Chapter VIII: The Poetess in London

Quid enim dulcius libero et ingenuo animo et ad voluptates honestas nato quam videre plenam semper et frequentem domum suam concursu splendidissimorum hominum?

TACITUS.--_De Oratoribus._

Le mariage se propose la vie, tandis que l'amour ne se propose que le plaisir.

BALZAC.--_Mémoires de Deux Jeunes Mariées._

While they are driving to Cadogan-place, let us cast a retrospective glance at the fortunes of the authoress of _Gleams and Glooms_, to whose soirée they are wending.

Hester Mason had achieved a part of her ambition: she held a salon in London. How she contrived and maintained that, would take long to narrate in detail, as it was only by steady perseverance and admirable ingenuity she succeeded. On first eloping with Sir Chetsom, she had the tact never once to mention a settlement; indeed when he, in a moment of tenderness, alluded to the subject, she playfully put her hand upon his mouth and said,--"Oh, don't begin to talk of money, or I shall think you have _bought_ me. You are not going to leave me, are you?"

"Leave you, Hester?"

"Yes, leave me. It looks like it. I am poor I know; but rich in _your love_. Make me independent, and you will think it no hardship for me to be left; it is always so with men!"

A sigh followed this. Sir Chetsom was ravished; the dupe was fooled to the top of his bent. Hester marked the effect, and from that moment knew her power. From that moment he denied her nothing. The time would come, she foresaw, when he would be completely her slave, and that was the time to make conditions.

Meanwhile, she impressed him with the notion of the necessity for their _liaison_ being hidden from the world. If people did not respect her, they would not envy him. If she were not something more than his mistress, he would be not better than the common herd of men who have their "follies." Appearances should be preserved for all sakes. Sir Chetsom admitted the truth of this, reserving to himself the privilege of disclosing his secret at the club, by intelligible hints and half-confidences.

He had given her a house; he had brought there the nucleus of a literary and artistic society. Hester received every Wednesday evening, and as her parties had a certain piquancy, they were well attended. The great difficulty was to get women. That is always the stumbling-block of an equivocal position. Men are willing enough to go anywhere, if they are amused, and to ask no questions, or at least to affect no prudery. With women, the case is wholly different. Accordingly, with what untiring perseverance do women in equivocal positions manœuvre to obtain the presence of virtuous women at their houses! How they pet them, how full of delicate attentions and substantial kindness! What cajoleries, what adroit insinuations, what flattering prospects they set forth to dazzle their "dear friends"! What twaddle they will listen to for hours, with the eagerness of curious interest; what confidences accept! It is one of the most amusing scenes in the comedy of society to witness the grateful attentions of a woman who is not "received," to those of her female acquaintance who shut their eyes to her real position, or are ignorant of it. You see a pretty, lively, clever, graceful, dashing woman of the world exerting all her coquetries to cajole some ugly, stupid, awkward, under-bred woman whose "countenance" she wants. She imagines that the presence of a few "modest women," no matter what their unattractiveness, will give her salon an air _comme il faut_. But it deceives no one. It only renders her salon a little less agreeable.

Hester managed, as others manage, to collect a few complaisant woman, and a man or two old enough, stupid enough, and respectable enough to keep them in countenance; and she had a salon.

Sir Chetsom Chetsom was rich and lavish. Without asking for it, Hester contrived to have almost everything she wished for. His vanity, at first only tickled by the conquest, was now always alive to the maintenance of that conquest. She made him feel that his position was insecure: it was done delicately, but it was done. To the dread of being left by her in favour of another, was soon added the dread of losing her for her own sake. He had become accustomed to her. She amused him, occupied him, captivated him. When she pouted, he was in despair; when she caressed him, he was in raptures. The old boy was alternately alarmed at her perception of the difference in their ages, and flattered at the conviction that, in spite of that difference, she really loved him. She was always playing upon two themes. First theme.--Why should I waste my youth and love upon a selfish old monster? Second theme.--How infinitely preferable is the love of a man who has seen the world, and lost the first illusions of youth, to the capricious tenderness of a boy!

Give those themes to a clever woman, and imagine the variations she would play upon them!

Although Hester had achieved a part of her ambitious plans, it must not be supposed that she was either satisfied or happy. She had kicked the dust of Walton from her feet. She was in the capital, and surrounded by luxury. She had a salon to which many celebrities were visitors. But neither Sir Chetsom nor her visitors could make _Gleams and Glooms_ popular. Not a copy was sold. Not a journal of any standing took the least notice of it. Some exaggerated criticisms, bristling with notes of admiration, and sonorous with epithets of praise, did indeed appear; but they appeared in journals of no character, and bore the evident stamp of the puff direct. She sent a copy, with a flattering letter, to every author whose name rose above the herd into some distinction. From the majority, she received no acknowledgment; from a great many came letters instantaneously acknowledging the "receipt" of the volume, but not a word on its contents; from some few poets she received general and vague flatteries, together with copies "from the authors" of their last new poems. A delicate attention, expressive of this golden rule--praise me and I'll praise you.

Having consoled herself with the conviction that the age was a prosaic age averse to poetry, she began a novel, hoping to gain celebrity by that.

In noting the latent causes of her dissatisfaction, I have said nothing of Sir Chetsom. That she was not happy, while forced to act the degrading character of mistress to such a man, will be understood; she used him as the ladder by which to ascend the height which beckoned in the distance; but she thoroughly despised him, and at times despised herself.

On the Wednesday evening chosen by Frank Forrester for the introduction of Cecil to the fair muse, Hester was looking particularly well. A flush of animation gave a tint to her cheek, and additional fire to her dark eyes. In her raven hair a string of costly pearls were woven; large glittering bracelets encircled her well-shaped arms; and a black velvet dress set off to perfection her handsome bust, which was lavishly displayed. She was seated on the sofa propounding some humanitarian doctrine, when the four were announced. She rose graciously. Tom Chetsom apologized for the liberty he had taken in bringing Mr. Chamberlayne, who was very desirous of the honour, &c.

"Any friend of yours will always be welcome, Mr. Chetsom," she said, smiling, "and Mr. Chamberlayne particularly so. I have often heard his name, and always accompanied by some flattering epithet."

Cecil bowed.

Frank then presented Hudson, and Cecil noticed, that although she also received him with a gracious smile, there was a marked difference in her manner. Strange animals that we are! this flattered him exceedingly.

The rooms were full; and conversation was lively in groups. It was a curious assembly when the details were examined, and had little of that éclat which Hester had imagined in her dreams. The men for the most part were neither young nor aristocratic; they were--at least some of them--not positively unknown to fame; small reputations, current only in literary circles--scarcely heard beyond those circles; men of talent, men of worth, men of energy and of ambition, but scarcely at ease in society. Mixed with these were a few of Sir Chetsom's club-men, a few harmless respectabilities, and a few--very few women.

One of these women was requested to oblige with one of her charming performances, and her harp was wheeled into the centre of the room. It is one of the penalties attached to the condition of such women as Hester, that if their dear female friends have any little accomplishment, they must be implored to exhibit it. In any other society, Miss Blundell would no more have been asked to perform, than Gunter's waiters would be asked to dance. But to secure Miss Blundell, Hester could not avoid inviting her to play. If Hester wanted countenance, Miss Blundell wanted admiration. And it was really comic to see the mistress of the house threading the crowd of visitors, and entreating their attention to the fantasia with which Miss Blundell was about to favour them.

The hubbub of conversation was almost stilled, and Miss Blundell advanced to take possession of her harp.

"She's ugly enough for a genius," whispered Frank to Hester. Hester put her finger on her lip to command his silence.

Frank's observation was just. Miss Blundell was not handsome. Of an age so uncertain that it is denominated a "certain age," she wore her black hair in a girlish crop. On a low, square, rugged forehead sparkled a _Sévigné_. Wondering eyebrows overarched two sunken eyes; a graceless nose and insignificant mouth did _not_ tempt an artist to fix them on his canvass. In accordance with the juvenility of her style, she was robed in white muslin, displaying a scraggy tawny neck, fierce and protuberant shoulder-blades, and disreputable arms. Certainly nothing but great skill could exonerate such ugliness.

She began by a rattling sweep over the strings, and an audacious display of elbows. Having thus fixed attention, she paused and sought inspiration from the ceiling. Genius always does. I know not what mystic influence there may be in a white-washed _plafond_; but it appears there is something of the kind, since rhymes, tropes, and melodies are drawn therefrom. Miss Blundell found music there. A few seconds of silent invocation brought down the muse, and she flogged the harp into the Gustavus galop.

There are players of no feeling, and players of too much feeling. Miss Blundell was of the latter class. She despised execution (with some private reasons for so doing), and thought music should have a soul. Feeling was all in all with her, and feeling she threw into everything. Even this mad, giggling, joyous, whirling, rattling galop was not free from her sentimental caprice. She began _con spirito_,--

which suddenly changed, at the fourth bar, from _allegro vivace_ to an _ad libitum rallentando_, expressive of the deepest emotion, the player's eyes thrown upwards as if in rapt devotion. These notes,

died away in a "billowy ecstacy of woe," immediately succeeded by a fiery _allegro_, which again subsided into a pathetic _rallentando_:

An ironical murmur of applause followed this display, and Hester pressed her hand as she thanked, complimented, and led her back again to the sofa.

"Was it not charming?" she asked Frank, in a tone intentionally audible.

"Amazing!" replied he; then adding, in an under tone, "she is the Orpheus of private life: as witness the effect she produces on the animals here. I hope she hasn't turned the cream."'

"You are a sad man--so satirical!"

"Not I. Your friend delights me; she's original."

"Well, I am no musician myself; but I believe she is."

"Yes, as cats are musicians."

Hester laughed, and turned to Cecil; but Frank instantly recalled her attention, by saying,--

"Do tell me who is that old buffer leaning against the mantelpiece. Is it Miss Blundell's brother?"

"Yes."

"Of course--I knew it--he _could_ be nobody else's brother. Do study him. He'll do for your novel. Look at him, Cis. Observe that blue coat, is it not immeasurably, audaciously, sublimely impossible! The short waist, the large collar, like a horse-collar, the brass buttons, and scanty skirt! When was it made? In what dim remoteness of the mythic ages was it conceived and executed? What primitive and most ancient Briton first wore it? By Jove! I must ask the address of his tailor."

"No, no, Frank, for God's sake, don't."

"Then the flaming shawl-waistcoat, the grey trousers strapped so tightly over those big many-bunioned feet, the eye-glass, the flower in his button-hole, the withered smiling face, the jaunty juvenility of this most withered individual! Really, Miss Mason, you ought to make a collection from us all, for the privilege of seeing this unedited burlesque, this fabulous curiosity! He is a mummy unembalmed!"

The drollery of Frank's manner was irresistible, and both Hester and Cecil were bursting with laughter, when the unconscious object approached them, and asked Hester whether some one else would not add to the harmony of the evening.

"I am quite sure," he added, with a gallant bow, "that to your numerous accomplishments you add the gift of song."

Hester excused herself.

"You look like a singer," said Frank to him with perfect gravity. "I see it in your manner. Is it not so?"

A withered smile and feeble shake of the head was Mr. Blundell's answer.

"Well, well, I suppose all the musical genius of the family is centred in your charming sister. What a player! What a touch--or rather what a pull!"

"Humph! yes, not bad."

"So much feeling! Feeling is the thing, sir. It is soul, passion, poetry. Feeling's the chap for me! A poet, sir?"

"No."

"You look like one."

"No; I am merely a dabbler. I follow in the wake of intellectual men. I have some humour. My friends think me a sort of 'Boz'--that certainly is my line. But I have no pretensions."

"Have you written much?"

"A good deal. I have written for 'Blackwood.'"

"Indeed!"

"Yes; but they never printed what I sent them. I don't know why. Perhaps, because I am not a Scotchman. They are very jealous of English writers. Had I been a Scotchman they would have jumped at my papers; so my friends tell me."

"The scoundrels!" said Frank; but whether he meant the Scotchmen, or the friends, remains undecided.

"My friend Mr. Donkin, the celebrated epic poet, (the author of 'Mount Horeb,' you know,) thought my papers very funny, very; but 'Blackwood' actually rejected some poems of his, as well as a 'Dissertation on the conditions of the Intellectual Epopæ.' Do you write, sir?"

"Yes; letters."

Blundell was puzzled. He could not from Frank's manner detect whether this was a _naïveté_ or a sarcasm.

"A very literary employment too," said Cecil, "according to the landlady of one of my friends. He was looking at apartments in Brighton, and before concluding, he asked his landlady whether she had other lodgers?

"'Only one gentleman, sir,' she said, 'rather an eccentric gentleman. I suppose you know him, sir, it's Mr. Shakspeare.'

"'I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. Shakspeare.'

"'Don't you, sir? _He's the great writer!_'

"'Ah, the great writer!'

"'Yes; but lor, sir, _writer as he is_, he has only written two letters all the time he has been in my house!'

Blundell laughed feebly, though a funny man--a sort of "Boz" his friends told him; he did not see the joke, but laughed because the others laughed.

At this moment Sir Chetsom Chetsom was announced. "How late you are!" said Hester, reproachfully; but she paid him no attention during the rest of the evening, and his manner to her was eminently respectful.

Cecil was amused. He conversed with some clever men, and was flattered by his own success; he was a really good talker, often brilliant, always amusing. Hester took a great fancy to him, and engaged him in several discussions on rather perilous topics for a young man and a young woman to discuss. In them Cecil felt uneasy. He was not on equal ground in talking to a young woman, and although she piqued him to continue, he felt himself at a disadvantage.

"You forget," he said at last, in the midst of an argument on marriage, "that I am a married man, and therefore cannot espouse your view."

"Truly, but why can you not? Because the present odious law of marriage is all in favour of the men."

"I demur to that."

"Men make the laws, and make them for their own advantage. Think of the gross injustice! Women must not only be rigorously pure, but must even be kept in ignorance as complete as watchfulness will admit of; but a man may have had a hundred low amours, and no father refuses to give him a daughter. Purity, which is supposed to be woman's greatest virtue, is never thought of in a man. Why should not a girl demand that her lover be as pure as herself? Why should woman be hopelessly disgraced for that which in a man is venial? I know what you will say; but I repeat that marriage is an unholy institution. Think of the suicides committed by women who have been seduced; did you ever hear of the seducer shooting himself? Think of the wretched wives who have died broken-hearted, of the outcasts of society--outcasts for that which disgraces no man. What is it all owing to? the law of marriage! Beside the fearful crimes and desperate acts which the law of marriage causes, look at the thousands of young, healthy, affectionate girls, who wither in unblessed virginity, who never know the joys of maternity. And mark the glorious inconsistency of men: you keep us ignorant, you keep us from equal privileges, you shut us from the world of action, and your sole argument for it is, that nature has unfitted us for it; that we are inferior creatures, whose organization is specially adapted to the bearing, rearing, and nursing of children; yet this, for which alone we were created, your barbarous law of marriage denies to a frightful number; wretched girls who wither in the hope of finding husbands."

"That the law of marriage," answered Cecil, "transmutes a desire into a crime is very true. But the law of property is open to the same objection. A man covets your money or your plate; the law of property forces him either to break into your house, perhaps to murder you, or to restrain his desires. But because men are hanged for murder, no one really wishes to abolish the law of property; because men are transported and imprisoned for frauds and felonies, it is no argument against a law of property."

"That I admit."

"Then surely you must admit, that although the law of marriage may punish those who infringe its precepts, it is not therefore to be abolished."

"No; but there is this difference: the principles of justice and moral education may control the desire of despoiling or defrauding another of his property, but human passion owns no such stern control. Love is beyond volition. The husband cannot will to love his wife, the wife cannot will not to love another. Reason is powerless against the passion, because the woman loves before she is aware of it. She does not see the danger till she is enveloped in it. Marriage is indissoluble, but passion is capricious. It is foolish, impious, for a human being to swear that he will love another eternally. Passion in its intensity always believes in its eternity. But who can answer for the continuance of love? Who can say, I will not change? Because we foresee no change, are we to shut our eyes to the experience of ages: to our own experience even, which tells too plainly of the mutability of passion? Yet marriage is indissoluble!"

"And rightly so," said Cecil, "for this one reason--whatever is inevitable soon ceases to be a hardship; the very power which human beings have of adapting themselves to almost any condition, makes them accept their fate with tranquillity, provided that fate be certain and unequivocal. Passion is, as you say, mutable, capricious. But in the generality of cases, the mere consciousness of the indissolubility of the marriage tie acts as a check upon the roving fancy."

Hester shook her head.

"This much I will grant," continued Cecil, "that as a matter of sentiment, as a mere question of love, I think you are in the main correct; but as a matter of practical civilization, as a civil institution which regards the whole framework of society, I think you--pardon me--altogether wrong."

The clock on the mantelpiece struck one as he said this, and its sharp, thin note struck like ice upon his heart, as he remembered that his beloved Blanche was sitting up awaiting him, and had been since ten o'clock. He took a hasty leave of Hester, promising to renew the conversation some other evening, and, with a whisper to Frank, withdrew.

Hester saw him depart, with a vague feeling of regret. To understand this, we must not only recall the sudden friendship all have known sometimes to spring up in one evening's intercourse, but we must also consider Hester's peculiar position. She was then just recovering from the shock her illusions had sustained with reference to men of genius. In her provincial and poetical ignorance, she had imagined that every man of remarkable powers must be captivating in appearance. Apollo in the shape of Vulcan was a monstrosity which had never distorted her dreams. I do not mean that she supposed every distinguished poet, novelist, or critic was as handsome as a guardsman. She was prepared for daring oddities of appearance; and was more likely to be captivated by the "flashing eyes and floating hair," by the wild irregularities of an inspired face, than by the lineal correctness of a beauty man. But she was prepared to find singularity and youth: a striking appearance joined to all the ardour and impetuosity of youth. In both was she deceived. The men she saw were for the most part undistinguishable in appearance from the rest of the world, and when distinguishable, not picturesquely so. Above all, they were not young.

It is rather curious at first, to one unfamiliar with the artistic world, to see how little youth is to be met with amongst the celebrities. Our young poets are middle-aged men; our rising authors are bald; our distinguished painters are passing into the "sere and yellow leaf;" our _very_ "young Englanders" are getting gray and pursy.

The truth is, life is short and art is long; and although a privileged man does sometimes in the ardour of youth reach the summit of reputation by a bound, either from the prodigal richness of his genius, or from having hit the favour of the movement, yet, as a general rule, celebrity is slowly gained, and not without many years of toilsome effort. Mastery requires immense labour. Before the proper power over materials can be gained, the artist must have spent enormous labour; and before that power can be exerted in any striking way, the artist must have lived much, suffered much, and observed much. Celebrity is not easily gained now-a-days. The lavish abundance of talent daily, weekly, and monthly squandered upon fugitive productions, makes it no easy matter to rise above the ordinary level; while the multiplicity of works so far exceeds all reading powers to keep pace with them, that, for an author to gain more than a limited and temporary reputation, it is necessary he should either be very lucky, or very earnest, hard-working, resolute, and clever. But before he has attained sufficient mastery to command respect, the gray hairs begin to show themselves. He must have made many efforts, struck many blows, before the way is opened to him, before the world will recognise him.

What a shock then to Hester, when she found, one after the other, all were middle-aged men. The ardour and freshness in their works was but the reminiscence of a youthhood which required the mastery of manhood to mould it. The men she had admired, of whom she had made idols, when she saw them as they were, with deep-lined faces, thin hair, deficient teeth, and all the signs of premature middle age, created a feeling of disappointment almost amounting to disgust. She forgot that in straining their voices to be heard above the crowd, they had grown husky by the time they had succeeded.

Cecil was the first young handsome man whom she had seen, and who, although not yet known to fame, had a sort of drawing-room reputation; she was charmed with him; his wit, vivacity, gentlemanly manner, and handsome countenance, were all calculated to make a deep impression upon her. Without acknowledging to herself the interest she felt in him, she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon what he had said, and how he had looked, rather more than was safe for her peace of mind.