# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 17

CHAPTER XVII.
ANOTHER LONDON LIFE.
A pretty, rainbow sort of life enough; Filled up with vanities and gay caprice: Such life is like the garden at Versailles, Where all is artificial; and the stream Is held in marble basins, or sent up Amid the fretted air, in waterfalls; Fantastic, sparkling; and the element, The mighty element, a moment's toy; And, like all toys, ephemeral.
Pleasure lasts forever, but enjoyment does not: the reason is, that the one lies around, and perpetually renews itself; but the other lies within, and exhausts itself. Lady Marchmont was at the pleasantest stage of both. At first, all things are new, and most things delightful. Vanity, novelty, and excitement, at once the graces and fates of society, were ​all in attendance upon her. A few weeks made her a reigning toast; verses were written, and glasses broken, in her honour; and it was an undecided thing, whether the Duke of Wharton wore her chains, or those of Lady Wortley. One day would suffice to tell the history of many.
"When sleepless lovers just at twelve awake,"
she awakened also. Chocolate came in those fairy cups of India china, which made the delight of our grandmothers, and whose value was such, that the poet satirist considered their loss to be the severest trial to a woman's feelings—alias her temper; while to be
"Mistress of herself, though China fall,"
was held an achievement almost too great for feminine philosophy. Chocolate then enabled the languid beauty to go through the duties of her toilette. Notes were read, laces looked over, the last new verses looked over with them; perhaps a page read from the last French romance—the mind a little disturbed from its heroic sorrows by the consideration, ​whether the next set of new bodkins should be of silver or pearl. Then it was to be decided what ribands would suit the complexion; whether the gazer would have to exclaim,—
"In her the beauties of the spring are seen, Her cheek is rosy, and her gown is green;"
or whether he would have to soar a yet higher flight, and cry,—
"In her the glory of the heaven we view, Her eyes are starlike, and her mantle blue."
Then the patches had to be placed—patches full of sentiment, coquetry, and bits of opinions as minute as themselves. Essences and powder had to he scattered together, and Henrietta's long black tresses gathered into a mass which might fairly set all the orders of architecture at defiance. Lastly came the hoop, and, with scarf and fan,
"Conscious beauty put on all her charms."
Friends began to drop in. One came with intelligence of a sale, where the most divine things in the world were to be had for ​nothing, or next to it—that next to it, by the by, is usually a very sufficient difference. Another came fresh from an Indian house, where silks and smiles, fans and flirtations, Chinese monsters and lovers, made the most delightful confusion possible. Ah, those Indian warehouses made the morning pass in a charming manner! many a soft confession was whispered over a huge china jar; many a heart has succumbed to a suite of mother-of-pearl card-box and counters; and as to the shawls, why, the whole feminine world has long ago acknowledged them to be irresistible. To one or other of these Lady Marchmont was usually hurried away; occupied with bargains,
"Bought, because they may be wanted— Wanted, because they may be had."
Then came the walk on the Mall, with as many cavaliers in her wake as there are bubbles in the track of the stately swan; each with sigh and compliment equally ready-made. Heavens, but the classic deities did see service in those days! Juno, Venus, and the ​Graces, do, certainly, round off a sentence; and the very common-place is redeemed by a fine world of olden poetry, that nothing can quite destroy.
There is an exquisite vein of flattery running through our ancient masters of song: when they wished to paint their mistress's charms, all nature was compelled into the sweet services. How fine is Dryden's,
"In the far land of pleasant Thessalie, Uprose the sun, and uprose Emily!"
How sweet Donne's parting prayer to her who would fain have companioned him, a gentle page,—
"When I'm away, dream me some happiness;"
or the sea-captain's petition to his unknown mistress,—
"Tell me thy name, fair saint, That I may call upon it in a storm, And save some ship from perishing;"
"Ask me no more where June bestows, When spring is gone, the fading rose; For in her beauty's orient deep Those flowers, as in their causes sleep."
These days of romantic gallantry had somewhat waned: but enough of the high-toned and classic remained to make the charming things then said very charming indeed; and never were they poured in a fairer ear than in Lady Marchmont's; nor, it must be confessed, in one more ready to receive them.
Night came, with that increase of gaiety which has always been night's peculiar privilege—perhaps on the principle of contrast. Monday, it was the ridotto; Tuesday, the opera; Wednesday, Ranelagh; Thursday, the play; Friday, a ball; Saturday, a rout, or else a little of all these blended together. What a sensation was produced the first night of her appearance in the stage box! One line in the play was,
"I look upon her face, and think of heaven;"
One morning, while
"Watching the dumb devotion of her glass,"
in came Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who caught both her hands, and cried, laughing,—"Yield yourself my prisoner—rescue or no rescue!"
"Why," replied Henrietta, "the fashion of wearing your ladyship's chains is too universal for me to resist it."
"There is a good child! and now come and do as I bid you. We have improvised the most charming party imaginable. The summer has come back by surprise. I own I wonder that June was not tired of us: still here is a day so sunny, that October does not know its own. The Duke of Wharton, Lord Hervey, and some two or three others, have designed a water-party in our honour. We are ​to go and see Pope's new grotto, opened for the first time; then try Hampton Court, and see if Mrs. Howard will stake a little princely gold on a pool of basset."
Lady Marchmont was delighted: and a little time saw them
"Sailing the bosom of the silver Thames."
There were several besides, but a partie quarrée was formed at their end of the boat, by herself, Lady Mary, the duke, and Lord Hervey. The ladies were on their best looks, the gentlemen on their best manners; and manner in the one sex is equivalent to look in the other. The two fair dames were sufficiently jealous of the glory of conquest; and the two cavaliers sufficiently undecided, to give a due degree of piquancy to exertion; and it must be allowed that each was worth the trouble of pleasing.
Lady Mary was in the zenith of her beauty; and, as it was a beauty that had always rested on feature and expression, the first bloom was scarcely missed. She caught the attention at once, but she was more likely to attract than ​to fix. The bright dark eyes were restless, and the lip had smiles more sarcastic than sweet; and there was a pretty defiance in her air, which piqued rather than interested. Her dress was picturesque, but careless, and would not have suited any one but herself; and her manners were in exact keeping with her face and costume;—they were at once indifferent and flattering: she exacted much attention, but she also bestowed much; and there was a brilliant uncertainty in her conversation, which gave it a peculiar charm. None could tell whether the next sentence was to be a compliment or an epigram. She talked much, and enjoyed talking; and, obviously, did not dislike a little tracasserie. Scandal, with her, did not lose any of its usual snowball propensities, of gathering as it went.
Next her sat the Duke of Wharton, in an attitude ingeniously indolent. He had that air, so English, and yet so impossible to define—high-bred. To-day his toilette was simple to affectation: he had resolved, he said, not to have a care in the world, and he began ​by dismissing the most important. His figure was good, but slight; and with singular grace in all its movements. His finely cut features were capable of every variety of expression; they were, to use a French epithet, expressive as their epithets for all social qualities usually are, mobile in the extreme. They needed the passing animation of the moment; for, when in a state of repose, there was something wanting. The face did not interest; you noted in it a certain contraction of forehead, and an indecision about the mouth, which indicated, surely enough, Wharton's character. It was like a fairy tale, in which the good fairies assemble round the infant's cradle, and lavish upon it all the choicest gifts. Suddenly, some old and malicious magician appears, and destroys the effect of all these fine qualities by some one evil addition.
"Captive in Cytherea's bower, To Beauty and her train;"
to-morrow engaged in some dark intrigue, whose intricacy was its chief charm: and still, whether as lover or politician, diverted from his first aim by some other object.
"Thus, on the sands of Afric's burning plains, Though deeply made, no long impress remains. The slightest leaf can leave its figure there, The strongest form is scattered by the air."
What the Duke of Wharton wanted was passion—passion, which alone gives intensity to the purpose, and constancy to the pursuit. He knew no feeling stronger than excitement, and looked for nothing beyond amusement. His friends could not rely upon him, but his foes could; they might be sure that his resentment would, like all his undertakings, only go half way.
On the other side was Lord Hervey, a slight, fair, young man, dressed—oh ye gods!—invention enough for an epic must have gone to complete that toilette! It involved ​the peace of mind of "a whole sex of queens;" it was too destructive, and such Lord Hervey felt himself to be: his voice to a woman took a tone of tender pity, as if he compassionated his conquests. He never talked about any thing but himself; because he was persuaded that, in so doing, he chose the most attractive subject to his listeners. His horse, his dog, his every thing that was his, had a peculiar charm, from the mere fact of belonging to him. He was clever, and yet did the most absurd things, only because he believed that his doing them redeemed the absurdity.
It was a lovely day; for, say what they will, England does see the sunshine sometimes. Indeed, I think that our climate is an injured angel: has it not the charm of change, and what charm can be greater? That morning the change was a deep blue sky, with a few large clouds floating over it; a sun which turned the distant horizon into a golden haze; and a soft west wind, that seemed only sent to bring the sound of the French horns in the boat that followed their own. As they passed ​along Chelsea Reach, the bells of the church were ringing merrily.
"Why, that is a wedding peal!" cried the Duke of Wharton; "and it puts me in mind that Miss Pelham and Sir John Shelley are just going to enter into the holy and blessed state."
"Yes," replied Lady Mary, "and I never knew a marriage with a greater prospect of happiness—she will be a widow in six weeks!"
"Well," said Lady Marchmont, "you carry your connubial theory even further than in your last ballad:—
'My power is pass'd by like a dream, And I have discover'd too late, That whatever a lover may seem, A husband is what we must hate.'"
Lady Mary smiled very graciously; she almost forgave Henrietta for looking so well: to have one's own verses learned by heart, and gracefully quoted, is more than poetical nature can resist.
"For my part," continued the Duke of Wharton, "I hold that the connubial system of this country is a complete mistake. The ​only happy marriages I ever heard of are those in some Eastern story I once read, where the king marries a new wife every night, and cuts off her head in the morning."
"It would suit your grace, at all events,"replied Lady Mary; "you who are famed for being to one thing constant never."
"Well," exclaimed Lord Hervey, who had appeared to be absorbed in watching his own shadow on the water, "I do not think it is such a dreadful thing to be married. It is a protection, at all events."
"'Thou, who so many favours hast received, Wondrous to tell, and hard to be believed!'"
cried Lady Mary: "and so, like the culprits of old, you are forced to take refuge from your pursuers at the altar."
"For pity's sake," ejaculated the duke, "do let us talk of some less disagreeable subject."
"Fie, your grace!" exclaimed Lady Mary. "Disagreeable subject! Lord Hervey was only, as usual, talking of himself."
​ The whole party were silent for some minutes. After all, wit is something like sunshine in a frost—very sharp, very bright, but very cold and uncomfortable. The silence was broken by Lady Marchmont exclaiming,—"How fine the old trees are! there is something in the deep shadow that they fling upon the water, that reminds me of home."
"I am not sure," answered the duke, " that I like to be reminded of any thing. Let me exist intensely in the present—the past and future should be omitted from my life by express desire."
"What an insipid existence!" replied Henrietta,—"no hopes, and no fears."
"Ah! forgive me," whispered Wharton, "if the present moment appear to me a world in itself."
"I," said Lord Hervey, "do not dislike the past, present, nor future. Like woman, they have all behaved very well to me. The past has given me a great deal of pleasure; the present is with you; and as to the future, ​such is the force of example, that I doubt not it will do by me as its predecessors have done."
"Truly," cried Lady Mary, "the last new comedy that I saw in Paris must have modelled its hero from you: let me recommend you to adopt two of its lines as your motto:—
'J'ai l'esprit parfait—du moins je le crois;
Et je rends grace au Dieu de m'avoir créé—moi!'
"It is very flattering to be so appreciated," answered Lord Hervey, with the most perfect nonchalance.
"What an affecting thing," said Lady Mary, "was the death of Lord Carleton! He died as he lived, holding one hand of the fair Duchess of Queensberry; who, with the other, was feeding him with chicken. What an example he gave to his sex! he was equally liberal with his diamonds and his affections."
"L'un vaut bien l'autre" said Lady Marchmont.
​ "I shall set off for Golconda to-morrow," cried Wharton.
"Don't!" interrupted Lady Mary; "it would be too mortifying, when you come back, to find how little we had missed you."
"O, you would miss me," returned he, laughing, "precisely because you ought not. I hope that you have heard the proposed alteration in the commandments at the last political meeting at Houghton? Hanbury suggested that the 'not' should, in future, be omitted; but Doddington objected, as people might leave off doing wrong if it became a duty. At all events, they would not steal, covet, and bear false witness against their neighbour, with half the relish that they do at present."
"Ah," replied Lady Mary, " we make laws, and we follow customs. By the first we cut off our own pleasures; and by the second, make ourselves answerable for the follies of others."
"Well, Lady Mary," replied Wharton, ​"we have now arrived where you, and you only, give the laws—yonder is our poet's residence."
The boat drew to the side, and the gay party stepped upon the bank.