Pelham — Complete

by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

  CHAPTER LXVII.

  In solo vivendi causa palato est.--Juvenal.

  They would talk of nothing but high life, and high-lived company; withother fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and themusical glasses.--Vicar of Wakefield.

  The reflections which closed the last CHAPTER, will serve to show thatI was in no very amiable or convivial temper, when I drove to LordGuloseton's dinner. However, in the world, it matters little what may beour real mood, the mask hides the bent brow and the writhing lip.

  Guloseton was stretched on his sofa, gazing with upward eye at thebeautiful Venus which hung above his hearth. "You are welcome, Pelham; Iam worshipping my household divinity!"

  I prostrated myself on the opposite sofa, and made some answer to theclassical epicure, which made us both laugh heartily. We then talked ofpictures, painters, poets, the ancients, and Dr. Henderson on Wines; wegave ourselves up, without restraint, to the enchanting fascinationof the last-named subject, and our mutual enthusiasm confirming ourcordiality, we went down stairs to our dinner, as charmed with eachother as boon companions always should be.

  "This is comme il faut," said I, looking round at the well filled table,and the sparkling spirits immersed in the ice-pails, "a genuine friendlydinner. It is very rarely that I dare entrust myself to such extemporehospitality--miserum est aliena vivere quadra;--a friendly dinner, afamily meal, are things from which I fly with undisguised aversion. Itis very hard, that in England, one cannot have a friend on pain of beingshot or poisoned; if you refuse his familiar invitations, he thinks youmean to affront him, and says something rude, for which you are forcedto challenge him; if you accept them, you perish beneath the weight ofboiled mutton and turnips, or--"

  "My dear friend," interrupted Guloseton, with his mouth full, "it isvery true; but this is no time for talking, let us eat."

  I acknowledged the justice of the rebuke, and we did not interchangeanother word beyond the exclamations of surprise, pleasure, admiration,or dissatisfaction, called up by the objects which engrossed ourattention, till we found ourselves alone with our dessert.

  When I thought my host had imbibed a sufficient quantity of wine, I oncemore renewed my attack. I had tried him before upon that point of vanitywhich is centered in power, and political consideration, but in vain; Inow bethought me of another.

  "How few persons there are," said I, "capable of giving even a tolerabledinner--how many capable of admiring one worthy of estimation. I couldimagine no greater triumph for the ambitious epicure, than to see athis board the first and most honoured persons of the state, all lostin wonder at the depth, the variety, the purity, the munificence of histaste; all forgetting, in the extorted respect which a gratified palatenever fails to produce, the more visionary schemes and projects whichusually occupy their thoughts;--to find those whom all England aresoliciting for posts and power, become, in their turn, eager andcraving aspirants for places--at his table;--to know that all the grandmovements of the ministerial body are planned and agitated over theinspirations of his viands and the excitement of his wine--from a haunchof venison, like the one of which we have partaken to-day, what nobleand substantial measures might arise? From a saute de foie, whatdelicate subtleties of finesse might have their origin? from a ragout ala financiere, what godlike improvements in taxation? Oh, could sucha lot be mine, I would envy neither Napoleon for the goodness of hisfortune, nor S--for the grandeur of his genius."

  Guloseton laughed. "The ardour of your enthusiasm blinds yourphilosophy, my dear Pelham; like Montesquieu, the liveliness of yourfancy often makes you advance paradoxes which the consideration of yourjudgment would afterwards condemn. For instance, you must allow, thatif one had all those fine persons at one's table, one would be forced totalk more, and consequently to eat less; moreover, you would either beexcited by your triumph, or you would not, that is indisputable; if youare not excited you have the bore for nothing; if you are excited youspoil your digestion: nothing is so detrimental to the stomach as thefeverish inquietude of the passions. All philosophies recommend calmas the to kalon of their code; and you must perceive, that if, in thecourse you advise, one has occasional opportunities of pride, one alsohas those of mortification. Mortification! terrible word; how manyapoplexies have arisen from its source! No, Pelham, away with ambition;fill your glass, and learn, at last, the secret of real philosophy."

  "Confound the man!" was my mental anathema.--"Long life to the Solomonof sautes," was my audible exclamation.

  "There is something," resumed Guloseton, "in your countenance andmanner, at once so frank, lively, and ingenuous, that one is not onlyprepossessed in your favour, but desirous of your friendship. I tellyou, therefore, in confidence, that nothing more amuses me than to seethe courtship I receive from each party. I laugh at all the unwise andpassionate contests in which others are engaged, and I would as soonthink of entering into the chivalry of Don Quixote, or attacking thevisionary enemies of the Bedlamite, as of taking part in the fury ofpoliticians. At present, looking afar off at their delirium, I canridicule it; were I to engage in it, I should be hurt by it. I haveno wish to become the weeping, instead of the laughing, philosopher. Isleep well now--I have no desire to sleep ill. I eat well--why should Ilose my appetite? I am undisturbed and unattacked in the enjoyments bestsuited to my taste--for what purpose should I be hurried into the abuseof the journalists and the witticisms of pamphleteers? I can ask thosewhom I like to my house--why should I be forced into asking those whomI do not like? In fine, my good Pelham, why should I sour my temperand shorten my life, put my green old age into flannel and physic,and become, from the happiest of sages, the most miserable of fools?Ambition reminds me of what Bacon says of anger--'It is like rain, itbreaks itself upon that which it falls on.' Pelham, my boy, taste theChateau Margot."

  However hurt my vanity might be in having so ill succeeded in myobject, I could not help smiling with satisfaction at my entertainer'sprinciples of wisdom. My diplomatic honour, however, was concerned, andI resolved yet to gain him. If, hereafter, I succeeded, it was by a verydifferent method than I had yet taken; meanwhile, I departed from thehouse of this modern Apicius with a new insight into the great book ofmankind, and a new conclusion from its pages; viz. that no virtue canmake so perfect a philosopher as the senses; there is no content likethat of the epicure--no active code of morals so difficult to conqueras the inertness of his indolence; he is the only being in the world forwhom the present has a supremer gratification than the future.

  My cabriolet soon whirled me to Lady Roseville's door; the first personI saw in the drawing-room, was Ellen. She lifted up her eyes with thatfamiliar sweetness with which they had long since began to welcome me."Her brother may perish on the gibbet!" was the thought that curdled myblood, and I bowed distantly and passed on.

  I met Vincent. He seemed dispirited and dejected. He already saw how illhis party had succeeded; above all, he was enraged at the idea of theperson assigned by rumour to fill the place he had intended for himself.This person was a sort of rival to his lordship, a man of quaintness andquotation, with as much learning as Vincent, equal wit, and--but thatpersonage is still in office, and I will say no more, lest he shouldthink I flatter.

  To our subject. It has probably been observed that Lord Vincent hadindulged less of late in that peculiar strain of learned humour formerlyhis wont. The fact is, that he had been playing another part; he wishedto remove from his character that appearance of literary coxcombrywith which he was accused. He knew well how necessary, in the game ofpolitics, it is to appear no less a man of the world than of books;and though he was not averse to display his clerkship and scholasticinformation, yet he endeavoured to make them seem rather valuable fortheir weight, than curious for their fashion. How few there are in theworld who retain, after a certain age, the character originally naturalto them! We all get, as it were, a second skin; the little foibles,propensities, eccentricities, we first indulged through affectation,conglomerate and encrust till the artificiality
grows into nature.

  "Pelham," said Vincent, with a cold smile, "the day will be your's;the battle is not to the strong--the whigs will triumph. 'FugerePudor, verumque, fidesque; in quorum subiere locum fraudesque doliqueinsidioeque et vis et amor sceleratus habendi.'"

  "A pretty modest quotation," said I. "You must allow at least, that theamor sceleratus habendi was also, in some moderate degree, shared by thePudor and Fides which characterize your party; otherwise, I am at a losshow to account for the tough struggle against us we have lately had thehonour of resisting."

  "Never mind," replied Vincent, "I will not refute you,

  "'La richesse permet une juste fierte, Mais il faut etre souple avecla pauvrete.' It is not for us, the defeated, to argue with you thevictors. But pray, (continued Vincent, with a sneer which pleased menot), pray, among this windfall of the Hesperian fruit, what nice littleapple will fall to your share?"

  "My good Vincent, don't let us anticipate; if any such apple should comeinto my lap, let it not be that of discord between us."

  "Who talks of discord?" asked Lady Roseville, joining us.

  "Lord Vincent," said I, "fancies himself the celebrated fruit, on whichwas written, detur pulcerrimoe, to be given to the fairest. Suffer metherefore, to make him a present to your ladyship."

  Vincent muttered something which, as I really liked and esteemed him,I was resolved not to hear; accordingly I turned to another part ofthe room: there I found Lady Dawton--she was a tall, handsome woman,as proud as a liberal's wife ought to be. She received me with unusualgraciousness, and I sat myself beside her. Three dowagers, and an oldbeau of the old school, were already sharing the conversation with thehaughty countess. I found that the topic was society.

  "No," said the old beau, who was entitled Mr. Clarendon, "society isvery different from what it was in my younger days. You remember, LadyPaulet, those delightful parties at D--House? where shall we ever findany thing like them? Such ease, such company--even the mixture wasso piquant, if one chanced to sit next a bourgeois, he was sure to bedistinguished for his wit or talent. People were not tolerated, as now,merely for their riches."

  "True," cried Lady Dawton, "it is the introduction of low persons,without any single pretension, which spoils the society of the presentday!" And the three dowagers sighed amen, to this remark.

  "And yet," said I, "since I may safely say so here without beingsuspected of a personality in the shape of a compliment, don't youthink, that without any such mixture, we should be very indifferentcompany? Do we not find those dinners and soirees the pleasantest wherewe see a minister next to a punster, a poet to a prince, and a coxcomblike me next to a beauty like Lady Dawton? The more variety there is inthe conversation, the more agreeable it becomes."

  "Very just," answered Mr. Clarendon; "but it is precisely because I wishfor that variety that I dislike a miscellaneous society. If one doesnot know the person beside whom one has the happiness of sitting, whatpossible subject can one broach with any prudence. I put politics aside,because, thanks to party spirit, we rarely meet those we are stronglyopposed to; but if we sneer at the methodists, our neighbour may be asaint--if we abuse a new book, he may have written it--if we observethat the tone of the piano-forte is bad, his father may have made it--ifwe complain of the uncertainty of the banking interest, his uncle mayhave been gazetted last week. I name no exaggerated instances; on thecontrary, I refer these general remarks to particular individuals, whomall of us have probably met. Thus, you see, that a variety of topics isprescribed in a mixed company, because some one or other of them will becertain to offend."

  Perceiving that we listened to him with attention, Mr. Clarendoncontinued--"Nor is this more than a minor objection to the great mixtureprevalent amongst us: a more important one may be found in theuniversal imitation it produces. The influx of common persons being oncepermitted, certain sets recede, as it were, from the contamination, andcontract into very diminished coteries. Living familiarly solely amongstthemselves, however they may be forced into visiting promiscuously, theyimbibe certain manners, certain peculiarities in mode and words--evenin an accent or a pronunciation, which are confined to themselves;and whatever differs from these little eccentricities, they are apt tocondemn as vulgar and suburban. Now, the fastidiousness of thesesets making them difficult of intimate access, even to many of theirsuperiors in actual rank, those very superiors, by a natural feeling inhuman nature, of prizing what is rare, even if it is worthless, are thefirst to solicit their acquaintance; and, as a sign that they enjoy it,to imitate those peculiarities which are the especial hieroglyphics ofthis sacred few. The lower grades catch the contagion, and imitate thosethey imagine most likely to know the proprietes of the mode; and thusmanners, unnatural to all, are transmitted second-hand, third-hand,fourth-hand, till they are ultimately filtered into something worsethan no manners at all. Hence, you perceive all people timid, stiff,unnatural, and ill at ease; they are dressed up in a garb which does notfit them, to which they have never been accustomed, and are as little athome as the wild Indian in the boots and garments of the more civilizedEuropean."

  "And hence," said I, "springs that universal vulgarity of idea, as wellas manner, which pervades all society--for nothing is so plebeian asimitation."

  "A very evident truism!" said Clarendon--"what I lament most, is theinjudicious method certain persons took to change this order of things,and diminish the desagremens of the mixture we speak of. I rememberwell, when Almack's was first set up, the intention was to keep away therich roturiers from a place, the tone of which was also intended to becontrary to their own. For this purpose the patronesses were instituted,the price of admission made extremely low, and all ostentatiousrefreshments discarded: it was an admirable institution for theinterests of the little oligarchy who ruled it--but it has onlyincreased the general imitation and vulgarity. Perhaps the records ofthat institution contain things more disgraceful to the aristocracy ofEngland, than the whole history of Europe can furnish. And how could theMonsieur and Madame Jourdains help following the servile and debasingexample of Monseigneur le Duc et Pair?"

  "How strange it is," said one of the dowagers, "that of all the novelson society with which we are annually inundated, there is scarcely onewhich gives even a tolerable description of it."

  "Not strange," said Clarendon, with a formal smile, "if your ladyshipwill condescend to reflect. Most of the writers upon our little, greatworld, have seen nothing of it: at most, they have been occasionallyadmitted into the routs of the B.'s and C.'s, of the second, or ratherthe third set. A very few are, it is true, gentlemen; but gentlemen,who are not writers, are as bad as writers who are not gentlemen. In onework, which, since it is popular, I will not name, there is astiffness and stiltedness in the dialogue and descriptions, perfectedlyridiculous. The author makes his countesses always talking of theirfamily, and his earls always quoting the peerage. There is as much fussabout state, and dignity, and pride, as if the greatest amongst us werenot far too busy with the petty affairs of the world to have time forsuch lofty vanities. There is only one rule necessary for a cleverwriter who wishes to delineate the beau monde. It is this: let himconsider that 'dukes, and lords, and noble princes,' eat, drink, talk,move, exactly the same as any other class of civilized people--nay, thevery subjects in conversation are, for the most part, the same inall sets--only, perhaps, they are somewhat more familiarly and easilytreated than among the lower orders, who fancy rank is distinguished bypomposity, and that state affairs are discussed with the solemnity of atragedy--that we are always my lording and my ladying each other--thatwe ridicule commoners, and curl our hair with Debrett's Peerage."

  We all laughed at this speech, the truth of which we readilyacknowledged.

  "Nothing," said Lady Dawton, "amuses me more, than to see the greatdistinction novel writers make between the titled and the untitled; theyseem to be perfectly unaware, that a commoner, of ancient family andlarge fortune, is very often of far more real rank and estimation, andeven weight, in what the
y are pleased to term fashion, than many ofthe members of the Upper House. And what amuses me as much, is the nodistinction they make between all people who have titles--Lord A--,the little baron, is exactly the same as Lord Z--, the great marquess,equally haughty and equally important.

  "Mais, mon Dieu," said a little French count, who had just joinedus; "how is it that you can expect to find a description of societyentertaining, when the society itself is so dull?--the closer the copythe more tiresome it must be. Your manner, pour vous amuser, consists instanding on a crowded staircase, and complaining that you are terriblybored. L'on s'accoutume difficilement a une vie qui se passe surl'escalier."

  "It is very true," said Clarendon, "we cannot defend ourselves. We area very sensible, thinking, brave, sagacious, generous, industrious,noble-minded people; but it must be confessed, that we are terriblebores to ourselves and all the rest of the world. Lady Paulet, if youare going so soon, honour me by accepting my arm."

  "You should say your hand," said the Frenchman.

  "Pardon me," answered the gallant old beau; "I say, with your bravecountryman when he lost his legs in battle, and was asked by a lady,like the one who now leans on me, whether he would not sooner have losthis arms? 'No, Madam,' said he, (and this, Monsieur le Comte, is theanswer I give to your rebuke) 'I want my hands to guard my heart.'"

  Finding our little knot was now broken up, I went into another partof the room, and joined Vincent, Lady Roseville, Ellen, and one or twoother persons who were assembled round a table covered with books andprints. Ellen was sitting on one side of Lady Roseville; there was avacant chair next her, but I avoided it, and seated myself on the otherside of Lady Roseville.

  "Pray, Miss Glanville," said Lord Vincent, taking up a thin volume, "doyou greatly admire the poems of this lady?"

  "What, Mrs. Hemans?" answered Ellen. "I am more enchanted with herpoetry than I can express: if that is 'The Forest Sanctuary' which youhave taken up, I am sure you will bear me out in my admiration."

  Vincent turned over the leaves with the quiet cynicism of mannerhabitual to him; but his countenance grew animated after he had readtwo pages. "This is, indeed, beautiful," said he, "really and genuinelybeautiful. How singular that such a work should not be more known; Inever met with it before. But whose pencil marks are these?"

  "Mine, I believe," said Ellen, modestly.

  "Well," said Lady Roseville, "I fear we shall never have any popularpoet in our time, now that Lord Byron is dead."

  "So the booksellers say," replied Vincent; "but I doubt it: there willbe always a certain interregnum after the death of a great poet, duringwhich, poetry will be received with distaste, and chiefly for thisreason, that nearly all poetry about the same period, will be of thesame school as the most popular author. Now the public soon wearies ofthis monotony; and no poetry, even equally beautiful with that of themost approved writer, will become popular, unless it has the charm ofvariety. It must not be perfect in the old school, it must be daringin a new one;--it must effect a through revolution in taste, and builditself a temple out of the ruins of the old worship. All this a greatgenius may do, if he will take the pains to alter, radically, the stylehe may have formed already. He must stoop to the apprenticeship beforehe aspires to the mastery. C'est un metier que de faire un livre commede faire une pendule."

  "I must confess, for my part," said Lord Edward Neville (an author ofsome celebrity and more merit), "that I was exceedingly weary of thosedoleful ditties with which we were favoured for so many years. No soonerhad Lord Byron declared himself unhappy, than every young gentleman witha pale face and dark hair, used to think himself justified in frowningin the glass and writing Odes to Despair. All persons who could scribbletwo lines were sure to make them into rhymes of 'blight' and 'night.'Never was there so grand a penchant for the triste."

  "It would be interesting enough," observed Vincent, "to trace the originof this melancholy mania. People are wrong to attribute it to poor LordByron--it certainly came from Germany; perhaps Werter was the first heroof that school."

  "There seems," said I, "an unaccountable prepossession among allpersons, to imagine that whatever seems gloomy must be profound, andwhatever is cheerful must be shallow. They have put poor Philosophy intodeep mourning, and given her a coffin for a writing-desk, and a skullfor an inkstand."

  "Oh," cried Vincent, "I remember some lines so applicable to yourremark, that I must forthwith interrupt you, in order to introduce them.Madame de Stael said, in one of her works, that melancholy was a sourceof perfection. Listen now to my author--

  "'Une femme nous dit, et nous prouve en effet, Qu'avant quelques milleans l'homme sera parfait, Qu'il devra cet etat a la melancolie. On saitque la tristesse annonce le genie; Nous avons deja fait des progresetonnans, Que de tristes ecrits--que de tristes romans! Des plus noireshorreurs nous sommes idolatres, Et la melancolie a gagne nos theatres.'"

  "What!" cried I, "are you so well acquainted with my favourite book?"

  "Your's!" exclaimed Vincent. "Gods, what a sympathy; [La Gastronomie,Poeme, par J. Berchoux.] it has long been my most familiar acquaintance;but--

  "'Tell us what hath chanced to-day, That Caesar looks so sad?'"

  My eye followed Vincent's to ascertain the meaning of this question,and rested upon Glanville, who had that moment entered the room. I mighthave known that he was expected, by Lady Roseville's abstraction, therestlessness with which she started at times from her seat, and asinstantly resumed it; and her fond expecting looks towards the door,every time it shut or opened, which denoted so strongly the absent anddreaming heart of the woman who loves.

  Glanville seemed paler than usual, and perhaps even sadder; but he wasless distrait and abstracted: no sooner did he see, than he approachedme, and extended his hand with great cordiality. His hand, thought I,and I could not bring myself to accept it; I merely addressed him inthe common-place salutation. He looked hard and inquisitively at me, andthen turned abruptly away. Lady Roseville had risen from her chair--hereyes followed him. He had thrown himself on a settee near the window.She went up to him, and sate herself by his side. I turned--my faceburnt--my heart beat--I was now next to Ellen Glanville; she was lookingdown, apparently employed with some engravings, but I thought her hand(that small, delicate, Titania hand,) trembled.

  There was a pause. Vincent was talking with the other occupiers of thetable; a woman, at such times, is always the first to speak. "We havenot seen you, Mr. Pelham," said Ellen, "since your return to town."

  "I have been very ill," I answered, and I felt my voice falter. Ellenlooked up anxiously at my face; I could not brook those large, deep,tender eyes, and it now became my turn to occupy myself with the prints.

  "You do look pale," she said, in a low voice. I did not trust myselfwith a further remark--dissimulator as I was to others, I was like aguilty child before the woman I loved. There was another pause--at lastEllen said, "How do you think my brother looks?"

  I started; yes, he was her brother, and I was once more myself at thatthought. I answered so coldly and almost haughtily, that Ellen coloured,and said, with some dignity, that she should join Lady Roseville. Ibowed slightly, and she withdrew to the countess. I seized my hat anddeparted--but not utterly alone--I had managed to secrete the book whichEllen's hand had marked; through many a bitter day and sleepless night,that book has been my only companion; I have it before me now, and it isopen at a page which is yet blistered with the traces of former tears.