CHAPTER XXIX.Frances Seymour’s marriage with Lord Trelawny was now celebrated, after which the whole family left London for Ireland.Sophia, previous to her departure, reproved Calantha for her obstinacy, as she called it, in remaining in town. “I leave you with pain,†she said: “forgive me if I say it, for I see you have no conception of the folly of your conduct. Ever in extremes, you have acted as I little expected from the wife of Lord Avondale; but I blame him equally for giving you such unbounded freedom:—only the very wise and the very good know how to use it.†“Sophia,†replied Calantha, “I wish not for reproaches:—have confidence in me:—we cannot all be exactly alike. You are apattern of propriety and virtue, and verily you have your reward:—I act otherwise, and am prepared for censures:—even yours cannot offend me. Lord Avondale talks of soon returning to Ireland: I shall then leave this dear delightful London without regret; and you shall find me when we all meet for the spring at Castle Delaval, just the same, as when I entered it.†“Never the same,†thought Sophia, who marked, with astonishment, the change a few months had made.They were yet speaking, and taking a cold farewell of each other, when a thundering rap at the door interrupted them, and before Sophia could retreat, Mr. Fremore, Count Gondimar and Lady Mandeville were ushered in. A frozen courtesy, and an austere frown, were the only signs of animation Sophia gave, as she vanished from their view; for she seemed hardly to have energy sufficient left, to walk out of the room in an ordinary manner.“You have been ill,†said Lady Mandeville, accosting Calantha. “It is a week since I have seen you. Think not, however, that I am come to intrude upon your time: I only called, as I passed your door, to enquire after you. Mr. Fremore tells me you are about to visit the Princess of Madagascar. Is this true? for I never believe any thing I hear?†“For once,†said Calantha, “you may do so; and on this very evening, my introduction is to take place.†“It is with regret I hear it,†said Lady Mandeville with a sigh: “we shall never more see any thing of you. Besides, she is not my friend.†Calantha assured Lady Mandeville her attachment could endure all sorts of trials; and laughingly enquired of her respecting her lovers, Apollonius, and the Greek Lexicon she was employed in translating. Lady Mandeville answered her with some indifference on these subjects; and having said all that she could in order to dissuade heragainst visiting the Princess, took her leave.That evening, at the hour of ten, Lord Avondale and Mr. Fremore being in readiness, Calantha drove according to appointment to visit the wife of the great Nabob, the Princess of Madagascar. Now who is so ignorant as not to know that this Lady resides in an old-fashioned gothic building, called Barbary House, three miles beyond the turnpike? and who is so ignorant as not to be aware that her highness would not have favoured Lady Avondale with an audience, had she been otherwise than extremely well with the world, as the phrase is—for she was no patroness of the fallen! the caresses andpetits mots obligeantswhich dropt from her during this her first interview, raised Lady Avondale in her own opinion; but that was unnecessary. What was more to the purpose, it won her entirely towards the Princess.Calantha now, for the first time, conversedwith the learned of the land:—she heard new opinions started, and old ones refuted; and she gazed unhurt, but not unawed, upon reviewers, poets, critics, and politicians. At the end of a long gallery, two thick wax tapers, rendering “darkness visible,†the princess was seated. A poet of an emaciated and sallow complexion stood beside her; of him it was affirmed that in apparently the kindest and most engaging manner, he, at all times, said precisely that which was most unpleasant to the person he appeared to praise. This yellow hyena had, however, a heart noble, magnanimous and generous; and even his friends, could they but escape from his smile and his tongue, had no reason to complain. Few events, if any, were ever known to move the Princess from her position. Her pages—her foreign attire, but genuine English manners, voice and complexion, attracted universal admiration. She was beautiful too,and had a smile it was difficult to learn to hate or to mistrust. She spoke of her own country with contempt; and, even in her dress, which was magnificent, attempted to prove the superiority of every other over it. Her morals were simple and uncorrupt, and in matters of religious faith she entirely surrendered herself to the guidance of Hoiaouskim. She inclined her head a little upon seeing Lady Avondale; thedead, I mean the sick poet, did the same; and Hoiaouskim, her high priest, cast his eyes, with unassuming civility, upon Calantha, thus welcoming her to Barbary House.The princess then spoke a little sentence—just enough to shew how much she intended to protect Lady Avondale. She addressed herself, besides, in many dialects, to an outlandish set of menials; appointing every one in the room some trifling task, which was performed in a moment by young and old, with surprising alacrity. Such is the force of fashionand power, when skilfully applied. After this, she called Calantha: a slight exordium followed then a wily pointed catechism; her Highness nodding at intervals, and dropping short epigrammatic sentences, when necessary, to such as were in attendance around her. “Is she acting?†said Calantha, at length, in a whisper, addressing the sallow complexioned Poet, who stood sneering and simpering behind her chair. “Is she acting, or is this reality?†“It is the only reality you will ever find in the Princess,†returned her friend. “She acts the Princess of Madagascar from morning till night, and from night till morning. You may fall from favour, but you are now at the height: no one ever advanced further—none ever continued there long.â€â€œBut why,†said Lady Avondale, “do the great Nabob, and all the other Lords in waiting, with that black horde of savagesâ€â€”“Reviewers, you mean, andmen of talents.†“Well, whatever they are, tell me quickly why they wear collars, and chains around their necks at Barbary House?†“It is the fashion,†replied the poet. “This fashion is unbecoming your race,†said Lady Avondale: “I would die sooner than be thus enchained.†“The great Nabob,†quoth Mr. Fremore, joining in the discourse, “is the best, the kindest, the cleverest man I know; but, like some philosophers, he would sacrifice much for a peaceable life. The Princess is fond of inflicting these lesser tyrannies: she is so helplessly attached to these trifles—so overweaningly fond of exerting her powers, it were a pity to thwart her. For my own part, I could willingly bend to the yoke, provided the duration were not eternal; for observe that the chains are well gilded; that the tables are well stored; and those who bend the lowest are ever the best received.†“And if I also bow my neck,†said Calantha, “willshe be grateful? May I depend upon her seeming kindness?†The Poet’s naturally pale complexion turned to a bluish green at this enquiry.Cold Princess! where are your boasted professions now? You taught Calantha to love you, by every petty art of which your sex is mistress. She heard, from your lips, the sugared poisons you were pleased to lavish upon her. You laughed at her follies, courted her confidence, and flattered her into a belief that you loved her. Loved her!—it is a feeling you never felt. She fell into the mire; the arrows of your precious crew were shot at her—like hissing snakes hot and sharpened with malice and venomed fire; and you, yes—you were the first to scorn her:—you, by whom she had stood faithfully and firmly amidst a host of foes—aye, amidst the fawning rabble, who still crowd your doors, and laugh at and despise you. Thanks for the helping hand of friendship in the time of need—themud and the mire have been washed from Calantha; the arrows have been drawn from a bleeding bosom; the heart is still sound, and beats to disdain you. The sun may shine fairly again upon her; but never, whilst existence is prolonged, will she set foot in the gates of the Palace of the great Nabob, or trust to the smiles and professions of the Princess of Madagascar.
Frances Seymour’s marriage with Lord Trelawny was now celebrated, after which the whole family left London for Ireland.
Sophia, previous to her departure, reproved Calantha for her obstinacy, as she called it, in remaining in town. “I leave you with pain,†she said: “forgive me if I say it, for I see you have no conception of the folly of your conduct. Ever in extremes, you have acted as I little expected from the wife of Lord Avondale; but I blame him equally for giving you such unbounded freedom:—only the very wise and the very good know how to use it.†“Sophia,†replied Calantha, “I wish not for reproaches:—have confidence in me:—we cannot all be exactly alike. You are apattern of propriety and virtue, and verily you have your reward:—I act otherwise, and am prepared for censures:—even yours cannot offend me. Lord Avondale talks of soon returning to Ireland: I shall then leave this dear delightful London without regret; and you shall find me when we all meet for the spring at Castle Delaval, just the same, as when I entered it.†“Never the same,†thought Sophia, who marked, with astonishment, the change a few months had made.
They were yet speaking, and taking a cold farewell of each other, when a thundering rap at the door interrupted them, and before Sophia could retreat, Mr. Fremore, Count Gondimar and Lady Mandeville were ushered in. A frozen courtesy, and an austere frown, were the only signs of animation Sophia gave, as she vanished from their view; for she seemed hardly to have energy sufficient left, to walk out of the room in an ordinary manner.
“You have been ill,†said Lady Mandeville, accosting Calantha. “It is a week since I have seen you. Think not, however, that I am come to intrude upon your time: I only called, as I passed your door, to enquire after you. Mr. Fremore tells me you are about to visit the Princess of Madagascar. Is this true? for I never believe any thing I hear?†“For once,†said Calantha, “you may do so; and on this very evening, my introduction is to take place.†“It is with regret I hear it,†said Lady Mandeville with a sigh: “we shall never more see any thing of you. Besides, she is not my friend.†Calantha assured Lady Mandeville her attachment could endure all sorts of trials; and laughingly enquired of her respecting her lovers, Apollonius, and the Greek Lexicon she was employed in translating. Lady Mandeville answered her with some indifference on these subjects; and having said all that she could in order to dissuade heragainst visiting the Princess, took her leave.
That evening, at the hour of ten, Lord Avondale and Mr. Fremore being in readiness, Calantha drove according to appointment to visit the wife of the great Nabob, the Princess of Madagascar. Now who is so ignorant as not to know that this Lady resides in an old-fashioned gothic building, called Barbary House, three miles beyond the turnpike? and who is so ignorant as not to be aware that her highness would not have favoured Lady Avondale with an audience, had she been otherwise than extremely well with the world, as the phrase is—for she was no patroness of the fallen! the caresses andpetits mots obligeantswhich dropt from her during this her first interview, raised Lady Avondale in her own opinion; but that was unnecessary. What was more to the purpose, it won her entirely towards the Princess.
Calantha now, for the first time, conversedwith the learned of the land:—she heard new opinions started, and old ones refuted; and she gazed unhurt, but not unawed, upon reviewers, poets, critics, and politicians. At the end of a long gallery, two thick wax tapers, rendering “darkness visible,†the princess was seated. A poet of an emaciated and sallow complexion stood beside her; of him it was affirmed that in apparently the kindest and most engaging manner, he, at all times, said precisely that which was most unpleasant to the person he appeared to praise. This yellow hyena had, however, a heart noble, magnanimous and generous; and even his friends, could they but escape from his smile and his tongue, had no reason to complain. Few events, if any, were ever known to move the Princess from her position. Her pages—her foreign attire, but genuine English manners, voice and complexion, attracted universal admiration. She was beautiful too,and had a smile it was difficult to learn to hate or to mistrust. She spoke of her own country with contempt; and, even in her dress, which was magnificent, attempted to prove the superiority of every other over it. Her morals were simple and uncorrupt, and in matters of religious faith she entirely surrendered herself to the guidance of Hoiaouskim. She inclined her head a little upon seeing Lady Avondale; thedead, I mean the sick poet, did the same; and Hoiaouskim, her high priest, cast his eyes, with unassuming civility, upon Calantha, thus welcoming her to Barbary House.
The princess then spoke a little sentence—just enough to shew how much she intended to protect Lady Avondale. She addressed herself, besides, in many dialects, to an outlandish set of menials; appointing every one in the room some trifling task, which was performed in a moment by young and old, with surprising alacrity. Such is the force of fashionand power, when skilfully applied. After this, she called Calantha: a slight exordium followed then a wily pointed catechism; her Highness nodding at intervals, and dropping short epigrammatic sentences, when necessary, to such as were in attendance around her. “Is she acting?†said Calantha, at length, in a whisper, addressing the sallow complexioned Poet, who stood sneering and simpering behind her chair. “Is she acting, or is this reality?†“It is the only reality you will ever find in the Princess,†returned her friend. “She acts the Princess of Madagascar from morning till night, and from night till morning. You may fall from favour, but you are now at the height: no one ever advanced further—none ever continued there long.â€
“But why,†said Lady Avondale, “do the great Nabob, and all the other Lords in waiting, with that black horde of savagesâ€â€”“Reviewers, you mean, andmen of talents.†“Well, whatever they are, tell me quickly why they wear collars, and chains around their necks at Barbary House?†“It is the fashion,†replied the poet. “This fashion is unbecoming your race,†said Lady Avondale: “I would die sooner than be thus enchained.†“The great Nabob,†quoth Mr. Fremore, joining in the discourse, “is the best, the kindest, the cleverest man I know; but, like some philosophers, he would sacrifice much for a peaceable life. The Princess is fond of inflicting these lesser tyrannies: she is so helplessly attached to these trifles—so overweaningly fond of exerting her powers, it were a pity to thwart her. For my own part, I could willingly bend to the yoke, provided the duration were not eternal; for observe that the chains are well gilded; that the tables are well stored; and those who bend the lowest are ever the best received.†“And if I also bow my neck,†said Calantha, “willshe be grateful? May I depend upon her seeming kindness?†The Poet’s naturally pale complexion turned to a bluish green at this enquiry.
Cold Princess! where are your boasted professions now? You taught Calantha to love you, by every petty art of which your sex is mistress. She heard, from your lips, the sugared poisons you were pleased to lavish upon her. You laughed at her follies, courted her confidence, and flattered her into a belief that you loved her. Loved her!—it is a feeling you never felt. She fell into the mire; the arrows of your precious crew were shot at her—like hissing snakes hot and sharpened with malice and venomed fire; and you, yes—you were the first to scorn her:—you, by whom she had stood faithfully and firmly amidst a host of foes—aye, amidst the fawning rabble, who still crowd your doors, and laugh at and despise you. Thanks for the helping hand of friendship in the time of need—themud and the mire have been washed from Calantha; the arrows have been drawn from a bleeding bosom; the heart is still sound, and beats to disdain you. The sun may shine fairly again upon her; but never, whilst existence is prolonged, will she set foot in the gates of the Palace of the great Nabob, or trust to the smiles and professions of the Princess of Madagascar.