The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™ (260 page)

The day was already on the point of breaking when the Marquis retired to his chamber. Conscious that his narrative would take up some hours, and wishing to secure himself from interruption on returning to the Hotel, He ordered his Attendants not to sit up for him. Consequently, He was somewhat surprised on entering his Antiroom, to find Theodore established there. The Page sat near a Table with a pen in his hand, and was so totally occupied by his employment that He perceived not his Lord’s approach. The Marquis stopped to observe him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then paused, and scratched out a part of the writing: Then wrote again, smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what He had been about. At last He threw down his pen, sprang from his chair, and clapped his hands together joyfully.

‘There it is!’ cried He aloud: ‘Now they are charming!’

His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the Marquis, who suspected the nature of his employment.

‘What is so charming, Theodore?’

The Youth started, and looked round. He blushed, ran to the Table, seized the paper on which He had been writing, and concealed it in confusion.

‘Oh! my Lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of use to you? Lucas is already gone to bed.’

‘I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your verses.’

‘My verses, my Lord?’

‘Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else could have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where are they, Theodore? I shall like to see your composition.’

Theodore’s cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson: He longed to show his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it.

‘Indeed, my Lord, they are not worthy your attention.’

‘Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming?

Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I promise that you shall find in me an indulgent Critic.’

The Boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed the vanity of his little bosom. The Marquis smiled while He observed the emotions of an heart as yet but little skilled in veiling its sentiments. He seated himself upon a Sopha: Theodore, while Hope and fear contended on his anxious countenance, waited with inquietude for his Master’s decision, while the Marquis read the following lines.

LOVE AND AGE

The night was dark; The wind blew cold;

Anacreon, grown morose and old,

Sat by his fire, and fed the chearful flame:

Sudden the Cottage-door expands,

And lo! before him Cupid stands,

Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.

‘What is it Thou?’ the startled Sire

In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire

With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek:

‘Wouldst Thou again with amorous rage

Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age,

Vain Boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.

‘What seek You in this desart drear?

No smiles or sports inhabit here;

Ne’er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet:

Eternal winter binds the plains;

Age in my house despotic reigns,

My Garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.

‘Begone, and seek the blooming bower,

Where some ripe Virgin courts thy power,

Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed;

On Damon’s amorous breast repose;

Wanton—on Chloe’s lip of rose,

Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.

‘Be such thy haunts; These regions cold

Avoid! Nor think grown wise and old

This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear:

Remembering that my fairest years

By Thee were marked with sighs and tears,

I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.

‘I have not yet forgot the pains

I felt, while bound in Julia’s chains;

The ardent flames with which my bosom burned;

The nights I passed deprived of rest;

The jealous pangs which racked my breast;

My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.

‘Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more!

Fly from my peaceful Cottage-door!

No day, no hour, no moment shalt Thou stay.

I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts,

Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts;

Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!’

‘Does Age, old Man, your wits confound?’

Replied the offended God, and frowned;

(His frown was sweet as is the Virgin’s smile!)

‘Do You to Me these words address?

To Me, who do not love you less,

Though You my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile!

‘If one proud Fair you chanced to find,

An hundred other Nymphs were kind,

Whose smiles might well for Julia’s frowns atone:

But such is Man! His partial hand

Unnumbered favours writes on sand,

But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.

‘Ingrate! Who led Thee to the wave,

At noon where Lesbia loved to lave?

Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay?

And who, when Caelia shrieked for aid,

Bad you with kisses hush the Maid?

What other was’t than Love, Oh! false Anacreon, say!

‘Then You could call me—“Gentle Boy!

“My only bliss! my source of joy!”—

Then You could prize me dearer than your soul!

Could kiss, and dance me on your knees;

And swear, not wine itself would please,

Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl!

‘Must those sweet days return no more?

Must I for aye your loss deplore,

Banished your heart, and from your favour driven?

Ah! no; My fears that smile denies;

That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes

Declare me ever dear and all my faults forgiven.

‘Again beloved, esteemed, carest,

Cupid shall in thine arms be prest,

Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep:

My Torch thine age-struck heart shall warm;

My Hand pale Winter’s rage disarm,

And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.’—

A feather now of golden hue

He smiling from his pinion drew;

This to the Poet’s hand the Boy commits;

And straight before Anacreon’s eyes

The fairest dreams of fancy rise,

And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.

His bosom glows with amorous fire

Eager He grasps the magic lyre;

Swift o’er the tuneful chords his fingers move:

The Feather plucked from Cupid’s wing

Sweeps the too-long-neglected string,

While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of Love.

Soon as that name was heard, the Woods

Shook off their snows; The melting floods

Broke their cold chains, and Winter fled away.

Once more the earth was deckt with flowers;

Mild Zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;

High towered the glorious Sun, and poured the blaze of day.

Attracted by the harmonious sound,

Sylvans and Fauns the Cot surround,

And curious crowd the Minstrel to behold:

The Wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove;

Eager They run; They list, they love,

And while They hear the strain, forget the Man is old.

Cupid, to nothing constant long,

Perched on the Harp attends the song,

Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes:

Now on the Poet’s breast reposes,

Now twines his hoary locks with roses,

Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.

Then thus Anacreon—‘I no more

At other shrine my vows will pour,

Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire:

From Phoebus or the blue-eyed Maid

Now shall my verse request no aid,

For Love alone shall be the Patron of my Lyre.

‘In lofty strain, of earlier days,

I spread the King’s or Hero’s praise,

And struck the martial Chords with epic fire:

But farewell, Hero! farewell, King!

Your deeds my lips no more shall sing,

For Love alone shall be the subject of my Lyre.

The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement.

‘Your little poem pleases me much,’ said He; ‘However, you must not count my opinion for anything. I am no judge of verses, and for my own part, never composed more than six lines in my life: Those six produced so unlucky an effect that I am fully resolved never to compose another. But I wander from my subject. I was going to say that you cannot employ your time worse than in making verses. An Author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an Animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment, contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its Author a thousand mortifications. He finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured Criticism: One Man finds fault with the plan, Another with the style, a Third with the precept, which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the Book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its Author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the Man, since They cannot hurt the Writer. In short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame; Indeed this circumstance contains a young Author’s chief consolation: He remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious Critics, and He modestly conceives himself to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that all these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong; and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation.’

‘Then, my Lord, you do not think these lines tolerable?’ said Theodore with an humble and dejected air.

‘You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have pleased me much; But my regard for you makes me partial, and Others might judge them less favourably. I must still remark that even my prejudice in your favour does not blind me so much as to prevent my observing several faults. For instance, you make a terrible confusion of metaphors; You are too apt to make the strength of your lines consist more in the words than sense; Some of the verses only seem introduced in order to rhyme with others; and most of the best ideas are borrowed from other Poets, though possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself. These faults may occasionally be excused in a work of length; But a short Poem must be correct and perfect.’

‘All this is true, Segnor; But you should consider that I only write for pleasure.’

‘Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrectness may be forgiven in those who work for money, who are obliged to compleat a given task in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not value of their productions. But in those whom no necessity forces to turn Author, who merely write for fame, and have full leisure to polish their compositions, faults are impardonable, and merit the sharpest arrows of criticism.’

The Marquis rose from the Sopha; the Page looked discouraged and melancholy, and this did not escape his Master’s observation.

‘However’ added He smiling, ‘I think that these lines do you no discredit. Your versification is tolerably easy, and your ear seems to be just. The perusal of your little poem upon the whole gave me much pleasure; and if it is not asking too great a favour, I shall be highly obliged to you for a Copy.’

The Youth’s countenance immediately cleared up. He perceived not the smile, half approving, half ironical, which accompanied the request, and He promised the Copy with great readiness. The Marquis withdrew to his chamber, much amused by the instantaneous effect produced upon Theodore’s vanity by the conclusion of his Criticism. He threw himself upon his Couch; Sleep soon stole over him, and his dreams presented him with the most flattering pictures of happiness with Agnes.

On reaching the Hotel de Medina, Lorenzo’s first care was to enquire for Letters. He found several waiting for him; but that which He sought was not amongst them. Leonella had found it impossible to write that evening. However, her impatience to secure Don Christoval’s heart, on which She flattered herself with having made no slight impression, permitted her not to pass another day without informing him where She was to be found. On her return from the Capuchin Church, She had related to her Sister with exultation how attentive an handsome Cavalier had been to her; as also how his Companion had undertaken to plead Antonia’s cause with the Marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira received this intelligence with sensations very different from those with which it was communicated. She blamed her Sister’s imprudence in confiding her history to an absolute Stranger, and expressed her fears lest this inconsiderate step should prejudice the Marquis against her. The greatest of her apprehensions She concealed in her own breast. She had observed with inquietude that at the mention of Lorenzo, a deep blush spread itself over her Daughter’s cheek. The timid Antonia dared not to pronounce his name: Without knowing wherefore, She felt embarrassed when He was made the subject of discourse, and endeavoured to change the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira perceived the emotions of this young bosom: In consequence, She insisted upon Leonella’s breaking her promise to the Cavaliers. A sigh, which on hearing this order escaped from Antonia, confirmed the wary Mother in her resolution.

Through this resolution Leonella was determined to break: She conceived it to be inspired by envy, and that her Sister dreaded her being elevated above her. Without imparting her design to anyone, She took an opportunity of dispatching the following note to Lorenzo; It was delivered to him as soon as He woke.

‘Doubtless, Segnor Don Lorenzo, you have frequently accused me of ingratitude and forgetfulness: But on the word of a Virgin, it was out of my power to perform my promise yesterday. I know not in what words to inform you how strange a reception my Sister gave your kind wish to visit her. She is an odd Woman, with many good points about her; But her jealousy of me frequently makes her conceive notions quite unaccountable. On hearing that your Friend had paid some little attention to me, She immediately took the alarm: She blamed my conduct, and has absolutely forbidden me to let you know our abode. My strong sense of gratitude for your kind offers of service, and… Shall I confess it? my desire to behold once more the too amiable Don Christoval, will not permit my obeying her injunctions. I have therefore stolen a moment to inform you, that we lodge in the Strada di San Iago, four doors from the Palace d’Albornos, and nearly opposite to the Barber’s Miguel Coello. Enquire for Donna Elvira Dalfa, since in compliance with her Father-in-law’s order, my Sister continues to be called by her maiden name. At eight this evening you will be sure of finding us: But let not a word drop which may raise a suspicion of my having written this letter. Should you see the Conde d’Ossorio, tell him… I blush while I declare it…

Tell him that his presence will be but too acceptable to the sympathetic Leonella.

The latter sentences were written in red ink, to express the blushes of her cheek, while She committed an outrage upon her virgin modesty.

Lorenzo had no sooner perused this note than He set out in search of Don Christoval. Not being able to find him in the course of the day, He proceeded to Donna Elvira’s alone, to Leonella’s infinite disappointment. The Domestic by whom He sent up his name, having already declared his Lady to be at home, She had no excuse for refusing his visit: Yet She consented to receive it with much reluctance. That reluctance was increased by the changes which his approach produced in Antonia’s countenance; nor was it by any means abated when the Youth himself appeared. The symmetry of his person, animation of his features, and natural elegance of his manners and address, convinced Elvira that such a Guest must be dangerous for her Daughter. She resolved to treat him with distant politeness, to decline his services with gratitude for the tender of them, and to make him feel, without offence, that his future visits would be far from acceptable.

On his entrance He found Elvira, who was indisposed, reclining upon a Sopha: Antonia sat by her embroidery frame, and Leonella, in a pastoral dress, held ‘Montemayor’s Diana.’ In spite of her being the Mother of Antonia, Lorenzo could not help expecting to find in Elvira Leonella’s true Sister, and the Daughter of ‘as honest a painstaking Shoe-maker, as any in Cordova.’ A single glance was sufficient to undeceive him. He beheld a Woman whose features, though impaired by time and sorrow, still bore the marks of distinguished beauty: A serious dignity reigned upon her countenance, but was tempered by a grace and sweetness which rendered her truly enchanting. Lorenzo fancied that She must have resembled her Daughter in her youth, and readily excused the imprudence of the late Conde de las Cisternas. She desired him to be seated, and immediately resumed her place upon the Sopha.

Antonia received him with a simple reverence, and continued her work: Her cheeks were suffused with crimson, and She strove to conceal her emotion by leaning over her embroidery frame. Her Aunt also chose to play off her airs of modesty; She affected to blush and tremble, and waited with her eyes cast down to receive, as She expected, the compliments of Don Christoval. Finding after some time that no sign of his approach was given, She ventured to look round the room, and perceived with vexation that Medina was unaccompanied. Impatience would not permit her waiting for an explanation: Interrupting Lorenzo, who was delivering Raymond’s message, She desired to know what was become of his Friend.

He, who thought it necessary to maintain himself in her good graces, strove to console her under her disappointment by committing a little violence upon truth.

‘Ah! Segnora,’ He replied in a melancholy voice ‘How grieved will He be at losing this opportunity of paying you his respects! A Relation’s illness has obliged him to quit Madrid in haste: But on his return, He will doubtless seize the first moment with transport to throw himself at your feet!’