# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 18

CHAPTER XVIII.
POPE'S VILLA.
I say not, regret me; you will not regret; You will try to forget me, you cannot forget; We shall hear of each other, ah, misery to hear Those names from another which once were so dear!
But deep words shall sting thee that breathe of the past, And many things bring thee thoughts fated to last; The fond hopes that centred in thee are all dead, The iron has entered the soul where they fed.
Of the chain that once bound me, the memory is thine, But my words are around thee, their power is on thine;
No hope, no repentance, my weakness is o'er, It died with the sentence—I love thee no more!
It was a very bit of Arcadia, the scene that the lawn presented. A few late flowers lingered among the shrubs, and the rich colouring on the autumnal foliage supplied the place of bloom. The garden was laid out with exquisite taste, and the groups scattered around seemed animated with the spirit of the place; for they placed themselves in little knots, just ​where they were calculated to produce the best effect. There was an elegant collation ready; and, while Pope talked of
"His humble roof, and poet's fare,"
he had neglected nothing that could please his assembled guests. To Lady Marchmont he was the most interesting object of all, though all his petits soins were addressed to Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who received them with that encouraging coquetry born of flattered vanity.
Flattery is like champagne, it soon gets into the head; but in Pope's flattery there was too much of the heart. Long after hours of neglect and mortification dearly atoned for that morning's pleasant delusion. There is something in genius for which fate demands severe atonement. In some things Pope's was an exception to the general lot. He dwelt in that "lettered ease" to which his own taste gave refinement; his talents pined in no long obscurity, but early reached their just appreciation; his friends were those whose friendship ​is honour, and he lived in a very court of personal homage and flattery. But fortune only neglected to do what nature had already done. Dwarfed from his birth, that slender frame was tenanted by acute physical ills; which, acting upon a mind even more sensitive than his body, made life one long scene of irritation and suffering. The fingers were contracted by pain that yet gave the sweetest music to their page: satire was at once his power (and the sense of power is sweet to us all) and his refuge.
The passion and melancholy of one or two poems just suffice to show what a world of affection and sentiment was checked and subdued, because their indulgence had been only too painful; but to-day was to be as flowing as his own verses: he was at her side on whom he lavished so much passionate and graceful flattery; and Lady Mary paid him back,—not in kind, for his heart went with his words, but hers was "only sweet lip service."
There is a cruelty in feminine coquetry, which is one of nature's contradictions. Formed ​of the softest materials—of the gentle smile and the soothing word, yet nothing can exceed its utter hard-heartedness. Its element is vanity, of the coldest, harshest, and most selfish order: it sacrifices all sense of right, all kindly feelings, all pity, for the sake of a transient triumph. Lady Mary knew—for when has woman not known?—her power. She knew that she was wholly beloved by a heart, proud, sensitive, and desponding. She herself had warmed fear into hope—had made passion seem possible to one who felt, keenly felt, how much nature had set him apart. If genius for one moment believed that it could create love, as it could create all else, hers was the fault; she nursed the delusion: it was a worthy tribute to her self-love.
"Truly, her ladyship," said the Duke of Wharton, "parades Parnassus a little too much. Does she suppose nobody is to be flattered but herself? Come, Hervey, let us try a little wholesome neglect." Forthwith they devoted themselves exclusively to Lady Marchmont. Lady Mary's smiles were ​unmarked, and her witticisms fell dead-weights so far as they were concerned. This was too much for a wit and a beauty to endure. Of what avail was flattery that she only heard herself? She grew impatient till the collation was over, and was the first to step out upon the lawn.
Pope did the honours of his garden, which was a poem in itself. He showed them his favourite willow—fittest tree for such a soil—so pale and tender in its green, so delicate a lining within the leaves, so fragile and so drooping, with so mournful a murmur when the wind stirs its slender branches. The whole scene was marked by that air of refined and tranquil beauty which is the charm of an English landscape. The fields had that glossy green, both refreshing and cheerful; the slight ascents were clothed with trees—some retaining their verdure, others wearing those warm and passionate colours that, like all things coloured by passion, so soon exhaust themselves. Yet what a gorgeous splendour is on an autumnal landscape! The horse-chestnut, with its rich ​mixture of orange and brown—the sycamore, with its warrior scarlet—the coral red of the small leaves of the hawthorn, mixed together with an oriental pomp; as if the year died like the Assyrian monarch, on a pyre of all precious things. Winding its way in broken silver, the sunshine dancing on every ripple, the Thames lay at the edge of the grassy sweep. The blue sky, with the light clouds floating on its surface, was mirrored in the depths of the river; but, as if it lost somewhat of its high tranquillity under the influence of our sphere, the reflection was agitated and tremulous, while the reality was calm and still. It is but the type of our restless world, and the serene one to which we aspire: we look up, and the heavens are above, holy and tranquil; we look down on their mirror below, and they are varying and troubled. But few flowers, and those pale and faint, lingered in the garden: these Pope gathered and offered to his fair guests. Lady Marchmont placed hers carefully in her girdle. "I shall keep even the withered leaves as a relic," said she, ​with a smile even more flattering than her words. It was well that she engrossed the attention of her host from the dialogue going on between Lord Hervey and Lady Mary.
"You learned the language of flowers in the East," said he; "but I thought dwarfs were only the messengers."
"And such they are now," replied his listener: " here is one flower for you,
'The rest the gods dispersed on empty air,'"
and she flung the blossoms carelessly from her.
Pope did not see the action, for he was pointing out a beautiful break in the view. "I have," said he, "long had a favourite project—that of planting an old Gothic cathedral in trees. Tall poplars, with their white stems, the lower branches cut away, would serve for the pillars; while different heights would form the aisles. The thick green boughs would shed 'a dim religious light,' and some stately old tree would have a fine effect as the tower."
​ "A charming idea!" cried Wharton; "and we all know
'That sweet saint whose name the shrine would bear.'
But, while we are waiting for the temple, can you not show us the altar?—we want to see your grotto."
Pope desired nothing better than to show his new toy, and led the way to the pretty and fanciful cave, which was but just finished. It was duly admired: but, while looking around, Wharton observed some verses lying on the seat.
"A treasure for the public good," exclaimed he; "I volunteer reading them aloud."
"Nay, nay, that is very unfair," cried Pope, who, nevertheless, did not secretly dislike the proposal.
"Ah, friend, 'tis true—this truth you lovers know, In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow; In vain fair Thames reflects the double scene Of hanging woodlands, and of sloping green: Joy lives not here; to happier seals it flies, And only lives where Wortley casts her eyes."
"Pray, 'fair inspirer of the tender strains,' let me lay the offering at your feet."
"Under them, if you please," said she, her fine features expressing the most utter contempt; and, trampling the luckless compliment in the dust, she took Lord Hervey's hand, and, exclaiming,—"The atmosphere of this place is too oppressive for me," left the grotto: but part of her whisper to her companion was meant to be audible,—
"A sign-post likeness of the human race, That is at once resemblance and disgrace."