# Vivian Grey/Volume 3/Chapter 5.10

CHAPTER X.
The first few days of an acquaintance with a new scene of life, and with new characters, generally appear to pass very slowly; not certainly from the weariness which they induce, but rather from the keen attention which every little circumstance commands. When the novelty has worn off, when we have discovered that the new characters differ little from all others we have met before, and that the scene they inhabit is only another variety of the great order we have so often observed, we relapse into our ancient habits of inattention; we think more of ourselves, and less of those we meet; and musing our moments away in reverie, or in a vain attempt to cheat the coming day of ​the monotony of the present one, we begin to find that the various vested Hours have bounded, and are bounding away in a course at once imperceptible, uninteresting, and unprofitable. Then it is, that terrified at our nearer approach to the great river, whose dark windings it seems the business of all to forget, we start from our stupor to mourn over the rapidity of that collective sum of past-time, every individual hour of which we have in turn execrated for its sluggishness.
Vivian had now been three weeks at Ems, and the presence of Lady Madeleine Trevor and her cousin alone induced him to remain. Whatever was the mystery existing between her Ladyship and the Baron, and that there was some mystery Vivian could not for a moment doubt, his Excellency's efforts to attach himself to her party had been successful. The great intimacy subsisting between the Baron and her Ladyship's brother materially assisted in bringing about this result. For the first fortnight, the Baron was Lady Madeleine's constant attendant in the evening promenade, and often ​in the morning walk; and though there were few persons whose companionship could be preferred to that of Baron von Konigstein, still Vivian sometimes regretted that his friend and Mr. St. George had not continued their morning rides. seemed always to have an unfavourable in- fluence upon the spirits of Violet Fane, and the absurd and evident jealousy of Mr. St. George, prevented Vivian from finding, in her agreeable conversation, some consolation for the loss of the sole enjoyment of Lady Madeleine's exhilarating presence. Mr. St. George had never met Vivian's advances with cordiality, and he now treated him with studied coldness.
The presence of his Excellency The visits of the gentlemen to the New House, had been frequent. The saloon of the Archduke was open every evening, and in spite of his great distaste for the fatal amusement which was there invariably pursued, Vivian found it utterly impossible to decline frequently attending, without subjecting his motives to painful misconception. His fortune, his extra-ordinary fortune did not desert him, and ren​dered his attendance still more a duty. The Baron was not so successful as on his first evening's venture at the Redoute; but Mr. St. George's star remained favourable. Of Essper George, Vivian had seen little. In passing through the Bazaar one morning, which he seldom did, he found to his surprise that the former conjuror had doffed his quaint costume, and was now attired in the usual garb of men of his condition of life. As Essper was busily employed at the moment, Vivian did not stop to speak to him; but he received a most respectful bow. Once or twice also, he had met Essper in the Baron's apartments; and he seemed to have become a very great favourite with the servants of his Excellency, and the Chevalier de Boeffleurs, particularly with his former butt, Ernstorff, to whom he now behaved with the greatest deference.
I said, that for the first fortnight, the Baron's attendance on Lady Madeleine was constant. It was after this time that his Excellency began to slacken in his attentions. He first disappeared from the morning walks, and yet he did ​not ride; he then ceased from joining the party at Lady Madeleine's apartments in the evening, and never omitted increasing the circle at the New House for a single night. The whole of the fourth week the Baron dined with his Imperial Highness. Although the invitation had been extended to all the gentlemen from the first, it had been agreed that it was not to be accepted, in order that the ladies should not find their party in the Salon less numerous or less agreeable. The Baron was the first to break through a rule which he had himself proposed; and Mr. St George and the Chevalier de Boeffleurs soon followed his example.
" Mr. Grey," said Lady Madeleine one evening, as she was about to leave the gardens, "we shall be happy to see you to-night if you are not engaged-Mr. Sherborne only will be with us."
"I thank your Ladyship, but I fear that I an engaged," said Vivian; for the receipt of some letters from England made him little inclined to enter into society.
"Oh, no! you can't be engaged," said Violet ​Fane; "pray come! pray come! I know you only want to go to that terrible New House; I wonder what St. George can find to amuse him there so keenly; I fear no good: men never congregate together for any beneficial purpose. I am sure, with all his gastronomical affectations, he would not, if all were right, prefer the most exquis dinner in the world to our society. As it is, we scarcely see him a moment. I think, Mr. Grey, that you are the only one who has not deserted the Salon. For once, give up the New House—I'm sure you are not in your usual spirits; you will be more amused, more innocently amused at least, even if you go to sleep like Mr. Sherborne, than you will with playing at that disgusting Rouge-et-noir, with a crowd of suspicious-looking men in mustachios."
Vivian smiled at Miss Fane's warmth, and was too flattered by the interest which she seemed to take in his welfare, to persist in his refusal, although she did dilate most provokingly on the absence of her cousin. Vivian soon joined them.
"Lady Madeleine is assisting me in a most ​important work, Mr. Grey. I am making drawings of the whole Valley of the Rhine; I know that you are very accurately acquainted with the scenery; you can, perhaps, assist me with your advice about this view of Old Hatto's Castle; I am sure I'm not quite right."
Vivian was so completely master of every spot in the Rhine-land, that he had no difficulty in suggesting the necessary alterations. The drawings, unlike most young ladies' sketches, were vivid representations of the scenery which they professed to depict; and Vivian forgot his melancholy as he attracted the attention of the fair artist to points of interest, unknown or unnoticed by the Guide-books, and the Diaries.
"You must look forward to Italy with great interest, Miss Fane?"
"The greatest! I shall not, however, forget the Rhine, even among the Apennines."
"Our intended fellow-travellers, Lord Mounteney and his family, are already at Milan," said Lady Madeleine to Vivian; "we were to have joined their party—Lady Mounteney is a Trevor."
​"I have had the pleasure of meeting Lord Mounteney in England, at Sir Berdmore Scrope's: do you know him?"
"Very slightly. The Mounteneys pass the winter at Rome, where I hope we shall join them. Do you know the family intimately?"
"Mr. Ernest Clay, a nephew of his lordship's, I have seen a great deal of; I suppose, according to the adopted phraseology, I ought to describe him as my friend, although I am utterly ignorant where he is at present; and, although, unless he is himself extremely altered, there scarcely can be two persons who now more differ in their pursuits and tempers than ourselves."
"Ernest Clay! is he a friend of yours?—He's somewhere on the continent now; I forget where; with some diplomatic appointment I think. Indeed, I'm sure of the fact, though I'm perfectly ignorant of the place, for it was through Mr. Trevor's interest that he obtained it. I see you smile at the idea of Ernest Clay drawing up a protocol!"
"Lady Madeleine, you have never read me ​Caroline Mounteney's letter, as you promised," said Miss Fane; "I suppose full of raptures—'thr Alps, and Apennines, the Pyrenæan, and the River Po.'"
"By no means: the whole letter of four sides, double crossed, is filled with an account of the Ballet at La Scala; which, according to Caroline, lis a thousand times more interesting than Mont-Blanc, or the Simplon."
"One of the immortal works of Vigano, I suppose," said Vivian; "he has raised the ballet of action to an equality with tragedy. I have heard my father mention the splendid effect of his Vestale and his Otello."
"And yet," said Violet Fane, "I do not like Othello to be profaned. It is not for operas and ballets. We require the thrilling words."
"It is very true; yet Pasta's acting in the opera, and in an opera acting is only a secondary point, was a grand performance; and I have myself seldom witnessed a more masterly effect produced by any actor in the world, than I did a fortnight ago, at the Opera at Darmstadt, by Wild in Othello.
​"I think the history of Desdemona is the most affecting of all tales," said Miss Fane.
"The violent death of a woman, young, lovely, and innocent, is assuredly the most terrible of tragedies," observed Vivian; "and yet, I know not why, I agree with you that Desdemona's is the most affecting of fates—more affecting than those of Cordelia, or Juliet, or Ophelia."
"It is," said Lady Madeleine, "because we always contrast her misery with her previous happiness. The young daughter of Lear is the child of misfortune: Juliet has the anticipation, not the possession of happiness; and the characters in Hamlet, seem so completely the sport of a mysterious, but inexorable destiny, that human interest ceases for those whose conduct does not appear to be influenced by human passions. The exquisite poetry—the miraculous philosophy of Hamlet, will always make us read it with delight, and study it with advantage; but, for Ophelia we do not mourn. We are interested in the fortunes of a fictitious character, because in witnessing a representation of a ​scene of human life, we form our opinion of the proper course to be pursued by the imaginary agents; and our attention is excited, in order to ascertain whether their conduct and our opinions agree. But where the decree of fate is visibly being fulfilled, or the interference of a supernatural power is revealed, we know that human faculties can no longer be of avail; that prudence can no longer protect—courage no longer defend. We witness the tragedy with fear, but not with sympathy."
"I have often asked myself," said Miss Fane, "which is the most terrible destiny for a young woman to endure:—to meet death after a life of trouble, anxiety, and suffering; or suddenly to be cut off in the enjoyment of all things that make life delightful; with a heart too pure to be tainted by their possession, and a mind too much cultivated to over appreciate their value?"
"For my part," said Vivian, "in the last instance, I think that death can scarcely be considered an evil. The pure spirit would have only to sleep until the Great Day; and then—as Dryden has magnificently said 'wake an ​angel still.' How infinitely is such a destiny to be preferred to that long apprenticeship of sorrow and suffering, at the end of which men are generally as unwilling to die as at the commencement!"
"And yet," said Miss Fane, "there is something fearful in the idea of sudden death."
"Very fearful!" muttered Vivian; "very fearful in some cases;" for he thought of one whom he had sent to his great account before his time.
"Violet, my dear!" said Lady Madeleine, in a very agitated voice; "have you finished your drawing of the Bingenloch?" But Miss Fane would not leave the subject.
"Very fearful in all cases, Mr. Grey. How few of us are prepared to leave this world without warning! And if from youth, or sex, or natural disposition, or from the fortunate union of the influence of all these three, a few. may chance to be better fitted for the great change than their companions, still, I always think that in those cases in which we view our fellow-creatures suddenly departing from this world, ​apparently without a bodily or mental pang, there must be a moment of suffering, which none of us can understand; suffering, occasioned by a consciousness of immediately meeting death in the very flush of life, and earthly thoughts—a moment of suffering, which, from its intense and novel character, may appear an eternity of anguish. I shall, perhaps, not succeed in conveying my peculiar feeling on this subject to you. I have always looked upon such an end as the most terrible of dispensations."
"I enter into your feelings," answered Vivian; "although the light in which you view this subject is new to me. Terrible, however, as we may universally consider the event of a sudden death, I still do not believe that a long and painful illness ever exempts man from the suffering which you mention; but that he always quits life with the same unwillingness to die."
"I cannot agree with you, Mr. Grey, in this opinion, which you seem to entertain of the inefficacy of 'a long apprenticeship of sorrow and suffering.' From my own experience, ​I should say that it robbed death of all its terrors. Death is most dreadful at a distance—illness weakens the mind in a wise proportion with the body; and therefore, at a certain period, the feelings are too enervated by debility, or too blunted by personal suffering, to experience that which in health appears the greatest trial in our dissolution—the parting with our friends. In the enjoyment of every pleasure which health and affluence can afford, I confess that it appears most dreadful to encounter the agonies of disease; and parting with all we love here, to sink into the grave, and be forgotten by those of whose every thought, when living, we seemed to be the centre. But when we are worn out with pain, the selfishness of our nature makes us look upon those around us, with little more interest than as the ministers of our wants. We forget all but the present suffering, and only look forward to the future as a release from it. If ever you have experienced a long and dangerous illness, Mr. Grey, I am confident that, on reflection, you will agree with me."
​"My dear Violet," said Lady Madeleine; "I thought that Mr. Grey came here to-night to forget his melancholy. These surely are subjects which do not make men gay."
"I assure you, Lady Madeleine," said Vivian, "that I take great—the greatest interest in this subject. I have endured a most dangerous illness, Miss Fane, but it was not one of the kind you allude to. It was a violent fever, and I was not sensible of my disease till its danger was past. I have no very clear conception of my state of mind when I recovered; but I think, if I remember right, that I dreaded life as much as I feared death."
"That was a peculiar case," said Miss Fane; "a case in which death, from the state of mind, could have had no terrors. Of course my argument refers to the generality of long and dangerous illnesses, when the patient is only too sensible of the daily increasing debility. For myself, I distinctly remember being reduced to such fearful weakness, that the physicians and nurses round my bed believed me dying, if not dead; and from my complete ​inanition, entirely past a knowledge of what was going on around me. They were deceived, however, in this. I heard them say that I was dying; more than once they thought that all was over; but it produced no emotion in my mind,—neither fear, nor sorrow, nor hope. I felt my breath fluttering fainter, and fainter. I could not move even my finger; and I thought indeed that all would soon be over; but it brought no pang for the sufferers who surrounded my bed, no anxiety, or desire for myself. At last I sunk into a deep sleep; and after a length of time I awoke with quickened feelings. My natural affections returned, and then I had a strong longing for life. Here I am now, enjoying excellent health, in spite of my dear physician's grave looks," said Miss Fane, putting her arm round Lady Madeleine's neck; "and not only health, but every blessing which youth can bring me. Nevertheless, dreading death as I do now, with the feelings of health and a happy life, I sometimes almost regret that I ever awoke from that perfect calm of every earthly passion."
​As Vivian was thinking that Violet Fane was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld, Lady Madeleine Trevor bent down, and kissed her forehead. Her ladyship's large blue eyes were full of tears. A woman's eye never seems more bright than when it glances through a tear—as the light of a star seems more brilliant when sparkling on a wave.
"Violet, my dear," said her ladyship, "let us talk no more of death."
"Who was talking of death?" said Mr. Sherborne, waking from a refreshing nap; "I'm sure I wasn't. Let me see—I forget what my last observation was; I think I was saying, Lady Madeleine, that a little music would refresh us all. Violet, my dear, will you play me one of my favourites?"
"What shall it be, dear Sir? I really think I may sing to-night. What think you, Lady Madeleine? I have been silent a fortnight." So saying, Miss Fane sat down to the piano.
Mr. Sherborne's favourite ensued. It was a lively air, calculated to drive away all melancholy feelings, and cherishing those bright ​sunny views of human life which the excellent old man had invariably professed. But Rossini's Muse did not smile to-night upon her who invoked its gay spirit; and ere Lady Madeleine could interfere, Violet Fane had found more congenial emotions in one of Weber"s prophetic symphonies.
Oh! Music! miraculous art, that makes the poet"s skill a jest; revealing to the soul inexpressible feelings, by the aid of inexplicable sounds! A blast of thy trumpet, and millions rush forward to die: a peal of thy organ, and uncounted nations sink down to pray. Mighty is thy three-fold power!
First, thou canst call up all elemental sounds, and scenes, and subjects, with the definiteness of reality. Strike the lyre! Lo! the voice of the winds—the flash of the lightning—the swell of the wave—the solitude of the valley!
Then thou canst speak to the secrets of a man's heart as if by inspiration. Strike the lyre! Lo!—our early love—our treasured hate—our withered joy—our flattering hope!
And, lastly, by thy mysterious melodies, thou ​canst recall man from all thought of this world and of himself—bringing back to his soul's memory, dark but delightful recollections of the glorious heritage which he has lost, but which he may win again. Strike the lyre! Lo! Paradise, with its palaces of inconceivable splendor, and its gates of unimaginable glory!
When Vivian left the apartment of Lady Madeleine, he felt no inclination to sleep; and instead of retiring to rest, he bent his steps towards the gardens. It was a rich summer night; the air, recovered from the sun's scorching rays, was cool—not chilling. The moon was still behind the mountains; but the dark blue heavens were studded with innumerable stars, whose tremulous light quivered on the face of the river. All human sounds had ceased to agitate; and the note of the nightingale, and the rush of the waters, banished monotony without disturbing reflection. But not for reflection had Vivian Grey deserted his chamber: his heart was full—but of indefinable sensations; and forgetting the world in the ​intenseness of his emotions, he felt too much to think.
How long he had been pacing by the side of the river he knew not, when he was awakened from his reverie by the sound of voices. He looked up, and saw lights moving at a distance. The party at the New House had just broke up. He stopped beneath a branching elm-tree for a moment, that the sound of his steps might not attract their attention; and at this very instant the garden gate opened, and closed with great violence. The figure of a man approached. As he passed Vivian, the moon rose up from above the brow of the mountain, and lit up the countenance of the Baron. Despair was stamped on his distracted features.