Chapter V (6)

Yet, if Maturin had not made his fortune by his first tragedy, he probably intended to make it by his second, for he took no pains to undeceive his congratulators. He was, by all accounts, somewhat dazzled by the bright prospects he imagined to be dawning for him, when he returned to Dublin as the greatest of its literary celebrities, and he changed his mode of living accordingly. He was, as appears from his letters to Murray, under the impression of being born to a line of society embellished by elegance and refinement, and his recollections of the easy circumstances in which he had grown up had not vanished amid the privations of later life. After his arrival from London Maturin plunged into the delights of society and became a conspicuous figure in saloons and assemblies; and his unpretending house in York Street was re-furnished and decorated with a splendour of which a friend of his who, however, admits that he did not see Maturin’s home until a later period, when the whole show had disappeared, gives the following account:[89]

The walls of the parlours were done in panels, with scenes from his novels, painted by an artist of some eminence; the richest carpets, ottomans, lustres, and marble tables ornamented the withdrawing-rooms; the most beautiful papers covered the walls, and the ceilings were painted to represent clouds, with eagles in the centre, from whose claws depended brilliant lustres.

In this abode--whether it exactly answered to the above description or not--was then received what Dublin society had to offer not only in the way of intellect, but preferably of youth and beauty. What it was that attracted Maturin in his social intercourse is vividly described by his biographer:[90]

It is from this period that we may date the commencement of that folly of which Maturin has been lavishly accused. Whatever might have been the levities of his conduct before, now they certainly became more remarkable. His whole port and bearing was that of a man who had burst from a long sleep into a new state of being; always gay, he now became luxurious in his habits and manners. He was the first in the quadrille--the last to depart. The ball-room was his temple of inspiration and worship. So passionately attached was he to dancing, that he organized morning quadrille parties, which met alternately two or three days in the week at the houses of the favourite members of his _coterie_. He was proud of the gracefulness and elegance of his dancing; his light figure, and the melancholy and interesting air that, whether natural or fictitious, he threw into his movements, gave a peculiar character to his style. He was a perfect bigot in his attachment to female society; and generally restless and dissatisfied in the exclusive company of men. I remember meeting him at a large assembly where there were several beautiful women, and it was with reluctance he consented to forego the quadrille during the interval of supper: at supper he was uneasy and impatient although he happened to be sitting near some very intellectual persons; at last, after a few songs, which otherwise would have been prolonged, he started up, and with considerable animation and effect, taking a lady by the hand, led the way to the dancing-room.

A very characteristic explanation of this gaiety is given by Mangan,[91] who ascribes it all to misery arising from unappreciated intellectual superiority. Maturin, he says,

--had no friend--companion--brother; he, and the “lonely Man of Shiraz” might have shaken hands, and then--parted. He--is his own dark way--understood many people; but nobody understood him in any way. -- -- -- -- “Man, being reasonable, must get drunk,” observes Byron. It is an ugly line; but one that embodies a volume of philosophy--especially if we read it in juxtaposition with that other line, by Boileau “Souvent de tous nos maux la raison est le pire.” The world points the finger of scorn at the intellectual intemperate man--not reflecting--not caring to reflect--that it is his very superiority to the world that drives him to habits of intemperance. His nature is “averse from life” --he has an impatience of existence. Charles Lamb rushed forward, and forced the Gates of Death; and, actuated by a similar feeling, Maturin trod in his footsteps, though only trippingly. Lamb found his Lethe in the quart--Maturin sought his in the quadrille. One drank, the other danced. They were the two kings of Brentford “smelling at one nosegay,” only each experienced the sensation of a different odour from the flowers.

Although the view applied by Mangan is too gloomy a one, it contains, no doubt, a certain amount of truth, and shows a remarkable penetration of Maturin’s character and situation. In his correspondence of that time Maturin repeatedly laments just his want of a literary friend or companion, and the absence of ‘excitement of any description’ that might inspire him to carry on his poetical occupations. As far as these were concerned, his spirit found little nourishment in his environs. Dublin was then rather void of literati, and the people he mixed with were, for the most part, of the usual, every-day character. Feeling thus that even the elite did not attain to the intellectual level he commanded, Maturin turned to the lighter style of social life--with real pleasure, as it corresponded to one side of his temperament, but sometimes, it is not unlikely, with a feverish intensity affording oblivion of the disadvantages under which he laboured, and escape from the melancholy that also was a constituent part of his mind. His nervousness might have been increased by doubts as to the duration of his present mode of existence, and at intervals there naturally came moments of weariness and _tedium vitae_. In his sermon preached on the first Sunday of the year 1817 Maturin exclaims:

Yes, disappointment has been, _must_ be, the result of our pursuits and passions, because they were “of the earth, earthly;” because of their very nature they were hollow, worthless, and false, and they communicated that nature to their object--they were unworthy of the energies of a thinking spirit, unworthy of the dignity of an immortal soul! -- -- -- What is the result of the chase of these lying vanities? We are disappointed, either in failing to attain them, and thus being rendered wretched by the loss of that whose possession never could have made us happy; or--more mortifying to the illusions of our pride, by attaining them, and finding their possession to be emptiness, yea, “worse than nothing, than vanity.”

Sentiments like these implied a general condemnation of the pursuits Maturin himself was engaged in all his life, and give one more illustration of the tragic contradiction between his profession and his inclinations. That the eccentricities of his conduct incurred a great deal of censure on the part of the more rigorous-minded has already been hinted; but his placidity of temper and easy, gentlemanly manners usually disarmed the displeasure of those coming into contact with him, and he had, upon the whole, no personal enemies. In his own parish he was universally beloved, and where his well-known figure emerged it attracted friendly attention, not unmixed with amazement. His outward appearance used to vary according to his conditions. When he could, he dressed in the highest fashion; his cash being at a low ebb, he would be seen walking about in a costume almost ostentatiously shabby. ‘Mr. Maturin’ says a writer,[92] ‘was tall, slender, but well proportioned, and on the whole, a good figure, which he took care to display in a well made black coat, tight buttoned, and some old light-coloured stocking-web pantaloons, surmounted in winter by a coat of prodigious dimensions, gracefully thrown on, so as not to obscure the symmetry it affected to protect.’ The portrait of Maturin, drawn by Brocas, which appeared in the _New Monthly Magazine or Universal Register_ 1819 and which is reproduced in the 1892 edition of _Melmoth the Wanderer_, shows a self-portraying and uncommonly handsome face: the finely chiselled mouth indicating a tendency towards the gay and luxurious, while the gaze of the large and melancholy eyes suggests the horrors his imagination was wont to dwell upon. Those who saw him in his home were struck by the former quality greatly prevailing over the latter, as is told by a visitor:[93]

I found him in a large and rather well furnished drawing-room, seated at a writing-desk; while the table on which the desk rested was heaped with books and papers, scattered there in a state of most delectable confusion. He was clad in a sort of loose morning gown, which had evidently been in use for many years. He was cravatless, and looked at the moment rather pale and emaciated. At this period he was at the heyday of his literary popularity, and it struck me that he looked like one who had been enjoying the good things of life (enjoying them too freely) the night before. His eldest boy was seated at his right hand, copying out something from a sadly blotted M. S. Mrs. M. ----, with her daughter, occupied a place near the window, and, when the conversation commenced, joined freely in it. I saw before me for the first time the man of genius, the man whose language and sentiments had operated on me as a species of witchcraft. I felt an indescribable awe--my heart throbbed, and my tongue was for the moment bound up; but the cheerful welcome, the gentle tone, and the brightly animated look of the poet, soon set me quite at ease, and after a few minutes conversation I found myself as it were at home. I was struck most forcibly with the contrast existing in the person and manner of the author and his writings--the one all passion and gloominess and horror, the other ease, grace, and sprightliness, approaching even to levity. He exhibited on this, and on other occasions, when I was with him, a turn for mimicry, and a vein of humour, for which I was entirely unprepared.--

It is mentioned in most notes on Maturin that he was in the habit of placing a wafer on his forehead in his hours of inspiration, to signify to his family that he was not to be intruded upon. This--and many other caprices of a similar kind--might have happened once or twice and then been related at the tea-tables of Dublin as a token of the eccentricity of their literary curate. The story of the wafer seems to be contradicted, or at least greatly qualified, by the statements of some other writers. Carleton[94] says that Maturin had composed the greatest part of his earlier romances at Marsh’s library in St. Patrick’s Close, ‘on a small plain deal desk, which he removed from place to place according as it suited his privacy or convenience;’ and an intimate friend of his has said[95] that he never worked on his two last novels except in the stillness of night, when there was consequently no fear of his being disturbed. As for the inventive part of composition, one writer[96] reports the following utterance of Maturin:

I compose on a long walk; but then the day must neither be too hot, nor cold: it must be reduced to that medium from which you feel no inconvenience one way or the other; and then when I am perfectly free from the city and experience no annoyance from the weather, my mind becomes lighted by sunshine and I arrange my plan perfectly to my own satisfaction.

This confidence was made just on one of those long pedestrian excursions to the county of Wicklow, which Maturin loved to undertake, especially in autumn, his favourite season. During his rambles he sometimes would enter into a literary discussion--which he in general is said to have been rather disinclined to do--and from the occasion now in question his interlocutor has preserved some of his opinions about the poets of England. He appears to have been most attracted by those who presented the least points of contact with his own production. With Byron he shared a boundless admiration for Pope, and of the living poets he liked best Crabbe and next to him Hogg. He was very fond of Moore who had, he said, done what he had wished to do himself, had he been able; but for the poetry of Byron he had a strong distaste, the more remarkable as he had often, as in the case of _Bertram_, been supposed deliberately to imitate the bard of _The Corsair_ and _Lara_. What Maturin, however, objected to in Byron’s poems was not the spirit but the style:

I never could finish the perusal of any of his long poems. There is something in them excessively at variance with my notions of poetry. He is too fond of the obsolete; but that I do not quarrel with so much as his system of converting it into a kind of modern antique, by superadding tinsel to gold. It is a sort of mixed mode, neither old nor new, but incessantly hovering between both.

Lastly may be quoted what Maturin, according to the same writer, once pronounced upon Walter Scott whom he, no doubt, loved best of all authors, ancient or modern:

Yes, he has a most powerful genius; a genius that can adapt itself to the changes of times and feelings with the most extraordinary celerity, and with less than the labours of ordinary thought can reform and remodel the literature of the age. He is the greatest writer of his day. He writes not for England, but for all mankind; and he has embraced in his infinite vision all modes and systems of men and manners. What he does, he does appropriately; not seeking to display all the varieties of his mind in any one work, but only that which properly belongs to it: nothing is out of place; all is perfect, simple, and real; and he possesses the magical talent of explaining a whole character by a simple word of feeling; and of imparting to the meanest figure in his picture the interest of a principal.

* * * * *

Among the literary plans Maturin revolved in his mind after the success of his first play was the publication of a new edition of _Montorio_, for which romance he still entertained a partiality. Murray, however, did not venture a republication of it, nor was he favourably disposed towards a project of Maturin’s to give out a new copy of _Bertram_ from the original manuscript, containing everything that had been omitted in the representation. Maturin seems, at first, to have taken it for granted that this revised edition, which he intended to dedicate to Scott, was to be issued; ‘may I beg to know,’ he writes in the letter from July 6:th, ‘why the corrected copy has not yet appeared, I am really disappointed at this, for, exclusive of my restoring many passages that might possibly give pleasure to the _Readers_ (though not to the Dramatic spectator) I am most anxious that the preface, and above all the original dedication (a debt due by gratitude to my first literary friend Mr. Scott) should be made public.’ The question was under discussion for some time, but after a rather irascible epistle from Maturin dated Nov. 19:th, it was referred to no more. Maturin was already working at a new play, and the publisher prudently determined to wait how it would turn out before entering into any doubtful enterprises. In a letter from August 19:th Maturin sanguinely says that what he has written pleases him better than _Bertram_; but at the same time it is seen how lonely he felt in what now was to him a provincial seclusion:

Let me beg of you to write to me. I cannot describe to you the effect of an English letter on my spirits; it is like the wind to an Aeolian harp. I cannot produce a note without it. Give me advice, abuse, news, anything, or nothing (if it were possible that _you_ could write nothing), but _write_.--

The principal character of the drama on which Maturin was engaged had been suggested to him, while in London, on behalf of Kean. The tragedian was anxious to act the part of Lear, but that was rendered improper by the mental illness of George III; the part he wanted was, consequently, that of an old man in a state of decrepitude and insanity, but occupying a somewhat humbler place in society. The experiment was hazardous in every respect. It was required of Maturin to produce an imitation of one of the most famous characters in literature, without one of the principal qualifications for his greatness. A too close attendance to the desire of the actor laid a constant restraint upon his imagination, and thereto came some other inconvenient considerations. Referring to the attacks upon _Bertram_, Maturin says in his letter last quoted: ‘In my present attempt, I shall beware of moonlight interviews, and jobs for Doctors Commons; my Heroines shall form a complete Coro di Vestale, and my Hero shall be guilty only of murder and such Bagatelles.’ All this boded no good; and when _Manuel_ was brought out at Drury Lane, early in the following year, it turned out a decided failure. Kean, finding it but a poor compensation for _Lear_, soon lost all interest in it, and its reception on the part of the public was a very cold one. The general disappointment is described in a letter from Murray to Byron, dated March 15:th 1817:[97]

Maturin’s new tragedy, ‘Manuel,’ appeared on Saturday last, and I am sorry to say that the opinion of Mr. Gifford was established by the impression made on the audience. The first act very fine, the rest exhibiting a want of judgment not to be endured. It was brought out with uncommon splendour, and was well acted. Kean’s character as an old man--a warrior--was new and well sustained, for he had, of course, selected it, and professed to be--and he acted as if he were--really pleased with it. But this feeling changed to dislike after the first night, for he then abused it, and has actually walked through the part ever since, that is to say, for the other three nights of performance -- -- -- I met Geo. Lamb on Tuesday, and he complained bitterly of Kean’s conduct, said that he had ruined the success of the tragedy, and that in consequence he feared Maturin would receive nothing. I send you the first act, that you may see the best of it. I have undertaken to print the tragedy at my own expence, and to give the poor Author the whole of the profit.

The verdict of Byron, after he had read the play, was equally unfavourable. ‘It is the absurd work of a clever man,’ he writes to Murray in a letter from Venice dated June 14:th;[98] ‘as a play, it is impracticable; as a poem, no great things.’ One admirer, however, Maturin’s second tragedy was destined to meet: in a subsequent letter Byron tells[99] that ‘Monk’ Lewis, to whom he had lent it, preferred it to some extracts from _Lalla Rookh_ which he read at the same time. For his own part Byron adds: ‘Of Manuel I think, with the exception of a few capers, it is as heavy a nightmare as was ever bestrode by indigestion.’ This opinion was, later on, embraced by the author himself, who says in a letter to Murray from Sept. 27:th:

I am not discouraged by the failure of Manuel; the public were in the right about it; it is a very bad play; but I was led astray by the folly of supposing I could adapt myself to the _exclusive_ taste of an actor in sketching a character for him. I sacrificed everything to him, and he in return--sacrificed me.

_Manuel_, which was furnished with the longed-for dedication to Walter Scott, Esq. is, indeed, Maturin’s weakest production, and very little need be said about it.

* * * * *

Manuel, count of Valdi, is a distinguished Spaniard whose only son, Alonzo, was born to him in the evening of his life. Alonzo’s birth has frustrated the expectations of Manuel’s heir and kinsman De Zelos; the latter, with his children, is plunged into poverty and insignificance, and publicly slighted by all his former flatterers. He has conceived a vehement hatred against the innocent cause of his altered conditions, which feeling, however, is not shared by his children: his daughter Ximena is the beloved of Alonzo, and his son Torrismond is the lover of Victoria, the daughter of Manuel. Alonzo has, though still a youth, completely beaten the Moors in the battle of Tolosa, and the reports of his victory are, at the opening of the play, spreading through the city of Cordova. Manuel summons his friends to a feast with which he wishes to celebrate the return of Alonzo; the family of De Zelos, too, get an invitation. At the entertainment Manuel awaits his son with increasing impatience, but Alonzo never makes his appearance. At last his war-steed is heard galloping into the court-yard, yet he comes alone with blood upon the saddle and a broken lance trailing from the stirrup. With something like an inspiration Manuel immediately accuses De Zelos of having murdered his son. As no traces are found of Alonzo, De Zelos again becomes the heir to the estates of Valdi, and the grandees once more vie with each other in fawning upon him and feigning to disbelieve the accusations of Manuel. They are, however, to meet in the hall of justice, and though Manuel can produce no proof of his charge, he passionately maintains it to be true,

--by that whisper of the soul,
which to no ear but mine is audible.

De Zelos is on the point of swearing himself to be innocent, when, agitated by Manuel’s shrieks of perjury, he claims a combat to vindicate his honour. Torrismond appears as his father’s champion, and the cause of Manuel is taken up by a stranger on the condition that he will be allowed to depart with his vizor closed and his name unknown. Manuel has long been hovering on the verge of madness, and when he now sees the stranger defeated, the insanity breaks out in all its fury.--The last act takes place at one of Manuel’s castles in the country, whither he is banished on account of his unproved accusations against De Zelos; he is attended only by his daughter and two faithful followers. In the meantime Ximena has resolved to seek refuge in a convent in the same vicinity. Passing by the chapel of the castle she descends into the vault when she is informed by her guide that a requiem is just being chanted to the soul of Alonzo. Here she is shortly afterwards joined by Manuel. His first impulse is to kill her, but he forbears when she declares that she has loved Alonzo; she also tells him that Alonzo’s murderer is now within the vault. Manuel rushes away and Torrismond, who is in pursuit of his sister, makes his appearance. To him Ximena repeats that she has found, lying on one of the tombs, the person who has murdered Alonzo; he has even given her his dagger which is furnished with the name of his employer, but made her swear that it is not to be examined except before the judges.--At the same time De Zelos with a large party of friends--also in quest of Ximena--arrive at the castle. Manuel is hurrying them to the vault when Torrismond rushes out crying that his father is innocent. As the judges happen to be of the party he unsheathes the dagger and reads the name of--his father. De Zelos, in despair, stabs himself, and Manuel, whose strength is worn out by now, expires in fearful ravings.--

Throughout the four first acts the tragedy is well-nigh deprived of all dramatic vigour by incessant interruptions of the main plot. That consists, or ought to consist, in the development of the fate of Manuel until his madness--like Lear’s--breaks out after an accumulation of disappointments; but besides there being, in every act, plenty of dialogue to no purpose, the interest is divided among episodes very loosely connected with the intrigue. The incidents of the last act are prepared by such a sub-plot, bearing upon an intention of De Zelos to marry his daughter to the chief justice; for that reason, it must be supposed, she leaves her home and sets out for the convent. The appropriate arrival to the castle, however, of all the personages required, especially that of De Zelos and his party, makes the whole act highly improbable and its construction puerile in the extreme. The madness of Manuel, also, is here quite insupportable, and it is not to be wondered at that Kean could not endure the role more than one evening. Of the characters De Zelos is, upon the whole, the most interesting. He is a kind of villainous Timon of Athens. When his fortune is gone he sees how his friends turn their backs upon him; he perfectly comprehends the worthlessness of their conduct--

Ye insects in my heat that basked and buzzed,
And sung your summer-songs of flattery,
But, parting, leave your stings;

yet instead of paying contempt with contempt, he is ready to commit a horrible crime in order to enable himself to re-enter their society. His lack of self-command, however, is so exaggerated and his nervousness so evident, that no one can be in doubt of his guilt, which is made only too clear by several incidents long before his name is read on the dagger. On one occasion his intended son-in-law tells him, much to his agitation, that a Moor has mysteriously whispered to him that De Zelos is a villain. When the unknown champion of Manuel then is defeated, he beckons De Zelos to him and, for a moment, discloses his face, which is black--at the sight of which De Zelos, ‘staggering with horror,’ falls into the arms of his son. This penitent Moor, whom De Zelos had hired to slay Alonzo, then appears to have travelled, wounded, to the ancient family-seat of his victim, thus adding to the number of people who, as if by appointment, are gathering there to die. As for the two heroines--who, according to the promise of the author, do not much occupy themselves with thoughts of love--they are so negligently treated that it is not quite clear what becomes of them. When Ximena reveals her discovery to Torrismond, she is said to be dying, but it is never explained why. Her fate is so obscure that the unknown writer of the witty epilogue to _Manuel_, after enumerating all the deaths occurring in the play, ends with the following reference to her:

Here doth the mourner, sad _Ximena_, lie
In death;--but hold!--one question--Did _she_ die?
What tho’ _she_ fell, and rail’d on life’s restraint,
Women talk thus who only mean to faint.
Well, then, for _her_ we’ll e’en delay our sorrow,
Till critics ascertain _her_ fate to-morrow;
And, if you please, to fix the matter quite,
I’ll meet you here again to-morrow night.

The most depressing quality of _Manuel_, as a production of Maturin’s, is that its poetry certainly is ‘no great things.’ There is nothing of the breath of romance which runs through several passages of _Bertram_. The language is, for the most part, uninspired, and stored with hackneyed phrases and vulgar exclamations. A description of the battle of Osma, spoken by Manuel, was greatly admired by Alaric Watts,[100] but to a modern reader it is hardly enjoyable, as appears from the following fragment:

Night hung on van and rear: we moved in darkness,
And heavily did count our echoed steps:
As men who marched to death!--Osma, thy field
(When the pale moon broke on the battle’s verge)
Seemed as an ocean, where the Moorish turbans
Toss’d like the white sea-foam! Amid that ocean
We were to plunge and--perish!--
For ev’ry lance we couch’d the Moslem host
Drew twenty scimitars--and, when the cry
“God and St. Jago!” burst from our pale lips,
Seemed as if every Spanish soldier peal’d
His requiem, not his battle-shout!--Oh Sirs!
We stood not then on terms of war,--devices
To give the coward the cold praise of art:--
We fought with life and soul upon the issue,--
With sword (once drawn) whose battle knew no end,--
With hand, that wedded to the faithful hilt,
Knew no divorce but death, and held it _then_
With grasp which death unlocks not!--

Critics took but little notice of _Manuel_. In the Monthly Review[101] there appeared an article in which the play is unmercifully cut up, and the circumstance of De Zelos’s dagger, above all, subjected to ridicule:

It is actually to be read in the play of Manuel, and (still more trying to the faith of our posterity!) it has actually been _proved_ to be there, by representation on the stage, that a murderer by proxy gives that proxy a dagger, with the name (not of the maker, but) of De Zelos,--with his own name, marked on it!!!--Parson Adams forgetting his sermons is nothing to this; no, nor his prototype, who walked unconsciously into the enemy’s camp.

The absent-mindedness of De Zelos is referred to in the scene where Ximena tells her brother that she has seen the Moor:

An oath had seal’d his lips--he dar’d not speak it,
But to my hands he gave the very dagger
The villain, in unguarded haste, had giv’n him
To do the deed of blood--_His name is on it!_

A man of De Zelos’s vacillating character _might_, perhaps, be imagined capable of throwing, in a moment of ‘unguarded haste,’ his own dagger to the proxy--but the writer is quite right in condemning the expedient: if the villain of a tragedy is so nervous as to become ludicrous, the case is irrevocably lost.

* * * * *

Shortly after the performance of _Manuel_, Maturin’s critique on Sheil’s _Apostate_, referred to before, appeared in the _Quarterly Review_. The article, probably written in great haste, and endeavouring to give a survey of the history of drama, from the earliest times, is not particularly interesting, though it displays extensive reading and, upon the whole, a correct judgment. Nor was it very welcome to the editor. Gifford is said[102] to have subjected it to a partial re-arrangement, thinking it worth preserving on account of a certain ‘wild eloquence.’ The criticism of the _Apostate_, with which the article ends, is severe but not undeservedly so; the play had been a great success on the stage with Miss O’Neill in the heroine’s part,[103] but it belonged to the usual, ephemeral kind of the day.

Maturin’s own career, however, as a successful dramatist, had now come to an end, and the fame he had so suddenly reaped by his _Bertram_ was not destined to increase in that field. Ambitious plans and dreams of future golden times were once again replaced by the cares and duties of ordinary life, and the house in York Street began to be visited by creditors instead of dancing parties. Yet the effect of his recent failure upon the spirits of Maturin was, to judge from his subsequent productions where his genius rose to its highest flights, tranquillizing rather than disheartening. Experience had taught him the futility of heeding any prescriptions from outside; in the years to come he relied solely upon his own instinct and produced those works for which, in truth, he ought to be remembered.

IV.

1818-1820.

So schwing empor dich, Geist, und verweile jetzt
Beim Tode, jetzt durchdringe die Wolke, die
Den Sonnenstrahl der Auferstehung
Fallen nicht lässt in die offnen Gräber!

Lenau.

The first intelligence that Maturin was contemplating a new novel is found in his caustic letter to Murray (Nov. 1816) concerning the non-appearance of the revised edition of _Bertram_: he mentions, in passing, that he will not have occasion to trouble the publisher about his prose-work, as he has been ‘honoured by the offer of a Society of literary Gentlemen in England, to print the work at their own expense, and to raise a large sum by subscription for the writer.’ The prose-work alluded to was, no doubt, _Women; or, Pour et Contre_, which appeared in the beginning of 1818. Of the literary gentlemen nothing further was heard, but the author seems really to have been laid under some kind of obligation with regard to the publication of his novel. In September 1817 Maturin states that he is beginning to finish a novel for Mr. Constable, who has displayed unexampled liberality in the matter; and on Nov. 17:th he writes, likewise to Murray: ‘My novel will come out I believe next month. The Countess of Essex has done me the honour to accept of the dedication and an unknown friend has remitted a considerable sum to Mr. Constable in aid of the publication, so that I am in hopes he will have no reason to repent his liberality to me.’ It was through the influence of Scott that the Constables had been induced to purchase the copyright of the book, and it is not improbable that Scott had also played the part of the unknown friend, though it is surprising that such generosity should have been requisite in the present case. To Scott, too, the publishers appealed about a difference that arose between the author and themselves while the proofs were already going through the press. Maturin had composed a preface with the object of defending _Bertram_--always his favourite production--against the attack of Coleridge, which he had not been quite able to get over. Out of place as a tirade of this sort unquestionably was here, it became the more objectionable by delivering a furious counterblast upon certain of Coleridge’s works. The manuscript being forwarded to Scott, he replied to it with the following letter[104] which, though unfortunately the only specimen left of his communications to Maturin, clearly shows the cordial relations between the master of Abbotsford and his Irish protegé:

26:th February 1818.

Dear Sir--I am going to claim the utmost and best privilege of sincere friendship and goodwill, that of offering a few words of well-meant advice; and you may be sure that the occasion seems important to induce me to venture so far upon your tolerance. It respects the preface to your work which Constable and Co. have sent to me. It is as well written as that sort of thing can be; but will you forgive me if I say--it is too much in the tone of the offence which gave rise to it to be agreeable either to good taste or to general feeling. Coleridge’s work has been little read or heard of, and has made no general impression whatever--certainly no impression unfavourable to you or your play. In the opinion, therefore, of many, you will be resenting an injury of which they are unacquainted with the existence. If I see a man beating another unmercifully, I am apt to condemn him upon the first blush of the business, and hardly excuse him, though I may afterwards learn he had ample provocation.

I never let the thing cling to my mind, and always adhered to my resolution, that if my writings and tenor of life did not confute such attacks, my words never should.

Let me entreat you to view Coleridge’s violence as a thing to be contemned, not retaliated,--the opinion of a British public may surely be set in honest opposition to that of one disappointed and wayward man. You should also consider, _en bon Chretien_, that Coleridge has had some room to be spited at the world, and you are, I trust, to continue to be a favourite with the public--so that you should totally neglect and despise criticism, however virulent, which arises out of his bad fortune and your good.

I have only to add, that Messrs Constable and Co. are seriously alarmed for the effects of the preface upon the public mind as unfavourable to the work. In this they must be tolerable judges, for their experience as to popular feeling is very great; and as they have met your wishes, in all the course of the transaction, perhaps you will be disposed to give some weight to their opinion upon a point like this. Upon my own part I can only say, that I have no habits of friendship, and scarce those of acquaintance with Coleridge--I have not even read his autobiography--but I consider him as a man of genius, struggling with bad habits and difficult circumstances.

Besides, your diatribe is not _hujus loci_. We take up a novel for amusement, and this current of controversy breaks out upon us like a stream of lava out of the side of a beautiful green hill; men will say you should have reserved your disputes for reviews or periodical publications, and they will sympathise less with your anger, because they will not think the time proper for expressing it. We are bad judges, bad physicians, and bad divines in our own case; but, above all, we are seldom able when injured or insulted to judge of the degree of sympathy which the world will bear in our resentment and our retaliation. The instant, however, that such degree of sympathy is exceeded, we hurt ourselves and not our adversary; I am so convinced of this, and so deeply fixed in the opinion, that besides the uncomfortable feelings which are generated in the course of literary debate, a man lowers his estimation in the public eye by engaging in such controversy, that, since I have been dipped in ink, I have suffered no personal attacks (and I have been honoured with them of all descriptions) to provoke me to reply. A man will certainly be vexed on such occasions, and I have wished to have the knaves _where the muircock was the bailie_--or, as _you_ would say, _upon the sod_--but it is, however, entirely upon your account that I take the liberty of stating an opinion on a subject of such delicacy. I should wish you to give your excellent talents fair play, and to ride this race without carrying any superfluous weight; and I am so well acquainted with my old friend the public, that I could bet a thousand pounds to a shilling that the preface (if that controversial part is not cancelled) will greatly prejudice your novel.

I will not ask your forgiveness for the freedom I have used, for I am sure you will not suspect me of any motives but those which arise from regard to your talents and person; but I shall be glad to hear (whether you follow my advice or no) that you are not angry with me for having volunteered to offer it.

My health is, I think, greatly improved; I have some returns of my spasmodic affection, but tolerable in degree, and yielding to medicine. I hope gentle exercise and the air of my hills will set me up this summer. I trust you will soon be out now. I have delayed reading the sheets in progress after vol. I that I might enjoy them when collected.--Ever yours etc--Walter Scott.

Advice thus tactfully conveyed could not easily be resisted, and the offensive introduction was withdrawn. The short preface which appeared in print, though also relative to Maturin’s other writings, was to quite a different purpose; in it Maturin for the first time publicly owns the authorship of his earlier romances, but only to declare them devoid of all merit:

When I look over those books now, I am not at all surprised at their failure; for, independent of their want of _external_ interest, (the strongest interest that books can have, even in this reading age) they seem to me to want _reality_, vraisemblance; the characters, situations, and language, are drawn merely from imagination; my limited acquaintance with life denied me any other resource. In the Tale which I now offer to the public, perhaps there may be recognised some characters which experience will not disown. Some resemblance to common life may be traced in them. On this I rest for the most part the interest of the narrative. The paucity of characters and incidents (the absence of all that constitutes the interest of fictitious biography in general) excludes the hope of this work possessing any other interest.

The external incidents in _Women_ are rich and fantastic enough, as will be seen, nor does its superiority consist in the occurrence of the characters in ordinary life, but in the manner in which they are handled, in the penetration which a true poet applies to his personages, whether imaginary or otherwise. Maturin’s modest plea for what has later been called realism, is wound up with a passage perfectly characteristic of his prefaces: humble in appearance, but making, in its way, a strong appeal to the curiosity of the reader:

If this plain avowal of the want of effect in my former attempts does not mitigate the severity of critical animadversion, I have one more plea to offer, which I hope may prove not ineffectual, that it is the _last time_ I ever shall trespass in _this way_ on the indulgence of the public. One more attempt I shall make, and then address my “_valete_” to the audience, with little hope of being able to add, “_plaudite_.”

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The story opens briskly. The hero, whose name is Charles De Courcy, is travelling up to Dublin from some remote part of Ireland, when, not far from the capital, the coach breaks down. Most of the passengers stop at the village where the accident takes place, but Charles, with the enthusiasm of early youth, continues his way on foot. On arriving, towards evening, at the outskirts of the town, he is passed by a carriage of mysterious appearance; a stifled cry issuing from within seems to indicate that some one is being forcibly carried away. Charles follows in the same direction and, though he soon loses sight of the vehicle, unexpectedly lights upon its burden in a cottage which he enters to make inquiries about his way. He is received by an old beggar-woman, apparently a maniac, and, notwithstanding her anxiety to get rid of him, Charles perceives, in an inner room, the form of a young girl lying immovable, as though in a swoon. Defying the beldam’s imprecations as well as her active resistance, he seizes the girl and hurries out of the house. In the darkness he successfully evades the pursuit of some persons whom he understands to be the agents of the old woman, and at length reaches the lodge at the gate of Phoenix Park. A messenger despatched to town for a carriage returns in company with a gentleman who has accidentally heard him talk about the matter. The new-comer addresses the girl as his niece and immediately removes her in the carriage. He also offers a seat to Charles, but makes no further communication to him about the mystery; the whole adventure dissolves like a dream. The exertion, however, put forth by Charles on the occasion, throws him upon a sick-bed where he is faithfully nursed by a friend called Montgomery, a young man of a Methodist turn of mind. One evening when Charles is able to walk out again, he attends his friend to the chapel which the sect is in the habit of frequenting; he goes there only to kill time, little expecting that he is to meet the girl whom he rescued from the hands of the maniac. She is greatly agitated on seeing him, whereupon he is spoken to by an elderly lady who is with her; though she very unwillingly alludes to the late adventure, she kindly invites him to visit them in their house, which invitation Charles accepts with delight, being already very much in love with the girl. The family of Wentworth appears to consist only of Mr. W., a wealthy man retired from business, otherwise a bigot of a rather unpleasant character, whose sole interest is Calvinistic controversy; of his wife, also intensely religious, but at the same time a woman of head and heart; and of the niece, Eva, a timid and delicate being, who scarcely seems to belong to this world. Charles becomes a constant visitor at the house, yet the intercourse affords him but little satisfaction. Calvinism is the only thing between heaven and earth the Wentworths find worth discussing, and he soon despairs of Eva ever being capable of any other feeling towards him than ordinary gratitude. His strength is wasted by passion and disappointment, and he is again seized with a serious illness. While watching at the bedside of his delirious friend, Montgomery comes to know of his attachment to Eva. Montgomery is in the same predicament himself, but after a victorious struggle with his own aspirations he reveals Charles’s secret to his guardian--De Courcy has no family, only bright prospects of family wealth--whom he has thought it advisable to call to town. This gentleman goes straight to the Wentworths, where his negotiations are crowned with success: when Charles’s health is restored, he is admitted into the family as the acknowledged lover of Eva. His relations to her do not, however, undergo any remarkable change. Eva has scarcely had courage to confess to her aunt that Charles is not indifferent to her, and would never dream of showing her love to any one but her Maker; she is utterly incapable of reciprocating the enthusiastic passion of De Courcy. Charming as she is, the narrowness of her mind and occupations cannot but cool his ardour in course of time--nor has the general atmosphere of the house any attractions to offer to a young man of the world. Charles has at once been set down by Mr. Wentworth as a proper object of conversion, and from this topic his conversation never departs; literature, poetry, and fine arts are not even mentioned between them. One day then all Dublin--except the evangelical circles--is excited by the arrival of Madame Dalmatiani, reputed to be the foremost singer and actress in Europe, who has been induced to give some performances in the Irish capital. Notwithstanding Wentworth’s remonstrations, Charles visits the theatre every night when Madame Dalmatiani--or Zaira, as she is called--is to appear; and it is after becoming personally acquainted with her, that he begins to disregard the maxim expressed in the verse which stands as the motto to the book:

’Tis good to be merry and wise,
’Tis good to be honest and true;
’Tis good to be off with the old love
Before you be on with the new.

He is irresistibly drawn to the refined and luxurious home of Zaira, which indeed forms a striking contrast to the gloomy surroundings he has lately been used to. His visits to the house of the Methodist grow less and less frequent, and before long he becomes the most faithful attendant of Zaira, who, on her part, is by no means unmoved by his intense adoration. They are constantly together; once, on an excursion to Wicklow, they encounter the old woman who had arranged the mysterious abduction of Eva. She addresses them with her usual impetuosity of language, and seems to show some faint recollection of having seen Zaira before. In the meantime the infatuation of De Courcy is made the talk of the town and reaches even Eva in her retirement. She courageously makes up her mind to accompany some of her few worldly-minded acquaintances to the theatre, and when she sees the brilliant apparition of Zaira, she feels that she is lost. Zaira has, indeed, been informed by Montgomery that Charles is engaged to Eva, and generously struggles with her own affections; but when she is leaving Ireland she at the last moment allows him to bear her company. They are, however, not to marry at once, but set out on a journey, during which she intends to ‘develop his soul’ with literature and science. They first proceed to Paris where the Allies are then assembled--the events of the story occur in 1814--and the great metropolis is gayer then ever. Here De Courcy for the second time shows a tendency to forget the maxim quoted above, and an estrangement--involuntary on the part of Zaira--takes place between the lovers. When Montgomery appears with the news that Eva is dying, Charles is broken down by a fit of repentance and returns to Ireland as soon as he is able. Notwithstanding his despair he is not allowed to see Eva, who is fading away like a flower, in spite of most careful medical attendance. As for Zaira, the departure of Charles leaves her in the greatest agony of mind, cutting off the only tie that binds her to life. She finds no longer any happiness in the exercise of her talents; philosophy affords her no consolation, religion has not power to heal her aching heart. She even contemplates ending her sufferings by suicide, but lacks the strength. Sick in mind and body she at last betakes herself to Dublin, where she leads a very quiet life, being chiefly engaged in works of charity among the poor. In a miserable cottage she one evening happens to light upon the old beggar-woman who has figured in the course of the story. She appears to be lying on her death-bed and has, in her last moments, sufficiently recovered her reason to recognize her visitor and inform her that she is her mother. The story of Zaira’s earlier life--she in reality is a native of Ireland--is now given in one of her own letters to a friend.--She is the illegitimate daughter of a rich and despotic land-owner who resided in the West of Ireland and distinguished himself by the irregularities of his private life. Zaira was the only one of his children he ever took any notice of; he early observed her uncommon talents and had her instructed in everything except religion, being himself a convinced atheist. At the age of fifteen she was secretly married to her Italian music-master; but when she became a mother the story could no longer be concealed from her father, who, inconsistently enough, was so incensed at the ‘want of principle’ in his daughter, that he expelled the couple from his house for ever. The Italian, a heartless rascal, separated the child from the mother and left it behind them in Ireland. Then he took his wife to Italy where he compelled her to go on the stage. Gradually she developed into the greatest artist of her time, though almost unwittingly, being always closely guarded by her husband, who reaped all the benefit of her successes. At his death she found herself in possession of a large property which she had earned but never yet enjoyed. The first use she made of her newly-gained liberty was to write to her father and inquire after the fate of her child. The old man promised to give her the information she wanted, and Zaira hurried to Dublin; but scarcely had she arrived there when she learned that her father had suddenly died without leaving any references to the child. Having thus lost all hope of ever finding her child, she again left Ireland in company with De Courcy.--Zaira’s mother was, for some time, the favourite mistress of the mighty man, but then, when she was overtaken in the act of carrying away Zaira in order to bring her up in the Catholic religion, he had turned her out of the house. Subsequently she partially lost her reason, preserving, however, a passionate devotion to her faith, and the desire of imparting it to her descendants guided all her actions; Zaira being out of her reach she turned her attention to Zaira’s child. She led the life of a beggar more by choice than of necessity, for she had, when occasion arose, means of hiring people to carry out her schemes: once, in fact, she was quite on the point of securing the person of her granddaughter who, after the departure of Zaira, had been committed to the care of a wealthy couple in Dublin, and educated as their niece under the name of Eva Wentworth.--Thus Zaira at last becomes acquainted with her daughter’s circumstances. She hastens to the house of Wentworth, but arrives just a moment after Eva has closed her eyes in death of which her mother has been the indirect cause. Shortly afterwards De Courcy also goes the way of all flesh, while Zaira, when the story ends, ‘still lives,’ though a shadow of her former self.

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