# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 22

CHAPTER XXII.
"Come like shadows, so depart."—Macbeth.
"How shall I yield you fit entertainment?"—Coleridge.
"A hemisphere of stars."—Byron, or the Morning Post.
"These written troubles of the brain."—Macbeth.
It had been settled, that the next evening, on their way to Mrs. Dorrick's, they should look in for an hour at the Athenæum, it being one of those Wednesdays when gentlemen invite ladies, to shew how admirably they can do without them, on the same principle that a well-supplied, though beleaguered city courts the presence of spies, and displays its strength and resources till surrounding enemies are fain to raise the siege from very hopelessness of success. Clubs are just a modification of monasteries—places of refuge from female attentions; and, as in former days, the finest architecture, the best situation, the most elaborate cuisine, the most refined cellar, are devoted to their use. The principal modern improvements are the omission of ​fasting and penance, and the substitution of magazines for missals.
"Whoso enters here leaves hope behind,"
should be the Wednesdays' motto. The deep crimson of the walls is alone enough to annihilate a thousand of the rose-coloured visions which haunted last night's quadrille. All a young lady should pray for, is a severe lingering fit of illness, to impress upon her debating lover a just feminine valuation;—fevers and agues are the best stepping-stones to the hymeneal altar.
Well; our party entered, walked and looked round,—and expressed their admiration or their censure, the former greatly preponderating; for the ladies feel they are only there on sufferance, which makes politeness a necessity. From the place they turned to the people; and when criticism is in a crowd, it is of a motley kind, and certainly not "too discreet;" for what but something ridiculous can be said about those we do not know,—and this lady with her weak wan face, and its multitude of heavy ringlets, like the Dead Sea between two weeping willows,—that gentleman with the wilful whiskers encroaching like the sands over the yellow desert of his cheek,—or that youth ​with the shining black head, as polished as his boots, audibly proclaiming Warren's best,—soon exhausted the stock of similes, if not of sneers; besides, the attention was attracted to individuals.
"Who is that?" said Emily, as a gentleman, with one of the most sparkling and keen glances in the world—which she was quite pretty enough to attract for a moment—passed by.
"One of our first poets," replied Lorraine. "I must tell you a very happy compliment paid him the other day by one who was speaking of his powers of sentiment and sarcasm: 'When one reads your lyrics, the exclamation is amour! (ah, Moore!); but after your satires, it is Timour (T. Moore) the Tartar.' As for himself, he is the Venus thrown in society; his conversation carries you along with the ease and grace of skaiting; he tells a story as if M. Caillaud had left him his mantle, or as if in him were realised the classic tale of the bees that settled round the mouth of Sophocles, leaving their honey behind them. In listening to him I perfectly understand the feeling which made Napoleon interrupt some unhappy elongator of narrative with 'Allons! Denon, contez nous cela.' He is our English Denon."
​ "Look at that serious-seeming personage, who walks from one end of the room as if he meant to commit suicide at the other."
"That is one of our patrician diseurs, or rather faiseurs, of bons mots,—one who says good things, not as if he had any pleasure or vanity in saying them, but rather, in the very spirit of our nation, as if he had a stock on hand he was desirous to dispose of to the best advantage. Many of his ideas are very original: talking of the picturesque the other day, he said,—'So common is it, indeed, that every body travels to talk about it; when I travel, my carriage shall only have a skylight.' He has an odd habit, or rather affectation, of muttering to himself what he intends afterwards to say; for example, 'Woman,—yes, very pretty,—but too much colour; I must ask who she is.' 'Wine,—I see there a man I must ask to take wine with me—great bore;' and then follows, 'Shall I have the honour, pleasure,' or whatever form the great question of wine may take. Lord E., who knew his habit, resolved one day to set up an opposition muttering, and forthwith commenced, 'Wine,—yes, wine; I see there a man I would not take wine with if he asked me.' But do you ​see that gentleman seated by the fire-place?—he is one who has excited your most enthusiastic admiration."
Emily turned, and saw a face that riveted her whole attention: melancholy and intellectual, it was of the noblest order, and the expression seemed to impart something of its own thoughtfulness to the beholder. The shape of the head, the outline of the face, had more the power and decision of the Roman, than the flowing softness of the Greek; in a bust it would have been almost stern, but for the benevolence of the mouth. It was as if two natures contended together,—the one, proud, spiritual, severe, the expression of the head,—the other, sad, tender, and sensitive, the expression of the heart. There was melancholy, as if the imagination dwelt upon the feelings, deepening their tenderness, and refining their sorrow, and yet intellectual withal, as if the thought and the feeling sprang up together: perhaps the most striking effect was their change from their natural look of abstraction to that of observation,—the one was the glance of the poet, the other of the falcon. He is one of our most distinguished authors, in whose novels it is difficult to say whether philosophy, wit, or poetry, most ​abound—the appreciation of whose excellence has been as prompt as it has been just; yet never was one less likely to find enjoyment in the course of literary success,—a course in which the meanness of the obstacles, the baseness of the opponents, the petty means of even the most entire triumph, must revolt the conqueror at his own victory; truly do they say, fame is for the dead.
"'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view."
From childhood we hear some few great names to which mind has given an immortality: they are called the benefactors of their kind—their words are familiar to our lips—our early thoughts take their tone, our first mental pleasures are derived, from their pages—we admire, and then we imitate—we think how glorious it is to let the spirit thus go forth, winning a throne in men's hearts, sending our thoughts, like the ships of Tyre laden with rich merchandise, over the ocean of human opinion, and bringing back a still richer cargo of praise and goodwill. Thus was it with the great men of old, and so shall it be with us. We forget that Time, the Sanctifier, has been with them; that no present interests jar against theirs; and that around them ​is the calm and the solemnity of the grave; and we forget the ordeal through which they have passed to the temple. But look at any existing literary life—and we will speak only of the most successful—and who shall say that the loftiest head is not covered with dust and ashes? The first work is eminently successful, and the Eros of success has ever its Anteros of envy. Every unfortunate candidate thinks that the more fortunate stand between him and the sunshine of public favour. Then, how many are there who know no path to notoriety so easy as that which by attacking the already appreciated makes their very reputation a means, as well as a motive, for its injury. Then comes the struggle: this one is to be conciliated, the other intimidated; flattery becomes matter of exchange, and vanity self-defence; praise grows worthless in proportion as we know whence and wherefore it is given, and censure more bitter from the utter meanness of the censor. Again, the personal tone taken is revolting to a degree, the absurd and the malicious are blended, and some kind friend is always at hand to repeat. What must this be to all, and still more to one whose refined and reserved habits are so utterly at variance with the personality, the curiosity, ​the base party spirit of literature? Well, while recalling the vain hope, the unworthy attack, the departed glory, may Memory exclaim with the Peri,—
"Poor race of man, said the pitying Spirit,
Dearly ye pay for your primal fall;
Some flowers of Eden ye still inherit,
But the trail of the serpent is over them all."
None of this, however, passed through Emily's mind. Those who have no part in the conflict see with the imagination: they behold the crimson banner, hear the stately trumpet, and think not of the dust of the march, or the agony of the battle; and Emily gazed on the individual before her with that intense exaltation and enthusiasm which is literature's best triumph.
But her attention was now attracted to the lady who took his arm. Ah! poets and painters have truth for the foundation of their dreams,—she, at least, looked the incarnation of her husband's genius. Her style of beauty was such as might have suited the days of chivalry—made for worship more than love—one whose affection was a triumph even more than a gift. Her mouth, which was like chiseled coral, had many smiles, and most of scorn; and its speech had as much of sarcasm as of ​sweetness. Her step, her height—the proud sweep of a neck which was like the swan's for snow and grace—were such as make the artificial distinctions of society seem the inherent aristocracy of nature; you felt she was never meant to breathe aught but "the air of palaces"—you never thought of calling her pretty.
Who is it that says the character of a woman is decided by the cast of her features? All sweeping assertions are erroneous. In this instance, the style of manner was opposed to the style of the features. At the first glance, the imagination likened her to those beautiful queens who followed in the triumph they disdained of the Roman conqueror—as one to whom society was a pageant, in which she must take and yet scorn her part; but this impression passed with the first tone of the lute upon her lips—her sweet and song-like voice. Her exquisite laugh, like the sound of a shell which, instead of the night wind, is filled with the morning sunshine and bursts into music—the fascination of such feminine kindliness—wit so airy, yet so keen, whose acid was not that of vinegar, dissolving all the pearls of gentler feelings, but the acid of champagne, whose pearls dance on the surface and melt into blending ​sweetness——Ah! one moment's pause—I have renounced poetry, of which, sweet lady, you were to me the embodied spirit. I know flattery is impertinent, and praise is vain—yet I cannot pass the shrine of my early faith, and not at least fling a flower on it in passing: I never yet beheld being so lovely—and I never shall again; I never witnessed feelings so generous, so unspotted by the world; and my words seem unworthy and imperfect, when I say of her heart, as some early Spanish poet said of his mistress's face—
"That it has looked in Paradise, and caught
Its early beauty."
"Look," said Lorraine—"do you wish to see the very vainest man in England?"
"A bold assertion," added Mr. Morland, "but a true one; for yonder gentleman is morally, mentally, personally, and politically vain."
Emily turned towards him—there was nothing conspicuous about him but the buttons of his coat; many and bright were they, with some hieroglyphic sign impressed upon them.
"One of our first poets, he has
'Narrowed his mind,
And to parties given up what was meant for mankind.'
"I have been lately," said Mr. Morland, "hearing the detail of his sitting for his picture: first, he was sketched in a Vandyke dress—then in a Spanish costume—he had some thoughts of a turban—when a friend observed, that, for the credit of the age he had immortalised, he ought to be apparelled after its fashion. He tried on forty-seven waistcoats, and at last decided on a cloak. One day the artist's attention was attracted by a little china jar which he held in his hand; the poet was more than usually restless; at last, after an earnest gaze on the sketch, and then on the mirror, he said, 'My dear young friend, intense study has done the work of years, and many a midnight vigil has paled the fresh colours of youth. You are painting for posterity.
'One would not, sure, look shocking when one's dead'—
and, uncovering the little pot of rouge, he arranged his complexion to his liking."
​ "At all events, that gentleman's self-estimate is a pleasant one who believes that every man looks up to, and that every woman is in love with him."
"I excuse, however, a great deal in him—
'If to his lot some female errors fall,
Read but his odes, and you'll forget them all.'"
There was something singularly picturesque in the next person that passed—tall, dark, with that flashing and hawk-like glance which generally accompanies a mouth whose expression was that of sarcasm, but whose satire, though bitter enough, seemed rather to spring from the love of amusement than from malice.
"That is Lord ——, the author of two of our very popular novels, of which the last is my especial favourite. 'Yes and No' is a lively etching of modern society—fine in the out line, and animated in colouring; the characters may or may not be portraits, but they are realities. Nothing is more difficult than to paint from nature—nothing so pleasant when achieved. To sketch real life requires a most peculiar talent, and that Lord —— possesses."
"I met with a paragraph in some journal the other day, which made a crime of his taking ​an active part in literature instead of politics—writing, instead of talking;—as if there were not speakers enow in the House to debate till doomsday. And as to the practical utility, may I be permitted to venture my opinion, that moral is at least as useful as political satire?"
"Who is yonder gentleman? " asked Emily, attracted by that air of anticipative consciousness which says, "all eyes are upon me, or ought to be."
"The writer of some poems we were studying in one of the Annuals," replied Lorraine. "You remember the one which appears with its author's name in capitals at the beginning, and ends with stating its claim to one merit at any rate—
'Some praise, at least—one act of sense may claim— He wrote these verses, but concealed his name:'
—the name, nevertheless, being the first thing we saw."
"Ah," said Mr. Morland, "I have quite a little history to give you—a romance of fashionable life—by which I mean the romance of effect, not feeling. Colonel Clarendon commenced his search after reputation by a journey ​in the East and astonished all Paris (the city he selected for his début in celebrity) by eloquent details of the delights of dwelling in goatskin tents, and galloping through the desert. Les merveilleuses were somewhat startled at the taste which pronounced sheep's milk and dates the perfection of luxury, but every fair head in the Chassée de Saint Antin was completely turned. To a gentleman of this habit of mind, une grande passion was indispensable, and he laid his heart and homage at the fairy-like feet of Madame de St. Leu.
"But your very vain lover is a little fatiguing for every-day wear, and the lady permitted herself a slight preference in favour of the Baron von Schmanherstoff, an Hungarian nobleman, whose furred pelisse, and silver spurs had produced quite a sensation. Indignant at what he termed her treachery, the Hungarian went to his friend and told him all. Colonel Clarendon rushed to the presence of his faithless mistress, and overwhelmed himself with despair and her with reproaches. 'Are you a man,' said the lady, with an air between injured innocence and conscious dignity, 'that you tell me of this outrage before you have avenged it?—unless you are the basest coward ​that ever trifled with the feelings, or insulted the honour of a woman, the affront you have offered me will be washed out in Baron von Schmanherstoff's blood. If you are a gentleman, I leave my cause in your hands.' The Colonel bowed, left the room, and sent his challenge. Next morning they met in the Bois de Boulevards: the friends embraced, and then fought.
"But what gave such effect to this duel were the uncommon weapons used by the combatants—broadswords. Colonel Clarendon slightly wounded the Baron, who fell—people did say, according to agreement. He threw himself by the body of his Pylades—called himself his murderer—vowed never again to see the perfidious woman who had caused the quarrel—did not tear his hair, for he rather piqued himself on his curls, but he dishevelled them. He had the Baron carried to his lodgings, and never for a fortnight left his room.
"When 'les deux amis ' appeared in public together, all Paris rang with their romantic attachment, and the Colonel found that his friendship made him as much the fashion as his travels. The renown reached even to the northern country where his father's seat is ​situated. Nothing for a week—news lasts longer in the country than it does in town—was talked of but Colonel Clarendon's duel, and his devotion to his friend. I, who was then staying there, heard at least fifty versions of his despair. But I must finish my history, as there is a young poet whose writings I heard you admiring yesterday—the tall slight one—what I rather think you would call interesting-looking."
"Mr. Lillian," observed Mr. Morland, "is one of the most brilliant supporters of paradox I ever met. His conversation only requires to be a little more in earnest to be perfectly delightful. His views are original, his illustrations most happy, and an epigrammatic style sets off his speech—as novel writers say of some dress in which the heroine appears—to 'the best advantage.' But—and, do you know, I think it rather a good feeling in humanity—that is to say, in myself—we like and require truth—always supposing and allowing that the said truth interferes neither with our interests nor our inclinations."
"I agree with you, that an opinion increases in interest, as well as weight, by its supporter appearing to mean what he says. But few ​brilliant talkers are sufficiently aware of the advantage of seeming in earnest."
"He struck me as an instance of the usual effect produced by society—with its Janus face of success and disappointment, of flattery and of falsehood—on a young and clever man. He sets out with believing too much—he ends with believing too little. Human nature was at first an imagination, and after wards a theory—both equally false. Ridicule may be the test of truth, but it is not its result."
"Nevertheless, sarcasm is the royal road to the bar. Is there any thing now-a-days to which a man may not sneer his way? But, for Pity and Miss Arundel's sake, let us return to his poetry. It is that rare thing 'a happy marriage,' between persiflage and sentiment. He tells an ancient legend to perfection. It is a minstrel in masquerade—the romance of the olden time couched with modern taste—and his wit keen with present allusions. But, really, it is scarcely worth while to be witty, when we remember how stupid people are. One would often think that a joke was as hard to be taken as an affront. The elder brother of this very gentleman had been spending some days at a house in the country: on the ​morning of departure a lady asked him, 'Pray, are you the clever Mr. Lillian?' 'I never answer flattering questions,' was his reply—or, perhaps, the reply of his brother, the 'clever Mr. Lillian,' for him, for he himself told me the story."
"Who is that youth to the left, in an attitude?"
"One who always reminds me of the French actor's reply to the manager, who asked what parts he was fit for—'Mais tous.' Such is Mr. Vincent's self-estimate. They say happiness is only the finer word for self-satisfaction—if so, Mr. Vincent is a happy man. He has embodied a general system of depreciatives, out of which he extracts most 'strange contents.' I never yet heard him allow merit to man, woman or child; he speaks only in the subjunctive mood, governed by an if or a but. Talk to him of a witty person, and he finds out at once,
'That flippancy to wit is near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.'
If serious, he asks—
'Shall grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise?'
​Nay, one day, when, half out of want of something to say, half out of politeness, and—if you will let me divide his motives, as the school-boy, in his translation of Cæsar, did ancient Gaul, which, he said, was quartered into three halves—half out of really thinking it, I praised the beauty of a little girl playing in the room, Mr. Vincent immediately drew so gloomy a picture of the casualties to which beauty is subject, that I am not sure whether he did not talk both mother and child into the small-pox."
At this moment our little group made an involuntary pause, to listen to the conversation of a lady close beside them.
"My story will illustrate my positive assertion. As a child, she was just the Mr. Nobody of the family—that is, the one who does all the mischief done in the house—at least, bears all the blame of it, which is much the same in its consequences. One day, a friend took her to task, as it is called. 'Now, do you not see what a wicked little girl you are? Why do you not pray to God every morning to make you a better child?' 'And so I do,' sobbed the poor little thing, 'but he only makes me worserer and worserer.'"
​ At this moment the speaker turned round, and shewed a face so beautiful, that had poetry never existed before, it must have been invented in describing such loveliness. The black hair was bound with classical simplicity round a small and finely-shaped head; the face was something between Grecian and Spanish—the intellect of the one, the passion of the other; the exquisite features were like those of a statue, but a statue like that which Pygmalion called by love into life; the brow was magnificent—fit for Madame de Stael, had her mind looked its power and its grace.
"That is our English Corinne," said Mr. Morland—"one to whom genius and beauty are birthrights. Poetry, prose, wit, pathos, are the gifted slaves of her lamp. You were reading one of her exquisite volumes this morning."
"I was," said Edward, "and dreaming of the author; and now I only say to her what Wordsworth said of Yarrow—
'And thou, who didst appear so fair
 To young imagination,
Didst rival, in the sight of day,
 Her delicate creation.'"
A throng of small "noticeables" now passed by—poets who have written two songs, and live ​upon their credit—wits who once said, or, peradventure, repeated, a clever thing, and have made it last. But it was later than our party had intended to remain—or, whatever of attraction the crowd might yet retain was to them of no avail.
As they were leaving the room, Lady Mandeville entered. She glanced round, and said to Lorraine—"Considering, gentlemen, you had only yourselves to study, it must be owned you have shewn no indiscreet carelessness to your own comfort and convenience."
"We want something," said Lorraine, "to console us for your absence."
"Nay, nay—it is to shew us how well you can do without us," replied Lady Mandeville. "I daily expect, in these times of reform and retrenchment, that a bill will be brought into the House for the suppression of the female sex, as an expensive and useless superfluity."