inspires love—still less is it mind. It is not situation—people who were indifferent in a moonlight walk, have taken a fit of sentiment in Piccadilly. It is not early association—indeed, the chances are rather against the Paul and Virginia style. It is not dress—conquests have been made in curl-​papers. In short—to be mythological in my conclusion—the quiver of Cupid hangs at the girdle of Fate together with her spindle and scissors.
Beatrice had, even in her short and active life, perhaps dreamed of a lover. What Spanish girl, whose lute was familiar with all the romantic regions of her own romantic land, but must have had some such dream haunt her twilight? And for the matter of that, what girl, Spanish or English, has not? But Beatrice was too unworldly to dream of conquest—too proud to fear for her heart—and too much accustomed to idealise a lover amid the Paladins of olden time, to associate the young Englishman with other ideas than a claim to hospitality, and a vague hope of assistance. She was now to turn over a new leaf in the book of life—to learn woman's most important lesson—that of love.
Not one person in a thousand is capable of a real passion—that intense and overwhelming feeling, before which all others sink into nothingness. It asks for head and heart—now many are deficient in both. Idleness and vanity cause, in nine cases out of ten, that state of excitement which is called being in love. I ​have heard some even talk of their disappointments, as if such a word could be used in the plural. To be crossed in love, forsooth—why, such a heart could bear as many crosses as a raspberry tart.
But Beatrice loved with all the vividness of unwasted and unworn feeling, and with all the confidence of youth. Proud, earnest, and enthusiastic, passion was touched with all the poetry of her own nature. Her lover was the idol, invested by her ardent imagination with all humanity's "highest attributes." Undegraded by the ideas of flirtation, vanity, interest, or establishment, her love was as simple as it was beautiful. Her life had passed in solitude, but it had been the solitude of both refinement and exertion. She was unworldly, but not untaught. She had read extensively and variously. Much of her reading had been of a kind unusual to either her sex or age; but she had loved to talk with her father on the subjects which engaged him; and the investigations which were to analyse the state of mankind, and the theories which were to ameliorate it, became to her matters of attraction, because they were also those of affection.
Natural scenery has no influence on the ​character till associated with human feelings: the poet repays his inspiration by the interest he flings round the objects which inspired it. Beatrice had early learnt this association of nature with humanity. She was as well acquainted with the English literature and language as with her own; and the melancholy and reflective character of its poetry suited well a young spirit early broken by sorrow, and left, moreover, to entire loneliness. The danger of a youth so spent was, that the mind would become too ideal—that mornings, passed with some favourite volume for the dropping fountain, or beneath the shadowy ilex, would induce habits of romantic dreaming, utterly at variance with the stern necessities of life.
But Beatrice had been forced into a wholesome course of active exertion. Obliged to think and to act for herself—to have others dependent on her efforts—to know that each day brought its employment, her mind strengthened with its discipline. The duties that excited also invigorated. The keen feeling, the delicate taste, were accustomed to subjection, and romance refined, without weakening.
Love is the Columbus of our moral world, and opens, at some period or other, a new ​hemisphere to our view. For the first time in his life Lorraine loved—deeply and entirely; for the first time he had met one in whose favour his feeling, his imagination, and his judgment, equally decided. He wondered, with all the depreciating spirit of a lover, that he had ever thought any woman tolerable before.
Lorraine's own talents were too brilliant for him to underrate those of another; and the charm was as delightful as it was new, to see his thoughts understood, his views reflected in a mind, whose powers, though softened, were scarce inferior to his own. Her conversation, when she did speak, had a peculiar fascination: it was evident she was not in the habit of talking. There was an eagerness, a freshness, about her speech, as if the rush of feeling and idea forced their expression rather for their own relief than for the impression of their hearer. Its singularity was, in truth, its entire absence of display—she spoke, as she listened, for pleasure; and a great mass of information, with a naturally keen perception and excitable imagination, were heightened by the originality given by her solitary life. It was delightful to have so much to communicate, and yet to be so well understood. Then the contrast between ​the two gave that variety which attracts without assimilating.
Beatrice was grave; silent, except when much interested; reserved, save when under the influence of some strong feeling; with manners whose refinement was that of inherently pure taste and much mental cultivation, touched, too, with the native grace inseparable from the very beautiful: self-possessed, from self-reliance, and with a stately bearing, which—call it prejudice, or pride or dignity—spoke the consciousness of high descent, and an unquestioned superiority. The pride of birth is a noble feeling.
Lorraine on the contrary, was animated—more likely to be amused than excited—with a general expression of indifference not easily roused to interest. His manners had that fine polish only to be given by society, and that of the best. His thoughts and feelings were kept in the background—not from native reserve, but from fear of raillery—that suspicion of our hearers which is one of the first lessons taught in the world. His habits were luxurious—hers were simple; he was witty and sarcastic—she scarcely understood the meaning of ridicule; his rules of action were many—as those rules must be on which the judgments of others ​are to operate—hers were only those of right and wrong. A whole life spent in society inevitably refers its action to the general opinion. Beatrice, as yet, looked not beyond the action itself.
Days, weeks passed away, and Edward lingered in the neighbourhood. Marcela, like most nurses, thought her child might marry an emperor; and, as an emperor was not at hand, the young, rich, and handsome Englishman was a very good substitute. With Donna Margaretta he was an unbounded favourite: she was just a child—and gentle and genuine kindness never fails to win the love of children. Beatrice knew his footstep at a distance that might have defied even the acute listener of the fairy tale; and yet, with even such long forewarning, would blush crimson deep on his entrance. Lorraine would loiter, and ask for one more of her native ballads; and then think, how could it be late, when he seemed but just to have arrived?
Young, loving, and beloved—how much of happiness may be summed up in a few brief words!—All great nonsense, I grant; and at this conviction most lovers arrive in a very few months. But if it would sometimes save much ​sorrow, it would also destroy great enjoyment, could we think at the time as we do afterwards. Yet there is a period in the lives of most, when the heart open its leaves, like a flower, to all the gentle influences;—when one beloved step is sweet in its fall beyond all music, and the light of one beloved face is dear as that of heaven;—when the thoughts are turned to poetry, and a fairy charm is thrown over life's most ordinary occurrences; Hope, that gentlest astrologer, foretelling a future she herself has created;—when the present is coloured by glad yet softened spirits, buoyant, though too tender for mirth. Who shall say that is a selfish feeling which looks in another's eyes to read its own happiness, and holds another's welfare more precious than its own? What path in after-time will ever be so pleasant as that one walk which delayed on its way, and yet ended so soon? What discourse of the wise, the witty, the eloquent, will ever have the fascination of a few simple, even infantile words—or of the still, but delicious silence which they broke? Why does love affect childish expressions of endearment, but because it has all the truth and earnestness of ​childhood? And the simplicity of its language seems the proof of its sincerity. Or is it that, being unworldly itself, it delights to retreat upon those unworldly days? Go through life, and see if the quiet light of the stars, the passionate song of the poet, the haunted beauty of flowers, will ever again come home to the heart as they did in that early and only time.
Now, let no one say that I am trying to make young people romantic. While I acknowledge that the gardens of Iran exist, I beg leave also to state that they lie in a desert—appear but for a moment—and then vanish in their beauty for ever. Every fable has its moral; and that of love is disappointment, weariness, or disgust. Young people would avoid falling in love, if—as some story-book observes—young people would but consider. When Cromwell sent his ambassador to Spain, under circumstances which somewhat endangered his head, he encouraged him by stating, "That if his head fell, that of every Spaniard in his dominions should fall too." "A thousand thanks," returned the diplomatist; "but among all these heads there may not be one to fit me."
What he said of heads may also be said of ​experience—there is a large stock on hand: but somehow or other, nobody's experience ever suits us except our own. Love rarely keeps its secret: it did not in the case before us. Beatrice was ignorant of her feelings: with no rival to enlighten, no vanity to insinuate—with the most romantic of ideal beliefs on the subject, love never entered her head with reference to herself. She was happy without analysing the cause; nay, her very happiness blinded her. Accustomed to think of love as it is depicted in poetry,—poetry which so dwells on its sorrow, its faithlessness, its despair,—she recognised no trace of love in the buoyant feeling, which now to her touched all things with its own gladness.
Lorraine was more enlightened. Whether it be from knowing that he has to woo as well as win, a man rarely loves unconsciously. Besides, he had all the knowledge of society, much of observation, something too of remembrance. A woman's heart is like a precious gem, too delicate to bear more than one engraving. The rule does not hold good with the other sex: indeed, I doubt whether it be not an advantage for a lover to be able to contrast the finer qualities of one capable of inspiring a deep and ​elevated attachment with the falsehood or the folly he has known before. However, as they say, to justify political revolutions, it was impossible such a state of things could last: and one afternoon the little fountain had its own silvery music broken by those sweetest human sounds—a lover's passionate pleading, and his mistress's whispered reply. There is an established phrase for the description of such occasions. "The conversation of lovers being always uninteresting to a third person we shall omit its detail."
Contrary to the fashion of the present day, I have a great respect for the precedents left by our grandfathers and grandmothers; I shall therefore follow their example of omission. Insipidity, though, is not the real cause of such dialogues being left to die on the air, and fade from the memory. The truth is, to those in the same situation all description seems cold, tame and passionless; while to those who have never known or outlived such time, it appears overwrought, excessive, and absurd.
That evening Beatrice narrated the whole history of her past life. Her love she had avowed; but her hand must depend on the delivery of the packet, and on her father.
​ "I feel an internal conviction that he lives; and he must not come to a desolate and deserted home, and find that his child has forgotten him for a stranger. Take the packet to Naples, make every inquiry: if my father live, we may be so happy in your beautiful England."
"But why not go with me? Why delay, nay, risk, our happiness? Young, isolated, as you are, surely, my sweet Beatrice, your father would rejoice in your content and safety."
"The God to whose care his last words resigned me, has been my guide through dangers and difficulties. I am still secure in such reliance. You know not my love for my father, when you bid me separate my destiny from his—to think not of his wishes—and to be happy, while he perhaps is wretched and suffering. I will at least endeavour to learn his will; and, dearest Lorraine"—the colour flushed her cheek, like a rose, at these words—"the sweetest song I have sung was the saddest, and it spoke of a broken vow and a broken heart. I would fain put the love you tell me is so true to the test. Is there such change in a few weeks that you dread to try?"
​ The dispute ended as disputes usually do when a lady is really in earnest in the will she expresses to her lover. Lorraine took charge of the packet—was intrusted with the pass-word—and prepared to take his departure reluctantly enough, but still with much of excitement and interest in his expedition.
From the eloquent descriptions of the daughter, he had imbibed no little admiration of the father. It must be owned, that Beatrice's character of him was rather his beau idéal than himself. Don Henriquez was a brave and honourable man, with a degree of information rare among his countrymen; but he was not at all the person to be placed in uncommon circumstances. He had seen enough of England to have caught impressions, rather than convictions, of the advantages of a free people; and a good constitution seemed equally necessary to the nation and the individual. But his ideas of liberty were more picturesque than practical. He dwelt on the rights of the people, without considering whether that people were in a state to enforce, or even receive them. He declaimed on tyranny like an ancient, on information like a modern. He forgot that, for change to be useful, it must be gradual; and while enlarging on ​the enlightened intellect of the present time, he overlooked the fact, that our ancestors could not have been altogether so very wrong, or that society could not have gone on at all.
He had a vivid imagination—and this threw a charm, rather than a light, around the subjects it investigated. He was one of those who feel instead of think, and therefore invest their theories with a reality incomprehensible to a calm observer. Hence, it seemed wonderful that what was so tangible to himself was not equally so to others; and from being surprised that our opinions are not understood, is an easy step towards being angry.
His views were narrow, because they were impassioned. Moreover, he had a natural flow of eloquence—a gift which deceives no one more than its possessor: there is a difficulty in believing that what is so very easy to say is not equally easy to do. Like many orators, he did not take into consideration, that a good argument is not always a good reason; and that, unfortunately for the peace of society, and fortunately for debaters, there never was yet a contested point without excellent arguments on both sides of the question.
Don Henriquez was, besides, a vain, and ​therefore a restless man. The earlier part of his life had been spent in a career, for which, above all others, he was suited—that of a bold and active Guerilla chief: but the quiet and loneliness of the succeeding peace was perfectly intolerable. He talked in the most beautiful manner of devoting himself to the education of his child; but unfortunately Beatrice was too young to comprehend the extent of the sacrifice. Having only his own opinion by which to estimate his talents, no marvel it was an exaggerated one.
Don Henriquez would have been a happy man in England: he would have taken the chair at public dinners, and said the most touching things about alleviating the distresses of our fellow-creatures: he would have delayed as much as possible the business of county meetings, by shewing how much better it might be done: he would have given dinners to politicians, and called it supporting his party—and dinners to a few successful authors, and called it encouraging genius: he would have been in the opposition, and made some eloquent speeches on retrenchment and reform, and the newspapers next day would have complimented the honourable member for ​Cockermouth on his brilliant and patriotic display: he would have died, and left matériel for a well-rounded paragraph in the obituary, without having retarded or advanced one single circumstance in the great chain of events. But, alas! for the mismanagement of fate—he was quite out of his place in the Cortez of Spain: he dilated on religious toleration to those in whose ears it sounded like blasphemy—on the blessing of knowledge, to those with whom intellect and anarchy were synonymous—and on the rights of the people, to Hidalgos, who were preux chevaliers in loyalty to their king.
Zoridos soon became an object of suspicion to the government. Besides, like most brilliant talkers, he generally said more than he meant; and, not being in the habit of very closely analysing his thoughts, his expressions often admitted of two constructions. His eloquence ended in his arrest.
A happy man was Don Henriquez during the first week of his confinement. Execrable tyranny—infamous oppression—incarcerated patriot—victim in the glorious cause of liberty—was enough to console any one. Henriquez was also a lucky man; for, just as his situation lost its novelty, and he begun to think ​suffering in the cause of his country rather tiresome, if it lasted too long,—a fellow-captive opened to him a plan of escape, on condition of his joining some patriots in an insurrection.
Don Henriquez's bravery was well known; and, as is often the case with new acquisitions, his talents were over-estimated. He was first sent to Naples to learn what assistance might be expected from the Carbonari there. A great many signs were agreed upon—a great deal of talking took place—and Zoridos returned, as we have related, to organise a revolt in the mountains.
His situation was certainly bad when he met his daughter in the wood; for, exaggerating his importance, he also magnified his danger, and took such pains to avoid suspicion, that he created it. So carefully had he shunned the villages, that he missed one of his stations; and by the time he arrived near his own house, there really was some danger in approaching it. Besides, a conspirator's is a melo-dramatic character, and he was desirous of giving due effect to his part.
The philosophy of atoms has some truth in it. What exceedingly small motives make the great whole of a fine action! Henriquez ​loved his child dearly; but, with the true selfishness of display, he forgot her anxiety, in his desire to impress upon her the full importance of his position. A natural feeling for her lonely and neglected condition, and the thought of a home that seemed very happy now he was banished from it, both conspired to make his interview in the wood a very sorrowful parting. Unhappiness with him always invested itself in a fine phrase, which is a great consolation. We always bear a dignified misfortune best.
The speech he made after supper to the smugglers, under whose escort he was to travel, would have brought down three rounds of applause in any meeting ever yet held at the Crown and Anchor. It began with his principles, proceeded with his feelings, and wound up with his suffering.
"Yes, gentlemen, my house is in ruins; my homeless wife—my deserted child—know not where to lay their heads. I am an exile from my native land—the sword of the executioner waits for the blood of the victim of oppression; but I disdain the fetters of the tyrant, and defy his power. I live or die for the cause of my country."
The muleteers were greatly struck—first, ​because we usually think that very fine which we do not quite understand; secondly, they were rather grateful to a gentleman who exerted himself so much for their entertainment; and thirdly, the king and the custom-house officers, liberty and French brandy duty-free, were, somehow or other, entirely associated in their minds.
It is a singular thing, that it never occurred to Don Henriquez that his misfortunes were very much of his own seeking: if he had not gone to the mountain—(Liberty is a mountain-nymph—is she not?), the mountain would never have come to him. He had been under no necessity of becoming a member of the Cortez, and still less of talking when he got there. Neither did that very obvious truth suggest itself, that if his plans for illuminating and ameliorating the human race were so excellent, he might first have tried a portion of them on his own estate—reformed his own house, before he tried to reform the world.
It will readily be supposed that Lorraine took a different view of the case, and, after two or three lingering days, prepared to set forth in search of his intended and injured father-in-law. Farewell—it is a sorrowful word enough ​at all times, never yet pronounced with indifference even by the indifferent: what then is its pain to those who love—to those whose eternity is the present? It is so very hard to exchange certainty for hope—to renounce to-day, in expectation of to-morrow. But that Beatrice had from the earliest period been accustomed to think of others' claims, not her own, she never could have resigned the lover who stood beside her for her distant father.
The dew shone like frost-work, as the sun touched the silvery leaves of the olive—every step left its trace on the grass, as Beatrice trod the little wood-path which led to the road her lover must pass. One moment she paused—it was so early, and a blush of feminine timidity rather than pride gave the colour of the morning to her cheek, as she thought—"If I should be first." But Edward was at the old cork-tree before her. What could any lovers in the present day say, that has not been said before?—trees, rivers, sun and moon, have alike been called upon to register the vow they witnessed. These parted as all part; many a gentle promise, which rather satisfies itself than its hearer—many a lingering look—many a loitering step—and at last one sudden effort, expected ​by neither, and all is over. Beatrice gasped for breath, as the trees hid Lorraine from her sight; there were two or three hurrying steps, as if they forced their speed; a rustling of the boughs, and all was still—even the beating of her heart. It was as if the whole world had lost the life which animated it, during the long, the melancholy day which followed. In partings those who go know not half the suffering of those who stay. In the one case, occupation strengthens, and novelty engages the mind. Lorraine's journey necessarily, at times, diverted his attention. Sunshine and exercise are equally good for the spirits; besides, at night, fatigue made him sleep; however, he dreamt about Beatrice a good deal, and, like Caliban, wished to dream more. She, on the contrary, was left to utter and unamused loneliness, and to small daily duties, distasteful from interrupting those dreaming moods in which strong feeling loves to indulge. Well, I do not know how it may be in the next world, but most assuredly that sex denominated by poets the softer, and by philosophers the weaker part of creation, have the worst of it in this.