Pelham — Complete

by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

  CHAPTER LXVIII.

  Our mistress is a little given to philosophy: what disputations shall wehave here by and by!--Gil Blas.

  It was now but seldom that I met Ellen, for I went little into generalsociety, and grew every day more engrossed in political affairs.Sometimes, however, when, wearied of myself, and my graver occupations,I yielded to my mother's solicitations, and went to one of the nightlyhaunts of the goddess we term Pleasure, and the Greeks, Moria, the gameof dissipation (to use a Spanish proverb) shuffled us together. Itwas then that I had the most difficult task of my life to learn and toperform; to check the lip--the eye--the soul--to heap curb on curb, uponthe gushings of the heart, which daily and hourly yearned to overflow;and to feel, that while the mighty and restless tides of passionwere thus fettered and restrained, all within was a parched and aridwilderness, that wasted itself, for want of very moisture, away. Yetthere was something grateful in the sadness with which I watched herform in the dance, or listened to her voice in the song; and I feltsoothed, and even happy, when my fancy flattered itself, that her stepnever now seemed so light, as it was wont to be when in harmony withmine, nor the songs that pleased her most, so gay as those that wereformerly her choice.

  Distant and unobserved, I loved to feed my eyes upon her pale anddowncast cheek; to note the abstraction that came over her at moments,even when her glance seemed brightest, and her lip most fluent; and toknow, that while a fearful mystery might for ever forbid the union ofour hands, there was an invisible, but electric chain, which connectedthe sympathies of our hearts.

  Ah! why is it, that the noblest of our passions should be also the mostselfish?--that while we would make all earthly sacrifice for the onewe love, we are perpetually demanding a sacrifice in return; that if wecannot have the rapture of blessing, we find a consolation in the powerto afflict; and that we acknowledge, while we reprobate, the maximof the sage: "L'on veut faire tout le bonheur, ou, si cela ne se peutainsi, tout le malheur de ce qu'on aime."

  The beauty of Ellen was not of that nature, which rests solely uponthe freshness of youth, nor even the magic of expression; it was asfaultless as it was dazzling; no one could deny its excess or itsperfection; her praises came constantly to my ear into whatever societyI went. Say what we will of the power of love, it borrows greatly fromopinion; pride, above all things, sanctions and strengthens affection.When all voices were united to panegyrize her beauty--when I knew, thatthe powers of her wit--the charms of her conversation--the accuratejudgment, united to the sparkling imagination, were even more remarkablecharacteristics of her mind, than loveliness of her person, I could notbut feel my ambition, as well as my tenderness, excited; I dwelt witha double intensity on my choice, and with a tenfold bitterness on theobstacles which forbade me to indulge it.

  Yet there was one circumstance, to which, in spite of all the evidenceagainst Reginald, my mind still fondly and eagerly clung. In searchingthe pockets of the unfortunate Tyrrell, the money he had mentioned to meas being in his possession, could not be discovered. Had Glanville beenthe murderer, at all events he could not have been the robber; it wastrue that in the death scuffle, which in all probability took place, themoney might have fallen from the person of the deceased, either amongthe long grass which grew rankly and luxuriantly around, or in thesullen and slimy pool, close to which the murder was perpetrated; it wasalso possible, that Thornton, knowing the deceased had so large asum about him, and not being aware that the circumstance had beencommunicated to me or any one else, might not have been able (when heand Dawson first went to the spot,) to resist so great a temptation.However, there was a slight crevice in this fact, for a sunbeam of hopeto enter, and I was too sanguine, by habitual temperament and presentpassion, not to turn towards it from the general darkness of mythoughts.

  With Glanville I was often brought into immediate contact. Both unitedin the same party, and engaged in concerting the same measures, wefrequently met in public, and sometimes even alone. However, I wasinvariably cold and distant, and Glanville confirmed rather thandiminished my suspicions, by making no commentary on my behaviour, andimitating it in the indifference of his own. Yet, it was with a painfuland aching heart, that I marked, in his emaciated from and sunken cheek,the gradual, but certain progress of disease and death; and while allEngland rung with the renown of the young, but almost unrivalled orator,and both parties united in anticipating the certainty and brilliancyof his success, I felt how improbable it was, that, even if his crimeescaped the unceasing vigilance of justice, this living world would longpossess any traces of his genius but the remembrance of his name. Therewas something in his love of letters, his habits of luxury and expence,the energy of his mind--the solitude, the darkness, the hauteur, thereserve, of his manners and life, which reminded me of the GermanWallenstein; nor was he altogether without the superstition of thatevil, but extraordinary man. It is true, that he was not addicted tothe romantic fables of astrology, but he was an earnest, though secret,advocate of the world of spirits. He did not utterly disbelieve thevarious stories of their return to earth, and their visits to theliving; and it would have been astonishing to me, had I been a lessdiligent observer of human inconsistencies, to mark a mind otherwiseso reasoning and strong, in this respect so credulous and weak; andto witness its reception of a belief, not only so adverse to ordinaryreflection, but so absolutely contradictory to the philosophy itpassionately cultivated, and the principles it obstinately espoused.

  One evening, I, Vincent, and Clarendon, were alone at Lady Roseville's,when Reginald and his sister entered. I rose to depart; la belleContesse would not suffer it; and when I looked at Ellen, and saw herblush at my glance, the weakness of my heart conquered, and I remained.

  Our conversation turned partly upon books, and principally on thescience du coeur et du monde, for Lady Roseville was un peu philosophe,as well as more than un peu litteraire; and her house, like those ofthe Du Deffands and D'Epinays of the old French regime, was one whereserious subjects were cultivated, as well as the lighter ones; where itwas the mode to treat no less upon things than to scandalize persons;and where maxims on men and reflections on manners, were as much intheir places, as strictures on the Opera and invitations to balls.

  All who were now assembled were more or less suited to one another; allwere people of the world, and yet occasional students of the closet;but all had a different method of expressing their learning or theirobservations. Clarendon was dry, formal, shrewd, and possessed of thesuspicious philosophy common to men hacknied in the world. Vincentrelieved his learning by the quotation, or metaphor, or originality ofsome sort with which it was expressed. Lady Roseville seldom spokemuch, but when she did, it was rather with grace than solidity. She wasnaturally melancholy and pensive, and her observations partook of thecolourings of her mind; but she was also a dame de la cour, accustomedto conceal, and her language was gay and trifling, while the sentimentsit clothed were pensive and sad.

  Ellen Glanville was an attentive listener, but a diffident speaker.Though her knowledge was even masculine for its variety and extent, shewas averse to displaying it; the childish, the lively, the tender, werethe outward traits of her character--the flowers were above, but themine was beneath; one noted the beauty of the former--one seldom dreamtof the value of the latter.

  Glanville's favourite method of expressing himself was terse andsententious. He did not love the labour of detail: he conveyed theknowledge of years in a problem. Sometimes he was fanciful, sometimesfalse; but, generally, dark, melancholy, and bitter.

  As for me, I entered more into conversation at Lady Roseville's than Iusually do elsewhere; being, according to my favourite philosophy, gayon the serious, and serious on the gay; and, perhaps, this is a justermethod of treating the two than would be readily imagined: for thingswhich are usually treated with importance, are, for the most part,deserving of ridicule; and those which we receive as trifles, swellthemselves into a consequence we little dreamt of, before they depart.

  Vincent took up a volu
me: it was Shelley's Posthumous Poems. "Howfine," said he, "some of these are; but they are fine fragments of anarchitecture in bad taste: they are imperfect in themselves, and faultyin the school they belonged to; yet, such as they are, the master-handis evident upon them. They are like the pictures of Paul Veronese--oftenoffending the eye, often irritating the judgment, but redolent ofsomething vast and lofty--their very faults are majestic--this age,perhaps no other will ever do them justice--but the disciples of futureschools will make glorious pillage of their remains. The writingsof Shelley would furnish matter for a hundred volumes: they are anadmirable museum of ill-arranged curiosities--they are diamonds,awkwardly set; but one of them, in the hands of a skilful jeweller,would be inestimable: and the poet of the future, will serve him asMercury did the tortoise in his own translation from Homer--make him'sing sweetly when he's dead!' Their lyres will be made out of hisshell."

  "If I judge rightly," said Clarendon, "his literary faults were these:he was too learned in his poetry, and too poetical in his learning.Learning is the bane of a poet. Imagine how beautiful Petrarch wouldbe without his platonic conceits: fancy the luxuriant imagination ofCowley, left to run wild among the lofty objects of nature, not theminute peculiarities of art. Even Milton, who made a more graceful andgorgeous use of learning than, perhaps, any other poet, would havebeen far more popular if he had been more familiar. Poetry is forthe multitude--erudition for the few. In proportion as you mix them,erudition will gain in readers, and poetry lose."

  "True," said Glanville; "and thus the poetical, among philosophers, arethe most popular of their time; and the philosophical among poets, theleast popular of theirs."

  "Take care," said Vincent, smiling, "that we are not misled by the pointof your deduction; the remark is true, but with a certain reservation,viz. that the philosophy which renders a poet less popular, must bethe philosophy of learning, not of wisdom. Wherever it consists inthe knowledge of the plainer springs of the heart, and not in abstruseinquiry into its metaphysical and hidden subtleties, it necessarilyincreases the popularity of the poem; because, instead of being limitedto the few, it comes home to every one. Thus it is the philosophy ofShakspeare, Byron, Horace, Pope, Moliere, which has put them into everyone's hands and hearts--while that of Propertius, even of Lucretius,of Cowley, and Shelley, makes us often throw down the book, becauseit fatigues us with the scholar. Philosophy, therefore, only sins inpoetry, when, in the severe garb of learning, it becomes 'harsh andcrabbed,' and not 'musical, as is Apollo's lute.'"

  "Alas!" said I, "how much more difficult than of yore, education isbecome--formerly, it had only one object--to acquire learning; and now,we have not only to acquire it, but to know what to do with it whenwe have--nay, there are not a few cases where the very perfection oflearning will be to appear ignorant."

  "Perhaps," said Glanville, "the very perfection of wisdom may consistin retaining actual ignorance. Where was there ever the individual who,after consuming years, life, health, in the pursuit of science, restedsatisfied with its success, or rewarded by its triumph? Common sensetells us that the best method of employing life, is to enjoy it. Commonsense tells us, also, the ordinary means of this enjoyment; health,competence, and the indulgence, but the moderate indulgence, of ourpassions. What have these to do with science?"

  "I might tell you," replied Vincent, "that I myself have been no idlenor inactive seeker after the hidden treasures of mind; and that, frommy own experience, I could speak of pleasure, pride, complacency, inthe pursuit, that were no inconsiderable augmenters of my stock ofenjoyment: but I have the candour to confess, also, that I have knowndisappointment, mortification, despondency of mind, and infirmityof body, that did more than balance the account. The fact is, in myopinion, that the individual is a sufferer for his toils, but thenthe mass is benefited by his success. It is we who reap, in idlegratification, what the husbandman has sown in the bitterness of labour.Genius did not save Milton from poverty and blindness--nor Tasso fromthe madhouse--nor Galileo from the inquisition; they were the sufferers,but posterity the gainers. The literary empire reverses the political;it is not the many made for one--it is the one made for many; wisdom andgenius must have their martyrs as well as religion, and with the sameresults, viz: semen ecclesioeest sanguis martyrorum. And this reflectionmust console us for their misfortunes, for, perhaps, it was sufficientto console them. In the midst of the most affecting passage in the mostwonderful work, perhaps, ever produced, for the mixture of universalthought with individual interest--I mean the two last cantos of ChildeHarold--the poet warms from himself at his hopes of being remembered

  "'In his line With his land's language.'

  "And who can read the noble and heart-speaking apology of AlgernonSidney, without entering into his consolation no less than hismisfortunes? Speaking of the law being turned into a snare instead ofa protection, and instancing its uncertainty and danger in the times ofRichard the Second, he says, 'God only knows what will be the issueof the like practices in these our days; perhaps he will in his mercyspeedily visit his afflicted people; I die in the faith that he will doit, though I know not the time or ways.'"

  "I love," said Clarendon, "the enthusiasm which places comfort in sonoble a source; but, is vanity, think you, a less powerful agent thanphilanthropy? is it not the desire of shining before men that promptsus to whatever may effect it? and if it can create, can it not alsosupport? I mean, that if you allow that to shine, to eclater, to enjoypraise, is no ordinary incentive to the commencement of great works, theconviction of future success for this desire becomes no inconsiderablereward. Grant, for instance, that this desire produced the 'ParadiseLost,' and you will not deny that it might also support the poet throughhis misfortunes. Do you think that he thought rather of the pleasure hiswork should afford to posterity, than of the praises posterity shouldextend to his work? Had not Cicero left us such frank confessions ofhimself, how patriotic, how philanthropic we should have esteemed him;now we know both his motive and meed was vanity, may we not extendthe knowledge of human nature which we have gained in this instanceby applying it to others? For my part, I should be loth to inquire howgreat a quantum of vanity mingled with the haughty patriotism of Sidney,or the unconquered spirit of Cato."

  Glanville bowed his head in approval. "But," observed I, "why be souncharitable to this poor, and persecuted principle, since none of youdeny the good and great actions it effects; why stigmatize vanity as avice, when it creates, or, at least participates in, so many virtues? Iwonder the ancients did not erect the choicest of their temples to itsworship. Quant a moi, I shall henceforth only speak of it as the primummobile of whatever we venerate and admire, and shall think it thehighest compliment I can pay to a man, to tell him he is eminentlyvain."

  "I incline to your opinion," cried Vincent, laughing. "The reason wedislike vanity in others, is because it is perpetually hurting our own.Of all passions (if for the moment I may call it such) it is the mostindiscreet; it is for ever blabbing out its own secrets. If it would butkeep its counsel, it would be as graciously received in society, asany other well-dressed and well-bred intruder of quality. Its garrulitymakes it despised. But in truth it must be clear, that vanity in itselfis neither a vice nor a virtue, any more than this knife, in itself,is dangerous or useful; the person who employs gives it its qualities;thus, for instance, a great mind desires to shine, or is vain, ingreat actions; a frivolous one, in frivolities: and so on through thevarieties of the human intellect. But I cannot agree with Mr Clarendon,that my admiration of Algernon Sidney (Cato I never did admire) wouldbe at all lessened by the discovery, that his resistance to tyranny ina great measure originated in vanity, or that the same vanity consoledhim, when he fell a victim to that resistance; for what does it provebut this, that, among the various feelings of his soul, indignationat oppression, (so common to all men)--enthusiasm for liberty, (sopredominant in him)--the love of benefiting others--the noble prideof being, in death, consistent with himself; among all these feelings,among a crowd of others
equally honourable and pure--there was also one,and perhaps no inconsiderable feeling of desire, that his life anddeath should be hereafter appreciated justly--contemptu famoe, contemnivirtutem--contempt of fame, is the contempt of virtue? Never considerthat vanity an offence, which limits itself to wishing for the praise ofgood men for good actions: next to our own esteem, says the best of theRoman philosophers, 'it is a virtue to desire the esteem of others.'"

  "By your emphasis on the word esteem," said Lady Roseville, "I supposeyou attach some peculiar importance to the word?"

  "I do," answered Vincent. "I use it in contradistinction to admiration.We may covet general admiration for a bad action--(for many bad actionshave the clinquant, which passes for real gold)--but one can expectgeneral esteem only for a good one."

  "From this distinction," said Ellen, modestly, "may we not draw aninference, which will greatly help us in our consideration of vanity;may we not deem that vanity, which desires only the esteem of others tobe invariably a virtue, and that which only longs for admiration to befrequently a vice?"

  "We may admit your inference," said Vincent; "and before I leave thisquestion, I cannot help remarking upon the folly of the superficial, whoimagine, by studying human motives, that philosophers wish to depreciatehuman actions. To direct our admiration to a proper point, is surelynot to destroy it; yet how angry inconsiderate enthusiasts are, when weassign real, in the place of exaggerated feelings. Thus the advocatesfor the doctrine of utility--the most benevolent, because the mostindulgent, of all philosophies--are branded with the epithets of selfishand interested; decriers of moral excellence, and disbelievers ingenerous actions. Vice has no friend like the prejudices which callthemselves virtue. La pretexte ordinaire de ceux qui font le malheur desautres est qu'ils veulent leur bien."

  My eyes were accidentally fixed on Glanville as Vincent ceased; helooked up, and coloured faintly as he met my look; but he did notwithdraw his own--keenly and steadily we gazed upon each other, tillEllen, turning round suddenly, remarked the unwonted meaning of ourlooks, and placed her hand in her brother's, with a sort of fear.

  It was late; he rose to withdraw, and passing me, said in a low tone,"A little while, and you shall know all." I made no answer--he left theroom with Ellen.

  "Lady Roseville has had but a dull evening, I fear, with our stupidsaws and antient instances," said Vincent. The eyes of the person headdressed were fixed upon the door; I was standing close by her, andas the words struck her ear, she turned abruptly;--a tear fell upon myhand--she perceived it, and though I would not look upon her face, Isaw that her very neck blushed; but she, like me, if she gave way tofeeling, had learnt too deep a lesson from the world, not readily toresume her self-command; she answered Vincent railingly, upon his badcompliment to us, and received our adieus with all her customary grace,and more than her customary gaiety.