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Title: Realmah
Author: Sir Arthur Helps
Release date: October 20, 2026 [eBook #79831]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1869
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79831
Credits: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REALMAH ***
REALMAH.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
REALMAH.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF “FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.”
Boston:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1869.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LONDON:
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,
BREAD STREET HILL.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
JOHN ROBINSON M‘CLEAN, ESQ.,
PAST PRESIDENT OF THE INSTITUTION OF CIVIL ENGINEERS,
F.G.S., F.S.S., F.A.S.
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED,
WITH THE GREATEST AFFECTION AND ESTEEM,
BY HIS SINCERE FRIEND,
THE AUTHOR.
NOVEMBER, 1868.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“_No, Master Scholasticus, I am not one of those academick eremites who
think that they can apprehend great matters, by taking refuge in their
book-rooms, and perpending their own thoughts only. But I do mightily
affect and desiderate the converse of learned and worthy persons who
will obtest against my chaunting foolish litanies before the idols of my
own conceit, who will chastise the fondness of my imaginations, and
chase away the bewildering humours and fancies which beset me when I
hearken only to my poor and most unworthy self. For who, indeed, at one
trait, and from his own small treasury of observance, shall veritably
depict even the loveliness of these dumb and thoughtless glades,
bosques, and rivulets which surround us? This man seeth them when Phœbus
is smiling, and that man, when the God of day is obnubilated--not to
speak of the various moods of men, which moods, whether they are
gladsome or melancholy, fanciful or dull, do enchant or disenchant, for
the men themselves, the outward forms and shows of nature. Therefore,
always am I desireful to hear what my friends will say upon any matter
that doth admit high and various discourse. And though the cautelous
tregetour, or, as the men of France do call him, the jongleur, doth make
a very pretty play with two or three balls which seem to live in the
air, and which do not depart from him, yet I would rather, after our old
English fashion, have the ball tossed from hand to hand, or that one
should propulse the ball against the little guichet, while another
should repel it with the batting-staff. This I hold to be the fuller
exercise and the more pleasant pastime._”--An unpublished fragment from
the MS. of “ANE AUNCIENTE CLERKE.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I. 1
CHAPTER II. 8
CHAPTER III. 27
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP. I.--The Lake City 28
CHAP. II.--The Religion and Government of the Sheviri 31
CHAPTER IV. 46
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP. III.--The Two Wives 52
CHAP. IV.--The Council 57
CHAPTER V. 62
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP. V.--Realmah visits Talora 71
CHAP. VI.--The Treachery of the Phelatahs 77
CHAPTER VI. 89
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP VII.--The Festival 98
CHAP VIII.--Realmah’s Courtship 101
CHAP IX.--Realmah is accused of Impiety 108
CHAP X.--Realmah’s Appearance before the Four Hundred 112
CHAPTER VII. 131
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP XI.--The Sheviri take the Field against the
Phelatahs--Realmah is made Prisoner 142
CHAP XII.--The Perils of a Spy 145
CHAP XIII.--The Escape from Prison 151
CHAP XIV.--The Flight 156
CHAP XV.--The Final Danger 163
CHAPTER VIII. 175
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP XVI.--Realmah’s Failure 197
CHAP XVII.--Realmah’s Depression 209
CHAP XVIII.--The Loves of Realmah and the Ainah 213
CHAP XIX.--Realmah’s Success 222
CHAP XX.--Realmah’s Grief. The use made of Iron in Abibah 235
CHAPTER IX. 241
CHAPTER X. 267
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP XXI.--The Revolution 270
CHAP XXII.--Realmah becomes King 277
CHAP XXIII.--The King provides against Famine--His
Councillors 281
CHAPTER XI. 292
CHAPTER XII. 307
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP XXIV.--Realmah’s Danger from Conspiracies 319
CHAP XXV.--Realmah’s great Enemy, Brishee-Brashee-Vah 325
CHAP XXVI.--The Invasion 329
CHAP XXVII.--Realmah’s Preparations for the Siege--His
Plan of the Campaign 335
CHAP XXVIII.--Account of the Campaign--The Interview between
Realmah and Athlah--The Battle of the Plain 338
CHAP XXIX.--The Commencement of the Siege 343
CHAP. XXX.--The Conduct of the Varnah during the Siege 347
CHAP. XXXI.--The Last Days of the Siege 350
CHAPTER XIII. 362
CHAPTER XIV. 370
CHAPTER XV. 389
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP. XXXII.--The Sham Fight 394
CHAP. XXXIII.--Realmah’s great Project 398
CHAPTER XVI. 424
THE STORY OF REALMAH:--
CHAP. XXXIV.--The King’s Birthday 425
CHAP. XXXV.--The Festival of the Foundation of Abibah 429
CHAP. XXXVI.--The King’s Speech 432
CHAP. XXXVII.--The Death of the King 442
CHAPTER XVII. 454
------------------------------------------------------------------------
REALMAH.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
REALMAH.
CHAPTER I.
“Don’t read any more of that newspaper to me. I will not listen to any
more of it. What a world it is! what an ill-conditioned planet! As if
there was not enough to do to extract a living from this difficult
earth, as if there was not enough to do to manage our private affairs,
sufficiently confused by every kind of folly, but we must rush into
wars;[1] and, for the sake of dynastic ambitions, sacrifice the lives of
tens of thousands of our fellow-creatures!
Footnote 1:
This work was commenced, as the reader will perceive, some time ago.
“What quarrelsome wretches we are! I do believe that if the arrangements
of the world were such that we were placed upon separate pillars--each
of us being a Simeon Stylites--we should contrive to do each other a
great deal of mischief. Our food might be brought to us by benevolent
birds. We should save it up in order to make a hard substance of it to
hurl at the heads of our neighbours, whom we should hate with a truly
neighbourly hatred; or we should make such hideous grimaces at one
another, that the weaker brethren would drop from their pillars for fear
of the hatred of the stronger; and then the stronger would clap their
hands and laugh.
“Here is a middle-aged man toiling away, not grudgingly, for a large
family. His life is not too happy in itself, but he is tolerably
contented with it, having merged all his own desires and hopes in the
happiness of those dear to him. He little thinks, poor man, that the
wild fanaticism of some statesman, upon whose mind he cannot hope to
have the faintest influence, will be the means of removing him from the
face of the earth, leaving his family to the mercy of a world not too
tender-hearted to the friendless and the poor. The result is, that such
a man is profoundly interested in the ill-doings of all the ill-doers
who inhabit not only the regions nearest to him, but those who inhabit
what to him are the ends of the earth.
“Then look at government: what a thing it is, even in the best-governed
communities! True it is, there are a few nations who enjoy something
like constitutional government; but what a wilderness of empty talk goes
on amongst them, and how little comes from it!
“There was a poet who compared man to a heavily-laden ass, driven by a
brutal owner; and the poor ass learnt the right road only by heavy blows
being administered to it whenever it diverged to the right or the left
of the road marked out for it by its cruel master.
“Then there is the vanity of man--that unappeasable, inexhaustible
vanity, always longing to be first. Nobody seems to see the beauty of
being second or third. As Carlyle says, ‘We are like snakes in a bottle,
all wriggling about and endeavouring to get uppermost, biting and
hissing at one another.’
“Then look at the progress of Christianity. Even the most astute
theologian has not been able, in his bewildering tomes, utterly to
obscure the innate beauty of that grand religion. It has now been more
than eighteen centuries before the world; and when a great opportunity
comes for manifesting what it has done, we hear only of ‘My rights,’ ‘My
honour,’ ‘My glory,’ ‘My just demands,’ and every fanatical folly that
dynastic ambition can produce.
“The truth is, man is not great enough for the place he holds in
creation. If Darwin’s theory is right, there is much of the ape nature
still left in us, and we are still as mischievous as monkeys.
“Yet I suppose it is all right somehow, and that my thoughts are mere
chimeras; but how are we to get over the sufferings imposed upon the
brute creation?
“I believe I should not care about war so much, if it were not for the
poor horses. If this war goes on, there will be at least a quarter of a
million of these poor creatures sacrificed to it, with every variety of
suffering. I begin to wish we had never subdued them.
“Well, sir, and what do you say to all this? What answer do you give to
all my doubts and difficulties? There is wisdom in the mouths of babes
and sucklings. What says my young metaphysician, and most judicious
private secretary?”
“Well, sir, I say ditto to Mr. Burke.”
“Ah! I wish you would not say ‘ditto,’ but provide me with some answer
to all my ugly questions.”
It was the foregoing outbreak on the part of my master that first made
me think of writing this story, and therefore I put it at the beginning.
And now I shall commence to tell who I am, and whom I serve.
My name is Alexander Johnson. I was born of poor parents. Indeed, my
father was the village blacksmith--as good a man as ever made a
horse-shoe, and I was the clever boy of the village, the first monitor
at the National schools, who was always shown as a native prodigy to
admiring visitors. Kind friends determined that I should have a better
education than most boys of my class; and they got me placed in the
map-drawing department of a neighbouring town, where in the evening I
learnt some Latin. To tell the truth, I did not think a little of
myself. The neighbouring Squire, proud of the clever boy whose
cleverness had been developed in his village, chose me as tutor to his
sons and daughter. The result so common in such cases happened to me.
The sons were stupid, but the daughter made marvellous progress; and I,
though her tutor, was to some extent her pupil; for, with feminine tact,
she taught me the rules of behaviour, and by her shrewd and subtle
questions in our studies often taxed my ingenuity to answer.
Need I say that we loved one another, or at least that I loved her
passionately, and that she had some regard--who knows how much?--for me;
but it was arranged that she should marry the neighbouring Lord’s
younger son; who, however, had the merit, not always belonging to
younger sons, of having a very sickly elder brother. The man was stupid
and heavy: at any rate, he seemed so to me. His talk was of horses, and
dogs, and guns. Why should I make an ordinary story long? Whatever he
was, he succeeded in gaining the consent of her parents; and my
Annie--to whom, as an honourable man, I never breathed a word to show
what my feelings were towards her--agreed, after displaying the greatest
reluctance, to marry this ordinary man.
I could no longer bear to be near her, and went up to London to try my
fortune there. I put an advertisement in _The Times_, setting forth as
best I could my poor acquirements and abilities; and, strange to say, my
advertisement was answered by a request to call on him, made by a
well-known political person--Mr. Milverton.
He told me that the simplicity and directness of my advertisement had
caught his attention, and that if I were anything like what I
represented myself to be, I should suit him very well.
It was agreed that I should go and stay with him at his country house,
to which he was then going for the vacation.
The way in which I entered my new situation was one that caused me some
terror. It was arranged that I was to meet Mr. Milverton, at a town
seven miles distant from his residence. It was evening when I reached
this town, and we immediately set off for his residence in a
post-chaise. Our horses went very slowly, and when we came to a hill,
Mr. Milverton proposed that we should get out and walk. He began talking
to the post-boy about the appearance of his horses, which seemed
dreadfully jaded; he soon extracted from him the fact that these poor
animals had previously gone a journey of thirty miles. Upon this, Mr.
Milverton became furious. I never saw a person in so grotesque a
passion. He explained to the wretched post-boy (by the way, an elderly
man) the Pythagorean system, and declared to him that he himself might
be a post-horse in another life. And he told the post-boy all this with
expressions of the strongest nature. The poor man seemed too dazed to
make any other than the most incoherent replies.
When we got into the carriage again, we were silent for a few minutes,
till Mr. Milverton turned to me and said: “You are frightened, are you
not? You think you have come to live with a tiger; but the truth is,
nothing infuriates me like cruelty to animals. Poor creatures, they
can’t speak up for themselves, and if there were not some one to speak
up for them--even to get into a fury about their treatment--it would go
worse with them even than it does now.”
We had another walk up another hill: Mr. Milverton kept aloof from us
this time, and the post-boy communicated to me his grievances.
“We should not have done it to please any one but the Squire; but we
were afraid of offending him. I am sure I would rather have thunder and
lightning than be talked to by him. He is an awful man, the Squire: he
is.”
When the journey was finished, I expected that the post-boy would be
dismissed ignominiously; but, on the contrary, Mr. Milverton, after
insisting that the horses should remain at his place during the night,
addressed the post-boy, very gravely and seriously, and gave him the
accustomed fee, on making him promise (repeating the words after him),
“That never again, not for anybody, not for the Queen herself, should he
consent to start his horses upon a journey, after they had performed
such a day’s work as these poor animals had done.”
I must confess I was a little frightened at perceiving the possible
violence of the man with whom I had come to live in such a dependent
position; but I have now lived with him some years, and he has never
said an unkind word to me; and the terms upon which we are, may be well
shown by the way in which he half-laughingly appealed to me after he had
uttered the foregoing soliloquy.
I imagine in the course of this story which I firmly, believe will be a
very interesting one, that I shall appear, though my name is Johnson, to
be a sort of Boswell. I do not care. How can a man do greater
service--at least, such a man as I am, who have not much
originality--than in preserving for the world the sayings of cleverer
men than himself under whom he has served? How large a part of all that
wisdom has been lost to mankind for want of Boswells!--who, perhaps, are
rarer characters than Dr. Johnsons. They say that no man is a hero to
his valet; to which, it has been well replied, that that is not because
the hero is not a hero, but because the valet is nothing more than a
valet.
I have said that I am not a man of much originality, but I think I have
one quality in great excess which happens to be very useful now. I
confess to being intensely curious about character, and the
manifestations of character. My master often jokes me about this, and
says, “Now, my boy, you are looking into me, and endeavouring to find
out what I think, and what I feel: and you may find it out, for all I
care.”
I think I have sufficiently introduced myself to the reader, and may now
bring my principal personages on the scene.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER II.
We often, especially from a Saturday to a Tuesday have visits here from
well-known people; authors poets, sculptors, dramatists, and the writers
of leading articles.
I think I have detected something in my master which is very
characteristic of him. He loves people who have done something: he often
quotes a saying of the First Napoleon: “What has he done?” and I think
he has a dislike, which is almost morbid, to mere criticism. He will
allow that the critics have their place in the world, but he puts it as
secondary, with an immense interval between them and those persons who
have done the work which the others merely criticise. He was lately
delighted with a paragraph in “Ecce Homo,” in which the author pointed
out how our Saviour encouraged what was positive in Christian action,
taking as an illustration of the contrary the safe man who wrapped up
his talent in a napkin. Mr. Milverton was always very hard upon these
kind of persons, “safe statesmen,” “safe bishops,” “safe authors,” who
never say or do anything but what is sure to meet with general
acceptation. He used to quote that saying of Benjamin Constant’s about
some “safe” person: “Il vient toujours au secours du plus fort.” But all
this is interruption, and mere comment on my part upon what I ought to
describe.
We had met in a summer-house at the corner of the grounds at
Worth-Ashton, which commands an extensive view over the neighbouring
downs. There were present Mr. Milverton, Sir John Ellesmere, and a great
politician, to whom I shall give the name of Sir Arthur Godolphin, a Mr.
Mauleverer, and Mr. Cranmer.
The conversation turned upon sleep. Of course, the saying of Sancho
Panza was quoted: “Blessed is the man who invented sleep; it wraps one
round like a blanket.” Sir Arthur then took up the conversation, and
related to us the following adventure:--
“You all know how fond I am of yachting: I do not know that in
itself it is so very delightful, but one’s yacht is the only place
in the world in which one is perfectly secure from letters and
telegrams.”
_Ellesmere._ The abomination of desolation of the present time; I
can only say I wish that we were back in the olden times,--that
Milverton was a piratical baron (as I know he would be), devastating
all these peaceful valleys, and levying black-mail upon all
travellers that passed,--so that we were not plagued with these
modern inventions. Now you all praise Rowland Hill, Wheatstone,
Stephenson, Watt, and all those people who have made communication
more rapid. I say, that they have been unbounded nuisances to the
world. As to the man who invented the penny post, he ought to be put
to a disgraceful death. By the way, I quite agree with that man of
business who declared that he would only meet the great evil once a
day. All his letters were collected for him during the day, and at
ten o’clock the next morning he would face them; but as to anything
that came in the meantime he entirely declined to look at it,
whether it were marked “Immediate,” “Urgent,” “Pressing,” or “Most
important.” When I was Attorney-General I used to hate the “Urgent,”
“Pressing,” “Very pressing” letters that came from public offices.
In general, they merely communicated some calamity which no human
being could do anything to avoid or lessen.
_Milverton._ I once knew a telegram do some good.
_Ellesmere._ Once! and how many times has it done evil?
_Cranmer._ If you are serious, Sir John, your words strike a blow at
all modern civilization.
_Ellesmere._ Well, if they do, I don’t care. Modern civilization is
no particular friend of mine.
_Milverton._ We have sadly interrupted Sir Arthur; and I am sure he
was going to tell us something which would be very interesting.
_Sir Arthur._ We think we know the whole of the inhabited globe, but
we are greatly mistaken. First, however, I must talk to you about
yachting. I began in a very small way. I used to have a yacht which
was manned by myself and one old man, and our great excursions were
chiefly from Southampton to the Isle of Wight. But how delightful
they were! You can hardly imagine the pleasure of sailing along on a
moonlight night, the most common-place objects being suffused with
beauty. All that Lord Byron has said about the Coliseum, as seen by
moonlight, applies to the commonest and most ill-formed buildings on
the Southampton waters; and then the talk of my old sailor used to
amuse me so much. He, like many of us, had gone through a rough and
severe life. He had lost children. He had lost a scolding wife, who,
with all her faults, he used to look up to and reverence as a
superior being. “My Betsy,” he would say, “knew a mort more than I
do. Ah! you should have heard her talk; I wish she were here now.” I
cannot say I entirely shared that wish, being contented with the
views of life which my old friend could give me in his pleasant
simple way.
Well, the great Godolphin case--which you have all heard of--was
settled, and I became rich. Of course, on this change of fortune, my
old man and I were not contented with our little yacht--not that I
ever had such pleasures as in that little yacht--and we bought one
which, as he used to say, “was equal to Portsmouth biscuit;” a yacht
that did not fear the Bay of Biscay.
After a hard parliamentary session, Spraggs (that was the name of my
old man) and I undertook an adventurous cruise. We had always a
curiosity to see those islands that had been formed out of coral,
and we lost our way amongst them, and came one day upon an island
which I believe has been seen by no other civilized men. Menantra is
its name. The natives rushed down to see us, and welcomed us with
the utmost cordiality. They spoke a language which was a little like
Basque, and as I had mastered that language, I was tolerably able to
understand them, and to make myself understood. One young man
especially attached himself to me. His name was Connarra. One
evening I was talking about the chief town of the island with my
friend Connarra, when he said to me, “Great stranger, it is nothing
for you to see new towns and new people, but for me, ever since I
have known you, my life has been a state of wild excitement.
Although I am not very rich, I must go to the sleep-shop and spend
my money in sleep. By the way, it is strange that you and your men
never go to the sleep-shop.”
In my travels I have found that it is never desirable to ask for
explanations about anything which you can see for yourself; so,
though I had not the remotest idea of what he meant by a sleep-shop,
I accompanied him to the shop in question as if it were a familiar
thing to me.
_Cranmer._ There was a town, I suppose, of some magnitude?
_Ellesmere._ Pray give us some of those circumstances, Sir Arthur,
which we know always attend a truthful narrative like yours.
_Sir Arthur._ The town was in the form of a cross. The constellation
of the Southern Cross seems to have made the deepest impression on
the minds of those who dwell under it. The town chiefly consisted of
well-built huts or wigwams; but there are some buildings made of
bricks dried in the sun. The town was always enlarged symmetrically.
At the point where the two lines met which formed the cross, there
was a square. This also was enlarged by pulling down buildings when
the two lines that formed the cross were lengthened.
I will not trouble you with a description of the religion of these
islanders and of their form of government, except just to mention
that they were governed by a chief, who ruled eight years, having a
council to assist him. The only curious thing about the council was,
that the united ages of the councillors (there were ten) were always
to equal if possible 530. Directly they exceeded this number by ten
a councillor went out of office, and a man was chosen to fill his
place whose age should make the sacred number 530 right. It was not
always the oldest councillor who retired.
To return to the sleep-shop. It corresponded to our chemists’ shops.
You know what intelligent men our chemists often are; well, in
Menantra these sleep-shops were kept by men of much ability, who
depended upon the Government, and took certain oaths to administer
sleep righteously.
The sleep-shop to which my friend Connarra took me was the large one
in the great square; in fact, the shop which had the chief’s custom.
After that evening I never passed a day without visiting this shop,
and also a very low one of the same kind at the extreme end of the
long line of the cross--a shop which was much frequented by the
lowest classes.
You may imagine what a mine of investigation was opened to me.
_Cranmer._ What was the sleep-medicine like? I mean, what did it
look like?
_Sir Arthur._ I object entirely to the word “medicine.” It was not
an opiate; it was concentrated sleep.
Well, what it looked like, or rather, what it was, was a soft,
semi-elastic, pulpy substance, of the most beautiful blue colour;
and the value and intensity of it was exactly measured by the
intensity of the blueness. To the touch it was more like a
sea-anemone than any other thing or creature I ever touched.
There were various kinds of this sleep substance. The lowest could
only produce a troubled, dreamful sleep; and, from this degree, it
went up to that choice cerulean blue which produced the most
profound and absolute repose.
_Cranmer._ Did you bring any of it away?
_Ellesmere_ (aside). What a literal fellow! just like a Secretary of
the Treasury. I do think the man wants to put a tax upon it.
_Sir Arthur._ It melted away if kept long; lost its colour and its
power, and became a white, gelatinous, unpleasant-looking substance.
In that state, too, it was originally found in the centre of pieces
of stone they called _pompar_. It turned blue on exposure to the
air. There were mines of _pompar_ worked by the Government, which
possessed the monopoly.
But you all want to hear what I discovered from my long talks with
these chemists. I will tell you, point by point; and you may depend
upon it, each fact I have to tell you is to be explained by some
corresponding fact of importance in human nature.
First, I very soon learnt that women bought much cheaper kinds of
this sleep, and less even of those kinds, than men. How do you
explain that?
_Ellesmere._ The explanation is as simple as possible. They want all
their money for dress. By the way, have they money in your charming
island?
_Sir Arthur._ Yes, called _Saka_, a transparently yellow shell.
_Milverton._ No; the reason is far deeper than that. A much larger
part of the anxiety, vexation, and remorse of the world is felt by
men than by women; and therefore the men want more sleep, and of the
best quality.
_Sir Arthur._ That is how I read it.
_Johnson_ (timidly). But love! Do not women suffer as much from
disappointed love as men do, or even more?
_Milverton._ Perhaps so, my boy; but, when you come to our time of
life, you will find that there are a great many worse things than
disappointed love, requiring much heavier doses of high-priced
sleep,--shame, poverty, impending bankruptcy, and remorse. The
middle-aged man, gradually going down in the world--with lots of
people depending upon him--who has undertaken some unfortunate
enterprise, which, poor fellow, he meant to turn out so well, is a
more pitiable object than the desponding or rejected lover. About
this love there is always a sustaining power of romance.
_Ellesmere._ Amelia marries Jones. What consoles poor Smith,
thinking over it at night? He says to himself, at first with some
bitterness, “Ah, she will soon find out the difference,” and in a
tenderer frame of thought he exclaims, “Poor thing! how happy she
would have been with me; how happy I with her if it had not been for
that confounded fellow’s property in houses at Mile End. D---- Mile
End!” And Smith goes to sleep, not so very miserable. His last
thought is, “I should have been a better match, after all, than
Jones.”
Compare this romantic sorrow with that of Robinson, who dreads rent
and taxes, who humbles himself before the butcher, who fears to tell
his anxious wife of this loss, and that bad debt; and has to smile
and smile, and be a pauper perhaps with a brougham, which he is
afraid to put down.
_Cranmer._ In what latitude and longitude is this island?
_Sir Arthur._ I will consult my master of the yacht, and let you
know some day, Mr. Cranmer.
_Ellesmere_ (aside, contemptuously). Some day! some day!
_Sir Arthur._ Oh, she was such a yacht, the _Esmeralda_! She would
almost talk to you!
_Ellesmere._ But sleep, sleep, sleep! Go on, there’s a good fellow,
with the pith of your story. I feel inclined to use naughty words,
such as Smith used to Mile End, in respect to those indispensable
but tiresome creatures, latitude and longitude, if they are to
interrupt us.
_Milverton._ Ellesmere, who is the greatest of interrupters, is the
most intolerant of any interruption but his own.
_Ellesmere._ Don’t get in a rage, Milverton. We shall have to buy
the bluest of blue sleep-stuff for you, I see.
_Milverton._ I must give another explanation of the fact that Sir
Arthur has told us. Women enjoy the present so much more than men
do, that they are not fond of having it cut short, even by supreme
sleep.
_Sir Arthur._ Now the next fact I arrived at was this, and it
appears to me a remarkable one, viz. that the highest-priced sleep
was not bought up so much as you would suppose. It was the fashion,
however, to buy it; to use one of the slang words of our day, it was
the “swell” thing to buy nothing but the choicest sleep; though, in
reality, pretty nearly all the young girls, a great many of the
young men, most of the widows, and the well-to-do people, generally
consumed, on the sly, the lower-priced sleeps. On the contrary,
young children almost always wished for an expensive sleep. Now, how
do you account for that?
_Milverton._ Obviously! the young men and the young women, the
widows, and well-to-do people, liked to have their dreams. Dreams
are frequently a choice part of their lives; whereas children, on
the other hand, are often terrified by dreams. Perhaps it is that
children have left the land of shadows later than we have; and so
they fear the dark, the unknown, the invisible, more than we do. In
fact, these terrors by night are some of the greatest sufferings of
childhood, and we ought to be very tender to children about their
fears, which often seem very unreasonable to us.
_Sir Arthur._ Good! I say good, because your theory agrees with
mine.
Now, I will tell you another extraordinary thing. The doctors did
not always use the highest-priced sleeps in their compounds.
_Milverton._ I don’t understand that.
_Ellesmere._ I do.
_Milverton._ I know what you mean, Ellesmere. You cannot help having
your sneer; but you know as well as I do that doctors are about the
best men we have in the world; and that they delight in healing, and
not in protracting illness.
_Ellesmere._ H’m.
_Sir Arthur._ The explanation is clear, at least to my mind. But in
order to work it out, I must talk a little about myself. I once had
a brain-fever, brought on by insane application to work. By the way,
was it Baxter or Bunyan, or some other considerable theologian, who
spoke of “the lust of finishing?” It is a very just phrase; one has
sometimes a mad desire to finish what one has once begun. Well, the
doctors told me to be quiet, and especially to avoid all thinking.
To give impossible prescriptions is the foible of doctors. I tried
not to think; but, after a thoughtless day, my unwholesomely active
mind would not be quiet. It even revived all sorts of mathematical
work done at Cambridge, which I had long forgotten. I had not the
least idea that I possessed, down in the depths of my mind, such
vivid reminiscences of mathematical lectures. After an ill-spent
night of this kind, I came to the conclusion that some new course
must be adopted. The doctors had ordered me to travel, and a dear
friend, who is one of our best linguists, had agreed to travel with
me. I said to him, “Let us learn a new language,” and he readily
assented. We will call him Bopp, because he often reminded me of
that great grammarian. We set out on our travels, and this new
language occupied a good deal of our spare thought without exciting
us. Bopp, perhaps to look after me, generally slept in the next
room. I would call out to him, in the middle of the night, “Are you
asleep?” “No,” he would reply. “Well, after all, don’t you think
there is something in this language like the Greek aorist?” Bopp
would say, “Not at all,” and give reasons for it; and then he would
turn upon me and say, “I should like to hear you go through that
irregular verb which we learnt to-day, and which I maintain is not
irregular at all, but the real old form of the conjugation.” Then I
had to go through, as best I could, the irregular verb; and it is
astonishing how soon it led to a comfortable sleep. So I think the
medicine men in Menantra knew that they must give nature some play
in the way of mental excitement, and therefore did not always
administer to the sick the soundest sleep except upon urgent
occasions.
_Ellesmere._ I declare that is a very sensible view, and I begin to
believe that there is such an island, which we will call Arthuria
Godolphinia, and that it lies in latitude 397°, longitude 486°. The
minutes and seconds, which I forget, will be sent to Mr. Cranmer, at
the Treasury in Downing Street, when the master of the _Esmeralda_
consults his logbook.
Oh, Lady Ellesmere! Lady Ellesmere! (Lady Ellesmere was seen coming
down the gravel-walk towards the summer-house.) You have lost such a
treat (as women say, when one has missed, by pure accident, hearing
their favourite preacher’s last hour-and-a-half sermon). Oh, such
beautiful things said about women by me, and contradicted by Mr.
Cranmer: how they want no sleep because they have no remorse, no
shame, no vexation, for, as Milverton and Mr. Cranmer both maintain,
they have no consciences. (How I have been fighting your battles, my
dear Mildred!) And I say they have consciences, because the
existence of the negative proves the existence of the positive, and
if they had no consciences how could they be so unconscionable in
the article of dress? Here is this young woman coming to take the
whole of the summer-house from us, with those atrocious skirts of
hers.
(Lady Ellesmere sat down by her husband, pulled his ear, took his hand
in hers, and whispered something to him.)
_Ellesmere._ Speak out, my dear, say your say to this choice
company. This young lady has the graciousness and the modesty to
observe, that there is only one woman in the world who would ever
have believed anything that Sir John Ellesmere addressed to her, and
that she is that unfortunate young person.
(Here I must remark that it is impossible not to love this man, Sir John
Ellesmere. I always feel I do not do him justice. His sayings seem so
hard, sometimes so satirical, so perverse; but the manner of saying them
disarms all offence. He has a look of kindness and affection, when he is
teasing Milverton, that wins my heart. And that wife of his is so fond
of him: it almost makes one cross to see it.)
_Ellesmere._ But, my dear Sir Arthur, more about sleep. Attend,
Mildred! Sir Arthur is telling us about an island at which he
arrived in a yacht, that almost spoke to him, where they sold sleep,
a clammy blue stuff, like a sea-anemone (lat. 470°, long. 590°,
minutes and seconds omitted, to the great regret of Mr. Cranmer),
and where women spend all their money in dress, and therefore cannot
afford to buy good sleep. Doctors--the rascals--prescribe
second-rate sleep: young men, widowers, and widows (young widows,
Lady Ellesmere) will insist upon dreaming, and therefore buy
low-priced sleeps. Heavy fathers of families buy the real stuff to
console themselves against the evils which attend married life. I am
sure I want some. Nothing but the best sleep for me, as long as I am
plagued as much as I am. Bills again: a cheque wanted! Lady
Ellesmere is so loving and affectionate on such occasions; and when
she says, “My dearest love, I want to bother you about a little
matter of business,” I know it means a cheque of three figures at
least. Oh! I have forgotten; in this happy island children prefer
high-priced sleep, because, as Milverton says, they come more
recently from the land of shadows. I call that now a clear and
sensible explanation, not at all built upon hypothesis.
And now, my dear, I have told you all about it, which these people
have taken an hour and three-quarters to elaborate--Milverton
perpetually interrupting, after his tiresome fashion. Now drive on,
Sir Arthur; never mind their interruptions. I will back you up with
judicious silence.
_Milverton._ This Ishmaelite; his tongue, if not his hand, is
against everybody.
_Sir Arthur._ I come to the saddest part of my story. As I told you,
I spent a great deal of my time at the sleep-shop in the grand
square. After the sun went down, and the Southern Cross was wont to
shine out in all its ineffable beauty (I don’t know how my crew
felt, but that constellation exercised a kind of awful mysterious
influence over me: I was never tired of gazing up at it), there used
to come to the shop, in a stealthy manner, a wretched-looking man.
His clothes (their clothes are chiefly made of the red and green
mithral--a kind of rush) showed what we call genteel poverty, but he
always bought a small quantity of the highest-priced sleep--the
bluest of the blue. I talked to Alcathra, my chemist friend, about
this poor man.
“Ah,” he said, “a man of his means cannot afford to buy such sleep.
There is crime, or there is horrible disaster there. I do the best I
can for him to cheapen it, and I lose by every sale I make to him.”
(What good people there really are everywhere!) “I know the day will
arrive when that man will come no more, and I shall hear that the
officers of justice have my poor customer in their clutches. But let
us give the poor wretch what easement we can. You know we are sworn
to secrecy, we sellers of sleep, and so I am happy to say I am not
bound to denounce him. To you, as a stranger, I may speak openly.”
I was quite sure that Alcathra was right, from two circumstances
which I observed myself. This poor man always walked down the middle
of the street, so as to be sure he was not followed by anybody; and
just before he entered the shop I have observed him clear up his
countenance, and try to look lively; fearing, no doubt, lest his
habitual dejection should betray him.
Our surmises proved to be well founded. Two days before I left the
port, this poor wretch was arrested on a charge of murder. It was
not so very wicked a crime after all. He was a harsh, hard man, the
criminal; but, in his rough way, he adored his wife. The wife was
false, and he had slain her lover, committing the deed very
artfully. It was done at the sleep-mines, where the murderer was a
superintendent of considerable authority.
And now I hope you will not blame me when I tell you I saved this
poor man from execution. We broke open the prison at night, an easy
task to do, as the prison was a wooden building, and I carried him
off in the yacht. He died, though, a broken-hearted man, before we
advanced far on our voyage homeward, for he believed, whether
rightly or wrongly, that his wife had secretly denounced him to the
Council, and this thought was his death-stroke. His last look
upwards was at the Southern Cross, which they regard with fervent
religious worship. I had become attached to the poor man: and he
was, in his way, a great thinker. Strange to say, all the most
difficult questions of fate, free-will, and predestination--those
questions which will torment even the most civilized people to the
latest generation--were present in the bewildered mind of that
semi-savage. I don’t know that it would have been possible for me to
have kept the poor man alive, for the sleep-stuff I had brought with
me was beginning to fade in colour; and I remember his mentioning to
me during his later days, that his dreams were horrible.
I have not told you of some compound sleep-stuff which was also used
in the island. I say compound, because I am sure it was mixed with
some drug, though my chemist friend would never acknowledge that. It
was, however, of a pink colour, and was used by those persons who
had to attend public meetings, even by some of those who formed the
great Council of Ten. Its effect was this: it put a man into a
pleasing kind of stupor, in which state he did not care much how
time passed, or what was said to him, and he could be in this state
without betraying himself, for he could hear all that was said, and
look sufficiently intelligent, and at the same time enjoy a
semi-comatose condition, which made the length of speech a matter of
indifference to him. There were rumours that the great chief himself
was somewhat addicted to pink sleep, but, if so, he must have been
very prudent in the use of it, for he always seemed to give an
intelligent attention when listening at the great council, or
receiving any of his subjects.
_Ellesmere._ I never have liked yachting. It is true you get rid of
letters and telegrams, but then you are shut up with a few people,
and what becomes of you if you quarrel with them? Besides, there is
a want of space in all ships, even of the largest size, which does
not suit me. I would, however, endure a long cruise in any yacht
that would bring me to an island where I could buy pink sleep. You
know, when I was Attorney-General, I was offered the appointment of
judge, but I dreaded so much having to go through the necessary
amount of listening that I refused it. Listening patiently is
certainly not my forte.
_Sir Arthur._ I should not have liked to have stayed any longer in
the island, though it was a most instructive place; but I knew that,
whenever I should see a poor man buying continually high-priced
sleep, I should be sure to suspect him of some deadly crime. Indeed,
I had already begun to suspect several individuals who frequented
the upper and the lower shops, and who always went beyond their
apparent means in buying high-priced sleep.
And now, lady and gentlemen, my tale is told. I am afraid it is
rather a sad one.
There was a silence for some time. Even Ellesmere seemed subdued; and
over his mobile countenance there passed a cloud of thought, which was
full of pity, but he was the first to break the silence.
_Ellesmere._ How true are Goethe’s words, that a man cannot jump
away from his own shadow! Sir Arthur introduces us to this strange,
sleep-buying people. There his imagination ends. He makes them have
just the same motives as people in our lands, who, unhappily, cannot
buy sleep, be they ever so rich in Consols. For instance, the poor
wretch whom Sir Arthur carried away did but partake the fate of men
in well-known climes, and the source of his misfortunes was that
which, for the most part, is the source of ours.
I, too, feel the impulse of genius upon me, and must tell my little
story; but it will be one that you will all easily recognise.
“Who is she?” Thus spoke the Caliph, supremely wise in the knowledge
of men and women.
“Who is she? I say.” And the affrighted lords said, “Light of the
World, Consoler of the Faithful, Gem of Gems, Centre of the flowing
Universe, there is no ‘she,’ but the poor man, who was working at
one of the loftiest windows of your palace, fell down into the
marble Court of Leopards, and is dead.”
“Who is she?” said the Caliph, wrathfully; “let me know her name.”
And the lords went out from the presence of the Caliph, feeling
their heads loose upon their shoulders.
And there was dread silence in the divan, while the Caliph played
with the jewelled hilt of his scimitar. And one little child, the
son of Zobeide, dared to take off the slipper of the Caliph, and run
away with it to the further end of the divan. Had it not been the
son of Zobeide, the bastinado would have been liberally applied.
The lords returned, and the vizier said, “Efflux of Joy, Wisest of
the Wise, Incomparable Master of the greatest of sciences, the human
heart; she is Almeida, the Princess Zobeide’s favourite tire-woman,
and the man said words to her, and she listened and yet would not
listen; and he missed his footing, as most men do who dote upon a
woman; and he is dead.”
And the Caliph smiled a grim smile. He rose, and the lords, who felt
their necks strengthened, fell on their faces before him; and the
Caliph went to his harem to tell his wives how wise he was, and that
nobody could deceive him. For even a caliph likes to be thought wise
by his women; whom he finds not so easy to rule, though he is
Commander of the Faithful.
And the lustrous Zobeide shivered and trembled while the Caliph told
her of his all-pervading wisdom, for she knew that the Christian
slave, Azor (who had fallen into the marble Court of Leopards),
adored her, and not Almeida; and that he had died for the love of
her bright eyes.
But she did not fail to extol the wisdom of the Caliph; and the
Caliph was convinced that he was the wisest of men, and that the
praises of his lords were not flattery such as had been addressed,
to his great disgust, to the late caliph, his father, but that they
were the words of wisdom and sobriety, and were as true as the cries
of the water-carriers when they cry, “Water, water, from the
Fountain of Desire, in front of the palace;” for, indeed it was
water that they had to sell.
And Zobeide mourned for the graceful Azor many days: and when, by
night, she stood on his tomb, she said, “My heart is with thee for
ever, O my beloved!”
And Zobeide’s son did not fear to run away with the slippers of the
great Caliph--Light of the World, Consoler of the Faithful, Gem of
Gems, Centre of the flowing Universe, Discoverer of thoughts, and
Azure Sea of Wisdom.
_Milverton._ Now has not Ellesmere contrived to darken that story by
sarcasm? He told it very well up to a certain point, I must admit.
My dear Lady Ellesmere, do correct that husband of yours, for to the
rest of us he is incorrigible.
_Lady Ellesmere._ My dear Mr. Milverton, I took him only upon your
recommendation, as you well know, and not from any merit of his own.
Is there not something I often hear you gentlemen talk of applied to
horses, the word warranty or warrantry? You know I have something of
the kind from you: it is your business to make him behave properly.
This is an animal I should have had nothing to do with [here she
pulled his ear] if you had not declared that he was safe and good.
_Sir Arthur._ In double harness? Did Mr. Milverton’s warranty extend
to that? If it did, he was a very rash man.
(Hereupon Sir Arthur walked away in his lounging manner towards the
house.)
_Ellesmere._ Now, Milverton, I have a very serious word to say to
you. As to being beaten by this fellow’s invention, it must not be.
You are the greatest ---- amongst us: or to speak euphemistically,
you have the most vigorous imagination. If you cannot tell a story
which will beat his--that will require a pull at a more lengthened
arc (I flatter myself that is a good expression)--I shall despise
you for ever. Recollect the fellow is a Tory. He will go back to his
party and laugh at our beards if we cannot beat him in invention. I
cannot do it myself. I read a novel; I come to the end of the first
volume. For the life of me I cannot see how Edwin is ever to marry
Angelina. The difficulties are so tremendous. Edwin is already
married: Angelina is about to marry the wrong man: the fathers have
quarrelled. Edwin is a pauper, and is suspected of two murders.
Angelina has sworn never to speak to or even look at Edwin; and
really, without joking, I cannot imagine how Edwin and Angelina are
to be happy at the end of the third volume.
But to fellows like you, who are born story-tellers--otherwise,
highly imaginative men--it is all as easy as possible. It goes, as
the Americans say, “slick off.” Edwin’s wife, a poor creature (I am
glad to get rid of her), dies. Edwin has only committed one
murder--a very innocent one, quite consistent with propriety--while
Angelina’s intended has committed the other, a foul crime.
Angelina’s papa finds that Edwin’s papa was the man who, when he
(Angelina’s papa) was going to London to seek his fortune, advanced
him 2_l._ 12_s._ 6_d._ upon no other security but his saying, “Oh
heavens! my generous benefactor. How shall I ever repay you?”
Angelina’s intended (a nasty man, that) is the individual who has
kept Edwin, by a forged will, out of the possession of Lorimer
Court, an old house, with 7,000_l._ a year in land attached to
it--no mortgages, no annuities for younger children--which, on
discovery of the fraud, comes at once to Edwin without any trouble.
At least there is no trouble to speak of. An old woman is to die,
the old woman revealing everything that requires to be revealed at
the most opportune moment. Angelina “clasps” (is not that the proper
word?) Edwin to her bosom, saying, however, that 7,000_l._ a year is
a very different thing from 700_l._ Ditto, says father; and all goes
on as right as a trivet--but what a trivet is, I should be puzzled
to say.
_Milverton._ And this is the man who says he is not imaginative!
_Ellesmere._ Ah, but you do not know what an effort this was on my
part, and how exhausted I feel after it. In all earnestness, and
speaking seriously, if you believe I ever do speak seriously, I am
quite bewildered in endeavouring to see my way through the
difficulties that accumulate in the first and second volumes of a
novel.
I look upon you imaginative fellows with a kind of awe. I cannot
think how you invent the things you do invent. I regard you with the
same kind of dread that our friend Kingsley says savage men feel for
savage women--a dread, by the way, I must own I largely feel for
civilized women--if, indeed, there is such an entity as a civilized
woman; and I am lost in astonishment in observing how to you people
fiction is, for all practical purposes, the same thing as reality.
I must have my brief to go upon. Now if I had not had the main
outlines of my caliph story, I could not have made anything of it.
You don’t want any outlines. You invent from the beginning. I admire
you fellows; entertaining at the same time a kind of disrespect and
distrust for you.
_Milverton._ Complete admiration is not at all in your way, my dear
Ellesmere. If I were to find you indulging in it, I should be sure
that a serious illness was coming upon you.
But, to revert to our main point: I will have a story ready by the
next time we meet--that is, if Alick here will help me;--one that I
have thought over for years: a true one: at least one which I know
has happened in the world’s history. But, if I agree to narrate such
a story, will you promise not to interrupt? Such interruptions as
you make are, no doubt, very droll; but, I assure you, they do
embarrass a narrator. Sir Arthur bore your interruptions nobly. You
know he is accustomed to be listened to with reverence. Great
authors are not the mere temporary rubbish that eminent lawyers are,
and must be treated differently.
_Ellesmere._ Well, I have heard insulting things in the course of my
life, but never anything to equal your last remark.
_Milverton_ (who could hardly refrain from laughing). You see, my
dear Ellesmere, one must make you know your place, while Sir Arthur
is here.
_Ellesmere._ And there is my wife following him up and down the
lawn, like an obedient poodle-dog, listening, no doubt, to his
sentimental nonsense, as if it were heaven-descended wisdom,
thinking all the time what a rough pippin her Sir John is. If I once
get away from here, no more of the society of authors for me,
nothing but that of Masters in Chancery, solid merchants, and
Under-Secretaries of State.
Sir, I abjure all vagabonds. But, Milverton, do pound Sir Arthur
with a grand story, so full of daring fiction, that his inventions,
in comparison with yours, shall seem to be crystal truths. The
honour of our side of the House is at stake. Take Sandy [Sir John
Ellesmere would always call me Sandy] into your confidence. As half
a Scotchman, he has second-sight at his command. Good-bye: I am
going to fish. Now do look at that deluded person, Lady Ellesmere!
You see, from that respectful stooping of the shoulders, though they
have their backs turned to us, how she is drinking in discourse
about the “true” and the “beautiful,” and the “absolute,” and the
“uncouth,” with a big U, which means her respected husband. I’ll
pitch into that fellow after dinner.
[_Exit_ Sir J. Ellesmere.
_Milverton._ Come to my study, Alick; we will see if we cannot tell
them something which will be new to them, and astonish their weak
minds.
I have always been very suspicious about this fishing of Sir John
Ellesmere’s. I am sure he is up to some mischief or other.[2]
Footnote 2:
I have since found out all about Sir John Ellesmere’s fishing, by
consulting my little friend, Jemmy Veck, who haunts the river that Sir
John pretends to fish. “Well, Jemmy,” I said, “and so a great London
gentleman comes here and catches a good many fish; more than you can
catch.” Jemmy grinned, and said: “A’ never caught a fish as I seed; a’
gets his line fuzzed up in the bushes many a time. Lor! a’ can’t fish
at all! A’ drags his fly far under the water. A’ went and caught two
or three little ones for un t’other day, but a’ didn’t seem to want
’em at all. ‘Well,’ he said to I, ‘why couldn’t ee have thrown ’em
into the water again, poor things!’ The big trout under the wooden
bridge knows un by this time, and seems quite pleased to see un; and
they look at one another for ten minutes together without moving. Oh!
the trout is very fond of company, when it knows there is no harm; and
I don’t believe that gentleman ever caught a fish in his life.”
So it is evident that Sir John makes his fishing a mere pretext for
getting a few hours to himself, during which time I suppose he thinks
over his speeches. But the fuss he made about those little trout that
Jemmy caught for him, was something to have seen. He insisted upon
their being placed upon a separate dish by themselves, and taking upon
himself the helping, giving each of us a little bit as if it was some
sacred food: declaring there was never anything so good brought to
table. He also informed us that to catch a big trout was no difficulty
whatever; but that the real piscatorial skill was shown in catching
small ones, as he had done for us. I declare he so overpowered us with
talk that we thought we were eating something wonderful.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER III.
In two days after the last conversation we met in the summer-house.
There was no addition to our party but Mrs. Milverton.
Before Mr. Milverton commenced his story, there was a short conversation
as follows:--
_Milverton._ Before I begin, Ellesmere, I must insist, as I told you
before, upon having no interruptions from you. I have thought over
this story for many years of my life. It is, as I told you, a real
story, and a very serious one; and I have not the patience and good
temper of Sir Arthur, to bear your interruptions.
_Mrs. Milverton._ Leonard, dear, I am sure I wish to hear your story
without any interruptions; but don’t ask what is impossible. Lady
Ellesmere and I pressed Sir John, when we were last in London, to
come and hear with us that great preacher, the Rev. Mr. ----. I will
never again ask Sir John to come to any sermon, for he behaved
abominably:--“What does this prove?” “This is the third time he has
made that statement, and nothing has come of it.” “Here, again, he
is arguing in a circle.” And so he went on, worrying us in whispers
with all manner of objections to the sermon: and even his wife could
not keep him at all quiet.
_Ellesmere._ I hope you see, Milverton, that your wife (wives can
say most uncomplimentary things) infers that your story will be very
like a sermon. But now, let us make a bargain: let us enter into a
contract. You are to prose on for one hour and a half, and during
that one hour and a half I am only to interrupt twice, each time by
a single sentence which is not to exceed fifteen words.
_Milverton._ I close at once with your proposition.
The events of the story I shall have to tell will have occurred at a
period of the world’s history when this very spot on which we sit
was far down in the ocean, from whence it has been raised by gradual
upheavings.
_Ellesmere._ My goodness, what an opportunity that will give this
man for inventing things which cannot be contradicted; and it will
be no good showing that he can know no more of those times than we
do, for, of course, the imaginative man--the egregious inventor (I
suppose I must not say a short, sharp, true word)--declares that he
knows all things by the force of his predominant imagination. I,
poor man, know, for certain, nothing that has not happened in my own
time, and before my own eyes.
_Sir Arthur._ I would not advise you always to trust your own eyes.
_Cranmer._ But let us not delay; let us have the story at once, Mr.
Milverton; only do not let it be placed in impossible latitudes and
longitudes, for to me, a plain practical man as I am, that a story
should have some semblance of reality is a great comfort.
_Milverton._ Mine is all real, and must have happened: in fact, I
know it did happen.
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER I.
THE LAKE CITY.
“How lovely is water!--on a flower, bedewing the grass, rushing down as
a mountain torrent, rolling on as a mighty river, expanding itself into
a vast lake, like this, kissed into ripples by the shimmering of
moonlight.”
Such were the words of a young man who stood out upon a balcony
connected with a low, long range of buildings, stranger in aspect than
any which have met the eyes of the inhabitants of this earth for many
ages. He was one of the dwellers in a lake city in the south of Europe,
similar to such as have been discovered in recent years at the bottom of
the lakes in Switzerland.
The young man resumed his train of thought. “Surely,” he muttered,
“water is the woman of the inanimate creation: versatile, fluent,
lovely, untameable, and dangerous.”
The youth who spoke these words was not stalwart, like most of the men
of his nation, and he was evidently unused to hard labour of any kind.
The cause of this was manifest when, rousing himself at last from his
reverie, he paced up and down the long wooden balcony. It was then
perceptible that he halted slightly in his walk; and, indeed, he had
been lame from his birth.
The description in words of such a wondrous thing as any human
countenance cannot be otherwise than very poor and inadequate. But still
it is better than nothing; and so I will here endeavour to portray the
outward appearance of this youth. His was a very singular face, from the
strange admixture of daring and softness which pervaded it. He had
beautiful melancholy eyes of a deep blue colour, which seemed to promise
the greatest tenderness of character; but these were surmounted by dark
eyebrows which nearly met. In the centre of his forehead, even now,
while he was a young man, there was a deep vertical dent, formed
probably by the contraction of the brows by thought. In each part of
this remarkable face there was contradiction. The nose was slightly
aquiline, and most delicately formed from the upper part to the nostril,
which, however, was wide, and even somewhat coarse. The lips again were
well formed, except that the lower one was very large, and what is
called sensual. He had a sweet subtle smile, and there were dimples
beautiful as those in any woman’s face. Though a very crafty man, he
could not quite command the lower part of his countenance; and, to a
refined observer, it was sometimes but too visible what Realmah was
really thinking about. The chin was decided; and the whole contour of
the lower part of the face was square and massive, like that of the
First Napoleon.
He was rather under than above the middle size, and he stooped slightly,
generally looking down on the ground, as one immersed in thought. His
hands were very small and delicate, and he made great use of them when
speaking. His gestures altogether were like those of an Andalusian,
having such a combination of gravity, dignity, and vivacity as, perhaps,
in modern times, is only to be seen in that part of Spain.
Such is the portraiture, as near as I can give it, of one who was
destined to play a part greater than that of any other man in the south
of Europe at that period of the world’s history.
I have omitted to mention a very characteristic thing, his hair, which
was extremely fine and delicate, and gave signs that he would be
prematurely bald. Like Cæsar, he endeavoured to conceal this. It may be
noticed that the most refined persons are wont to have this kind of
hair. It was of a light brown colour and formed a strange contrast to
the dark and somewhat fierce eyebrows.
Of his dress it may be mentioned that it was rich and careless, even
slovenly; and that he little heeded the prevailing fashions of his
country. Altogether he was one of those men, whom, if you met
accidentally, you would involuntarily turn to look upon again; which
attention on your part he would have construed into an observation of
his lameness, and would accordingly have been somewhat disconcerted.
Realmah-Koonah (for that was his name) had been unable to join heartily
in the sports of boys, or the labours of men; but, in compensation for
this enforced inactivity, his intellect had been brightened and his
thoughtfulness developed by his painful isolation. Of all the men in
that strange city Realmah was the wisest; and at that moment, excepting
the guards at the drawbridges, he was the only watcher who was looking
out upon the wide expanse of waters, and upon the reflection in them of
the unclouded sky.
“I mistrust,” he said to himself, “that smooth-spoken ambassador; but
how shall I dare to make known my suspicions to the assembly of the
grey-haired warriors; I who am but a youth, and who have no spoils to
show, wrested from the enemy, or from wild beasts; I who cannot even win
the love of a woman, and upon whose suit the graceful Talora looks with
gentle but unmistakeable contempt?”
CHAPTER II.
THE RELIGION AND GOVERNMENT OF THE SHEVIRI.
The government of the Sheviri, to which nation Realmah belonged, was an
exceedingly curious one. It rested with four chiefs, who were named from
the four points of the compass: the chief of the East, the chief of the
West, the chief of the North, and the chief of the South. In any
ceremonial the chief of the East had the first place. Each chief ruled
over that quarter of the city which corresponded geographically with his
title. The name of the city was Abibah. There were councils consisting
of men of high rank attached to each of the four chiefs: there was also
a council of four hundred which was partly nominated by the chiefs, and
partly chosen by election from among the people. This council met only
on very great occasions.
The criminal laws were very severe, as is generally the case in nations
of imperfect civilization; and the punishment of death was almost always
inflicted by strangulation.
There was one very singular custom. If a man had been injured by another
in the way of slander, or petty theft, or calumny, and this was proved
before one of the judges, who were always members of the council of one
of the four chiefs, it was allowed to the injured man, or to one of his
immediate family, to build a little hut close to the dwelling-place of
the injurer, where he abode day and night, watched his enemy’s incomings
and outgoings, and on seeing him perpetually repeated the sentence of
the judge. For instance, if a man of the name of Adolmah had spoken
falsely, and slandered his neighbour, Barru; the injured man, Barru,
having built his hut close to the dwelling-place of Adolmah, when he saw
Adolmah come in, or go out, would utter the words, “Adolmah is a liar
and a slanderer: so says the righteous judge, my lord Corah, of the
council of the East.”
It was found by experience that no man could long endure this
persecution; and Adolmah was sure to make reparation to Barru to get rid
of his hateful presence, which was like an embodied conscience sitting
for ever at his gate.
The religion of the Sheviri was simple. They believed in a Supreme Being
unapproachable by gifts or offerings, and whose name even was to be
rarely mentioned; but there were other gods, some malign and some
benignant, to whom sacrifices were to be made on special occasions.
There were five lesser gods and goddesses.
First, Rotondarāh, the god of thunder and of storms.
Secondly, Paravi, the goddess of fertility, answering to the Ceres of
the ancients.
Then Kalatavēe, a very noxious divinity, who was the promoter of all
accidents, disasters, and illnesses. Death, however, was not in his
power: he could only maim, and infect, and blight. Many were the prayers
and oblations made to him by anxious mothers.
Then Koomrah-Kamah (literally the heaper together of shells), the god of
riches. The men of Abibah prayed to him very frequently, and very
sincerely--men who paid very little attention even to Kalatavēe: for
what are accidents and diseases when put in comparison with the loss or
gain of wealth; and who would not be rich and diseased rather than poor,
healthy, and despised? At least thus thought the Sheviri; but then they
were, as some think, poor ignorant barbarians, living at an age of the
world when the principles of wisdom had not been fully worked out by
mankind.
Then Blastessa-Kooli, the goddess who ruled the affections, answering
somewhat to Venus, only being more general in her domination, for she
influenced all forms and phases of love. She was not a divinity to whom
much attention was paid by the Sheviri, for they were not wise enough,
as it appears to me, to see that upon her influence the greatest part of
domestic felicity depends. Now we know that even without such a
comparatively small adjunct as politeness love will often altogether fly
away. In those rude times, however, the altar of Blastessa-Kooli has
been known to be without a single garland for two days.
In addition to the gods and goddesses whom the Sheviri worshiped, there
were nymphs who played a most important part in the affairs of the
Sheviri. Each man supposed himself to be protected by a nymph, who
watched over him from birth to death, and to whom every thought of his
mind, every aspiration of his heart, and every one of his actions, was a
matter of the deepest interest. It was a rule of high politeness that
when any man in the city of Abibah seemed to be absorbed in thought he
was not to be interrupted in any way; for, said the bystanders to
themselves, “He is communing with his nymph, and she is giving him
heavenly advice; therefore be silent.”
Of the greater gods, some were benignant, and some malevolent; but the
nymphs were altogether friendly to mankind. Each man of the Sheviri was
a Numa, having a superior being who was more devoted to him than Egeria
was to the Roman monarch. One great merit of these nymphs was, that they
required no altars and no sacrifices; and nothing would have shocked a
citizen of Abibah more than to suggest that he could win his nymph by
gifts and promises. For was she not his,--a Being bound up with his
being, and, indeed, more devoted to his welfare than his own erring and
unwise self?
This strange notion greatly favoured politeness and respect in the
social intercourse of the Sheviri. The stupidest man in the community
might, especially in matters that concerned himself, be speaking and
acting with a wisdom not his own, and therefore demand the most implicit
respect and attention from the greatest and the wisest personages. This
belief threw around each man the halo of a present divinity. The poor
women were not so favoured; and, whether in consideration of their more
divine faculties, of their sharper wit, or of their comparative
insignificance in human affairs, were left to the unassisted guidance of
whatever measure of intellect they were supposed by nature to possess.
This is, however, no new thing in religion. Men, having the larger power
of imagination, and therefore being the chief inventors of false
religions, are not likely to indulge in any religious fancies, which do
not assure to them their masculine predominance.
The name of the whole body of nymphs was Akairah-Douli (the soothers of
thought): the name for each attendant nymph was Amala.
What seems to have been rather a weak point about these gracious beings
is, that they were always more ready to be present and to assist their
votaries in cloudy than in sunny weather; and, indeed, the Shevirian
word for cloud (_amalasti_) is but a variation of the word “amala” or
nymph. But men’s imaginations generally have some thoroughly earthly
touch about them. However, such as they were in men’s minds, these
nymphs played a great part both as regards individuals, and as regards
the state, in the city of Abibah, and throughout the adjacent country
subject to the Sheviri.
The laws of marriage which prevailed amongst the Sheviri were very
peculiar. For instance, as regards the marriage of the princely
families, their young men were compelled to take three wives, lest there
should be default of issue in those families. One of these wives was to
be taken from among the family. She was chosen by the head of the
family, and was called the Varnah-Varee, which means the cousin-wife;
the second was taken from the great body of the common people, and was
called the Ainah-Varee, which means the alphabet-wife. I do not exactly
understand how this choice was regulated; but I believe that it depended
upon the number drawn out of a vase by the fortunate maiden,
corresponding with the number of letters in the man’s name, or being
some multiple by four of that number.[3] The third wife was chosen by
the young man himself, and was called Marah-Varee, which means the
love-wife.
Footnote 3:
For example, Realmah consisting of seven letters, whoever drew the
first number 7 or 28 was to be the Ainah to Realmah.
Antiquaries have divided the ages during which these towns on the waters
flourished, into three periods: the stone age, the bronze age, and the
iron age.
Mundane affairs, however, have not always happened as the antiquaries
have pictured them. In Abibah, for example, had it been submerged that
night, there would have been found in after ages many bronze ornaments
and implements; but in reality the nation had not got beyond the stone
period.
The truth is, that in the town of Abibah the stone period had reached
its highest development. At the same time the bronze-period was also
very far advanced in some parts of the world, for the bronze ornaments
and implements in Abibah were of the highest quality and beauty. These
bronze articles had been gained in commerce with distant tribes; and it
was in consequence of the known superiority of these distant tribes,
that the chiefs of Abibah were entertaining a proposition brought to
them from a neighbouring tribe, by the ambassador whom Realmah so much
mistrusted.
The iron period, too, had commenced, and was flourishing in other
regions, as will be seen in the course of this narrative. It may be
mentioned that flints were not the only stones out of which the
implements used by the Sheviri were made, for some of their best
workmanship was executed in nephrite, or jade, or even in obsidian.
There must have been commerce even in that remote age, for some of the
inhabitants of Abibah possessed ornaments made of Baltic amber.
The pottery at Abibah showed that the potter’s wheel was in constant use
among them; and they had spindle-whorls of earthenware, which proves
that the art of weaving had made some progress amongst them.
Their buildings were of the kind which has been called Pfahlbauten, or
pile-buildings, in which the groundwork for the city consisted of
platforms supported on innumerable piles, as distinguished from those in
which the support consisted not of piles only, but of masses of mud and
stones with layers of horizontal stakes, resembling the Irish
“crannoges.” The distance of the bottom of the lake from the platform of
the city was about fifteen feet. It is a remarkable fact that, amongst
such a community, boat-building was an art very little developed.
Probably all their skill as artisans was devoted to the building of
their houses. They found fish in abundance in the shallows of the lake:
there was, therefore, not much inducement for them to put out upon its
deep waters. One general remark I may here make, which will require to
be very deeply considered by the hearers of this history: it is, that we
must be very careful not to confuse under one general head all stages of
civilization that were different from our own. The common use of the
word “savages” has misled modern men very much as regards the estimation
in which they should hold their ancestors. The word “savage” cannot be
applied with justice to a people who knew the arts of baking, of
carpentering, of pottery, of weaving, and in some respects of
government; who had indeed established polities which lasted in some way
or other for long generations.
It is almost unknown, but it is not less a fact, that great judges of
literature (the scornful Voltaire being one amongst them) have
pronounced that the third great epic poem of the world was written by a
man who dwelt amongst what is called a savage people, and who has
depicted in vivid colours their valour in war, the great ideas they had
of religion, and the extraordinary splendour of their eloquence, of
which he has preserved the record.[4] The language of these so-called
savages was often in the highest degree refined. And so it was among the
people I am describing. They had two words for the verb “to be:” one
meaning constant being, the other a temporary state of being. For
instance, if one of them said, _stea varug_, “I am ill,” it meant, “I am
ill of a temporary ailment;” if, however, he said _kamaya varug_, it
meant, “I am ill of a permanent disease.” They had also two sets of
words for sister and brother, so that if, without seeing the person or
recognising the voice, you heard the words, “She is my sister,” you knew
if it was a man that was speaking, because a man’s sister was
represented by a different word from that of a woman’s sister. But
perhaps the greatest refinement of all that was known in the languages
that have perished of so-called savages, was that they had a way of
expressing the result of conjoint but not unanimous opinion. For
example, if a chieftain came forth to the people, and said, “It is our
opinion that the war should be prosecuted with vigour,” the words used
might convey, without any explanation, that it was the conclusion come
to by a majority of the council, and not the unanimous opinion of its
members.
Footnote 4:
The Araucana.
Such, as above described, were some of the most salient points connected
with the religion, the laws, the manners, the customs, and the language
of the Sheviri. Descriptions of this kind do but faintly reproduce the
life of a people. Perhaps there is no greater effort than to reproduce a
faithful and vivid picture of past men,--of their ways of life, and
their habitations. How hard it is even to imagine what the lives of our
immediate forefathers were like! But the difficulty is enhanced tenfold
when the mode of life to be reproduced before us is that of a people who
have left no records, and whose ways are only dimly to be described by
antiquarians searching, in the mud brought up from the bottom of lakes,
for any relics that may enable them to form some conjecture about these
sunken cities and forgotten generations of mankind.
[During Mr. Milverton’s narrative it was curious to watch the
expression on Sir John Ellesmere’s countenance. It was profoundly
attentive; but, at the same time, he had a bewildered look, and he
did not make a single observation.]
_Sir Arthur._ I think the story promises to be most interesting.
There is a very happy choice of subject, which I wonder has not been
seized upon by some one else. You may know how interesting it was,
for Sir John Ellesmere did not interrupt once: did not even take any
advantage of the bargain he had made. The story, therefore, must be
a very good one.
_Ellesmere._ I deny the inference. I was dazed, if you like. I felt
out of my element. I know nothing of these fishy, half-under-water
people.
Yes, the choice of subject is very skilful--that is, on the
narrator’s behalf. If you say anything about the manners and customs
of these people, Milverton would answer you with all his superior
knowledge of wretched details. If you were to comment about the main
current of the story, he knows for certain all about it: his nymph
has told him. How, my dear fellow, do you invent all this?
_Milverton._ I do not invent, as you call it: I see how the things
happened. I can hardly describe to you how distinctly the whole
story arises before my mind: I do not invent; I merely describe.
_Ellesmere._ Oh yes, he evolves out of the depths of his
self-consciousness, as the Germans would say, all he tells us. I do
not see that it is made out to be more true on that account.
_Lady Ellesmere._ I don’t quite like the part about the three wives.
_Ellesmere._ That is the only part I am quite sure I do like. With
this odd number one might always get a majority of one’s wives on
one’s side. 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, are the numbers I shall aim at in
another planet; and I mean always to have a majority on my side.
_Mauleverer._ I daresay it is all true. It is evident that men were
as wretched then as they are now--the same low intrigues,
jealousies, hatreds, and malice. So far the story seems to me
perfectly consistent.
_Ellesmere._ Yes: so far indeed I am with you. Modern inventions
have done but little, as I always maintain. Boring has become a fine
art; and, somehow or other, in our highly civilized communities, it
is so contrived that one never has a moment’s peace. You teach the
people to write! What is the consequence? Innumerable letters of the
most detestable description:--
“Sir, I have not the pleasure of knowing you, but from your general
benevolence of character----”
_Cranmer._ Is that how the letters begin to you, Sir John?
_Ellesmere._ Yes, Mr. Cranmer. “From your general benevolence of
character, I know you will not consider it intrusive if I venture to
lay the following circumstances before you, and to ask for your
assistance and advice.” Then comes some difficulty which it would
take you an hour or two to write justly about, and the man, though
he has said he is intrusive, does not think that he is so. I wish,
sir, any one of these people would only ask himself the grave
question, “Am I the only intrusive person in the world? Is it likely
that my letter is the only one of the same character that will reach
Sir John Ellesmere to-morrow?” If he did give a good answer to that
question, he might perhaps omit to write his letter, or put it in
the fire if he had written it; and Sir John Ellesmere would be a
happier man.
Will any one of you be good enough to explain to me how rapid
locomotion has increased the felicity of the world? For I cannot see
it.
You observe that beetle there. He is making for the corner of this
summer-house, and will arrive here some time in the course of the
afternoon. When he does arrive, he will only be an ungainly,
top-heavy creature, not of the first order of intelligence, and much
given, as naturalists tell me, to strong drinks.
Now this beetle has wings; and he might take it into his stupid head
to fly from the gravel-walk to the corner of the summer-house, and
might do so in two seconds; but when he did arrive, I suppose he
would still be the same kind of creature--ungainly, top-heavy, and
too much given to strong drinks--prone, therefore, to lie upon his
back in a very helpless and foolish manner. I leave you, gentlemen
and ladies, to make the application for yourselves.
_Milverton._ How can you talk in that perverse way, Ellesmere? Do
you mean to maintain that our modern inventions have not, upon the
whole, been beneficial to mankind? Do you mean to say that having a
city lighted with gas is not a great advantage? Do you mean to
maintain that painless operations are not a huge solace to mankind?
Do you mean to say that we have not improved in judicial
matters--that, for instance, having got rid of torture, as a test of
truth, is not an immense advance in the history of mankind? Do you
mean to argue that there is not much greater liberty in religious
matters than there ever was?
_Ellesmere._ These things you call progress are not all loss,
certainly. However, you cannot say that government has so much
improved.
_Cranmer._ I deny that.
_Milverton._ I admit that despotic governments are just as bad as
ever. Thousands and tens of thousands of victims are still
sacrificed to some dynastic idea.
_Sir Arthur._ In constitutional governments there is hardly such a
thing as government at all. Nothing is done without such endless
discussion; and what is done generally comes too late.
_Ellesmere._ There speaks out the old Tory.
_Milverton._ No, no: we are not so bad as that, Sir Arthur. Of
course there is great difficulty in reconciling perfect personal
freedom with governmental action. But recollect that what is gained
in constitutional government, after all this talk, that you so much
disapprove of, is gained by the people for themselves for ever, and
does not depend upon one man, or one set of men, but becomes a
permanent improvement for mankind.
_Mauleverer_ (sarcastically). Yes: the poor are so well housed, so
well fed, so carefully instructed, they are so much better off than
these fishy people, as Ellesmere calls them, that one must rejoice
in the glorious triumphs of civilization.
_Milverton._ I wish any one of your grumblers could go back for a
week to the state of things which existed in England in the
fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. I think
you would soon summon modern civilization back again, and admit that
we had made great progress, even in the well-being of the lowest
classes.
_Sir Arthur._ I am not so sure of that.
_Milverton._ I am sure. I have a firm belief that the general
improvement might be measured, by the relation that the cholera of
the present day bears to the plague, or the black-death, or the
sweating sickness of former days.
_Ellesmere._ Now, how can he know this? It is all simple assertion.
_Mrs. Milverton._ And so, Sir John, is your statement.
_Ellesmere._ Yes: of course your husband is always perfectly right.
You would be one of the three wives, I see, Mrs. Milverton, and
would always vote for your husband.
Your knowledge of the common people (let us see, what did he
say?--in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries) is so
complete, Mrs. Milverton, that it enables you to give a final
judgment in the matter.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Don’t be so rude, Sir John. We women know, by
intuition, a great many things which you men only arrive at by
study.
_Ellesmere._ It is well that you have some way of getting at
knowledge different from that of study, for I do not see, after you
are once married, you do much of that, any one of you.
_Milverton._ To go back to the question of government,--that is a
question which has always had profound interest for me. That saying
of the Duke of Wellington, “How is the king’s government to be
carried on?” is perpetually in my mind.
Now, if you want to know what are the difficulties of government, I
will, to the best of my ability, inform you; and I do really believe
I have some experience in this matter: so, too, has Sir Arthur: and
I will abide by his corrections in what I am saying.
I think, to put the matter briefly and frankly, that there is not
sufficient intellect brought to bear upon the affairs of government.
From my earliest years I was very much struck with that admirable
work of Henry Taylor’s, the “Statesman;” and I have always found
that practical conversancy--to use one of his favourite words--with
government has led me to think more and more highly of his views.
The truth is, the public offices in this kingdom are undermanned as
regards “Indoors Statesmen,” as he calls them. Reform has gone too
far in the way of retrenchment.
_Ellesmere._ Oh! oh!
_Milverton._ Yes, it has; in the way of retrenchment, as regards
providing intelligent officers for the public service.
Ministers are worked to death by their double
functions--parliamentary and official.
Law officers, and all the other lawyers connected with Government,
are also terribly overworked.
The permanent officials of the highest class, upon whom Government
for the most part depend, are likewise greatly overworked by the
mere routine of their offices; which work, I must confess, has not
been diminished by the increased power of reading and writing, to
which Ellesmere (I thought he was a Liberal) has so great an
objection.
_Ellesmere._ An elaborate sneer at me! If I had but admired the
story of Realmah, the sagacity of Sir John Ellesmere would have been
much applauded by the story-teller.
_Milverton._ I am not judging by my prejudices as an author; and I
will not be diverted from the main subject.
I have no doubt millions a year might be saved to this country by an
increase of the intellectual power of the official staff. The least
instance of injudicious management on the part of the War Office or
the Admiralty--a tax unwisely retained, or unskilfully imposed--an
error as regards the currency--will produce more outlay than would
be expended in twenty years by such an improvement of the
intellectual force of the public offices as I contemplate.
If I were despotic--if I enjoyed a mental despotism--the first thing
I would persuade the people to do, would be to increase the
intellectual power of Government. I have no fear of bureaucracy. We
are too free to be led by any set of official men, however clever.
Then, again, look how the House of Commons is overworked. Consider
the vast amount of private business thrown upon it, and how some of
the best members are necessarily absorbed in the management of that
business. Consider what an imperfect thing our modern legislation
is: so much so, that an Act of Parliament is often, at first,
utterly unworkable. I despair, however, of bringing men round to my
opinion upon these matters, for I know that it requires to have been
behind the scenes for many years before a man would thoroughly
appreciate the views which I venture to put forward.
_Ellesmere._ I suppose this fishy government was perfect, for
Milverton has had it all his own way there.
_Milverton._ No; it was not perfect. No doubt it was the best thing
they could invent for the time; but I think you will find that
Realmah, if he ever gets to power, will make a great improvement in
the government of the Lake City.
_Ellesmere._ What I do admire in authors, and what gives one so much
respect for them, is that their heroes always partake so much of
their own character. One knows, from the beginning, that Realmah
will do exactly what Milverton would have done; which gives one so
much confidence as to Milverton’s sublime insight into the doings of
these past times.
_Mrs. Milverton._ Why should people be so very different now to what
they were then? Is there not a family likeness amongst all great
statesmen?
_Ellesmere._ Yes, Mrs. Milverton, they are all men penetrated by
some idea, which they think a great one, and that the course of
nations ought to be shaped according to that idea. Count Bismarck is
no doubt a great statesman in your eyes.
_Mrs. Milverton._ No man is a great statesman in my eyes, Sir John,
who needlessly promotes war.
_Sir Arthur._ I am by no means sure, Mrs. Milverton, that your
censure will apply to the great Count.
_Ellesmere._ You will see, Mrs. Milverton, what Realmah will do. You
may depend upon it that all his fine sayings and doings will only
lead to war. Is he not an interfering young fellow, who I foresee
will endeavour to impress upon the great council his own juvenile
ideas--probably most preposterous? I wish I had been a member of
that council: I would have made that young man know his proper
place.
_Sir Arthur._ It is a great comfort to think that the conduct of
this story does not depend upon Sir John Ellesmere. I can only say
that I look forward to the coming chapter with the greatest possible
interest; and I do hope, Milverton, that you are ready, and that we
shall have another reading to-morrow.
_Milverton._ You shall. I do not despair yet of making Ellesmere a
firm believer in Realmah’s valour and sagacity, which I know to have
been unrivalled at that period of the world’s history.
_Mauleverer._ To-morrow, then, we meet in the summer-house at the
same hour.
The company then separated; but not before Ellesmere had said to
Milverton, “You inventive scoundrel; I believe your nymph to be an
utter impostor. However, to-morrow I am not going to be so silent as
I was to-day. I believe it was understood that my liberty of
interruption was accumulative: to-morrow, therefore, I have a right
to interrupt you four times; each time with a sentence of about
fifteen words. A great deal of truth may be conveyed in fifteen
words.”
[_Exit._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IV.
Dr. Johnson used to say, that a concern for public affairs never took
away any man’s appetite for dinner. He was certainly wrong, for poor Mr.
Milverton has been in the most depressed state lately; and I think his
dinners have been seriously affected by the impending war in Europe.
When next we met, it happened to be a wet day; and we agreed that we
would have our reading in the library. All about the library were
strewed maps of the probable seat of war, showing what had been Mr.
Milverton’s recent objects of study. Just after we had met, Mr.
Milverton rushed into the house, and begged us all to come into the
garden to see something. We all came at once. He seldom notices natural
phenomena: or, if he does notice them, he does not talk about them,
which made us come more readily. He brought us in a minute or two to a
spot where there was a pitched battle going on between an army of red
and an army of black ants. What surprised me was this: I had always
understood from books on natural history, that the red ants were much
stronger than the black ants, but in this case the little black fellows
fought admirably; and, while we remained, I could not foresee on which
side the victory would be.
We re-entered the house, and went into the library, where the ladies
joined us.
_Ellesmere._ There is one advantage of a wet day--namely, that we do
not have our meetings in that stupid summer-house. There one sits
up, very uncomfortably, on a hard board, leaning against some
out-jutting piece of rustic abomination, which is meant to be very
picturesque, and which certainly does possess that element of the
picturesque which consists in ruin and decay. The whole thing
partakes of the nature of a pic-nic; and pic-nics are my abhorrence.
A meal is too serious a thing to be treated in that light manner.
_Lady Ellesmere._ What a hard, sensual man you are!
_Ellesmere._ Oh yes! women like these foolish things, it gives them
an opportunity for fuss and bustle; and, after all, they are sure to
forget the salt, or the vinegar, or something or other which is an
essential element to human happiness during dinner-time.
_Mauleverer._ I am quite of Sir John’s opinion. No sensible man,
after he has attained the age of twenty-two--if he is not in
love--cares about pic-nics.
_Ellesmere._ You look very miserable, Milverton. I know what is
worrying you. What is the good of fretting about these turbulent and
foolish people? If they will go to war, they must; and I suppose it
is necessary, for some good end or other, that they should do so.
_Milverton._ I cannot get over it. War horrifies me. On all sides,
loss, destruction, waste, turmoil, cruelty, sickness, horses slain,
olive-trees cut down, bridges blown up, roads obliterated.
_Ellesmere._ Don’t go on. We know all that. It needs no ghost to
tell us that.
_Milverton._ Yes: but there is something you do not know. There is
not only the active mischief of war, but all the preparation for
war, which is perhaps the greater evil, in the long run, of the two.
Did it ever enter into your mind to consider what an unproductive
creature a soldier is, and what an immense difference it makes to
the welfare of the human race, whether you have all these stalwart
men employed in producing, or in merely consuming and destroying?
_Ellesmere._ Yes: now you talk like a sound political economist and
sensible man.
_Milverton._ Then, you know, it does thoroughly dishearten one to
find that Christianity during all these years, has been able to do
so little towards the prevention of war. Nobody seems to see the
beauty of renunciation. Nobody seems to see the merit of being
content to be second or third instead of first in the great game of
life. But I am unjust: private persons do sometimes see this beauty
and this merit. I do believe that the first impulses of jealousy, of
revenge, and of injustice, are constantly restrained by Christianity
in the breasts of private individuals; but in nations, never.
Honour! glory! rights! claims! balance of power! these are the words
which still dominate nations. Statesmen are like lawyers, who often
give their clients advice which is harsh and self-seeking, telling
them never to give up their rights and their claims--advice which,
if the case were their own, they would not give themselves--being
more generous, as they think it right to be, for themselves, than
for their clients.
_Ellesmere._ Yes: we lawyers are very good people: it is our clients
who make us wicked, whenever we are wicked; which is very rarely.
_Mauleverer._ Man is meant to be miserable, and he always will be.
_Ellesmere._ I do not see that. Paley’s argument is better than
yours; but people who are fond of fishing are always wiser than
other men. As Paley justly says, “Teeth were made to eat with, and
not to ache.” If we injudiciously contrive to make our teeth ache,
it is our own fault; and the same thing applies to all our conduct.
I have just as good a right to say that men were meant to be happy,
as that men were meant to be miserable, Mr. Mauleverer. But do not
let us interrupt Milverton: he will not be endurable until he has
had his full moan over the present state of European affairs; which,
however, are enough to make anybody moan.
_Milverton._ There is one point connected with this matter that I
often blame myself for not having spoken about. It is the use that
we Britishers make of our capital. How we send it out to the most
distant regions, often to be used against ourselves, and indeed
against the dearest and best interests of mankind. I think that upon
this subject--to speak without arrogance--I am really an authority.
I am the last surviving commissioner of foreign claims,--that means,
of the claims of British subjects against foreign nations for
injuries done in the wars that were closed by Waterloo. It may
appear strange to you that I should ever have held such an office,
for I am not yet, I trust, a very aged individual; but there were
several commissions before I was appointed, and the commissioners
died out, leaving us, the last set, to wind up the affairs. I had,
of course, to look into all the old papers; and I found that there
was no form of confiscation which had not been adopted with regard
to British property. For instance, a foreign merchant owed a British
merchant money: in his books it was a book-debt. The Government of
the country said, “Pay us that debt which, according to your books,
you owe the Englishman, and we will give you a receipt, so that you
cannot be molested for the debt in any of our courts.”
Well, then I will pursue the subject further. Is it not lamentable
that, with the fields of England not half tilled, with the poor
people of England not half housed, with every branch of industry
that England possesses requiring capital, we should ever send our
money out to be invested in Congo Fives or Timbuctoo Seven per
Cents., or whatever other tempting but foolish investment is offered
to us by some distant country or colony? I believe I should have
fulfilled my part in the world, if I had only persuaded my
fellow-countrymen never to invest in anything which they cannot go
and see, and respecting which their own laws do not give them a
remedy, if any wrong is done them. I know it is of no use attempting
by any legislative measures to prevent the efflux of capital. It is
only to be done by persuasion; but, really, if men would only look
to their own interests, they would be very shy of foreign
investments. Now, I would ask the question, has any man ever
invested, twenty or thirty years ago, in land on British soil, and
has not that investment increased at least forty per cent. in value?
However, I have said my say upon this subject, and you may believe
me, or not; but I am quite sure that the increased interest never
balances the increased danger which is to be found in making foreign
investments.
_Sir Arthur._ To return to the main question of war: you cannot say,
Milverton, that we have not gained a great deal of wisdom upon this
point--that we are not wiser than other nations as regards it--for
we have come to the conclusion that extension of territory is nearly
always bought at too high a price.
_Ellesmere._ This has arisen from our insular position. You must not
give us any great credit for being wiser than any other nation.
_Milverton._ There you are unjust. I would not exactly say that we
are wiser than other nations; but I do honestly think that we are
more conscientious. There is no doubt that we are a very warlike
nation, and that the great bulk of every people delight in war: but
we have come to the conclusion that it is a very dangerous thing for
our future welfare--I mean not temporal, but eternal welfare--to
indulge in any war that is not a war of defence or a war of
protection to some oppressed people. I think that the religious
movement which commenced in the latter part of the last century and
the beginning of this--of which Wilberforce may be chosen as a
representative--had a great effect upon the minds of the British
people. It cancelled slavery; it improved our criminal code; it made
all men, even statesmen, obliged to refer their conduct to the
highest religious principles; and, you may depend upon it, it has
proved a great check upon our naturally warlike instincts. This is
what I think foreign nations do not understand, when they
contemplate our sedulous observance of neutrality. They think it is
shopkeeping which restrains us, whereas it is a fear of violating
the highest moral and religious principles. I may be mistaken; but I
sincerely believe what I say.
Only let some foreign nation attack us, and see what Berserkers we
should become. I do not believe that the fighting element has gone
out of us, but only that we are terribly afraid of fighting, except
upon some thoroughly righteous cause--some cause which we believe
would be approved of in heaven, as well as upon earth.
_Sir Arthur._ I am entirely in accordance with Mr. Milverton.
_Mauleverer._ I am not. Did you ever know the bulk of any nation
ruled by any great, or humane, or religious principle?
_Ellesmere._ I think you all go too far in your respective theories.
I think that, partly from a view of their interests, partly perhaps
from religious principles, partly perhaps from their just contempt
of the frivolous causes which often provoke war, the British people
have come to a conclusion against it; but I am not inclined to give
all the weight that Milverton does to Wilberforce, and the
Wilberforcians of the last generation.
_Milverton._ At any rate, Ellesmere, you perceive the great change
that has taken place in the minds of the British people about war.
_Ellesmere._ Well, there is a great change in the French people; and
to whom is this due?
_Sir Arthur._ The French people have received great lessons in
political wisdom. Count Daru, I believe, told them that he had made
calculations, by which it appeared that the height of men in France
had been lowered one inch and a half, or two inches, by the wars of
the First Napoleon. You see how this happens; the taller men are
perpetually chosen for war, and are carried off to be slaughtered
before they have produced any progeny.
_Ellesmere._ And do you think that the arguments to be derived from
such facts as these have any weight against “national glory,
national honour, and rectification of frontiers?”
_Milverton._ I do. Besides, the French are the most industrious
people in Europe, and they love to see the fruits of their industry.
I may be sanguine, but I believe that the French are rapidly
entering upon the same platform as ourselves; and that, if our
statesmen manage well, we might yet have them nearly always on our
side for the maintenance of the peace of Europe.
_Ellesmere._ Well, we have had enough of foreign politics: let us go
to the men who, untold years ago, dwelt upon the Swiss lakes. I will
bet anything Milverton makes them talk, and think as if they were
profound political economists of the present day; and if Realmah
does not talk to these fishy men much as Milverton would talk to us,
my name is not John Ellesmere.
_Milverton._ I can only tell you what I know to have occurred. I may
use modern terms, and sometimes modern modes of thought in speaking
of the lake-men; but what I know is, that I shall give a most true
account of the thoughts and doings of the great Realmah.
Hereupon the reading commenced, and was as follows:--
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER III.
THE TWO WIVES.
At the time when this story commenced, Realmah had already received the
two wives who were bestowed upon a man of his rank by the laws of the
nation.
The cousin-wife, the Varnah, as she was called, was a plain young woman,
possessing sundry good qualities as a housewife. She was regular,
punctual, methodical, and a great lover of possessions, not from
avarice, but from a desire to have many things to furbish up, and to put
in their right places. The heads of Realmah’s tribe had given her to
Realmah with a kindly wish to compensate in some measure for his
infirmities. He would never be able to acquire much property, they
thought; but whatever he did acquire would be taken care of, and made
the most of, by his Varnah.
The alphabet-wife (the Ainah), was one of those girls whose personal
appearance it is so difficult to describe, because there are no general
terms which can be applied to it. She was not beautiful, nor handsome,
nor pretty; nor was she even what is called interesting-looking. In
truth, her whole appearance was at first sight rather insignificant, and
nobody would have turned to look at her as she passed. Yet she was worth
looking at, if looked at with a loving attention. Her small features
were full of subtle mobility, and readily expressed the swift change of
her thoughts. Her hair was a reddish brown, not unbeautiful; her
deep-set eyes, of a dark blue colour, were really very expressive when
you came to look into them; and there was an air of great resolve about
her well-formed lips. She was one of those people in whom dress and
distinction of any kind make such a difference. If she had been a
princess, one could have made something of her. But she never was well
dressed; and, as to distinction of any kind, she had none.
The poor Ainah had never been taught those graceful movements which were
carefully cultivated from their earliest youth by the girls of the
higher class of the Sheviri.
And then, again, her hands and feet were by no means small.
I wish I could in honesty speak more favourably of the personal
appearance of the Ainah; but, to tell the truth, it was unmistakeably
plebeian. She had sprung from one of the lowest tribes of the
nation--namely, that of the fishermen. After the manner of her tribe,
she pronounced some of the commonest words quite wrongly. _Louvarah_
(house) she made into _luffee_: _darumid_ (people) into _roomee_:
_volata_ (provisions) into _vlatee_; with a hundred other gross errors
of language. Realmah was well skilled in his language; and the poor
Ainah never uttered a sentence in which she did not sorely shock his
sensitive ears. Yet, in reality, as Realmah was the most thoughtful man
of his nation, so his Ainah was the girl of the largest mind and nature
in that town. This was totally unknown to him; and he had received her
as he would have received any other chattel assigned to him by the laws
of his country. It was not in his nature to be unkind to any one; but
such an idea as that of loving his Ainah never entered his mind, and
would have been received by him from any one else with a smile of
derision.
It was on the morning succeeding the night during which Realmah had
uttered the soliloquy mentioned in the first chapter, that the young man
entered his abode, and began talking with his two wives--not with a hope
of gaining any ideas from them, or with much care for their sympathy,
but from a natural wish to talk out his own ideas to somebody--to give
them, as it were, shape by utterance.
“Have you seen the ambassador from the Phelatahs?” said Realmah.
“Yes,” replied the wives.
“And what do you think of him?”
“He is beautifully dressed,” said the Varnah, “and his presents are of
the first quality. He has given us a vase with heads all round it, and
serpents crawling up it, meeting, and together forming the handles: it
is quite a treasure.”
It may here be remarked that all the nations of the lake excelled in
pottery. It was not that they understood the art of burning; but
individual thought and skill were thrown into each article, and the
variety and strangeness of the designs compensated in great measure for
the want of knowledge shown in completing the processes of manufacture.
“Yes, yes,” said Realmah, somewhat peevishly, “the presents that will
return to the giver hereafter as spoil, may well be handsome; but what
do you think of the man himself? For my part,” he exclaimed with
vehemence, “I believe him to be false as the hooded adder.”
“When did you get truth from any of his nation?” replied the Varnah.
(This was the general opinion entertained by the Sheviri of the
Phelatahs, and was the correct common-place for the Varnah to utter.)
“I do not mind that,” replied Realmah; “what I want to know is, whether
the story which this man brings us is a mere pretext or not. Is our
nation to be the slave, and not the ally?”
By the way, Realmah, in his lordly indifference, had never told his
wives what was the pretext upon which the ambassador had come.
“And what do you think, Ainah?”
“I noted him well,” she answered. “He looks straight into people’s eyes,
because it is the habit of honest men to do so, and he knows it is the
way to gain credit; but I could see that it gave him pain, and that it
was a great effort.”
Realmah, who had been looking down upon the ground, lost in meditation,
suddenly raised his eyes, and gazed with astonishment at the Ainah.
“And who told you to observe this?” he said.
“My heart,” she answered.
“Pray do not say _phonee_, my good Ainah.” (That was the word amongst
the fishermen for ‘heart.’) “Why turn everything into that foolish _ee_?
Cannot you say _phonata_?”
“_Phonata_, then,” said the Ainah, timidly, with the tears rising to her
eyes.
“Any one that has got eyes with any power of insight, even the women can
see it,” muttered Realmah; “but our elders, though they have the wisdom
and experience of grey hairs, cannot. I must, at all risks, force my
suspicions upon them.”
“Do not go now,” said the Varnah. “You must come and see my bridal room,
which the dear little Ainah” (she really loved the Ainah, because the
girl was so useful and unselfish) “has helped me to decorate.”
Realmah, who, like most great men, was essentially good-natured,
consented to follow the Varnah to the bridal room. She led the way,
expecting a burst of applause from him. The Ainah followed; and, as she
followed, sighed.
There is no knowing how many thousands of years have passed since those
three human beings walked into that bridal room; but, ancient as the
time was, that sigh which tells so much about a wounded heart was still
more ancient, and had not been unknown even in the primeval Paradise.
Realmah walked about the bridal room, and did his best to appear pleased
with the clay vases, the various ornaments formed of feathers, the flint
and bronze weapons, and the woven hangings; but his mind was in the
assembly of his chiefs, composing a speech which should be endured even
from a young man, which should rouse suspicion, and compel a clear and
decided course of action.
Suddenly he exclaimed, “If this is truth, then are the ways of falsehood
much maligned; if this is policy, then are the ways of children politic;
if this is the prudence of great chieftains, then are great chieftains
little removed from ordinary men; if this is statesmanship, then are
statesmen blind alike to the history of the past, and to the just
forecasting of the future.”
Saying which, Realmah made two profound bows, one to his Varnah, and the
other to the Ainah (for that was high courtesy according to the customs
of his nation), and rushed from the bridal chamber into the open air.
His wives looked after him amazed. As the hangings closed behind him,
the Varnah said, “Poor Realmah! we should live but meanly if it depended
on him to provide for us. But let us look again over all our presents.”
The Varnah was very skilful in obtaining presents, and had laid all her
relations under strict contribution. With her father she was an especial
favourite. Ever since the death of his last wife, she had made the old
chief very comfortable; and it was with the greatest reluctance, and
only from a strong sense of duty, that he had given her up to Realmah.
The wonderful flint knives, and many of the bronze ornaments that
adorned the Varnah’s bridal room, had belonged to the old chief; but, as
the Varnah judiciously observed, why could he not glory over them as
well in his daughter’s house as in his own? And the old chief did come
frequently to his daughter’s house, and was always kindly treated by the
Varnah, for she was not like one of King Lear’s daughters, but loved her
father and her kindred. Only where she was, the property must also be,
that it might be duly cared for, and kept in order.
The Ainah sighed again, and she also said “Poor Realmah!” and only God
could know what depths of tenderness, sympathy, appreciation, and
hopelessness were contained in those two words; for the Ainah was well
aware that she was but the slave of a great man--and nothing more than
the slave.
Meanwhile Realmah bent his steps slowly and thoughtfully towards the
great council-chamber, where, under the presidency of his uncle, the
chief of the East, the assembled chiefs and their principal councillors
were considering what answer should be given to the ambassador of the
Phelatahs.
CHAPTER IV.
THE COUNCIL.
The chiefs were assembled in a long low room of great antiquity. It had
been the council-room of the town ever since it had been first raised
upon the waters by a few fugitives who, in earlier days, had fled from
the persecutions of those warriors who possessed weapons of bronze.
At the time that Realmah entered, the chief of the East was addressing
the assembly. He was an old man, of great authority amongst the people,
and of considerable natural sagacity; but his ideas were wont to travel
rather in a groove, and to take the form of melancholy forebodings.
Realmah bent himself to the ground. The assembled chiefs looked at him
with a cold haughty stare which said more plainly even than words could
say: “What, young man, is the need of your presence here?”
Meanwhile the chief of the East, utterly ignoring the interruption,
although he was Realmah’s uncle, thus continued his speech. “I foresee
the time--I say, I distinctly foresee the time, when from the constant
irruption of these barbarians, life will become so difficult and so
precarious for us, we shall be so hunted down by these new comers, that
instead of building on the waters, our people will have to place their
miserable habitations on dry land. They will thus become the prey of
every passer-by. No one will sleep in peace. No one will feel secure
that in the morning he and his family will rise to pay their devotions
to the sun. With this insecurity, will come an indifference to all the
arts of life; and the whole race will degenerate into inferior animals.
“My voice is for war; my voice is for allying ourselves at once with the
Phelatahs. If the nations that surround this great lake can but remain
united, they may force back those enemies, who, superior in weapons, but
far inferior in true courage, now, according to the warning words of
that noble ambassador, who has just retired from the assembly, threaten
the entire destruction of our heaven-descended race.”
A murmur passed through the assembly--a murmur which could not be
construed otherwise than into an approval of the sentiments which the
aged chief of the East had brought forward with unwonted eloquence.
It was at this inopportune moment that poor Realmah had to explain his
unasked-for presence amongst them. After another profound obeisance, he
thus began:--“Great lords and dividers of bread, I am but a child, and
how shall I dare to address this reverend assemblage? But, while you
have been debating upon this grave matter, I have been examining with
anxious care the manner of that ambassador. In one word, my gracious
fathers, it is not that of a true man. His gifts are everywhere. With
whom, when out of your gracious presence, has he been most in company?
With the most easily beguiled and the weakest persons of our town. From
them, I know, he has ascertained the number of our warriors, the
strength of our fortresses, and the extent of our hunting-fields. He has
made the most curious inquiries into our arms of attack and defence,
into the state of our hoarded provisions, into the fidelity of our
subject tribes. What then, I ask, is his object? I do not deny that his
nation, like ours, dreads the approach of a people far superior to
either in the weapons of war, all of whom carry arms which are possessed
only by a few of our wealthiest chiefs, and which are looked upon rather
as curiosities than as the daily implements of warfare. The policy of
the Phelatahs, if I read this man rightly, is to render our nation
subject and tributary to theirs, and so to oppose a bold front to the
common enemy. But what matters it to whom we are subject, if we are
subjected at all? What I would, with the due humility of youth, propose
is, that if we send our forces to join with theirs, we should not send
at once the whole flower of our army, but should divide it into two
bands, one of which should openly unite with them, while the other,
concealed, should be ready to counteract the effect of any attempt on
their part to take captive our men, and employ them hereafter as vassals
against the common foe.”
Realmah ceased speaking; and there was again the same look of polite
indifference which had greeted him upon his entrance. He bowed, and
withdrew.
It may be noticed, by the way, that he quite forgot, or was too nervous,
to deliver the fine peroration to his speech with which he had favoured
his wives.
The debate was resumed; but the words of the chief of the East were not
so powerful as they had been. The chief of the North, whether really
convinced by Realmah’s speech, or being anxious to break the power of
the East by encouraging family differences, leant entirely to Realmah’s
view of the question.
“To adopt the young man’s suggestion would,” he said, “make no real
difference except in detail. Two troops might as well be sent out as
one. The Phelatahs had always been false; and he had found that the
nettle did not sting yesterday, or to-day, for the first time; but, as
far as his poor experience went back, it had always been a stinging
plant; and, as far as his poor discernment foresaw, it always would be.
He reminded them of the proverb, ‘That if judgment belongs to the old,
quickness of perception belongs to the young;’ or, to speak in the
language of the people, that the young foal of the ass might have better
sight than the father of lions. That, for his part, he had noticed that
even the prejudices of the vulgar were often based upon something
substantial, which chiefs of high lineage might not have condescended to
observe. Even the infirmities of Realmah might have rendered his
observation very keen--keen as that of a woman; and the great chiefs
then present knew full well that their wives sometimes made observations
which were worth attending to and which they themselves, conscious of
their own power and dignity, had not cared to make. The weasel in its
own small circuit saw more clearly than the bison, which relied upon its
force, and not upon its sharpness of vision.
“In a word, he was not for discarding a prudent suggestion from whatever
source it might come, and his vote should be heartily given in favour of
the proposal of that young man who had just withdrawn from them, and to
whom he should be more inclined to listen from the fact that the young
man must have imbibed some of the wisdom of his uncle, the great chief
of the East.”
This artful and judicious speech had great weight with the assemblage;
and after long debate, it was finally agreed that the plan proposed by
Realmah should be adopted by the Council.
* * * * *
After the reading was ended, there was no conversation of any importance
to record, and the party separated; Ellesmere merely saying that he
should, hereafter, have a few remarks to make upon the singular
advantages of being a savage like Realmah, and having three wives, even
though two of them should be obviously plain and prosaic; for he would
always be able to set two of them against the third.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER V.
My master, Mr. Milverton, delighted in frequent excursions of a very
humble kind. He used to say that we did not make half use enough of our
opportunities while living in the country: that there was always much to
be seen within a circle of fifteen miles’ radius--all manner of
beautiful and interesting things. His idea of a tour was not rushing off
to Spain or Italy at the rate of thirty miles an hour, but going up a
canal in a little boat, or travelling along rustic roads in a pony
carriage at the rate of five miles an hour, and taking everything very
coolly. “Look,” he would say, “at the charming uncertainty you have
about your dinner in these excursions. Then, again, how amused you
always are at a country inn. The pictures alone are quite a treat, and
convey to you something of the history of the last seventy years.”
Ellesmere, of course, opposed and ridiculed Mr. Milverton’s views. He
maintained there was nothing like sitting in a comfortable room where
there were nice, sleep-provoking arm-chairs; not that, as he used to
observe, Milverton’s arm-chairs were comfortable, but that they were
well-intended. It used to amuse me, this praise of sitting at home,
coming from one of the most restless mortals ever born; for he never
could keep quiet for a quarter of an hour together, but would walk round
the room while the others were talking; and a favourite mode of motion
of his was to place the chairs so that he could step from one to the
other, and thus expend his terrible restlessness. However, though
invariably opposing Milverton’s excursions, he was always ready to join
in them.
On the present occasion Mr. Milverton suggested that we should go to a
little inn about eight miles distant, which overlooked a small arm of
the sea, where it is proposed to construct a harbour. We set off on a
beautiful day, and soon reached our inn. The tide was out, and there was
a huge expanse of mud visible.
_Ellesmere._ What a delicious odour of mud! How gratifying it is to
have exchanged our own poor atmosphere for this invigorating air!
_Milverton._ I always think when I see this place at the time of the
receding tide, which gives somewhat of an ungracious aspect to the
landscape, how like it is to a person of a fitful temper. The
present state represents a sullen mood; but soon you will see the
pleasant tide come up again, and all the scenery about you will
become most beautiful--as the human being does, when he has thrown
off his sullenness.
_Ellesmere._ I think I have heard you indulge in this simile before.
I should be very sorry to show that it does not walk on four legs;
but I cannot help observing that the tide ebbs and flows with
regularity, whereas the temper, if I may judge from Lady
Ellesmere’s, is apt to be a little uncertain in its movements.
_Lady Ellesmere._ It cannot be said, my love, that your temper
partakes of uncertainty.
_Ellesmere._ A truly conjugal remark, and as true as it is conjugal.
We then separated until dinner-time, rambling about amongst the rocks
and the mud, active as any children in picking up sea-weed and shells,
and catching crabs: one of which gave a severe bite to Ellesmere, who,
with his accustomed good-nature, did not avenge the bite upon the crab,
but merely observed, as he put it into its little pool again, “that he
was sure it was a female, and did not understand when any kindness was
meant for it.”
We had a very pleasant dinner, and were somewhat scolded by the landlady
of the inn for our sad deficiency of appetite; though I thought we all
ate like ploughboys.
After dinner Mr. Cranmer talked in a most official manner about all the
things which he foresaw would happen in foreign and domestic politics;
not without sundry sneers and sniffs from Sir John Ellesmere, whom Mr.
Cranmer’s talk always provokes to all kinds of sarcastic opposition. The
conversation proceeded thus, as well as I can recollect it.
_Milverton._ All political prophecy is so difficult. Ellesmere owns
that he cannot foresee what will happen in the course of a
three-volume novel. Now, I do not feel such difficulty in that. No:
I do not feel that difficulty about novels. There you have only to
watch the mind of one man, the author; but, as regards political
prophecy, it is a very different thing. Now I wish, for the sake of
making a curious experiment, that any one of you, at the outset of
any political movement, would write down (it must be in writing)
what you really think will happen. You will, I believe, be
astonished to find how mistaken your prophecy will be. Where men are
so deluded, and think that they foresee far more than they do, is in
this way--that they keep on modifying, from day to day, their
prophecy, in correspondence with the daily changes of events. I have
watched this matter for years--at least, as regards my own mind--and
have often found how wrong my prophetic anticipations have been. I
remember hearing one of the shrewdest ministers of our time say that
he joined a ministry, thinking it would only last seven weeks. “You
see,” he said, “they were old friends of mine, and they had asked me
to join them. And I felt that, being old friends, I was quite
willing to partake their downfall; and here I have been years in
office with them.”
No one can see how a ministry will fall, or how a war will end, or
how any series of political events will come to a conclusion.
I declare I never knew a ministry go out upon the exact questions
they were expected to go out upon.
_Sir Arthur._ We are thrown back to the old French proverb, “Nothing
is certain but the unforeseen.”
_Ellesmere._ I hate proverbs; they are such bumptious things: they
are like boys of sixteen; they all want taking down, not one peg,
but many pegs.
_Sir Arthur._ I must say I delight in French proverbs. Now, what can
be better than the celebrated proverb, “Nothing succeeds like
success?”
_Milverton._ The opposite is quite as true, “Nothing succeeds like
the want of success;” or, to put it in another way, “None are so
successful as the unsuccessful.” It all depends upon the meaning you
give to the word success. Do you remember how the late Lord
Carlisle, good man, used to delight in a saying (where it originally
came from I do not know) which ran thus, “Heaven is a place made for
the unsuccessful?” You may depend upon it there is, even in this
world, nothing in the world so dangerous for a man as to be for a
long time supremely successful. I think on this head that the First
Napoleon’s career is one of the most instructive that the world has
ever seen. If he had had but a little less success before he made
that fatal blunder of invading Russia, he might have acted with
something like wisdom, and an uninterrupted dynasty of his might
still have been upon the throne of France.
By the way, I was reading the other day another account of that
invasion of Russia (a portion of history which I am never tired of
reading), and I observed that one division of the army--I think it
was Murat’s--had been reduced before it returned to Wilna to 400
infantry and 500 dismounted cavalry, without any guns, or any
materials of war of any kind. Now, that division probably started
with 60,000 or 70,000 men. But the most instructive thing of that
campaign is to observe the wonderful pedantry and perverse
obstinacy, in ignoring the most obvious facts, which that great man
Napoleon manifested to the end of the campaign. He would draw up the
most admirable orders of the day, but unfortunately facts were
against him; and it was no good ordering that 20,000 men should go
here, and 30,000 men go there, when the division in question was
almost annihilated. From the first opening of the campaign, however,
there was the same want of skill manifested, and the same abjuration
of facts. Now, it was thought a wonderfully clever thing throughout
Europe, that the Emperor should have arranged his 5,000 wagons in
military fashion; but any man, who knows anything about wagons,
carters, and oxen--Wren Hoskyns or Mr. Mechi, for instance--could
have told him that a transport of this kind could not be arranged in
a purely military fashion.
_Ellesmere._ For goodness’ sake do not let Milverton get upon the
subject of war. At all hazards he should be stopped in talking about
it.
Let me see, what were we talking about before? Oh! proverbs: well, I
say a proverb is like a rule in grammar. I remember there was a
detestable Greek grammar, which was the torment of my early days,
and which used to lay down some rule, and then there used to come
pages of exceptions. In my perverse way, I used to make one of the
exceptions the rule, and throw the rule into one of the exceptions.
I hate grammar!
But to return to proverbs: as I said before, they are such bumptious
things. It may be said of them what the late Lord Melbourne said of
dear Macaulay, “They are so cock-sure about everything.”
_Cranmer._ I wonder to hear you say “dear Macaulay;” I should have
thought that, being such a great talker, he would have interfered
with you, Sir John.
_Ellesmere._ Do you? you are quite mistaken then. Who was it said of
Matt Lewis--
“I would give many a sugar-cane,
Matt Lewis were alive again”?
so I being by nature a poet, say--
“I would bear a load of pain,
So Macaulay were alive again.”
Whenever I was invited to meet him, I always went. It is true he was
a great talker, but who talked so well? There was no vanity in his
talk. There was simply an exuberant knowledge and an exquisite
enjoyment of the subject he was discoursing about. I can tell you, I
did not interrupt _him_. I was always too glad to hear him talk. He
would lay hold of a particular author, and in a short time (say
twenty minutes) give you the whole pith and marrow of that author. I
remember his doing so once with Cobbett, and one had, I believe, in
this brief twenty minutes all the best things ever said by that most
vigorous writer.
Then if any of the less prominent characters in history were
mentioned, he had anecdotes about them which were known to no one
else.
I remember his once describing to us the character and sayings of
Lord Thurlow; and he told a story of that large-eye-browed personage
which I never heard before, and each of you ought to give me
half-a-crown at least, if I agree to tell you. Are the half-crowns
forthcoming? (We nodded assent.)
Well, those were days when we had not the infliction of railways,
and when barristers, even on the Northern circuit, travelled in
post-chaises. It fell to the lot of a very saintly, good man, to
have to travel with Thurlow, who was then Attorney-General. A
journey to the North was a serious thing in those times, and my
saintly friend dreaded the long journey, with the blustering
Attorney-General, who he was sure would utter many naughty words
before they arrived at York.
They had hardly left London before the good man remarked, “We shall
have a long journey, Mr. Attorney, and so I thought I would bring
some books to amuse us. I daresay it is a long time since you have
read Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost.’ Shall I read some of it to you? It
will remind us of our younger days.” (In those days men read great
works; for there were not so many books of rubbishing fiction, to
which the reading energies of the present day are directed.) “Oh, by
all means!” said Thurlow; “I have not read a word of Milton for
years.”
The good man began to read out his Milton: presently he came to the
passage where Satan exclaims, “Better to reign in hell than serve in
Heaven.” Upon which Thurlow exclaimed, “A d----d fine fellow, and I
hope he may win.” My saintly friend in horror shut up his “Paradise
Lost,” and felt that it would be no good reading to the
Attorney-General, if he was to be interrupted by such wicked
expressions of sentiment.
_Milverton._ Did you ever read Macaulay’s poem on his defeat at
Edinburgh? It is a most noble production. I am ashamed to say I
cannot recollect it correctly; but the next time we meet I will read
it out to you.
_Cranmer._ I really cannot understand how Sir John could have
endured the enforced silence which Lord Macaulay’s talk must have
imposed upon him.
_Ellesmere._ I am a misunderstood man, not only by Secretaries of
the Treasury, but by all people who come near me. I am _un homme
incompris_. Now, I ask you all, did I interrupt Milverton when he
was going on with his “Realmah” story? If a talk or reading is good,
I am the last man in the world to interrupt it. I only interrupt
folly, irrelevancy, inaccuracy, and incomplete logic. I am the best
listener in the United Kingdom when there is anything worth
listening to; but I am, I repeat, a misunderstood man. Poor dear
Charles Lamb complains that he was in the same plight. Nine-tenths
of the world do not understand a joke; and no official man, Mr.
Cranmer, ever does. Why even my wife does not understand me.
_Lady Ellesmere._ No, my dear, it would take nine of the cleverest
women in England to understand you, and they must pass the chief
part of their time in interchanging notes about your character.
_Ellesmere._ Let us enumerate the nine--only, for goodness’ sake, do
not let them be nine Muses.
Let me see, what should be their functions?--
1. The arch-concoctor of salads.
2. The sewer-on of buttons.
3. The intelligent maker of bread-sauce.
4. The player of Beethoven’s music.
5. The player of common tunes,--“Old Dog Tray,” “Early in the
Morning,” “Pop goes the Weasel,” and “Paddle your own Canoe,”
all of which tunes I think beautiful; but, of course, because the
populace approves of them, which populace is the best judge of such
things, my Lady Ellesmere must needs turn up her nose (and a very
pretty one it is) against any one who admires these tunes, and she
declines to play them to me.
_Lady Ellesmere_. I can well imagine you do admire these “tunes,” as
you call them. It is certainly worth my while to get up Beethoven
for you, when “Early in the Morning” satisfies you quite as well.
But pray go on with your list of wives, Sir John.
_Ellesmere._
6. The consoler under difficulties.
7. The good reader.
8. The one beloved wife (dear deluded creature) who always believes
in her husband, and takes him to be the discreetest, most
virtuous, and most ill-used of mortal men. I do love _her_!
9. The manager of the other wives.
By the way, has there not been some talk of a tenth Muse? Well, if I
am to have a tenth wife, she shall be the noble and rare creature
who can cook a potato. My list is now complete. My polygamic nature
is satisfied with these ten adorable beings.
_Sir Arthur._ Which will you be, Lady Ellesmere?
_Lady Ellesmere._ The sewer-on of buttons. I do not feel equal to
the bread-sauce, though that would be the lighter work of the two if
one’s mind could master it.
_Ellesmere._ But, come, let us go on with Realmah, _alias_
Milverton--the Milverton who existed when that ground which is now
at the bottom of the Swiss lakes was at the surface. I do like a
story!
_Mrs. Milverton._ Is it not somewhat of a confession of weakness on
the part of Sir John Ellesmere, that he likes a story? And was he
not a few minutes ago abusing fiction?
_Ellesmere._ No, it is not a confession of weakness, Mrs. Milverton.
And as for inconsistency--to be consistent, one must be dull; and
nobody can accuse me of that.
From the earliest ages of the world, when men dwelt in tents, and
looked out upon the stars at midnight, delighting in them more than
in any other created thing, men and women would gather round a fire,
and listen entranced, through the dark hours of night, to any one
who would tell them a story; however absurd, however inconsistent,
however improbable, that story might be. Not that I mean for a
moment to say, Mrs. Milverton, that your husband invents absurd,
inconsistent, and improbable stories. Doubtless all that he says is
absolutely true, and must, as he assures us, have happened. Did not
his nymph tell him?--By the way, I wonder you are not jealous of
that same nymph: women can contrive to be jealous of any thing, or
person, or animal, or even insect--and you see how she inspires him
with a higher degree of inspiration than can be gained from
yourself, or any other person who exists upon this solid earth.
_Mrs. Milverton._ I do not know what jealousy is, Sir John.
_Ellesmere._ Happy woman! I observe that Milverton is silent: he
knows very well what jealousy is, at least on your part. Why, if I
were to poke the fire in his study, you would be jealous that you
had not done it: you are all alike, and jealousy is nine-tenths of
your love. Whereas, with us men, jealousy is almost a thing unknown.
By the way, which of the three young savage ladies, that we are
introduced to in Realmah, do you think you most resemble? Is it the
prudent Varnah, the beautiful Talora, or the incomparable Ainah
(with large hands and feet), that you are willing to be classed
with?
_Milverton._ Mrs. Milverton possesses the merits of all the three in
her own person--the beauty of Talora, the prudence of the Varnah,
and the sympathetic nature of the Ainah.
_Ellesmere._ You have not a few shillings about you, have you, Mrs.
Milverton, that you could give your husband for that speech? for I
am sure it is one that requires to be paid for.
Now, Milverton, do go on: I declare seriously I am thoroughly
interested in your story, and will not make a single interruption,
until those shining waters desert their charming mud, and the stars
come out, and we order our horses, and return to the solid comforts
and second-rate arm-chairs in Milverton’s smoke-dried study.
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER V.
REALMAH VISITS TALORA.
There are few words more abused than the word “love.” It is the most
commonly-used word in all languages, except the word “money,” and some
short emphatic word, or other, signifying a curse. But as to the
substance, it is rare. Now Talora was a girl incompetent to love any
person supremely but herself.
In that age of the world beautiful women must have suffered from the
loss of one great source of pleasure. They had no looking-glasses. This
want they endeavoured to supply, in a very dim and poor manner, by
burnished shells. And there was always the glassy water from which the
fair dwellers on the lake could gain some indistinct notion of their
beauty.
From what has been said above, it must not be supposed that Talora was a
peculiarly heartless person. She was fond of her father, when he did not
thwart her, and very gracious and good-natured to her companions when
they submitted to her rule. Greatly admired in her own section of the
city, she put a high value on herself, and was much afraid of
contracting any marriage that should not be fully worthy of her.
In personal appearance she was tall, shapely, and bright-looking; with
crisp, wavy hair, brilliant eyes, that had not much meaning in them, a
pleasant smile, and some very engaging dimples. Her high rank, for she
was the only daughter of the chief of the North, entitled her to be
sought for by the noblest youths of the city.
This was the maiden in whose favour Realmah had placed all his future
hopes of happiness. She regarded him with a certain kindliness, and even
perceived that he was the most intelligent man she had ever seen; but
his infirmity, which she naturally thought would surely prevent his
attaining the highest rank, rendered her very careful of giving him
encouragement.
Athlah, the second son of the chief of the South, was also one of her
suitors. He was a coarse, violent man, who, as far as bravery was
concerned, had already distinguished himself in war; and he looked with
supreme contempt upon the presumption of Realmah, whom he held to be a
poor feeble creature, destined for ever to partake of the occupations of
women.
Athlah was not a man of sound judgment, or far-seeing sagacity; but he
had considerable gifts of Nature, which gained for him credit and high
standing amongst the men of his own town. Besides being a brave warrior,
he was a bold, fluent, and forcible speaker. His speeches abounded in
strong metaphors, quaint similes, and homely proverbs; and, in speaking,
he was ever most powerful when most abusive.
In the Council of the Four Hundred he was always gladly listened to, and
men renowned for state craft rejoiced to see Athlah rise in the debate;
for they felt certain that somebody was then going to be soundly
chastised, and that there would be fun and life and real battle.
It is a strange thing to say, but when the number of any public body
exceeds that of forty or fifty, the whole assembly has an element of
joyous childhood in it, and each member revives at times the glad,
mischievous nature of his schoolboy days.
Amongst themselves the first-rate statesmen spoke depreciatingly of
Athlah, as a man whose opinion in public affairs was worth very little;
but, as I said before, they were all (all but the victim who probably
foresaw his fate) delighted when the tall form of Athlah rose in the
assembly, for they knew that something was coming which would break
through the pattering monotony of dull, though wise, debate.
Athlah was a perfect master of the art of sneering, which, however, is
not an art that demands the highest ability.
It was to the apartments of Talora that Realmah betook himself after his
speech in the council. He told her what he had done, and she sympathised
with him to a certain extent. She also made many inquiries about the
dress of the ambassador from the Phelatahs, and how he wore his beard.
Then she amused herself and Realmah, by making ugly faces--as far as
Talora could make ugly faces--to imitate the grim chief of the South;
and walked about the room with pompous step, and head thrown back, to
imitate the dignified gestures of the proud chief of the West. For
Talora was a great mimic. Realmah, deep in love, mistook this mimicry
for wit.
At this moment Athlah coming in, and not being over-pleased to see
Realmah there, sarcastically inquired whether he had come to help Talora
to spin, whereupon she smiled pleasantly at the new comer, and seemed to
enjoy the jest. She then told Athlah that Realmah had been present at
the great council, and recounted the advice he had urged upon the
chiefs.
Athlah was provoked at what he considered the presumption of Realmah, in
venturing to enter a council-room where he (Athlah) would not have dared
to intrude.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “I see we are going to borrow an arrow from the
sheaf of that wise tribe, the Doolmies. When they go to war, there is
always a band of girl-warriors; and these are found to be very useful in
killing those who are too badly wounded to make any resistance, and in
despoiling the dead. Indeed, they are serviceable in many ways after a
battle, and we call them the Doolmie she-crows, birds not quite as noble
as vultures, but nearly as useful. I suppose” (turning to Realmah) “you
will take the command of this redoubtable band, and they will doubtless
be called the Realmahras. Oh, it is not for nothing that you stay at
home with the women, and that your knitted brows bear the signs of such
deep thought. Your subtle wit becomes almost equal to that of the other
girls. The council must have been delighted with this wise advice which
they received from one so skilled in war.”
Then Athlah went on to say, “Set a weasel to catch a rat. I do not
wonder that Realmah sees through the deep designs of the false Phelatah.
Even with my poor wit, I have observed that these emissaries, called
ambassadors, are not so very unlike old women, being taken from the
ranks of those elderly warriors who have not been greatly renowned in
war, and have somehow from excess of bravery no doubt, managed, through
a long career of warlike service, to return from battle without such
vulgar signs of it as wounds. We, mere rough men of war, often fail to
understand those sage ambassadors; but feminine craft, when matched
against theirs, from its kindred nature, easily discovers their false
designs and cunning purposes. Realmah dear,[5] I congratulate you upon
your rendering such great service to the state.”
Footnote 5:
Athlah used the word _klava_, the feminine form of the word “dear.”
Realmah had not attempted to interrupt this sneering tirade of Athlah’s,
nor did he show, by look or gesture, that it affected him in the least.
It was not quite the same when Talora, after laughing heartily at
Athlah’s sayings, maliciously added, “That Athlah must recollect that,
if Realmah had not had much practice in the art of war, he had invented
two or three new ways of playing mikree.[6] Besides, with his clever
tongue, he would out-talk even the girls, and so keep them in order.”
Footnote 6:
A sort of game like prisoner’s bars.
Realmah laid his hand lightly upon Athlah’s arm, and said, “The
All-powerful One, not to be named, has given you strong arms and brave
ones, Athlah; He has also given you a strong and cruel tongue; but He
has not blessed you with a big heart; for if He had, you would not pour
insult upon one who has been weak and maimed from his birth, and who
cannot answer you in the only way in which you deserve to be answered,
and which you would best understand.”
Athlah, who, though coarse and violent, was not really a bad-hearted
fellow, and a thoroughly brave man, felt the rebuke keenly, and blushed
a blush that was quite visible even under his dusky skin, stammering out
something about people not understanding what was merely spoken in jest.
Realmah then approached Talora, and said, “Always as witty as beautiful;
but still I think Talora might have been kinder to her poor slave,
remembering too that it was to please her, when they were boy and girl
together, that he invented the new ways of playing mikree, which he is
proud to see still find favour with the mikree-playing boys and girls of
Abibah.”
He then smiled, bowed, and began to retire.
As he reached the matted hanging which was at the entrance of the
apartment, he found that Athlah had intercepted him, and in an awkward
way was holding out his hand. Realmah grasped it warmly, for he felt
that the rude soldier meant to offer an apology, which was a great
effort of good nature for him. While still retaining Athlah’s hand in
his, Realmah said, “You have a bigger and a better heart than I
supposed, Athlah; forgive me for having spoken so unjustly and
unkindly.”
Realmah then took his departure, and walked wearily back to his own
home, where he neither expected, nor sought for, consolation.
As he walked he muttered to himself, “The she-spider for fierceness, and
the she-adder for spite” (a proverb of the Sheviri, probably directed
against women). “I suppose the proverb is true,” he added; “and that the
same thing holds good throughout all nature.”
But not the less did he love Talora. Her faults were the faults of her
sex; her merits all her own. If the tolerance that is created by love
could be carried into other relations of human life, what a happy world
it would be!--almost realizing Christianity.
When he had returned to his own home, he was kindly greeted by his
wives, the Varnah and the Ainah. The Ainah looked wistfully at him,
expecting and hoping to hear some account of his success. But he was
silent upon that subject.
The good Varnah scolded him heartily for being late for his meal, and
said that he was like no other person in Abibah, but was always late.
She had, however, prepared for him, knowing that he would be tired, what
she had heard him say that he liked best. Realmah thanked her, and
praised her for her thoughtfulness, and then, during the meal, chatted
pleasantly about household matters and household goods, to the great
delight of the Varnah, who said to herself that some day Realmah might
become quite like other people, which was the greatest praise that she
could give to anybody.
The Ainah said nothing, fearing to ask the questions which she longed to
ask, and conjecturing his failure at the council from his silence.
Realmah’s heart and soul were far away from household stuff, meditating
battles, sieges, and surprises, in which Realmah himself was not to take
a small or unimportant part.
CHAPTER VI.
THE TREACHERY OF THE PHELATAHS.
Realmah felt bitterly the cold reception he had met with from the
council of the chiefs; and he had not the slightest idea that his
proposition had received a favourable hearing.
On the ensuing day, after the council had been held, the ambassador from
the Phelatahs was dismissed, with an assurance, however, that in two
months’ time the forces of the Sheviri should join those of the
Phelatahs, just where the river Coolahva falls into the great lake.
Notwithstanding this friendly assurance the council had resolved to
adopt Realmah’s advice--at least, so far as to divide their forces into
two bands: the one was to march along the margin of the lake, while the
other, starting a day or two earlier, was to make its way through the
woods--the two divisions having previously arranged a system of
correspondence by means of signals.
Athlah was entrusted with the command of the main body, which moved
along the margin of the lake, while Realmah had the guidance of the
detachment that was to force its way through the woods. There was much
murmuring at Realmah’s being entrusted with the command of these troops.
The excuses given for his appointment were, that the idea of sending
this second division was his; that the men of whom it consisted were not
the flower of the army; that, in all probability, they would never be
engaged, and that they were merely sent by way of precaution, and were
to return, if possible, unperceived by their allies, should their
countrymen not require their assistance.
Every arrangement having now been made, the expedition set out and
joined the Phelatahs. Nothing occurred for some little time to justify
any suspicion. At length, however, it was to be observed that the
Phelatahs far outnumbered their allies; that, when the united forces
halted during the march, it was the Phelatahs who occupied always the
most commanding positions; and, moreover, there was an air of triumph
about them that did not fail to rouse the attention even of the fearless
and unsuspecting Athlah.
The united troops continued their march. Slight occasions of dispute
arose which were made the most of by the chiefs of the Phelatahs.
Finally, under pretence of there being insubordination (although there
had been no question of allowing supremacy to the Phelatahs), the
principal leaders of the Sheviri were seized and bound; gratuities were
offered to the common soldiers; the mask was entirely thrown off: and
the unfortunate Sheviri found themselves incorporated in a foreign army.
Gratuities, however, do not compensate for insults; and the common
soldiers felt themselves as much aggrieved as their chiefs, who had been
released from their bonds, but who were strictly guarded as they marched
along, and were treated in all respects as hostages, if not as captives.
Tidings of this treachery on the part of the Phelatahs did not fail to
reach Realmah. He skilfully prepared a night surprise, which was so far
successful, that after a fearful and confused contest, he was able to
liberate the chiefs of the Sheviri, and to cover the flight of the main
body of men into the adjacent woods, from whence, burning with a sense
of injury, they returned to their own town in a few weeks after they had
left it.
The whole army felt that Realmah’s prudence had saved them; and he
became, for the moment, the hero of the Sheviri.
His return to the city was welcomed in a triumphal manner, for, though
the Sheviri had suffered much in the night attack and in the subsequent
contest, to have escaped so great a disaster as the capture of their
finest body of troops was held to be a signal cause of triumph.
Immediately a meeting of the great Council of the Four Hundred was held,
and the whole of the transactions of the short campaign were explained
to them by Athlah and Realmah.
Realmah’s speech was eminently judicious. He said not a word in
self-glorification, nor did he in any way refer to his past warnings,
but merely mentioned to the great council that he had laid some facts
before the Council of the Three Fours, which facts had accidentally come
to his notice, and which had led them, in their high wisdom, to make
such arrangements of the forces as had insured a complete defeat of the
wicked design of the Phelatahs. When he left the council he had not by
self-praise exhausted any of the gratitude and respect which he now felt
sure would be entertained for him by his nation.
That there is nothing new under the sun was the remark of wearied
Solomon. Not wholly a true remark; for was not Christianity a new thing?
But still the saying holds good for the most part in human affairs. The
system of the Roman Empire of having a Cæsar as well as an Augustus had
been adopted, or rather anticipated, long ago by the Sheviri, and had
doubtless been borrowed by them from some more ancient nation. There was
at this moment a vacancy in the office of Cæsar, _i. e._ of second in
command to the chief of the East. The name of this office was Luathmor.
By general acclamation this great office was conferred upon Realmah. The
insignia consisted of a coronet rudely formed of dark polished stones
and feathers, and of a blue scarf called the shemar. The shemar,
however, did not strictly belong to the office of the Luathmor, but had
almost always been granted at the same time to the person on whom that
office had been conferred.
No one murmured when it was decreed unanimously by the Council of the
Four Hundred and by the Council of the Three Fours that permission to
wear the blue shemar should be conferred upon the young chief, Realmah,
whose sagacity had gone far to save the republic; for men are always
very grateful just at first, and when the remembrance of the service
rendered is fresh and warm in their minds.
* * * * *
After the reading had finished, I am sorry to say that we had rather a
painful scene. Sir John Ellesmere has great merits, as every one knows;
and I am sure no one admires him more than I do; but he is one of those
persons who indulge in intellectual antipathies. This Mr. Cranmer is
just the man to keep Sir John in a perpetual state of irritation.
I cannot recollect exactly how the conversation began, but I think it
was by either Mrs. Milverton or Lady Ellesmere saying, “Oh, how I wish
our dear Mr. Dunsford were alive; how delighted he would be with the
character of Realmah, and with all the proceedings that took place in
the great Lake City.”
My readers may perhaps remember that the former conversations of the
“Friends in Council” were collected by a good clergyman of the name of
Dunsford, who had been tutor to Mr. Milverton and Sir John Ellesmere.
Mr. Cranmer then remarked, that Sir John must have been a great torment
to Mr. Dunsford, and must have given him many an unhappy hour.
_Ellesmere._ Sir, I did nothing of the kind. Dunsford thoroughly
understood me. I never gave him an unhappy hour, or an unhappy five
minutes. It was impossible to admire a man more than I admired
Dunsford; and of course he knew it. These simple, unselfish,
transparently good people, like Dunsford, are the salt of the earth,
and happily they are to be found everywhere. You cannot enter into
any small portion of society, but you find them there, believing in
the good of everybody, and bringing out the good points of every
character. Sir, I am not such a fool as not to have known how far I
could go with dear old Dunsford. I never provoked him more than such
a man ought to be provoked, in order to show forth the full beauty
of his character.
_Cranmer._ Crushed herbs are very sweet.
_Ellesmere._ Sir, he was never crushed by me. He was not one of
those men who require to be trepanned in order that a joke, or a
jesting objection, should be inserted into their dense brains. He
was a good clergyman, and not an obtuse official man.
_Cranmer._ Oh, of course I am very obtuse, Sir John. I am sure I did
not mean any offence.
[Ellesmere got up, and, in his pleasantest manner, offered his hand to
Mr. Cranmer.]
_Ellesmere._ Now don’t be angry with me, there’s a good fellow: we
shall be famous friends when we understand one another better; only
it is rather hard upon one to be obliged to explain that one does
not mean any harm by one’s foolish talk. Don’t imagine, Mr. Cranmer,
that I don’t appreciate you. Didn’t I listen to you most patiently,
and vote with you too in all emergencies, when you were fighting the
estimates the last session when you and I were in office together?
and I declare no man could have done it better than you did, and I
sympathised with you thoroughly. [Turning to us, Ellesmere
continued:] What a hand at explanation he was! Some foolish person
wished to understand something about an estimate, and presumed to
ask a question. Cranmer rose to explain; he was lucid, frank,
candid, especially candid; and when he sat down, the House felt that
something had been well explained, and yet one understood less about
the subject generally than one did before. Now I take this to be a
triumph of skill on the part of a great Government official.
Moreover, it is not a delusion impressed upon us by him, for really
one does often find that when an explanation is given of any
complicated matter, one understands less about it than one fancied
one did before; and that the question one had asked was silly and
irrelevant. I can assure you, grave official men on both sides of
the House used to nod approval when Cranmer was giving any of his
clear and candid explanations.
[Mr. Cranmer took Sir John Ellesmere’s hand, and gave it a most friendly
grasp. The talk about the estimates had mollified him.]
_Cranmer._ It is impossible to be angry with you, Sir John; you make
such pleasant fun of all of us.
_Ellesmere._ It does me good to hear you say so: we will never have
a dispute again. Quarrels are such vulgar things; and you are the
last man in the world I should like to quarrel with. You are made to
be in office; and does not one always want some little job or other
done, which the Secretary of the Treasury can further?
[We all made a point of laughing loudly at this last speech, and harmony
was from that moment reestablished; Sir John Ellesmere resumed the
conversation.]
_Ellesmere._ I must show Cranmer that I can be very serious, and I
declare I am really much interested in this history of Realmah.
But is it not asking too much from us to believe that this
semi-savage was such a great politician?
_Sir Arthur._ Mr. Milverton has been making me read that epic he
talked to us about--namely, the “Araucana;” and I do assure you that
there are speeches in that epic which show us that some of those
savages--as you call them--possessed a high kind of political
wisdom. “Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona;” and I do not see why there
should not have lived considerable statesmen in the earliest times
of the world’s history. You must remember, too, that their
statesmanship was of a much easier character than ours: that they
had not the complicated questions arising out of a state of high
civilization to deal with.
_Ellesmere._ You have been in high office, Sir Arthur, and you might
really tell us whether Milverton speaks truly and justly, when he
asserts that there is so much to be done in the way of improving
Government action, even amongst ourselves, who imagine that we are
the best governed people upon the earth.
_Sir Arthur._ If I understand Mr. Milverton, I think he is quite
right. I can see that he wants more intellectual power brought to
the aid of Government. You and I were at college together,
Ellesmere; though I am sorry to say we saw very little of one
another.
_Ellesmere._ I was a poor man, a sizer, and had to make my way in
the world; you were a rich one; and people do not often meet who
live at different poles of the pecuniary world.
_Sir Arthur._ But I have no doubt you knew Alwin?
_Ellesmere._ Oh yes: the cleverest fellow I ever did know.
_Sir Arthur._ Well, when I came into office, one of my first
thoughts was whether I could get Alwin into the service of the
Government; but he is a married man, and has a large family, and is
making a lot of money quietly as a consulting counsel. There was
nothing I could offer him. What would the Treasury have said to me
if I had asked them to give 3,000_l._ a year to what Milverton calls
an “in-doors statesman?” It would have been no good pointing out to
them that such a man might save us 30,000_l._ a year. Mr. Cranmer is
not on my side of politics, but he knows very well what an enormous
difficulty I should have had, to persuade any Secretary of the
Treasury to give 3,000_l._ a year to such a man.
Well, there is nothing hardly that that man does not know, besides
being a good lawyer. He is a man of the greatest general knowledge
that I ever met with; and it happened that he was especially skilled
in matters relating to my department. But I might as well have tried
to have got the man in the moon to work with me as to have got
Alwin.
_Ellesmere._ Milverton’s nymphs are very valuable personages; and
they never charge any money for their advice.
_Milverton._ Do not sneer at my nymphs; they are as useful to me as
Pope’s sylphs were to him in the “Rape of the Lock.”
But to talk seriously about Government. Do look at the difficulties;
consider that at every step that a Government takes it is beset by
importunate and powerful interests. Then look at the overwork of the
principal men connected with the Government. Then see how the House
of Commons is absorbed, not in its own proper work so much as in
that which scarcely belongs to it, in executive as well as in
legislative business. Giving Parliament credit for immense ability,
we must admit that it is a body not fit for every kind of business.
_Ellesmere._ Bureaucracy! bureaucracy! Milverton always associates
himself in imagination, and probably in reality, with whatever is
bureaucratic.
_Milverton._ I do not admit that. But I want to bring before you
another matter bearing closely upon this subject, and that is the
unpleasantness of the capital as a place of residence. This will
some day exercise a most malign influence over public affairs.
_Ellesmere._ This is a new idea: but I really do not see exactly
what it means.
_Milverton._ I almost despair of making you see it; but I can tell
you that the permanent officers of State--those men upon whom every
Government must mainly rely--would well understand what I mean. No
sooner does any opportunity arise for getting away from London, than
all important people quit it.
But I return to Ellesmere’s attack upon me respecting my
bureaucratic tendencies.
I maintain that there is not a person in England who has a greater
horror of bureaucracy than I have. I only want to point out to you,
that there are certain things which can only be done by bureaucracy.
I have talked all this over before, and therefore I am aware that I
am only repeating myself. Do you remember that passage in
Aristophanes, where some good citizen resolves to make peace or war
upon his own account simply, and to deal with the enemy himself?
_Ellesmere._ I never read that improper book Aristophanes, but I am
willing to take for granted what you say.
_Milverton._ Well, you see how absurd it is for a private individual
to talk of making peace or war by himself alone. But perhaps you do
not see that there are many other matters in which also he cannot
act alone. What I am driving at is, to establish a wide distinction
between those things that can be done by a private individual, and
in which he ought not to be interfered with, and those things in
which the State must act for him.
Take sanitary matters--take education; these are things in which a
private individual cannot act very forcibly. They must be transacted
by Government.
_Ellesmere._ True: speaking as an individual, I decline to have
anything to do with main drainage, or the Conscience Clause.
_Milverton._ Then you admit that there are some subjects in which
the bureau must act for the general community; and I am quite
willing that the bureau should be confined to this action.
_Ellesmere._ I was greatly struck, Milverton, by the remark you made
a little time ago, that the aversion to London on the part of men of
importance is a serious injury to public business. Do you hold to
it, and is it really your own?
_Milverton._ I do hold to it, but it is not altogether my own. A
late Under-Secretary of State used often to talk over the matter
with me, and we thoroughly agreed upon it. I maintain that the
celebrated Chancellor Oxenstiern’s maxim, “_Quantulâ sapientiâ
regitur mundus_,” is only partially true, and that “_Quantulo
tempore regitur mundus_” would be a much more valuable maxim. The
truth is, most men of average ability are very capable of estimating
good arguments, _pro_ or _con_, about any matter; and for my own
part, I would rather have the attention of an average man for two
hours, when the business really requires that time for discussion,
than the attention of the cleverest man in England who will only
give you one hour.
Ask any person who has really mastered the details of any great
subject, and who has had to lay them before other people for
decision. You will seldom find that he complains of any want of
apprehension on their part, but that he will bitterly complain that
he was not allowed time enough to lay before them the whole matter
with all its bearings.
Now, the time to be given for considering a great subject is sure to
be very much limited when people are very anxious to get away from
the spot where the discussion takes place. And so it becomes a
matter of great importance that the capital of every country should
be a pleasant place for residence, as the main business of the
country must be transacted there.
In all committees and councils, it is to be observed that the man of
endurance and perseverance, who may, after all, be a very inferior
man in point of thoughtfulness, will ultimately have too much power
and influence. And it will be putting additional leverage into his
hands, if he knows that the cleverest men amongst his opponents will
be anxious to get away at a certain time, and that he can gain his
point by outstaying them, whether he outreasons them or not.
_Sir Arthur._ I want to bring another branch of the subject before
you. I think there might be a better division than there is of the
functions of government. For instance, I would have a Minister of
Justice, who should attend to matters of justice only. I would at
the same time have a minister whose sole duty it should be to attend
to the physical well-being of the community. I am not sure that I
would not also throw upon him the business of education. And then,
to make room for this important minister, I would cancel those
offices which are becoming obsolete, I would, for instance, cancel
the Privy Seal, in order to make room for a Minister of Health and
Education.
_Milverton._ I entirely agree with you, Sir Arthur. Then there is
another thing I would do. I would certainly make more use of the men
who hold second-class places in Government. I think it is very hard
upon them that, for the most part, they have their tongues tied, and
that they are distanced in public estimation by those who are called
independent members, who, being free from official trammels, have
opportunities of distinguishing themselves which are denied to
official personages of the second class.
_Sir Arthur._ This is very difficult, Milverton. You see, it would
be a very serious thing for an Under-Secretary of State to be
speaking in a contrary sense to his chief.
_Milverton._ I know all that, but I would occasionally give him an
opportunity of distinguishing himself. I would entrust him, for
instance, with the sole conduct of some great measure.
_Ellesmere._ How true men are to themselves and their old positions!
Sir Arthur cannot forget that he has been a Secretary of State.
_Milverton._ But where the greatest opportunities for improvement in
government lie, are in Colonial affairs. We really must come, before
long, to some definite principles as to how we are to deal with our
Colonies; and in any change of Government, the minister about whose
appointment I feel the most anxiety is the Minister for our Colonial
affairs. No father ever had a more difficult problem put before him,
when he has growing-up boys to deal with, than we have in the
management of our Colonies. It would be very hard upon England to be
dragged into an expensive war for any of these Colonies.
_Sir Arthur._ And, on the other hand, it would be very hard to
desert them in the time of need.
_Milverton._ How to reconcile, in a just manner, these two lines of
policy is, you may depend upon it, the greatest question of the
present day.
Nobody seemed inclined to combat this proposition. The ladies said it
was getting late; and so we ordered the carriages and returned to
Worth-Ashton, after a very pleasant day spent at the little inn near the
harbour, which, as we left it, was overflowed by the full tide, and,
with the setting sun upon it, looked most beautiful and attractive.
As we drove away, Ellesmere nudged Milverton, and said, “You see good
temper has come over the landscape, and over us.” Then in a whisper, “I
assure you I won’t break out again with Cranmer, whatever he may say to
me. But then, you know how I loved Dunsford; and I believe he was nearly
as fond of me as he was of you, though of course your views always
suited him better than mine did. Poor dear man! What a large bit of life
the loss of such a man takes out from us for ever! Yes, for ever!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VI.
In commencing this chapter, I must say something about Mr. Mauleverer.
To me, with his undisguised love of eating, and his dreary depreciation
of all human affairs, he was certainly a disagreeable character. I
intimated something of this kind to Mr. Milverton. He replied, “My dear
boy, what I dislike in you young people, is your terrible want of
tolerance. Certainly, as a man grows older, he loses some of the
refinement and some of the absolute straightforwardness that belong to
youth; but he generally gains something that is of more worth than what
he loses--namely, tolerance, or to use a more Christian word, charity.
Now, that sensual man, as I know you think him to be, is a most devoted
friend, and would lay down his fortune and his life, and even his
truffles, for us, his friends. Shall I tell you what he did a few months
ago? He had half his fortune placed in one of those banks about which
there were the worst rumours. He came to me, and talked about it. I
naturally advised him to withdraw some of the money. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I
cannot do it. This banker’s father once aided my father, and I will
partake the fall of the house, if it does fall.’ And he has partaken it;
and, what is more, you will never hear a murmur from him upon the
subject.
“Now, you know, I am not going to dislike such a man as that, merely
because he has an inordinate love of truffles--which, by the way, I
think a most overrated fungus.”
I never said anything more against Mr. Mauleverer.
There is another of our companions about which I must say something.
Everybody, I imagine, supposes that he, or she, has the most wonderful
dog in existence; but I do believe that it is no delusion on our part to
declare that we have the most unapproachable dog--I mean unapproachable
in a good sense. She is a bull-terrier. All the ladies vow that, with
her white body, red eyes, and protruding lower lip, she is hideously
ugly; whereas, on the other hand, all the gentlemen maintain that she is
“beautiful exceedingly.” And Mr. Milverton will become quite eloquent
about the tenderness and the pathos that are expressed in her face. He
has given her the rather inappropriate name of “Fairy.” She is the only
dog I ever knew that could kiss. Most dogs slobber over you, and make
you very uncomfortable, while you are receiving their most affectionate
attentions; but Fairy can give you a dry kiss. Another most
extraordinary thing about her is that, when she is very happy and
comfortable, she purrs like a cat, only with a noble and more sonorous
purring.[7] Of course, she and Sir John Ellesmere became good friends on
the first day they met, and nothing could be prettier to see than the
way in which, when she was walking off with him, and was recalled by Mr.
Milverton, she would leave Sir John Ellesmere, wagging her tail, looking
back occasionally at him, and almost saying--at least in very distinct
dog language--“I should like to go with you of all things, but I must
stay with my master; he always works better when I am at his feet in the
study.”
Footnote 7:
It may seem trivial, my mention of this animal, but I think that the
ways of a household are never understood unless one knows all about
their domestic animals,--their cats and dogs, and babies, as Sir John
Ellesmere would say. And we are all so fond of animals in our house.
My master dotes upon them, and so do I, and so does Sir John. I often
observe, that our conversation at dinner-time, when we are alone,
turns a great deal upon Fairy’s wonderful sayings and doings.
We have a cat named Bijou, a perfect prodigy (of course the world will
think that all our pets are prodigies, but so they are). This cat,
also entirely white, like Fairy, with eyes of different colours, is
chatty, affectionate, and companionable. Sir John says that it is the
only perfectly happy and wise creature, not being a fish, he has ever
known, ready to forget its anxieties and cares, and go to sleep at all
times. It does not know what scratching means: it will walk out with
you like a dog, and is really more attached to the people it lives
with than to the house it lives in.
There is no knowing what those animals whom we are pleased to nominate
“the lower creation” would become, if they lived with more rational
and more humane human beings than those whom they generally have as
masters. This is a saying of my master’s, not of mine; but I
thoroughly agree with it.
Mr. Milverton would not humour Sir John Ellesmere in his wish to have
the readings always in the library, and to-day he resolved to have it on
a lake that is not far from Worth-Ashton. We call it a lake; but,
really, it is only a pond of about thirteen acres. Ellesmere pretended
to dislike this arrangement, but I suspect approved of it thoroughly.
As we were punting up and down the lake, before taking up our abode in a
new duck-house, which the benevolent proprietor (with whom Mr. Milverton
was acquainted) had built for the wild ducks, but which they had not yet
inhabited, Ellesmere startled us by the most violent exclamations of
surprise, and entreated us to stop.
_Ellesmere._ Don’t hurry on in that way, I see a buried lake city.
We will change the _venue_ from Switzerland to Hampshire; and here
is the city. How clear the water is! I declare I see at the bottom a
dead cat, an old spade, and a decaying basket. Here are quite enough
remains to indicate a lake city. What would not Milverton deduce
from a dead cat, a spade, and a basket? Intercourse with Persia,
abundant iron foundries, and the textile arts carried out to
perfection. If osier twigs can be woven into baskets, why not silk,
or cotton, or linen thread, into their respective fabrics? I do
believe there is a bit of rag attached to the basket, and, if so,
what a field of civilization lies before his imaginative mind!
_Sir Arthur._ What a beautiful thing even this small lake is! Look
at the exquisite roundings off of all corners of the land.
Then the water weeds, the water insects, the lazy, happy fish----
_Ellesmere._ The water-rats too--those engaging little creatures!
How Fairy would like to get at them! For my part, I should like to
be a fish. Fishes seem to have so little bother with their relations
and their families. Now what a life Fairy led us, as long as she had
that pup of hers!
She was always bringing it in her mouth, and introducing it, saying
as plainly as possible, “My son, sir,” “My eldest son,” “Quite a
genius:” and, in fact, she introduced it so early into good society,
and so overwhelmed the poor little creature with her attentions,
that it died prematurely.
_Johnson._ It was a most curious thing to see how, if you asked her,
“Where is your pup, Fairy?” she led the way at once, wagging her
tail like a pendulum all the time, to her kennel. Now, how could she
know what was the meaning of those words?
_Ellesmere._ Some wit has said, “Good Americans, when they die, go
to Paris.” I should like to invert the Darwinian theory, and to say
that all good men and women, when they die, have, for a time, the
honour of becoming dogs. On second thoughts, the women never: they
become cats.
But, to return to my ambition to become a fish. You see, fish
fathers seem never to have anything analogous to paying college
debts for their eldest sons; but that is not all. Oh, the life Lady
Ellesmere led me, after little Johnny was born, about his teeth!
Nine times a day at least did she drag me up to the nursery, to show
me the advent of two little teeth. Never before, I was informed, had
any child been known at that age to have two teeth. I was obliged to
swear that I felt them, otherwise I saw that Lady Ellesmere and the
nurse would declare that I was a perfect brute. Now, you know, if
you were a fish father, and had about a million of children, the
mother could not be lugging you about for ever to feel for the teeth
of the little darlings, and compelling you to swear that you felt
these interesting molars, whether you did or not; but I must say
that Fairy was quite as tiresome as Lady Ellesmere, and you see the
consequence.
After punting about till we were tired, we took refuge in the duck-house
from the sun, and, having had the precaution to bring camp-stools with
us, we were soon very comfortable. This building was therefore
inaugurated in a way which, I should think, no duck-house had ever been
before.
We had hardly seated ourselves, before the conversation was commenced by
Sir John Ellesmere.
_Ellesmere._ Let us have a cigar. Mrs. Milverton and Lady Ellesmere
are very like ordinary women. Womanity is strong in them. They scold
like the rest of their sex; they delight, in a delicate way, to show
forth the weaknesses of their respective husbands; they can, both of
them, pout and look injured; and they can cry at you. At least Lady
Ellesmere can; but I do not care now a bit about women’s tears,
since I have ascertained from Faraday[8]--a glorious fellow
that--that tears are merely chloride of sodium, carbonate of lime,
and general folly. I do not know whether I have the chemicals quite
right; but, at any rate, since I have heard of this chemical
analysis, I do not care for tears.
Footnote 8:
This was said long before Faraday’s death.
_Lady Ellesmere._ I never cried at you but once, John; and then you
know you were most cruel to me. We were travelling abroad, and
though I was tired to death, he would not stop at a particular place
where I wanted him to stop. He said it would interfere with his
arrangements, and that I must go on. I never knew him, before or
since, to be so hard-hearted, and I confess to having cried.
_Ellesmere._ Now, my lady, I am not going to be thought a brute by
this intelligent company. You know, if you have a weakness in the
way of fear, it is being afraid of the cholera; and I had heard that
they had the cholera very badly at the place where you wanted to
stop.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Well, really, John, you might have told me that
afterwards, and not have allowed me to think you so very unkind.
[Here she took his hand, and made a playful bite at it.]
_Ellesmere._ You see the form that gratitude takes with women. But
where was I? Oh, that Lady Ellesmere and Mrs. Milverton are not
angels in a general way, but ordinary women--except in the article
of smoking, and there they are regular angels, for both of them
pretend to like it.
[Ellesmere lit a paper and proffered it for the general cigar-lighting
of the company.]
You do not know what I offer you in this lighted paper: a possible
Ellesmerian fortune. This paper is good enough to inform me, that if
I will take any of the numbers from 3,142 to 4,296, all of them
lucky numbers, in the Vienna Lottery, I might get a chateau in
Styria. I really believe I should take some tickets, for the fun of
the thing; but the awkward part of it would be, if one were to get
the prize. I am sure I should not know what to do with a chateau in
Styria. I should feel like Winkle in “Pickwick” with a dreadful
horse, possessing a property which I was obliged to retain, but
could neither make use of, nor govern.
_Cranmer._ You would not really encourage the wickedness of
lotteries?
_Ellesmere._ I don’t want to quarrel with you, Mr. Cranmer; and, in
fact, it is agreed that we are to be fast friends--if, indeed, Mr.
Cranmer can be fast in any way. I must, however, deny your main
proposition about the wickedness of lotteries.
_Milverton._ So do I. I remember I was once condemning lotteries in
the presence of one of the wisest and best informed men of the day;
and, to my astonishment, he put me down effectually, and showed me
that I had never considered the subject.
But let me take you away from lotteries for a moment, and talk to
you about this man, for he always offered to my mind a problem which
I have never been able to solve, and which I should like to submit
to this worshipful company. We will discuss lotteries afterwards.
Well, what I want to lay before you is, how some men know so much as
they do about books, and how they retain in their minds such a
quantity of information, upon all manner of subjects.
I don’t speak to you about your Macaulays, Hallams, Carlyles,
Grotes, and Milmans, but about men who attain no great eminence in
the world, yet who are as full of information upon all human
subjects as an egg is of meat.
Now, this man--we will call him Carrick, for he is such a modest
person that he would not like me to tell you his name--I assure you
one never found him at fault upon any subject of conversation that
came uppermost; and his knowledge was of the most accurate and
minute kind. He knew everything that anybody had said about the
currency. If you were to talk to him about the telescope, he would
trace it from its earliest beginning, and give to every inventor and
improver his due share of the great work. Upon all questions of
history he was unrivalled. I don’t think he cared much about art,
but he knew what every great painter had done, and how his works
ought to be classified.
I remember once having got up some subject in history very
carefully, having to write about it. Now, you know what pains one
takes with all the details of a subject, when one is getting it up
not merely for the sake of study, but to express one’s own opinion
about it. I happened accidentally to talk to this man upon the
subject. He had not studied it for twenty years, but there was not a
point with which he was not familiar--how the King adopted a certain
line of policy, while the Prime Minister opposed it--how, in the
campaign that followed, the general, misled by false intelligence,
most injudiciously threw forward his right wing, enabling the enemy
to cross a river without resistance, &c. &c.
Now, how does any one ever acquire and retain accurately such a vast
amount of knowledge?
_Sir Arthur._ I think I can do something towards explaining the
phenomenon. Dr. Johnson let us a good deal into the secret of
judicious reading. You know that he said he had never read a book
through in his life. Of course, he understood the art of consummate
skipping.
Well, then, the physical part of reading is an art in itself. Some
men seem to read half a page at a time. And then again, as to
memory, we know that some men possess memories such as can hardly be
imagined by other men. Consider such a phenomenon as the calculating
boy.
_Ellesmere._ I think a great part of the explanation rests in this,
that the great readers know how to get at what we lawyers call the
_charging_ parts of a Bill in Chancery. I am quite sure that I
could, in twenty minutes, get up a case that would take any of you
people two hours and a half, because I know where to look for the
charging parts.
_Sir Arthur._ That is only another way of putting the explanation I
have given.
_Cranmer._ I want to recall you to the subject of lotteries. I
should like to hear anybody maintain that they are not very culpable
transactions.
_Milverton._ Have you any hope of abolishing that spirit of
speculation which is innate in mankind? If it does not break out
here, it will break out there. You have horse-racing and
roulette-tables. Now lotteries are much better than these, because
they take up much less time, do not necessarily bring one into bad
company, and require no knowledge of the subject.
_Sir Arthur._ Despair is the worst thing that can befall a human
being. The heaviest stone that Fate can throw at a man is when she
contrives that he can see no possible outlet from his misfortunes.
While we are talking to-day, there are thousands of persons who do
not see any way out of their troubles, even with all the aid of the
sanguine imagination which has perhaps led them into those troubles.
Every letter must bring additional difficulties and additional
pressure; but give them a lottery ticket, and they have something to
hope for which fortifies them for their real work.
_Ellesmere._ Poor Martha Broom; she loves the green-grocer’s man: he
loves her; but the marriage cannot take place unless she can obtain
some money. If she has put 1_l._ 10_s._ into a lottery with a chance
of gaining 200_l._, she sweeps the steps before the house with an
air and a grace, resulting from concealed hope. The ticket, in all
probability, turns out a blank. On she goes, however, and invests a
portion of another quarter’s wages in another lottery ticket. “Hope
springs eternal in the human breast.” She abridges her crinoline--no
great harm in that--and the steps are still swept by a not utterly
desponding person.
_Mauleverer._ Nothing can show more clearly the misery of the human
race than that such intelligent people as you are should make such a
defence for lotteries.
_Cranmer._ What do you say, Sir Arthur? Do you really mean--for you
are a statesman--to vote with these gentlemen?
_Sir Arthur._ I am afraid I must lose somewhat of your good opinion,
Mr. Cranmer. I am rather of Sir John’s way of thinking. You see such
good incidents for plays and novels may come out of a system of
lotteries: it adds another element of romance in the way of sudden
changes of fortune.
_Ellesmere._ Mr. Cranmer respects the Stock Exchange and the
Liverpool Cotton Market; but if a poor maid-servant, or a poor
ex-Attorney-General, makes her or his little venture, it is an
enormous crime. Clear your mind of cant, sir. If Dr. Johnson had
said nothing else but that saying, it ought to have immortalized
him. By the way, acting upon this principle of clearing our minds of
cant, shall we cease to pretend to be interested in the fortunes of
Realmah, and take the reading as having been read, and enjoy
ourselves upon the lake?
_Lady Ellesmere._ Oh, no!
_Ellesmere._ Now, if I were a parson going to preach a charity
sermon, and had calculated that the sermon would produce, say, on an
average, three shillings and sixpence a-piece from every member of
the congregation, and I were to say to them, “Make it five
shillings, and I won’t preach the sermon,” don’t you suppose the
congregation would close at once with this kind and judicious offer?
Well, if you _will_ have the reading, let us get it over quickly.
Look at Fairy. Consider her feelings at being obliged to keep quiet,
and the bank close to us alive with water-rats! Those are my
sentiments, too, my dear Fairy; however, the sooner a thing is
begun, the sooner it is over; so let us be quiet, Fairy, and listen
to our master.
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FESTIVAL.
They were always glad in the town of Abibah to have an excuse for
festivity of any kind. Such an opportunity, therefore, as the rescue of
the troops from the treacherous Phelatahs was not to be lost; and a
solemn festival was ordained. Great games were to be celebrated on the
occasion--such as throwing the flint hammer, wrestling, running, and a
curious game called _mocra_, which was played with large balls of burnt
clay. The whole of the inhabitants were to come in gala dresses.
For poor Realmah, this festival could only be an occasion for bringing
into full light his deficiencies. He could not wrestle, nor run, nor
throw the hammer deftly; and, had he been thoroughly wise, he would have
been content to show himself begirt with the _shemar_ which he had won,
not by personal prowess, but by his superior thoughtfulness and
penetration. But who is altogether wise when he is in love? and Realmah
intended to play at the game of _mocra_, which was a game requiring at
least as much force and swiftness as skill.
The festival was to be held in a mead close to the border of the shining
lake.
On great occasions like the present, the causeways (which were frail
narrow structures) connecting Abibah with the shore, were so encumbered,
that the bulk of the people went from the city to the land by means of
rafts, which were moored close to some public buildings in that part of
the city which was farthest removed from the land.
Those of my hearers who have ever seen a drawing of the great city of
Mexico, as it existed when discovered by the Spaniards, may form a good
notion of the city of Abibah, if they will only diminish in their minds
the causeways, and make them approach the city from that side only which
was nearest to the shore--the city being, indeed, not farther removed
from the land than the spot where the deep water (on which depth the
Sheviri placed their safety) commenced. These causeways were merely
wooden footpaths placed on piles, and rising up gradually from the dry
land till they approached the drawbridges. Of course, when an enemy
threatened to invade the city, these wooden pathways were destroyed, the
drawbridges were pulled up, and the town then became an island fortress.
It was a beautiful day, and all the population of Abibah, except the
sick, came forth to view the games. The victors in these games were to
be crowned with wreaths of roses; and four of the principal maidens,
amongst whom was Talora, were to distribute the prizes. This would be a
great day for Athlah.
Talora appeared radiant with beauty. Realmah’s two wives were also
present. The Varnah, as was befitting, was one of those charged with the
distribution of the provisions. The obscure Ainah wandered amongst the
crowd, with but one object chiefly in her mind,--namely, to speak, if
she could, a few words in favour of Realmah to the beautiful Talora.
In all societies, from the most savage to the most civilized, there are
heroic deeds which, as they are performed in the most quiet manner, do
not count at all as heroism. It would be difficult to estimate what
mental suffering it cost the Ainah to praise her husband to the woman
whom she knew was the only one he loved; but into whose character she
saw with all the sharpness of a woman’s and a rival’s instinct, and knew
that it was shallow and valueless.
The great chiefs, placed on a raised bank, sat with almost immovable
gravity, surveying the populace, and expressing with faint gestures of
applause (for this faintness of approval was a sign of high breeding
amongst the Sheviri, as it has been before and since amongst many
people) their recognition of any feat of skill or valour that was
accomplished.
Many times did Athlah have the good fortune to approach Talora as a
victor in some game, and to receive from her the meed of praise and the
garland that were due to his success. Realmah, as Athlah sneeringly
observed, was of more service to his opponents than to his own side, in
the game of _mocra_; and, certainly, was among the least distinguished
players in the field.
The Ainah had crept up close to Talora, who, noticing Realmah’s
miserable failures, turned to the girl and said, “Your Realmah had
better not have made himself absurd by attempting to partake in the
games of men.” The Ainah grew pale with anger, and her first thought was
to reply, “The Great Spirit does not give all gifts to one man; and,
where He has given wisdom, may well deny swiftness:” but she thought
that this would be too fine a speech for her, a slave, and might betray
the depth of interest she felt in her master. She therefore simply
replied: “Our dividers of bread are wise men, and do not give the blue
_shemar_ for nothing. Should we have any games at all if it had not been
for Realmah’s foresight?”
Talora looked fixedly at the Ainah, and said, “You are proud of him,
then?”
“Of course we are,” replied the Ainah, “for is there any young man of
his age who is allowed to wear the blue _shemar_?” And then she went
into all the details of a seamstress, telling Talora how the Varnah and
herself had made this wonderful _shemar_. Talora looked upon her as a
useful household drudge, and nothing more, but still was struck with the
spirited reply which the girl had made on her Realmah’s behalf.
The two young women talked together for some time; and in the course of
the conversation the Ainah contrived, with a heavy heart, but with a
most determined soul, to do her duty, introducing many encomiums on the
various domestic virtues of Realmah.
This skilful pleading was not without its effect; and Talora, making a
sign to Realmah to approach her, said, not unkindly, to him, “You should
not have contended in these games; your worth and force lie in another
direction. The fox cannot play with the young lions; but yet he may be
the wisest beast of the forest.” And Realmah was entirely comforted, for
he had expected nothing but scorn from Talora for his manifest and
ridiculous failures.
CHAPTER VIII.
REALMAH’S COURTSHIP.
It certainly seemed to be a great folly on Realmah’s part to have
engaged in that game of _mocra_, at which he was sure to cut so sorry a
figure. But strangely enough it turned out otherwise. Those who had been
beaten at the various games consoled themselves, and did what they could
to lower the conquerors, by talking a great deal about Realmah’s merits,
and putting him forward as the hero of the day. What a man he would have
been, they said, if he had been a man at all like the rest of them! One
lucky stroke or adroit movement he had been fortunate enough to make;
and this was magnified into a proof of great possible dexterity.
His wives, too, had not been idle on the day of the festival. The Ainah
had not only insinuated great praise of Realmah into Talora’s ears, but,
in her quiet way, had gone about the crowd, especially amongst her own
people, the fishermen, scattering homely sayings in her rude language,
tending to show what a great man her husband-master was in her
estimation.
The Varnah, too, amongst the sensible maidens and judicious matrons who
were entrusted with giving out the provisions for the day, did not fail
to praise Realmah. She looked upon him as one of her chattels; and it
was never her practice to lower the value of any property that she
possessed. Realmah was no fool, she could tell them. _Peki-Pekee_ (a
very comprehensive term, meaning good store of provisions, comfort,
abundance, general well-being) was not unknown in their house, and never
would be, she thought. In short, she gave out the idea that she was
marvellously well contented with her cousin; and all the women thought
that, if the prudent Varnah was contented, there must indeed be
prosperity in Realmah’s home.
At the end of the day, there was a sort of ovation in honour of Realmah,
and he was accompanied home by a great crowd, and with loud noise of
instruments of music which would not much have delighted our ears, but
which were very pleasing to the Sheviri.
All these things produced a great impression upon Talora, for she was
one of those who mostly see with other people’s eyes, and with whom
general report is a kind of gospel not to be questioned. Philip Van
Artevelde’s severe words about women would have well applied to
Talora:--
“What’s fieriest still finds favour in their eyes;
What’s noisiest keeps the entrance of their ears.
The noise and blaze of arms enchant them most:
Wit too, and wisdom, that’s admired of all,
They can admire--the glory, not the thing.
An unreflected light did never yet
Dazzle the vision feminine.”
As for Athlah, she had never intended for one moment to listen seriously
to his suit. The cunning Talora knew full well that Athlah’s wife would
be very little better than a slave.
Still, however, she hesitated; still she doubted; and Realmah paid court
to the capricious beauty with very dubious prospects as to the result.
One day she was gracious, another day she was cold; and the poor young
man, throughout his courtship, suffered all the tortures that an
anxious, unblessed love can give.
Talora’s conduct might have been different if she had had the guidance
of a mother, but no mention is made of a mother, either in the case of
the Ainah, or the Varnah, or Talora. From this and from other
circumstances, it may be inferred that there was great mortality amongst
the women in the lake cities. Whether this was caused by a certain
hardness in their mode of life, or by the unwholesomeness of dwelling on
the water, which was corrected, in the case of the men, by their
occupations on dry land in the daytime, and perhaps also by their
drinking freely of a certain intoxicating drink which will be hereafter
described: certain it is that the loss amongst the male population by
war was balanced by this peculiar mortality amongst the women.
The existence of polygamy is not an argument to the contrary, for it was
only allowed in the princely families, and there were perhaps not more
than seven persons in Abibah and its dependencies who had more than one
wife. Moreover, in any one of these princely families, if the Varnah or
the Ainah died, she was not replaced.
Now, according to the rites and customs of the Sheviri, which were very
rigid, it was not thought proper for a young man to ask a maiden the
direct question whether she would marry him. That would have been
thought highly indecorous; but the custom was, that he should present
her with a flowering plant (having only a single flower to it) in an
earthen vase; and this plant was always put out by the maiden on the
flat roof of the porch[9] in front of her father’s house, or on some
other place fully exposed to the rays of the sun. If she suffered the
flower to wither and die, it signified that she would have nothing
whatever to do with her lover’s suit. If, on the contrary, she
diligently watered and tended the plant, and kept the flower alive, that
was held to be an acceptance of his suit, and a pledge which must be
redeemed.
Footnote 9:
This porch had an outer staircase to it; it was a place where the
maidens, at evening time, were often to be seen sitting at their work.
After having endured a great many slights, and also having received a
good many marks of favour, Realmah found the state of things
unendurable. His courage came to his aid, and he resolved to put his
suit to the absolute test of offering Talora the flower. It was with
trembling hands that, at the close of an interview with her, in which,
without saying anything definite, Realmah had striven to make himself as
acceptable as he could to the maiden, he presented the plant without a
word, and withdrew.
It was the custom that, during the days of probation, which were never
less than eight, the lover should not make his appearance at the house
of his beloved; but he generally contrived to have the house well
watched day and night, by some faithful friend, to see what was done
with the flower. There was, as may be imagined, a good deal of coquetry
shown by the maidens of Abibah in their modes of dealing with this very
significant flower.
Some of them paid great attention to it for a day or two, and then let
it fade away altogether. Others watered it and cared for it the first
day, then allowed it to droop, but finally recovered it by the most
diligent care and attention before the end of the eighth day. Others
again paid no attention whatever to the flower till it was upon the
point of dying, and then bestowed the most loving care on it. There were
those, too, who never by any chance went near their flower in the
daytime, but in the most stealthy manner contrived at night to tend it
and revive it.
Talora proceeded in a manner which was a little different from all of
these. She did not hesitate to be seen in the broad daylight looking at
her flower, taking it up, and admiring it; but Realmah’s foster-brother,
who watched for him, could not detect that Talora gave the poor flower
any water. Still it seemed to thrive. And this was not to be wondered
at, for the cunning Talora, though apparently she only looked at the
plant, and took it up, and picked a leaf occasionally, in reality
contrived, by squeezing a little wet moss which she secreted in her
hand, to give the plant a few drops of water whenever she visited it.
At length the eventful eighth day arrived, and with it the apparent
confirmation of Realmah’s brightest hopes, for the rays of the rising
sun brought out in all their beauty the rich colours of a flower which
showed no signs of fading, and which was conspicuous upon the porch that
was overlooked by the chamber where reposed the beautiful Talora.
The reservoir (they had reservoirs of rain water which was highly
prized) near her father’s house seemed that morning to be in especial
favour with the humble maidens of Abibah, who were the water-carriers.
Many a young man, too, found some good reason for visiting that quarter
of the city very early on that day; and, as he sauntered by Talora’s
dwelling, did not fail to look up at the flower, and smile or sigh.
The truth is, there had been intense curiosity and interest throughout
Abibah about the fate of this flower; and there was hardly a maiden in
the whole city--certainly not in that quarter of it where Talora
dwelt--who had not told her companions what she should, or what she
should not, do if she were Talora.
The youths had betted many shells upon the event; and even the elderly
men had talked about it at their councils, for pleasant gossip is not
always unwelcome even amidst the discussion of the greatest affairs. The
good chief of the South, Talora’s father, must have had reason to think
highly of his power and sagacity, for it was wonderful how many grave
and wise persons sought his counsel, or his aid, that day.
The general feeling about this love affair, which had been very much
divided (some saying that Talora would be very foolish, and others that
she would be very wise, if she suffered the flower to live), became
almost unanimous in approbation when there appeared to be a certainty
that the flower would live.
Still, however, Realmah was far from certain of his happiness till the
sun should go down, as he had heard of maidens who, by some cunning
deadly liquid, had contrived to wither up the flower in the last few
hours. Realmah’s anxiety was so intense, that, breaking through the
ordinary custom, he took the seat of his watcher, and watched all day
long himself.
Talora did not come near the flower throughout the day, but it had been
so carefully tended by her the preceding seven days that it did not
wither, and, when the sun went down, Realmah entered the house, and was
received by Talora, half-smiling, half-frowning, as her affianced
husband.
She was very provoking, and very charming; but Realmah thought that
whatever she said or did was altogether graceful and delightful, not
discerning that ways which are often very pretty in a kitten sometimes
give sure indication of what will not be quite so pleasant when the
kitten develops into the cat.
On Realmah’s return home, his wives, the Varnah and the Ainah, had only
to look at his countenance to know how his suit had sped. Deeply did the
Varnah meditate whether Talora’s dowry would thoroughly compensate for
the additional burden of a vain and expensive girl on their household.
The Ainah, contrary to what might be expected, was heartily glad at
Realmah’s success in love. She felt proud that she had had something to
do with it, and she took delight in the prospect of any happiness for
Realmah, however that happiness might be attained. Realmah, though he
had never pretended to love what may be called his official wives, or
had expected much love from them, was yet a little hurt (such is the
vanity of man) at their apparent indifference as to the coming of the
new wife. He little imagined what was in the Ainah’s heart. But men will
always fail to understand women from the beginning to the end of the
chapter--from the days when the sun shone upon many island towns upon
the Swiss lakes, to the days when, as now, the waters have recovered
their dominion, and the sun shines upon pleasant châlets perched up on
the sides of the mountains that overhang those beautiful lakes.
The marriage of the wise Realmah with the beautiful Talora was soon
afterwards celebrated with much pomp and festivity; and all the citizens
of Abibah, except one or two old men who were near relations of Talora,
said that Realmah was a most fortunate man--happy in love, successful in
policy, and likely to rise to the highest dignity in the state.
CHAPTER IX.
REALMAH IS ACCUSED OF IMPIETY.
Great felicity in human life is too often but a prelude to great danger;
and Realmah had only been a short time married to Talora when he had to
encounter one of the greatest perils of his life--a peril, too, which
was entirely caused by his success.
Hitherto, only Athlah has been mentioned as a rival in love to Realmah.
But there was a far more dangerous person named Parejah, who was also a
suitor of the beautiful Talora. He had believed himself to be the
favoured one; and was perfectly furious at Realmah’s success.
Hatred often gives a keen insight into character; and Parejah inferred,
without much apparent reason for his inference, that Realmah was not a
very orthodox believer in the religious creed of his fellow-countrymen.
Their religious belief, on the whole, was anything but ignoble. They
believed, as has been mentioned before, in one great deity, profoundly
reverenced, but never openly worshipped, and hardly even named. His was
an awful overruling presence, which gave power to all the lesser
deities, who busied themselves with the affairs of men, and with the
conduct of the material world. These lesser deities I find were more
numerous than I had at first imagined.
In addition to those I have mentioned, there were Pelah the god of air,
Varoona the goddess of water, Salera the goddess of fishes, and Baradaja
the god of dry land. Then came Manoiah the god of joy, Karoiah the god
of sorrow, and Plastuna the goddess of design and formation, in other
words of intelligent work. The sun, moon, and the stars had also a
worship of their own addressed to them, not that they were gods, but
that they were symbols of the great unnameable Deity. This symbolism,
however, was far beyond the conception of the populace, who honestly
worshipped the heavenly bodies as distinct deities--a practice, which,
however repugnant to the notions of the priesthood and the ruling
families, was tacitly and somewhat contemptuously acquiesced in by them.
When a comet appeared, it was clearly a signal of displeasure on the
part of the highest deity, and somebody was to be sacrificed
immediately.
Among the lesser deities, none was more feared than Rotondarah. This
deity, who was naturally supposed to be rather malignant than otherwise,
was conciliated, sometimes by the sacrifice of animals, but more
frequently by the so-called voluntary self-inflicted injuries of his
worshippers.
Large sectarian differences had taken place with regard to the mode of
worshipping this deity. The strictest sect wounded the four fingers of
the right hand. Others maintained that a thumb should be wounded; and
there was a bitter feud which subdivided this sect, as to which of the
thumbs it should be. Finally, there was a third party of loose believers
who maintained that blood drawn from any part of the body was equally
pleasing to Rotondarah. Terrible feuds had arisen from these religious
differences, which at one time had threatened to dissolve the republic.
The result was, that all the great chiefs and the important official
personages ultimately sided with the thumb-wounding party, maintaining
it, however, to be a matter of indifference which of the thumbs was
wounded, and alternately wounding the right and the left thumb. Thus,
holding the balance between the two extremes, they kept the state in
peace.
Before proceeding with the narrative, it may be well to enumerate the
various sects. They were--
1. The Right-hand Four-Fingerites.
2. The Right-Thumbites.
3. The Left-Thumbites.
4. The Whole-Bodyites.
5. The great official personages, who drew blood (in very small
quantities) alternately from the right and the left thumb.
Now Parejah had discovered[10] that, on a solemn festival lately held in
honour of Rotondarah, Realmah, who was a man keenly sensitive to pain,
had not drawn blood at all. Parejah knew that this would be a great
scandal even to the least strict amongst the worshippers; and he cited
Realmah to appear before the Council of the Four Hundred on a charge of
impiety. Realmah felt that this was one of the critical moments of his
life, and that it would go hard with his influence for the future, if he
were proved to have dealt in a trifling manner with these solemn rites.
Footnote 10:
Probably from the man who stood next to Realmah at the festival.
Parejah summoned Realmah’s wives as witnesses; and, in a preliminary
inquiry, held before the meeting of the Four Hundred took place, they
were subjected to a strict examination. But the wives, however conscious
of their husband’s dereliction, could not be brought to testify directly
against him. “They did not know;” “They had not observed;” “Realmah had
not spoken on the subject to them:”--these, and the like answers, were
all that could be obtained from Realmah’s wives.
The Ainah, who under cross-examination appeared particularly stolid,
brought out in the most irrelevant way that Realmah, during the day of
the festival and the day after, seemed not like himself, but as if
confused by deep thought or pain. Realmah, though his sensitive ears
were sorely wounded by the Ainah’s mispronunciation,[11] caught at an
idea from the Ainah’s testimony, of which he did not fail to make good
use.
Footnote 11:
One word especially shocked Realmah’s ears. _Selouvianah_ means
confusion of mind, taken rather in a good sense, as bewilderment
arising from high thought. The poor Ainah ventured upon this difficult
word, which she corrupted into _Sellovee_. It is quite possible that
Realmah’s blindness to his Ainah’s merits proceeded from her barbarous
use of language,--such, and so dangerous, are the prejudices, arising
from education, which beset even the most thoughtful men.
This charge then of impiety, not having been disproved at the
preliminary inquiry, had to be heard, as a matter of course, by the Four
Hundred. Amongst a people who had very few intellectual amusements,
public speaking held a prominent place. It is even possible that there
have been greater masterpieces of eloquence pronounced in the popular
assemblies of those nations which we call savage, than in the senates of
the most cultivated and learned people. It was not likely, therefore,
that, when a charge of impiety was brought against the nephew of the
chief of the East, so good an opportunity would be lost for hearing a
great attack and a great defence.
The day was fixed for the trial, and Realmah looked forward to it with a
feeling of utter dismay, knowing that if he were convicted, though the
punishment might not be very severe, all influence amongst his people
(that influence which, with his ambitious nature, he ardently desired)
might for ever be denied to him. He did not, however, fail to summon to
his aid all the powers of argument and all that great subtlety which he
possessed.
CHAPTER X.
REALMAH’S APPEARANCE BEFORE THE FOUR HUNDRED.
The office of prosecutor was entrusted to the high priest of the deity
who was supposed to be offended,--the god of storms. It may easily be
imagined with what fervour and with what force of argument he pressed
the charge.
Upon whom, he asked, of all the gods did their fate and fortunes more
depend than upon Rotondarah, the lord of winds, of thunder, and of
storms? They, their families, and their habitations existed only by the
sufferance of his mighty will. Was this to be imperilled by the
arrogance, or the carelessness, or the impiety, of one young man? He did
not deny that Realmah had lately been of some service to the state; but
of what weight was any mere earthly consideration of that kind when
weighed against the danger of impiety? Any appeal to mercy upon such
grounds must be looked upon as a temptation to be sedulously overcome if
they, the judges, were not to implicate themselves in the crime of
impiety.
They all knew what painful disputes there had been about the modes of
worshipping this powerful deity. He wished to heaven that all their
nation had adopted that mode of worship which insured most sacrifice to,
and therefore most favour from, Rotondarah.
But could anybody, even the most careless of worshippers, contend that
no worship of any kind was to be offered at the altar of a deity who had
especially favoured their city and their nation? The least strict
amongst the sects which unhappily divided the worshippers of Rotondarah,
should view with most abhorrence the conduct of Realmah, if it would not
have that conduct set down as a natural result of its doctrines, when
received by an irreverent and ill-governed mind.
As to the facts of the case, they would be uncontradicted. In the
preliminary inquiry it was shown that the wives of the accused, anxious
as they were to screen him, had not been able to produce one single jot
of evidence in his favour.
Let the Four Hundred think what the accusation was:--that, at their
greatest festival, in the midst of assembled thousands, this
presumptuous young man had dared to make a mockery of his pretended
worship; and that, whether from cowardice, from insolence, or from
impiety, not one drop of his blood had flowed in honour of that powerful
deity, whose altars he (the chief priest) never approached without a
feeling of his abject unworthiness to minister upon them.
The above is but a faint outline of the speech pronounced by the chief
priest against Realmah. There was, however, one great error in it, of
which the accused did not fail to avail himself. The chief priest had
alluded to their divisions of opinion as regarded the worship of
Rotondarah; and Realmah saw in that statement an opening for theological
discussion, which would be likely to produce great discord in the
assembly, and thus, perhaps, enable him to evade the point in question.
He arose and commenced his oration, of which also but a poor outline can
be given. Moreover, the modes of eloquence in different nations are so
diverse, that if all of the speech were given, much of it that consisted
of fables and apologues, which were highly pleasing to that assembly,
might appear tedious to modern minds.
Realmah began by alluding delicately to the motives which he believed
had induced Parejah to institute the prosecution. He said that he
trusted that these motives were not the promptings of private malice and
dislike. For a man of Parejah’s eminence in the state to be influenced
by such motives would be in the highest degree disgraceful; and the
result might be not dissimilar from that which befell Ginkel the fox,
whose pious anxiety, not unmixed with motives of self-interest, for his
little brother’s religious behaviour, ended in the discovery that he,
too, was wont to make the eight morning salutations at the wrong
time.[12]
Footnote 12:
This was a very happy allusion, thoroughly understood by the audience.
“Ginkel the fox” was a well-known character, entering often into the
fables of the Sheviri. He was a very cunning fox, but never quite
cunning enough for the occasion. The following is probably the fable
alluded to.
Ginkel and his younger brother, a good pious young fox, go out hunting
one morning. The younger brother catches a hen, and prepares to return
home with it. Ginkel thinks he should like to have it all for himself.
He is suddenly seized with scruples of conscience for his brother, who
had that day omitted to make the eight morning salutations which it
was incumbent upon all good foxes to make. In fact, he had not said
his prayers before going out to hunt. The good younger brother fears
that he must not eat any of the hen, but still continues to carry it
home.
They then meet a priest-fox, and Ginkel hastens to put the case of
conscience to him. The younger brother lays down the hen, and pleads
for himself that he was going to make the eight morning salutations
after he returned home.
“Too late, too late! my son,” says the priest-fox, upon which Ginkel
is about to take the hen in his mouth. But the priest-fox asks Ginkel
at what time he made the eight salutations?
“Oh,” exclaims Ginkel, turning his eyes up to heaven, “long before
morning broke, I made my salutations: I never forget.”
“Too soon, too soon! my son,” says the priest-fox. “The day had not
begun; the hen has not been properly prayed for; and now can only be
eaten by a priest-fox:” saying which he throws the hen over his back,
and leaves Ginkel and his little brother very hungry, but much
edified.
He then gracefully rebutted the charge of cowardice. It was not for him,
he said, in the presence of men, many of whose lives were graced by
numerous deeds of valour done in the service of their country, to allude
at length to any action of his, though perhaps it might be allowed him
to remark that neither in the advance to, nor the retreat from,
Abinamanche[13] had he been conspicuous for cowardice. (There was a
murmur of applause throughout the assembly.) As regarded the charge of
insolence, could it for a moment be supposed that he, who from his birth
had been a helpless cripple, subject to great infirmity, could ever look
upon himself as other than the meanest and humblest amongst them?
Footnote 13:
The chief town of the Phelatahs.
As to the charge of impiety, he called the gods to witness, and he would
appeal to the great Rotondarah himself, whether impiety was not the one
thing farthest from his thoughts? (Here he introduced a curious story,
which was not unfamiliar to his audience, of how a poor man, who in
distant ages had stood aloof from the sacrifices to Varoona, the goddess
of the waters, had been signalized by her as her most devoted
worshipper--his omission to join in a rite, which after all was but a
mere outward sign of love and worship, having only arisen from the
intensity of his heartfelt adoration.) Even in the expression of earthly
affections, Realmah added, it was not always those who made the loudest
demonstrations who had the truest and the most devoted hearts. What if
he had been communing in rapt enthusiasm with his nymph, his only
thought being how, with her aid, he might show himself most grateful to
this adorable deity, Rotondarah? He spoke in the presence of those who
had many times been conscious of a similar high ecstasy.
This last was a most skilful touch, for it was a matter of pride amongst
the Sheviri to appear at times abstracted from all intercourse with
their fellow-beings in sublime communion with their nymphs.
After a pause, Realmah resumed. “That venerable man, the chief priest,”
said he, “whose accusations have fallen so heavily upon my soul, must
know better than all other men what this rapt communion is; and he might
be lenient to another man who had committed an error, if error it be,
when his soul was absorbed by the highest discourse.”
The chief priest, he continued, had alluded to the painful divisions in
opinion and in conduct which had unhappily beset their nation as to
their modes of worshipping Rotondarah. Was it to be wondered at that he,
an unlearned young man, humiliated by infirmity from his birth, should
hesitate as to what form of worship he should adopt in the presence of
Rotondarah; and, in that embarrassment of thought, lose the happy moment
for worshipping at all?--that is, in outward ceremony, for he dared any
man to say that he had failed in the truest devotion of the heart.
Let them not say that these divisions of opinion were trifling, and that
the great Rotondarah was indifferent as to the way in which he was to be
worshipped. In matters of small import there might be two ways, equally
right, of doing a thing; but not in this. (Here from all parts of the
assembly resounded exclamations of assent.) Let them not dare to say, he
continued, that the believer, who, for a time, maimed himself by
wounding the whole four fingers of the right hand in honour of this
divinity, had not some reason for contending that he showed superior
piety to the man who coolly drew blood from the thumb of the left hand,
which enabled him after his worship to prosecute his ordinary work as if
nothing had happened.
A tumult of applause arose from the strict sect of the Right-hand
Four-Fingerites, who were in great force in the assembly. Being for the
most part men that had made their way in life, and who loved what is
called respectability, they had many seats in the Council of the Four
Hundred.
Far, too, would it be from him (Realmah) to impute blame to those humble
and innocent persons who thought that Rotondarah was not to be
worshipped by drawing blood from one part of the body only, but who gave
up their whole bodies, it might be to light wounds, but still their
whole bodies, in sacrifice to him.
Hereupon there were violent acclamations of approval from the least
strict of the sects. A personal altercation also arose between one of
the strict sect and one of the least strict, the latter having called
the former _a cream-coloured face_ (their term for hypocrite), and a
fool.
When the feud was settled by the officers of the assembly turning out
both the disputants, Realmah continued:--
He had never, he said, been able to appreciate the profound thoughts and
subtle arguments which had, doubtless, led those who wounded the thumb
to conclude that their mode of worshipping Rotondarah was the most
grateful to that deity. But this he did know, that a sect to which the
great Leonvah had belonged--the hero who had led their forefathers to a
hundred victories--must have a great deal to say for itself. (The name
of “Leonvah!” “Leonvah!” was shouted forth with enthusiasm by the
Thumbites, quite overpowering some sneering remarks that were made by
certain arid theologians of the opposing sects, who said, that a man
might hit a hard blow with a heavy hand, and yet be very ignorant of the
most important questions in theology.) Realmah resumed:--
Least of all would it be for him to presume to blame the sect from which
he sprung, and which contained in its ranks those who held the chief
offices of state. In their high sense of duty to their country they had
doubtless sought to mediate between the two parties, and had adopted a
middle course, seeking to please Rotondarah more by their devotion to
the nation, which was under his special protection, than even by outward
devotion to Rotondarah himself. Perhaps in their hearts, too, many of
them longed to join the one side or the other of the disputants, whom
they stood aloof from only to break and still the opposing waves of
popular opinion which had threatened to submerge the state.
Here the grave official men nodded approval; while, from various parts
of the hall, cries of “time-servers,” and “world-servers,” and
“shell-worshippers,” resounded.
The assembly was now in a fearful state of ferment. Sharp theological
discussions were being carried on in different quarters of the hall.
Loud appeals were made to the _manes_ of departed heroes who had held
strong opinions on one side, or the other, of the controversy.
The four great chiefs, who had sat apart in the principal seats of
honour, situated north, south, east, and west in the hall, approached
one another in the centre, and consulted as to whether they should then
and there dissolve the assembly. At this moment, vehement shouting was
heard outside the hall. Several men fully armed burst in.
A curious and cool observer (had there been one in that large
assemblage) might have noticed that these men were either personal
followers of Realmah, or belonged to the tribe of the fishermen.
“The enemy are near,” they shouted, “some of their watch-fires may be
seen on the mountain. To the drawbridges!” and they rushed out, followed
at once by the greater part of the assembly. True enough; there were
fires just discernible upon several parts of the mountain. The alarm
spread throughout Abibah. The guards were doubled at all the
drawbridges; large bodies of armed men remained all night in the open
spaces of the town; and every precaution was taken to prevent a
surprise.
In the morning it was found that the enemy had decamped, and no signs
were left of them but the smouldering watchfires and some remnants of
half-consumed provisions.
Strange to say, when the town was restored to quiet and order, there was
no further prosecution on the charge of impiety against Realmah. Some
few zealots sounded the chief priest as to when there should be a
further hearing of the case; but the shrewd old man remarked that his
nymph had been very gracious in her whisperings to him lately, and that
there would be no lucky day in this year, he thought, on which the
prosecution could be wisely recommenced. Besides, he added, the young
man is either a deep knave or a profound enthusiast; and it might,
perhaps, be better to wait for a year to see in which direction his
character will develop itself. He might prove their fastest friend: he
might become their most dangerous enemy. There were parts of the lad’s
doctrine which were very sound. Rotondarah, heaven bless his clemency,
had waited many years for fitting worship from most men. Perhaps he
would deign to wait another year for some suitable reverence from
Realmah.
The zealots, who also were not without their craftiness, bowed assent to
the words of the chief priest; and Realmah remained unmolested, and not
unfeared.
This trial, however, exercised a great influence on his fortunes, for he
felt that, on the first opportunity, he must signalize himself by some
great deed of valour or of wisdom, for a man who was accused of impiety
had need to be very strong in the affections of his countrymen, in order
to efface all memory of the charge from their timid and superstitious
minds.
Is it possible that the enemy were never upon the mountain that night?
and was it for nothing that the Ainah went from house to house of her
tribe, remaining a long time with her brothers, who were the loudest to
shout when the armed men broke in upon the assembly on the day of
Realmah’s trial? If so, Realmah himself did not know it, or was too
subtle to know it officially, though he did remark to the Ainah, “how
watchful her tribe must be, for they were the first people who seemed to
have discerned those fires.” The plain girl merely answered that her
poor people were, of necessity, great watchers; and after saying this,
she hastened to withdraw with a profound obeisance, but a dry smile
might have been observed playing upon those lips of hers not far from
being beautiful.
_Cranmer._ I wish to make a remark.
_Ellesmere._ Silence, silence, for half an hour. Mr. Cranmer wishes
to make a remark.
_Cranmer._ This is too bad, Sir John. I am sure that for every word
I utter in this good company, you utter one hundred and seventy-six.
Why should I occupy half an hour with a single remark?
_Ellesmere._ The calculation is exact. Have I not heard you say in
the House, “I should wish to address a very few remarks to the House
upon this subject,” and has not your speech generally lasted for one
hour and a half? Now, I take a “very few” to mean three: one remark
of yours, therefore, if I do the sum rightly, will occupy half an
hour.
_Cranmer._ Well, we shall see. I was going to say that one great
merit of Milverton’s mode of telling us this story is, that he never
breaks off abruptly and leaves us in suspense. If he brings his hero
into trouble, he brings him out again, in the same portion of the
narrative.
Now, I daresay you will all despise me, and think that I am a dull,
prosaic being; but I must own that I do not care much for fiction.
It does not amuse me. Laugh as much as you like, but I prefer a blue
book to any novel.
My daughters, however, make up for my want of imaginativeness, and
they devour novels. You know these serial things: they are always
reading them. Sometimes they rush up to me, and exclaim, “Oh, papa,
how I wish it was the beginning of next month!” Now you know when
one comes to a certain age, one is not so anxious for it to be the
beginning of next month, when it is only the second or third of this
month. But young people think that they have such a large balance in
the Bank of Life, that they can afford to draw upon it in the
rashest manner.
_Ellesmere._ I declare that is a very pretty financial simile.
_Cranmer._ Thank you, Sir John; you are very encouraging. I have not
exhausted my half hour yet, and so I will proceed.
Well, I venture to suggest to these dear daughters of mine that I am
not so anxious for this rapid passing away of time, to which they
reply, “But oh, papa, he is in such difficulty; he must be killed.
There is nobody near to save him.” This “he” is some fellow in a
novel.
_Ellesmere._ My dear Cranmer, I will restore peace and concord to
your household. Teach your daughters the true doctrine of
Indispensables.
_Cranmer._ What _do_ you mean, Sir John, by Indispensables?
_Ellesmere._ Why, don’t you know? They are the fellows who, if you
get rid of them at one part of the story, must re-appear in another.
Now, Cranmer, you are to be a villain in a novel. I assure you it is
a very creditable part to assign to you. I always like the villains
best. They are the only business-like people in the concern. I will
be the Indispensable.
Now try and get rid of me if you can.
You stab me to the heart, and leave me on the ground. I assure you
it is of no use. An Indispensable’s heart is quite differently
placed from that of any other man. The desperate wound you gave me
was in fact the best surgical treatment that could be devised for a
slight internal complaint which I labour under; and you will find me
as lively as ever in the third volume, and ready to unmask your
wicked designs.
Or it is a dark, gusty night. We two are walking the deck alone. You
politely edge me over the side of the vessel, and go to sleep in
your hammock, feeling that you have done a good stroke of business.
What do I do? The ship is only going nineteen knots an hour. I
therefore easily swim to her, and secrete myself in the stays, or
the main chains, or the shrouds, or the dead lights, or some of
those mysterious places in a ship, which Sir Arthur knows all about.
There I stick like a barnacle, and you carry me into port with you.
I can tell you that when you are just about to make a most
advantageous marriage, I shall put my head in at the church-door,
and say “Ha!” with a loud voice, and the whole affair will be broken
off.
Or you poison me. Bless your heart, poison has no more effect upon
my Mithridatic constitution than ginger-beer--probably not so much.
You bury me. No: you don’t. You don’t bury _me_, but some intrusive
fellow who has thrust himself in, to take my place; for an
Indispensable has always about him obliging persons who do that kind
of work for him.
Or you hurl me down from a cliff, 300 feet high, and go away
thinking you have now really got rid of me for good and all. But,
Mr. Villain, you are much mistaken. I, as an Indispensable,
inevitably fall upon a sea-anemone, rather a large one, three feet
square and two feet thick, very common, however, in that part of the
coast.
[Much laughter from all of us.]
The poor anemone is somewhat injured, and I am a little shaken; but
I shall appear again at the right time, with my fatal “Ha!” and
upset your marriage.
By the way, there is one thing which has never been tried upon the
Indispensable. Take him to the House of Commons, Cranmer, and make
him attend, for three nights following, from half-past six to nine.
The mixture of irritability and comatoseness which might thus be
produced, would bring on what doctors call, at least Dr. Ellesmere
does, an apoplectic paralysis.
And then you see, Cranmer, if you did not quite kill him, you could
reduce him to idiotcy, which would be nearly as good for your
purpose, and enable you to carry on your villany undisturbed.
Oh, how I wish that good people in real life were as difficult to
kill as Indispensables in fiction!
_Sir Arthur._ I am not so sure that I agree with Cranmer. I rather
like to be kept in an agony of suspense, and I cannot praise
Milverton for being so considerate to our feelings.
_Ellesmere._ Quite true. Praise is nearly always wrong. However, I
am not going to indulge much in it. I see that Milverton makes this
rogue Realmah, a perfect politician. Now, is that natural?
_Sir Arthur._ Well, why not? Do you suppose that all policy is
confined to civilized people?
_Ellesmere._ No; but Realmah, I contend, is an official man of the
nineteenth century.
_Mauleverer._ Then, indeed, he is a rogue.
_Ellesmere_ (who laughed heartily). It is a comfort to find that one
always has Mr. Mauleverer to back one up in any attack upon any
class or portion of the human race.
But to return to the story. I must say I rather like the Ainah; and
Milverton has had the courage to make her not too beautiful.
_Milverton._ I have never been able to do the Ainah justice. You
know that, for the most part, when one endeavours to describe a man
or a woman, either in history or in a novel, one is obliged to make
it seem like the description of a runaway slave. Who can portray the
delicate lights and shadows, the smiles and dimples, which go to
make a beautiful, or, at the least, a most expressive, countenance?
By the way, you must not suppose, when I have spoken of the Ainah’s
hands as being rather large and plebeian, that they had not a beauty
of their own; and oh, what an expressive thing the hand is!
_Sir Arthur._ Very true. The other day I was sitting near one of the
greatest men in England (perhaps it was in the House of Commons, but
I shall not tell you where exactly), and he was suffering from
suppressed anger, and was being bullied from all directions. The man
maintained his part admirably: he was calm and equable in reply:
when he sat down, he put on an air of repose; he kept himself still,
he governed his eyes, he governed that organ difficult to govern,
the mouth; but his hands quivered with the emotion he felt, and the
veins stood out upon them in stern relief. He little imagined he
betrayed to me by those hands all that he felt.
_Milverton._ I have always noticed that great men, without a single
exception, have great hands. I do not mean large hands, but
expressive hands--hands that indicate greatness. The late Lord
Melbourne almost talked with his hands, and so I must say of the
Ainah. She had not a small hand: she had not hands with tapering
fingers, which we admire so much in women; but she had expressive
hands, which possess a beauty of their own.
_Ellesmere._ I do declare, Milverton is in love with the Ainah; and,
as Mrs. Milverton has such very pretty hands, according to the usual
type, I wonder she is not jealous.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Don’t make mischief, sir. You can do very little
good in your generation, and you might therefore avoid doing harm.
_Ellesmere._ There we have again a truly conjugal remark. No great
conqueror, who is a married man, has any occasion, when he is taking
his triumph, to have a slave with him in his chariot, to remind him
that he is mortal. His dear wife and children--who, by the way, are
anything but slaves--will be sure to give him sufficient
discouragement (of course for his good), and to convince him that he
is anything but a divinity.
I cannot comment much upon this story of Realmah. I am thoroughly
puzzled by it. There are many pretty points about the story: the
courtship is amusing; the prosecution for impiety is not without its
slyness; and it is evident that Milverton has thrown his whole force
into the depicting and drawing out of the Ainah. But what puzzles me
is, that I cannot see the general drift and purpose of the story.
Now, I know the man to be full of purpose, and that he is sure to
have some scheme in his head,--some wonderful theory which he wishes
to impress upon us all, and upon which we are to begin to act
to-morrow morning; but I cannot discern what it is.
Here my master and I interchanged smiles (the reader will forgive me for
associating myself with the work). We know very well what we are aiming
at, and were pleased to find that so acute a man as Sir John had not
found us out too soon.
_Sir Arthur._ I admire the story very much, and think that great
things are yet to come out of it.
_Ellesmere._ Oh yes, we all know that. That is the regular kind of
thing for one author to say to another. It is the fashion of the day
for all members of the same profession to speak most respectfully of
each other. Sir Robert, my successor, does so of me; I do so of him:
what we really think of each other’s knowledge of law is best known
to ourselves.
The same with the medical profession. Dr. B. is called in to assist
Dr. A. What does he say? Nothing could have been more skilful than
Dr. A.’s treatment hitherto of the case. He should now, he thinks,
begin to throw in a little assafœtida, say 1 drachm, and hydrarg. 3
oz., instead of opii tinct. 9 scruples,--that is, if this slight
change in the prescription meets with Dr. A.’s entire approval.
As for authors, they are generally in ecstasies (honest ecstasies!)
when talking to one another of each other’s performances. Have I not
seen a number of serpents in a cage as civil to each other as
possible, upreared upon the penultimate parts of their tails, and
bowing affably to one another,--in process of time to become quite
fond and fondling? I think nothing of Sir Arthur’s praise of
Realmah.
_Milverton._ I think it is one of the pleasantest things of our time
to see----
_Ellesmere._ Don’t go into it seriously. I only meant an eighth part
of what I said, but you are all so matter-of-fact and so stupid.
But what I say about “Realmah” I really mean. The author is a man
unwholesomely full of purpose. He would not care to write the most
interesting story in the world, not the “Vicar of Wakefield” or “La
Petite Fadette,” which I think the prettiest story I ever read,
except he had some distinct purpose in writing it. It must prove
something, or illustrate something; but what that something is in
the present case, I cannot for the life of me make out.
By the way, I must make another remark, and that is, that I do not
see anything so very clever in the little stories and fables which
your lake-men, Milverton, are so fond of. I could invent fables by
the dozen.
_Sir Arthur._ Could you, Sir John? Perhaps you would favour us with
one of the dozen this morning?
_Ellesmere._ With pleasure, in a minute or two: just give me time to
think.
Hereupon he walked about for a few minutes. As he got up to walk, I saw
him look at Fairy, and was sure the fable would be about a dog. He
resumed his place, and began his fable.
A man and his dog were walking along a straight road, chatting
pleasantly together.
The road was straight, because it was in the good old times of the
Romans; and the two companions understood each other well because in
those days the dogs talked dog Latin.
“Yes,” said the man, “you certainly are a very clever creature. You
make good use of your nose, and your eyes, and your ears. What a
pity it is you have not hands like we have!”
“Oh,” said the dog, “you don’t know, then, that we once had hands
like yours, and how fortunate we were to get rid of them? You see
even now in the streets that there are some of us who, attended by
Helvetii playing musical instruments, walk upright, and gain many
denarii.
“But this is how we came to lose our hands. Diana, much pleased with
our skill in hunting, resolved to ask great Jupiter to confer some
signal boon upon us. We consulted together as to what our kind
mistress should ask for us. Some said that men should not be allowed
to pick the bones quite so clean before they tossed them to us;
others that hares and rabbits should not be so fleet; and others
that we should not be called by such mean and foolish names as men
are wont to give us. But one prudent old dog said, ‘Jove is wiser
than we are; let us ask him to take away from us whatever we have
now which is most dangerous for us to have.’
“Our prayer was heard, for suddenly our hands became paws, and
henceforward we went upon four legs.
“Many of my brother dogs grumbled at this change, and howled to
Jupiter that he was mocking us; but Jove replied, ‘My good friends,
I have done the best I could for you; you might hereafter make as
bad a use of your hands as men are making of theirs, and thus in
time become as dishonest and wicked as they are.’ We acknowledged
the wisdom of Jupiter; and so the monkey was left to be, in form as
in nature, the creature most resembling man.”
The poor Roman could not make any reply, and the dog trotted on by
his side, wagging his tail approvingly at his own wit.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Where is the moral, John?
_Cranmer._ Yes; where is the moral?
_Ellesmere._ Moral! Why, my good people, the fable is as full of
moral as a pigeon-pie at an inn is--of tough beefsteak.
Moral Number One:--
People are proudest of what they should be most ashamed of; _i.e._
man of his hands, which he makes such bad use of.
Moral Number Two:--
Attend, Lady Ellesmere. It is always better to get rid of a plague
or an evil, than to acquire a new good.
Moral Number Three:--
Attend, Fairy. Dogs are better and much honester creatures than men.
_Sir Arthur._ The fable is clever enough, and has plenty of moral in
it--indeed too much--but it lacks simplicity. Who would ever think
of quoting it, to illustrate anything?
_Milverton._ Let me now try my hand at a fable.
The sun was setting; the moon was rising; and one solitary traveller
was plodding his weary way across the Libyan desert.
“Madam, my sister,” said the sun, “how is it that men are so much
more grateful to you than to me? All day long have I warmed that
poor traveller, and guided him on his way, yet not a kind word did I
receive from him; whereas, no sooner do you make your pale
appearance above the horizon, than he breaks out into a song of
gratitude, celebrating your goodness and your loveliness.”
“Sir, my brother,” replied the moon, “your benefits are too
manifest, and you take care that all you do for men shall be seen in
broad daylight.
“What little I can do for them, how I keep their oceans sweet, is
known but to few of them.
“Men try to be sufficiently grateful to you, but they love me, not
only for my gentleness and my loveliness, but also for my great
reserve.”
The great god of day did not deign to make any reply, but went down
red and angry into the western waters.
_Sir Arthur._ This is much better, still there is the same fault, it
lacks simplicity; and the moral, namely, that to insure gratitude
you should conceal your benefits as much as possible from the eyes
of others, is a modern idea, not belonging to the age when fables
were best written.
_Milverton._ I will try another. I will not be beaten.
The Pacha rested by the fountain, the flowing waters of which made
an oasis in the desert.
His horse and his camel cropped with delight the green herbage near
the fountain. Their shadows lay strongly and darkly upon the grass.
“How beautiful,” said the horse, “is that dark form which moves as I
move; what grace, what symmetry it shows! I can hardly eat for
looking at it.”
“It is well enough,” said the camel, “but look at this one which
moves with me. It has all the symmetry and the grace of the other;
_and then, too, it has that pretty little hump on its back_.”
A dervish passing by, who knew the language of all beasts,
exclaimed, “How good is Allah, who gives to every creature its due
share of vanity, so that defects seem to their owner especial
beauties and merits!”
_Sir Arthur._ That is a hundred times better; but, at the risk of
appearing captious, I must still say that there is an air of
subtlety about it which does not quite befit a good honest fable.
However, I will admit that in time, my dear Milverton, you might
perhaps write a fable.
_Ellesmere._ Well, at any rate, he can write a history, for I
suppose we must not call “Realmah” a story; and indeed, for my part,
I believe it to be as true as almost any history I ever read.
There is one more observation I have to make about it, which has
just occurred to me. It is a personal one, and it is that Fairy
[here the dog looked up sharply]--Don’t look at her: she does not
like to be looked at, or talked about; and it would be more delicate
if I were to put in French what I am going to say, for she does not
understand as much of that language as she does of English. So put
yourselves into a Gallic state of mind, and listen to me.
Je trouve que Madame l’Ainah et Madame le Fée se ressemblent
beaucoup.
Madame la Fée--(I hope she is not looking at me, is she?)--avec son
peau--(is it “son peau” or “sa peau?” I always forget those
confounded French genders; oh, “sa peau!” thanks)--avec sa peau
blanche, ses yeux rouges, et sa lèvre inférieure un peu développée,
est d’une beauté extrême, pas si séduisante, comme réellement rare
et remarquable.
Madame l’Ainah, avec ses petits yeux enfoncés dans sa tête (comme
nous a dit M. l’Auteur), ses cheveux presque rouges, et ses mains et
ses pieds très larges et prononcés, mais, en même temps, très
expressifs--est aussi d’une beauté extrême, mais aussi pas si
séduisante, comme bien rare, et bien remarquable.
Elles jouissent, toutes les deux, d’une sensibilité très-douce,
d’une intelligence très-exquise, et d’un je ne sais quoi, qui laisse
beaucoup à l’imagination.
Hereupon Fairy set up a dismal howl, and then began to bark furiously.
It was a most ludicrous scene. Sir John had turned away from the dog,
and had been addressing his British French, spoken very loudly, very
slowly, and with pauses between the words, apparently to some distant
person. Fairy evidently thought that something was the matter, either
that Sir John was taken ill, or that there was some enemy in the
distance, and that it was her duty to come to the rescue, or to rush
into the fray.
We all laughed immoderately, while Fairy continued to bark furiously,
and thus the conversation was broken up, for all seriousness was gone
from us during the rest of the afternoon, and until we had returned to
Worth-Ashton.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VII.
“Another hopelessly wet day, I declare!”
This was the exclamation of Sir John Ellesmere as he stood at the
window, having risen from the breakfast table before any of us. Then
(aside, but quite audibly), “We shall be sure to have a long reading
to-day. Would it not look pretty if I were to ask for it? (_Aloud._) I
trust, Milverton, you will cheer us up to-day by giving us a good long
spell of ‘Realmah.’ I like it more and more; for I perceive that the
great author of that work has been considerably influenced by a much
greater and wiser man. I need hardly say that I allude to myself. I have
always complained that in all stories and novels love occupies too large
a part. We have happily got rid of that foolish business in this story.”
_Johnson._ Do not be quite so sure of that, Sir John.
_Ellesmere._ Oh, Sandy, Sandy! It is your fault, then? You exercise
a malign influence over your master, I can see. I really did think
that Realmah, having got his wonderfully beautiful, but very
disagreeable Talora, his work-a-day Varnah (I like that young woman
best, and wish that a certain “party” with whom I am distantly
connected bore more resemblance to her), and his subtle Cinderella
(with a large glass slipper, though), the Ainah, would now be
contented.
_Lady Ellesmere._ It is a great comfort to me that John does not
sometimes take the place of Mr. Johnson, although it might relieve
me from much of his company, for he would refuse to take down all
the nice sentimental bits we women like so much.
_Ellesmere._ Now, look here: suppose we were to have biography
written after the fashion of novels, it would be something of this
kind:--
I will give you the life of a distinguished Jones. It will not take
long.
Silence! The Biography commences.
As a boy, Jones was much like other boys. He was good at ringtaw,
bad at Greek grammar; and he abominated those truly abominable
things called decimal fractions. With that vivacity of expression
and that sincerity of feeling which in after-life were always
conspicuous in him, he one day, when quite a boy, observed to his
friend Master Smith, that Homer was “a regular beast,” and he wished
“the beggar” had never been born.
As a youth, he was much like other youths. He was justly proud of
his peg-top trowsers; thought the governor a good fellow, but rather
slow; spoke his native language with a laboured incertitude which
was the fashion amongst the gilded youth of the period; and he used
the word “awful” on all occasions, informing those who cared to hear
that Smith (observe how true he is in his friendships) was awfully
jolly, while Robinson was awfully green. At this period of his life,
his opinions did not admit of any nice differences of colour. His
black was the blackest of blacks; his white the whitest of whites;
and he always thought, and generally said, a fellow was a fool who
did not see things exactly as he saw them. That nice appreciation of
character which had enabled him to describe so tersely and so
faithfully the nature of old Homer, was extended now to sundry other
personages, and embraced Aristotle, Tacitus, John Mill, Sir William
Hamilton, Paley, and Colenso. It is but justice to Jones to
conjecture that he had already perceived a want of orthodoxy in that
last-named personage, although his depreciatory remarks upon that
divine chiefly applied to him as an author of certain arithmetical
and algebraical works.
When Jones arrived at the age of twenty-three, he was seized with a
fever, not uncommon at that age, called the _Febris amantium_.
Then come a hundred and seventy-three pages in which there is
nothing but a minute description of the symptoms and progress of the
disease. We are spared none of the details. The only thing that in
the least degree relieves this painfully medical description is that
another person, in the next street, of the other sex, is smitten at
the same time with the disease, and the symptoms of the patients are
frequently contrasted.
At last they both get over the disease by means of a potent medicine
found very efficacious in such complaints, and called marriage.
Then come a few sentences like the following:--
He was a great lawyer, and therefore naturally--indeed I may say
inevitably--a great, good, and humane man. His study of the law, the
greatest of all studies, had opened his mind for the reception of
all arts, sciences, and literatures, including poetry, political
economy, metaphysics, theology, and the science of book-keeping by
double-entry.
That the human race has advanced to its present pitch of comfort and
civilization, to which no one but Mr. Mauleverer can do full
justice; that our streets are rendered beautiful by lovely works of
art in the shape of statues, fountains, and columns; that smoke is
banished from our towns; and that war, according to Mr. Milverton,
is a thing unknown amongst the European family of nations--are
benefits greatly owing to the labours of this incomparable
man.--_End of the Biography_.
Now a dull prosaic person such as I am would like to hear a few
details about the manner in which the incomparable Jones
accomplished these great objects. But Lady Ellesmere maintains that
the fever was the only interesting thing in his life, and would not
have a page omitted from that part of the biography.
_Cranmer._ I suppose, Sir John, that as Realmah’s love affairs are
over, or nearly over, he is now to become an inventor; and you have
shown such a sympathy for inventors that you will delight in that.
_Ellesmere._ I never said, Mr. Cranmer, that the lives of inventors
were uninteresting. The more mischievous the man, the more
interesting in general is his life. Witness that of any great
conqueror. It is not easy, let me tell you, to catch me in an
inconsistency.
_Sir Arthur._ I did not meddle much the other day in your talk about
modern inventors, and modern inventions, but I had a good deal to
say about telegraphic communication. Only I am half afraid to say
it, for anything seems dull after the sparkling fun with which Sir
John always enlivens our conversations.
_Cranmer._ I really should be glad to hear you upon this point, Sir
Arthur.
_Ellesmere._ Cranmer means to say that anything is a relief from Sir
John Ellesmere’s nonsense. But proceed, Sir Arthur, to instruct us.
Conversations should be instructive. See Pinnock, Mrs. Barbauld, and
Mangnall, who doubtless confirm this maxim.
_Sir Arthur._ There are four drawbacks at present on telegraphic
communication. 1. A telegram is often inaccurate, and you are in the
greatest state of doubt and bewilderment as to the exact meaning of
the thing to which you are very likely asked to give an immediate
answer.
2. This mode of communication throws a great additional burthen upon
those who most require rest, as being the chief directors of the
world’s affairs. Now they can never feel that their work is done for
the day. Telegrams pursue them to their homes, and rout them out of
their beds.
3. (And this is most important.) It dwarfs the powers and diminishes
the energies of distant agents, who, feeling that they can always
throw the responsibility and the difficulty upon the Head Centre (to
borrow an expression from the Fenians), cease to think or act for
themselves; and yet often they are the persons who, from intimate
knowledge of the circumstances, could act more wisely than the Head
Centre.
4. (This fourth I did not learn from my own experience, but from a
man who receives more important telegrams than almost any other
person in England.) That having heard the main result by telegram,
the despatches and reports when they come to hand are comparatively
uninteresting. “You think you have heard it all before,” he said,
“or at least you do not know what your knowledge really is about the
matter; or at any rate you are confused with partial knowledge. The
result is that you do not take things up in their right order, and
that details have not their proper interest for you.”
_Ellesmere._ All this is admirable. What good sense my poor foolish
sayings do sometimes elicit!
_Cranmer._ Sir Arthur’s words are weighty. I may be permitted,
however, to remark, that all his objections rest upon the abuse and
not the use of telegraphic communication.
_Ellesmere._ If I dared to be so singular as to do so, how often I
should protest against that play upon the words “use” and “abuse!”
Moreover, it seemed to me that a great deal of what Sir Arthur said
applied most closely to the use, and not to the abuse. But, there,
we shall never agree upon this subject of telegrams. Let us pass to
other great inventions, and their inventors. I will engage to name
an inventor in whose favour not one of you, not even Cranmer, can
say anything.
By the way, I did not know that official men, like our friend
Cranmer, were so fond of inventors, and so much inclined to take
their part. When I was Attorney-General I used to see a good many
inventors, and the ungrateful dogs did not burst out into raptures
of praise, either of the Admiralty, the War Office, or the Treasury.
But to return to this particular inventor. I have read private
Commination Services over him--not using the strong word “cursed,”
but merely saying _unblessed_.
_Milverton._ Who can this unfortunate man be?
_Mauleverer._ He will not be found to be much worse than the others.
I dislike all of them. The fact is, the more you elevate and
beautify human life in one direction, the more you render striking
the sordidness of it in other directions, and so magnify the painful
contrast.
_Ellesmere._ That is cheering, certainly. I am glad to have brother
Mauleverer on my side. But I am not prepared to say _ditto_ to
everything that he says.
_Sir Arthur._ I should say, or at least I should say that Sir John
Ellesmere would say, that it was the man who invented superlatives.
_Milverton._ Ellesmere is a very mischievous person. I have observed
that when anybody has been much in his society, and they want to say
a severe thing, they are very apt to put it as a quotation from him.
That puts me in mind of an anecdote which I must tell you, for it is
a very droll one. There was a great musician who had a dreadful
habit of swearing. But he was very much ashamed of this habit, and
so, to excuse himself, always put it as a quotation from the manager
of the theatre, who at that time was Mr. Bunn. The great musician
would exclaim, “I’ll be d--d (as Mr. Bunn would say) if I will be
led by that fellow;” or “D--n the thing (as Mr. Bunn would say),
there’s not a single good note of music in it.” I never heard that
Mr. Bunn was in the least given to swearing, but the great musician
thought that if he quoted his manager, whom he considered the
greatest personage in the world, it would keep him harmless from the
consequences of this evil habit of swearing.
In like manner, people father their severe sayings upon Ellesmere.
You remember that some man said (I think it was a judge), “David
said in his haste, I say deliberately, All men are liars.” Had
Ellesmere lived in that judge’s time, the sentence would have run
thus:--
“David said in his haste; I say, with brother Ellesmere,
deliberately, All men are liars.”
_Ellesmere._ Commend me to an intimate friend--he must be very
intimate--for saying the bitterest things in the softest manner
about one. But I’ll pay it all off some fine day upon Realmah.
_Mrs. Milverton._ But we have never heard who is this inventor so
odious to Sir John, for whom we are not to be able to say a good
word.
[I believe that Mrs. Milverton, who never thoroughly understands Sir
John, thought that he was really angry with her husband, and so strove
to change the conversation.]
_Ellesmere._ I will not keep you longer in suspense.
I say then “deliberately,” Unblessed be the man who invented starch.
[Great laughter.]
Has he not been an unbounded nuisance to mankind? What shirts, what
collars, what torturing neckcloths he has made the human race
endure! It will be ninety years before we get rid of his detestable
invention. Everything about the human body should be loose, flowing,
soft, and curvable; and this wretch has made us to some extent, and
our poor forefathers entirely, like hogs in armour.
I often picture to myself the kind of man he was. I am sure he was
an official man, Mr. Cranmer, who had vexed a department for thirty
years, and then, retiring into private life, spent his remaining
years in considering how he could best curb, and oppress, and
stiffen up the whole human race.
His life would be interesting, Mr. Cranmer, especially during the
inventing period, when he narrowly escaped strangulation from his
newly-invented neckcloth, which he first tried on upon himself. But
you must admit that he was a villain of the deepest dye.
_Milverton._ I have nothing to say for him.
_Sir Arthur._ Nor I.
_Mr. Mauleverer._ I have. These minor miseries are very useful in
diverting men’s minds from the contemplation of their great
afflictions.
_Ellesmere._ For my part, I prefer contemplating my great
afflictions without having to wear a collar that is both stiff and
jagged--such a one as Lady Ellesmere sets for me when we have
quarrelled. I assure you that this collar does not make me think
less of her.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Will anybody say anything sensible, and prevent
John from going on, and talking his nonsense?
_Sir Arthur._ I rush to the rescue like a gallant knight. I want to
say something about the Varnah in “Realmah,” who is Ellesmere’s
favourite. It is very characteristic of such a woman that she should
be always wishing “poor Realmah” to be like other people, and that
she should be always thinking what people will say.
_Ellesmere._ Now we really will be serious. I have always
maintained, Sir Arthur, that “what people will say” is the one great
tyrant, and that the united tyrannies of kings, priests, newspapers,
and kaisers, sink into insignificance when compared with Mrs.
Grundy’s.
_Sir Arthur._ Mrs. Grundy is an ill-used woman. Long before her time
people were ruled by the thought of what other people would say.
I have been always very much struck by the fact that some great
baron, ages ago, put up, as a motto, upon some place he built, I
suppose his castle,[14] “They have said: let them say.”
Footnote 14:
It was one of the Lords Marischal.
“On Marischal College, Aberdeen, which the Earl founded in 1593,
and endowed with a portion of the doomed spoil, the inscription in
large letters remained on the building till 1836, when these were
taken down to make room for the present structure:--
‘They say?
Quhat say thay?
Thay haif sayd?
Lat thame say.’”
--_Buchan_, by the Rev. John B. Pratt. 1858.
_Milverton._ This certainly goes to show that the tyranny, that this
good baron stood up against, is not of recent origin.
I suppose it existed in all ages, till we get back to the early days
of Paradise, when Adam and Eve had no neighbours to comment upon
them.
_Ellesmere._ Perhaps you are mistaken about that, Milverton. In
those early and innocent days there might have been much more
communion between man and the lower animals than there is now; and
perhaps our first parents said to one another, “What will the
jackals say?” or “This will be unpleasantly remarked upon by the
spotted snakes;” or coming home, after a long sweet ramble, to their
bower, and seeing a good many toads about (taking care, however, not
to hurt them), one spouse would observe to the other, “We will come
home earlier to-morrow, dear; I know that the toads comment severely
upon our always being out so late of an evening.”
_Lady Ellesmere._ (To Mrs. Milverton.) He is becoming irreverent as
well as silly. I think we will leave the gentlemen, dear.
And so the breakfast party broke up.
When we met again to hear the reading, Ellesmere descanted upon what he
was pleased to call the delusion that besets men of poetic minds, when
they are considering the past, and comparing anything done in it with
any similar thing done at the present time. Sir Arthur and Milverton
might talk to him for ever about the wonderful speeches in the
“Araucana.” He did not believe there was one of them to be compared to
any great charge to a jury by Chief Justice Cockburn. In fact, he
believed he had made better speeches himself than any savage that was
ever born. But perhaps I had better let him speak for himself.
_Ellesmere._ Now I believe that when Realmah made his speech you
were all called into council. At any rate there were four of
you--Milverton, Sandy, Mrs. Milverton, and my wife. I know it was
so, because Lady Ellesmere was very mysterious and kept me out of
the study, though she went in herself; and in the distance I heard a
pompous noise of rolling, rumbling sentences.
There were four of you, then, besides Realmah, and two or three
attendant nymphs. Notwithstanding this agglomeration of sagacity,
you contrived to make a most egregious blunder. In the first part of
the speech Realmah treated external observance as if it were most
unimportant: the devotion of the heart was everything.
In the second part of the speech, external observance was of the
utmost importance. There were not two right ways of doing a thing,
&c. &c.
_Mrs. Milverton._ I do believe that Sir John is jealous of Realmah’s
powers of speaking.
_Sir Arthur._ As to an inconsistency of this kind, I think nothing
of it. Show me any great modern speech, and the chances are that I
will point out a similar inconsistency. In good public speaking the
audience make half of the speech. The orator discerns what pleases
them, and, to influence them, dwells upon that topic which he sees
takes their fancy, and gains their applause, even if it militates
somewhat against what he has said before.
_Mauleverer._ Very true! I want to return, however, to the point
from which Sir John started, when he spoke of the delusion
manifested by imaginative men in over-praising the past.
There is nothing so foolish as the praise of men, except it be their
censure; and the man who thinks that the past _has been_ better than
the present, is, if possible, a greater fool than he who expects
that the future _will be_ better than the present.
The life of man is, I tell you, one dead level of stupidity and
error. There may be slight inequalities at different periods of the
world’s history; but these need no more be taken into account than
the trifling inequalities in the earth’s surface, which, when
compared with its main bulk, are absolutely inappreciable.
_Ellesmere._ Let us have the reading immediately. A stop must be put
to Mauleverer’s dreary sayings. I believe he is hired by Milverton
to reduce us to the proper state of depression for listening
submissively to his story.
Besides I foresee that Realmah will fall into great trouble. That
meddling sort of prematurely wise young fellow always does fall into
trouble; and then we shall not be too much agitated by his
misfortunes, Mauleverer having convinced us that a dead level of
misfortune is the normal condition of mankind. There are no cheerful
rapid rivers, bright up-springing fountains, merry cascades,
resounding waterfalls, pellucid lakes, breezy, boisterous, jovial
seas: but it is all one dull, turbid, changeless, level line of
canal waters that we behold, and upon which we travel, towed by
horses lean as Death, angry-eyed as Passion, and conducted by Fate
as a bargeman, whence we know not, and whither we know not, except
that the whither and the whence are alike abodes of misery and
gloom. I believe, though, there are some good dinners to be had on
the road.
_Milverton._ Do you know, Ellesmere, that was rather a fine
sentence--that last but one of yours?
_Ellesmere._ Thank you, patron. I rather think it was: I meant it to
be. I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose, at any rate
near the sweetbriar and the dog rose. I cannot write much myself,
but I have my own poor ideas of what writing should be. I have even
a scheme of what a sentence should be like--I do not mean an
ordinary sentence, but one which is to convey some considerable
meaning, and to do some work. I am not sure that even my good
friends, Sir Arthur and Mr. Milverton, always fulfil my ideal; but
then, we romantic men form such high ideals.
_Sir Arthur._ Pray lay down the lines for us, Ellesmere. We will
endeavour henceforth to build our poor vessels in accordance with
them. Pray tell us what a weighty sentence should be.
_Ellesmere._ It should be powerful in its substantives, choice and
discreet in its adjectives, nicely correct in its verbs: not a word
that could be added, nor one which the most fastidious would venture
to suppress: in order lucid, in sequence logical, in method
perspicuous; and yet with a pleasant and inviting intricacy which
disappears as you advance in the sentence: the language, throughout,
not quaint, not obsolete, not common, and not new: its several
clauses justly proportioned and carefully balanced, so that it moves
like a well-disciplined army organized for conquest: the rhythm, not
that of music, but of a higher and more fantastic melodiousness,
submitting to no rule, incapable of being taught: the substance and
the form alike disclosing a happy union of the soul of the author to
the subject of his thought, having, therefore, individuality without
personal predominance: and withal, there must be a sense of felicity
about it, declaring it to be the product of a happy moment, so that
you feel that it will not happen again to that man who writes the
sentence, or to any other of the sons of men, to say the like thing
so choicely, tersely, mellifluously, and completely.
We all looked at one another amazed, for Sir John is not wont to talk to
us in this way. It was pretty to see Lady Ellesmere. She got up and
leaned over Sir John’s chair, and looked at us with a look of pleasant
defiance, as much as to say, “You see that my husband, when he chooses,
can talk better sense, as well as better nonsense, than any of you.”
He continued:--
_Ellesmere._ You may now, Milverton, proceed in your reading, and I
trust that there may be a sentence here and there to which I may
conscientiously give my approval.
_Milverton._ I have no such hope. To make such killingly complete
sentences is far beyond my power.
[The reading then commenced.]
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER XI.
THE SHEVIRI TAKE THE FIELD AGAINST THE PHELATAHS--REALMAH IS MADE
PRISONER.
It was not to be expected that the Sheviri would tamely submit to the
base and insulting treatment they had experienced from the Phelatahs.
They immediately prepared a warlike expedition to go and attack
Abinamanche, the chief town of the Phelatahs. In this expedition Realmah
had an honourable place.
The campaign was long and varied, and was not crowned with any great
success on either side.
It is to be remarked, as very fortunate for these southern people, that
the northern tribes did not invade them at this juncture; and that the
approach of the northern people, which had been firmly believed in by
the Phelatahs when they sent their ambassador to Abibah, was not so
imminent as they had supposed.
Throughout the campaign Realmah displayed great skill and bravery; too
much bravery, however, for one whose physical powers were so weak. In an
obscure skirmish that took place nearly at the end of the campaign,
Realmah was separated from his followers, and was captured by the
Phelatahs.
The Sheviri had to return to their city, and to carry home the unwelcome
news to the Chief of the East that his nephew was a prisoner in the
hands of the enemy.
Great efforts were made to ransom Realmah, or to obtain his release by
an exchange of prisoners; but these efforts were unavailing. The
Phelatahs were well aware what an important person Realmah was, both as
a man of counsel and as a man of action, and they revengefully
remembered how he had thwarted them in their great scheme of treachery
which was the occasion of the war.
For month after month the captive languished in a prison in Abinamanche.
The populace clamoured for his death; and the chiefs of the Phelatahs
were obliged so far to give way to the wishes of their people as to
promise that on a certain day during the festival of the New Moon, the
prisoner should be sacrificed in honour of that deity.
Realmah, who had become a great favourite with those who guarded him,
and with some of those who visited him (of one of whom more will be said
hereafter), soon perceived, by the increase of their kindness towards
him, that his end was approaching. He felt it bitterly. It seemed hard
to him that one who like himself was devoted chiefly to great ends
should perish thus immaturely, and without having given any convincing
proof of the worth that he felt was in him.
There are few things more touching than to see one who has played a
great part no longer able to play it--but still going on playing it. To
witness, for instance, the efforts of a great singer who remains too
long upon the stage, and who has all the graceful ways and manners which
accompanied and evolved his past successes; but now they are
unproductive, and the result rather resembles a pantomime. The audience,
having tender recollections of the man’s past greatness, endeavours
affectionately to fill up gaps, and to consider as done, and even well
done, that which is but vaguely intimated; and there is an applause,
genuine in its way, but which is only the result of loving memories.
Still the great actor on the stage of life, or on the mimic stage, _has_
played his part, and the remembrance of past triumphs soothes and
supports the man; renders, both to himself and to those who hear him,
the failure less conspicuous; and fills up, both for him and for them,
what is now, alas! but a sadly incomplete representation.
But to die early with a sense of power, unused power, and to have
executed nothing; this was the burden upon Realmah’s soul during the
long days he remained in his prison.
Metastasio makes his Themistocles, when in exile, grandly exclaim,
“Future ages will envy me, perhaps, more for my misfortunes than for my
triumphs.”[15]
Footnote 15:
“Invidieranno
Forse l’ età future,
Più che i trionfi miei, le mie sventure.”
But then there must have been triumphs to make the misfortunes effective
and memorable. The world does not interest itself much in the career of
a man who is uniformly unfortunate. Now Realmah, in the depressed state
in which his imprisonment had left him, did not even give himself credit
for the sagacity which had originally baffled the designs of the
Phelatahs.
So far as regards his thoughts about the past: with regard to the
future, it was not an over-proud thought in him to think that his life,
if spared, would have been a useful one, and that his premature death
would be a loss to his country. Of private friends he had but few, for
his was a reserved nature, and being very different from most of the
young men of his nation, greatly inferior to them in personal prowess,
greatly superior to them in power of thought, he had never had much
companionship with any of them. He thought, as was natural, of those who
would mourn especially for him. There was the good old chief, his uncle,
who would miss the prop to his greatness that Realmah was becoming.
There was his aged nurse, who, he felt, would die of grief when she
should hear the sad tidings of his death. There was his foster-brother,
who understood him little, but loved him much. There were his wives,
Talora, the Varnah, and the Ainah. He felt that they, too, would mourn
for him; but not for very long; and he calmly made up his mind to die,
and began to look with some little interest to the life beyond the
grave.
The greatest of sentimental writers has brought before us the miseries
of imprisonment by representing vividly the wretchedness of one single
prisoner; but it is to be recollected that there have been periods of
the world when the numbers of imprisoned individuals would have amounted
to a large army, each of the private soldiers in this army of sufferers
being sodden with misery, languishing with little hope, and expecting by
way of change, torture or death.
CHAPTER XII.
THE PERILS OF A SPY.
It was a lovely day in autumn, one of those days when it seems happiness
enough to be alive, and when a prisoner, however resolved and courageous
his nature, might feel a great unwillingness to die.
But, strange to say, it is precisely on these days that it is found that
men are most ready to die; for the notion that suicide is more common in
bad weather than in good, has long been exploded by facts which tell
quite a different tale.
Perhaps it is, that on these beautiful days the higher powers seem to be
more beneficent, and the wretch overladen with misery thinks that he can
trust more to their mercy, and that he may find on his exit from this
life--
“An ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams;
Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.”
The building in which Realmah was a prisoner was raised some seven feet
from the ground before the first floor commenced, and this slight
elevation enabled him to look down on an open street that led to the
water, and to see the men and women passing over the causeways, going to
their work in the plain and the woods near the lake.
It did not, however, enable him to perceive a timid, slouching figure of
a wayworn, haggard-looking young woman, who hovered near these groups of
working-people, apparently engaged in collecting faggots.
Realmah looked long at the beautiful scene, with the blue water, the
blue sky, the bright plains near the lake, the distant brown woods, and
the quaint buildings which seemed somehow to harmonize with the scene;
but these things did not console him; he might have said with a modern
poet--
“I see them all so beautifully fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are.”
The buildings at Abinamanche, as at Abibah, were chiefly low, but there
towered above them, in the most fantastic forms, vanes and weathercocks
of every description. It was natural that people who paid so much
attention to the four quarters--the east, west, north, and south--should
delight in weathercocks. These fantastic ornaments, reflected in the
waters, added a certain beautiful grotesqueness to the picture.
It was, however, something comic that most arrested Realmah’s attention.
Perched upon three rocks, at about equal distances from each other, were
three cranes, each resting on one leg. Whether there is something
peculiarly comic in these solemn-looking birds, or whether Realmah
happened to think of a proverb much in vogue amongst his
countrymen--“The crane pretends to listen to his nymph, but all the
while is looking sharply after his fish,”--I do not know, but a smile
came over his countenance, which afterwards relapsed into melancholy, as
he drew back from the aperture, and sat down upon the ground.
Meanwhile, and indeed all day long, the slouching figure of that young
woman, before described, remained within sight, but beyond the ken, of
the parties of labourers who were at work in the country near
Abinamanche. She was observing how the women of the lower orders amongst
the Phelatahs were dressed, and endeavouring to arrange her dress so as
to resemble theirs, in order that she might pass in their company
unnoticed into the town, when the shades of evening should come on.
At length the day’s labour was over, and the men and women began to
troop over the causeways into the town. Now this travel-worn stranger
went with them. She succeeded in passing unnoticed over the drawbridge,
where the crowd was dense, but a different fate befell her when she got
into the open streets.
The truth is, this poor stranger had made a great mistake in the
arrangement of her dress. The maidens amongst the Phelatahs were
distinguished from the matrons, and the matrons from the maidens, by
slight distinctions in dress. She first copied the head-dress of one
group, who happened to be all maidens, and then copied the way in which
another group, who happened to be all matrons, wore their upper tunic;
so that, in the eyes of a Phelatah, she made a most ridiculous and
incongruous appearance,--dressing herself both as a matron and a maiden.
She had not gone far along the main street, which led from the
drawbridge into the centre of the town (and which was called the Street
of Primroses), before a boy spied out this strangely-dressed person, and
shouted, “The little girl-wife! The little girl-wife!” There was soon a
mob of boys and girls following her. This attracted the notice of the
elder people, who were greatly scandalized at her appearance.
The crowd now thickened about her: questions were asked who she was, and
whether she was mad. She implored to be allowed to go away; and her
speech at once betrayed that she was not a Phelatah. They instantly
concluded that she was a spy. The guards at the drawbridge were
summoned, and by them she was carried off to the house of the eldest
chieftain. He thought that this woman’s presence foreboded the approach
of an enemy, and lost no time in calling together the council of the
chiefs.
It was soon conjectured by them that her coming had something to do with
Realmah; and it was resolved to confront the two, and to see if they
could be surprised into any signs of recognition.
Realmah was accordingly sent for. He thought that his death was now
imminent, and summoned up all his courage to meet his approaching doom.
When he was brought before the council, not a word was said to him.
Gestures of high politeness passed between him and the great chiefs of
the Phelatahs, but there was dead silence in the council-room.
Suddenly the captive was brought in between two guards, and all eyes
were directed towards Realmah.
Now Realmah was a man of great craft and subtlety. Perhaps the only
drawback to his greatness was, that he was so crafty and so subtle, for
it is not the part of a great man to be crafty and subtle. But on this
day it did him “yeoman’s service.” There was, it is true, a slight
movement of the muscles near his mouth, but it was concealed by his
beard, for these so-called savages, wiser than many civilized people,
did not shave; and the two prisoners regarded each other apparently with
stolid indifference.
The captive was Realmah’s Ainah.
Realmah, of course, had not failed at once to recognise the Ainah, worn
though she was by toil and anxiety; but he felt that any recognition
would be fatal to both of them.
“Who is this woman?” said the oldest chief of the Phelatahs to Realmah;
and Realmah, without hesitation, replied, “She must be one of my people.
Perhaps she brings offers for my ransom, though methinks” (and here he
assumed an appearance of haughtiness) “my people might have sent some
one of more dignity than this poor woman to negotiate the ransom of one
of their chiefs. But speak to her; her words will soon show from whence
she comes.”
This was a most artful reply on the part of Realmah. He comprehended the
situation at once, or at least what he did comprehend was sufficiently
near to the true state of the case to make his reply most judicious. He
imagined that some effort for his rescue was about to be made by his
fellow-countrymen, and that the good-natured Ainah (he had always
recognised her good nature) had consented to come beforehand, and
prepare him for any emergency. He had not attempted to conceal the fact
of her being one of his countrywomen, because he felt that was sure to
be discovered the moment that she spoke; and a wise man always makes up
his mind to what is inevitable, and appears to welcome it.
The old chief then cross-questioned the Ainah. She was one of those
people who have a great capacity for darkening their meaning by many
confused words, and she told how she had come to seek for her husband, a
common soldier amongst the Sheviri, who had been wounded, they told her,
not killed; and what her mother-in-law had said to her, and what she had
said to her mother-in-law; and what good people the Phelatahs were; and
what a sad affair it was for her being without her husband; and that
there was no fish in the house; and that the boys and girls in this town
had been very rude to her--but boys and girls were a torment everywhere.
Then she said that she wondered, for her part, that near neighbours
could not be friends; but it was all the men’s fault. They went out to
fight, in order to amuse themselves, and to get away from their wives,
and to throw all the burthen of the housework upon poor women. Here the
chiefs could not help laughing, upon which the Ainah appeared to become
more angry than ever, and dilated at large, in uncouth language, upon
the various misdeeds and general misbehaviour of the male sex. She
declared that, for her part (quite changing her story), she had come to
look for her poor man, not that he was of any use to anybody, but
perhaps he would be starved if he were left to himself; and so she
supposed it was her duty to come, but she did not expect to be treated
in this way. In fact, to use a modern phrase, she gave them all “a bit
of her mind.”
Finally she succeeded in producing the impression on most of the chiefs
that she was a shrewish little woman, who had been accustomed to scold
her husband, and felt now the want of somebody to scold.
Realmah wondered at the ingenuity of the Ainah. Once, for a moment,
their eyes met, whilst she was in the midst of her scolding harangue,
and the incipient laugh that there was in the eyes of both of them might
have betrayed them if some of the chiefs at that moment had not been
remarking to each other jestingly that if this was a specimen of the
female sex in Abibah, it was no wonder that the Sheviri fought pretty
well, for anything would be better than going home to such a woman.
Still there were some amongst the chiefs who were not entirely convinced
of the truth of this story. Their prudent counsel prevailing, it was
eventually ordered that the Ainah should be conveyed to prison; and
hints were thrown out to her of torture to be administered next day, if
it was found that she had not told the whole truth to the Great Council.
Realmah was conducted back to his prison; and, after a short interval,
the Ainah was taken to her place of durance, which was a room in the
same building.
So far the Ainah’s enterprise, whatever it was, had not proved very
successful.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE ESCAPE FROM PRISON.
At night Realmah was always bound; but the guards who had charge of the
Ainah did not care to bind this helpless-looking, insignificant young
woman.
Realmah’s thoughts that night were very bitter. The poets say that “a
sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things;” but there is no
sorrow for a generous mind that eats into the heart so closely as
thinking that you have brought evil upon others, and that they are to
suffer for your sake. Realmah feared that it would go ill with the Ainah
the next day. He knew that there was one man in that council who was
perfectly aware of the relation between them. To that man he had given
one imploring look while she was telling her story; but he could not
discern whether that look was answered favourably or not. Upon that man
much of the fate of the south of Europe at that time depended; but it is
not now a fitting occasion to enter upon that subject. Moreover, Realmah
conjectured that there were in Abinamanche some common soldiers of the
Sheviri, who, like himself, had been taken prisoners. The probability
was that they knew the Ainah very well; and, in fine, he felt certain
that it would be discovered who she was.
Realmah, suffering greater misery than he had hitherto endured, remained
for some hours sleepless in his bonds. Notwithstanding all this misery,
there was, occasionally, a strange feeling of pleasure in his mind
connected with the Ainah. He was continually thinking with admiration of
her cleverness, and pitying her to himself for her wan looks. He
thought, too, there was some affection as well as archness in the glance
with which the Ainah favoured him when she was descanting upon the
good-for-nothing husband she had come to look after. Suddenly he fancied
he heard a soft voice whispering his name. Soon he was assured that it
was not fancy, and that the Ainah was close to him on the other side of
the wooden division that separated his prison chamber from the next one.
How she got there, and what was the nature of her enterprise are now to
be told.
During the many months that Realmah had remained in prison, there was
one faithful heart in Abibah which never ceased to think of the peril of
her Realmah. Through the long nights the Ainah meditated as to what
could be done to rescue him. She did not dare to interfere as long as
there was any hope from the public negotiations on his behalf. When
these failed, she made up her mind to attempt his rescue herself. She
did not speak of her determination to any one. What she greatly relied
upon to aid her in her enterprise was a wine-skin which she took with
her, containing the choicest and most intoxicating liquor known to the
Sheviri. This was prepared from honey and from various herbs, amongst
which was the _voroo_, a powerful opiate. The Ainah also took with her
some strips of dried deer’s flesh, and a very sharp instrument made of
quartz, which was the pride and delight of the Varnah, and which she had
brought with her as part of her marriage dowry. This the Ainah now
abstracted furtively.
She set off one morning before daybreak; and, when missed, no one took
much heed of her departure but the Varnah, who mourned over the loss of
a good helpmate, and, moreover, regretted the theft, as she was pleased
to call it, of the sharp instrument of quartz, which was the most
perfect one of that kind known in the town of Abibah.
Meanwhile, the Ainah, as we have seen, made her way without much
difficulty to the outskirts of the town of Abinamanche, subsisting
chiefly on berries, for she hoarded up the strips of deer’s flesh for a
great occasion.
Now Abinamanche was built very much in the same form as Abibah--a fact
which was well known to the Sheviri. The Ainah, therefore, thought that
she could readily make her way to the principal buildings, which were
placed in similar positions to those in her own town. Her plan was to
approach the prison by night; to allow herself to be despoiled of her
wine-skin by Realmah’s warders; to watch for its effect upon them; and
then to attempt, by means of the quartz instrument, to cut a way from
the outside into Realmah’s prison. She conjectured, and rightly, that
this building would be constructed of wood, and therefore not very
strong, for both the Sheviri and the Phelatahs relied more upon guards
than upon prison walls, which reliance, with their knowledge of building
materials, was certainly prudent. There were guards posted day and night
about the prison of Realmah.
We have seen how the Ainah got into the town, and by what mistake on her
part she had been recognised. Her original plan had therefore been
defeated; but a favourable chance and her cunning and her ready wit had,
in reality, brought her closer to Realmah than she could have hoped to
have been brought if her original plan of escaping notice had been
successful.
As the Ainah, after her examination by the Council, was being taken to
prison by the soldiers, four in number, who were to watch at her prison
room for the night, and to be answerable for her appearance next day,
she contrived to show that she was secreting something, and thus to
awaken curiosity.
Afterwards, when she was in her prison room, suspecting that they were
watching her through some aperture, she, in a furtive manner, appeared
to drink something from the wine-skin, which contained the powerful
liquid before mentioned. Soon one of the soldiers entered the room, and,
rudely jesting with her, partly by intreaty, and partly by force,
compelled her to give up the wine-skin to him. She threatened to scream
for assistance to her fellow-countryman in the next apartment. This was
a mere guess of hers, thrown out to gain some knowledge of the spot were
Realmah was confined. And it succeeded, for the soldier told her that
she might scream, as the young cripple was two rooms off; and if he were
to hear he could do nothing. “The next room is empty, so scream away, my
pretty young maiden,” said the soldier, ironically and tauntingly. And
so saying, he left her.
The guards who watched the Ainah did not partake their prize with the
guards who watched Realmah, and who were stationed at the other end of
the building. The potent liquor, divided among so few, soon had its
effect: they were first merry, then noisy and quarrelsome, then silent.
The Ainah, who had carefully watched for these signs, then commenced her
operations. In two hours’ time, working very softly with the sharp
quartz instrument, she had made an aperture sufficiently large for her
to crawl through into the next chamber. It was then that she whispered
Realmah’s name, and told him what means she had with her for escape. She
had meant to make a small opening, which would be soon cut, and to pass
the quartz instrument through it, enabling him to do the rest of the
work quickly. To her dismay she learnt from him that he was bound, and
that she would have to do the work herself, not knowing where the weak
points of the woodwork were. Three long hours were passed in an agony of
fear by both of them before she succeeded in cutting her way into his
room, for it was the strong room of the prison, in which the greatest
offenders were always confined. His bonds were soon severed, and the
prisoners commenced to make their escape, passing through the vacant
apartment into the room in which the Ainah had first been placed.
It was now two hours past midnight, and there was still an exit to be
made from this room. They boldly resolved to try the door, and they cut
out that part where the simple latch that fastened it on the outside was
placed. This did not take more than half an hour. They then opened the
door gently, descended the steps, passed the sleeping guard; and
Realmah, though still in the midst of a hostile city, felt that he was
once more a free man, and he could have shouted for joy at his
deliverance. He was not, however, the kind of man to indulge in shouting
before he was thoroughly out of danger.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FLIGHT.
Silently the fugitives glided through the deserted streets, and made
their way to the drawbridges. They had not a hope of finding these
bridges let down, or unguarded; and were prepared to swim across to
shore. By a fortunate accident, however, that night there was a
drawbridge, to the south-east of the town, which had not been raised,
and the two warders belonging to it were fast asleep. Using the utmost
care, the fugitives passed noiselessly over the causeway, and gained the
shore. Now the town of Abibah lay to the east of Abinamanche. Realmah
had often thought what he would do if, by any lucky chance, he should
make his escape. There was a long strip of open ground on the shore.
Over this they hurried along, proceeding westwards; Realmah, to the
astonishment of his companion, treading heavily so as to insure the
marks of his sandals being seen in the ground. When they had proceeded
half a mile in this way, they diverged into a wood which lay towards the
south, and through this wood they went, but still in a westerly
direction. The moon was very bright, and Realmah was able to thread his
way without much difficulty. He ascended, with great labour (for from
his infirmity he was not agile), a lofty tree, the foliage of which was
thickly interlaced with other trees. From this tree he passed to
another, and from that other to a third, and then, taking off his
sandals, descended with the utmost caution. Carefully choosing the
hardest ground when he came near to the spot where he had left the
Ainah, he bade her rejoin him, telling her to take care to step as
lightly as possible. When she had done so, they changed the direction of
their flight, and proceeded swiftly for about three miles to the east,
so that the town of Abinamanche now lay to the west of them. There they
halted again. Not a word had been spoken by either except the words of
command that were necessary for Realmah to direct his Ainah.
The fugitives lay down upon the ground. It was an embarrassing moment
for Realmah. He would have liked to have burst into an effusion of
thanks and even tenderness towards his preserver; but the relations
between them had hitherto been so cold that he hardly knew how to begin.
At last he uttered a few words of praise to her for her skill. She
recounted the various steps that she had taken to effect his escape: he
told her of his sufferings in prison. Afterwards, she related to him the
news of Abibah, and all that had happened at home during his absence.
The subtle Realmah contrived by artful questions to detect, to some
extent, from the Ainah, who, however, had no intention of enlightening
him, how much his loss had been felt by the Varnah and by Talora. The
truth was, that the Varnah had really missed him, having grown
accustomed to look after him and to care for him; and that Talora had
been very cross at his absence, had blamed him exceedingly for his folly
in allowing himself to be captured, and had greatly deplored her own
forlorn situation.
Realmah and the Ainah talked on in the douce, quiet way that two youths
who had been concerned in some great enterprise, and were still in great
peril, would have talked. At length the Ainah, who was oppressed by
fatigue and want of food--for she had stinted herself in order that they
might have something to eat in case they should escape--fell asleep.
Throughout that night, Realmah sat entranced in thought. There are times
when our lives come before us in imagination, not by the recalling or
forecasting of individual facts or events, but by their being grouped
together as it were in large pictures,--landscapes of the mind, as they
might be called; and Realmah now saw his past life, and his probable
future life, laid out before him in a strange weird way, the brightness
of a morning sun illumining the pictures of the past, the rich hues of a
setting sun gilding, and yet softening, the colours of the grander
scenes of the future.
As was natural, having just escaped a great peril, in his picture of the
future, perils fell into beautiful forms, and it was a picture of
success he painted, in which he was to accomplish his high ends and
noble purposes. And then, with a certain feeling of profound melancholy,
there fell upon him a sense of the futility of it all; and the great
questions--Why are we here? What does it all mean? What does it all tend
to? came upon him with a force and a pathos far greater than they would
upon modern minds; for he had no reason to think that the burthen of
such thoughts was partaken by any human being.
Still he resolved to do the work that lay before him, whatever might
come of it, or of him.
When the morning broke, his thoughts were diverted into other channels,
as he contemplated the sleeping Ainah.
I have said that what little beauty she possessed lay in expression
rather than in features; and for the first time Realmah perceived this
beauty. Even the fatigue and anxiety she had gone through had improved
her looks, creating a refinement in her countenance which had not always
in former days been perceptible in it.
Gradually it dawned upon him how it was that neither the Varnah nor
Talora had sought to do what the Ainah had done, and he knew, for the
first time, what love should be, and who was really lovable. Eventually
the bold idea came into his mind that he would kiss the sleeping girl;
but he felt ashamed to do so, for he thought within himself, “There is
the girl I have treated as a slave, and upon whom I have never bestowed
one thought of real affection; and now, because she has saved my life, I
begin to discern that she is beautiful and loving,--perhaps the only
woman, besides my dear old foster-nurse, who does love me in the world.”
At that moment the Ainah awoke. She timidly took his hand, and kissed
it. Emboldened by this mark of affection, he embraced her warmly, and
poured his thanks into her ears. She looked at him with astonishment,
murmured something about her duty, and, as if divining his thoughts,
said, that she had not entrusted the others with her enterprise, because
she felt that they could not aid her. She knew that her low condition
and common appearance would enable her to enter the town of Abinamanche
with less observation than that which the Varnah or Talora would have
had to encounter. She was sure they would have flown to rescue him, had
it been possible for them to do so.
Realmah now found himself placed in a most embarrassing position.
There is hardly any man who has attained middle life who has
not--socially speaking--found himself in some very strange position. He
has, for instance, sat next, at some feast, to some person, unknown to
him by countenance, but well known to him by repute as one of his
greatest opponents and bitterest enemies. Each has, on this occasion,
found the other very likable and agreeable, and each has been shocked,
amazed, and almost startled out of his prejudices, when by some accident
it has been revealed to both of them with whom it was that each had been
talking in this most friendly manner.
Or, to take another instance, your next neighbour at a dinner pours out
to you, in confidence, being rather taken with you, his especial dislike
to yourself, and his contempt for your writings, your pictures, or your
statues, or your conduct as a politician; for he, poor man, has no idea
that you are yourself, but, having heard that you are in the company,
has mistaken the man opposite for you.
But all these positions of awkwardness may almost be said to be pleasant
when compared with that in which Realmah now found himself. To have
lived in close domestic intimacy with a woman; never to have pretended
even to love her; to owe his life to a great and perilous effort on her
part to rescue him; then to fall in love with her; and not to know how
to begin the love-making, which ought to have begun long ago; to feel
that any love now proffered might seem to be merely gratitude;--surely
this is a position in which few lovers have ever found themselves, and
which Realmah had now to encounter. He was a skilful talker, and
probably owed much of his popularity to his being able to enter into
conversation with any person, of whatever rank, with whom he was thrown
in contact. But, on this occasion, he sat by the side of his Ainah, and
could not find anything to say, though, in his heart, he was longing to
pour out his love for her. To talk of commonplace things would, he felt,
be supremely ridiculous.
At last, however, like a wise man, he resolved to make the plunge at
once, and after a long pause, thus began: “What could make you take all
this trouble, and go through such peril, for a foolish, dim-eyed man
like me, who never had the sagacity to see what a treasure he possessed
in you, or the tenderness to say one really kind or loving word to you?
You are a very silly child. You should have let Realmah die in prison,
and then have married some one more worthy of your love.”
But the Ainah only replied by clasping his hand in hers, and with
downcast looks softly saying, “But what if I was so silly as only to
love my lord Realmah, whom it was presumption in the poor fisher-girl to
love at all?”
Then ensued a long pause, which was owing, on Realmah’s part, to a most
ludicrous circumstance. The truth was he had forgotten her name. He had,
of course, heard it on the day she was brought to him, but he had
entirely forgotten it. Such titles as the “Ainah” and the “Varnah” were
merely words used in the household, and in the presence of other
persons, and no lover ever thought of using them when alone with his
beloved. Realmah had been struck with this in the few words he had just
addressed to the Ainah, and he felt that it would be almost an insult to
go on pretending to make love to a young woman whose name he, of all
men, should know, but which had entirely faded from his memory.
Poor Realmah sat there in silence, cogitating over the names most common
amongst his countrywomen, and vainly torturing his memory as to which
could be the right one. At length, when the silence was becoming
ominous, he resolved as it were to make a clean breast of it, and
exclaimed--
“Here is a miserable wretch of a man who would wish to express all the
love he feels for his beloved, and does not even know her name.”
The Ainah laughed,--a low, pleasant laugh,--then threw her arms round
his neck, and whispered, “Lufra.” It was one of the common names which
poor Realmah had thought of, and which he naturally could not now help
wishing that he had been bold enough to try. But perhaps it was better,
as he thought with the wisdom of a second thought, that he had concealed
nothing from his Lufra, and that he might now begin from the beginning
and address her as if she had been some gracious stranger with whom he
had become acquainted for the first time that day. He did not fail to
play his part well as a lover. He said that others amongst the Sheviri
might talk of their nymphs, who watched over their destinies and
defended them from all harm; but henceforth the only nymph he should
worship would be his Lufra. She hastened to put her hand upon his lips,
for these were sadly irreverent words (Realmah was certainly not
orthodox); but, though irreverent, the words were singularly pleasing to
the girl, and Realmah did not fail to kiss the hand which sought to save
him from the anger of his heavenly nymph.
The first embarrassment overcome, Realmah was fluent, ardent, and
eloquent; and much time passed away, during which the lovers spoke of
all their love for each other.
He confided to her his great schemes and hopes for the nation, and found
her a worthy recipient of his high thoughts. Gradually he gained from
her the knowledge of how his courtesy to a poor girl like her had won
her timid love, and a hundred times he offered to her his fond excuses
for having been indifferent to, indeed unconscious of, her love. They
both felt that their love must for ever remain somewhat concealed,
because it would not be thought right for a man of his dignity and high
rank to be in love with his Ainah.
She then produced from her wallet a strip of dried deer’s flesh, all of
which she would have insisted upon his eating, but that he was
peremptory and commanded her to share it with him.
Having finished their hasty meal they proceeded on their way to Abibah,
strangely joyful fugitives, indeed almost reckless ones, for in their
great love they had forgotten their imminent dangers. Realmah, however,
always made the Ainah precede him by a step or two, for he feared a
surprise from the rear.
CHAPTER XV.
THE FINAL DANGER.
The scene which the fugitives were now approaching was one of the
grandest in that part of the world. There was a huge amphitheatre of
level land, inclosed by mountains. Conspicuous amongst these mountains
was the Bidolo-Vamah, which was like no other mountain far or near.
Bidolo-Vamah means “a ruined mountain;” and it was indeed like a ruin.
It was as if a mountain of the ordinary kind had been upheaved by some
volcanic eruption, and had then, in mid-air, burst asunder in all
directions. Even in mountains there are some prevailing forms, but
Bidolo-Vamah was shapeless, hideous, confused; and yet there was a
strange attraction in it which drew the eyes of all men upon it.
There were, as might be expected, strange legends about this mountain.
Some said that all the mountains were bad, defying spirits; and that
Bidolo-Vamah had been their chief, and upon his devoted head had fallen
with most fury the thunder-blasts of heaven. Others--but these were the
poets of the people--said that these mountains had been great and wicked
kings, who, for their wickedness, had been transformed into stone, and
that Bidolo-Vamah had been the most wicked of them all.
The level country was most rich and fertile. Those things which were but
small ordinary plants in other parts of the earth, rose here into
fullest magnitude and richest beauty. The bushes and trees were of
corresponding size, and the luxuriance of all vegetation was such that
the plain seemed as if it were meant for a garden of primæval giants,
and not for the small race of men who had to subdue it, and to live upon
it.
The fugitives had now approached the outskirts of the wood which lay
between Abinamanche and Abibah; and the trees were becoming scattered.
Still the undergrowth of splendid weeds, gorgeous flowers, and rich
grasses, embarrassed their movements. These latter began to take the
form of water-grasses, for the fugitives were rapidly approaching the
great river Ramassa, which takes a curve from the hill country and
crosses the pathway usually traversed between the two towns of
Abinamanche and Abibah, at about a mile from the latter.
Realmah had intended to swim across this river, carrying the Ainah with
him. He was the most expert swimmer of his nation. His deformity, like
that of Lord Byron, was not a hindrance in the water. Then, as from his
early years he had been left much at home, he had amused himself by
swimming about in the lake, while the other young men of his nation were
hunting in the woods or cultivating the lowlands. Besides--and this is a
very curious fact--neither the Sheviri nor the Phelatahs, though their
habitations were on the water, were at all attached to that element.
They looked upon it as a means of defence, but they were neither good
swimmers nor good boatmen. And, as we see to the present day in some
nations, their genius did not lead them to love the water, and they were
afraid of it.
The shades of evening were coming on when the two fugitives were nearing
the extreme outskirt of the wood. They had been silent for some time,
being much overcome by fatigue and exhaustion. Suddenly the Ainah began
to sing softly that beautiful song which was such a favourite among the
Sheviri, and which begins thus--
“Melaiah, Paraiah, amadala paree,
Invannah doveeno, corosa Ramee.”
It was in truth a beautiful song. The main idea of it was this: all
created things grow, but love: that, from the first, is infinite. The
burden of the song may be translated thus--
“All creatures grow but the Great God,
And my fond love for thee.”
Then the song went on to say how the oak was once an acorn; and the
branch was once a bud: how the blazing day was once grey morning; and
the full moon was once a little curve of light. And then the burden of
the song came in again--
“All creatures grow but the Great God,
And my fond love for thee.”
The Ainah never committed a graver error than in attempting to sing that
song. A great scholar of ancient languages might have written nearly a
treatise upon the blunders which the poor Ainah contrived to make, both
in grammar and euphony, in the first two lines of that celebrated song.
For instance, the first word, Melaiah, she turned most unaccountably
into Melakkah.
Realmah shuddered, and could not avoid uttering a loud sound of intense
disapproval. The sensitive Ainah turned and saw the shrug of the
shoulders and the look of disgust upon her lover’s countenance. She
hastily approached him, rested her head upon his breast, and exclaimed,
in a sorrowful tone, “I am so ignorant, I shock you. How can you love
me?”
In that moment a change came over Realmah, and he saw certain things in
a light which he had never seen them before. In book-life men retire
into their chambers to reflect deeply, and to resolve upon a different
course of thought or action; but in real life, these changes are often
absolutely sudden, and occur at the most unexpected times and places.
And so it was now. Realmah saw at a glance how pedantic and how cruel it
was of him to love the Ainah less, and to be disgusted with her, because
he, who had been brought up with the learned and the noble, knew how to
pronounce words rightly which the poor fisher-girl knew not. And with
the tenderest words he re-assured her, telling her what a fool a man was
if he looked to the expression and not to the thought; and he laughingly
told her that she might even call “louvara” “luffee,” alluding to one of
her worst blunders, if she liked, and he would love her just the same.
After a moment or two they walked on together in the same order, and in
a few minutes the Ainah commenced another song--one of the songs of her
own tribe, which was in their humble language, and the burden of which
was--
“For my love he loves many,
Though I love but one.”
Being a common song, and the words consisting chiefly of monosyllables,
she thought it would not vex his delicate sense of language.
And here we may notice what a good girl the Ainah was. Many girls, under
similar circumstances, would have been angry; some would have been
depressed; others would have been sullen; but her obedient and docile
thought was only how she should show Realmah that she was not vexed, and
that she could trust him when he told her that he would love her sweet
words, however incorrectly they might be expressed.
They were now in sight of the great river Ramassa; indeed, they were not
more than three hundred yards distant from it. They had emerged from the
dense wood, but there were still great trees between them and the river.
They walked on in this way for about a hundred yards. Realmah had joined
in the burden of the Ainah’s song; but a nice discriminator of musical
sounds might have discerned that some strange and sudden emotion had
come over him while he was joining in the burden of that song.
In truth, he had seen a face from behind one of the trees, and in a
moment had conjectured what had been the plan of the Phelatahs in
pursuit, and that they had sent on a party to intercept him at this
river.
He revolved his chances of escape, and decided upon his course of
action. Suddenly stepping up to the Ainah, he playfully said, “Shall we
see, Lufra, who will be first at the river’s edge?” and, with a strange
inconsistency with his words, he seized her hand and rushed with her
down to the river’s edge. In a minute or two shouts were heard; the
scout who had seen Realmah had warned his fellows, five or six of whom
had emerged from the wood in pursuit of Realmah and the Ainah, and were
overtaking them rapidly. The fugitives, however, gained the river;
Realmah dashed in, dragging her after him. She clung to him in a way
that embarrassed him most dangerously. Quick as thought he gave her a
violent blow, which made her relinquish her hold, and indeed rendered
her senseless, and then he commenced swimming, dragging her after him.
Before the Phelatahs were on the bank, Realmah, availing himself of the
current, and swimming rapidly, was at a considerable distance from the
shore; but not at such a distance, however, that the javelins of the
Phelatahs were without effect. One of these pierced the arm of the
senseless Ainah, while another struck the shoulder of Realmah, and
remained in it. His courage, however, did not fail him; and, though in
great pain, he succeeded in reaching the opposite shore, dragging the
Ainah with him, where he threw himself on the ground quite exhausted,
the Ainah being still insensible. Happily they were now beyond the reach
of the enemy’s missiles. The Phelatahs dared not follow; and after a
short interval the Ainah recovered her senses.
Realmah felt ashamed at the blow which he had given her, though he knew
it had afforded the only chance for her safety; and, lover-like,
tenderly apologized to her for his great cruelty. This readiness in a
crisis of danger to take the necessary step, however painful, was
eminently characteristic of Realmah, who had in him the nature of a
great commander: swift to appreciate, and ready to act upon, the
dictates of dire necessity. The Ainah playfully said that the danger now
was not his being too cruel, but too kind.
The fugitives having bound up each other’s wounds, pursued their way
northwards. In a few hours they met with a party of labourers from
Abibah, and in their company gained safely their native town.
Great was the joy in Abibah when the return of Realmah was made known
through the town. Talora appeared more beautiful than ever; and the
Varnah forgot, for the first day, to scold those persons who came to
congratulate, but had the audacity to enter her apartments without
having first carefully wiped their sandals.
Nobody cared to inquire much into what the Ainah had done to aid in
Realmah’s escape; and he himself did not dwell upon that part of the
proceedings lest it should lead persons to notice and examine more
closely the tender relations which now subsisted between them. But the
love that there was in his heart for her partook of the largeness of his
nature, and was, from that moment, deep, intense, and enduring.
* * * * *
Conversation is certainly a very capricious thing. I did expect that
after this reading we should have had a most interesting conversation.
My master and I had taken great pains with those chapters of “Realmah.”
I do sometimes think that Mr. Milverton must, in some previous state of
existence, have lived in one of these Lake cities, as whatever
explanation I ask for upon any point, he always gives me at once; and I
took great care in these chapters not to allow him to go on narrating
without I thoroughly understood every point of the narrative. In short,
I was very proud of our work; and that is the truth.
After the reading there was some praise in general terms: “it was very
interesting,” “a new phase of life was opened,” “it was an excellent
choice of subject,” &c. &c.; but that was not what I wanted. I did think
we should have had some good discussion.
Sir John Ellesmere is, no doubt, a very distinguished man; very amusing,
agreeable, and even lovable; but he is sometimes very trying, too. It is
one thing to read about a man, and another to live with him. It was all
his fault that this conversation went off so badly. The only thing that
he could find to talk about, and that he discoursed about at great
length, was about the three cranes which Realmah saw from his prison
window, and the proverb of the Sheviri about cranes. (I wish we had
never put in that passage.) He made out that it was an insult to
fishermen, and dilated at large upon the especial merits and virtues of
anglers. It was true they looked a great deal down into the waters, but
it was not merely to catch fish, but to see the reflection of the
heavens. They had written better books than any other men; and then
somehow he fell foul of authors, and publishers, and literary puffing,
which I did not think very good taste, seeing there were two or three
authors present. And, altogether, I was very much disappointed in the
conversation.
Mr. Milverton saw I was vexed, and said to me as he went away, “I see,
Alick, you are quite annoyed at their not discussing our story. But, my
dear boy, you must take it as a compliment. They do not see much to find
fault with, and praise is always a dull thing. People seldom spend much
time in praising. When a man looks back upon his misspent hours, he will
not find that he has to reproach himself for many of them having been
spent in commendation.”
I do not think he was quite pleased either. As for me, I could not help
thinking of a passage in Pepys’s Diary which I had lately been reading
out to Mr. Milverton. I do not recollect the exact words, but they were
something like these--Pepys had been going up the river in a barge,
attending upon King Charles the Second and his brother the Duke of York.
Pepys is delighted at being in such good company; nevertheless, in his
honest way, he says: “But, Lord! what poor stuff it was that they did
talk--as poor as ever I heard; though, Heaven bless them, they are two
princes of a noble nature, and of excellent discernment.”
I remember that when I read out that passage, Sir John remarked that he
was sure that Charles and James were making fun of Pepys (to speak
vulgarly, chaffing him), and that he did not understand it; but I
believe that they were talking downright nonsense, just such “poor
stuff” as Sir John himself and the other clever men were talking to-day.
It is impossible to continue to be angry with Sir John Ellesmere: he is
such a kind-hearted man. An hour or two after our last meeting I
observed Sir John, Mr. Milverton, and Mr. Mauleverer walking in the
garden, and in earnest conversation. I longed to join them, but did not
like to do so, fearing that I might be intrusive. Sir John, seeing me in
the distance, and guessing, I have no doubt, what I felt, called to me.
_Ellesmere._ Come here, Sandy, and be flat-ironed--I mean morally
and metaphysically. Mr. Mauleverer is telling a story which is to
show convincingly that all young men are nincompoops; all
middle-aged men mere beasts of burden; and all old men fools.
_Mauleverer._--some nine miles out of town. I always came up to town
with him, in the four-horse omnibus. It was before the days of many
railways. He was a stout, comely, serious-looking man, who
invariably wore gold-rimmed spectacles, to which he paid great
attention, often polishing the glasses with a bit of leather, and
looking at the sky through them.
“Good morning, sir!” I said to him, after he had settled himself in
the omnibus, “I think I had the pleasure of seeing you at the play
last night. And those two pretty little girls are your daughters, I
suppose? How they did enjoy it!”
“Yes, sir, they did, the dears! I am afraid, though, they disturbed
some of our neighbours by their merry laughing.”
“How inimitable Keeley was,” I said, “after he had got hold of the
talisman! What fun it was when he wished for all his little brothers
and sisters; and they came pouring in through the walls in their
nightgowns, and throwing their little arms about him; and then when
he said, ‘Oh, how I wish they were gone!’
“I could not help thinking, though, all the time, what each of us
then present would wish for, if we had such a talisman, that would
only grant us one of our wishes. Now, I wonder, sir, what you would
wish for?” It was rather an impertinent question on my part, for I
only knew the man as an omnibus acquaintance. I did not even know
his name.
“I have not the slightest objection to telling you, sir,” he said.
“May one wish for anything for one’s children? because, of
course----” “No,” I said, “it must be a purely personal wish.”
“My wish, then, sir, would decidedly be that my spectacle-glasses
should always be clear. You have not come to spectacles, sir. You
have no idea of the trouble of keeping the glasses clear. If it is
frosty, a mist comes upon them; if it is too hot, a mist comes upon
them; if you only wink your eyelids, the glasses suddenly seem to
become dim. Spectacles are the greatest blessing, and the greatest
plague of one’s life. Yes: that is what my wish would be.”
“Rather different, I suspect, from what it was when you were
younger, sir?”
“Yes, sir, my wish then was to be an Arab sheik, galloping about
Arabia Petræa on an Arab steed, with a lance in my hand. I had
always a mania for the East; but it has gone off considerably since
I have married, and lived at Upper Tooting.”
“By the way, have you looked, sir, at the debate of last night? I
agree with the _Times_--not that I always do agree with the _Times_,
sir--that both the Ministry and the Opposition played their
respective games very badly.”
_Ellesmere._ Now Mauleverer tells us this anecdote with his usual
spirit of malice against the human race. He means, no doubt, to show
how we come down, in the course of years, from grand ideas to small
and household ones--from Arab sheikdom to an anxious care for the
clearness of our spectacles.
I read the anecdote quite differently. I say that the man’s ideas
had expanded. You see he took an interest in politics. He declared
(I don’t believe him) that he did not swear by his _Times_. He
delighted in taking his little daughters to the play. He had the
good sense to prefer Upper Tooting to Arabia Petræa. In order to
maintain his clearness of vision in these matters, he naturally
wished to have his spectacle-glasses clear. This anecdote seems to
me to put human nature and human life in a very favourable point of
view.
_Milverton._ You have not heard my story, Ellesmere, which I told
Mauleverer before you joined us.
I was with an eminent man of letters the other day, and he received
a proof-sheet. “Here is this beast of a thing,” he said; “full of
printer’s errors, I have no doubt!”
“Oh, dear, dear, how well I remember my first proof-sheet, which I
received when I was quite a youth. It was a divine moment! I had
written something which somebody was foolish enough to think worth
printing, and I was expecting the first proof-sheet.”
“My good father, as I had just gained a prize at college, had given
me a horse a few days before; and, to employ the slowly-moving hours
of expectation, I had taken a fierce ride, resolving not to return
until after the time when the post came in, and when the proof-sheet
_must_ have arrived.”
“The benevolent printers (how I blessed them for it!) had not
disappointed me; and there was the delightful packet on the table
when I did return. What a beautiful invention printing seemed to me!
How my poor thoughts seemed to gain in force and clearness, when
they were clothed in this charming dress! I should be sorry to say
how many times I read over that proof-sheet, each time admiring it
more. And yet there was a feeling of humility mixed with my
exaltation. Were my thoughts really worthy to be put in this fine
garb? I said to myself. But this did not damp my joy much. Worthy or
not, there they were in print, and would be ‘in a book, with kivers
to ’un.’”
“And now, when I have one of those things,” he said, pointing to the
rather dirty proof-sheet, “‘I have neither a sense of exaltation nor
of humility, but there is simply before me a bit of disagreeable
work to be carefully done.’”
_Ellesmere._ I see nothing in all this. You men of fine sentiments
are always duped by your sentimentality. The man has now an assured
reputation, which is a permanent source of pleasure to him. Of
course, the novelty of proof-sheets has gone off; and, moreover, he
knows by this time that he cannot do so much by criticism and
correction as he thought he could when he was younger. Would he be
younger? Ask him that. That is the question.
_Mauleverer._ No: he would not, because he has found out what a
miserable thing life is.
_Ellesmere._ Come and find out your nursery-tea: a great and wise
institution this, of nursery-tea! Do I not see Mrs. Milverton at the
window, making imperious gestures to us, signifying that the tea is
getting cold? When shall I ever make these men, wise men?--more like
myself, and more willing to take life comfortably, instead of
interchanging their respective drearinesses, and making melancholy
out of anecdotes which are really pleasant and encouraging. Come
along!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VIII.
We were all at breakfast this morning--all, at least, but Sir John
Ellesmere and Mr. Mauleverer, who had gone for a walk. It was a dull,
sombre, autumn day, with a low mist in the valley, and hardly a breath
of air moving. Our conversation, too, in the absence of Sir John, was
not particularly lively. Mr. Milverton was telling Mr. Cranmer that,
after a recent battle, there was a continuous line, ten miles long, of
wagons and carriages carrying the wounded; and Mr. Cranmer was making
calculations as to how many wounded persons there must have been. Sir
Arthur was reciting, aside, some passages from “Paracelsus” to Lady
Ellesmere, to convince her that it was a great poem. I overheard some of
the passages, and looked at them afterwards.
“The rabbit has his shade to frighten him,
The fawn a rustling bough, mortals their cares,
And higher natures yet would slight and laugh
At these entangling fantasies, as you
At trammels of a weaker mind; but judge
_Your_ mind’s dimension by the shade it casts!”
And then this one--
“And from the East
Day, like a mighty river, flowing in;
But clouded, wintry, desolate, and cold.”
And this--
“Are there not, dear Michal,
Two points in the adventure of the diver:
One--when a beggar he prepares to plunge?
One--when a prince he rises with his pearl?
Festus, I plunge!”
Even the cleverest men, I find, make great mistakes sometimes. It does
not do to talk humanity, or quote poetry, at breakfast time. It is too
early, and people are neither humane nor romantic at this immature and
“uncooked” period of the day. Besides, I could see that Lady Ellesmere
was only thinking about her husband, and wondering why he was not at
breakfast; and so Browning’s beautiful lines received merely a polite
attention from her. Presently we heard the noise and bustle which
usually announce Sir John Ellesmere’s approach, and he burst into the
room.
_Ellesmere._ Oh! I am so glad to see you all again!
_Lady Ellesmere._ Why? What? Has anything happened? Have you met
with any accident, John?
_Ellesmere._ Don’t be so fussy, my dear. If anything had happened,
if I had tumbled down a precipice, it would be a mark of
ill-breeding to make a fuss about it, especially at breakfast. But
here I am, safe and sound; and as for His Vastness (Sir John often
called Mr. Mauleverer “His Vastness,” or “His Amplitude”), he is
about half a mile away, at the bottom of the hill. I ran off, saying
I wished to warm myself, but in reality to make my escape from him.
He has been awful this morning. What a clever man he is, though!
You see the kind of day it is--not superabundantly cheerful. Well,
we went to walk under “the beeches.” I am not a man particularly
subject to mournful fancies; but if ever they succeed in oppressing
me, it is when I am walking upon damp, rotting, autumn leaves. There
is a passage in Alfred de Vigny’s celebrated novel of “Cinq-Mars,”
in which, previously to the hero’s downfall, the royal cavalcade of
heavy carriages goes crunching through the dead leaves of the
forest, on just such a day as this, and everybody feels a
foreshadowing of some calamity. That passage made a great impression
upon me when I was a boy. Mauleverer saw that I had not my usual
life and spirits this morning, and shamefully abused his
opportunity. Of course he preached upon his never-failing text, the
misery of human life.
He told me that fees were a mistake. I did not see that, looking at
the question from a recipient’s point of view.
He told me that Lady Ellesmere was more of a plague than a pleasure.
That I denied, maintaining that in this particular case the plague
and the pleasure were about equally balanced.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Thank you, John, for your noble defence of your
poor wife.
_Ellesmere._ He then mentioned that virtue was dull, and vice
despicable, disgusting, and dyspeptic. You must have noticed how
fond he is of alliteration. Meanwhile I kept singing a song of
Beranger’s--
“Aimons vite,
Pensons vite;
Toute invite
A vivre vite.
Aimons vite,
Pensons vite.
Au galop
Monde falot!”
But nothing would stop him.
_Lady Ellesmere._ John singing! Ye Powers of Time and Tune, what ye
endure!
If he should have the misfortune to survive me, instead of the usual
things that men say in epitaphs of their dear wives, he need only
inscribe this line--
“She did not mind her husband’s singing much.”
And, indeed, I rather like it, for, though it is murderous in the
way of music, John is always in an especial good humour when he
sings, as he calls it; but the autumn leaves and Mr. Mauleverer were
evidently too much for him this morning.
_Ellesmere._ You are very witty; but you waste precious time, my
dear. I have lots to tell you before he comes.
Well, then, he deviated into a discussion about the minor miseries
of human life, and here he made a simile which I think you will say
is one of the strangest you ever heard. He compared these miseries
to the crumbs in the bed of a sick man, who is too ill to rise for
his meals. The poor wretch, he said, does what he can to brush them
away; thinks, after great labour, and many painful twistings and
turnings, for he can hardly move, that he has accomplished it; but
when he settles down once more, he is sure to find some of those
detestable crumbs molesting him again, and he never gets rid of them
till he is taken out of bed--perhaps for the last time. It is one of
the homeliest of similes; possibly the homeliest that was ever made;
but it is really a very tolerable one, and it certainly cannot be
said to be far-fetched.
You should have heard him dilate upon it in his grandiloquent way.
“The man who lives but on applause finds ever, in his hard couch,
the crumbs of an unsatisfied vanity molesting him. The jealous,
sensitive man may brush away at these unpleasant fragments ever so
diligently, but some of them (the hard little daily annoyances
caused by an over-craving affection, or by a nature ‘misunderstood,’
as he is pleased to called it) remain to plague him. And to every
man these relics of his incomplete and misspent life return to
torment him, let him be nursed ever so sedulously.” Now, did you
ever hear such a simile as that? Sometimes, of course, one did not
make out which were the physical, and which the metaphysical,
crumbs; but that sort of confusion is indulged in by all
simile-mongers.
_Sir Arthur._ I should have thought, Sir John, that you would not
have----
_Ellesmere._ Yes, I know; you think, because you see me now so
boisterously well, that I am never ill, and cannot appreciate this
crumb-misery; but I suffer from a fit of sciatica about once every
other year. The domestic persecution I undergo on those
occasions!--but there is no time to tell you about that now. I have
a good deal more to say: and His Vastness, though he moves but
slowly, never stops, if you observe. “He will be here anon,” as they
say in plays.
Now I have something very serious to tell you. You would all be
utterly oppressed by that stout gentleman--I know you would--if it
were not for me. The women would go over to his side at once. They
like a melancholy man; and then he is so charmingly polite. Sandy,
too, would go over to his side: the Scotch have rather a turn for
melancholy. As for Cranmer, His Amplitude would soon win him. He
would do it by simple syllogism. Thus--
All men who do not pay their taxes cheerfully are wicked and
miserable;
Nobody does pay his taxes cheerfully;
Therefore, everybody is wicked and miserable.
Cranmer could not resist that piece of close reasoning; and would go
over to the other side of the House--that is, to the side of dumps
and dolorousness.
I believe if I were to go away for three days, and come back again
here, this is the state of things I should come upon. I should find
Mauleverer at dinner alone. I should ask for the rest of you. With a
smile of serene satisfaction, he would conduct me to the trees which
are your especial favourites in the garden, and there I should find
each of you pendent from your favourite tree. I can see the air of
polite contempt with which, having persuaded you to get safely away
from the miseries of life by hanging yourselves, he would offer you
your choice of a tree. His contempt would be for human beings having
any likings or dislikings in such an insignificant matter as hanging
themselves.
Mark you, he is the soul of honour. Without joking, there is a touch
of real grandeur in that man’s character, and I am beginning to like
him very much. But he is the dreariest mortal that ever lived. I’ll
bet that the story of his life, if we could ever worm it out of him,
is very remarkable.
Well, as I was saying, he is the soul of honour; and he would not
have persuaded you to do a thing which he would not do himself. He
also would have been an interesting pendent from a tree; but is
there any branch of any tree in Hampshire that could sustain his
weight? Of course he would have come to the ground at once, only
half-hanged. Then he would think that he would have one more
dinner--a dinner that he could order for himself without Mrs.
Milverton’s well-meant but half-instructed interference; and there I
should find him enjoying one of his favourite dishes, at the
production of which he would have assisted.
But stay, one thing I have forgotten. I have shown how he would win
over the ladies, and Cranmer, and Sandy, but there still remain Sir
Arthur and Milverton. They would make something of a fight. But they
have no sound basis of animal spirits to go upon; and melancholy,
steadily applied, conquers everything but animal spirits. I am the
only _pièce de resistance_, to use one of his own favourite phrases,
which would not be devoured by him. Take care of me--I am your
safeguard against him. He is in immense force to-day. I am sure
something very unfortunate for the human race must have happened
somewhere, and that he has a mesmeric consciousness of it. But hush!
Don’t you perceive the room shake a little? His Ponderosity has
entered the hall, and here he comes.
[_Enter Mr. Mauleverer._]
_Mauleverer._ I am sorry, Mrs. Milverton, to be so late.
_Mrs. Milverton._ I have kept these warm for you at the fire, Mr.
Mauleverer.
_Lady Ellesmere._ And so, Mr. Mauleverer, you have been telling my
husband that I am more of a plague than a pleasure to him.
_Mauleverer._ I, Lady Ellesmere? I never said anything of the kind.
Something, I believe, I did say about women in general; but every
woman I know is an especial exception to the rule I laid down. How
can you be so treacherous, Sir John, as to repeat sayings intended
only for your own discreet ears?
_Sir Arthur._ Do not ask Mauleverer any more questions, Lady
Ellesmere. Do let the poor man have his breakfast in peace.
I want to ask Ellesmere something about his illnesses. I cannot
picture him to myself as a sick man.
_Lady Ellesmere._ He will tell terrible things about me, I know.
_Ellesmere._ There I am, in bed, unable to move, and Lady Ellesmere
comes and talks to me in this fashion by way of comforting me. “I
told you it would be so, John; you never take an umbrella, never
change your damp boots, you will always walk home from the House,
and you would go out to dinner the day before yesterday with that
under-secretary, who gives such exquisite dinners that you are
dissatisfied with mine for a month afterwards; and this is the
result.” Now I call that comforting. There is a consoler for you.
_Milverton._ Of course, Mildred, I don’t believe one tithe of what
he says. I have no doubt you are an excellent nurse; but that kind
of talk which he describes is much affected by our nurses, and
certainly it is not very consolatory.
I have often wondered that there is not, in any language that I know
of, an especial word to designate the person who always goes back
from the present to dwell upon the mistakes and errors of the past.
We have not even any great personage in history or fiction to whom
we can compare such a person. Now, when we want to describe a person
who is always prophesying evil, we liken him, or her, to Cassandra;
but when we want to describe the other thing, namely, the person who
always goes back to the evil of the past, saying this was wrong, and
that was mistaken, and that everything would have been very
different if everybody had acted differently, and had foreseen the
event, we have nobody to whom to liken him. I suppose,
mathematically speaking, we must say Cassandra with a _minus_ sign.
_Sir Arthur._ Well done, Milverton! You have really pointed out a
great want in language. Suppose we call him a “backwardiser,” and
the process “backwardising?”
_Ellesmere._ These are not very pretty words, Sir Arthur. I would
rather say an “afterteller” and “aftertelling,” just as we say
foreteller and foretelling. But I was going to discourse to you more
about illness--I think I know a great deal about it, and what I can
say would be worth a Jew’s ransom if people would only attend to it.
You hear of people dying of this disease, or of that disease, but
what they really do die of is of questions. I believe I have a
pretty strong will--some people would say it amounts to wilfulness;
but when I am unwell I lose all strength of will, and cannot bear to
be bothered with questions. “Will you have your gruel made of grits
or barley? Will you have your vapor bath now? When will you take
your medicine?” These weighty questions--and they are weighty to the
poor sick man--thoroughly overcome me.
Now I am quite serious. An invalid ought to be treated mentally and
morally as he is physically; namely, with gentleness, yet with
perfect firmness. Don’t give him any choice about anything: don’t
burden his mind with decision: remove from him all responsibility,
which is so fatiguing a thing. I have no doubt that the excellent
Miss Nightingale has said all this in her way, but I venture to say
it in mine. A person in health can hardly have a conception of the
helpless irritability of a real invalid. The most difficult case
does not disturb my equanimity when I am well; but when I am ill,
the question of grits or barley is an overpowering one, and raises
the pulse seven beats at least.
_Lady Ellesmere._ You may imagine what a monster of impatience he
must be when he is ill.
_Sir Arthur._ His words, though, are the words of wisdom, Lady
Ellesmere. I have no doubt that a judicious moral treatment of the
sick has saved many a life.
By this time, Mr. Mauleverer had finished his breakfast, the ladies
rose, and our conversation this morning was ended.
* * * * *
Sir Robert Walpole said that every man has his price. My small
experience of the world does not enable me to confirm, or to contradict,
this maxim; but I begin to suspect that every author has his vanity. I
did think that my master was free from this foible. He never cares to
hear what is said about his writings, except for business purposes--that
is, to meet an objection or to remedy an error, or to explain something
that he finds is not understood; he would give away to anybody his most
cherished ideas--ideas he had toiled over to bring into shape; and he
even dislikes to have his name connected with anything he has done.
To-day, however, or rather this evening, I could see that the author’s
vanity was not extinct in him, and that he was thoroughly pleased and
flattered by a person not much given to please and flatter,--namely, Sir
John Ellesmere.
This circumstance is what gives the following conversation especial
interest to me, though perhaps in itself it was not the least
interesting we have had.
Mr. Mauleverer, who has studied astronomy very carefully, expressed a
wish that, in the evening, we should come out upon the lake that has
been before described, whence we could look at the stars, and see
something which he was anxious to point out to us. We agreed to dine
very early; to go and see what Mr. Mauleverer was to show us; and then
to return for our reading of Realmah.
Oddly enough, after we had got into the boat, the conversation did not
at first turn upon any grand or elevating subject, but was merely a
continuation of a conversation that had commenced at dinner, upon a very
common place subject; namely, hospitality. I cannot give all the
conversation in detail; but I remember the main points.
Mr. Cranmer maintained that the mode of reception of a guest was the
most important thing. Mr. Milverton said that the chief point for a host
to think of was, that his guests were not at home--that they were, to
use a French expression, _desorientés_, whereas he was perfectly aware
of the points of the compass. He (Mr. Milverton) therefore maintained
that the host must attend to all manner of little things connected with
the comfort of his guests; take an interest in their comings and goings;
and especially watch that they are well attended to when they ring their
bells. He maintained that dinner was, comparatively, an unimportant
thing, that we were always too well-fed everywhere; from which
proposition Mr. Mauleverer expressed, in the most emphatic manner, his
entire dissent.
Sir Arthur said that the Prime Minister[16] was a perfect host, because
he attended to these little things which Mr. Milverton had spoken of;
would even, in the midst of his arduous duties, study Bradshaw for the
benefit of his guests, carefully provide the means of transit for them,
take care to have early breakfasts for them if they were going anywhere
at an irrational time in the morning; and, in short, be even a little
fussy in looking after all manner of comforts and conveniences for them.
But how one valued this thoughtful kindness from such a man!
Footnote 16:
It was Lord Palmerston.
From this point I remember how the conversation went:--
_Sir Arthur._ Some time ago I went into a part of the country which
is celebrated for its romantic scenery. Our friend J----,--whom we
used to know and to like at college, Milverton,--invited me to his
place, and I accepted the invitation. The morning after I arrived at
his house I felt very unwell. Now the first thing when you are
unwell is to get a fire made in your room. I rang the bell early: it
was answered by a rather clownish, but not unintelligent-looking
young fellow.
“Light me a fire, please.”
“A fire?” said he, and looked despondingly at me, and then at the
fireplace.
“Yes; I must have a fire: I don’t feel well.”
Then he set to work to light the fire, taking great pains with his
work.
In a few moments the fire began to smoke furiously.
I jumped up in bed, and remarked, not in the mildest terms, “that it
smoked.”
“Yes, I knowed she ’ud: she almost allus does. She’s smoked this
twenty year, as I’ve heerd say.”
The door was put open; but “she” was one of those vicious chimneys
which do not care a bit whether doors are open or not.
“Have you got such a thing as a pair of bellows?”
“No, we han’t got such a thing as bellusses.” And then the
good-natured youth lay down on the floor, and performed the part of
a bellows with a goodwill and a vigour that it was astonishing to
behold.
By the way, I may remark that our friend J---- is not a poor man. He
has a magnificent collection of gems and medals; and household gods
of every variety of strange hideousness adorned every disposable
corner of his dwelling. I really mean “household gods”--Roman,
Chinese, Peruvian, Mexican, Japanese. These quaint little monsters
(J---- has no children) were doted upon by himself and Mrs. J----.
The boy went on puffing and blowing.
“Goethe was quite wrong,” I remarked, thinking aloud for myself.
“Were he, sir? I dare say he were,” replied the youth, looking up
for a moment. “Master’s allus complaining of them people at the
Bald-faced Stag.” This was the inn I had taken horses from to come
on to J----’s.
“Yes,” I continued; “he said, ‘_Always take care of the Beautiful,
for the Useful will take care of itself._’ I would say, ‘_Always
take care of the Useful; for the Beautiful will take care of
itself._’”
_Mauleverer._ And it does not much matter whether it does or not.
_Sir Arthur._ And the youth said, “Eh, dear, the gentleman didn’t
know no better, I suppose.” But whether my puffing friend understood
the question, and really sided with me, or whether he agreed with me
from complaisance, I am to this day in doubt.
_Milverton._ Goethe is as right as possible.
_Ellesmere._ Sir Arthur is certainly very unjust in this instance.
It is not the Beautiful but the Curious and the Grotesque that J----
cared for.
_Milverton._ Of course.
_Ellesmere._ And Sir Arthur’s error was in visiting a collector.
Collectors are a race of men by themselves. They are the most
dangerous form of misers--I mean dangerous to live with. They are
very useful fellows, I admit. But my reply to any invitation on
their part would run as follows:--“Sir John Ellesmere presents his
compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Collector, and regrets that a previous
engagement prevents his having the pleasure of accepting their kind
invitation.”
_Mauleverer._ You have both set upon Sir Arthur, and have treated
him very hardly, I think. His remark was one of general application;
and, just because he happened to mention that this J---- was a
collector of little household monsters, you have directed your
attack upon this point--ignoring the fact, as I say, that Sir
Arthur’s remark was of a most general character. I think the story a
very valuable one. Bellows absent, gems present; smoky chimney
suffered to exist; comfort of guests utterly neglected, but
“household gods” affronting you everywhere. That is the way to put
it.
_Ellesmere._ I maintain that the great duty of a host is not to be a
bore, and not to show people anything which he may fancy they
_might_ like to see. Indeed I have come to the conclusion that the
host, to be a perfect host, should be blind and a cripple--I even
think it would be better that this perfect host should have an
impediment in his speech, and be slightly paralytic.
[No one would agree with this inhuman proposition.]
_Ellesmere._ Oh! you think me a monster!
We are all to tell our sad experiences of what is fondly called
hospitality; so hear one of mine.
I was once invited by a host whom I thought to be perfection. He was
very learned: he was very witty: he was partially blind: and always
either in a fit of the gout, or threatened with a fit of it. “Here
is the man for me,” I said. “I will accept his invitation. We shall
only see him at dinner, when he will be most agreeable.” I went to
his house. The next morning after my arrival, to my utter amazement,
he ordered horses for all of us, and took us to see some drainage
works on his estate. There were 27 degrees of frost that day. As we
sat on our horses, surveying the common process of draining,--about
which I thought I knew something, and did not want to know any
more,--we were nearly statuefied. As the old women say, you might
have knocked me down with a feather; for hands, arms, feet, and legs
were entirely without life. As we rode back, I could not help
saying, “My dear sir, don’t take me indoors, I am entirely frozen;
just throw me into your ice-house. I shall be very useful there next
June.” I don’t believe he felt the reproof.
Now look at Milverton: perhaps he is the best host in this kingdom.
I have never met with his equal. He complains of fatigue if he walks
with you more than 200 yards: he is ever anxious to be back at his
work again; he will “almost allus” leave you alone, if you will
leave him alone. Considered as a host, he is a beautiful
creature--unrivalled. But I would not trust even him.
I maintain my first proposition, that a man to be a perfect host
should have nothing to show you, or, if he has, he should be too ill
to be able to show it.
Mr. Cranmer then astonished us all by maintaining that the one great
thing to ensure happiness in any assemblage of people was, that they
should like one another (that one uncongenial person could neutralize
ten congenial people), and that all social happiness consisted in the
amount of affection and esteem that pervaded the society--that you did
not care what rude things a man said to you of whose regard you were
really sure, and so conversation might be free, frank, bold, and yet not
offensive. It was the main point in hospitality to bring congenial
people together.
After this the conversation changed, and Mr. Mauleverer pointed out to
us the phenomena in the aspect of the heavens that he had wished us to
come and see. I cannot give an account of what he said, for I did not
understand it.
_Sir Arthur._ What an awful thing it would be to behold the
conflagration of a star! Such a thing has occurred recently, has it
not, Mauleverer?
_Mr. Mauleverer._ Yes.
_Milverton._ There are two things that appal me whenever I consider
them. One is, the immense amount of complicated misery which any one
human soul can endure without going mad.
_Ellesmere._ And the second is?
_Milverton._ The idea of illimitable space that is to be derived
from the contemplation of these innumerable worlds around us.
I don’t know whether you remember a theory I once propounded to some
of you, that the stars are as close to one another (relatively
speaking) as the ultimate atoms of the wood in this boat; and that
to the vision that could embrace such a scene, the heavenly bodies
would appear to be solid bodies, or, perhaps, one solid body.
_Ellesmere._ That is an idea in respect to which I would rather not
pledge myself to say anything.
_Milverton._ Well, then, I imagine that all matter is in motion;
that the motion is analogous to that of the heavenly bodies; and
that chemical combination is merely a disturbance and re-formation
of the orbits of the ultimate atoms of matter.
_Mauleverer._ In fact, that all chemistry is but astronomy?
_Ellesmere._ I hope your theories may be true for this reason: that
we should then only have to learn one science instead of two, which
would be a great convenience to half-educated persons, such as I am.
_Sir Arthur._ I like to dwell upon the moral aspect of such a scene
as this. The contemplation of these innumerable worlds really ought
to make us a little less fussy and tiresome about our own small
affairs.
If I had to comfort a disappointed man, or to soothe an angry man,
or to console a bereaved man, I should like to have him in the open
air to talk to, on a starry moonlit night.
I think I should have far more chance of prevailing with him if I
could direct his attention occasionally to the stars. I wonder more
use has not been made of this situation in the drama, and in fiction
generally.
_Ellesmere._ Well, you see, in these northern climes, when one has
any great business to transact,--a murder to plan, a ministry to
upset, a rival in love to circumvent, a large sum of money to
get,--one likes to be in a comfortable, warm room, if possible with
a fire, and not to be amongst gnats and insects, (how they do plague
one now!) staring up at these heavenly bodies about which we know
next to nothing, and the contemplation of which does not make us
practical and business-like.
_Mr. Mauleverer._ As we drove down here, we passed the telegraph
wires. I saw a sparrow comfortably perched upon one of these wires;
and I said to myself, “_As much as that sparrow knows of the urgent
haste, and the sorrow, and the suffering which are expressed in the
messages that are passing under its claws, which do not perceive the
slightest tremulousness as the messages speed on, so much does the
poor human being know of what is being transacted in this universe,
and of what it all means._” And while I was thinking this thought,
Mr. Sparrow chirped an affectionate little chirp, and Mrs. Sparrow
came and perched beside him; and they doubtless thought that they
were the masters of the situation, and the lord and lady of the
whole scene.
_Ellesmere._ Just as Mrs. Milverton believes that the wild theories
that Milverton has just put forward, are in exact accordance with
scientific truth and wisdom.
It would be an amusing thing (if one dared to think of amusement in
a future state) to imagine how most of the greatest thinkers will
prove to have been utterly wrong.
But let us quit these dangerous themes for those which are humbler
and safer.
You said some time ago, Sir Arthur, that stars have not been made
enough use of in the drama and in fiction generally. Have you ever
read Alexander Smith’s works? They are really very good, and he
makes immense use of the stars. But there is an obscure author, a
friend of mine, who is also very fond of making good use of the sun
and the stars.
The next thing to being a poet is being a person who can remember
poetry; and I am not sure but that the man who takes the trouble to
learn by heart large quantities of poetry has not a more poetical
soul in him than the poet.
I know it is so in the present case.
_Milverton._ Ellesmere’s memory for poetry is extraordinary. He can
quote you 70 lines at a time from Pope or Dryden.
_Sir Arthur._ Nothing would be more appropriate, Sir John, than
that, amidst this beautiful scene, you should quote poetry largely
to us. We are coming near the swans’ nest too, which would make such
quotation more suitable.
_Ellesmere._ Well, it is from a drama that I am going to quote.
There are two lovers (of course there are. When shall we ever have a
good story without these tiresome lovers?). The hero tells of his
travels: he comes to the South:--
“The joyous, noisy South, where the perfume
Of orange-groves pervades the charmèd air,
And overcomes the incense in the temples;
And where the yellow rocks uprise from out
A tideless sea that purples as you gaze,
And seems like th’ unreal waters of enchantment
You read of in a magic tale--that might,
Some potent word pronounced, vanish away.”
Then he describes a thing I once saw myself somewhere on the
Mediterranean, a part of the shore where the sand is wholly black:--
“Like crumbled memories of a life
All spent in sorrow ...
On which the calm blue ripple, like a lizard
Up a dark wall, stole softly: then, to Africa
We sailed, and in the desert drew that breath
So full, so deep, that ever afterwards
There is a sense of stifling in grand palaces,
When we recall our sojourn midst the sand,
And see again brown camels moored about
Our tent, and watch the all-pervading sunset--
One fiery dome--the north, the east, the south,
Reddening alike, nor leaving to the west
Alone the duty-task of shining out
In regal pomp--when the fierce king of day
Takes leave of all the courtly hemisphere
At once--a sunset wholly inconceivable
To those who dwell in pallid Russia.”
Then, of course, the lady says:--
“Oh, would that I had been with you in that tent!”
Then comes the starry bit, for the gentleman exclaims:--
“And how at the big stars we gazed, and wondered
That men could e’er be cruel to each other,
Having that sky to look upon, and all
That it may mean to interpret.”
Then he gives a description of the ruins of some provincial
amphitheatre, saying that of all he saw, that was the thing which
haunted his memory most closely:--
“Like some fierce, wicked face, seen once in a crowd,
That will obtrude its unblest recollection,
And will not bide dismissal; it is this:
Amidst the hills there lies an oval valley,
Not shaped by nature, but man’s work--all man’s.
From base to summit curving lines ascend
Of granite steps.”
Then there is a description of some of the arrangements for the
spectators, especially for the ladies:--
“That great provincial dames might sit in comfort,
Four arched and barred recesses, treasure caves,
Contained the hoarded mass of human misery
And bestial suffering chosen to delight
The pampered multitude pining for blood.
* * * * *
See! the Proconsul comes....
The hushed spectators draw a lower breath,
And wait, with palpitating joy, the rush
Of beasts which are to tear their fellow-men;
Or, peevish at some wearisome delay,
Denounce the meanness of patricians nowadays,
And moralize upon the scarcity
Of lions, praising much the good old times,
When gladiators died more freely.”
Then I suppose there is some stupid love-making; but I forget. At
any rate the gentleman resolves to go on with his story, and he does
so in these words:--
“And now, departed all,
Proconsuls, lions, gladiators, slaves,--
A wooden stage, and painted daubs hung out
Of dancing girls, such as attract the boors
At festivals, betray the conquering march
Of a new creed that makes account of men.”
I suppose it is Verona that the dramatist alludes to, where you see
a modern boarded theatre occupying some portion of the old
amphitheatre.
By the way, when I saw Verona, I was in company with another friend
of mine, named Leonard Milverton, and I never saw a man so entranced
with a picture as he was with one of those said “daubs.” You could
not arouse him from his contemplation of it. Now I could always get
him away from a Titian. I so soon become tired of pictures. That
reminds me of an omission in our talk about hospitality. Should it
not be set down as one of the greatest breaches of hospitality when
a man _will_ show you his pictures? And there are fiend-like hosts
who absolutely insist upon showing you books of prints, and making
you go right through them; but such men never have my company more
than once.
Well, but I left Milverton contemplating this daub. You never saw a
man so fascinated by a work of art. So, quoth I, “What can you see
in that thing, Milverton? It is only a magnified representation of
the pictures ‘fast’ men at college in our time (I suppose there are
no such things now) used to have in their rooms of favourite
dancers.”
“No,” he said, grasping my arm, and looking at me with a fierce
seriousness, “it is perhaps the greatest stride that Christianity
has ever made--from gladiators to dancing maidens.”
Let me give you another passage from my drama; it is my favourite,
and it will delight Mauleverer. In fact, I think he will send a
10_l._ note anonymously to the author, as a proof of his entire
satisfaction. I think he will give me what the vulgar call a
“fiver,” for having quoted it. This is the passage:--
“We shall succeed.
This one injustice may be remedied.
But then the things that _have_ been--why they come
Upon me now I wot not: hideous deeds
Long numbered with the past. The earth may smile,
And deck herself each May, vain thing! with flowers,
And seem forgetful of the cruelties
Enacted on her ever-changing stage,
Till every spot upon the storied surface
Is rank with tragic memories.”
Then he dilates upon the horrors that have been perpetrated on this
earth.
“The earth may smile, I say,
But, like a new-made widow’s mirth, it shocks one.
And she, the earth, should never quit her weeds;
And should there come a happier race upon her,
Ever there’ll be a sighing of the wind,
A moaning of the sea, to hint to that
More favoured race what we poor men have suffered.
There must have been a history, they’ll say,
To be interpreted by all these sighs
And moans.”
Not bad lines, are they, Mrs. Milverton?
_Mrs. Milverton._ _I_ think they are beautiful, Sir John.
_Sir Arthur_ (who had evidently an inkling of the authorship). They
certainly are, Mrs. Milverton. Where is this poem to be found?
_Ellesmere._ Trunks or butter, Sir Arthur. The linings of old
trunks, or the wrappages of butter, are to be examined carefully if
you would recover this charming work.
_Milverton._ My dear John, you must have had a great liking for the
author, or you never would have cumbered your memory to such an
extent with his rubbish.
_Ellesmere._ Well, honestly, I did not think it was rubbish, though
it was written by a friend. (Here Ellesmere put his hand for a
moment on Milverton’s; and I certainly never saw Mr. Milverton look
more pleased.) Moreover, the tyrant of an author laid hold of me,
and made me copy out some of the drama for the printers; and that is
how I came to know so much of it by heart.
How about the ten pounds, Mauleverer, which you were to send to the
poor author?
_Mauleverer._ You do not quite understand me, any of you. I am not
disposed to indulge in the munificence which Sir John has kindly
suggested for me, and I shall not send that anonymous author ten
pounds, or give Ellesmere five, because the author merely dwells
upon cruelties and horrors of all kinds committed by men, whereas I
should have liked him to have dwelt upon their littleness and their
baseness.
_Ellesmere._ My dear Mauleverer, do you really think that a poem
should be something like the proceedings of the Central Criminal
Court?
_Sir Arthur._ Mauleverer thinks that poetic description ennobles,
and so disguises, human suffering.
_Cranmer._ Prose is the proper thing. There is nothing of any
importance that can be described adequately, except in prose.
_Ellesmere._ A noble sentiment!
_Mauleverer._ I am very much obliged to Sir Arthur for explaining
what he thinks I mean; but I decline to accept my kind commentator’s
version of my meaning.
The poet, as quoted by Ellesmere, has just told his story to show
the sufferings of mankind. I could tell you one to show its
ineradicable baseness. You think that you learned and imaginative
men, Sir Arthur, are the only persons whose nymphs inform them of
strange stories; but I have my story, too.
_Ellesmere._ Pray let us have it. Do not be modest, Mauleverer:
modesty would not sit well upon you.
_Mauleverer._ Well, then, you _shall_ have it.
To a planet, not very far from us, but which I shall not mention,
because one ought to be confidential as regards the doings in
neighbouring planets, the souls of capitalists, men of business, and
well-to-do people are transferred. Now the law in this planet is
that these people shall be endowed with certain portions of their
dear money, according to the use, judicious or injudicious, which
they have made of it in this world. The form of the endowment is
this--
They all have to pass, one by one, in front of a colossal statue. It
would tax the utmost powers of any mortal to describe this statue. I
have ever loved statues beyond all other works of art, and therefore
may be permitted to attempt a description of it. There have been
great statues made even in this world. Who has not heard and thought
of the magnificent Memnon with his unseen lyre trembling into music
at the rising of the sun? Who, that has seen it, has not been awed
by the Sphinx, cruellest of maidens, daughter of Chimæra,
propounding riddles harder to understand than her own mixed nature
of lioness and woman? Need I dwell upon the god-like grandeur of
Michael Angelo’s Jupiter? And, to come down to the statues of
ordinary life; who that at night, alone, has paced up and down long
galleries enriched with statues, has not felt that these statues
have spoken awful words to his soul? Perhaps there has been a row of
mighty wicked Roman emperors; and Neros, Caligulas, and Domitians
have frankly acknowledged their colossal wickednesses to the
horror-stricken mortal contemplating them.
But all these, the works of men, sink into insignificance when
compared with the statue which, with humility and fear, I venture to
describe.
It was golden: not that it was of gold, but that it produced in your
mind the idea of gold. Its robes were of jasper, onyx, and opal: not
that these earthly materials were there, but that it produced the
ideas of them in your mind. But the transcendent quality about this
statue was this--that you were fully conscious that it was alive,
and yet that it was a statue. Its face was downcast; its attitude
bending: it held its clasped hands in front of it, the elbows
resting on its curule chair. Not anger nor pity, nor joy, nor
sorrow, was imprinted on its countenance, but only intense thought.
It did not give you the idea of a Being petrified into a statue, nor
as if any hands had wrought at it and fashioned it. It seemed as if
only supreme thought and judgment had taken form.
One by one those who had been mortal defiled before it, and its
ministers awarded gifts according to the dread thoughts of the
Statue, which they alone could interpret. I need hardly say how
different its judgments were from those which Fortune had pronounced
in this world. The struggling man who had hardly known how to keep
soul and body together here, but who had a great heart that might be
trusted, found himself, to use a French phrase, “at the head of”
large revenues; while he who had been a millionaire here, found
himself condemned to live upon the merest pittance. Not that it was
always so, for envy had dwarfed the just receptiveness of some poor
men for money, while there were men who had been rich in this world,
and remained rich in my planet too, because they had been great in
soul, as well as abounding in substance.
The curious thing was that all went away, if not satisfied, at least
unmurmuring, and supremely convinced of the absolute justice of the
Statue’s awards. I noticed one man who had possessed three millions
of money while he was on earth, of which sum it could not be said he
had used one hundred wisely or usefully, and he went away, not
joyfully, but unmurmuringly, when he was awarded by the ministers of
the Statue one ducat per week.
But now comes the strangest thing. I could not help watching this
man, whom I had known in life, to ascertain what would be his social
state in his new sphere. Strange to say, other men were willing to
partake their fortunes with him, though there were many more
deserving than he. _But men liked to be seen walking and talking
with this man, for they said, “He was once so rich--so very rich--in
the other world; and it is still a credit and an honour to be
acquainted with him.” Such is the ineffable, ineradicable baseness
of mankind._
_Ellesmere._ Has not the air suddenly become chilly, or is it that
Mauleverer talks chilliness into our blood?
It does not seem to have entered into Mauleverer’s head that man
might naturally feel some pity for this quondam rich man; but, upon
the whole, the story has a very pretty moral to it--very superior,
Sir Arthur, to what can be found in Milverton’s fables or mine, or
even in yours.
The boat was now rowed to the shore; we took a last look at the
beautiful reflection of the moon and stars in the still water, and were
then driven home to Worth-Ashton.
In the course of the evening the reading commenced, and was as
follows:--
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER XVI.
REALMAH’S FAILURE.
No doubt the Romans were a great people. Their tombs, temples, columns,
roads, bridges, and aqueducts attest that. The world (as far as it was
then known) conquered by them attests that; nor less the splendid
reconquest of the barbarians by Roman laws, manners, and customs; and of
the barbarian tongues by the Latin language.
But, though masters of the world, they were not perfect men of the
world, else, amid the innumerable divinities they worshipped, they would
not have omitted the great god Stupidity. They could worship a goddess,
the protectress of sewers; they had even a goddess who took charge of
such humble things as lime-kilns; but to him who rules the world, and
before whom Fortune herself gives way, they raised no altars and burnt
no incense.
There are people, even in modern times, who are as remiss as the Romans
were in appreciating the power of this great authority amongst the sons
of men. But the anxious father, if wise, and the fond mother, if
foreseeing, would not pray that their child should be clever; but that
all the loveliness and strength of stupidity might encircle him, like a
halo, from his cradle to his grave.
A better word than stupidity might be found. It is not so much the
stupid man as the limited man, the man of routine, the man who does not
indulge in ideas, who does not believe much in anything or anybody, who
will have an easy and a happy life. For want, however, of a better word,
we must accept the word stupidity; and I say again, it derogates much
from the sagacity of the Romans to find that they had no god, the lord
and patron of Stupidity. The only way of accounting for this oversight
is, that the Romans, finding that all men favoured what was stupid,
thought that they need not have any particular goddess to protect a
thing like stupidity, which is as strong, as universal, and as
prevailing as the circumambient air.
It cannot be said that all modern men have been as unobservant as the
Romans in this respect. Did not the first Napoleon cherish a just
dislike of ideologists, as he called them, the men whom stupidity would
least have favoured? And did Schiller ever write anything with more
force and wisdom in it, than when he said--
“Against stupidity, the gods themselves are powerless?”
Our poor hero, Realmah, possessed by an idea, was now to learn what
potency there is in that great divinity whose claims we have been
advocating.
The people of the town of Abibah were much disappointed at the conduct
of Realmah after his escape from Abinamanche. They expected that he
would be a frequent speaker in their public assemblies; that he would
take a leading part in the conduct of the war which was to be waged
against the Phelatahs; and, in short, that he would be an active,
energetic, public man. He was nothing of the kind. All they heard of him
was, that he lived a life in the woods, accompanied by one of his
foster-brothers, by some of his personal followers, and by fishermen
belonging to the tribe of his Ainah.
But never since their life as a nation began had there been a man who
worked so devotedly for them as Realmah was working at this present
time.
It is necessary to go back a little in the narrative, in order to
understand what was the nature of Realmah’s work. While he was in prison
in the town of Abinamanche, there was one visitor who passed a great
deal of time with the young man; and, strange to say, it was the
ambassador whose projects he had defeated, and who might have been
expected to be his bitterest enemy. But this ambassador, whose name was
Koorali, appreciated thoroughly the subtle intellect that had vanquished
him. Almost in the words of Ossian, he said to himself, “I love a foe so
great. His soul is bright. His arm is strong. His battles are full of
fame. But the little soul is a vapour that hovers round the marshy lake.
It never rises on the green hill, lest the winds should meet it there.”
It will be remembered that, in the account of Realmah’s escape, it was
mentioned that he was always bound at night. Koorali generally paid a
visit to Realmah at that time in the morning when these bonds were taken
off. Sometimes he anticipated that time; and, by his own authority,
caused the bonds to be taken off earlier than they otherwise would have
been. A similar kindness he showed in providing that Realmah should be
well cared for, and kindly treated by his guards. In fact, Koorali did
everything that he could to oblige and gratify the prisoner.
Realmah, however, for a long time distrusted him. The conversations
between Koorali and Realmah were mainly directed by the former to one
topic, namely, the apprehended invasion of the Northmen; and Realmah at
last perceived that this was the subject which Koorali had most at
heart, and that he came to him for present sympathy, and possibly for
future aid.
One day that Koorali had been more than usually communicative, he
conveyed to Realmah in a few words the whole extent of his fears and
projects.
He said, “We are all slaves, your people as well as mine, if these
people of the North come down upon us. They have swords which cut
through ours as ours do through our children’s, and javelins against
which it is useless to hold up our puny shields.
“I never believed in allies. There was the alliance we made with the
Maranahs against the Koolmen. What happened? We conquered the Koolmen;
and the very next summer, it was over the country of the Koolmen that
the Maranahs, fearing no resistance, marched to attack us. Honest and
useful alliances are almost impossible things with us. I own I sought to
subjugate you for a time, in order to save us all from the otherwise
irresistible enemy. It might have been better to confide in you; but who
readily makes confidences after he has seen three and twenty harvests
grow ripe, and whiten in the sun?”
Such was the substance of Koorali’s conversation with the prisoner.
Realmah, left in solitude, had little else to think of but these strange
discourses. “What are these weapons of the men of the North?” he said to
himself. “Can wood be hardened? No. Can earth be hardened? No; we bake
this earth, but it only becomes brittle.” He pondered over these ideas
night after night.
The confinement of a prison creates sleeplessness. His guards, to while
away the time, sang songs. One of the songs they sang was a drinking
song, and ran thus--
“All joys to enhance,
With song and with dance
The flower-dew we cull.”
The air reminded him of another song which he had known as a child:--
“Your heart’s desire
By stone and fire
Will surely beam brightly upon you;
By fire and stone
The victory’s won,
And your foes lie bleeding beneath you.”
This poor doggrel had been the song of some furious old woman of the
tribe of the Sheviri, who had lost her only son in battle, and whose
fury had always been held by her tribe to be prophetic.
Amongst all nations, and during all periods of the world’s history,
there have been tacit agreements in regard to certain things which, it
is universally held, are not right to be done in war. At the present
time we do not think it right to poison wells: we should think it very
base to endeavour to introduce disease into the enemy’s camp. Now among
these dwellers in lake cities, which, for the most part, were built of
wood, it was a point of honour in warfare not to make use of fire as a
means of destroying the enemy’s habitations. I cannot but conjecture
that the words of the prophetess meant that no reserve of this kind was
to be maintained, but that all means of destruction were to be employed
against those wicked people who had slain her son.
But see the irony of life--those few frantic words may have been the
means of altering the condition of nations in that period of the earth’s
history. Realmah, as by a sort of inspiration, said at once to himself,
“That is it--the prophetess is right. Have I not noticed masses of
stone, or metal, or whatever they may be, which I am sure must have been
burnt? Nor I alone. What do we call them but heavenly missiles, things
which we suppose have been hurled from the upper air by beings superior
to ourselves, in their dread wars? and have I not noticed, too, that
there are stones which seem half-burnt to me? A melted stone it is which
gives the North its power.”
It is a dreadful thing to be driven by a great idea. The man who is so
driven is never alone. The image of his goading thought sits beside him;
walks hand-in-hand with him; leans over him to remind him of his
presence, in the hours of his utmost joy; and, even in his slumbers,
takes care that he shall not forget its august and overpowering
companionship. Better be the swineherd who, after his day’s toil, eats
his meal in peace, and goes to rest unthinkingly, than the man over whom
broods the ever-present image of a great idea; who is impatient of all
thought, of all joy, of all sorrow, of all rest, that may interfere with
the embodiment of that idea, which will for ever haunt him like a ghost
until it is laid and quieted by being brought into action, and thus
transformed into a living creature, to do its destined work henceforth
amongst the sons of men.
It needs but little more to say why Realmah withdrew himself from the
haunts of his fellow-men. Day after day he and his followers collected
stones of various kinds, which they placed together in heaps, putting
like with like, and choosing only those of which the properties were
unknown to them. Of course they were well acquainted with every kind of
stone that could be worked into stone implements.
The inhabitants of Abibah were subject not only to the spiritual
influence of their priests but to those earlier spiritual influences
which take the form of wizardry and witchcraft. As may be imagined,
there was a constant feud between the priests and the wizards--some such
feud as exists in all ages between the established person in any art or
science and the interloper. The common people, however, preferred to
have dealings with the wizards and the witches rather than with the
priests.
Now there was a wise woman in Abibah of great renown, whose name was
Potochee; and when Realmah found that the spirits of his followers were
flagging, as they soon did, he resolved to have recourse to Potochee,
thinking that by judicious gifts he would be sure to command her
influence in his favour.
To the dismay of the Varnah he took away some of their household
treasures and presented them to Potochee, taking care at the same time
to say that he might have occasion shortly to consult her wisdom in
regard to a difficult enterprise, of the good results of which he
himself had no doubt whatever.
It is the business of people who pretend to supernatural wisdom to make
themselves very well acquainted with the affairs of this world; and, for
many weeks past, there was not a person in Abibah, except the Ainah, who
was so thoroughly acquainted with Realmah’s hopes and prospects as the
Potochee. And she hated him.
With that keen instinct that belongs to women, she knew as well as
possible that Realmah despised her arts and her pretensions; that he was
merely seeking to make use of her for a purpose; and that the general
enlightenment which this young man would develop, if he could, was
essentially hostile to witches and to wizards. She resolved that he
should have a killing answer to his inquiry. When, therefore, in the
presence of his foster-brother and some of his principal workmen,
Realmah demanded of Potochee whether the enterprise he had in hand would
be successful, she said, that of late the moon and the stars, and the
ripples on the waters, had all given forth significant omens of a
malignant nature. She would, however, make further inquiries. Did his
enterprise relate to any one of the principal elements? Was it an
enterprise of air, of water, or of earth? Realmah replied, of earth.
Then Potochee made her incantations, and burnt her sweet-smelling herbs,
and sat silent for a time wrapped in profound meditation. At last she
spoke, and said it was not for her to say sweet and pleasant things when
superior powers spoke otherwise. If it was an enterprise of earth that
he was engaged in, it was her duty to tell him that she could hear,
though he could not, the mocking laugh of the demons of the earth, who
sought to bring him and his deluded followers down to them. Had they not
noticed the blue flame which the incense had sent forth; and was it ever
known that good fortune followed that fatal colour? “Abstain, abstain,”
she exclaimed; “fly, while yet you may, from the delusions that beset
you.”
And Realmah withdrew from her presence--his followers dismayed and
terrified, and he himself mortified to the uttermost, and regretting
that he had not been more profuse in his gifts.
Thus Realmah remained alone in the world, supported only by his own
profound conviction of the truth, by his own determined tenacity of
purpose, and by the unbounded belief in him, and ineffable affection for
him, of his slave-wife, the Ainah.
The malicious prophecy of Potochee did not fail to exercise the evil
influence that might have been expected over the followers of Realmah.
The day after the utterance of her prophecy Realmah went with a heavy
heart to the scene of his daily labours. His forebodings were verified.
Not one of his followers was to be seen. He wandered disconsolately
hither and thither; but no one made his appearance. Realmah was standing
at the side of a pit in which had been placed the stones that he had
thought most likely to yield metal. The other stones had been collected
in heaps; but these, as most precious, had been buried in a pit; and at
the end of each day’s labours had been covered with leaves. These leaves
he had removed, and he was gazing into the pit when the Ainah arrived,
bringing his usual mid-day meal. She stood opposite to him, looking up
into his face, and was glad to perceive--for she knew every shade in
that countenance full well--that he was more angry than sorrowful. Now
anger, as the Ainah knew, was a thing much easier to deal with than
sorrow, especially in such a nature as Realmah’s, which was inclined to
humorousness--he being one of those persons whom you can generally cause
to perceive the absurdity of their passions.
“The boundless idiots!” he exclaimed.
“The unwise man who trusted to a witch,” said the Ainah, smiling.
“The abominable hag!” exclaimed Realmah.
“The poor dear Varnah and her pipkins,” replied the Ainah.
“And her fan of feathers,” said Realmah.
“And her red cloth.”
“And her jade knife.”
“And her two mats which,” replied the Ainah, “we were kept so many weary
winter hours to work at.”
And then they burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, making the wood
re-echo with their merriment.
Both Realmah and the Ainah were attached to the Varnah, and fully
recognised her merits; but it struck them as a thing unspeakably
ludicrous, if the Varnah could but know that her cherished possessions,
which she loved so dearly, had been used in vain to propitiate a witch,
and to induce her to give a favourable prophecy as regarded the result
of endeavouring to melt what the Varnah would have called some useless
stones. The poor Varnah had thought, when this property was carried away
from her by Realmah, that it was for some politic reason, for she had
great faith in his policy, though not in his common-sense, and that they
had been taken from her--only to return, as she hoped, in the shape of
more magnificent presents.
After they had indulged in their laughter, the Ainah drew Realmah away,
and, sitting down not far from their much-prized pit, said many things
to him cheering and encouraging.
They talked over their plans for recovering the services of their
followers, and afterwards spoke upon higher and happier themes--of their
great love for one another, and their confidence in each other.
I am afraid that the Ainah was not so unhappy as she should have been at
the temporary check to Realmah’s enterprise, for it gave her one more
day to be alone with him--the last she ever had.
In the course of that evening, and early the next morning, she was very
busy with her tribe. She could tell them in how many cases Potochee’s
forebodings had failed; she pointed out that Realmah’s answer to the
witch had not been quite correct, for was it not an enterprise in which
flame was more concerned than earth? She held out to them what great
things Realmah could do for their tribe, if he became a powerful chief;
and that whether he failed or not in this enterprise he would be equally
grateful to them. It might be a young man’s folly, she said; but he
would never be satisfied until it was proved to be a folly. And then he
would be himself again wise in council, dexterous in war, and, above all
things, a lover of the poor and despised tribe of fishermen.
She did not prevail with all those who had hitherto been employed; but
she did with some of them, and she enlisted new recruits.
Realmah, too, was not idle. He was one of those men whose personal
influence is very great. No man was quite the same, after having had an
earnest conversation with Realmah, as he had been before.
Realmah’s foster-brother, Omki, was a timid, superstitious man; but,
after being well talked to by the young chief, he was prepared to endure
whatever evil fate the demons of the earth were ready to inflict upon
him. Besides, whatever happened to him, it would be in company with his
dear Realmah; and to be with Realmah was the greatest happiness of this
faithful friend and follower.
On the morrow there was as numerous a band of workmen as there had been
before; and they worked apparently with good-will. This, however, did
not last. The malign influence of Potochee was always hovering over
these superstitious men. A general carelessness pervaded the work. The
stones were not kept distinct. Great effort was not made to find them in
distant places. The firewood was chosen carelessly. Indeed, throughout
the whole work, that spirit of indifference prevailed which is the sure
consequence of anticipated failure. Still the work, though done in a
very slovenly manner, was not abruptly broken off by any further
desertion on the part of Realmah’s followers.
The Ainah continued to meet Realmah almost daily in the woods. She was
commissioned by the Varnah to bring him his food, and she assisted him
in giving directions to his people to collect the mast from the
locasta-tree, and the firewood, which made an excuse in his home for
their wanderings. There, too, they gave utterance to their fervid love.
There she heard, day by day, of his disappointments, and,
notwithstanding these, of his undaunted hope.
Each day her wanderings became more difficult to her, for the sufferings
and privations she had undergone during her escape with him had
implanted the seeds of fatal disease; and the Ainah, though Realmah knew
it not, was dying. Ever intent upon his object, and exerting himself
more and more to counteract the lukewarmness of his followers, Realmah
did not notice the ravages which disease was making in his Ainah, or, if
he did notice them, thought that she, like himself, was growing pale and
thin from anxiety as to the success of their enterprise. At last, with
great labour, he and his men had brought together huge heaps of stones,
and large quantities of wood for their fire; and they awaited now, with
anxious hearts, the trial and result of their grand experiment.
It was a lovely day on which that experiment was first tried. Can there
be anything more beautiful than a wood, teeming as it does with infinite
forms of sheltered life, and yet so quiet, so grave, so solemn? The
creatures of the wood had become accustomed to Realmah and his men. It
was one of the deep superstitions of Realmah that, if he would succeed,
no form of life should be hostile to him. He carefully avoided all
quarrels with his fellow-creatures of whatever degree. He laid it down
as a rule not to injure even the smallest creature that makes pretence
to life. The _maralah_, a larger kind of squirrel, with a nascent wing,
played about in the trees above his head. The _poolmens_, a sort of
rabbit that existed at that period of the world, and had a sharp claw,
frisked to and fro. Occasionally a harmless snake glided hither and
thither, not far from those silently working men, with whose doings one
might almost fancy it had become amused and interested. There was a tame
dog (one of those that do not bark, like the prairie dogs of modern
times) which accompanied the Ainah in her wanderings, and looked on at
the proceedings of the men with even more than the usual canine gravity,
as if it fully understood the whole drift and purpose of Realmah and his
band of followers.
The experiment was tried, and it was not successful. The whole day long
they plied the fire, and left it burning late in the evening. The next
morning the wood had burnt away; but the ironstones (if ironstones they
were) remained unconsumed and unchanged.
Realmah’s followers had been very true to him, and had kept his secret
well, as long as there was a hope of success; but now that there was
failure, they could not restrain their gossiping; and all that Realmah
had been attempting of late, was noised throughout the city on the very
evening of the day that had witnessed his failure.
CHAPTER XVII.
REALMAH’S DEPRESSION.
One of the notable persons in the city of Abibah was a man of good rank,
of the name of Condore. This man had easily attained a high reputation
by always prophesying evil, and by uttering criticism of a damaging kind
upon all occasions when any great effort was made by other people. He it
was who had put down the invention of wooden forks, which some ingenious
man in the city had proposed, instead of fingers, to eat their food
with. “What insanity,” Condore said, “it would be to provide every
person with a sharp implement at a time when he was likely to be excited
by meat and drink, and to be especially quarrelsome!” And the idea of
eating with forks was at once discarded.
If a man was building a house, or forming a piece of furniture, Condore
was always ready to pronounce that it would be a failure; and as, in
this world, failure rather than success is the rule, Condore was very
frequently right, and indeed had secured to himself the appellation of
“Condore the judicious.”
So thoroughly had this chieftain attained the character of depreciating
all the efforts of his fellow-townsmen, that a verb had been formed from
his name; and when any enterprise was depreciated by adverse criticism,
it was said in the town of Abibah that it had been “condored.” Once,
however, he had erred by approving something. An ingenious man had
proposed a bridge of boats instead of drawbridges as the means of access
to the city. This, though a feasible scheme, had failed in execution;
and the unfortunate Condore had found himself pledged to the approval of
something that had failed. This approval had injured him for a time with
his fellow-townsmen; but he took care not to repeat the error, and it
could never afterwards be said of him that he had bestowed his august
approval upon any plan, whether wise or foolish.
It may easily be imagined what a thorn this man had been in the side of
Realmah. When Realmah had proposed that a small army of observation
should go to support the main army that went as allies to the Phelatahs,
Condore had pronounced that this was a mistake, just as he had
pronounced that the sending any army at all was a mistake. He was much
vexed with Realmah for having proved to be right. Great, therefore, was
his joy when it was found out that Realmah had been baking stones
without any effect.
Poor Realmah’s efforts were very critically considered throughout the
city, and Condore formed one of many a group assembled to discuss
Realmah’s doings. Some said he was foolish--others that he was mad; and
it seemed to be generally admitted that his having obtained that order
of merit, the blue _shemar_, had completely turned his head.
Realmah returned to his home in a state of the deepest depression. When
he arrived there he was sent for by his uncle, the chief of the East,
who reasoned with the young man in a very kindly manner. He said,
“Chiefs must be chiefs. They must attend councils. They must make
speeches. Their business must be the ruling over men. Work with the
hands was not their work. Doubtless Realmah had some meaning in what he
had done (the old Chief had a secret belief in the sagacity of his
nephew); but was it worth doing at the loss of so much reputation? Years
would have to pass before Realmah would stand upon the height that he
had stood upon after succouring the troops in the flight from
Abinamanche.”
Realmah withdrew from the old man’s presence much depressed, but not the
less resolved; though, if possible, more thoroughly convinced than ever
how dangerous it is for a man to be one little step in advance (in
thought) of his fellow-men.
Realmah did not find much comfort at home. The Varnah had never expected
that her husband would show much common sense in anything he undertook.
She regretted the time he had lost and the ill-repute into which he had
got as so much distinct loss of property; but she was neither
particularly kind nor unkind to him. The beautiful Talora, for her part,
was deeply vexed. She had married Realmah for repute’s sake; and now,
all that she had got was a lame man with a damaged reputation. While
they ate their meal together, she could not refrain from one or two
covert sneers at him, speaking of people who thought they were wiser
than others because they had odd crotchets in their minds which came to
nothing. The Ainah did not say a word; but once during the meal, she
stole her hand into his, and sought by a soft pressure to assure him of
her entire belief in him.
It is needless to say that Realmah had by this time discovered what kind
of character Talora was, and how great had been his mistake. She was a
very difficult person to live with, being pre-eminently tiresome, and
never useful. She would comment upon a burden, saying that it was too
small or too large, or that it was put awry upon the back, or that it
should not have been taken up at all; but she never lifted a little
finger to assist in carrying it herself. Moreover, nothing could be done
rightly that was not begun under her auspices. Shakespeare, who knew all
forms of tiresomeness in men and women, has pointed out this one in the
tragedy of “Julius Cæsar,” where he makes Brutus say of Cicero:
“For he will never follow anything
That other men begin.”
She attained to great power in the household, for the really useful and
kind-hearted Varnah, having been accustomed to be much praised for her
doings, was at first astonished, then grieved, and finally rendered
submissive, by Talora’s continued stream of polite depreciation. The
Ainah, for Realmah’s sake, endured the caprices, and submitted patiently
to the rebukes, of the wayward Talora. Realmah himself, being especially
anxious not to visit the result of his own mistaken choice upon the
object of that choice, was always courteous and kind to the spoilt
beauty. And thus such people have their way.
Talora could be very pleasant when she was pleased, for she had some
talent for social intercourse, though not of a kind adapted to domestic
life.
The wives retired to their apartments, while Realmah sat motionless for
hours before the fire, looking at it steadfastly as if he felt that fire
was the creature which he had not yet sufficiently mastered.
The cold morning light began to break into the room when the Ainah with
a soft step entered, and threw her arms round his neck. “Heed them not,”
she said, “you will yet succeed. There is something in me” (she alluded
to her deadly illness which she knew, but he did not) “which makes me a
prophetess.”
Realmah replied, “‘One dog howls for nothing; and the whole
neighbourhood is alive with howling.’ Or shall we quote another proverb,
dearest Lufra?--‘The dogs bark loudly together; but a wise man speaks
softly, and, not at all, except to another wise man.’ I am resolved to
recommence to-morrow.” So saying, he dismissed her.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LOVES OF REALMAH AND THE AINAH.
I suppose that all those who have ever been in love feel that very
little has been said or written that adequately represents what they
have felt. This love is a wonderful thing; and we can never cease, when
we are bystanders, to be astonished at the phenomenon,--that one human
being should appear to another to include all the beauties and virtues
of humanity; and that the love of the whole human race could, in no
measure, satisfy him, or her, if the love of the one person loved was
wanting.
Although lovers will not be satisfied with what has been said about
love, we must admit that a few fine things have been said. For instance,
that man spoke with some experience who said, that the test of loving
is, that being with the loved person all talk is needless, and that the
silence, which is embarrassing sometimes in the presence of the nearest
friends and the dearest relatives, is perfect ease, and harmony, and
comfort in the presence of the one beloved.
The Roman poet, too, has well described the feelings of a lover for his
mistress, when he says--
“Illam, quicquid agit, quoquo Vestigia movit
Componit furtim, subsequiturque decor;
Seu solvit crines, fusis decet esse capillis,
Seu compsit, comptis est veneranda comis.
Urit seu Tyriâ voluit procedere pallâ,
Urit seu niveâ candida veste venit.”
_Ellesmere._ I must at all hazards interrupt: Milverton once quoted
those lines before; and, after long and anxious consultation with
Ainsworth’s Latin Dictionary, I furnished a translation which has
been much admired by great scholars:--
“Whether she wears a bonnet that is like a coal-scuttle; or whether
she claps on a little platter that is attached to the back of her
head: whether, gracefully, she trails after her in the muddy streets
an ample sweep of flowing drapery; or whether, succinct and neat,
she trips along in Bloomer costume: whether she allows her beautiful
hair to fall in corkscrew ringlets round her enchanting face; or
whether she throws it all back, and, with the aid of alien hair,
forms a huge and overweighting lump behind:--she is equally
fascinating, equally tiresome, and equally disposed to look in at
all the haberdashers’ shops.”
[Milverton resumed.]
Steele, also, did not ill describe, though briefly, the charm of being
with a woman whom he greatly admired when he said, “That to be much with
her was in itself a liberal education.”
It was not ill said, either, by that man who exclaimed, “How much
happier it is in absence to think of thee, than to be with any other
person!”
Certainly there seems a good deal to be said for that theory ascribed to
Plato, that the soul is dual, and that one half of it wanders about in
the form of a man, and the other in the form of a woman. When these two
parts meet, a thing which occurs but rarely, there is doubtless supreme
felicity, as was the case with Realmah and the Ainah. But when severance
comes, then the felicity must be amply avenged by the corresponding
misery of desolation.
But oh! what cruel tricks does love play; and what mistakes and what
misfortunes are comparable to those which are caused by its
perversities! Granted that all the rest of human life were raised into a
higher and a happier stage of being, love alone would leave the human
race nearly as unhappy as it is. Suppose that climate, instead of being
the dire thing (to be ever watched and contended with) which it is over
the greater part of this globe, was entirely harmonious and beautiful:
suppose, indeed, that everywhere and at all times it was like that which
prevails during those few days in an American autumn, when serenity
seems to rule over the land; when it is neither too hot nor too cold;
when “never winds blow loudly;” and when all Nature, often so harsh,
seems to subside into an unwonted lovingness and kindness--still, if the
loving heart were not at peace, small would be the gain thereof. Granted
too, that men could worship the Supreme Being without engaging to define
His nature and His attributes, and to persecute all those who differ
from them in the minutest particular when defining what is undefinable,
and explaining what is inexplicable: granted too, that the life of man
in great cities was not as inexpressibly sordid as it is, but that all
men, from the lowest to the highest, were well housed and well cared
for; that men were fed without the slaughter of the animal creation;
that there were none of those excessive and hideous contrasts which now
exist between the states of the rich and of the poor; and that the
office of ruler, in any form or shape, was taken with reluctance, and
only from a sense of duty, the ruling man feeling he was only the
servant of those over whom he had the sway: granted all this, granted an
Arcadia, granted an Atlantis, or any state of being for mankind that the
wisest and most benevolent men in their juvenile dreams--alas! only in
their juvenile dreams--have imagined: granted that the state of things
pictured by the poet existed here (it may exist in some happier planet);
that
“Qui Sdegno non s’accende,
E soggionar non sa;
La Colpa non offende,
Trova l’Error pietá.
“L’Inganno quì non ride
Nel mascara del Ver;
Fra noi ciascun divide
L’Affanno ed il Piacer.”
--granted that men loved their neighbours, and did not hate their
enemies; that ill-natured criticism was not abundant; and that
Christianity was not a name, but a reality,--still, if Cupid were left
to play his strange, horrid pranks, the happiness of the world would by
no means be assured.
Where the greatest error and mistakes arise is in forgetting that love
is a thing of infinite variety.
At the moment I am writing, there are hundreds of ingenious and clever
people weaving wonderful love tales to amuse the mind; but the love they
portray is, for the most part, of the same kind. They exhaust their
ingenuity in framing subtle obstacles to the fulfilment of the love, but
they seldom dwell with much ingenuity on the different kinds of love.
I have been led to make these reflections while considering the love of
Realmah for the Ainah, which was of a most singular description. To use
a common expression, which is very forcible, he worshipped the very
ground upon which she trod. He found with her alone the exquisite joy of
a perfect companionship. He saw, and even exaggerated, all the grace and
all the beauty, whatever they were, that she possessed. He admired her
when she spoke. He was happy with her when she was silent. Whatever she
did or said was pleasing in his eyes.[17] To her there was no need of
long explanations from him. She understood him at once, and her soul was
a twin-soul to his. They had none of the pretty quarrels and playful
diversities of opinion which so often make love amusing to lovers; but
she was sister, and counsellor, and companion, and comforter, partaking
every hope, every trouble, every sorrow that was his.
Footnote 17:
The Sheviri, a nation rich beyond measure in proverbs, had one or two
which illustrate the statement in the text, or its converse.
“The man you hate cannot take up his bit of meat with his fingers but
you hate him more.”
And again this one--
“Akbal jumped into the water; but no man said that Akbal was
wet”--meaning that a favourite can do anything without offence.
The Ainah possessed one very rare accomplishment: she was an admirable
talker. How rare that accomplishment is, may be seen from the fact that
throughout the civilized world, at the present time, there are more
great musicians, great poets, and great painters, than there are
consummate talkers.
This man repeats profusely; that man is dry and curt: one man is
over-explanatory and indulges in parentheses, which are the death of
good talk; another is unsympathetic, or egotistical, and his talk
degenerates into an oration chiefly about himself and his own doings;
while a third contrives to turn all conversation into mere argumentation
or dispute. When we read of the remarkable women who have bewitched the
world--the Aspasias, Cleopatras, the Ninons d’Enclos--we may simply
conclude, not that they were much more beautiful than other women, but
that they talked better.
This art has an especial attraction for men who, like Realmah, are
somewhat melancholy. The beauty of it too is, that it does not need to
have wonderful subjects to discourse about. It is beyond and above all
erudition; and the commonest domestic tales are brightened up and made
something of by a good talker. There are proverbs about speech being
silver and silence being gold; but at the most they only apply to the
conduct of business, or to the talk of dull people, for good talk is
ever one of the choicest things in the world, and wins all people who
come within its sphere. Now the Ainah, as we know, was not only
profoundly ignorant, but even vulgar in her language; nevertheless her
sweet and nimble talk, her sense of humour and of pathos, made the
listener forget her vulgarities of speech.
No one could be more cautious than Realmah of showing how much he was
enchanted with the Ainah’s conversation. When he returned home after his
day’s work, if he had not seen the Ainah, he went first to the Varnah,
listened to all she had to say about the furniture that had been
spoiled, and the deficiency that there was in fuel or in food; he then
listened to the pretty nothings or the cross comments of Talora; and
then afterwards sauntered into the apartments of the Ainah, to be
solaced by the wit and humour which flowed from her discreet and
softly-speaking lips.
The Ainah, too, was equally careful to conceal that she had any pleasure
in his society. She was not like the favourite slave of whom the poet
says--
“Abra was ready, ere I named her name;
And when I called another, Abra came.”
On the contrary, the Ainah never sought Realmah’s society, or showed any
particular pleasure in it; and so there was a house in which there were
three wives, and next to no jealousy. The Varnah knew that she was
transcendent in the art of housekeeping, and looked upon all the others
as children of whom she had to take care. Talora knew that she was
beautiful, and cared for nothing else than that this should be
acknowledged. The Ainah knew that she was loved, and that naturally
sufficed for her.
There would probably be no such thing as jealousy if souls were visible,
for we should then find that the love of any person for any other is so
completely a peculiar relation between those two only, that there would
be nothing for any third person to be jealous of. We are speaking now,
of course, of the higher kinds of love.
I have said above, that the love of Realmah for the Ainah was singular
in its character. It was singular, because it was so great, considering
that there was so much in it which was but fraternal in its nature.
The truth is, that there was a little too much resemblance in their
characters. They were both very subtle persons. The Ainah, as well as
Realmah, had that peculiar characteristic which is best expressed in a
Spanish word, “_Longanimidad_”--that is, that they were both of them
people of great mental endurance; being long-continuing, patient, quiet
haters, or lovers, or sufferers. They were alike also in the breadth of
view with which they regarded any question, and in their freedom from
being influenced by the opinions of the comparatively inferior people
who surrounded them. They were thus a little too much alike to fulfil
the condition which, according to Plato, has been laid down for perfect
happiness in love.
Not that there is not always an immense difference between the masculine
and the feminine soul, even when they are apparently cast in the same
mould.
Realmah did not know all this. In fact, he was one of those men who all
their lives remain very ignorant of the nature of women. We have seen
how deluded he was in his estimate of Talora’s merits. But then great
men are so easily deceived: indeed, you may often measure the greatness
of the man by his liability to be deceived. Not if his attention is
aroused; not if he brings the powers of his mind to bear upon the
question; but, in the ordinary course of life, he is very apt to believe
too much both in men and women.
Realmah, as I have said above, was happily unconscious of these fine
distinctions and subtleties in love. He thought his Ainah perfection,
and never imagined that a more joyous and more resonant nature--a nature
that did not quite partake his aspirations, though it might sympathise
with them--a nature that would even have permitted her sometimes,
playfully and tenderly, to laugh at him and make fun of him--would,
after all, have been a nature more fitted to amuse and distract him, and
to lighten the burden of his cares.
The joy and comfort, however, that his Ainah was to Realmah at this
critical period of his life were unspeakable. While he was at work in
the forest he could, from the spot where his works were situated, obtain
a view of a slight eminence which lay between his works and the town of
Abibah. Evening after evening--for, alas! the Ainah began to be unable
to come in the day-time--the descending sun threw its yellow rays upon
the summit of that eminence; and a figure, which most people would not
have thought remarkable for its grace or its beauty, made its way over
the hill, walking in a certain resolute fashion--the Ainah having
husbanded whatever little strength was left to her to appear strong to
Realmah. That figure in his eyes, if in those of no other man, was
pre-eminently attractive. He always paused in his work to regard it; and
when it approached him, he looked to be cheered by the smiling welcome,
and the truthful blue eyes, full of tender encouragement, which said to
him, in that unwritten language well known amongst lovers, “If you have
succeeded, I come to rejoice, as none other can rejoice, in your
success; and, if you have failed, I come to tell you that your failure
is only the failure of to-day, and that to-morrow must be brighter.”
It was a thing worth noticing, to see the cautious, wistful glance which
the Ainah threw at the works, and then at her husband’s face, before she
spoke to him, making up her mind as to the tenor of the few loving
remarks which with low and sweet voice she would make to Realmah upon
the labours of the day--her hand, now feverish and tremulous, softly
clasped in his.
It is a bold assertion to make; but, such is the dulness of perception
created by familiarity, that it may be asserted that we are often as
unobservant of the change in the bodies of those we live with, as we are
of their varying states of minds and of the movements of their
affections.
Realmah, no doubt, noticed that the Ainah did not come in the day-time;
but he did not attribute this to her failing strength, which prevented
her from wandering about with him for hours. If he had been asked the
cause of this change, he would have said that, though she was as much
interested as ever in the result, the details of the work had probably
by this time become rather wearisome to her. And he would perhaps have
moralized upon the superior perseverance of men to women in dealing with
these details--little imagining that to be with him was always pleasure
enough for the Ainah; and that superintending the collection and
distribution of these stones and the firewood was an employment at which
she would never have grown weary as long as he was by her side.
CHAPTER XIX.
REALMAH’S SUCCESS.
We left Realmah intent upon recommencing his work on the morrow. Wiser
thoughts, however, took possession of his mind, and he resolved, before
he commenced his own especial work, to regain, if possible, the good
opinion of his countrymen. Deeply deliberating upon the folly of
mankind, he came to the conclusion that he must maintain his influence
with his nation by the ordinary arts of statesmen if he would
successfully undertake any new invention. Wherever there are few real
distinctions amongst mankind it is especially necessary to invent
conventional distinctions. The chieftains therefore of the Sheviri were
particularly careful by a composed gesture, by gravity of speech and
solemnity of demeanour, to show that they were different from other men,
and so to maintain and dignify their high position. When there are real
distinctions amongst men, this is less necessary. For instance, in more
civilized life, when a man is a distinguished scholar, or an eminent
mathematician, or a profound lawyer, he need hardly care much about the
dignity or the grace of his demeanour. He has his just influence from
the special knowledge which he possesses.
Realmah, however, had to win the regard of his countrymen by the arts
that were usually employed by their chiefs. Some weeks passed by before
he accomplished this result; but at last he did accomplish it, and began
to feel himself strong enough in the good opinion of those about him to
recommence his great work. Before doing so, however, he thought it
prudent to communicate, in a vague way, his hopes and aims to several of
his friends. He did not tell them that he hoped to melt stones into
metal; but he mentioned that he had some ideas which might be wise, or
might be foolish, but which he must endeavour to prove, and which had
reference to improving their defences. He met with little encouragement;
but he felt that he had at any rate told enough of his plan to prevent
for the future any outbreak of excessive ridicule and hostility in the
way of criticisms. He took care to promise that, when he had made some
more experiments, he would open his mind fully to his friends if there
should be anything worth asking their advice about.
He had come to the conclusion, as we know, that his fires had been
utterly insufficient. He now resolved to form them underground. For this
purpose he dug a round pit, cementing it as well as he could with clay,
formed an adit to it communicating with the surface of the ground, and
then endeavoured to burn some of the stones which he had collected. This
experiment was not successful; but he observed that he had produced a
much fiercer fire. He now resolved to pay still greater attention to his
fuel, of which he prepared large stacks carefully dried. He also
resolved to intermix the fuel with the stones, and he determined to try
the next experiment upon a much larger scale. This time the result was
different. He succeeded in getting up and maintaining such a degree of
heat as had never yet been accomplished in that part of the world. For
five days and nights he kept up his furnace; and, finally, he banked in
the fire from the top by putting on more stones and by covering it all,
to two feet of depth, with tenacious clay, leaving a small aperture by
way of a chimney. When the glowing mass had become cool, which did not
take place for several days, the pit was uncovered and laid bare, and at
the bottom of it there was found a considerable quantity of metal that
had run together. Realmah felt certain that his great problem was now
solved. The Ainah had been assiduous in her attentions to him during the
critical days which this experiment had occupied. She was present at the
uncovering of the pit, and was the first person to whom he triumphantly
showed the result of his long-continued labours. Forgetting their
habitual reserve, and unmindful of the various comments that might be
made upon their conduct, the two lovers embraced each other fondly. They
then proceeded home in triumph.
But alas! what are the triumphs of men? Realmah saw in the success of
this experiment the safety of the South from the attacks of the North,
the preservation of his native city, and the ascendency of his race. But
that very day, as they approached the drawbridges of Abibah, the Ainah,
dearer to him than all the metals in the world, dearer than city, or
race, or empire, or his own great idea, fainted in his arms, and as he
laid her down upon the ground beside the gate, a thin stream of blood
trickled from those lips which only a short six months ago he had hardly
dared to kiss, and which for him contained all the joy, the private
personal joy, that life was capable of giving.
Her end was rapidly approaching: he carried her to her apartment--hours
passed away, and his hand remained in hers; but, sublimely prudent to
the last, Realmah, who knew how much he should lose in the estimation of
his nation if he should show any excessive affection for a lowly girl,
one of the tribe of the despised fishermen, concealed his agony when her
end approached, and when, amidst many friends of her own, and his other
wives, she breathed her last.
Just before she died, their eyes met, and in the meeting of those eyes
was told the unutterable love each bore to the other.
Realmah moved from the room with a composed step, and gave orders for
such a funeral as became the Ainah of a man of his rank.
It would not do to say that Realmah never smiled again; but it might be
true to say that he hereafter designed his smiles, and never finished
them.
Henceforward he lived but for ambition, and laboured on mainly in the
hope of finishing the great work he had undertaken, and then rejoining
the only being whom he had ever profoundly loved, and who had ever
profoundly loved him.
Untold ages have passed since the day when that grave young chief moved
away from the deathbed of that lowly girl, with anguish gnawing at his
heart, and supreme composure in his countenance; and thousands of other
men, like him, have trodden the same path, lost in an unutterable love
for some one being who has gone, but all the more sternly resolved to
fulfil a great career, and to tread down private sorrow in some
absorbing idea for the public good.
Realmah had hitherto merely been a clever man, taking an interest in
public affairs: he was, from this moment, a profound and ambitious
statesman. And thus it is that subtle Nature, always anxious to make the
most of her children, weaves out of irreparable private sorrow great and
abiding advantage for the public good.
_Mauleverer._ This is as it should be. Some truth is told us here,
or at least some portion of truth. Men, as Milverton well says, make
their highest and best exertions simply to escape from themselves.
_Milverton._ I really do not think I said that.
_Mauleverer._ Well, you implied as much; but I go much further, and
I say that when you see a man do anything very splendid you may look
upon it as the result of disease, acted upon, and brought into full
play, by unfortunate circumstances.
There is not a person here present, except perhaps Mrs. Milverton
and myself, who is not a victim to some of the especial diseases
which make men famous.
I am afraid I cannot even make an exception for Mrs. Milverton. She
cares too much to please people’s tastes, and to make them
comfortable. I could see how vexed you were yesterday at dinner,
Mrs. Milverton, at the hare being overdone. By the way, I must
impress upon you once for all, that if you will have a hare for
dinner, you must take care that one person’s mind is solely devoted
to the dressing of it. No person is skilful enough, or watchful
enough, to dress a hare and attend to other things.
_Ellesmere._ For goodness’ sake, stop this man! Milverton upon the
subject of war, Mauleverer upon cookery, Cranmer upon finance,
Johnson upon the merits of the Scotch, are public nuisances. I must
call you back to the subject, which is very interesting. What is the
nature of my disease?
_Mauleverer._ You have two of the worst diseases known--restlessness
and argumentativeness. Those two diseases brought into full action
by unfortunate circumstances have made you the distinguished lawyer
that you are.
_Sir Arthur._ What is the matter with me, Mauleverer?
_Mauleverer._ Oh, you labour under a horrible disease, Sir Arthur.
When I think of what you might have been, I feel the tenderest pity
for you. You might have been a quiet, comfortable English gentleman
devoted to yachting. And then to think of what you are, a great
author and a distinguished politician!
_Cranmer._ But his disease--tell us what that is. Something
horrible, you say.
_Mauleverer._ Yes; Sir Arthur is a man full of imagination, before
whose mind there come all manner of beautiful ideas and fancies. He
can’t leave them alone, or enjoy them quietly by himself, but must
put them into form. This passion for form is his disease.
[I observed that Sir Arthur looked very grave, and seemed as if he felt
what Mauleverer said.]
_Milverton._ And mine?
_Mauleverer._ Yours is lamentable, deplorable; you are victimized by
pity. You look around you, and see hundreds of things that might be
improved, and you fondly think that it is your business to set to
work and improve them. A more fatal disease cannot well be imagined.
You must be an unhappy man, and yet you might have been so happy if
you had attended only to metaphysics, and immersed your mind in the
doctrine of “contradictory inconceivables.”
_Mr. Cranmer._ And what is my disease?
_Mauleverer._ The dot-and-carry-one disease. A painful love of
accuracy, and a joy in doing long sums, possess your mind; and these
disorders you carry into public life.
But when I say all these things you must understand that they are a
mere playful way of putting it. I mean something much more serious.
_Ellesmere._ Mauleverer playful! A hippopotamus festive! Did I not
tell you all that he would be dreadful to-day?
_Mauleverer._ No; but what I really mean is, that there is in each
of you too much, or too little, of some important component of the
human body, and that this excess or deficiency is the source of
disease. There are too many, or too few, carbonates, or sulphates,
or sulphites, or sulphides, or some of these chemical things. Now,
in poor Ellesmere, for instance----
_Ellesmere._ Don’t “poor” me, sir. Nobody ever “poored” me before.
It’s actionable.
_Mauleverer._ I will run the risk of damages. In poor Ellesmere, for
instance, there is evidently too much phosphorus. Little as I know
of chemistry, I know that. Hence the superabundance of excitability.
_Ellesmere._ I never wished so much to be a chemist as I do now.
What are the component parts of adiposeness? Will anybody tell me?
_Sir Arthur._ I say, Mauleverer, this is really taking too material
and physical a view.
_Mauleverer._ I cannot help it. That is what it seems to me. All
greatness, I repeat, is but disease developed by unfortunate
circumstances.
Consider what pre-eminence is amongst mortals. It is generally
success in a particular thing, occasioned by the development of the
man’s character and powers in one direction, to the great detriment
of the man taken as a whole. Now, again, let us take Ellesmere for
an instance.
_Ellesmere._ The malice of this man is inconceivable. Why can’t you
take some one else as an example? Take Sandy--he is not married.
Lady Ellesmere will never cease quoting the things you say against
me.
_Mauleverer._ Now, take Ellesmere, for instance. The unfortunate
circumstances of his being bred to the Bar, acting upon his
phosphoric restlessness, has developed his powers of objectiveness
to the uttermost. He is always ready with some point to be taken
against you, whatever you may say. How far this prevents his taking
a large and just view of any question it is not for me to determine.
You all know the kind of little dog which lives at a suburban villa,
and scutters out, as hard as its little fat legs can carry it, to
bark madly at every in-comer, and even at every passer-by. It makes
no distinction between the good dogs’ meat man, who brings it its
own food, and the prowling area sneak. The barking powers of that
dog I admit: its judgment I deny; and it does occur to me that its
barking powers have been developed at the expense of its judgment. I
can say no more--that’s my poor view of the case.
_Ellesmere._ For goodness’ sake, let us have some more reading. Our
characters are slipping away from us under this man’s cold, calm,
cruel scrutiny. I have always heard it observed that very stout
gentlemen are, as a rule, much better fellows than men of an
ordinary size; but that when they are ill-natured, they are far
worse than the leanest of men. The reason is that they are so far
advanced in wickedness that they have come to take a pleasure in
malignity. It agrees with them: they grow fat upon it. The lean and
hungry Cassius is a pleasant fellow compared with Mauleverer. I
shall go. Call me back, Sandy, when the conversation returns to a
proper state, and Mauleverer is either silent or polite.
[_Exit Ellesmere._
Mr. Mauleverer rubbed his fat hands, and uttered a low, wheezy,
chuckling laugh, the nearest approach to merriment that I have ever
observed in him. There was afterwards some general conversation, of
which I did not catch the purport until I heard Mr. Mauleverer
apologizing to Lady Ellesmere.
_Mauleverer._ Forgive me, Lady Ellesmere, but Sir John does
sometimes require a little putting down, and you are all too much
afraid of him to do it. The unpleasant task, therefore, remains with
me.
_Lady Ellesmere_ (who did not look very much pleased). When John is
talking seriously, I believe there is no one who takes a larger and
a broader view of his subject.
I have heard that the late Lord Chancellor used to say----
_Mauleverer_ (taking Lady Ellesmere’s hand in his). Yes, my dear,
yes; we all know what a clever fellow your Sir John is; but a little
attack upon him will do him no harm. Do you think I didn’t know by
intuition what fun he was making of me this morning when I was
toiling up that hill, and that he ran off on purpose to do so? Never
fear, Lady Ellesmere; he will come back soon, and be more brilliant
than ever.
_Cranmer._ There is a great deal of truth in what Mauleverer says.
Sir John is always down upon one in a moment with an objection,
sometimes before one has time to explain oneself.
_Lady Ellesmere._ He keeps you all to the point. I am sure that John
is really one of the most tolerant of men.
_Ellesmere_ (who had entered while she was speaking). That’s right,
my dear, always stick up for your husband, especially when he is in
the wrong. So you have all, except my wife and Fairy, been talking
against me during my absence; but, as the heavy villain at the
Surrey Theatre would say, “I will a-a-have my r-r-r-revenge.”
_Mrs. Milverton._ I wish to make a remark.
_Ellesmere._ After Cranmer’s celebrated remark, which lasted
three-quarters of an hour, we all adopt this form, and say, “I wish
to make a remark.”
_Mrs. Milverton._ I am very much displeased with all of you. You
have been discussing nothing but characters and chemistry, and have
been talking in the most cold-blooded and heartless manner about all
manner of things, and not one of you has said a word about the death
of the Ainah. I had read it all before, and I am not ashamed to say
that I had a good cry over her death. I cannot think how Leonard
could have been so cruel as to kill her so soon.
_Milverton._ My dear, I cried too--as much as men ever cry; but it
could not be helped. The fact stared me in the face, for it was a
fact to me; and I was obliged to tell the story as it happened.
_Sir Arthur._ I do think, Milverton, you might have let her live a
little longer.
_Ellesmere._ I repent me bitterly of all the jokes I ever ventured
to make about her.
_Sir Arthur._ Nobody can accuse me of being too much given to
moralizing; but I must draw forth a moral now. Ellesmere is sorry
now, he says--now that the Ainah is dead--that he said anything
against her, even in jest:--
“And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!
’Tis only when they spring to Heaven that angels
Reveal themselves to you; they sit all day
Beside you, and lie down at night by you,
Who care not for their presence--muse or sleep:
And all at once they leave you, and you know them!
We are so fooled, so cheated!”
I have no doubt that Realmah thought with remorse how little he had
appreciated the poor Ainah, even when he had appreciated her the
most.
_Ellesmere._ I always rather liked the girl; but, of course, when I
made that remark----
_Sir Arthur._ Now don’t explain away what you said, Ellesmere. It
may be absurd to feel in that way about a character in a story; but,
for the moment, you really did feel what you said.
_Ellesmere._ Well, upon my word, I really think I did.
_Sir Arthur._ I need not work out my moral, but may just venture to
remark that real, living people have their feelings too; and if we
were sometimes to think how soon they would die--even the halest of
them--that thought might restrain us from many a depreciating
remark.
_Mrs. Milverton._ Ah, indeed it might, Sir Arthur.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Yes, John. Listen to Sir Arthur, and become a more
kind and considerate person.
_Ellesmere._ It is all very well talking, but people in books do not
tread upon our toes, whereas real flesh-and-blood people sometimes
do, and that rather heavily.
_Milverton._ But you see, Ellesmere, they too might draw the moral,
and not tread upon your toes quite so heavily, reflecting that,
after all, even great lawyers----
_Mauleverer._ Though the toughest of human species.
_Milverton._ --do eventually take their departure from this vale of
tears and trouble. By the way, why should we always make it a vale
of tears? Are there no sorrows on the hill-tops?
_Sir Arthur._ Ruskin, in his eloquent way, would show you that there
really is less sorrow on the hill-tops, and that mountaineers,
living in closer amity with nature, are better and heartier people
than the money-making inhabitants of valleys.
_Cranmer._ The way in which you have been talking about imaginary
people is to me astonishing.
_Sir Arthur._ You cannot ignore facts, Cranmer; indeed you love them
too much to do so. I maintain that most people’s minds are fully as
much filled with thoughts and feelings respecting persons in fiction
as they are about persons in real life.
_Mauleverer._ Perhaps so: especially if you add the personages in
history to the personages in fiction.
_Ellesmere._ That is where Cranmer has such an advantage over us,
and is able to do his sums without any foolish interruption.
Di Vernon (to me far the most loveable of all Scott’s heroines), and
Mignon, and Margaret in “Faust,” and Beatrice, and Laura, and Mary
Queen of Scots, and Medea, and Medora, and Rosalind, and Helen, and
Cleopatra, and dozens of other fair women, never disturb the equal
current of his thoughts.
Upon my word, I do not know whether it would not be a good thing to
banish them all. Good heroes and heroines are an especial nuisance.
They are apt to make us discontented with ordinary mortals. I dare
say though, the Ainah, poor dear, was peevish sometimes, and allowed
her superiority to the other two to be plainly perceived, at least
by Realmah, and that sometimes she was even intolerant of him. But I
am very sorry she is gone.
_Sir Arthur._ You seem to forget, Ellesmere, that the portraying of
these heroes and heroines makes people strive to become like them,
and so tends to improve the world.
_Ellesmere._ So it may; but I think this does not compensate for the
mischief of setting up a high ideal.
_Milverton._ _I do not agree with you, and would venture to contend
that no writer has been able to depict people so good as good people
really are, for the truth is no writer’s canvas is large enough to
do so. It is in length of patience, and endurance, and forbearance,
that so much of what is good in mankind and womankind is shown; and
you (the writer) have neither time nor space enough to show forth
those high qualities as they are shown in life._
_Mr. Cranmer._ I wonder what is to become of Realmah now? We have
seen him as a lover, and as an inventor; I suppose he is to rise
into some higher sphere.
_Ellesmere._ Cranmer thinks he will become a man of business, the
highest form of which human nature is capable.
_Mauleverer._ You see in this story what you see in most stories
that are truly told--what a mistake it is to love anybody very much.
_Lady Ellesmere._ I do not see anything of the kind, Mr. Mauleverer.
I would a thousand times rather be Realmah now, than Realmah before
he made his escape from Abinamanche, and when he did not know that
the Ainah loved him.
[It was now late in the evening, and the party separated for the night.
Sir Arthur and Ellesmere remained in the drawing-room after the others
had left.]
_Sir Arthur._ You were not really angry, Ellesmere, were you, when
you left the room?
_Ellesmere._ Not I. Do you think anything which that fat man could
say to me would disturb my peace of mind? But he is right in what he
says about my phosphoric restlessness. We had had a long reading,
and a very long conversation, and I was scheming how to get a little
change, and a little fresh air under the stars; so, from the moment
he began to attack me, I began to prepare to get into a huff, and to
make my escape for a few minutes, which I think I accomplished
rather neatly. Our serious Falstaff thinks he has crushed, smashed,
and pounded me to atoms. Depend upon it, he has gone to bed to-night
much happier than he has for many of the preceding nights, and that
he has acknowledged that the world is not so wretched a place as he
supposed it to be. There is some pleasure in crushing Ellesmere. I
thought the likeness he was pleased to discover between my poor self
and a yappetting suburban poodle was not bad at all. I do not think
I shall ever do any great good in the world, except in opposing,
and, if I may presume to say so, curbing men like you and Milverton,
and so keeping you within bounds.
When I am here I always take up that objective line, because I think
it amuses Milverton, and keeps him alive. There is such a vast
amount of melancholy in his disposition, that he requires all the
aid we can give him in the other direction.
_Sir Arthur._ Dear me, I should never have thought it. He enters
into everything with spirit, from the most trivial game to the most
serious conversation.
_Ellesmere._ Ah, but you do not know him as I do, or as Sandy there
does. In the background of his mind, there is gloom all the time.
There is no knowing what mischief Mauleverer would do to him, if
they lived much together.
Moreover his is a mood of mind which you cannot answer nor satisfy.
Mauleverer made a great hit when he attributed all Milverton’s
misfortunes to pity. If you were to make everything on this earth
comfortable, and were to arrange the world as he pleased, he would
still sit down and mourn over the past, like Marius amidst the ruins
of Carthage, or Rachel for her children.
Was Mauleverer equally successful with you, Sir Arthur?
_Sir Arthur._ Yes, he was. That passion for form which he attributed
to me is one of the things which has given me more trouble, and led
me into more work, than any other motive power in my nature. I brood
over an idea; I suddenly think how it may be expressed, or rather
rendered, generally adopting in my mind some extraordinary form--and
I am haunted by the thing until I have succeeded in putting it into
that form. I believe the desire to accomplish that part of the work
which depends upon form is stronger with me even than the desire to
give vogue and furtherance to the idea. I always had a notion that
this was an important part of my intellectual character; but I never
saw it so clearly as when Mauleverer charged me with it in that
forcible manner.
_Johnson._ What a remarkable thing that was that he said about the
sparrow and the telegraph wires, when we were on the lake!
_Sir Arthur._ Yes. That was very good. One felt that it must have
been said before. That is one of the first thoughts that occur to
one when one meets with any fine passage in almost any work. By the
way, it strikes me now that that is one of the reasons why, as
Carlyle has pointed out, there is generally considerable
disappointment on our first reading of a great work.
_Ellesmere._ To return to Mauleverer. He certainly is a very
remarkable human being; but still he is terribly monotonous. I
declare, without exaggeration, that I do not think I have heard him,
while he has been here, make one single remark that had not the
tendency to depress human effort, and lower our view of human
prospects. I mean henceforward to take the other side.
In order to do so with effect, one must be particularly well, and
have good long sleepful nights--without the aid of your blue
“sleep,” though, Sir Arthur. So, good night.
[_Exeunt_.
The next day there was a reading of the story of Realmah, as follows:--
CHAPTER XX.
REALMAH’S GRIEF. THE USE MADE OF IRON IN ABIBAH.
It has often been noticed how, in civilized life, routine goes on,
whatever suffering, or sorrow, or shame, or bereavement may have
befallen. Dinner is not put aside because there is death in the house.
There was the same thing at that period of the world’s history; and
Realmah had to conform to the inevitable routine of life. At such times
men move about, as it were, in a mist--a mist, however, causing trouble
and confusion only to themselves; for they may seem to others to see
very clearly, and to do their work well.
The sufferer has not only to appear upon the stage of action, whatever
that may be, and to act his part tolerably; but he has to continue to
act, when off the stage and behind the scenes, and only ceases to act
when he is quite alone. Moreover, the usual supports are gone. Even that
most clinging of human frailties and follies, vanity, gives way before
profound sorrow and bereavement; and, in their presence, it has been
known that a very vain man has lost his vanity, and all the comfort and
sustainment that it used to bring with it. An ambition, especially if it
be of the higher kind, embracing the good of others, may survive the
shock: and thus it was with Realmah.
One of the many miseries of greatness, and not perhaps the least, is
that neither its joys nor its sorrows can be private. To this was added
in Realmah’s case an especial necessity to conceal the magnitude of his
grief, and to behave as if it were only a small loss that he had
suffered.
The report of his having made a successful experiment spread throughout
the city with considerable rapidity, though not, of course, so rapidly
as the knowledge of his failures had spread on former occasions.
Everybody was anxious to see him, and to talk to him, and to be one of
the first to congratulate him. Crowds of the citizens flocked out to
that part of the wood where Realmah had carried on his experiments; and,
in a very few hours, every bit of the iron had been carried away. The
people of Abibah were very ready to appreciate the uses that might be
made of this new metal.
One cannot help feeling a little for Condore, considering the
mortification that one naturally supposes he must have had to endure
from this success on the part of Realmah. But “Condore the Judicious”
was equal to the occasion. It is true that he was not one of those
“silly people,” as he called them, who flocked to the scene of Realmah’s
experiments; but Condore did not hide himself from his friends, nor did
he conceal his feelings by maintaining a sulky silence. He had always
known, he said, that certain stones would melt into metal. Of course
they would. Anybody that had seen a thunderbolt knew that. He had viewed
this enterprise with disfavour, not because he imagined for a moment
that it was a thing that could not be done, but because it was not worth
doing, and could have no good result. For his part, he was content with
what had contented his ancestors, who, he supposed, were not greater
fools than his contemporaries. He would trouble those who were in this
fuss of foolish delight at a most commonplace transaction, to mention to
him any instance of a new thing turning out to be a good thing. The
presumption in all cases was, that every change is for the worse.
They were descended from the gods--at least so the priests had informed
him--and was it likely that there would be any improvement in their
race, as time went on, and as each generation was still further removed
from their great ancestors?
As to the uses that might be made of this metal, he begged to remind
them of the well-known story of the ambitious pig which was so much
discontented with his own tail, calling it a ridiculous and useless
little appendage. The gods, willing to give man a lesson, bestowed upon
this pig the tail that he coveted, namely, that of a fox. It was not
found, however, to be so very great a gain. It went flopping about in
the dirt; it made the poor pig look still more ridiculous than he had
looked before, and proved only very serviceable to the little boys who
wished to catch the pig. Such was the result, as far as his poor
observation had gone, of men taking up new things unfitted for them; but
the kindness of the gods in giving examples to mankind was seldom
understood.
This satire pleased the bystanders (there was generally a little circle
of listeners round Condore), and his words were noised throughout the
city, especially the satirical story which he had invented about the
pig. It did not, however, produce all the effect that Condore expected.
Sneering can do a great deal: you can sneer down, at any rate for the
moment, truth, honour, religion, generosity, and patriotism. Moreover,
anything that is new offers especial opportunity for sneering attacks.
But men cannot be sneered out of manifest physical advantages; and the
men of Abibah were not such fools as to prefer fighting with wooden
instead of iron weapons against enemies who were furnished with iron
weapons. Besides, they took it as a very ill compliment that Condore
should insinuate, as they thought he did, that they were of an inferior
race to the men of the North, and that it was unfit for them, the
Sheviri, to aspire to have superior weapons.
In short, the story of the ambitious pig was not well received, and
people began to murmur against Condore, saying that he had been a
hinderer of many good designs.
Time went on, but the ardour of the men of Abibah for making use of this
new metal did not abate. Many ingenious persons were found to aid
Realmah in his projects, and there were several of them who now showed
much more ingenuity than he did, in working this metal, and adapting it
to many uses. In truth, inventors, or rather those who have the power to
invent, are very numerous. Let any man observe how many persons amongst
his friends have told him of inventions that they had in their minds,
and he will perhaps come to the conclusion which this writer has come
to, that one out of every three persons is a born inventor.
Why there are not as many useful inventions as might be expected from
the number of possible inventors, may be easily explained. Most men have
to get their bread; and that employment gradually absorbs all their
attention. To many men the physical requisites for successful invention
are wanting, namely, nicety of eye, deftness of hand, room for
experiments, and the materials requisite to work upon. But perhaps the
greatest want of all is want of perseverance. Most men become tired of
their own ideas; and, even if they try an experiment, are apt to accept
the first defeat as final. Besides, few men thoroughly believe in
themselves, and are the first to go over to the side of their adverse
critics.
However this may be, certain it is that Realmah found not only many
favourers and admirers, but, what was much more important, many
intelligent coadjutors. In a few months’ time, dating from the day when
his experiment had proved successful, and when his Ainah had received
her death-stroke, the working of iron had made a great advance among the
Sheviri. Indeed, a new tribe was formed called the Ironworkers. The name
they gave to iron was _Krool-Varla_, which means stone-honey.
Of course the first use made of iron was to construct a good weapon of
attack; and great was the delight in Abibah when the first iron javelin
was made. Naturally this has been the first and indeed the chief use of
iron in all ages--namely, to make it into some weapon of offence which
shall pierce well into the soft flesh of our fellow-men. It is only
during the dull times of peace that this valuable metal--_the_ metal of
our system--has been applied to the ignoble uses of social life.
It is almost needless to add that Realmah became immensely popular. Most
men recollected now that they had always said that there was something
extraordinary in that young man. Condore and Potochee fell into the
background. Invention became the order of the day; and the daring man
who had proposed to eat with forks held up his head again.
When the Spaniards first discovered South America, they found a nation
which worshipped certain sacred toads, that were carefully kept and fed,
and reverenced, and prayed to. If, however, after a long course of
praying, the prayers were not attended to, and rain did not come when it
was wanted, or did not cease when it threatened to be too abundant, the
sacred toads were delicately whipped, to remind them of their duty to
their worshippers. Thus it is always. Those who are great amongst us are
either whipped or worshipped. It was now worshipping time with Realmah,
and everything he said was looked upon as oracular.
It was well that there was, at that period, some one member of a
princely house who was very popular, for there was much distress in
Abibah, and consequent discontent. There had been great inundations that
year; and both the roots and the cereals, upon which the Sheviri
depended, had, to a certain extent, failed.
In looking back upon those times, one cannot help thinking what
advantage Condore and Potochee might have taken of this scarcity. They
might have said that it showed the disapproval of the gods at the
impiety of Realmah in offering to his fellow-men weapons like to those
of the gods themselves.
But no such thing was said; and Realmah reigned in the hearts of all his
fellow-citizens as the man whom they were proud to acknowledge as their
foremost citizen.
Talora’s beauty gained fresh radiance from her consciousness of power
and pre-eminence amongst the women. The Varnah was delighted with the
presents that enriched their house, but did not change her inmost
opinion of Realmah’s deficiency in commonsense, for was he not averse to
receiving these presents, and, if possible, still more indifferent than
ever to the good things of this world?
Many a subdued and furtive sigh came from Realmah’s heart, when he
reflected that the one person whose delight in his success he would have
cared for most, was numbered with the dead.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IX.
It was a sunny morning, and several of us were sauntering in the garden
for a few minutes before breakfast-time, when Sir John came up to us.
_Ellesmere._ Mind, you must all be “as civil as an orange” to
Milverton to-day. If he gives us a reading, you must swear that it
is excellent. He has been in such a rage with me.
_Lady Ellesmere._ How wrong it is of you, John, to vex Leonard in
this way.
_Ellesmere._ I assure you I did not mean it. Unfortunately we began
talking about the Ainah; and I reminded him of his original
description of her. Now you know he has been getting more and more
enamoured of her; and, if he had to describe her again, she would be
a perfect beauty. You will see that he will add all manner of beauty
to her countenance, if he talks about her again. There will come
charming smiles and dimples, and I know not what besides.
[Here Mr. Milverton joined us; and there was an embarrassing silence.]
_Milverton._ I see that Ellesmere has been telling you of the
nonsense he has been talking. I did not mean, I did not say, that
her hands were extraordinarily large; but, contrasting her in my
mind with the high-bred Talora, I was obliged to confess that there
were some drawbacks upon her beauty. Hers was one of those
countenances which require nice and loving observation to perceive
all the merits and the beauties in them. There was a constant play
of beautiful expression; there were exquisite dimples; and----
_Ellesmere._ Ha-ha! Did I not tell you so? Am I not a true prophet?
[Here Sir John began dancing about in the wild manner that he frequently
indulges in when he is triumphant in some argument.]
_Milverton._ This dancing dervish is not always wrong when he gives
us a taste of his prophetic powers.
In one word, the Ainah’s was _a very marrying face_.
_Cranmer._ What do you mean, Milverton?
_Milverton._ Why, don’t you know, or didn’t you know, Cranmer, when
you were younger?
You went into a ball-room, and saw two or three great beauties.
Haply your eyes fell upon a cosy young couple in some corner. You
asked about them, and were told that they were engaged. The girl was
not beautiful; but you said to yourself, “The man is right. He is a
sensible man: that girl will make a good wife. She will always----”
_Ellesmere._ Make marriage somewhat less painful and disagreeable
than it is its nature to be. Now here is a face
[He came behind Lady Ellesmere, and inclosed her face in his big
hands--for he has big hands.]
which would insure a happy marriage. You see in it that assurance of
perpetual provocation which will not allow a man time to think
whether he is happy or not, for he will be in a constant state of
warfare. And that is one form, perhaps the best, of happiness for
some men.
Here Lady Ellesmere disengaged herself somewhat hastily from his grasp,
and we all went to breakfast, laughing heartily.
* * * * *
There is some celebrated story of a young man who exclaimed, “And I,
too, am a painter!” So now I may say, “And I, too, am an author!” It
happened in this way. I had been speaking of some of the curious
superstitions which exist in a remote part of Scotland where I, when a
boy, had been to visit my relations, who were poor fishing people in
that district. Upon this, Sir John Ellesmere declared that Sandy could
write a tale if he chose, and that Sandy must choose to do so. It would
be a very good thing to employ his mind in that way, and would prevent
his spoiling “Realmah” by persuading Milverton to introduce foolish
chapters about love.
This was two or three weeks ago. I tried very hard to think of a subject
for a story; but, think as hard as I would, no subject for some time
occurred to me. At last, one night, an idea for a story of the
supernatural kind did strike me. I told it to Mr. Milverton. He approved
of it, and said he would aid me; and so I wrote my little story. I was
very shame-faced and nervous when I came to read it before such an
audience; but I managed to get through the reading somehow, and my story
was much praised. Of course they said everything they could to encourage
me. I shall not venture to trouble the reader with the story; but I
mention the fact of having written it, as, without doing so, the
following conversation would not be understood.
To-day there was a good deal of talk about my story, and afterwards
about those strange fancies which have occupied so many minds in all
ages, endowing men with gifts and powers in addition to those which they
actually possess. Mr. Mauleverer, of course, maintained that this was a
proof of the wretched state of man. Sir Arthur declared that it was an
instance of the abounding imagination and poetry that there are in all
men, women, and children: while Mr. Cranmer contended that these fancies
were rather irreverent; that men had better be contented with what they
are, and make the best of that, and not indulge in fancies that could
never be realized. Sir John Ellesmere asked whether Mr. Cranmer was
prepared to move for the destruction of all fables and of all
fairy-stories, and whether all imagination was to be employed in
inventing lies about matters of business?
Before recounting any more of the conversation, I must describe the spot
where it took place. At the bottom of the hill there is a little rivulet
which, even in the driest summer, forms a reedy, rushy sort of place,
through which meanders a little stream three or four feet in width, and
about nine inches in depth. Mr. Milverton delights in this spot, though
it is said to be rather malarious. On one side of the rivulet there is a
high grassy bank, having upon it a very comfortable seat. I will now
continue my account of the conversation.
_Milverton._ I cannot agree with you, Cranmer, about the irreverence
you assign to these fancies. If we are never to fancy that we might
here, or hereafter, be endowed with other gifts than those which we
now possess, we must close our eyes completely to all the forms of
life which surround us, and which are so suggestive.
I have been very fortunate in life as regards friends and
acquaintances. I have known poets, historians, philosophers----
_Ellesmere._ Observe where the fellow puts historians, because he
happens to dote upon history.
_Milverton._--poets, historians, philosophers, statesmen, men of
science, artists, doctors, lawyers, and merchants, but I was never
fortunate enough to know any man who had made the insect world his
study. I am sure I do not know what is the proper name for such a
man--I suppose an entomologist. Well, I was never fortunate enough
to know an entomologist.
If we had such a man with us now, what interesting things he could
tell us about the myriads of inhabitants of this rushy streamlet. I
believe there are creatures below us there, which can both crawl and
hop, and fly and swim; which possess eyes by the score; can weave
and spin, and build nests, in water; which, in short, embody all the
vagaries of the most fanciful person; and about which, by the way,
if they were familiar to us, fables and stories might be written
having much more pith and diversity in them than those about dogs,
bears, wolves, elephants, and foxes, which, after all, are poor
simple creatures like ourselves, being seldom able to do more than
one thing very well.
_Ellesmere._ I do not think much of your entomologist. I do not want
him here at all. He would merely shy barbarous words, half-Latin,
half-Greek, at us, and bother us about “genus” and “species,” and
other things, for which we should not really care one solitary dump.
Besides, we should have to hear all about his grand discovery of the
_onomatoscylax_, some pestilent little creature that hops, and runs,
and bites, and wriggles, and turns up its tail spitefully at you.
No; give me the man who can talk well about anything if you only
give him a rough bit of a brief to talk upon. Just read to me, or
any other lawyer, a little chapter in any book about insects, and we
will argue their case in a manner that will bring round any jury to
think whatever we are instructed to make them think on behalf of our
clients. There are creatures, are there not, who pop out of their
shells to take the air, and then other creatures pop into the vacant
shells; and when the softies come back, they find their houses
occupied, and the doors bolted against them. What a good case for an
action of ejectment!
_Milverton._ Mark you, I do not mean to say that I have not known
men such as Carlyle, Kingsley, and Emerson, who have been able to
talk admirably about all forms of nature, from the highest to the
lowest. As I think I have told you before, I never heard a more
exquisite conversation than one in which Carlyle and Emerson, both
of them nice and patient observers of all natural objects,
discoursed upon the merits and beauties of common grass. A walk,
too, in the country with Kingsley is something to remember; but
still I say, as I said before, I should like to know a real
entomologist, a man who had lived a great deal with insects----
_Ellesmere._ The Patronage-secretary of the Treasury!
_Milverton._ --and who could tell me all about the _onomatopylex_,
which Ellesmere----
_Ellesmere._ No, no; if you are scientific, be
accurate--_onomatoscylax._
_Milverton._ --which Ellesmere affects to scorn, but which I have no
doubt, if well studied, would afford the human race many a good
lesson in the arts of life. Very probably he is a great architect.
The arch was constructed by insects long before it was known to man.
_Mauleverer._ Talking of men who have studied these minor creatures,
there is Mr. G. H. Lewes. You know him, Milverton?
_Milverton._ Yes; but he is too gelatinous. He describes admirably;
is as clear as the sky at Avignon; but his talk is of molluscs,
sea-anemones, jelly-fish, and other flabby, pulpy creatures,
squeezable as Ministers of State. I want a man who has lived with
well-developed, shrewd, masterful, designing insects.
_Sir Arthur._ I do not say we wander from the subject, because the
fact of these insects possessing multifarious powers is very
suggestive. But I want to know why it is irreverent to imagine men
to be endowed with other powers or means than those they now
possess. I feel rather guilty in this matter, if there is any guilt,
as I was the first to tell you a story of the kind which Mr. Cranmer
must disapprove of. I mean my “sleep” story. I intended that to
convey some sound doctrine.
_Ellesmere._ Yes; that pleasant tale was nearly suffocated by
morality. It was far too moral to be interesting. And observe this,
Cranmer, that in almost every story in which extraordinary powers
are given to a man, that poor man is sure to come to grief.
Even in that dear “Arabian Nights,” the unfortunate “gins,” or
genii, always get the worst of it, being bottled up for a thousand
years, or otherwise maltreated. We make a point of pouring
misfortunes with a liberal hand upon the head of any creature whom
we admit for a moment, even in fancy, to be a more gifted being than
man.
_Milverton._ Well, I have a fanciful idea which, indeed, has been in
my mind for many years, and which I fear Cranmer would blame, for if
realized it would give a great and, as I think, a most delightful
increase to human power.
_Ellesmere._ Let us guess. The philosopher’s stone? The power of
always reasoning rightly? Long life? A knocker that would knock down
all disagreeable people who came to visit you--the postman and
telegraph-boy included? A power of eating three dinners a day? A
self-upholding umbrella? A supernatural knowledge of trains, so that
you could defy Bradshaw and all his books? A perfectly well-built
house, built after a model of some insect establishment? A winged
paper-cutter that would always fly to you when you whistled for it?
No; I have it! It is never to be sea-sick!
_Milverton._ No; you have not. You certainly have imagined sundry
very delightful appurtenances, such as your discriminating knocker,
self-upholding umbrella, and flying paper-cutter.
_Sir Arthur._ Is it the power of seeing clearly into other men’s
minds?
_Milverton._ No; you will never guess it.
_Ellesmere._ Tell us, then.
_Milverton._ I shall have some difficulty in explaining. I mean that
there should be a double soul, taking the word “soul” to include all
powers, both of thought and feeling, so that you should be able to
give one of these souls perfect rest. They should be so intimately
in unison, that what one thinks, or feels, or says, or does, should
be admitted to be thought, and felt, and said, and done by the other
which is absent. There must be no separate interest, no possibility
of reproach. There should be a spare body, so that the one soul
could go and recreate itself while the other was fighting the direst
battle.
_Lady Ellesmere._ There must be a woman equally gifted to correspond
with this man. Conceive a double Sir John! when _one_ is enough to
drive a poor woman distracted.
_Ellesmere._ As the soundest theologians and metaphysicians have
proved conclusively that women have no souls, it will be doing a
very handsome thing if we give _them_ one. But this new possession
would embarrass them very much. They would lose all that power of
governing, so dear to them. Unreason always governs. _Nothing
prevents your having your own way so much as being at all amenable
to reason._
_Lady Ellesmere._ Women have just that small portion of
irrationality, and only that, which enables them to understand the
immense irrationality of men, and so to steer clear of it, or to
guide it.
_Sir Arthur._ Well said, Lady Ellesmere! He does not gain much by
attacking women in your presence.
_Milverton._ But think of the advantages of my fancy, if it were
realized:--all the regrets, and vexations, and remorses being
partaken by another soul which would occasionally come fresh to the
work, and bear the burden which its exhausted compeer and partner
was almost fainting under. Such a man, so gifted, would rule the
world. Observe the lives of all great men, who will go on working at
a moment when the powers are enfeebled. Imagine Napoleon the First
with two such souls. Send one of them to vegetate in the country,
while the other is conducting the retreat from Moscow, and you would
find that the total Napoleon would never have been sent to Elba.
Mark you, the two, when combined, are not to have double power.
_Mauleverer._ I am delighted with Milverton’s idea of a double soul.
It proves to me that he sees that the single soul cannot possibly
bear up against its misfortunes.
_Milverton._ No, Mauleverer, you press my words too far. It is but
an occasional, and even rare, relief that I imagine is so much
wanted for the soul. Have you not known occasions in which you have
said to yourself, “I would give anything to have another me--to take
up the burden for this day only--to attend this funeral--to meet
those men upon that painful business in which my feelings are so
likely to overcome my judgment--to fight that battle which I could
fight so well, if the gaiety of heart which is requisite were not
altogether wanting, while I could, as it were, retire into private
life, and collect my thoughts, my energies, and my hopefulness,
which, at this critical moment, have deserted me?”
_Sir Arthur._ Really, Mauleverer, I agree with Milverton that you
have pressed him too hard. It might not be more than twenty times in
one’s life that one should want to be absent in the spirit though
present in the body; and when one should be so glad to have another
soul, a second self, to represent one fully.
I wonder, by the way, whether any of you feel with me that you would
like to have been in a different sphere of life.
_Ellesmere._ The life of a sweeper at a crossing used to be my
ideal. But I have changed my mind. I should like to have been a
waiter at an inn. “Coming, coming, coming.” One would thus see a
good deal of life without much trouble. I should observe the
different tastes of our customers: how this old gentleman likes to
have his mutton-chops well done; how that customer rejoices in baked
potatoes; and how the other is offended, if, when he calls for a
newspaper, one does not give him the paper which is _his_ paper.
I would be very kind, too, to the young people, who are always a
little afraid of waiters.
I would be unmarried, because my ideal would be to be free from all
responsibility.
Gradually I should have amassed a large sum in savings--say two
hundred and seventy pounds--and then my plan would be to retire,
with my sister, a housekeeper in a good family, to our native
village of Mudby Parva, which, by the way, would be intolerable to
us from the alterations that had been made in it, and from the
railway that would pass through it.
But, in reality, we should never realize our great plan of
retirement, and I should die in harness, or rather in white tie and
seedy black dress-coat.
_Mauleverer._ Think of Ellesmere as a waiter, with no power of
interrupting the conversation of the customers! How little men know
of themselves! What a miserable mortal he would be!
_Sir Arthur._ And what would you have been, Mauleverer?
_Ellesmere._ Let me answer for him, for I know. He would like to
have been the _chef_ in a great kitchen--at some club, for
instance--where he could have wandered amidst groves of beef-steaks,
and forests of mutton-cutlets, followed by a legion of cooks, giving
them orders fraught with culinary wisdom.
_Sir Arthur._ And you, Cranmer?
_Cranmer_. I should like to have been a mail-coachman in the olden
times.
_Ellesmere._ Of course he would choose something official. How
punctual he would have been! How fussy and important about His
Majesty’s Mails! He would have insisted upon being guard and
coachman too.
_Sir Arthur._ And you, Milverton?
_Milverton._ Well, I am not so humble as the rest of you. I should
like to have been a colonist--to have conducted a body of settlers
to Paraguay. That part of the earth, from what I have heard of it,
and read about it, takes my fancy more than any other. Almost every
known product is to be found there.[18] Then there are great rivers,
and vast parks reminding one of English scenery; and withal, a
charming climate. Moreover, one would get free, I think, both from
European and North American disturbances. Insects, I believe, are
not intolerable there. Volcanoes are unknown; and, in fact, it seems
to me that it fulfils the idea of an earthly paradise.
Footnote 18:
Mr. Milverton afterwards read to us this extract from some
historical work:--
“The most important products of the world can be grown
there--sugar, maize, tobacco, cotton; and it has peculiar products
of its own, such as the Paraguay tea. It is not volcanic, and has
not to dread the catastrophes which have often overwhelmed the
Spanish cities on the other side of the Andes....
“It has lakes, rivers, and woods, and, in the character of its
scenery, much resembles an English park. It is rich in trees of
every description--cedars, palms, balsams, aloes, cocoa-trees,
walnut-trees, spice-trees, almonds, the cotton-plant, the
quinaquina that produces the Jesuit’s bark, and another tree, of
which the inner bark is so delicate and white, that it can be used
as writing-paper. There is also the ceyba tree, which yields a
soft woolly substance of which the natives make their pillows.
“The fruits of this most fertile land are oranges, citrons,
lemons, the American pear, the apple, peaches, plums, figs, and
olives. The bees find here their special home. The woods are not
like the silent forests of North America, but swarm with all kinds
of birds, having every variety of note and feather, from the soft
colours of the wild dove to the gay plumage of the parrot; from
the plaintive note of the nightingale, to the dignified noise of
those birds which are said to imitate the trumpet and the organ. A
few Indians, rarely to be seen, and appearing like specks in the
landscape, roam over this vast plain, which a modern traveller has
well said might be ‘the cradle of a mighty nation.’”
Then I think I should like the business of managing a settlement. I
should not take out any lawyers with me--only a notary or two. I
should try and get a good many young doctors, and a few very
carefully selected clergymen. Carpenters, sailors, and navvies
should form the bulk of the common people I would bring with me.
_Mauleverer._ Should you take out a newspaper editor? Because I
should rather think that would interfere with the paradise.
_Milverton._ No: I should be my own editor, so that I could
represent my own quarrels (for quarrels there would be) in my own
paper, the only one in the colony, in my own way.
_Sir Arthur._ Would you have an architect, Milverton?
_Milverton._ Yes: I should not object to having one. We should
overpower him, and compel him to make plans to please us, and not
according to his own preconceived notions.
_Ellesmere._ Should you take out any women?
_Milverton._ Yes: thirty cooks, who would, of course, marry off like
wildfire. The rest of the men must marry the women of the country,
so as to secure alliances.
_Lady Ellesmere._ And what would you have been, Sir Arthur?
_Sir Arthur._ A painter.
_Ellesmere._ House?
_Sir Arthur._ No: history. You see there is such a happy mixture of
manual and mental work in a painter’s career. I learnt that long ago
from one of Hazlitt’s essays. And then, too, what a pleasure to see
the work grow under your hand! A book is a thing much further from
you than a picture. I look with peculiar tenderness upon a picture,
the work of any great painter. I think how it has lived with
him--with what fond and anxious looks he has regarded it in early
morning and late evening--what joy and sorrow have gone into
it--what great men, his friends, have come to look at it.
Suppose it to be a Titian: Charles V. has come to look at his
friend’s work; and has given anxious, judicious, and affectionate
criticism about it. Then, too, the painter’s loving wife and
daughters have given, from day to day, their criticisms, being most
careful to give at the same time due encouragement and admiration.
In fact, the thing which we see now, has been, for the time, a sort
of domestic idol.
Yes, I should like to have been a painter, even if I had been one of
only moderate endowments.
_Ellesmere._ Sentiment, sentiment, sentiment! Think, on the other
hand, what you would have suffered from art critics.
_Mauleverer._ It is idle talking of what we should like to have
been. There may be some wisdom to be gained from contrasting
different situations in life--comparing what one is oneself with
what another person is, and so deriving wisdom from the
contemplation of the contrast. But I rather agree with Cranmer, that
these imaginations lead to nothing.
_Ellesmere._ I don’t agree with Cranmer; but I do see, with
Mauleverer, that it may be a wise thing to consider what good
qualities are developed in positions in life different from our own,
and adopting them into our own.
Milverton _once_ said a shrewd thing. Years ago, he remarked to me,
that a man generally fulfilled best that position in life for which
he was apparently most unfitted by nature. He illustrated it by
numberless instances. He said that Lord Althorp was a most
successful minister, and _primâ facie_ he had none of the qualities
for a minister. Milverton added, I remember, that the best clergymen
were those who had some qualities that were somewhat unclerical. I
quite agree with him.
You see, old fellow, if you ever do say a good thing, I make a point
of remembering it.
_Sir Arthur._ Talking of contrasts of situation, I will tell you the
most remarkable instance that ever occurred to me.
I went to see one of the most notable personages in Europe, not on
any political errand, but merely as a private friend. Now I shall
veil what I am going to tell you as thoroughly as possible, for it
is wrong to betray a friend’s moods to any stranger. You will
conjecture; and your conjectures will most probably be utterly
wrong. Well, when I entered his cabinet, I saw at a glance that he
was sunk in the deepest dejection. He gave me a short sad smile,
shook hands cordially; but seemed to have nothing to say. At length,
however, I persuaded him to tell me what ailed his mind. He was
misunderstood, he said; his policy was misrepresented everywhere: he
was weary of the never-ending labour and struggle. “See the hideous
calumnies that are current about me!” he exclaimed. “What is life
worth? What a dreary farce it all is!”
_Ellesmere._ Well, and what friendly stings, my dear fellow, did you
add?
_Sir Arthur._ I took an uncommon, but, as I think, a judicious
course.
I did not say one word in contradiction to his statements. How could
I? They were true. I did not urge, that if he had met with great
failures, he had enjoyed great successes. I did not attempt to
soothe him by showing what a potent personage he was.
I Mauleverized, if I may coin a word, to explain shortly what I did.
I simply dwelt upon the huge amount of misery and disappointment in
the world. To illustrate this, I fell into a strain of quotation.
The personage I addressed knew many languages.
I reminded him of the saying of Petrarch: “_Initium cœcitas:
progressio labor: error omnia._”
I quoted your favourite bit, Milverton, from Disraeli: “Youth is a
blunder; manhood a struggle; old age a regret.”
That made me think of Sir George Lewis’s “Life would be very
tolerable but for its pleasures.”
The great man smiled at that, which encouraged me to give a slightly
different version of my own--namely: “Life would be intolerable but
for its absurdities.” He was pleased to smile at that, too.
Then I quoted from Pascal--I forget what. Then from Rousseau.
Then I ventured humbly to say that I thought that some of the
greatest men in the world had been the great writers; and that it
was found, as in the case of David and Solomon, that when they were
monarchs as well as writers, their writings did not the less betray
their misery.
I showed him that Horace, notwithstanding his Chloes, and Lesbias,
and myrtle coronets, and Chian wine, was a melancholy individual:
“Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume,
Labuntur anni,” &c.
--also Pope, Swift, Byron, Shelley, Cowper, and the rest of them. I
gave him Tennyson’s
“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes
In looking at the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.”
Of course, I brought in my Browning bit about the greatness of the
mind being shown by the shadow which it casts.
I need hardly say I touched upon Cervantes and Shakespeare,
“But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here
About my heart: but it is no matter.”
And again:
“’Tis but a tale,
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
Then thinking I had not treated him with any Italian, I gave him
this passage from Leopardi: “_Ma io, quanto a me, con licenza vostra
e del secolo, sono infelicissimo; e tale mi credo; e tutti i
giornali de’ due mondi non mi persuaderanno il contrario._” The
latter bit about the newspapers amused him greatly.
I longed to give him De Quincey’s magnificent passage about “Our
Lady of Sorrow,” but I could not recollect it.
Finally, I wound up with Sir William Temple, “When all is done human
life is, at the greatest and the best, but like a froward child,
that must be played with and humoured a little to keep it quiet till
it falls asleep, and then the care is over.”
I think my conversation had, as was natural, a cheering effect for
the time. He thanked me very much: something that would have been
tears in any other man rose over his expressive countenance, and I
withdrew. As I did so, however, I am afraid I noticed in a parting
glance at him, as he sank back in his chair, that his melancholy was
not so easily to be baffled, but that it only waited for my
departure to seize upon him again.
_Ellesmere._ Well, but the contrast? I suppose you saw a happy
beggar at the gate, munching an unexpected crust, or revelling in an
unaccustomed sausage.
_Sir Arthur._ No; it was not so common-place as that. I went away
by train. In the carriage were a young man and his wife, not a
newly-married couple. They were the very types of round, smiling,
smooth-faced insignificance. But how they did enjoy their
excursion! They sucked the same orange: they bit at the same cake.
Though they evidently were never parted, they had an unceasing
flow of utter babblement to interchange. They put me so much in
mind of two monkeys! Their talk, though exquisitely silly, was
irradiated--really made beautiful--by happiness. They minded me no
more than if I had been a bit of the wood-work of the carriage. No
reticence had they in their joy, and in their supreme satisfaction
with each other.
When I contemplated them, and when I thought of the great man I had
left sunk in gloom and dejection, I felt that happiness was not
equally distributed to all, as people sometimes perversely contend.
By the way they spoke of the great personage, and very kindly too,
which won my heart; but as being one who had an infinity of oranges
and cakes, and who had no need to save up for three months, in order
to afford such a delightful outing as theirs was to be.
_Ellesmere._ It would have been very wicked; but I should like to
have heard what they would have said if you had Mauleverized them.
_Sir Arthur._ I would not have done so for the world; I declare I
would rather have stolen their money, and spoiled their excursion in
that way.
_Ellesmere._ But to return to the main subject. Do keep to the
point, my excursive friends.
I could make the greatest possible improvement as regards your wish
for a second soul, Milverton. You want that soul to be exactly like
your own. I would have it the complement to your own. Where you are
soft, it should be hard; where you are sympathetic, it should be
cold; where you are simple and stupid, it should be astute and
alert; and then indeed it would be of some good to you. In fact, you
ought to have mine as a second soul to yours; and we should fight
the battle of life triumphantly. I think I hear the Milvertonian
soul saying to the Ellesmerian, “You must fight these fellows
to-morrow, for I really cannot;” and the Ellesmerian soul would
rejoice in the contest. Perhaps the day afterwards some judicious
man would remark, “What a much cleverer fellow Milverton is than I
thought; you see we could not take him in at all, he was down upon
us in a moment: and so good-humoured, too, whereas I always thought
he was an irritable, over-sensitive person. No fussy particularity
either; not at all the fellow to be for ever washing his own soap.”
One thing, however, you would have to do, Master Milverton: you
would have to manage Lady Ellesmere for me; and I have no doubt she
would say, not knowing of the interchange of souls, “How manageable
John is to-day! not quite so bright as usual, but how much more my
slave; and he seems to think exactly what I think,” for you would
have the art, of which I have none, to persuade her that your
thoughts were hers, and that when you were acting most completely on
your own hook, as the saying is, you were but using her bait. Oh
dear, what a surprise it would be to her when the real Ellesmere
came back to undertake the management of my lady!
_Sir Arthur._ I think I have heard something like your idea before,
Milverton, in some French story.
_Milverton._ No, Sir Arthur, you have not, I assure you. I know what
you are thinking of--one of Eugène Sue’s novels. In that, an artisan
enters into the body of a marquis, and has to go through some very
uncomfortable scenes. But the marquis is totally unconscious of the
change; and the artisan is not aware, while he is a marquis, that he
has another form of existence. It is only when he comes to himself
again that he knows that he has had for twenty-four hours the
experience of a marquis’s life. Eugène Sue’s object was, doubtless,
to show the poor man how great a mistake it often is to envy the
rich man. There was no increase of power given to the individual
soul.
Now, I really do not see, taking into consideration the infinite
variety and beneficence manifested in creation, why in some happy
planet there may not be a great increase of power given to a
creature something like man.
_Ellesmere._ I am not so taken as the rest of you with Milverton’s
fond imaginations. I see fifty objections to his grand idea. If the
other soul is to be of any real use or comfort, it must have
individuality. If it has individuality, it will differ in opinion
with Soul No. I.
Again, you may talk about joys being doubled, and sorrows being
halved; but I do not take much interest in things that are done in
committee. The whole affair is too much of a joint-stock
transaction.
_Milverton._ I am going to tell you something, which perhaps has
some application to Ellesmere, and to the critical race generally--a
little simple story which I have often longed to tell when Ellesmere
has been taking points, and making endless small objections.
_Ellesmere._ Oh, we are a little nettled now, are we? Nothing makes
a man more cross than when a really kind friend shows him that his
poetry won’t scan. The same thing when it is shown him that what he
thinks to be his most poetical ideas are all awry, as it were, and
won’t bear looking at. Pray tell your story, though.
[“Oh, yes, pray do,” said the others.]
_Ellesmere._ How delighted you all are at any attack being made upon
me! Everybody seems to rouse up all of a sudden; and Fairy
perceiving a general movement, makes a circuit round us, as you see,
and sniffs and snuffs as if there were a rat or a badger near, to be
hunted or baited. Tell your story; do not spare my feelings. I like
to see people happy. This sort of thing amuses you, and it does not
hurt me.
_Milverton._ When there is a nursery in a house, everybody must
admit that the pleasantest meal in the day is nursery tea. I always
contrive to become sufficiently familiar with the nursery
authorities to be admitted. The mistress is never more agreeable
than when presiding at this tea. The master gets away if he can from
his sporting friends and their eternal talk about horses, dogs, and
partridges; and enjoys the high paternal pleasure of playing at
pick-a-back with his little boys. The children are much more
pleasant and natural at this tea-time than when they are brought
down in their best nursery-frocks after dinner.
_Ellesmere._ Ugh: this nursery story, which is to confound all
judicious critics, including myself.
_Milverton._ Well, I was assisting at one of these pleasant nursery
teas in a country house. One of the children present was a pretty
little girl about three years old, who had a nurse, especially
devoted to her, of the name of Maria.
By the way, I may mention that some baked apples had made their
appearance at this nursery tea, which in consequence may be
considered to have been what the fashionable world calls “a high
tea.”
Suddenly, at a pause in the conversation, the little child, putting
down a piece of bread and butter, exclaimed, with a very distinct
utterance, “_Ma-i-vey say ‘happles’; fool she are._”
Maria, a jolly country girl about fifteen years old, blushed, but
looked quite pleased that Miss Gertrude was so clever, and said,
“You dear little thing.”
The mamma was “shocked” at such a “naughty word” as “fool” being
used to “good kind Maria.”
Miss Gertrude having uttered her “judicious” criticism, was not much
dismayed by mamma’s remonstrance.
I thought of Ellesmere and of his flock of critics whom he delights
in.
You see the small critic pointed out, with great satisfaction, a
little over-indulgence in the use of the aspirate on the part of
poor Maria; but was perfectly unconscious that in her own six words
she had committed four errors.
_Ellesmere._ How do you make out four?
_Milverton._ “Maivey” for “Maria,” “say” for “says,” “are” for “is;”
and surely you would admit that the use of the word “fool” is
thoroughly inappropriate. People who misplace their aspirates are
not necessarily fools.
But does not Miss Gertrude’s criticism remind you all, not only of
Ellesmere’s way of exercising his critical faculty, but also of
other criticisms not heard in nurseries, but in the high courts of
literature and politics? Have you never found the critic disclose
four errors on his own part for one that he delights to point out in
the sayings or doings of the person he criticises? You may be sure
that something very nearly akin to “Ma-i-vey say ‘happles’; fool she
are,” has been uttered in very high places this very day, and not by
children of three years old only.
_Ellesmere._ Absolutely malignant! He has bottled up this story to
be told against me on some great occasion. I believe it has been
impending over my devoted head for the last two years. I really was
not particularly critical to-day; but he was particularly vexed, as
people always are when the ideas which they are very fond of, but
which are not a little rickety, come to be examined by the
drill-sergeant, or rather by the Medical Board.
_Sir Arthur._ It is an excellent story.
_Lady Ellesmere._ I shall never forget it.
_Ellesmere._ I know that; I shall be bored by my lady with the story
all my life. And as for Sir Arthur, he was sure to delight in it. He
has undergone a little criticism himself in the course of his
life--totally unjust, no doubt; for as I heard him say to Milverton
the other day, “Criticism is for the most part so thin.” What he
meant I do not know, but the two authors chuckled over the phrase,
and seemed to think it so condemnatory and so clever.
_Sir Arthur._ Milverton has silenced Ellesmere. I am, however, going
to revive Sir John, and I shall do so by returning to our original
subject. Have you never felt over-wearied yourself, Ellesmere, and
as if you would give anything to have another Sir John to take up
the work for you? In no great case that you have had to argue?
_Ellesmere._ I am a sensible man; and I do not allow myself to fret
myself to fiddle-strings. Sometimes, after a weighty consultation, I
have found myself lying awake, and scheming and planning how to
conduct a case. On such occasions I do everything I can to break up
such trains of thought. I say to myself, “My health and spirits
belong to my clients; there is nothing so important for their
interests as that I should be strong and in good nerve to-morrow.”
Only think if race-horses, the night before the Derby, knew about
to-morrow’s race, how the more nervous and sensitive spirits among
them would fret, and fuss, and lose their sleep, and fail to answer,
when called upon to make their final effort.
When I was in the ---- case, one of the heaviest I was ever engaged
in, I found myself at this planning of my course of argument the
night before, and becoming cold, and nervous, and miserable. I got
up, and lit a fire, and set to work to read a volume of Victor
Hugo’s novel, “_Les Miserables_.” That great book has, happily,
certain long parenthetical discussions which are not very exciting.
I fell upon one of these, and in half an hour I was in a sweet and
composed state of mind, and I had five hours’ good sleep that night.
My client was a dear friend as well as client, and when I saw his
anxious face next day in court, I should not like to have told him
that I had read “_Les Miserables_” the previous night, in order to
get rid of him and his cause from my thoughts. But it was the best
thing I could have done for him.
You see, therefore, that you do not take much by appealing to me to
back up Milverton’s “fond imaginations,” for so I must call them.
_Milverton._ My dear Sir Arthur, you cannot bring Ellesmere round,
when he has once taken up a side against you. Let us change the
subject. Ellesmere’s reference to “_Les Miserables_” has put me in
mind of what he said some time ago about novels. Do you remember the
fun he made of his “Edwin and Angelina”? But if he meant to run down
the works of fiction of the present day, I am sure he is not
warranted in doing so. I have just been reading a number of the
“Last Chronicle of Barset.” What an excellent novel it is! How true
to life are the conversations and the letters! Now I maintain that
no age has been so rich in good works of fiction, and perhaps in
good writing of all kinds, as ours. Ellesmere will, I dare say,
declare that, in a future age, almost all the present writers will
be quite forgotten. I do not know, but I cannot imagine that
Tennyson and Browning, Dickens and Bulwer, and Thackeray and
Trollope, and the great feminine writers, the authoress of “The Mill
on the Floss,” the authoress of “Jane Eyre,” or of “John Halifax,
Gentleman,” and many others, will cease to be valued and their works
to be read.
I think the same may be said of the great historical writers--such
as Hallam, Grote, Macaulay, Carlyle, Milman, Froude, and Merivale.
I don’t venture to speak much about the writers of other nations,
but I think it will be a long time before Emerson, and Hawthorne,
and Prescott will be forgotten in their own country.
Now I have not brought this subject on the _tapis_ merely for the
sake of getting a change of subject, but I have something very
important to say about it. I see, though, Ellesmere is impatient to
have his say.
_Ellesmere._ “Blow the trumpets, sound the drums!” Milverton is
going to say something at some future time which will be worth
hearing.
You began by talking about the “Last Chronicle of Barset.” I am
sorry to say that I fear that my relations with the distinguished
author of that work will be considerably changed for the worse. I
cannot be friendly with him any more, if Lily Dale----. No, I shan’t
tell you what I was going to say: you would only laugh at me.
_Milverton._ How men may misunderstand one another! I really do
believe that, if Ellesmere were to meet Mr. Trollope, he would be
very cold or cross to him if Lily Dale marries John Eames, or if she
marries Crosby, or if she does not marry him, or if she does not
become an old maid, for I am sure I do not know what Ellesmere wants
her to do.
Trollope would go away thinking that he had somehow or other
offended Ellesmere, or was greatly disesteemed by him; whereas
Ellesmere would be paying him the highest compliment that could be
paid to a man of imagination.
Here is this severe, satirical, case-hardened lawyer, and he is so
possessed by a phantom of the novelist’s brain, that he is
positively prepared to be enraged if this she-phantom does not act
exactly as he would have her. What’s Lily Dale to him, or he to Lily
Dale?
_Ellesmere._ Well, she is more to me than many a character I read of
in history. Your historical characters are such fleeting things
nowadays. I used to dislike Nero. I am now told that he was a most
estimable gentleman, and has been quite misunderstood until the
present time. _If he fiddled at all, it was not during the fire, but
after the fire, to collect subscriptions for the sufferers._
But what was the important thing that you were going to tell us,
Milverton?
_Milverton._ I do not care how much you ridicule me, but I do
maintain that ours is an age noted for its richness in literary
skill. Look at the excellence in the daily and weekly press, and in
these innumerable monthlies. It is a perpetual source of
astonishment to me to see how many people can write well, and have
really a great deal to tell you.
I know that Ellesmere will say that I am always unreasonably prone
to dwell upon the merits of everything and everybody; but, upon the
other hand, I think I am very critical about the writing of English.
A few minutes ago, I mentioned several names of men eminent in
literature. But I could add many others. There are Henry Taylor, and
Ruskin, and Kingsley, and John Mill, for instance: I pity the man
who has read their works, and has not been able to learn a great
deal from them, and to appreciate the goodness of the writing.
Amongst our statesmen, too, there are men who would have been very
considerable writers, if they had not devoted themselves to
statesmanship. Lord Russell’s “Europe since the Peace of Utrecht” is
a very well written work. Mr. Disraeli’s novels are remarkable
productions. I read his “Contarini Fleming,” as a youth, with
immense admiration; and I read it again, last year, with great
pleasure. Mr. Gladstone, also, and the Duke of Argyll, are men who
have shown that they can leave their mark in literature.
Whatever you may say, I do maintain that ours is a great age as
regards power of thought and expression.
Now, what I want you to notice is, that the great men who have made
the age pre-eminent were all born, or at least nurtured, and the
direction of their talents given to them, in a time of profound
peace. The great strides in European civilization, whether in arts,
in science, or in literature, have been made in consequence of there
having been such periods. I wish we could have Buckle back again in
life here with us, for I am sure he would----
[At this moment the postman made his appearance with the second delivery
of letters, which the old man asked us to receive, in order that he
might be saved the trouble of going up the hill. Now Sir John is furious
about this second delivery. It is no joke with him; he is really very
angry.]
_Ellesmere._ Have you no conscience, George; are you dead to all the
finer feelings of humanity, that you molest us twice a day? I must
come to some understanding with you. Your proper Christmas-box from
me is two hundred and forty pence,--that is, if you do not bring me
any letters during the time that I am here. For every letter you
bring I must deduct a penny, and if the balance turns against you,
you must give me a Christmas-box. I do believe you have brought me
two hundred and eighty letters this time; consequently you owe me
forty pence: which, when I was a National School-boy, used to amount
to three shillings and fourpence, the sum, Mr. George, you are now
in debt to me.
_George._ Oh, your honour would not be so ’ard on poor old George,
as ’ave know’d you these twenty year, and such a snowy winter, too,
as last winter ’ave a been. ’Sides I must do what the missus (the
postmistress) tells I to.
_Ellesmere._ It is no excuse, George! If we do all that our
“missuses” tell us, we shall most of us come to the gallows.
_George._ Ah, you be allus so jokous, Lawyer Ellesmere; but you know
we must. (And saying this, the old man took off his hat, and, making
a general bow to us, trotted off.)
_Ellesmere._ Do you see Peter Garbet’s house in the distance--that
wretched hovel surrounded by other hovels, on the top of Mendmore
Hill? I am sorry to tell you that old Peter and two of his children
are ill of the fever, and that Mrs. Garbet is nearly distracted.
_Mrs. Milverton._ I knew all about it, John. I have done everything
I could for her.
_Ellesmere._ I know you have, my dear Blanche, and so have I in my
little way; but how can we counteract the post-office?
_Milverton._ What nonsense, Ellesmere! I am sure old Peter has not
received three letters in the course of his life.
_Ellesmere._ Considering that you pretend to have a great admiration
for history, you are certainly a very shallow fellow, my dear
friend, and never look far back enough to causes.
Who in modern times invented the post-office? As Macaulay would have
said, “Every schoolboy knows that.”
Why, Louis the Eleventh: just like him, is it not? Everybody who has
seen Charles Kean in the character of Louis the Eleventh would know
that that crafty, cruel, unprincipled king would, of course, invent
the post-office system.
What did he say to himself?--“Despatches make my life miserable; my
subjects shall have a taste of them, too. Besides, they will not
look so sharply into my proceedings, if they have their own letters
to molest them every day.”
What happens? By these means Louis the Eleventh crushes his nobles,
and increases the kingly power to an enormous extent. Louis the
Fourteenth, the Regent Orleans, and Louis the Fifteenth abuse this
kingly power outrageously. France is rendered miserable; and in
good, well-meaning Louis the Sixteenth’s time comes the French
Revolution.
Out of the French Revolution, by necessity, comes Napoleon the
First.
By an equal necessity, England and Pitt must have a set-to with
Napoleon the First.
Hence four hundred millions of debt.
Hence window-tax and excise duty on bricks.
Consequently Peter Garbet’s cottage is built with one side against a
damp hill to save bricks, and has a window only eighteen inches
square. Hence dampness and insufficient ventilation, and hence poor
Peter Garbet and his two children lie ill in that miserable hovel.
_Milverton._ I am sorry to say anything against a series of
statements and conclusions which are so admirably set forth by our
learned friend; but Louis the Eleventh did not establish the
post-office in the sense which Ellesmere understands it. He
established a series of posts for the Government and for the Court,
but it was not adopted by the community in general till Richelieu’s
time.
_Ellesmere._ The same thing. Richelieu was but Louis the Eleventh in
cardinal’s petticoats.
_Milverton._ I am sorry to intrude with unpleasant facts, but
Richelieu was not the prime agent in this matter. It was done by the
Duc d’Epernon, when Richelieu was for a year or two in retirement.
_Ellesmere._ What wretched pedantry all this is! It is clear that
the cruel Louis the Eleventh was the inventor of the system. You
admit that he applied it to his Court. The Court in those days
comprehended the principal men in the kingdom. Well, then, this
system was enlarged in Richelieu’s time. Do you think it was done
without his approbation, or continued without his consent?
Practically speaking, it is a device of tyranny. After you have
passed the immature age of twenty-three, does anybody write to you
but to annoy you about something?
_Mauleverer._ I think Ellesmere is quite right. All the clever
inventions of man only lead to increased misery.
_Milverton._ What do you say to the use of chloroform?
_Ellesmere._ They do not apply it to the right people. Anybody who
is about to write a letter to a lawyer in vacation should be
chloroformed, and the trance should be made to last for two years at
least.
Here Sir John, who had an immense number of letters to-day, got up and
walked away. The rest of us did the same, and so the conversation ended.
* * * * *
We had only just begun our walk, when we heard Sir John calling after
us. When he came within speaking distance, he shouted out to us, “Mind,
I don’t agree with Milverton about his eminent men being born and
nurtured in times of peace. I am prepared to maintain the exact
contrary, only I haven’t time just now. Old George, the villain, came at
the exact moment to save Milverton, that peace-maniac, from a sound
intellectual drubbing. Good-bye.” And so saying, he rushed up the hill
again, while we proceeded on our walk towards the town; Mr. Milverton
merely remarking, “What a contentious creature it is!” But I never
thought he would let that pass.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER X.
Next morning I awoke at seven o’clock, and saw a tall figure very busy
at my drawers. “Who is that?” I exclaimed.
“It’s me,” replied a voice which I recognised as Sir John Ellesmere’s.
_Ellesmere._ I say “It’s me” advisedly; and am prepared to maintain
that it is good grammar to say so.
What am I about? Why, I am rectifying my frontiers in the article of
cricket-balls. Little Tommy Jessom has got a whole holiday, and has
honoured us by a visit. A quarter to seven is not a strictly
fashionable hour for making a morning call upon a respectable
family; but boys are privileged beings. The minute but persevering
Tommy insists upon our having a game at cricket, and I am going to
give him an innings. I saw you put away a well-greased ball in one
of these drawers the other day.
Hallo! emerald studs! and very pretty ones too. What young woman has
been foolish enough to see anything in your lengthy face, Sandy, and
to give you these studs? I see I must “execute the provisions of a
treaty” in regard to these studs--a treaty to be signed by the small
Tommy and me, which being rightly interpreted, will be found to
provide that, under pain of being thrashed himself, he shall come
into your room, carry off the studs, and present them to the other
high contracting party. You shall then complain to me of Tommy; and
between us we will execute the provisions of another treaty, and
carry off Master Tommy’s bat and stumps. We want stumps sadly, and
should not be the worse for a spare bat. Thus everything will be
arranged satisfactorily, according to the latest and best
construction put upon international law.
So saying, Sir John, having, to use his own phrase, “rectified his
frontiers” by seizing upon my pet cricket-ball, strode out of the room
to play with Tommy Jessom.
An hour or two after breakfast we all went to the summer-house to have
another reading of Realmah.
_Ellesmere._ Tommy, I have a serious word to say to you. You are an
incomplete, imperfect boy; in fact, a mere eidolon, or spectrum, or
larva, of a boy. The perfect boy has always in his pockets a ball of
string, a lump of beeswax, thirty-seven marbles, two alley-taws, and
a knife with six blades, a gimlet, a punch, a corkscrew, and a
little saw. I regret to say that you were found to be deficient in
all these articles this morning. Proceed at once to Mother
Childman’s in the town, and buy them forthwith. (Here Ellesmere gave
the boy some money.) Away! Avaunt! “_Quo usque tandem abutêre,
Caitlina, patientiâ nostrâ!_” Vanish.
[_Exit Little Tommy._
The boy would be bored to death by our reading and our talk. By the
way, he has made me very unhappy this morning.
_Milverton._ Why, he is the best of little boys--a perfect boy,
notwithstanding the absence of beeswax and string.
_Ellesmere._ I am in a sort of a way his godfather. Poor S----, my
cousin, was his godfather; and now that S---- is dead, I consider
that I take his place. Consequently, I thought it my duty, in the
intervals of cricket, to talk to him a little about his lessons. It
is the same sad story as it was in our time. Hexas and pens for
to-day: alcaics and Latin theme for Monday; in fact, a painful and
laborious gathering together of useless rubbish.
_Johnson._ What are hexas and pens, Sir John?
_Ellesmere._ You have not been brought up, Sandy, in the groves of
Academus, or you would know that hexas and pens are the short for
hexameters and pentameters.
Hereupon ensued a conversation of the most animated description. I could
not have thought that any people would have been so excited about the
question of boys making Latin verses. The most uncomplimentary speeches
passed between Mr. Cranmer and Sir John, Mr. Cranmer insinuating that
Sir John would have been a much more polished individual if he had made
more Latin verses in his boyhood, and Sir John insinuating that Mr.
Cranmer would not have been quite so much given to routine, and so
narrow-minded, if he had made fewer Latin verses.
Mr. Milverton--an unusual thing for him--rushed in to aid Sir John; upon
which Sir Arthur came down upon _him_, not in his accustomed dignified
way, but with great warmth and vehemence, declaring that, if these new
ideas were to prevail, all elegance and scholarship in literature would
pass away. Mr. Mauleverer sneered a little at both parties, but rather
inclined to Mr. Cranmer’s view of the question, from his hatred of
anything new. For some time they all talked at once, and I cannot give
any account of it.
When the fray had a little subsided, Sir Arthur and Sir John were left
in possession of the field. Sir John demanded of Sir Arthur a distinct
enumeration of the advantages to be gained in education from the making
of Latin and Greek verses. Sir Arthur did not hesitate to accept the
challenge, and enumerated these advantages one by one. Sir John pointed
out the fallacy in each case, dwelt upon the loss of time, the loss of
real knowledge, and the cumbering the mind with what is useless,
occasioned by the present system of classical education. I thought he
had much the best of the argument, though Sir Arthur was very eloquent
and very adroit.
At length the conversation was broken off, as they thought that Tommy
Jessom would soon be back upon us again; and Mr. Milverton commenced
reading another portion of Realmah.
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE REVOLUTION.
Government is a most mysterious thing. There are constitutions which
seem as if they would last for ever, being well-constructed, reasonable
things; but they do not last;--and there are others full of anomalies,
abounding in contradictions, which persevere in living, however
unreasonably. Thus it was at Abibah. The least-foreseeing of prophets
might have prophesied that, in a nation where the supreme power was
divided amongst four chiefs, the government would be sure to be soon
broken up. This strange government, however, had lasted for several
generations.
A time was now approaching when this government would be sorely tried.
The scarcity of provisions made men sour, and ready to blame their
chiefs with or without reason. The immediate cause of danger, however,
arose from a most trivial circumstance. There was a day of festival in
honour of Salera, the goddess of the waters. At this festival it had
been customary for the inhabitants of the town to appear in festal
dresses totally different from their ordinary costume, but both as to
form and colour each individual might follow his, or her, own fancy. It
happened, however, that on one occasion, a few years previously, a large
family of children had been dressed out with blue scarves, while those
of a neighbouring family had been dressed with red scarves. There was
great contest in the particular neighbourhood as to which set of
children had been most becomingly adorned. Gradually the dispute spread
into other quarters of the city, and eventually the population were
divided into those who wore blue scarves at Salera’s festival, and those
who wore red. Feuds, similar to those of the circus at Constantinople,
which shook the thrones of emperors, arose about these colours; and the
red and the blue factions hated one another with a fell religious
hatred.
The chief of the West had incautiously proclaimed himself an ardent
partisan for the Blues, and had earned the intense dislike of the Reds.
It happened that he had lately issued some regulations about the
distribution of food, which, though very reasonable, had given great
offence to his quarter of the city. The Red faction were crafty enough
to drop all allusion to their hatred to him as a strong partisan of the
Blue faction, and to dwell merely upon that which was a subject of
general offence to both factions.
This chief of the West was one of those unfortunate rulers who seem to
be born at the wrong time; and whose virtues, no less than their errors
and their vices, contribute to their misfortunes. In this dispute
between the Red and Blue factions, though, as I have said above, he was
an ardent partisan of the Blue faction, he had never favoured them in
the distribution of offices; being too just a man for that. He was
therefore neither valued as a friend, nor feared, however much disliked,
as an enemy. He was very much the prey of the last speaker, and so his
policy was never consistent; being alternately strict and lax, bold and
timorous. A simple-minded, good, honest man, having every wish to govern
rightly, he could scarcely be said to govern at all. It seems as if such
men were sent into the world, and placed in power just at a time of
crisis, in order that it might be rendered absolutely certain that the
crisis should be developed into great disaster, or at least great
change.
Realmah knew the character of this man well, and from that knowledge
foreboded calamity.
It was peculiarly unfortunate that the poorer inhabitants of Abibah
should have congregated in the Western quarter of the town. It was there
that the weavers dwelt, who were always inclined to be a turbulent body;
and who were the first to suffer from any scarcity of provisions, as men
can dispense with weaving, and go on with their old garments, when
threatened by want of food. From the Western quarter the disaffection
spread; and great political discussions arose throughout the whole city
as to their present form of government. Any person, or thing, much
discussed, is sure to be much vilified; and this quadrilateral
government, when once it had to endure discussion, offered many points
for attack and depreciation. Moreover, there were not wanting amongst
the Sheviri ambitious men anxious for a more republican form of
government, and who looked forward to a position of power and profit, if
that mode of government should be established. Their scheme was to form
a council of twelve, by election, who should have supreme power for five
years, three members of this council being allotted to each division of
the city.
Disaffection grew to a great height, and a dissolution of the present
constitution was imminent.
It is not to be supposed that men like Realmah, belonging to the ruling
families, were unobservant of this dangerous state of public opinion. In
fact, Realmah was perfectly certain that there would be a revolution,
and he began to prepare for it. The main thing that he was afraid of was
that, in some popular tumult, a capture of himself, or of any of the
principal people on his side, would be effected by his opponents. He was
determined to profit by the revolution, but to have no hand whatever in
making it. He wished that whatever step he might take, should appear to
have been forced upon him. The main terror of his life, as we know, was
lest the tribes of the North, already possessing the knowledge of iron,
should come down upon his nation, and enslave it before he had completed
his manufacture of that metal. He had long come to the conclusion that a
despotism would be preferable to that. The preparations that he made to
prevent his being suddenly captured, were these:--In his principal room
he secretly contrived that, near the entrance, a part of the flooring
should descend into the water upon his cutting a cord. This was for his
enemies. For his own escape, he made a trap-door at the further end of
the room. Beneath this opening he had a boat suspended. There was room
between the lower flooring of some of the better houses in Abibah (and
Realmah’s was one) and the water, to navigate a boat, pushing it along
from one pile to another. By these means he would be able to reach the
water-stairs of the residence of his uncle, the chief of the East.
He knew from his spies the very day upon which a general outbreak was
intended to be made. Early on that day he took care that the whole of
the guard should be assembled in the guard-room attached to the house of
the chief of the East. Realmah remained in his own house, resolved to
take no active part until some step of violence had been taken by the
other side. On some pretext he contrived to remove Talora to the house
of his uncle, while he and the Varnah remained at home waiting the
event.
The opposite side were well aware of the sagacity of Realmah, and had
arranged that a party of their adherents should attack him in his house,
and that two of their principal partisans should pay him a visit of
courtesy an hour before the attack was to be made, in order that they
might be sure of knowing where he was, and of being able to secure him.
Accordingly, in the evening, these two noblemen, Tapu and Paradee, paid
their ceremonial visit. The crafty Realmah contrived to place them
immediately over that part of the floor which he could make descend into
the water. The guests talked upon indifferent subjects, and then
afterwards ventured to discuss the dangerous state of political affairs.
Realmah went on discoursing platitudes and keeping up the conversation
in an easy manner. Soon the noise of a great tumult was heard. The
revolution had broken out before the appointed time. Indeed, revolutions
are seldom conducted with the needful punctuality. Some of the rioters
had made at once for Realmah’s house, had broken through the outer
doors, and now rushed into the apartment. The two guests then changed
their tone, and demanded that Realmah should surrender to them. Having
gained what he wanted, namely, this overt act of rebellion, he let the
flooring drop beneath them; and, in the confusion that ensued, he and
the Varnah escaped in the manner he had planned to the house of his
uncle, the chief of the East.
Realmah then hastened to put into operation the plan that he had long
determined upon. There were certain officers in the state whose
functions cannot be better described than by saying that they were like
those of Spanish alguazils. Realmah’s scheme was to arrest the principal
conspirators by means of these alguazils (whose fidelity he had taken
great pains to secure), giving to each one of them a guard of ten men.
Those attendants he had furnished from the tribe of the fishermen and of
the ironworkers who were devoted to him.
The conduct of Realmah at this crisis was widely different from that of
Athlah; and a philosophic student of history, a kind of person not known
in Abibah, might have added to his store one more notable instance of
the way in which revolutions are made, and of the kind of characters
which guide them.
Athlah, as we know, was not merely a stalwart man of war, but also a
very considerable person in council and debate. At any rate, he had
always something to say, and people were always willing to hear what he
said.
Those chiefs who were loyal to the present system of government, when
the tumult had begun, rushed to the house of the chief of the East. An
irregular sort of council was held. Realmah briefly explained his
long-matured plan. Athlah raised all manner of objections--not that he
wished to object, for he was sincerely anxious to find a remedy for the
present state of things. But when the time for swift action came, this
bold hardy man, an excellent lieutenant in war, could not see his way to
a course of action; and his mind was filled with doubts, scruples, and
difficulties. “They had no authority,” he said, “to interfere with the
other quarters of the town. The West was to govern the West, just as the
East governed the East, without interference. The proceedings suggested
by Realmah would be a perfect breach of the constitution. He, for one,
could not take such a responsibility upon himself.” He did not use such
a fine word as responsibility. The equivalent for it in their language
was “tying a knot,” and Athlah said he could not tie such a knot.
The truth is that Realmah could tie a knot, a feat which the daring
Athlah could not accomplish.
Realmah replied, “The counsel that I gave, will not be the counsel that
I should give when that water has ceased to pour.[19] It must be taken
at once, or rejected for ever. Great Lords, Dividers of Bread, I see
that you agree with me; and I hasten to execute your commands.” So
saying, Realmah quitted the room. The great Lords, Dividers of Bread,
were secretly glad that anybody would take upon himself the burden of
tying a knot, and save them the agony of deciding what should be done at
this dangerous crisis. There were not wanting some of the baser sort who
said to themselves that they could hereafter declare that they had not
assented to Realmah’s counsel, and so they should be safe whatever might
happen.
Footnote 19:
They measured time by the falling of water from a vessel with a small
hole in it, resembling the _klepsydra_.
Perhaps Realmah’s well-devised plans might altogether have failed but
for a piece of singular good fortune. A violent storm of wind and rain
came on that evening. Revolutions require, before all things, fine
weather. The populace gradually dispersed. In that part of the town
which was subject to the chief of the East, the alguazils and their
body-guards succeeded in capturing, by domiciliary visits, the chief
conspirators, of whom Realmah had long ago made a careful list.
The other quarters of the town were not so well managed. The chief of
the West was slain at the first outbreak; and the chiefs of the North
and the South had, in a most dastardly manner, fled. The moment that the
capture had been made of the principal conspirators in the Eastern
quarter, Realmah felt himself strong enough to pursue the same system in
the North and in the South. Before daybreak, three-quarters of the city
owned the rule of the chief of the East; that is, practically speaking,
of his wise and energetic nephew, Realmah. A sharp encounter took place
between the insurgents in the Western quarter and the troops who
remained faithful in the other three-quarters of the town, in which
contest the insurgents were completely worsted.
CHAPTER XXII.
REALMAH BECOMES KING.
The city was now in peace. Order had been restored; and all the sensible
inhabitants of Abibah felt that to Realmah this peace and order were
due. No member of the family of the chief of the West had come forward
to take his place. The flight of the chiefs of the North and of the
South was looked upon as an act of abdication on their part. The
councils of these quarters of the town met together, and it was almost
unanimously resolved (what was done in one council not being, at the
time, known in the others) that the chiefdom of each quarter should be
offered to Realmah. His aged uncle, the great chief of the East, upon
hearing the determinations of the several councils, said that he would
abdicate in favour of his nephew, who should thenceforward be king of
the whole nation. It is curious to observe that, from their having a
word in their language for king, the kingly form of government must, at
some time or other, have prevailed amongst them. There was an ancient
proverb to this effect,--“_Lakaree[20] slapped the king’s white
face--when he was dead._”
Footnote 20:
A cant name for one of the lowest class of weavers.
The principal men of the several councils presented themselves before
Realmah, and tendered to him this kingly office. He asked for
twenty-four hours to deliberate.
The evening after he had received these men was like the one that has
been described at the beginning of this story. The atmosphere was
cloudless, and the stars were visible. Realmah walked out upon the
balcony overlooking the lake, which he had walked upon in the early days
of his career, and when his chief thought had been how to defeat the
wiles of the ambassador of the Phelatahs. What great events had happened
to him during the interval that had passed! He had been comparatively an
obscure young man when he first walked up and down that balcony, and
gazed upon those stars. Since then, he had been in battles; had
performed the part of a conqueror, and endured that of a prisoner. He
had been madly in love with the beautiful Talora; and now, if he told
the truth, her charms had very small attraction for him. The despised
Ainah had taken with her, to her untimely grave, all the capability for
love that there was in him.
Since that first walk, too, on the balcony, he had become a great
inventor; and his discovery of iron, he felt, would be the chief
safeguard for his nation.
These were the principal subjects of thought for Realmah; but there were
others which will force themselves upon the minds of all poetic and
imaginative people when they regard the unclouded heavens, and think of,
or guess at, the great story which those heavens can tell them.
Perhaps a starlight night is the greatest instructor that is permitted,
otherwise than in revelation, to address mankind. Realmah could not know
what science has taught us. We now know that, in contemplating those
heavens, we are looking at an historical scene which makes all other
histories trivial and transitory. That speck of light which we call a
star is an emanation which proceeded from its origin thousands of years
ago perhaps, and may not in any manner represent the state of the star
at the present day. Then, again, it is not as if we were reading the
history of any one past period; but we are reading the commingled
history of innumerable ages, widely distant from each other.[21] If men
thoroughly entered into the spirit of this strange, weird scene, it
would be the greatest cure for ambition, vanity, and avarice that has
ever been devised.
Footnote 21:
The idea in the text is very difficult to realize, or to express. To
compare small things with great, this illustration may be used. It is
as if a man of the present day were to see (not to read about, but to
see) Lord George Gordon’s riots, Louis the Fourteenth’s conquest of
Flanders, Charlemagne’s slaughter of the Saxons, Hannibal’s victory at
Cannæ, the building of the hundred-gated Thebes, and weary Methuselah
celebrating his seven hundredth birthday--all at the same time, these
scenes having reached his eyes at the same moment, and being for him
the story of the present day.
_Milverton._ You see, Sir Arthur, that I have stolen your thunder.
Realmah, however, gazed upon it with the ignorant eyes of one
comparatively a savage. And yet the wonderful scene had a strange
influence upon him, and roused in his mind those thoughts which are
common to all thinking men, and which, as we have seen, had before, on a
remarkable occasion, been present to his mind; namely: “Whence am I?
What am I? What am I here for? What does it all mean?”--thoughts which
are never without a wild kind of melancholy, the melancholy of an
inquiring and unsatisfied soul. And then he turned to business. There
were motives which made him hesitate, now that the opportunity had come,
to accept the greatness thrust upon him. I have said that, after the
death of the Ainah, he had become ambitious. But still his nature was to
a great extent like that of Hamlet, as described by our great poet, who
felt it so hard that rough action, and dire struggle with the world
around him, should be forced upon one who would far rather contemplate
the ways of men than be in any measure mixed up with them.
Moreover, there was one thought that plagued Realmah, and drove him like
a goad; namely, the consideration as to who should be his successor to
the throne--for he was childless. After long pondering, he resolved that
he would adopt some youth, the worthiest of the scions of those noble
houses which had fallen from their high estate in the sudden revolution.
With a sigh he congratulated himself, or rather the state, upon his
being childless. “For,” as he said to himself, “any child of mine might
be most unworthy to succeed me; but it will be hard if I cannot discover
one amongst these young men of noble family, who should be able to guide
the kingdom when I am old, or dead.” This thought soothed his mind; and,
as the cold grey light of early morning broke in upon his meditations,
he had completely made up his mind how to act, in every particular, on
this, the greatest occasion of his life.
He had resolved, unhesitatingly, to be the King of the Sheviri.
_Ellesmere._ I am an ass, an idiot, a dolt, a dunce, a blockhead,
and a dunderhead. All the rough, rude things that my enemies say
against me are true. All the utterances of the refined malice of my
friends are true. Yes, Cranmer, you are right. I cannot be sure of
doing a simple sum in addition correctly. Say what you like of me,
all of you.
Whatever any theologian has said of any other theologian, who
differs from him slightly, is true of me.
Whatever any editor of any Greek play has said of any former editor
of the same Greek play, is true of me.
Whatever any elderly lady who attends the Billingsgate Market and
sells fish, says of any other elderly lady engaged in the same
vocation, who sells her fish at a lower price, is true of me.
Whatever any “Right Honourable friend” who has left the Cabinet,
says of any other “Right Honourable friend” who remains in the
Cabinet, is true of me.
_Sir Arthur._ No, no, Ellesmere; keep within some bounds.
_Mauleverer._ Whence comes this sudden burst of just, but
long-deferred, self-appreciation?
_Ellesmere._ I have been puzzling my brain for weeks to find out
what this man was at, and I now see that I ought to have perceived
his drift at once. The first syllable of the word Realmah ought to
have enlightened me. Of course he was to become king; and of course,
he is to initiate a form of government, or a mode of foreign policy,
which is to be eminently instructive in modern times.
I am disgusted. I have been bothered about all these love affairs: I
have been worried about the smelting of iron-stones: my feelings--my
tenderest feelings--have been harrowed by the death of the Ainah;
and now I find that I have gone through all this suffering, only
that I might become interested in the character and fortunes of
Realmah, and therefore be induced to listen more patiently to the
record of his official and diplomatic proceedings. I am a dupe.
Mr. Milverton did not make any reply to this outburst of Sir John
Ellesmere’s, but continued the reading of the story.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE KING PROVIDES AGAINST FAMINE: HIS COUNCILLORS.
Realmah’s first care upon coming to the throne was to provide against
the famine which threatened the inhabitants of Abibah. In his mode of
doing this, he struck, as it were, the key-note of the policy he was
about to pursue throughout his reign. He determined to persuade the
Phelatahs to supply him with provisions. He accordingly addressed a
letter to their chiefs.
It may surprise the reader to hear that there was any mode of
communication amongst the dwellers in the Lake cities which can be
likened to the writing of a letter.
The Peruvians kept their records by means of the _quippus_, which was a
tassel composed of threads of different colours, having knots in them at
different lengths in the threads.
The inhabitants of the Lake cities had adopted a similar system, only
that they used shells instead of threads; and the differences of form
and colour of the shells corresponded with the differences of interval
in the knotted lengths and of the colours of the threads in the Peruvian
_quippus_. This seems a very rude and difficult mode of writing, but
practice made it easy; and those who were much practised in it, could
read and write with comparative facility.
Realmah’s letter to the chiefs of the Phelatahs was as follows:--
“_Your eldest brother, I, Realmah, the King of the Sheviri, by Londardo
with the four feathers, to the great Lords and Dividers of Bread of the
Phelatahs, send greeting, and desire for them health, honour, wealth,
and quails._
[The four feathers were the insignia of an ambassador; and quails meant
abundance, alluding to the immense flocks of those birds which, at
certain times of the year, passed over those regions of the earth, and
furnished the inhabitants with food for many days.]
“_The koopha,[22] when set free, forgets the hardship of its captivity,
and remembers only the kindness that it received when it was in its
cage. The great king’s heart is larger and more loving than that of the
little koopha._
Footnote 22:
Ring dove.
“_What he did, whom you would wish to love as a friend, let it be as a
bad dream, not to be thought over in the good daytime, for he did it
mistakenly._
“_For both, the same moon above; for both, the same waters beneath; the
same day for both, when the almond trees, blossoming with joy, tell that
summer has come back again: why should the Phelatahs and the Sheviri
shoot arrows at each other? They should sing the same song on the same
day to the dear summer when she returns to them._
“_The wild bulls may stamp their forefeet as if to the sound of the
mithral,[23] but if one moves out of the line, coming forward or drawing
backward, all is lost, and the little young lions in their dens have
much food._
Footnote 23:
A musical instrument resembling the flute.
“_The men of the North are as a lion, and the young lions are many._
“_Paravi[24] has been good to the Phelatahs, but has hidden her face
from the Sheviri, and would not behold them. The good goddess makes
things uneven so that good men may make them even again, for she is
always wise and loving._
Footnote 24:
The goddess of fertility.
“_The young maidens of Abibah droop like the lilies when the stars drink
up the dew before the morning, and there is no rain. The mothers in
Abibah almost wish that their children were dead, for they have no food
to give them._
“_What need I say more? The generous do not love to have many words said
to them. It is I who have written this._
“_I, Realmah, the King._”
We may smile at this extraordinary production, but there is something
touching and tender, and not without dignity, in the way in which these
poor people expressed their thoughts. It was a point of high diplomatic
politeness not to say anything directly, but in tropes and similes, with
proverbs and with fables; in fact, to write always allusively, but so
that the allusions should be understood by any intelligent person
cognizant of the facts.
This missive was entrusted to Londardo, who, without delay, was to
proceed to Abinamanche.
His secret instructions were, to put himself into communication with
Koorali, who was friendly to Realmah; to proclaim everywhere that the
government had been thrust upon Realmah; that the King’s main object was
to unite all the people of the South against the threatened invasion of
the North; and, if he found great difficulty in obtaining the main
object of his mission, to declare very plainly that the Sheviri would
come and take the food they wanted, and that desperate men were
desperate enemies to deal with.
The above commands were given in full council to Londardo. There was,
however, another instruction, most secret, given by the King alone. It
was to the effect that Londardo might delicately ridicule the King,
showing by shrugs of the shoulder and smiles, and dubious words uttered
only to a few of the Phelatahs, very confidentially (“It will spread
enough,” said Realmah), that he, Londardo, thought their new King almost
a maniac on the subject of his fears of the men of the North. “Possess
them with that idea,” said the subtle Realmah, “convince them that I
mean to be an ally, and not an enemy, and so we may prevent their
fighting us now--now, when my people are hunger-stricken, and my power
is not confirmed.” Londardo succeeded in his mission, and thus the first
difficulty in Realmah’s reign was overcome.
Londardo was one of Realmah’s chief councillors; and, before proceeding
to enumerate the principal events of the reign, it will be well to give
an account of these men. They were selected by the King from the four
councils that had been attached to the four chiefs who had ruled over
the town.
First there was Lariska, who was thought to be the wisest man in the
kingdom. But there were great drawbacks upon his wisdom. He spun out
innumerable arguments, and had always a great deal to produce for, or
against, any given course of action. There was, however, this terrible
defect in him--that an argument was valued according to its purely
argumentative value, rather than according to the nature of the thing it
touched. For example: if there were an argument which affected eighty
parts of the transaction debated upon--the whole transaction being
represented by the number one hundred--to Lariska that argument was not
of more value, and not more to be insisted upon, than some argument
which affected only one one-hundredth part of the transaction, but which
was interesting and curious as an argument. In short, as the Court
jester observed, Lariska never made any difference in his nets, whether
for panthers or for rabbits.
Then there was Bibi. He was really a very able man; but he habitually
placed the expression of his opinion under severe restraint; and his
mode of declaring approval, or disapproval, was so cold, that Realmah
had to study Bibi’s lightest words in order to ascertain what he really
meant. Realmah used to invite Bibi frequently to his table, and was wont
to talk to him upon State affairs when the strongest bowls of mead had
circulated freely round the board.
Then there was Delaimah-Daree, who was a wonderful man, not only for
producing arguments, but for suggesting resources. His extraordinary
fertility, however, dwarfed his powers of conclusiveness; and, after an
admirable speech in council, Realmah did not know how Delaimah-Daree
wished any question to be settled. The lines of his thought were all
parallel, and never met in a focus. As Philip van Artevelde says of the
mind of some councillor--
“A mind it is
Accessible to reason’s subtlest rays,
And many enter there, but none converge.”
Then there was that burly old man, full of sagacity, named Brotah. He
always took a common-sense view of every matter, and his counsel was
often most valuable; but he was greatly influenced by personal feelings.
He said what he said, because somebody else had said the other thing.
You had therefore to abstract from his advice the personality of it,
before you could tell whether it was either good or bad. It was to be
observed of Brotah that he delighted at being in a minority.
Then there was Lavoura, a refined and delicate-minded man, who always
suggested indirect and sometimes sinister ways. You were never to meet
the matter in hand directly; but you were to do, or say, something quite
remote from it, which was to come back in some wonderful manner upon the
question at issue. Had Realmah known the principle of the boomerang, he
would have called Lavoura his boomerang councillor. Realmah himself was
a little too much inclined at times to adopt Lavoura’s advice--not
seeing that this is not the right way for a great king to govern.
Then there was Delemnah--a bluff, coarse, sensible man, who never was
for adopting a roundabout way, or even a delicate way of doing anything,
but believed in brute force, and almost worshipped it. He and Lavoura
generally spoke against one another in council.
Then there was Marespi. He did not indulge in many opinions of his own;
but, after a matter had been much debated by others, he had the keenest
perception of how the votes would go, and was fond of being on the
winning side. He was immensely guided by what was said out of doors of
any measure of the Government; and a tumult in the street was a thing
that quite ruled his views of policy.
Then there was Londardo. He was a man with a large noble mask of a face,
with very bright black eyes, who indulged in obstreperous laughter, and
had a habit of rubbing his hands together in a boisterous manner that
expressed the continual joy and fun that was bubbling up in him. He was
a very sensible person, and absolutely invaluable as a peace-maker. In
the pleasantest manner he could tell two councillors, who were about to
quarrel, that they were two fools; and he would even get up from the
council-table, and shake them, contriving with exquisite tact, perhaps,
to make a remark that should tend to conciliate the opponents, such as,
“You are the last two men who should ever disagree, for did I not hear
him say of you the other day, that you were one of the best of men, and
one of the cleverest of us all? Now do not be fools. We have not time
for folly; and if we disagree amongst ourselves, how are the people to
be governed?” He was the man who proposed that refreshments should
always be brought in when there was a council, and would contrive that
the eating time should arrive very opportunely. He was of great service
to the King, performing that part of rude conciliation which it would
have been quite undignified for Realmah himself to undertake.
In the higher circles of the Sheviri there were always stories current
about Londardo. It was told of him that, when debates at the council
were dull, he would absolutely have the audacity to go to sleep; but
that, somehow or other, when he woke up, it always seemed as if he knew
all about what was going on. There was a story, too, of how, at a
council in the first year of Realmah’s reign, when the King had made
some subtle proposal, Londardo had observed, “Well, you are the
craftiest young chief that ever sat upon a throne; but do not be so
over-clever; for, after all, kings should be plain, blunt sort of
fellows--something like me, only with better manners.”
Also, on a memorable occasion, when there was great division in the
council, and when a tumult of discord arose amongst the councillors,
Londardo got up, and placed his broad back against the door, saying,
“Now I do not care a snail’s shell how the thing goes. One way is as
good as another, and the arguments for and against anything are always
about equal; but one way you must go, and you do not pass through this
door till you are all of one mind as to which way that shall be. Right
or wrong, decide something; and stick to it.” And they did decide
something; and did stick to it.
Then there was Llama-Mah. He was an adroit, clever man, but withal a
poor creature, a thorough flatterer by nature, whose only object at a
council was to discern what was the King’s opinion upon any matter, and
to vote as the King would wish. Realmah, at first, could not endure this
man, and was, for some time, very cold in his demeanour to him. But the
allurements of flattery and of constant assent are so powerful, that,
eventually, the great King was overcome by the assiduities of Llama-Mah,
and began to look upon him as one of his truest friends. It was, at
last, “My good Llama-Mah has said it;” or “Llama-Mah has made a very
sound observation;” or “We must wait to hear what Llama-Mah will say.”
Let this not be wondered at. A life-time is so short, and life is so
difficult, that we are glad to avail ourselves of the services of any
human creature who is good enough, and wise enough, always to be of our
opinion.
Lastly, there was Litervi, who was more of a judge than a councillor. He
seemed to have no ideas of his own, and always managed to speak last,
summing up carefully, and with great discrimination, what the others had
counselled.
It is not to be supposed that these able men are thoroughly described in
these short characters given of them, or that they acted always
consistently with these characters. Sometimes Delemnah was timid.
Sometimes Lavoura was brave. Sometimes Delaimah-Daree was conclusive.
Sometimes Londardo was not sweet-tempered. Sometimes, but very rarely,
Litervi hazarded a remark of his own. This was not altogether from
inconsistency; but men know what others think of them, and how they are
expected to think and act, and, as they do not like to be shut up in a
character, they sometimes go in quite a contrary way to that which they
know is expected of them.
Besides, there are profound inconsistencies of character. Litervi, the
most cautious of men, who adored delay, was, during the twenty-four
hours that preceded Realmah’s accession to the throne, the most bold and
unscrupulous of councillors; and you could perceive that there was in
the same man the nature of a daring conspirator, and of a timid and
procrastinating judge.
It may seem surprising that so many eminent men should have been
collected together in one council; but the truth is, that among
semi-civilized people, as amongst boys at school, and young men at
college, the right persons are almost always chosen. It is true that
there were strong lines of demarcation of rank among the Sheviri, and
there was no chance of any man being made a councillor who was not in
the highest class; but in that class the most just and wise choice was
made of men fit to counsel and to rule.[25]
Footnote 25:
The idea of a man’s wealth being any reason why he should be made a
councillor would have been one impossible for the Sheviri to
contemplate. They would not even have thought it a joke, but rather a
suggestion made by a man about to have a fever, if any one had
suggested that Pom-Pom, the richest man in Abibah, but one of the most
foolish, should be made a councillor. In fact, they thought that a
councillor should be a man able to give counsel. But then semi-savages
are so blunt and rude, and childish in their ideas; and their ways of
going on are quite different from those of civilized people.
Such were the councillors with whom Realmah undertook to govern the
great kingdom of the Sheviri, which, under his government, gradually
increased until it embraced an extent of country three hundred and
seventy miles in length, and something like one hundred and eighty in
breadth.
It was a piece of good fortune for Realmah that he was one of those men
who could listen carefully to counsel of various kinds, and have the
courage to abide by it, or neglect it, as it suited his great purposes.
_Ellesmere._ Well, now we have Realmah and his councillors before
us, and a precious set of crafty scoundrels they are. I know this,
that I should not have liked to have lived in that time, and to have
been a chief possessing any territory within 300 miles’ distance
from Abibah. I feel certain that I should have been absorbed by
these Marespis, Llama-Mahs, and Realmahs.
I suspect we have all sat for our portraits, and that bits of us, at
any rate, are to be found in the characters of these councillors. I
do not, however, see any Mauleverer amongst them. Probably Realmah
thought that he could do all the melancholy part of the business for
himself. There is no mention made of a clerk of the council, but I
suppose, when he is described, that Cranmer will sit for the
portrait--a good, steady official man, with no nonsense about him,
having no regard for fables or falsities of any kind, except perhaps
for Potochee and her crew, because age would have rendered any
institution respectable in his eyes, even that of wizardry and
witchcraft.
But I must go and play a game of quoits with Tommy Jessom.
By the way, it would be a good thing in any council to have a boy.
His counsel would be so direct and honest, and he would not make
long speeches.
After a fearful speech by Lariska, or by that other fellow who never
brought his manifold suggestions to a point, what a treat it would
be to hear Tommy Jessom exclaim, “I vote we go in and lick ’em.” or,
“I vote we cave in.” I do not pledge myself to explain the exact
meaning of the expression “cave in;” but Tommy has taught it me: and
I observe he always uses it when he is about to yield to my superior
prowess.
A woman, too, would be a great acquisition to a council, as bringing
an amount of common sense and steady regard for present advantage
which are often wanting in a council composed of men only.
There! Have I not compensated by this speech for all the rude truths
I may have uttered during my life-time about women? You may kiss my
hand, Mildred and Blanche, in token of your gratitude.
Here Ellesmere held out his hand, but only received a sharp slap upon it
from his wife, whereupon he went away declaiming loudly against the
inveterate ingratitude of women. The others followed him, and our party
was broken up for the day.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XI.
I must make some apology for what I am going to narrate in this chapter.
I have been asked to give the story, written by myself, to which I
alluded in a former chapter; and, as a sensible young lady sits down to
play at the piano when she is asked, whether she is a good or an
indifferent performer, so I think I had better give this story at once
rather than show any tiresomely modest reluctance to do so.
On the day when I told the story, we met in the study, after luncheon,
for the weather was stormy, and the gentlemen were not inclined to
venture out. The ladies, however, had gone to hear a confirmation
sermon. Mr. Milverton began the conversation.
_Milverton._ We are to have something new to-day. Johnson is going
to give us a bit of his experience of life.
_Ellesmere._ Babes and sucklings! A discourse on coral, eh?
Sir John seemed to have forgotten, or pretended to have forgotten, that
he had himself asked me to write a story.
_Milverton._ I can tell you it is very good, and very deep.
_Ellesmere._ Oh yes! we know! Milverton has a forty-woman power of
prejudice in favour of his friends. Anything that they do must be
admirable. And, as for his secretary, who is part of himself,
whatever he does is good enough for the _Revue des deux Mondes_.
I wonder what mischief Sandy has been hatching. I have observed he
has been very thoughtful lately, and has been an execrable
companion. O Sandy the clever one! drinker-in of wisdom from many
fountains of that fluid! And oh the delight of a well-woven story
that agitates the mind with pleasing alternations of hope and fear!
_Milverton._ What _do_ you mean, Ellesmere, by that nonsense?
_Ellesmere._ It is an imitation, and not a bad one, I think, of one
of Paul Louis Courier’s best bits.
He was ridiculing some of the French lawyers for their habit of
apostrophizing, which, however, he said he had adopted himself; for,
when at home, he did not ask his servant Nicole simply to bring his
slippers, but exclaimed, “_O mes pantoufles! et toi, Nicole, et
toi!_” And so, instead of asking Sandy to give us his story, I
exclaim, “Oh the cleverness of Sandy! And oh the beauty of a good
story!”
But what is it about, though? A treatise, in the disguise of a
story, on weights and measures? An essay, disguised as a tale, on
the system of decimal notation? If it is, I go. Friendship has its
limits. I like Sandy very much; but one must draw a line somewhere:
and I draw the line by refusing to listen to any essay on decimal
notation, even from my dearest friend.
_Milverton._ Make your mind quite easy, Ellesmere; and, Alick, do
not wait for any more talk, but begin at once.
_Johnson._ I begin by saying that it has always been admitted that
the Scotch possess peculiar prophetic powers, as I may instance by
their well-known powers of second sight. And now I commence my
story.
When I was a youth I went to visit my uncle, a small tenant-farmer
and fisherman, who lived in the extreme north of Scotland on the
sea-side. Boy-like, I was always about amongst the boats, which were
new things to one who had hitherto lived far inland. One morning I
succeeded, by dint of great efforts, in pushing my uncle’s boat down
to the margin of the sea. I got into it, and rocked it about from
side to side. In a few minutes it happened that a great wave came
rushing up the shore--a ninth wave, I suppose it was--and when the
recoil of the waters came, the boat, to my dismay, was afloat; and a
strong wind from the shore carried me out to sea.
_Ellesmere._ Of course you had some haggis with you?
_Johnson._ No, Sir John; but I had two bannocks which my good aunt
had given me after breakfast, knowing that I should not return to
the house for hours. But I had no water. For three days I was driven
further and further out to sea. What I suffered from thirst no man,
who has not gone through similar suffering, can imagine. I think I
should have died if it had not been for a slight shower which fell
at the end of the second day, some drops of which I caught in my
bonnet.
On the morning of the fourth day, after my departure, I neared an
island. To my great astonishment, a number of people were on the
shore and made signs of welcome to me. The moment I landed, a young
girl handed me a beautiful shell, full of water.
The people were all dressed in a fashion quite unknown to me. After
turning me round several times, and pulling about my clothes in the
way in which savages examine the dress of civilized men, and asking
me many questions which I could neither fully understand nor answer,
I was taken to the hut, near the shore, of the father of the girl
who had given me the water. His name was Pitou. Her name was Effra.
They showed me a couch of heather; gave me some dried fish to eat;
and, after I had eaten it, I lay down and went to sleep for
four-and-twenty hours.
When I awoke, and was refreshed with food, I went out of the hut,
and wandered about the island. It was very beautiful. Doubtless the
beneficent Gulf Stream made the surrounding waters warm and the
climate temperate.
The language was very like Scotch: indeed it was Scotch, only that
there were many old words in it such as I had never heard any one
but my grandfather make use of. I soon became familiar with the
language. It is such an easy thing to learn a language when one is
taught by a girl like Effra.
I was allowed to roam about the island as I pleased; but, to my
dismay, I found that my boat had been hauled up some distance from
the beach, and had been firmly fastened to stakes driven into the
earth, so that I could not move it.
After I had been a few weeks in the island, Pitou asked me if I
would like to see the House of Wisdom. He did not use the word
“wisdom,” but said the House of Direction for Head, Heart, and Hand.
You will readily consent to my abridging the title.
I assented to Pitou’s suggestion. We then went to the only building
of any pretension to architecture in the island. I had often noticed
it in my rambles; but had never ventured to approach it, thinking it
to be the residence of the chief of the island, who might not
approve of my coming into his presence unsent for. The first persons
I saw, and who were in a sort of out-house, had a painful, anxious,
subdued look about them, most unpleasant to behold. They glanced at
me for a moment, and then seemed to look far away over my head. Then
they muttered something to one another which I could not understand.
“Those are the Spoolans,” said Pitou to me. It is almost impossible
to give an idea of the contempt which Pitou threw into his
pronunciation of the word “Spoolans.” “Two foolish old fellows,” he
added.
Now, they were not old. One was quite young, and the other only
middle-aged. What can Pitou mean? I thought.
After making a gesture of contempt, which was done by bringing his
two hands together close to his mouth, and then throwing them
suddenly from his mouth, as if he said, “I have collected all their
merits together, and find them to be naught,” Pitou departed. I
could not help looking back at these two poor men, who must have
seen this gesture; but they were evidently used to such
demonstrations, and merely looked wistfully over Pitou’s head into
the far country and the distant sea.
We then went into a shed on the right hand of the principal
building. Here there were six men. These men also looked very
miserable, but there was not that abject and hopeless appearance
about them that there had been about the Spoolans. They were better
clothed too; the Spoolans were in rags. I made my bow, and then
Pitou said to me, “The Raths!” Then he added, “It’s no good staying
here. Come on;” but, as we departed, he did not make any gesture of
contempt.
We then ascended a flight of steps which led to the principal
building. It consisted of three chambers on the lower story, and two
on the upper.
We went into the left-hand room on the lower story. There were five
men here. They were well-dressed, and, though exceedingly
thoughtful, did not seem to be unhappy. Pitou made a bow to them,
and then saying to me, “The Uraths,” conducted me out of the
apartment.
We then went into the right-hand chamber. Here there were four men.
These were handsomely dressed, were evidently in good spirits, and
altogether in good case. Pitou made three low obeisances; and, as if
introducing me, said, “The Auraths,” and then added, “The Boy from
the Black Land.” I made my obeisances, imitating Pitou, and we
walked out.
We then entered the centre chamber. Here were seated two men, very
well dressed and very jovial-looking, and with an imperious air
about them. When Pitou came into their presence, he was abject. It
was not merely that he indulged in bows and genuflexions; but he
almost crawled before them. “The Mauraths,” he said; and then
pointing to me, “Your servant from the Black Land.”
I then made sundry bows--I could not condescend to crawl, like
Pitou--and we quitted that apartment.
Then we went upstairs into a sort of ante-chamber, that was crowded
with people. A way, however, was made for us, and we entered the
principal chamber of the building. Here was seated, in great state,
a coarse, fat, jovial-looking, rubicund man, who seemed to me to
spend half his time in laughing about nothing. He was waited upon by
persons who knelt to him. If Pitou had been abject before, in
approaching the Mauraths, it was nothing compared to his abjectness
now. He pulled me down on the ground, and dragging me after him,
crawled to the feet of the laughing man. Then he said, “The
Amaurath;” and afterwards, pointing to me, “Your slave from the
Black Land.” Then, shading his face with his hands, as if he could
not bear the splendour of the jolly chief’s commonplace countenance,
Pitou crawled backwards, pulling me with him.
Then we went home. I should think that on the face of the earth that
day there was not a more puzzled and bewildered individual than I
was. As we walked home I remained silent; but Pitou kept exclaiming,
“O the beloved young man! O the beautiful Being! O the Basketful of
Direction for Head, Heart, and Hand!” I thought Pitou had gone
crazy, especially as I understood him to apply these exclamations to
the stout, rubicund, middle-aged, laughing gentleman we had just
left.
After I had a little overcome my amazement, I questioned Pitou and
Effra as to what all this meant. It was not until after many hours’
talk on that and on the succeeding day that I began to understand
the whole matter.
These twenty men whom I had seen in the House of Wisdom were
prophets, or were supposed to be prophets. At any rate, they had
remarkable gifts of foresight. But these gifts differed very much in
value. For instance, the wretched Spoolans only foresaw what would
happen after a hundred years had passed: the unfortunate Raths, what
would happen after twenty-seven years: the Uraths, after a year: the
Auraths, after a month: the Mauraths, after three days: while the
great Amaurath, that genial prophet and potentate, could foretell
what would happen after the next six hours. The extent of their
prophetic powers was after this fashion--that each set of prophets
foresaw for as long a time as that which had to elapse between the
present and the time at which their power came into play. For
instance, the Amaurath’s duration of prophetic vision, if I may so
describe it, was for six hours: that of the Mauraths for three days:
and so on with all the rest.
The latter four classes foresaw only, or chiefly, material damage or
material good. Moreover, they could not explain much about their
prophecies. They could not tell you about the means to the ends
which they foresaw; while on the other hand the despised Raths and
Spoolans had great width and depth of foresight. But who cares to
know what will happen twenty-seven years hence, still less what will
happen a hundred years hence? I now quite understood the sorry garb
of the Raths, and the absolute rags of the Spoolans.
As time went on I became familiar with the inhabitants of the House
of Direction for Head, Heart, and Hand. The jolly old chief would
laugh his loudest when he saw his slave from the Black Land. These
people had somewhat of an aversion and distrust for any person who
lived upon a continent. They used to say, the bigger the land he
comes from, the worse the man; and they preferred to remain quite
isolated from the rest of the world. They naturally supposed me to
come from a continent; but gradually they came to tolerate me, and
were very kind to me.
This freedom of entry into the great House would have given anybody
much knowledge of the world who had brought any of such knowledge to
begin with. But I was a simple youth of eighteen, and could profit
but little by what I heard. The world seemed then to me, and indeed
seems now, like a play, or an opera, acted before you in a language
you do not understand.
There are very emphatic gestures; and the principal performers come
together in twos, threes, and fours; and they lift up their hands,
and appeal to the audience very earnestly about something. They do
not seem to have much to say to one another.
Then somebody seems to hate somebody else very much, but you do not
make out why. Also somebody, always a tenor (why tenors should be
the only men who ever fall in love I cannot understand), loves some
soprano very much, and there is a stage embrace, which does not seem
to count for much; especially as the gentleman and lady on the stage
make most of their love respectively to a lady and gentleman
apparently in the upper gallery.
Then there is a chorus of very clean peasants, who never have
anything to do with clay soils, and who seem happy, and are
certainly noisy, about something; and then there is some dancing, of
which you cannot exactly construe the meaning. And then there is a
good deal of scuffling amongst the minor performers; but whatever
they do, it never interferes with the singing of the principal
performers. The politeness is wonderful; fetters are never put by
the little people on the great people until they have quite finished
their songs.
And then somebody, generally the principal lady or gentleman, seems
resolved to die, and takes a long time about it, but keeps in good
voice, if not in good heart to the end. And then the curtain falls
down, and he or she comes on looking very smiling and gracious; and
then the audience rush away to catch cold in the passages.
When you go home and have to tell the story of the play, and
endeavour to do so, it must often be a story that differs
considerably from the one that you were intended to listen to and
understand.
But I suppose one makes out quite as much, and quite as accurately,
about this play-story as about the story of the men and women who
surround you.
Now here was an opportunity for getting nearer to the heart of
things, and making out what people really wished for; but, as I said
before, this grand opportunity was given to a mere lad. Still I
remarked some things which, perhaps, were worth observing.
I was with the Raths one day. I used to frequent the rooms of those
who could prophesy distant things to a degree that astonished the
other inhabitants of the island. Suddenly there entered a handsome
young man who was celebrated for his skill in minstrelsy. He had
come to ask the question whether he would be famous in future years.
The Raths told him that neither his fame, nor even his name, nor the
songs he sang, nor the music which he sang them to, would be known
to any human being in twenty-seven years’ time. He went away very
sad; and I noticed that the mean fellow carried off some honey-cakes
which he had doubtless brought as a present if the response should
be favourable. The Raths looked wistfully after the honey-cakes; but
they were obliged to tell the truth: and they told it, and remained
hungry.
Again, everywhere throughout the building there was a buzzing sound,
on the days of audience, of the word “Beans,” or something like it.
Beans, beans, beans, nothing but beans. I was puzzled at first, but
soon found out that a wild bean, much smaller than ours, passed for
money; and there were constant questions about beans addressed to
the short-time prophets. Would beans be more or less valuable? would
there be many found this year? A whole boat-load of these beans had
once come from a neighbouring island, and had been exchanged for
dried fish and other articles of small value. The disturbance this
had caused amongst the beaned (I mean the moneyed) men of the island
was fearful; and a frequent question was whether any such
pestilential cargo would soon come again.
The prophets took no share in the government of the island. But they
were often secretly consulted by the ruling men, or by those who
aspired to rule. It surprised me greatly, at first, to find that the
ruling men consulted only the short-time prophets. Certainly one old
chief did ask a question of the Uraths while I was there; but he was
the only one who did so. The Mauraths or the Amaurath were the
prophets chiefly consulted by politicians. I thought this very
strange; but Mr. Milverton tells me that not only in this little
island of mine, but elsewhere, the politicians would be quite
contented with veritable prophecies for six hours, or three days, or
at the most for a month.
I wondered that lovers never came to the Raths, or even to the
Uraths; but I found that they were too sure about their future to
care for asking questions respecting it. One poor fellow, a
melancholy bachelor (the rarest thing in that island), had once
asked a question of the Uraths about his prospects of happiness
after the first year of marriage. His name was Toulvi, and that of
his beloved, Dalumma. Dalumma, hearing of this question (all the
prophets were addicted to gossipping), refused poor Toulvi; and no
other young woman ever listened to his advances.
I expected that unpleasant questions would be asked about life and
death. But this was never done. It had been tried in former years;
but mankind, at least the mankind of that island, could not endure
such knowledge. Besides, there were very ugly stories of sons and
wives having asked questions about the lives of heads of
families--questions asked in the purest spirit of conjugal and
filial tenderness; but, somehow or other, the husbands and fathers
did not take it well; and the practice was very wisely discontinued.
It was a beautiful arrangement connected with this prophetic power,
that, with rare exceptions, the prophets had no knowledge of future
events, unless distinct questions were submitted to them respecting
these events.
The questions chiefly asked were of a very humble kind; and were
asked more by fishermen, and husbandmen, and handicraftsmen than by
any other classes in society. In truth, in good society, if I may
use such an expression as regards the society amongst those who may
be considered semi-savages (for they had no newspapers), it was not
thought very good taste to be seen in the House of Wisdom. Any
foreknowledge was an agitating and vulgar thing: it tended to
democracy: it made people dissatisfied with the goings on of their
ancestors and of the ruling classes; and it was, very judiciously,
voted to be vulgar.
My sympathy was with the Spoolans. Such melancholy I have never seen
upon the faces of any human beings as that which was indented upon
theirs. And yet the things they prophesied were mostly pleasant.
According to them, the race of these islanders was always to improve
in sagacity and gentleness. But that foreknowledge seemed to make
them (the Spoolans) dreadfully discontented with the present state
of things. I suspect that there will prove to be the usual
counterbalancing drawbacks to all the good things the Spoolans
prophesied; but they seemed to believe only in the good. And they
always wore the aspect that is to be seen in sanguine men, when the
things they have hoped for, and schemed for, do not come to pass--at
least in their time.
Once a year (luckily it happened while I was in the island) the
Spoolans were called in to make mirth for an evening, by narrating
what would begin to happen in one hundred years’ time, and would
continue to happen for a hundred years. What they said was in the
highest degree interesting to me. I listened to them with breathless
attention, but the rest of their auditors were, for the most part,
convulsed with laughter--even when calamity was prophesied. And yet
there were traditions showing how truly the Spoolans of a former age
had spoken.
For instance, the chiefs who ruled the island now were of a
conquering race who had subdued the original inhabitants. The
Spoolans had foretold the coming of these conquerors. The Spoolans
had only met with ridicule.
When the calamity had in two more generations approached much more
closely, the Raths began to utter their forebodings. One or two
chiefs (and it is remarkable that they were amongst the oldest)
endeavoured to warn the people, and to suggest fortifications. But
nobody heeded them. All the middle-aged men said to themselves:
“This is an affair for our children. Meanwhile we have to be
predominant in the Great Council to-day, which is hard work enough
for us.”
Then it came to the Uraths to prophesy upon this coming invasion. A
little stir was made then; but men said, “If the invasion is to come
in a year, it must come: we cannot do more than we are doing. Our
forefathers really ought to have looked to this matter. It is
disgraceful to see how careless men are about the fortunes of those
who are to succeed them.”
It need hardly be said that the island was easily conquered; and
that the ancient inhabitants had to submit to the new dynasty, as
the Chinese to the Tartars.
I must not weary my hearers any longer. You will, of course, know
that I escaped from the island; for here I am. My personal
adventures are not worth listening to; but I thought you might like
to hear about an island which possesses such a wonderful institution
as that which is to be found in the House of Wisdom of
Tele-Ma-Malakah, which means the “Bridal Pearl of the Sea.”
_Ellesmere._ Well, Sandy, I must congratulate you. You will
evidently become a great writer of fiction. Only, my dear fellow,
avoid preciseness. Observe the great Sir Arthur: you would not have
caught him placing his island in any waters near home; and then your
foreseeing people are too clearly distinguished one from another by
your naming distinct periods for their prophetic powers. “_Nemo
repente fuit falsissimus_,” which means “no one tells plausible
lies,” or writes fiction well, without a good deal of practice.
For my own part I should have liked to have heard more about
Effra. Doubtless she aided in your escape, and won over a
foster-brother; and then you and she and he were wrecked on the
rocks at Brixton, somewhere near where the railway station is now.
You know there is, or was, such a river as Effra at Brixton. The
name was unquestionably derived from your Effra. Some foolish
antiquaries--but they are always in the wrong--might contend that
it was an Anglo-Saxon name which the said river had enjoyed for a
thousand years. But never mind. What says the poet?--
“Whate’er, my friend, you say, whate’er you write,
Keep probability well out of sight.”
She, I mean your Effra, was very beautiful, was she not?
_Johnson._ Indeed she was.
[My readers will imagine that there was a young lady whom I could
describe.]
She had a horizontal face, and----
_Ellesmere._ What on earth does the boy mean by a horizontal face?
_Sir Arthur._ I understand.
_Johnson._ A forehead which is so set in the hair that it shows
squarely--straight eyebrows--straight lips, though full; in fact,
all the lines which principally attracted your attention, were
horizontal.
_Ellesmere._ A civil engineer’s description of his love. But I do
see what Sandy means. When she smiled, the dimples spread
horizontally and not vertically. I declare, though, I believe there
never was such a description of a young woman given before. You
certainly are an original fellow, Sandy.
The moral of your tale is a shade too obvious. We all know that
short-time prophets are the people worth attending to in this
short-time world. If anybody will be good enough to tell me what Mr.
Gladstone or Mr. Disraeli will do next week, I shall be very much
obliged to him, whether the much-foreseeing man is called a Maurath
or not. And, in truth, I should be one of those who would crawl
before the laughing Amaurath, a worthy man who could tell me, on the
last day of the debate, better even than Mr. Brand or Colonel
Taylor, what the division would be. Down with the Raths and the
Spoolans, say I. If such fellows were listened to, we might have
good sense prevailing in the world, which would be a very dull
thing.
My complaint of the world, which I beg leave to make very loudly, is
this--that there is too much of everything. A conservatory is always
too full of flowers to please me; a city, of inhabitants; a dinner,
of dishes; a speech, of words; a concert, of songs; a museum, of
curiosities; a picture-gallery, of pictures; a sermon, of texts; an
evening party, of guests: and so I could go on enumerating, for an
hour at least, all the things which are too full in this fulsome
world. I use fulsome in the original sense.
You remember the witty saying of a French traveller. When asked
about his travels he pithily exclaimed, “_Il y a quelque chose de
trop dans tous les pays--les habitans._”
And so say I, there is always “_quelque chose de trop_” in
everything human. With one exception, however. There are not too
much good sense and foresight in mankind. Now, Sandy would make us
all wise and foreseeing, or at least borrowers of wisdom and
foresight from his old Spoolans. I quite understand why everybody
thought them old.
In fact, Sandy would make us all into Scotchmen. Now the Scotch are
pleasant and useful fellows in their way. In truth, they have done
wonderful things, and have made their little rugged country occupy a
great space in men’s hearts and minds.
But I decline to belong to a universe of Scotchmen.
There would be no such unproductive sports left in the world as
leap-frog. And every joke would be sat upon by a jury.
No, Sandy, whatever other mischief you may do, beware of bringing
too much good sense and foresight into the world. Good-bye, I am
going to walk. Come along, Fairy. Every dog would be made useful,
and have to draw a cart. And the immense fun and affection that
there are in dogs would all be worked out of them. They would come
home in the evening to their wives and families, as dull as men of
business. It shan’t happen in my time, if I can prevent it.
[So saying, he whistled to Fairy, and off they went together.]
_Sir Arthur._ There was one passage in the story that I hardly think
was yours, Mr. Johnson; and, in fact, I hope it was not. I accuse
Mr. Milverton of it.
_Johnson._ Which was it, Sir Arthur?
_Sir Arthur._ The illustration of human life taken from an opera
heard by you in some language not known to you. That passage was too
old for you, and a little too cynical, I thought.
_Milverton._ Well, that was mine: it really was almost the only
thing I did insert; but I did not mean it to be cynical.
I know very well what you mean--that a young man is too much
delighted by his early operas to take much notice of the comic
element in them.
Now I go beyond that, and must confess I am greatly amused by the
real life at a play or an opera, and by what goes on behind the
scenes: things which would have disgusted me, as being unpleasantly
real, when I was young.
_Sir Arthur._ I do not know exactly what you allude to.
_Milverton._ The reproachful look of the severe conductor when he
turns to quell some of his band who are too loud or too fast; the
anxiety of the stage-manager who at the side is tempestuously waving
his flag to “supers” who will not come on at the right time; the gay
chattering with some friend at the side-scenes of the great tragic
lady who is just coming on with the dire intention of killing
herself, and a child or two; the good-natured ballet-girl who is
adjusting a wreath, to make it more becoming, upon some other
ballet-girl, or smoothing down her friend’s skirts; the pot of
porter which the high tragic actor is consuming with considerable
relish; the perplexity of the scene-shifter when the scenes won’t go
rightly together, and an obstinate old oak-tree will cut into the
middle of a cottage; the busy carpenters in the flies giving the
final touches to their work; the abrupt change of demeanour which
occurs when the chief tenor and soprano have gone off the stage with
their arms round each other, or in some loving attitude, and they
part at the side-scenes as a lady and gentleman who have a slight
acquaintance with one another, and perhaps a considerable dislike:
all these things amuse my foolish mind; and I like to sit in a box
which will give me a good view of them.
_Mauleverer._ Do not forget the choruses. How beautiful is their
unanimity! How I wish that there was anything like it in common
life! The same gesture, the same question, the same reproach, the
very same words, seem to occur to all these excellent men at the
same moment. Hands, arms, legs, eyes, eyebrows, all move together.
They make use of the same exclamation: if one says “hah!” they all
say “hah!” Of “ohs” and “ehs” and “hahs” and “hums” there is no
unpleasant variety.
_Milverton._ As the French song says,--
“Quand un gendarme rit,
Tous les gendarmes rient,
Dans la gendarmerie.”
_Sir Arthur._ I declare we have gone into quite a discussion of the
proceedings at operas and plays. It is all your fault, Milverton, as
it was you who introduced that illustration into Mr. Johnson’s
clever story, which illustration, forgive me for saying so, was
evidently lugged in, and had no proper relation to “Spoolans” or
“Uraths.”
[After this the conversation ended.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XII.
It was agreed that the reading to-day should be in the drawing-room, in
order that the ladies might be able to go on with their work (they were
very busy preparing for some fancy fair) while we were talking or
reading.
Before the reading commenced, there was an interesting conversation,
which began in this way:
_Milverton._ I have just been into your room, Ellesmere, to see
about the chimney, which they say smokes.
_Ellesmere._ Pray don’t trouble yourself. There is a proper
concatenation in all human affairs. One must have a smoky chimney
when one has a scolding wife.
_Milverton._ I saw Dickens’s “American Notes” on your table, and,
looking at it, I came upon a passage about solitary confinement. I
suppose it is the dreadful punishment which Dickens says it is, and
in which he is supported by Mr. Reade in “Never Too Late to Mend;”
but I have always fancied that I could bear a little of this
solitary confinement very well.
See what advantages there are:--
No letters.
No choice given you about your food.
Lots of time for thinking about and inventing things.
No servants to manage.
No visitors to entertain.
The chief pain of life is in deciding; and there, in your solitary
cell, there would be no occasion to decide anything.
_Ellesmere._ I agree with you. Life becomes more and more tiresome
from our having more and more to decide. Now, at a dinner-party,
they _will_ bother you with two sorts of soup, two kinds of fish,
and innumerable wines.
_Mauleverer._ Very wrong of the host to throw such a weight of
responsibility upon his guests. One is sure to believe that one has
chosen indiscreetly, to feel that it is irremediable, and to be
tormented by regret throughout the dinner for one’s error--say, in
the choice of the soup. I have often felt that.
_Sir Arthur._ I always admired the plan that great Catholic monarchs
had of going into retirement in some monastery for two or three
weeks.
_Milverton._ I am afraid they received despatches. Now, in solitary
confinement, one should have ceased to be a person to whom anybody
could address anything.
It would be better than being in a yacht--at least to any one who is
apt to be sea-sick.
_Sir Arthur._ There would be no bells to molest you. The three great
evils in life are noise, poverty, and popularity. Nobody can tell
what I have suffered from noise in the course of my life. It has
been an act of great forbearance on my part to endure dogs, for I do
so much detest their barking. The weak part of their character is,
that they will bark, in season and out of season, for good reason,
or for no reason at all--generally the latter. I love horses,
because they make so little noise. Rabbits, too, and white mice
are----
_Ellesmere._ I will not have a word said against dogs. They are the
best fellows I know. Sir Arthur objects to their barking; why does
he not object to men’s talking? Pray, sir, by which have you been
most bored: by the injudicious barking of dogs, or by the foolish
talk of men? Do dogs make two hours’ speeches to convey ideas
(ideas?) which might have been conveyed in ten minutes?
Of course, if I wished to run them down--that is, if I were a base
and ungrateful man--I too could say something against them. They are
a little too prone to be vulgarly aristocratic, for my taste,--too
apt to despise poor and ragged people, and to bark at their heels.
But then, again, if they are on the other side of the House, if they
belong to poor and ragged persons, they have a proper respect for
rags and poverty, and sniff contemptuously at carriage people. In
short, they partake the errors and vices of their masters: that is
all. Milverton’s dogs howl philosophy; Sir Arthur’s whine poetry;
Mauleverer’s (epicurean dogs those!) discern great difference
between different kinds of bones: and mine bark at everybody, just
like me, without doing any harm to anybody.
In general, dogs have rather too much love for good society--a
failing which they partake with most of us. We all like to visit the
best people, as they are called. So with dogs. The kitchen is warm,
its atmosphere is rich with unctuous and savoury odours, the cook is
kind; but the parlour is preferred by the dog, from an innate love
of high society.
I do not believe there has been any instance of a man committing
suicide when he has had a dog to love him. Move for a return, Mr.
Cranmer, and you will find I am right.
As regards friendship, the very word would have been unknown but for
dogs. Does not Max Müller say that the word for friendship in the
original language was “man-and-dog-in-the-desert?”
_Milverton._ What an ingenious way Ellesmere has of insinuating that
he is supported by some great authority! “Does not Max Müller say?”
No, he does not say anything of the kind.
_Ellesmere._ How do you know? I have no doubt it is in a note which
has hitherto escaped your observation. But, at any rate, the
friendship between a dog and a man is the highest form and exemplar
of friendship. Does a dog ever say, or look as if he would say, “I
told you so,” when you are mortified to death at having committed
some grievous folly? or does it use what is called “the privilege of
a friend,” to say the most cutting things to you?
Then look at the nice appreciation of character which dogs manifest:
their tolerance of children, their boundless fidelity, their
interest in all human affairs.
“Omnis Aristippum decuit color, et status, et res.”
Aristippus must have been very like a dog. Dogs will go with you to
a badger-bait, to a fox-hunt, to a public meeting, to races, to
church, and will almost always behave themselves well and
creditably, and not disgrace their masters.
_Cranmer._ The irrepressible dog at the Derby?
_Ellesmere._ If I wanted an instance to show the brutality of men
and the humanity of dogs, I would rely upon the case of the dog at
the Derby. He knows that his master has backed heavily Vauban, or
Hermit, or Lord Lyon, and, of course, he has a deep and affectionate
interest in the race for his master’s sake. And then the poor
creature is malignantly shouted at all along the racecourse; and
when he perceives, with the tact of a dog, that he is doing
something wrong, and wishes to escape to the right or the left, no
good Christians make way for him.
By the way, talking of Christians, I admit that dogs are not good
Christians: they are too prejudiced for that, and too much inclined
to persecute the inferior animals; but then how few men are
Christians! In short, you cannot say anything against dogs which
does not apply with equal force to human beings; while, on the other
hand, how many things may be said against human beings, which do not
apply to dogs? If Rochefoucauld had passed his time with dogs
instead of with courtiers, would he ever have said “that there is
something in the misfortunes of our friends which is not entirely
displeasing to us?” I ask you, did you ever know a dog bark out any
maxim like that? No; down with men, and up with dogs, say I.
If the Pythagorean system is true, it will only be the very good and
choice men who will become dogs in the next stage of existence. Come
here, Fairy: I have no doubt you were an exemplary woman; that you
never scandalized any other woman at tea-time; that you did not
thwart your husband seriously more than twice a day; that you did
not worry him to sign cheques; and that you did not say he was a
brute if he declined to go out shopping with you. Yes, turn up the
whites of your eyes, my dear, to show how horrified you are to think
that there are women not quite so good as you were. But you were a
wonder of a woman, as you are now a wonder of a dog. I will not have
dogs run down: I am their champion. What does the excellent Dr.
Watts say, somewhat ironically?--
“If dogs delight to bark and bite,
We make a great to-do;
If men show fight, and women spite,
Why, ’tis their nature to.”
Any excuse for ourselves; none for the poor dogs.
_Milverton._ Poor Dr. Watts! What would he say to hearing his good
words so parodied?
_Sir Arthur._ Notwithstanding Ellesmere’s eulogium upon dogs, I
venture to say again, what I said before, that I do not like their
barking. But, to pursue the general question of noise, we never
hardly, in our houses, make any sensible provision against it.
_Milverton._ Very true, Sir Arthur. I remember reading of some
murder committed in a Russian palace,--a noisy murder, too--but
nobody heard anything of it in the next room. Now that is my idea of
how a house should be built. It should be possible to commit a
murder in any room, without the rest of the house being troubled or
disturbed. As it is, architects seem to have set their faces against
all quiet and privacy. Studious men are the victims of neighbouring
pianos. A nursery is a hot-bed of annoyance. I have studied the
question of noise very deeply, and I will tell you something of the
greatest importance. Put a layer of small shells between the
flooring that separates a room from the room above it. You will find
these shells admirable non-conductors of sound.
_Cranmer._ I wish architects were subject to examinations.
_Milverton._ Very good. The first question I should ask them would
be, What thickness of what material will prevent such and such
noises--say the playing of a piano by a beginner--from being heard
in the adjacent rooms?
_Sir Arthur._ I remember when I was in Germany, and used to spell
over the German newspapers, nothing used to delight me more than the
advertisements of servants, which so often began, “_Ein stilles
Mädchen_.” Now, if one could advertise about houses, and say
truthfully, “_Ein stilles Haus_” (I’m sure I do not know whether
that is the right German), what an attractive advertisement it would
be!
_Ellesmere._ You were quoting just now “Never Too Late to Mend.” I
don’t think Mr. Reade protested so much against solitary confinement
as against the cruelty which in that particular case accompanied
solitary confinement. At least such is my recollection of that
eloquent and fervid book.
_Milverton._ No, you are wrong; he protested against the system as
well as against the cruelties which he stated to have accompanied it
in that particular case.
It is a commonplace remark to make, but what an atrocious thing
cruelty is! Do not you all feel that circumstances favouring you
might have committed all other sins known in the calendar of
sinfulness? but cruelty is unspeakably abhorrent to all thoughtful
men. There is nothing Christianity has set its face so distinctly
against.
_Ellesmere._ But then, you see, there are so few Christians in the
world. At least such is the conclusion I have come to, from my
limited experience. There is something in my mind upon this subject
which would, I fear, perfectly horrify you all. It is a strange,
almost ridiculous resemblance that has often struck me between
Christianity and something which is considered to be one of the most
frivolous of all the frivolous things in this world.
I would not have said it before dear Dunsford for the world, and I
am afraid to say it even to you.
_Cranmer._ Let us hear it. We are not bound to agree with it, and I
am certain beforehand I shall disagree with it.
_Sir Arthur._ Do not all at once be modest and timid, Sir John. If
you are suddenly taken in this way, we shall all think you are going
to have an illness.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Pray do not imagine such a thing. I did not half
describe to you, when we talked upon the subject of illness the
other day, what an irrational person he is. He had the audacity to
complain of me. But, indeed, the great superiority of women to men
is never more conspicuous than in illness. Men oscillate from utter
abjectness to obstinate indocility.
One day it is, “Oh, pray manage for me, and pray manage me. I have
no will of my own; I am nobody, only a bundle of pain and misery.”
The next day my lord is a little better, and has resumed his usual
grandeur and obstinacy. If you bring him some beef-tea or some
water-gruel, he insists upon your explaining to him (at least Sir
John does) the exact nature and effect of those harmless fluids. He
once reasoned with me for three-quarters of an hour about a
mustard-plaster; and, indeed, he made a speech about it (at a time
when he was ordered not to talk at all) which would have done him
great credit before the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council. He
divided his speech into seven heads, and it ended by showing that a
mustard-plaster was one of the most dangerous remedies that could be
applied; but I did apply it nevertheless. I say again, that the
superiority of a woman to a man is never more manifest than in a
sick-room, whether as nurse or patient--in the one case showing a
skilfulness and tenderness; in the other, a patience and endurance
utterly unknown to what is facetiously called the stronger-minded
sex.
_Ellesmere._ Doesn’t she talk like a book?--like a bit of the
_Rambler_ or _Spectator_? “Showing in the one case a clumsiness and
hardness, and, in the other, an impatience and irritability, which
are quite unknown to the wiser and the gentler sex, that is, to the
sex masculine.” I think those were her words, or, at least, such as
they ought to have been.
_Sir Arthur._ I thought that what Lady Ellesmere said was equally
true and well-expressed.
_Ellesmere._ The poor husband, or father, or brother, is always at a
sad disadvantage in dealing with his womankind. He brings, with
trembling and reluctant hand, the invigorating but distasteful acid
of the medicinal potion, while the polite stranger assiduously
presents the fallacious palliative of the consequential
saccharinity.
At least, that is how Dr. Johnson and Lady Ellesmere would express
it. Plain John (that is how some people describe me, as they used to
describe a former Lord Chancellor), plain John has to administer the
dose, and the polite Sir Arthur gives the sugar or the jam which
weak people take after their doses.
_Milverton._ This is a very pleasant and instructive interlude; but
you were going to say something which would horrify us. I join with
Mauleverer, and maintain that it is beyond your power to horrify me.
_Ellesmere._ Here goes, as you will have it. Is there anything that
Christianity protests against so much as riches and the belief in
riches? Or, to put the question more largely, Is there anything that
Christianity protests against so much as a slavish yielding to
worldly greatness of any kind--to great riches, great power, great
intellect, great force, or great worldly success of any kind?
_Milverton._ Yes; you are right.
_Sir Arthur._ Yes.
_Ellesmere._ Well, then, _Fashion is the only thing which, in modern
times, has stood up boldly against wealth, power, rank, dignity, and
success of all kinds._ I am not old enough to remember when Fashion
was predominant, but I heard older men talk about it, and I learned
to estimate its power. There was a time when it was the fashion to
be poor. Think of that. It is very like Christianity, you know.
_Sir Arthur._ This is the most paradoxical thing I ever heard, and
yet there really is something in it. _Fashion_ did make a sort of
protest against riches, rank, and adventitious worth of all kinds.
But, my dear Sir John, the idol it set up instead was a miserable
one.
_Ellesmere._ I do not care about that; it somehow appealed to what
was considered to be personal worth rather than adventitious
circumstances. Men were fashionable who did not possess any of the
things that the world generally dotes upon.
_Milverton._ What you say, Ellesmere, is very ingenious; and I must
honestly say I sympathise with anything that thwarts, or tends to
thwart, the brute power of wealth.
How many a man may say, as some Don Alonso, or Don Juan, says in one
of Calderon’s plays--
“Y el haber, en mí, ó no haber,
O temor ó atrevimiento,
No consiste en otra cosa
Que haber ó no haber dinero;”
which being liberally translated, means, “If I have cash, I have
courage; but if I am poor, I have none.”
_Ellesmere._ You see neither Sir Arthur nor Milverton have much to
say against my theory. I am not such a fool and scoundrel after all,
Mr. Cranmer, am I?
_Cranmer._ Nobody thought that you were, Sir John; but, for my part,
I must say I prefer a great contractor to Beau Brummel.
_Ellesmere._ I do not.
_Sir Arthur._ The best protest I ever knew made against worldly
success was by a small society of young men at college. Their
numbers were very few, and their mode of election was the most
remarkable I have ever known. The vacancies were exceedingly
rare--perhaps one or two in the course of a year--and the utmost
care and study were bestowed on choosing the new members. Sometimes,
months were given to the consideration of a man’s claim.
Rank neither told for a man, nor against him. The same with riches,
the same with learning, and what is more strange, the same with
intellectual gifts of all kinds. The same, too, with goodness; nor
even were the qualities that make a man agreeable any sure
recommendation of him as a candidate.
_Mauleverer._ What did you go by then?
_Sir Arthur._ I really feel a difficulty in describing to you, and
yet I know perfectly what it was.
A man to succeed with us must be a real man, and not a “sham,” as
Carlyle would say. Matthew Arnold has invented a word to describe
certain people, which is not a bad one. He calls them “Philistines.”
Now our man was never a “Philistine.” He was not to talk the talk of
any clique; he was not to believe too much in any of his
adventitious advantages; neither was he to disbelieve in them--for
instance, to affect to be a radical because he was a lord. I confess
I have no one word which will convey all that I mean; but I may tell
you that, above all things, he was to be open-minded. When we voted
for a man, we generally summed up by saying, “He has an apostolic
spirit in him,” and by that we really meant a great deal.
I remember ----, who is now a very great personage in the world,
saying to me, “In the course of one’s chequered life one meets with
many disgraces and contumelies, and also with several honours; but
no honour ever affected me so much as being elected, as a youth,
into that select body. And, to speak very frankly, I think they were
right in choosing me, for, with many demerits of the gravest kind, I
do think I am a real human being, and I say what I think, and I try
to think for myself, and the world’s gauds and vanities do not, I
conceive, excessively impose upon me.”
By the way, I must tell you a curious thing--viz. that the choice
made by these young men, though made without any view to future
worldly pre-eminence, yet seemed to involve it, for a very large
proportion of the men so selected have made their mark in the world;
and some of the foremost men of the time belonged to that society.
But boys at school and youths at college do choose so wisely and so
well, as Milverton has told us. They are not to be deceived by
wrappages of any kind.
_Milverton._ But we wander from our subject. Ellesmere said that
there were few Christians anywhere. If he means that there are few
perfect Christians, every one would agree with him. But if he means
that Christianity has not prevailed, is not prevailing, and will not
prevail in a much higher degree, I humbly think he is mistaken. The
truth is, so large a conquest has already been made by Christianity
in the human mind, that each individual Christian looks smaller, and
is of course of far less account, than when he was surrounded by a
Pagan world. “_Non meus hic sermo._” These are not my words, but
Dunsford’s--almost his last words to me.
Dunsford was our tutor, Ellesmere’s and mine, at college. He lived
near us here, and was much with us.
_Ellesmere._ I never asked, Milverton, what he died of. As you know,
I was abroad at the time.
_Milverton._ Of simple exhaustion. You know he was about the most
learned man in England, being great in science, in classical lore,
and in literature of all kinds. He kept up his learning, was a most
diligent student to the last, and withal a most active clergyman in
a large and scattered parish. He burned the candle at both ends,
rising early and going to bed late.
_Lady Ellesmere._ He had no wife. Wives are of some use, if only to
prevent their husbands from overworking.
_Milverton._ Well, a day or too before his death, he cleared the
room of his attendants, and told me he wished to speak to me. He
began by talking of the critical spirit of the present age, and how
the historical part of Christianity would have to undergo a severe
ordeal. He spoke of some of the great heresiarchs of the present
day, both of those who were eminent in Biblical criticism and in
science, and he spoke of them with the greatest kindness, saying
that many of them were good men who loved the truth, and that no
permanent harm could come to religion from a sincere search after
truth.
“I do not wish,” he said, “my dear boy” (he always looked upon
Ellesmere and myself as his children)----
_Ellesmere._ Yes; Dunsford was one of those persons who think you
never grow any older, and always treated Milverton and me as boys,
because we had been his pupils. I remember once, after he had been
lecturing me in a very pedagogic way about some heresy which I had
presumed to utter anent the classics (I dare say about the
manufacture of Latin verses), I let the conversation drop, and then
a few minutes afterwards, in the most demure way (I was staying at
his house), I asked whether one of the maids could be spared to take
me out for a little walk. The good man laughed heartily, and did not
attempt to tutorize me for the next three days. It is true it was
some years ago, but I had “taken silk” (as we say at the Bar), and
did not by any means think myself a small or insignificant
personage. As we grow older we grow more modest: at least I do every
day.
But go on, Milverton, with what dear Dunsford said to you.
_Milverton._ “I do not wish,” he said, “to prevent such people as
you and Ellesmere (he named you, John) from reading all this
criticism, and accepting any of it that seems to you good; but let
no man rob you of the main truths of Christianity: let no one blind
you to what there is essentially divine in our religion.
“I may be an enthusiast, but I think that the triumphs of
Christianity are but commencing. I look forward to a time when war,
which so distresses you now, Milverton, will be an obsolete thing;
when the pity we have at present for the woes and miseries of other
men, will seem, comparatively speaking, but hardness of heart; when
the grief of any one will be largely partaken by all those who know
of it, and when our souls will not be isolated; when good men will
allow themselves to give full way to their benevolent impulses,
because no unfair advantage will be taken of their benevolence; when
the weak will not traffic upon their weakness, nor the strong abuse
their strength; when wealth will not be ardently sought for, except
by those who feel that they can undertake the heavy burden of
dispensing wealth for the good of their brethren; when men and women
will be able to live together in a household without mean
dissensions; when the lower seats shall be preferred; when men will
differ about nice points of doctrine without adjudging to their
opponents eternal condemnation; when, in short, instead of a tumult
of discord ascending to heaven from this bewildered world, there
shall go up one harmonious melody, breathing peace and faith, and
love and concord and contentment.”
_Mauleverer_ (aside to me). And when every fir-tree in the wood
shall be a Christmas-tree bearing pretty toys and delicious
sweetmeats.
_Ellesmere._ “_Jam redeunt Saturnia regna._” There will be no room
for the like of me in this good world that the excellent Dunsford
contemplated, but I shall only be too delighted to behold it,
whether from near or from afar; and certain it is, that if we do not
believe and hope for better things, we shall never try to make
things better.
_Milverton._ And then he added something which impressed me very
much, for he was not a man of a romantic turn of mind, or given to
daring speculations.
“Moreover,” he said, “I fondly believe that physical nature will
then become less obdurate--that is, if men are fitted to receive a
softer, gentler state of being. Now, as it is, if Nature were more
easy and more bountiful, men would only have more spare time for
annoying and persecuting one another; but depend upon it, if we were
more fitted to receive good things from our Father, we should
receive them.
“Think of these sayings of mine when I have gone, my dear, and let
no one persuade you that Christianity is the mere dream of a few
benighted enthusiasts. I can say no more. Good night;--and perhaps
it is good night for ever.”
It was not so, for I saw him die; and it is a sight that is not
without consolation to see a good man die.
No one seemed inclined to comment upon these last words of the good
Dunsford. Mr. Milverton soon got up and walked about the room. The
others looked at one another with a curious expression of countenance,
half sad, half hopeful. Mr. Mauleverer shrugged up his shoulders, and
Ellesmere replied to him by a similar gesture (it was not a mocking
gesture, but one of sadness), but neither of them said anything.
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER XXIV.
REALMAH’S DANGER FROM CONSPIRACIES.
Personal enemies are very rare. Taking the population of the world at
one thousand millions, it is true that there are at least one thousand
millions of personal enemies; but then, as we must consider each man as
his own chief personal enemy, this calculation will not prove much.
It may be said of Realmah that, with the exception of himself, he had no
personal enemy, unless, indeed, it was the witch Potochee; but,
unfortunately, there were many persons who were much injured, or fancied
they were, by the advent of Realmah to power. For example, there were
near relatives of the deposed chieftains who had hopes of being elected
chiefs of the North, of the South, or of the West, if the old form of
government were ever re-established. Besides, there were those who had
been attendants at these little courts; and Realmah, though very anxious
to do so, had not been able to find room for all these men at his own
court. There were, therefore, several persons who, though not
particularly disliking the man Realmah, earnestly desired the death of
the King. These men formed a band of conspirators, and for several years
after Realmah came to the throne he was exposed to their machinations.
Realmah was a singularly fearless man, possessing all that fearlessness
which often belongs to sickly, feeble people, and which seems to be
given to them by kind Nature as, in some measure, a compensation for
their deficiency in physical force.
His foster-brother Omki, however, was anything but fearless, and was
indeed a very suspicious person, always upon the look-out for
conspiracies against his beloved Realmah. A casual remark made to him by
a woman of rank in the northern quarter of the city strengthened these
suspicions. One day, when he was enlarging upon the merits of Realmah,
this woman happened to exclaim, “Poor man! I doubt whether we shall get
a better!” These words dwelt in the suspicious Omki’s mind. He kept
repeating the words to himself, “‘Poor man!’ Why poor man? ‘We shall
never get a better.’ Humph! Then somebody is thinking about getting a
better.” From that time Omki set a sedulous watch upon that woman’s
husband and her brothers. He soon detected that they and other
disaffected persons met together secretly; and he became perfectly sure
of the existence of an important conspiracy. He warned Realmah. But the
King replied, “Dear Omki, I cannot take all the trouble about my life
that you would have me. I should be thinking of nothing else but my
life; and the life would become not worth having. It is not much worth
having as it is.” Omki, however, redoubled his watchfulness, and formed,
chiefly from among the fishermen’s tribe, a guard of men whose main duty
it was to watch the movements of the King, without his knowing that he
was so watched.
Now, Realmah had one delight which he thought was quite unknown to his
subjects. He would go and mourn, in complete solitude as he supposed, at
the grave of the Ainah; and this he was particularly prone to do when
more than usually vexed by anything disagreeable in public affairs. Her
tomb was in a wood; and he had caused a house to be built close to it,
in which one of his stewards dwelt, for it was a part of the royal
domain. By means of a secret approach through this house (he was a great
lover of these secret ways), he had unobserved access to the tomb. One
side of the house was built against a rocky and wooded eminence, and he
had caused a secret aperture to be constructed from that side into this
elevated ground.
It may appear inconsistent to say that Realmah was a very fearless man,
while mentioning that he took such precautions as the above. But this
was eminently characteristic of him: that he should foresee danger;
provide, in some measure, against it; and then not trouble himself any
further about the matter.
It is a wonder that he was not more anxious about his life; for the
conspirators had already tried what poison could do, and their plot had
only been defeated by Realmah’s fine sense of taste, which had detected
something wrong in some beverage that had been handed to him. Careful
inquiries had been made about this; but the guilt had not been brought
home to any one, and Realmah affected to believe that it was an
accident. Omki, however, took care to make great change in the King’s
immediate attendants.
One morning in the spring-time, very early, a man in the dress of a
fisherman might have been seen issuing from an obscure postern of the
palace, and making his way rapidly, though with somewhat of a limping
gait, to the Bridge of Foxes, as it was called, which led to the wood of
the royal domain. He did not turn to look about him. Had there been an
observant person present, that person would have seen a small body of
men emerge from some spot near the palace, and disperse themselves in
twos and threes, taking nearly the same route as the fisherman. In half
an hour afterwards, a similar body might have been seen issuing from the
same postern of the palace from which the fisherman had come. The first
body were the emissaries of the conspirators: the second were the
faithful guard led by Omki. This was not the first time that the
fisherman had been followed in this manner; but it was the first time
that the conspirators had received much earlier notice than Omki of the
fisherman’s intention to take an early walk. It need hardly be said that
the fisherman was the King.
It is a fortunate thing for the world that conspiracies are almost
always ill-managed. In this instance, nothing would seem simpler than
that one or two of the foremost of the conspirators should have gained
upon Realmah, and have murdered him before he reached the house. But
they did nothing of the kind. It had been agreed that they should meet
together near the house, force their way into it, and attack him there.
And they kept to their agreement. Probably not one of them really liked
the work, and therefore they were all averse to acting, except together
in numbers.
Realmah gained the house; and, after speaking a few kind words to the
steward’s wife, descended into the secret passage that led to the tomb
of the Ainah, which was covered in on all sides, and into which, except
by this passage, there was no access.
Now this poor woman had been solemnly warned by Omki of the danger that
the King incurred during these visits to the tomb; and no sooner had she
attended Realmah to the secret passage which led to the tomb, than she
went up to the highest room in the house and kept watch. There, to her
amazement and dismay, she saw assembling, by twos and threes, no fewer
than seventeen men under the shelter of a large “quilpahra,” a tree like
a beech-tree, but with a larger leaf. She hastened down to the King to
give him notice. Realmah instantly appreciated the danger; and, leaving
the tomb, betook himself to the place of concealment in the rock, which
was entered by an opening from the vestibule of the house, at a height
of about ten feet from the ground. It was reached by means of a
rope-ladder. It led into a long passage, which had an exit in the wood.
The King made at once for this exit; but, hearing voices near, did not
venture to take this way into the wood. The truth was, that the
conspirators had discovered that there was some such means of exit; but
had not ascertained its exact situation, as it had been very artfully
contrived. Their first care, however, had been to place a small party at
that spot near which they had once or twice seen the King emerge.
He had not long taken refuge in this concealed passage, when the
conspirators came to the door of the cottage, and demanded entrance. The
woman made no reply. The conspirators began to force the door, which had
been made very strong. Moreover, there were two iron bars which could be
drawn across it, and which went into staples fixed in the adjacent
walls. The careful Omki had provided these means of defence, and had
instructed the steward’s wife how to make ready use of them. Seven or
eight minutes were lost by the conspirators in forcing this door: at
last they made good their entrance. They then seized hold of the poor
woman, and by frightful threats compelled her to disclose to them the
secret entrance to the tomb. They descended into the vault, where of
course they did not find the King; but one of them, groping about on the
floor, picked up a shell brooch of exquisite workmanship, which they
were sure could only have belonged to a person of high rank. After a
fruitless search, they returned to the vestibule. They then searched all
through the house, but without effect. One cruel man then proposed to
put the poor woman to the torture. This plan was immediately adopted. A
cord was twisted round her forehead, and pulled violently by the men at
each end of it. Her agonizing screams rent the air, but no word of
betrayal came from the poor woman. Realmah could bear it no longer. He
drew aside the rough screen of wood-work that concealed him; and,
standing like a saint in a niche, addressed the conspirators. “I am
here: who is it that wishes to kill his king? If any one, let him do
so.” Most of the conspirators stood staring at him. One or two, more
hardened than the rest, hurled missiles at him, one of which struck the
King on the breast, and made him fall backwards into the recess. They
were looking about for the means of ascending, when Omki and his
followers, who had pressed upon their steps, rushed into the house. The
fight was furious; but Omki’s party prevailed. Six of the conspirators
were left dead on the floor, and the others were overpowered and bound.
His faithful foster-brother then ascended to Realmah’s aid. The King was
still senseless. But, though considerably injured, he was not fatally
wounded, and after a short time he recovered his senses. His first
orders were to spare the conspirators, and to bring them before him. He
reasoned with these guilty men, and, upon a promise of clemency,
obtained from them a full account of the plot and of the chief movers in
it. He then ordered their bonds to be loosed, and was carried home in
the arms of his faithful followers.
Such a transaction could not be kept secret, and in a few hours it was
noised all through the city. Realmah’s clemency was to no purpose. While
the King was in a deep sleep, for the physicians of that nation
understood the use of opiates, the populace rose in fury, and sacked the
houses of the principal conspirators, killing those who had not made
their escape.
There was no further attempt upon the life of Realmah; for those who
might still wish to conspire against him felt that, even if they were to
succeed in their conspiracy, they would have to endure the rage of an
infuriated populace.
CHAPTER XXV.
REALMAH’S GREAT ENEMY, BRISHEE-BRASHEE-VAH.
In our moral likings and dislikings there are as many odd fancies and
peculiarities as in our physical likings; and we all know in physical
matters how peculiar these likings are. One man is attracted by black
hair in his beloved, another by auburn, another by red. The countenance
which is absolutely repulsive to one, is fearfully attractive to
another. There are even some people to whom obliquity of vision on the
part of their beloved is delightful.
But it has often passed unobserved that there are the same invincible
likings and dislikings as regards the moral qualities. One man can
endure anything but cruelty in those he loves. Another has a positive
hatred for the puritanical virtues.[26] A third, and such a man was
Hamlet, adores justice, and cannot bear the unjust and passionate man:
“Give me that man
That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him
In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee, Horatio;”
while again there are others who are very tolerant of passion and
injustice, but cannot abide small, narrow-minded equitable priggishness.
Footnote 26:
“I have known distinguished fathers and mothers in our Christian
Israel, whose presence was like mildew upon flowers, and who sent you
away with the feeling of having been defrauded of half your vital
electricity.” The writer of the above, an American named Henry James,
would not be likely to admire much even the virtues of Puritanism.
Now Realmah, great as he was, was not exempt from these prejudices in
his moral likings and dislikings. You might oppose him in council, and
he would like you just the same. You might say injurious things against
him, and he would forgive you, merely observing that he was sorry that
you did not understand him. You might even conspire against him, and he
would readily pardon you, as we have seen. But he was unspeakably bitter
against the men who promoted false rumours. He was wont to say that
these false rumours are the great difficulty of government, and that all
the skill in the world cannot quite meet and dissipate them. Here it may
be remarked how very difficult it must have been before printing had
been invented for a government to check these false rumours. Much of
what we now call history consists perhaps of the lightest, falsest, and
most unauthorized sayings of the most gossiping of mankind.
Realmah would lose all his usual calmness and dignity when inveighing
against the men who made and propagated false rumours. Indeed he was in
the habit of saying that _Brishee-Brashee-Vah_, which meant in their
language _The Lord of False Gabbling_, was the only enemy he never had
conquered, and could never hope to conquer.
Of the rumours that made Realmah so angry, some were of this kind.--The
Varnah, who delighted in household arrangement, and who seldom went out
of doors, was ill. The court physician recommended that Her Loftiness
should take more air. Realmah, entering her apartments one day, remarked
before her and her women--“We must take the open air a great deal this
summer, my Varnah; that is the way to meet your enemy. He is not to be
battled with in the house.”
That simple speech led to a report, which was believed throughout
Abibah, that the King would take the field at the head of thirty
thousand men for a summer campaign against the Bibraskas; and
absolutely, ambassadors arrived from the Bibraskas to propitiate the
wrath of so great a monarch.
Realmah, when he addressed the Varnah, had pointed to an opening in the
wall which looked towards the east, and the Bibraskas were the only
tribe in that direction who did not admit the suzerainty of Realmah.
The King strove to trace the origin and growth of this report; and,
finding that one of the Varnah’s women had repeated his words, with
sundry additions, to her lover, was with difficulty persuaded from
ordering her to be strangled. The great and good-natured King was never
known to have been so fierce as upon this occasion, nor to inveigh so
loudly against Brishee-Brashee-Vah, whom he believed to be the chief god
of evil in this lower world.
Corresponding with his hatred of Brishee-Brashee-Vah was Realmah’s love
for true intelligence. No man, to use an expression of Talleyrand’s, was
more “avid of facts.” He did not care for the facts being apparently
important: if they were trivial, but true, he valued them. He desired to
know who in Abibah loved whom, who hated whom, who was about to marry
whom. He did not despise gossip, if gossip were but based upon facts.
The Varnah and Talora, with the tact of women, discovered this, and,
when they wanted him to do anything in household matters, took care to
please him first by giving him intelligence that he could rely upon.
His foster-brother, Omki, vexed him much by bringing him rumours and
suspicions of all kinds; but there was a great affection between Realmah
and Omki, and the King endured from his foster-brother what he would not
have borne from any other man.
If Realmah was desirous to know the truth about all manner of minor
matters, it may be imagined how anxious he was to have sound
intelligence about serious things connected with his government, and,
above all, to have exact accounts of the movements of the men of the
North.
For this purpose he posted men, upon whose vigilance and judgment he
could thoroughly rely, at all the passes of that part of the country
which is now called the Vorarlberg.
The instructions he gave to these men were very characteristic of him.
He said, “Do not bring me your suspicions; do not bring me even your
thoughts; do not worry me with rumours: I will only act upon ascertained
facts.
“You all know the story of Kalvi the Timid, who lived in the woods. It
was always ‘Wolves, wolves!’ with poor Kalvi. Even his wives ceased to
be frightened by him. At last, the wolves did come; and what said the
wives? ‘Those are not the howlings of real wolves; but the boys, poor
Kalvi, are playing their wicked jokes upon you, as usual; and we will
not shut the door.’
“My people must not liken me to Kalvi the Timid. Do not bring me
anything in the way of intelligence that you have not seen with your own
eyes. There is always time enough. For once that we unwisely delay to
act, we act prematurely one hundred times. Be wise; and do not disturb
your king until the real moment for action comes.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE INVASION.
Seven years had now passed since Realmah’s accession to the throne; and,
in the course of that time, his power had immensely increased. Three
objects had chiefly occupied his attention: the manufacture of iron, the
gaining of allies, and the consolidation of his sway over distant
provinces that had hitherto owned but a dubious allegiance to the
Sheviri. In all of these objects he had been eminently successful; and
it is not too much to say that the kingdom he ruled over was ten times
as strong as it had been when the burden of government first devolved
upon him.
He had urged on, with all the power of government, the new manufacture
of iron. He had formed many firm alliances--as firm, at least, as
alliances ever are. After paying attention, in the first instance, to
the arming and disciplining of his own troops, he had bestowed similar
care upon those of his allies, and had not hesitated to furnish the
choice bands of those allies, upon whom he could most rely, with weapons
which had been made in his own forges.
There was great murmuring amongst his people upon this point. What a
large mind it takes to be profoundly generous! and nations are mostly
less generous even than individual men. But few cared to speak out
openly against anything that Realmah had set his heart upon; for was he
not Realmah-Lelaipah-Mu--Realmah the Foreseeing Youth? And almost all
his subjects acknowledged that it was not once, or twice, or thrice,
that this man, their King, had been right, and those who opposed him
wrong; but that his words had uniformly proved to be the words of
prudence and of wisdom. Even Condore, who was now an old man, joining
the peevishness of age to the confirmed habit of prophesying evil,
ceased to have any weight with his fellow-countrymen, though he did not
cease on every occasion to foretell that no good would come of whatever
was proposed. For had he not once prophesied that good would come; and,
being mistaken, did he not take care never again to prophesy a good
result? Realmah was wont to say to his courtiers, with a smile, “Poor
old Condore has been with us to-day, and has told us, in words which
once or twice before I have heard from him, that what my government
proposes will not succeed. We needed but this confirmation to act upon
our resolve; for has the good Condore ever prophesied that it will
thunder on the left hand, that it has not impertinently thundered on the
right?” This was not true, for Condore had often been right in his
forebodings; but this was the way in which Realmah chose to put it.
Meanwhile, what had the men of the North been doing? It is not known to
us; but we may conjecture that disputes amongst themselves had exhausted
for a time their warlike energies, and diverted their attention from the
conquest of the South. Whatever was the cause, it is certain that the
dreaded invasion from the North had not occurred during these seven
years. The prudent mind of Realmah had not, however, been the less
solicitous on that account. He had never doubted that this invasion
would come in his time; and not a day had passed in which he had not
done something in the way of preparation to encounter it.
Realmah was much given to a splendid hospitality. This hospitality was
caused not only by his liberal nature, but also by that spirit of
melancholy which ever encompassed him. It is often supposed that the
most melancholy among the sons of men retire into privacy to indulge
that melancholy; but, on the other hand, it may frequently be observed,
especially if they are in a great public position, that they surround
themselves with a multitude, in order to chase away the dark thoughts of
their own souls. Thus it was with Cortes; thus it was with Wallenstein,
and with many others who have played a great part in the world’s
affairs.
It was one day, early in the spring of the eighth year of his reign,
that Realmah sat at the head of his royal table, surrounded by many of
his best friends and most trusted councillors. The King’s jester sat at
his left hand, and rejoiced to see that every now and then his ready
jests provoked a faint kind of smile from the weary monarch.
The feast was not concluded when, from the further part of the hall,
there arose an unaccustomed murmur, and then a sudden silence. The crowd
opened, and there advanced towards Realmah a man, not clad in festal
robes, but dusty, toil-worn, travel-stained. He approached the King
hastily, and whispered in his ear the ominous words: “They have come.
Through the Pass of Koraun they are pouring into the Vale of Avildama by
countless thousands.”
He had hardly given his report when another messenger in like guise
entered the great hall, and, rushing through the crowd, approached the
King, breathing into his ear similar intelligence,--with this addition,
that the enemy were accompanied by women and children, flocks and herds;
and that the whole host did not appear to be less than 250,000 souls.
Realmah rose from his seat with alacrity, and, with a loud voice and a
most cheerful countenance, announced the news to the assembled guests
and servitors.
“This is a day,” he said, “that will ever be memorable in our annals.
For years we have been awaiting in anxiety this attack; and, now that it
has come, I feel all the relief that there must ever be when suspense is
turned into certainty. After the defeat of these hordes (and of that
defeat I am well assured), such peace and joy as we have never known--at
least, such as I have never known--will be ours for the glad future. But
now to Council; and, meanwhile, do all of you spread the joyful tidings
throughout the city.”
Thus, like a great commander and politic statesman, did Realmah simulate
a joy he was far from feeling, and throw forth a light of hope which was
but dimly reflected in the sombre recesses of his own mind.
To both of the messengers he gave what he knew would be considered great
largesse, thanking them publicly for their vigilance, and bidding them
spread the good news throughout the city. Drawing his sword, he
presented that to the first messenger; and to the second he gave his own
goblet, ornamented with amber.[27]
Footnote 27:
It has surprised antiquaries to find that the inhabitants of the Lake
cities possessed amber; and it has been conjectured that this amber
came by trade of some kind with the Baltic.
The feast was broken up, and the Council met at once. The first thought
of Realmah, on hearing this disastrous news, had been a determination to
get rid of the greater part of his Council, and to conduct the war in
the plenitude of despotic authority.
When, therefore, he met the Council, he did not allow the councillors to
speak, but gave out his own views as if they were not for a moment to be
gainsaid, or even questioned.
He then told them frankly that they would at first be beaten at all
points; and that the only question was, to exhaust the enemy’s forces by
the sacrifice of greater numbers on their own side. He explained to them
that that was his policy. He was not for doing anything ungenerous; but
the fate of the South hung upon what he was doing. They must not,
therefore, scruple to shed the blood of their tributaries and their
allies, as they would their own. The war would have a successful issue
if they could sacrifice a hundred of their own lives, or of the lives of
their tributaries and allies, for every thirty of the enemy.
He gave special missions to almost all the members of the Council,
retaining only three with him. These three were Delaimah-Daree, the man
of many resources; Londardo, the man of unlimited daring; and Llama-Mah,
Realmah’s flatterer and dependant. The King felt nearly sure that he
should have his own way in this diminished Council; and secretly
resolved, if he were in the least degree thwarted by them, to dismiss
them also upon foreign service, and to take the command alone.
Before concluding the business of the Council, he gave general orders
for an illumination of the town of Abibah, such as that which was held
in the eighth month of the year, in honour of Rotondarah, the god of
thunder and of storms.
He also ordered those councillors who were to proceed upon missions to
various parts of the kingdom, and to the territories of their allies, to
signalize their arrival by similar illuminations in the various towns to
which they were ordered to proceed.
After the Council had broken up, he went to his own house, which, from
motives of policy, he had always retained, and where he often
resided--to show that he did not personally care for grandeur--and,
walking up and down the balcony for hours, he revolved the whole conduct
of the war.
Ah me! how different are the thoughts of men in this perplexed world
from what those thoughts would be if men were left to themselves, and
were not perpetually molested by their fellow-men! Here was Realmah, who
loved the life of every living creature, who would stoop to save the
life of an insect which had become embarrassed in running water; and yet
his sole thought that moonlight night, as he paced up and down the
balcony, was how he could most advantageously sacrifice the lives of his
subjects so as to insure the greatest destruction in the ranks of the
enemy.
“Were I resolved to die,” he said to himself, “poor creature as I am in
battle, they could not kill me without my having at least slain one of
the enemy. I will give a great banquet to-morrow, to the tribe of the
fishermen and the ironworkers, and upon them I will impress the idea
that no man must perish without having slain one at least of these
accursed Northmen.”
With this consolatory idea, the great King at last sought the repose
that was so much needed for him.
CHAPTER XXVII.
REALMAH’S PREPARATIONS FOR THE SIEGE. HIS PLAN OF THE CAMPAIGN.
Realmah lost no time in making his preparations for resisting the siege
of Abibah. He felt sure that the Northern tribes would ask who was the
greatest king in those parts, and would direct their energies, in the
first instance, to the reduction of his power.
What he most feared was fire; and his first efforts were directed to
meet that danger. All those parts of the town which lay near the
drawbridges he protected with thin plates of iron. The neighbouring
parts to them he covered with a coating of clay and small stones; and
the more remote parts of the town with the hides of animals.
Fortunately, the supply of water was inexhaustible; but the provisioning
of the town for a protracted siege was a matter of anxious thought for
Realmah.
As amongst the ancient Peruvians, so amongst the Sheviri, their laws and
customs provided for considerable public storages of corn to meet the
claims of the widows, the orphans, and the sick. And, as it was
spring-time, there was nothing further to be done in the storing of
grain.
Much, however, might be accomplished by slaughtering the principal part
of their flocks and herds, and drying the flesh in the sun. This was
done; and, after great exertions, Realmah found himself in a position to
endure a siege of three months, without being in the least degree liable
to suffer from famine. He was enabled to persuade his people to consent
to the sacrifice of the best of their flocks and herds, by showing them
that when the enemy came to invest the city they must be masters of the
plains and the woodlands near, and the only question would be whether
the Sheviri, or the enemy, should feed upon their flocks and herds.
The people were thoroughly docile to their king; and, on this memorable
occasion, all private interests were merged in a great effort to meet,
and if possible to defeat, the public enemy.
The name of the king who led the Northern forces was Lockmar; and the
epithet that well described him was Dansta-Ramah--“the All-destroying
Flame.” Like Attila, or Genghis-Khan, or any of the fearful scourges who
have devastated the fairest regions of the earth, he was simply a brute
kind of a man, who loved carnage, and had gained the superiority amongst
his fellows by being, if possible, a lower and more ferocious animal
than any of them. Remorseless as a tiger, subtle as a serpent, and brave
as a lion, Lockmar had all the sway which belongs to a supreme
pre-eminence in badness.
Against this man the gentle, kind-hearted Realmah was pitted; and it
remained to be seen whether brute force was always to be predominant in
this world.
The plan of the campaign, as it had long been matured in the mind of
Realmah, was very simple. There were to be three armies in the field.
The Phelatahs and the Doolmen were to form the bulk of one of these
armies. The subject provinces were to furnish a second army; and the
third, upon which Realmah placed the greatest reliance, was to consist
of Sheviri, and to operate in the plain south of the city, through which
the great river Ramassa runs.
A small body of the troops of the Sheviri was to be attached to the
first and second armies. The brunt of the war was to be borne by the
army of the Ramassa, as it was called. This army was to be commanded by
Athlah.
The relations between that chieftain and Realmah had been greatly
changed since the beginning of this story. Athlah was a man who always
believed in power, and was very submissive to it. Besides, he had learnt
to appreciate fully the great qualities of the King; and on no one’s
could Realmah have placed a firmer reliance than he did on that of
Athlah.
Realmah resolved to remain in the town of Abibah, for he had many
devices in his mind to prepare it for a state of siege, and he was
determined to fight the invaders street by street, and not to yield as
long as a single vestige of the town remained upon the waters.
He intended to be present at the battle in the plain, but he had
resolved to come away from it alive, and to reserve all his energies for
the siege. He did not hesitate to let this intention be known to his
principal friends and councillors. He felt that the knowledge of this
intention (which was sure to leak out) would give great comfort to the
inhabitants of the town, and induce them to bear without murmuring the
great labours and sacrifices which he was about to impose upon them for
the defence of the town.
He had in his own mind come to the conclusion that each one of these
three armies would be worsted, but not without inflicting considerable
loss upon the enemy; that they would then commence a siege; that this
siege would be very impetuously maintained for a short time; that it
would then languish; that he could direct a guerilla warfare against the
southern divisions of the enemy’s army; and, in fine, that he could
protract matters until the rainy season should come on. By that time, he
would have collected the scattered remnants of these three armies, and
would make a final grand attack.
The reasons which had led Realmah to form and to rely upon this plan of
campaign were these:--Though he had armed his own troops and some of his
allies with iron weapons, he was well aware that every man of the
Northern tribes would be well armed. He was also aware that they had
much more practice in war than the nations of the South. He, therefore,
concluded that his people and his allies would inevitably be beaten in
pitched battles until he had called in pestilence and famine to his aid.
He also concluded that if he could withstand the first great attack upon
the town, these Northern barbarians, who, he had heard, were very
capricious and unstable beings, accustomed to rapid victories, would
become tired of a protracted siege. They would then either retire, or be
defeated upon his striking a great blow, in concert with his allies,
upon the forces of the enemy diminished and disheartened by pestilence
and famine.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
ACCOUNT OF THE CAMPAIGN--THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN REALMAH AND ATHLAH--THE
BATTLE OF THE PLAIN.
The early events of the campaign were such as Realmah had foreseen. It
is needless to recount the battles, for there is hardly a more dull
thing in the way of narration than the narrative of a battle, unless it
is given in full detail, or unless it is signalized by some remarkable
incident or manœuvre.
The Phelatahs and the Doolmen, who operated to the north-east of the
lake, were beaten, but not ingloriously. The army that was furnished by
the subject provinces was also defeated.
Just as Realmah had anticipated, the men of the North, after defeating
these armies, directed their course to Abibah. The army of the Ramassa
went forth to meet them; and from day to day a battle was imminent.
Realmah, as has been said before, resolved to be present at this battle,
but not to take any active part in it. He trusted Athlah thoroughly; was
willing and ready to give him aid and advice; but told everybody that
Athlah was to be the real general, and was to have the full credit for
the conduct of the war outside the town of Abibah.
Realmah had a body-guard of sixty men, each of whom was devoted to him;
and, previously to the battle, he told them what he had mentioned before
to his councillors, that he had no intention whatever of dying on that
field of battle, and that they must take care and bring him back to the
town of Abibah unharmed. Before gunpowder was invented, it was very
difficult to kill a man who had sixty devoted followers, each one of
them ready to die for him.
It is a very remarkable statement to make, but it is true, that not one
of Realmah’s subjects dared to surmise, much less to say, that it was
cowardice on his part to resolve to come away from the battle alive and
unharmed. On the contrary, all felt that while Realmah was gracious
enough to remain alive, and to constitute himself as a rallying point
for his subjects, the great cause could not be altogether lost.
Realmah did not name any successor: he knew that it would be idle to do
so, for if _he_ fell, the hopes of the South would fall with him, and
the Sheviri would hereafter be the mere slaves or vassals of the North.
The interview between Realmah and Athlah on the evening before the
battle of the plain was a most interesting one.
In that vast area there was but one tent--the King’s. All his people
knew his sickness and debility, and were delighted to provide for him
that comfort and convenience which he would not ask for himself.
Athlah entered the King’s tent. Realmah and Athlah had for many years
acted together in affectionate concert; but not one word had passed
between them having reference to the past. The wisdom gained from
experiencing the difficulties of high command had greatly improved
Athlah. He had learned to know himself better, and to understand others
better. He knew, for instance, that Realmah’s genius was one which could
rebuke and dominate his own.
After the first greeting, Athlah fell upon his knees, and, kissing the
King’s hand, begged pardon for his offences in past time. He said that
in early days he had not known the greatness of the King.
Realmah raised him affectionately, and said, “What need of words, my
Athlah? I have long known that you are the truest and most faithful of
my subjects. And not subject, but friend and councillor, and of my
heart, the core of heart.”
_Milverton._ You see, Sir Arthur, even in that distant age men
talked, unconsciously, their Shakespere.
Realmah then explained to Athlah in close detail, as he had done before
in general words, the whole drift of the campaign.
“The gods,” he said, “dear Athlah, do not always grant our first wishes;
and time with them is long; and they are very patient. You must not rely
upon gaining a victory. I have made up my mind to bear defeat. The plain
to the rear of the wood, where Ramassa curves towards Bidolo-Vamah, must
be the spot where, after defeat, you must collect the scattered troops
of the three great armies. That spot is propitious to me.
“I have sent our good Londardo to the Phelatahs. He will bring what
remains of their forces there.
“I mean to live. You are a warrior, Athlah; I am a craftsman: the
resistance to the siege must be under my sole guidance; and, during many
a weary night of sickness, have I revolved every incident that will
probably occur in it. The siege it is that will test their power, and, I
trust, consume their souls.
“The army of the Ramassa, in a few weeks, will be a great army, acting
in concert with me.”
Then Athlah said, “And must I survive defeat, my King?”
“Yes; if you love me, live.”
Then Athlah said, “But I have never turned my back upon the enemy; all
my wounds are in front.”
“What is life or death to a wise man, Athlah? Even the otlocol[28] has
the sense to fly from superior force; but he comes again.
Footnote 28:
The puma, or lion.
“What is life, I say, my Athlah? On balmy days, when the breeze sighs
gently, and all nature is bountiful and loving, I feel the spirit of my
Ainah near me. I would but too gladly join her; but it must not be yet.”
Realmah then arranged what should be his mode of communication with
Athlah, when that chief should have collected all their scattered forces
in the plain to the rear of the great wood.
After Realmah had instructed Athlah fully upon these details, he
embraced him lovingly; and the general then took leave of his king.
* * * * *
Athlah was attended by a splendid body-guard, formed of the flower of
the army. His conduct must have appeared strange to them. After leaving
the King’s tent, he walked with hesitating steps. When he had moved a
little distance, he drove his spear into the ground and leaned against
it, regarding the tent with a fixed look. The chiefs of the Sheviri
thought that he was meditating about the battle that was imminent, and
observing, with the cautious eyes of a commander, the nature of the
ground. But his thoughts were of a very different complexion. The great
French writer, Victor Hugo, in his description of “the last days of a
condemned man,” describes how, while the prisoner was being tried for
his life, he thought neither of his crime nor of his approaching
condemnation, but regarded, with much interest, the movements to and fro
of a little flower that was upon the window-sill of a window in the
court, and was played with by a gentle breeze.
So it was with Athlah. The issue of a great battle depended somewhat
upon his sagacity and his courage, but his mind dwelt only upon the
words of Realmah about the Ainah. “So then,” he said to himself, “it was
that common-looking girl” (to such a man as Athlah she would naturally
appear but common-looking) “who was his only love; and the beautiful
Talora is as a painted picture to him!”
And the chiefs that stood around said to one another, “There is not the
slightest inequality of ground of which the great Athlah will not make
some use in the battle of to-morrow.”
And Athlah removed his spear, and walked on moodily to his watch-fire,
where he lay down to sleep with his guards around him.
* * * * *
The battle did take place on the morrow. The King surveyed it from a
slight eminence on which he was placed. Calmly he saw his chosen legions
fall before the disciplined valour of the enemy. Those who were near him
might have seen some tears course down his suffering countenance. But he
said nothing--not a word. And when the victory was evidently gained by
the men of the North, and when further resistance was manifestly
hopeless, he allowed himself to be conveyed back to Abibah.
He had previously sent twenty of his body-guard, on whom he could
thoroughly rely, to mingle with Athlah’s body-guard, and, by force if
needful, to convey that general (giving it out as an order from the
King) to the plain behind the wood, where, as before said, the Ramassa
curves westward towards the ruined mountain, Bidolo-Vamah, and where
Realmah had listened to his Ainah’s song when she sang--
“My love, he loves many;
Though I love but one.”
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SIEGE.
Immediately after Realmah’s retreat into the town, the causeways were
destroyed, the drawbridges pulled up, and every part of the town finally
prepared for a state of siege.
Before describing this siege it is necessary to give some notion of the
skill of the inhabitants of Abibah in the art of building. This is the
more necessary as it is a fond idea of modern people that they are
pre-eminent in that art; overlooking the masses of falseness,
pretentiousness, and inappropriateness which deform so large a part of
their greatest towns. It would rather astonish them if they could see
again ancient Mexico, Thebes, Memphis, Nineveh, Babylon, and
Cusco[29]--the last perhaps the grandest city that has ever been built
upon this earth.
Footnote 29:
An eye-witness says: “I measured a stone at Tiaguanaco, twenty-eight
feet long, eighteen feet broad, and about six feet thick; but in the
wall of the fortress of Cusco, which is constructed of masonry, there
are many stones of much greater size.” It appears from modern research
that some of these stones were fifty feet long, twenty-two feet broad,
and six feet thick. “Habia entre ellas algunas que tenian cincuenta
piés de largo, veinte y dos de alto, y seis de ancho.”--_Antiguedades
Peruanas_, por Mariano Eduardo de Rivero y Juan Diego de Tschudi, cap.
ix. p. 250.
The construction of these Lake cities was also most remarkable. In the
remains of one of them there are this day to be seen the relics of about
twenty thousand piles. Now the art of pile-driving is a most difficult
one; and those who are skilled in it move from place to place where
their services are wanted. But if we were to say to the inhabitants of
any ordinary English town, “Build us, with all the means and appliances
that are at your command, but without any aid from specially skilled
workmen, a town upon water which shall have for its basis twenty
thousand piles,” we should find, from their difficulties and their
failures, what great mechanical and workmanlike skill would be requisite
for such an undertaking, and should have a just respect for the powers,
the skill, and the perseverance of the men of Abibah.
Five days after the battle of the Ramassa, the enemy commenced the
siege. They naturally commenced it at the southern part of the town,
which was the part nearest to the shore. They had employed the
intervening days in constructing rafts, which they did by tying together
the smaller trees which they had hewn down in the great wood.
A low, long building, devoted to barracks, formed the principal defence
on the southern side of the town. It was, in fact, a long semi-inclosed
balcony, for the most part open at the back, but having in front only
those openings which admitted of missiles being thrown from them.
Realmah’s plan of defence for this building was very singular. He meant
the enemy to take it, and to perish after they had taken it. The whole
of the flooring was to fall into the water, and the enemy with it,
immediately after they had occupied it. But what showed his skill in its
construction and his knowledge of human nature, was, that he had planned
that this falling-in of the flooring should take place in separate
portions, separately. Between the piles there was generally a portion of
the flooring that would enable thirty men to stand upon it and defend
it; and each of these compartments was so constructed that, by the
cutting of a single cord, it would descend into the water.
Realmah knew well that if all the men who were to defend this position
knew that the flooring was suddenly, and perhaps without their
knowledge, to descend into the water, they would be apprehensive of
being left with the enemy and perishing with them. He also knew that if
it depended upon the occupants of any particular compartment, or rather
upon their captain, at what moment the flooring of that compartment
should fall in, the men defending it would fight bravely to the last. To
insure and reward this bravery, he offered a reward of iron swords with
amber handles, to the survivors of that band of thirty men who should
make the stoutest resistance.
The enemy advanced upon their rafts to the attack with great
determination, and with great confidence of success. Their advance was
covered by 3,000 archers, who occupied a small eminence just above the
shore, and whose missiles dealt death to many a brave defender who but
for a moment exposed himself to their deadly shafts. The besieged on
their part were not inactive. Many of the attacking party fell by their
iron-pointed javelins; many more were disabled by the boiling pitch
poured down upon them as they neared the fortress. Still they pressed
on, and swarming up the low building, found entrance here and there. For
fully an hour the attack and the defence were vigorously maintained. The
time would have been much shorter, but that the archers, who formed the
covering party on the hill, were no longer able to give assistance to
their friends, when besiegers and besieged were commingled in the fight.
At length the enemy gained entrance at all points, and then the
stratagem of Realmah had its full effect. The floorings everywhere
descended almost simultaneously, and nothing was to be heard but the
cries of drowning men, shouting helplessly for succour from their
friends, who were cut off from them. Thus ended the first day’s siege,
with a signal failure on the part of the besiegers.
For seventeen days there was no further attack. Realmah was at first
much puzzled at this inaction, but by his spies he soon learnt that a
division of the enemy’s army had gone to attack Abinamanche, the capital
of the Phelatahs.
He readily conjectured that this was done in order to possess themselves
of the fleet of canoes belonging to Abinamanche, and therefore was not
the least surprised when, on the fifteenth and sixteenth days after the
first encounter, he perceived numerous canoes creeping along the shore,
and making their rendezvous not far from the enemy’s head-quarters on
the shore.
On the eighteenth day the siege recommenced. This time it was a much
more formidable attack. It may seem strange, but will be accounted for
hereafter, that Realmah did not bring his own little fleet of canoes
into action, but reserved it for a much more critical occasion.
The enemy, who were skilled warriors, having been accustomed to fight
the men of their own hardy North, had not been idle during these
seventeen days. Besides availing themselves of the fleet of the
Phelatahs, they had constructed three times the number of rafts with
which they had attempted the former attack.
On this second attack they brought no less than 16,000 men into
immediate action.
Realmah was undismayed. He had too long thought of the coming evil to be
unprepared for it.
It is needless to give the almost innumerable details of the attack and
defence on this day. Both sides showed the utmost determination; but, as
the sun descended behind Bidolo-Vamah, that luminary might have seen
that the enemy had made a lodgment in Abibah, and that their troops
occupied the “Street of the Ambassadors,” which ran parallel to the
fortress that had been the point of attack on the first day, and which
communicated with the whole of the southern part of the town by four
other principal streets. Previously to this lodgment being made by the
enemy, Realmah had caused barricades to be formed at the end of these
streets.
For eleven more days no fresh general attack was made by the enemy,
though continual fighting and great slaughter took place at these
barricades.
Meanwhile the valorous Athlah was re-forming his army. Meanwhile the
enemy were constructing more rafts.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE CONDUCT OF THE VARNAH DURING THE SIEGE.
I interrupt the description of the horrors of the siege to tell what
part the Varnah took in it. The present was an occasion on which her
great ability in practical matters shone forth.
She knew her husband’s character intimately. She was, perhaps, the only
person in his wide dominions who had never changed her view of that
character. She liked him because he was very indulgent, and very
reasonable--for a man. Moreover, he was a good listener, and entered
into all her plans for the welfare of the people very heartily.
Spiritual things were not in her domain. She knew that she was not great
in comforting Realmah; and, excellent woman that she was, wished that
the Ainah was alive again for that part of the business. She was the
only person who conjectured how much comfort Realmah had derived from
the Ainah’s sympathy.
The Varnah was one of those women who really have a considerable
disrespect for men. She thought contemptuously of their objects in life.
She knew that Realmah was great amongst men: he was very clever in
managing councils, and settling about treaties and alliances; but she
looked upon all these matters as a kind of amusement for beings who did
not see what is the real object of life--namely, to be thriving and
comfortable.
She was always, however, very deferential, both in public and private,
to her husband, and was greatly vexed that Talora did not see that
similar conduct on her part was an absolute duty. Much as the Varnah
feared Talora’s bitter tongue and cruel temper, she once or twice
plucked up courage to tell her that she did not behave well to the man
who had raised them both to the great position which they occupied.
Her Loftiness was greatly liked by the people. Even her frugality had
endeared her to them. People do not like others the less for having
something to laugh at about them. Her subjects had well known that Her
Loftiness was a very frugal woman, fond of acquisition, very different
from their king; but they forgave her these defects when they found that
she was willing to sacrifice all her treasures for the public good.
On the present occasion she was in the most fitting element for the
display of her gifts and powers. In every place where her presence was
needful she was to be found encouraging, consoling, and proffering aid,
medicaments, and food with a most liberal hand. No one said now that Her
Loftiness was acquisitive or mean; but they felt what true generosity
there may be in a prudence which is only prudent for the sake of others.
Far otherwise was it with Talora. She was ever declaring blame, and
prophesying disaster. Realmah grew so wearied of her depressing
influence that he had her conveyed to the head-quarters of Athlah’s
army, while he kept the Varnah with him, as his first aide-de-camp, and
as the true dear friend to whom he could tell everything, even the worst
that had befallen him.
She had one great merit in his eyes: she never troubled him by wishing
to know what he was doing. Realmah received her as he did one of his
generals, and gave her instructions as if she had been a man.
I have said that the Varnah, when married, was not remarkable for good
looks. But dignity sat well upon her; and whatever beauty and grace she
possessed had been developed by the greatness of her position. Such
simple-minded characters as hers are never deficient in dignity; and
Realmah was thankful that, in this emergency, such a woman had been
vouchsafed to him, as his friend and counsellor, if not his consoler,
who was worthy in so many respects to be the Queen of the Sheviri, and
who proved to be far greater in adversity than in prosperity.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE LAST DAYS OF THE SIEGE.
On the twelfth day after the lodgment was effected, another great attack
was made upon the southern and western quarters of the town.
A few words must here be given in explanation of the way in which Abibah
had been built.
When the first settlers commenced driving their piles, there was, from
some inequality in the nature of the ground at the bottom of the lake, a
curved line about eighteen feet in breadth and about a thousand yards in
length, in which the piles sank hopelessly into soft mud, finding no
footing. This part therefore had been abandoned as foundation, and had
been bridged over by flooring which could easily be removed. It divided
the city in this way: that two-fifths of the city were on the southern
and western side of this sort of covered canal, and three-fifths on the
other side. The canal itself was called “The Way of the Pescaras” (the
largest kind of fish found in those waters). Unfortunately, there was a
bit of the eastern quarter of the town which was in a similar way cut
off from the main part of that eastern quarter by a canal. The enemy
became aware of this fact. That island, if it may be so called, in the
eastern quarter, was mainly occupied by a small fortress.
The attack, on the part of the besiegers, commenced at the rising of the
sun. The number of assailants who were brought into immediate action was
twice as great as that which had been brought into action on the
previous occasion. And, moreover, they had this great advantage, that
their people had gained and maintained a lodgment in the “Street of the
Ambassadors.” From early morning till late evening the battle raged
furiously in the southern and western quarters, and also at that part of
the eastern quarter which I have described.
By the evening all the barricades were forced. The women and children
were hastily removed into the northern and eastern quarters of the town,
where the poor creatures were huddled together in the open spaces.
Where the battle raged most furiously was in the great market-place,
which, for the sake of convenience, as being nearer to the land whence
they drew their supplies, was in the southern part of the town. Here
Realmah himself was present, though not taking much part in the action.
In his mind he compared the attack of the numerous enemy to a flood of
molten lava. The comparison was a just one; for, as in the flow of a
stream of lava it is at the edges of the torrent that there is least
force, while at the middle part it boils up and overflows the edges, so
it was with the attack of the enemy, who pressed over the prostrate
bodies of their own men, and overwhelmed Realmah’s now disheartened
forces.
The shades of evening came on, and found the men of the North in
possession of the two-fifths of the town, bounded by the Pescara Canal;
and also, which was still more alarming, of the fortress in the eastern
quarter of the town. The slaughter on both sides had been immense; and,
alas! many women and children of the town of Abibah had been slain
during this dreadful day. One remarkable incident must be commemorated.
Litervi, that cautious and judicious councillor, had returned from his
mission, and had been placed in command of the eastern fortress. Like
another great man whose fate is commemorated in the story of one of the
greatest sieges that ever took place in the world, Litervi had found
himself alone at the topmost part of the fortress, with all his warriors
slain around him; and, after hurling his massive club (for he was one of
those old-fashioned warriors who could not take to the new weapons) upon
the enemy beneath him, he threw himself down--being resolved to slay at
least one of the enemy by that last missile. This was told to Realmah,
who merely remarked that Litervi was a wise, happy, and good man.
Llama-mah, too, had shown his devotion in a very unexpected manner.
According to the usual theory, Llama-mah, who had been a flatterer in
the days of prosperity, ought to have been a coward and betrayer in the
days of adversity. But men are so strange in their ways that there is no
accounting for them. Llama-mah, at the risk of his own life (for he
received a dangerous wound), had stepped in front of Realmah and saved
the King’s life in the great fight in the market-place; for Llama-mah
really loved the man he had so often flattered and beguiled.
Realmah sat in the great Hall of Audience on the evening of this day’s
disastrous fight. A cordon of his guard kept off the crowd of persons
who came for orders, admitting them one by one. Suddenly a head, which
had been hurled over the canal by the enemy with loud triumphant shouts,
was brought to Realmah. He recognised at once the noble features of
Londardo, who, it appears, had fallen in some skirmish, while leading
the scattered troops of the Phelatahs to the place of rendezvous.
Realmah was much affected by this sight, but did not show what he felt.
He merely observed--“Preserve it for a noble burial when we have
conquered.”
All night long the King received his chieftains, and gave to each man
the orders or the encouragement that he required. There was one thing
that much astonished these chieftains, who were all men of high
rank,--namely, that sundry obscure persons, mere artisans, fishermen,
and iron-workers, were admitted to Realmah’s presence, and had long
audiences of the King.
The first faint dawn of morning, with its cold grey light, began to
appear. Realmah quitted the Hall of Audience and went up to the topmost
story of his uncle’s palace, now his own. Realmah was fond of high
places; and this topmost story, or watch-tower, having an open gallery
round it, was the only addition he had made to that palace.
What a scene was spread before him! Towards the north and west he could
hardly discern any water for the innumerable rafts of the enemy, which
now surrounded those parts of the town. To the extreme east, however,
there was a sight to be seen which gladdened the King’s heart. A large
army of the Sheviri and their allies was posted on the eastern heights
about three miles and a half distant; and, to attack them, numerous
bodies of the enemy’s troops were already beginning to march eastward,
deserting their quarters on the southern shore of the town.
Realmah had ordered that, upon no account, whatever might happen, should
he be disturbed while he remained in this watch-tower. Joyfully he
observed the movement of the enemy’s troops on shore, until the greater
part of them had moved to a position within a mile’s distance of
Athlah’s. He then raised a large green flag, and watched with
satisfaction his little fleet, which he had kept far out of harm’s way
until the present moment (a fleet of arrant cowards, as the enemy called
them), move in good order, round the eastern part of the town, and take
up a position close to the southern quarter of the town, near that part
of the shore which the enemy had abandoned.
Meanwhile he had raised a large red flag which he still kept in his
hand. One half-hour, a time of dreadful suspense, in which Realmah
seemed to himself to live a life, passed away; and then, to his infinite
joy, appeared in twenty or thirty different places in the southern and
western parts of the town, on the further side of the Pescara Canal,
light wreaths of smoke--the prelude to so many great fires.
Realmah’s plan was simple. He had resolved to sacrifice two-fifths of
his town, and by that means to secure victory. His own escape at the
outbreak of the revolution had long given him the groundwork of this
plan. He had caused maps to be carefully made of what we may call the
underground, or rather underfloor, part of his city, and knew to a
nicety those devious paths upon the waters along which small boats could
make their way amongst the piles. Thirty canoes, which had been moored
under his palace, had been destined for this work of incendiarism; and
their men had been furnished with the most inflammable materials.
Realmah had hardly time to descend from his watch-tower and place
himself at the head of his troops before the flames had burst out
furiously in many quarters of that part of the town occupied by the
enemy. They were utterly dismayed by this new and unexpected form of
attack, and before they had time to recover their presence of mind,
Realmah had thrown planks across the Pescara Canal, forming temporary
bridges, and was upon them.
His own people had not thoroughly known Realmah before that day. There
are two lines of Byron’s which well describe what had been, and what
were now, Realmah’s feelings and his mode of action:--
“Then all was stern collectedness and art,
Now rose the unleavened hatred of his heart.”
Thus it is ever with men in whose natures are combined great passion and
great prudence. A hundred times, perhaps, they play with the hilt of
their swords; and the bystander, or opponent, little knows how much they
have longed to draw them, and what restraint they have exercised upon
themselves. But when the time has come, and they do flash forth those
swords, it is with a fury that contains in itself the long-accumulated
passion hitherto oppressed and controlled, but never really annihilated,
by the restraints of prudence.
The King’s feelings were very bitter against the men of the North. To
them he traced all the misfortunes of his life. By reason of them he had
been made a prisoner. For them he had lost his Ainah. To contend with
them, he had left the peaceful paths of life so dear to him, and had
become a king, with all the miseries (for to such a man miseries they
were) of kingly state. Silently he had seen his choicest troops fall
before these barbarians. Silently, and with no outward demonstration of
sorrow, but with tears of the heart, he had seen the poor women and
children of Abibah slaughtered before his eyes; and, at this moment, he
saw a large part of the city he loved so well about to be consumed by
fire, to get rid of these hateful invaders.
The King was that day as one possessed. Danger and Death, as if scared
by such a madman, fled before him. His guards, the most active and
energetic of the young men, toiled after their sickly, careworn,
almost-deformed King, in vain.
The enemy in the city being attacked at once by fire, by the fierce
Realmah, and by the fleet of boats which prevented their escape, and cut
off their retreat, perished nearly to a man. Those on the rafts made at
once for the southern shore, where they joined the main body of the
troops, who, discovering the stratagem that had been devised against
them, quitted their position opposite to Athlah’s camp, and returned to
their old quarters.
There was mourning and lamentation in the enemy’s camp that night. Three
of their greatest chiefs (amongst them it was said the King of the North
himself) had perished in the town.
All night the flames rose higher and higher, and affronted the placid
skies. These flames did not invade that part of the town which lay to
the north and east of the canal; but the rest of the town was completely
consumed. There was not, however, a man amongst the Sheviri so base as
to lament publicly the loss of his own habitation.
Meanwhile Realmah joined Athlah. The next day a great attack was made
upon the position of the men of the North; and their complete defeat
ensued. Hardly a man escaped to tell the tale; but Realmah, naturally
merciful, gave orders for sparing the women and children who had
accompanied the men of the North. These were incorporated into the
nation of the Sheviri, who learnt many of the arts of life from their
captives.
Thus were the men of the North defeated, without the aid of pestilence
and famine; and, for generations, they did not venture again to invade
the now indomitable South. The name of Realmah became a word of terror
with which they scared their fretful children into swift obedience. “And
the land had peace.”
_Ellesmere._ I am not too much devoted to Realmah, but I am glad
that he and the besieged have got the best of it. I am always on the
side of the besieged. I remember becoming quite excited on behalf of
the Dutch when I read Motley’s account of the siege of Antwerp.
_Sir Arthur._ And then, as boys, how we pitied poor Priam, and
longed for Hector to gain the victory. I suppose there is no boy who
has not been against that bully Achilles, and who has not been
anxious to blab to the Trojans about the real contents of that
wooden horse, which seems so stupid a device.
_Lady Ellesmere._ I wonder that the Trojan women did not find it
out. Now Realmah would not have been taken in by such a device, for
he had something of woman’s nature in him, and of woman’s wit.
_Ellesmere._ Say craft. But indeed, my lady, you are talking a great
man’s talk without knowing it. That deep thinker, but not always
perfectly intelligible writer, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, maintained
that all the greatest men have something of the feminine nature in
them.
_Sir Arthur._ One Trojan maiden, Lady Ellesmere, did warn her
people--Cassandra; but nobody believed in her.
“Tunc etiam fatis aperit Cassandra futuris
Ora, dei jussu, non unquam credita Teucris.”
_Lady Ellesmere._ Without translating, gentlemen must not talk
Latin, nor smoke, nor swear, in the presence of ladies.
_Ellesmere._ She thinks now she has been very epigrammatic. Then men
may swear if they translate it? The commonest form of muddlement in
sentences is occasioned by this endeavour to be brief. You apply two
or three nominatives to one verb, or two or three verbs to one
nominative, which do not agree together if you look at them
separately. I am obliged to translate for Lady Ellesmere. What she
did mean was,--that, in the presence of ladies, men must not smoke
without permission: must not swear at all: and must not quote Latin
without translating it.
_Sir Arthur._ Sir John’s conjugal correction of Lady Ellesmere, of
the justice of which I am very dubious,--
_Ellesmere._ Saccharinity again!
_Sir Arthur._ --has given me time to make my translation:--
“For ever disbelieved by Trojan ears,
So willed the god, Cassandra told her fears.”
_Ellesmere._ Such an odd thought struck me while Milverton was
reading.
I recalled to my mind Dr. Johnson’s going about, with his ink-bottle
stuck in his coat, at the sale of Thrale’s brewery, and saying, “We
are not here to sell a parcel of boilers and vats, but the
potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of avarice.”
You do not see how this applies, do you? But I said to myself, We
are not here to listen to the obscure battles of the Sheviri and the
Phelatahs, of the Doolmen or the Koolmen, and their Athlahs, and
Realmahs, and Lockmars (about as interesting, as Milton would have
said, as the battles of kites and crows); but we are listening to
the political notions of a man who is contemplating the present
state of Europe and America.
What he means I do not know for certain, but I have ideas.
_Sir Arthur._ And so have I.
_Ellesmere._ But I shall not declare my ideas, because Milverton
will be sure to say they are not the right ones.
_Cranmer._ I am sure I do not see what is meant.
_Ellesmere._ Perhaps not; I only said I had ideas. They are not
taxable things, Cranmer, and you cannot prevent my having them. They
won’t hurt you, Cranmer.
_Mauleverer._ I see nothing more in it than this, which I believe I
knew before, without the aid of the ingenious Milverton, that men
had always had plenty of tyrants and oppressors among them, and
that, a few times in the world’s history, these tyrants and
oppressors had been beaten back.
But the Northmen will come again, and then there will be no Realmah
to resist them.
_Ellesmere._ I know all about it. I know the nation which eventually
conquered the Lake cities: and, what is of more importance, I know
how the nation attained to its greatness.
To make the rest of Sir John’s discourse intelligible, I must give a
little explanation. Sir John is a man who indulges in very few theories.
He chiefly employs himself in demolishing the theories of other people;
but one theory he has, and holds to very strongly, viz. that grey-eyed
people are much cleverer, wiser, and better than the black-eyed or the
blue-eyed. It was pointed out to him that Lady Ellesmere has grey eyes,
and we knew that he would never admit in public that she had any
especial merit. He merely said that this was the one exception which did
not “prove the rule,” as foolish people say, but which confirmed the
statement that there is an exception to almost every rule, however well
founded.
_Ellesmere._ The nation in question was the nation of the Gogoes. A
Gogoe of more intelligence than his neighbours put forth the theory
that all the blue-eyed female children under three years of age
should be made into mince-meat. This theory found favour among many
ingenious and thoughtful people. There was soon a mince-meat
society, then a mince-meat newspaper.
The question then entered into the domain of politics. The Gogoes
were chiefly governed by two great councils. The most potent council
was that which sat in the Hall of Echoes, and was an elected body.
The other council consisted of the stoutest men of the community,
and was an assemblage of Mauleverers, but chiefly of a jolly nature.
The mince-meat question was taken up by an important party in the
first-named council. They were never able, however, to make it the
law of the land.
You can easily imagine what an excellent subject it was for
debate--how much there was to be said on both sides of the question.
Eventually the anti-mince-meat party came into power.
Here I am going to say something so profound, and yet so simple, as
regards politics, that if people were allowed to carry round a hat,
and to receive subscriptions when they had said anything good, I
should, of course, receive much largesse from this liberal company.
It is this. You suppose that the mince-meat party fell from power
for some great political reason. Those are the kind of reasons that
historical people, like Milverton, endeavour to impose upon us, to
account for great political changes; whereas I am a practical man,
and I know better. The party fell because people were tired of it.
You think that it is only Aristides of whom his neighbours were
tired. But I tell you that Julius Cæsar, Sejanus, Thomas à Becket,
Cardinal Wolsey, Thomas Cromwell, and a host of others, fell--simply
because the principal people concerned with them were tired of them.
You are fond, Milverton, of quoting that saying of Talleyrand, “that
he was avid of facts.” I say that “all men are avid of change.” Why,
men become tired even of themselves, and of their position, however
powerful! And thus it was that the mince-meat party in the Gogoe
Hall of Echoes fell.
Meanwhile public opinion amongst the Gogoes had been pronounced more
and more in favour of the mince-meat question. What did the party
newly in power do? They were always for large measures, if they were
for any measures at all. Largeness was their forte. They proposed
that the black-eyed portion of the young maidens should undergo the
same fate as that which had been proposed for the blue-eyed.
The original mince-meat party was astounded; but what could they say
or do? Their arguments against the blue-eyed were found to have
equal force against the black-eyed, and the large measure passed
unanimously.
From that time forward the Gogoes became a great nation. They were
not so much “blessed”--or shall we say “bored?”--by an affluence of
women, as the surrounding nations were; but all their women, whether
won by conquest of neighbouring nations, or born in their own
territory, were grey-eyed, which became the fashionable colour. It
was the Gogoes, as far as my historical researches have gone, who
devastated Europe, and conquered the Lake Cities, and to this day
their grey-eyed descendants are ruling men wherever they are to be
found.
The original country of the Gogoes (this will be a Milvertonian
touch) is where the great river Niebelungen curves round the base of
the great mountain Oltivago, and falls into the Lake of Palmah,
which was then the central part of Europe. I flatter myself that
that is equally precise and descriptive, and conveys to you the idea
of a territory which can easily be recognised in the present day.
We all laughed very much at the droll way in which Sir John had
illustrated his favourite theory, and had combined it with a satirical
view of modern politics. Afterwards there was no more conversation, and
we went our separate ways.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIII.
My master, Mr. Milverton, has a great dislike to taking a walk. He can
be energetic enough if there is anything to be seen, or done; but
walking for walking’s sake is odious to him. When the others were going
for a walk, he would accompany them across the little bit of flat
garden, and even to the entrance of a paddock: but there he would take
leave of them, unless there were some remarkable clouds to be seen which
could be observed better in the open space of the paddock. Beyond the
confines of the paddock I hardly ever knew him favour anybody with his
company.
I mention this trifling circumstance because it occasionally prevented
me from reporting conversations which I should like to have reported.
Mr. Milverton always viewed with pity anybody who went for a long walk.
He would say, “Ellesmere has gone for a long walk upon the Downs to-day,
poor fellow!” And I really believe he did pity Sir John upon such an
occasion, though Sir John himself immensely enjoyed getting rid of some
of his superfluous energy by a walk of ten or twelve miles.
Upon the present occasion they had all gone for a long walk, except Mr.
and Mrs. Milverton and myself. We stayed at home and worked at
“Realmah.”
On their return, they all came rushing into our study, boasting of the
immense walk they had taken, with a kind of insolence, as if they had
done something wonderful; and calling us “muffs” for having stayed at
home all day.
I will now report the conversation which followed:--
_Ellesmere._ Ah! Master Leonard, we have had such brilliant talk
during our excursion. I would have given anything for you to have
been with us. After discussing almost all human affairs with a
degree of wisdom which is only known to stalwart walkers, we came to
a question which would have delighted you. It was, Given a
benevolent fairy (I have never myself held a brief for any such
party, but Sir Arthur is sure that there are such parties), and
given that the said fairy offered to each of us the absolute
fulfilment of any wish we might please to make, what should we wish
for? Now you know you would have been in your element in such a
conversation. You must not suppose for a moment that this was the
ordinary benevolent-fairy business. I limited their wishes in this
way--that they must wish for something, not for themselves, but for
the good of the world, and that the something in question must not
be foolishly wide and conclusive, such as “I wish that everybody may
be happy and good;” in short, they were to wish for means, not ends.
Moreover--and this was the best part of my limitation, as it knocked
off all such things as invisible coats, and ten-leagued boots, and
swords of all-powerful sharpness that would make their way even to
the brains of bores in Parliament--that the thing wished for must be
an increase of something which is in existence.
I need hardly tell you what they all wished for. Mr. Cranmer, of
course, wished that the benevolent fairy would endow him with an
insight into the depths of political economy, and especially favour
him with its views about the Bank Charter Act, in order that he
might make the world happy by his next speech upon that subject in
the ensuing session of Parliament.
Sir Arthur, of course, wished that the benevolent fairy would
impress upon mankind his notions of the beautiful. He thought that
an increased perception of beauty in nature and in art would add
immensely to human happiness.
Mr. Mauleverer wished that the _benevolent_ fairy would have the
goodness to inform mankind thoroughly and completely what a
miserable set of wretches they are. They would not then follow after
all manner of foolish schemes of happiness, which only lead to
disappointment.
Lady Ellesmere expressed a wish that the benevolent fairy would
instruct mankind as to the wonderful qualities and merits of her son
Johnny. His future success in the world would be the best means she
knew of for insuring happiness to mankind.
_Cranmer._ There are very few grains of truth, we need hardly tell
you, Milverton, in all he has said.
_Ellesmere._ I disregard their vain assertions. You know as well as
I do, Milverton, that these were their secret thoughts, even if they
pretended to wish for others.
Now, what do you say?
_Milverton._ Well, if I must make a choice, I should say this:
Please, benevolent fairy, grant that there should be more love in
the world.
_Ellesmere._ This is vague. These philosophers are always vague.
What do you mean by love?
_Milverton._ You know very well what I mean--that charity, as
described by St. Paul, should prevail to the extent which that great
Apostle himself desired.
_Ellesmere._ Well, Master Sandy, and what do you say?
_Johnson._ Well, I say, Let intellect prevail: let the great
thinkers among mankind be able to impress their views upon the rest.
_Ellesmere._ This, now, is also somewhat vague. Like master, like
man! The thinkers differ amongst themselves. My dear Sandy, you must
be more precise. You know very well what you mean--namely, that what
Milverton dictates and you write should govern the whole of the
habitable globe.
_Johnson._ I do, Sir John.
_Ellesmere._ That is an honest boy. Have you nothing especial to say
about Scotland?
_Johnson._ No; I will be quite content with the wish I have
expressed.
_Ellesmere._ Now, Mrs. Milverton, it is your turn to have a wish.
Shall we wish that Milverton shall be made Lord Milverton? Shall we
wish that little Leonard shall cut all his teeth without suffering,
and shall become one of the wisest of mankind?
_Mrs. Milverton._ I will not have words thrust into my mouth. I am
not going to say anything that Sir John Ellesmere chooses that I
should say. My wish is of a totally different kind. I wish that all
mankind should see the beauty of what Goethe calls Renunciation.
_Milverton._ Bravo, my dear! I believe that you have mentioned _the_
thing which would tend most to raise mankind into a higher
atmosphere of being.
_Mrs. Milverton._ This is not my own idea; but what, in his most
serious mood, I have heard Leonard dilate upon.
_Ellesmere._ You see, Lady Ellesmere, what it is to follow out your
husband’s views. If you had only said that your wish was that there
should be an affluence of good and good-natured criticism--in fact,
that there should be a _Saturday Review_ for every day in the
week--what _kudos_ you would have gained from this worshipful
company!
Now then, Sir Arthur, and Mr. Cranmer, and Mr. Mauleverer, and Lady
Ellesmere, if I have not represented you all truly, say your say.
_Mauleverer._ I say, Let the earth produce more corn, and with less
trouble.
_Sir Arthur._ I say, Let the distinction of nations, or rather of
races, cease to have such effect as they have had in latter days.
_Ellesmere._ You forget, Sir Arthur: you must ask for something
more, not something less.
_Sir Arthur._ Well, then, let there be more cosmopolitan good
feeling.
_Lady Ellesmere._ What I wish is this: That the feeling for pain
(physical pain, if you please to put it so) should be so predominant
throughout mankind, that no one should knowingly do anything which
should increase the physical pain of man, woman, animal, fish, or
insect.
Here the ladies rose and left us.
_Ellesmere._ I declare the women have been very clever to-day. It
was very sharp of Mrs. Milverton “going in,” as the slang phrase is,
for “Renunciation;” and for my wife trying to do away with all pain
that is caused by our recklessness of physical sufferings. Of
course, she does not see the full extent of her views, and that all
war would be put an end to, if her benevolent fairy granted her the
wish that she seeks for. But now, Cranmer, you protested against my
representation of your opinions. What do you wish the fairy to grant
you?
_Cranmer._ That representative government should be brought to
perfection, and should prevail everywhere.
_Ellesmere._ I declare you are all very unkind to me: you have never
seriously asked what I wish for.
_Sir Arthur._ Pray tell us. We are sure that it will be something
quite out of the common way.
_Ellesmere._ No; I believe what I should ask would be the greatest
boon that could be demanded for mankind. I only ask this simple,
trifling thing--that good reasoning should have its exact weight
with mankind.
Now all of you think that this is a small, poor, inadequate wish;
but you may depend upon it, it beats all of yours out of the field.
Give me one thousand millions of mankind (that is the present number
on the earth, is it not, Cranmer?) reasoning accurately upon the
arguments brought before them, and I, for my part, do not wish any
more.
I hate to “talk shop,” as it is called; but if you will give me the
present Lord Chancellor, that good, just, and honest man, Lord----,
to decide upon all questions for the world, I shall be perfectly
satisfied. And if my wish were granted, every man would be as good
an appreciator of arguments as Lord----.
_Sir Arthur._ So, you would remit all earthly and heavenly questions
to the Court of Chancery.
_Ellesmere._ I would; and you will never have a tribunal so
competent to decide upon them. We don’t look at popular opinion, or
at aristocratic opinion, or at philosophic opinion, or at
unphilosophic opinion; we decide upon the exact matters brought
before us; and I do say, however much it might horrify you, that if
you would only have the humility to submit any great question to the
judicial authorities of this kingdom, it would be well decided.
_Milverton._ What, the highest abstract questions?
_Ellesmere._ Yes. We--I am speaking for the great lights of the
Bench--are equal to decide any earthly question brought before us.
We have ascertained what justice means. We are really impartial. I
believe that in England there is more of the judicial faculty
developed than in any other nation. Newspapers, what you are pleased
to call public opinion, political considerations of all kinds,
personal considerations of all kinds, weigh not with us. We shall
simply (I am speaking for our great judges) give its due weight
exactly to what is brought before us to decide upon.
I must admit that Sandy and I seem to have somewhat of the same
idea. There is, however, this distinction.--He says, Let great
intellect prevail; I say, Let good reasoning prevail. According to
his system there would be endless contention; whereas, according to
mine, there would be clear judicial decision and precise action
consequent thereupon.
The company then rose.
_Mauleverer._ Stay. I must say something more. You have all taken
this matter more seriously than I expected, and I desire to recall
my former wish. I should ask for more knowledge.
It has become the fashion in this house of late, to express one’s
ideas after the mode of the Sheviri, by fables or apologues. Now I
wish you to listen very patiently to a little story of mine.
Once upon a time there was an island (I observe most of your stories
relate to islands), the unfortunate inhabitants of which were
molested in this way:--An invisible fiend, supposed to rise from the
ground, would lay hold of one of these inhabitants and give him a
sound beating, making every bone to ache. The fiend would repeat
this chastisement at regular intervals, say every two, three, or
four days, at the same hour of the day. At last any poor man who was
so persecuted would tremble and shiver all over when the time for
his punishment came. But if this poor man had but known (see the
advantage of knowledge) one or two simple things, he could have
defied his enemy.
The first was a salve which, when applied to the eyes, rendered the
foul fiend perfectly visible. Now this fiend was a slow, dull, heavy
fiend.----
_Ellesmere_. Slow, dull, heavy, and punctual, therefore a good fiend
of business, as we say a good man of business, Cranmer.
_Mauleverer_.----and never could mount higher than thirty feet.[30]
Consequently if the man went up a ladder thirty feet high, he could
laugh at the dull fiend, and defy him.
Footnote 30:
See an excellent paper on this subject in a recent number of _All
the Year Round_.
But more than this, there was a good natured wood-sprite, a dryad,
who would walk hand-in-hand with any of the poor men of the island,
and would carry him safely through any of the fastnesses of the foul
fiend. Unfortunately, however, for thousands of years, neither the
eye-salve, nor the habitation of the wood-sprite, who by the way
lived some six thousand miles off, though he would come at a
minute’s notice, were known to the inhabitants of the island.
_Cranmer_. I have not the least idea what you mean. I wish all of
you would talk more plainly. You despise blue books, but really they
are much more intelligible than you are with your pink and blue
“sleep,” and with your Spoolans, and foul fiends and wood-sprites.
_Mauleverer_. To come down then to a blue book, the foul fiend is
the ague. The eye-salve is the microscope, which has shown us
exactly the limits of the ague spore. The wood-sprite is Jesuit’s
bark or quinine.
Now I beg to ask you, Milverton, whether your “love,” or Mrs.
Milverton’s “renunciation;” or, Mr. Johnson, your “thinking;” or,
Ellesmere, your “reasoning,” would ever have found out a remedy for
the ague? No: you must all admit that I should ask the fairy for the
right thing, merely, more knowledge.
I hope too, you all observe, that the instance I have given shows
the exceeding misery of man, and how much too small he is for his
place, that he should go on suffering all this misery for thousands
of years when a little knowledge would have raised him above it.
Depend upon it the present generation is suffering in an exactly
similar way from many such evils, moral, intellectual, and physical,
which a little more knowledge would dispel.
No one made any reply, and the company then separated.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIV.
I was telling Mr. Milverton the interest I had felt in the conversation
of yesterday about the choice of gifts from the benevolent fairy.
“Well,” he said, “if you like this kind of fanciful discussion, we will
have another. What shall we choose? I think it would call out all
Ellesmere’s comicalities, if we were to ask what he would do if his life
were to be prolonged to the length of those of the patriarchs.”
When two people have resolved that a conversation shall come to a
particular point, they can always manage to effect their object.
Accordingly, when we next met, Mr. Milverton and myself soon contrived
to place the question before Sir John Ellesmere in the manner that we
had proposed, and the conversation proceeded thus:--
_Ellesmere._ I am to have a 900 years’ life. Let me see, what age
did I convince you all the other day that I was? I think
thirty-seven. Well, then, in the first place, I decline to live 863
years with Lady Ellesmere. You know, my dear, you are a most
agreeable woman; but in the course of a few hundred years, always
struggling, as you do, for mastery, you would be sure to gain
complete power over me, and I object to being such a slave as you
would then make of me.
_Lady Ellesmere._ There was nothing said, John, about my having the
same term of life as yours. No person, even in imagination, could be
so cruel as to make a poor woman live for hundreds of years with
you.
_Sir Arthur._ Pray let these interesting conjugal remarks cease; and
let us hear what you would aim at, Ellesmere, if you had before you
this great length of life.
_Ellesmere._ I have no objection to tell you. But you must not fancy
that everything I say is a joke. I do not like being always the
funny man of the company. If I say something which I really mean,
but which does not happen to fit in with your small notions of
wisdom and propriety, you laugh your silly laughs, and have not the
slightest faith in the earnestness of what I say.
_Cranmer._ We will believe in you, Sir John, as much as we possibly
can.
_Milverton._ Now then, Ellesmere, proceed.
_Ellesmere._ In the first place, I would abolish the penny post.
_Milverton._ That we knew before.
_Ellesmere._ In the next place I would disinvent telegraphic
communication.
_Milverton._ Good. That we knew too.
_Ellesmere._ When I say I would do this thing, or that thing, you
must readily see that I should have the power to do it, because,
outliving the rest of mankind, I should get the whip-hand of the
whole nation. My experience would prevail over theirs, and I should
be universally listened to and respected.
I should abolish bells, and so win Sir Arthur’s heart. I mean
out-of-door bells. I never met with any sensible person who liked
these noises.
_Milverton._ True: but really, Ellesmere, what small things you are
proposing.
_Ellesmere._ Well, I will come to much greater, then. I would set my
face against the growth of great cities. People laugh at James the
First, and think him a pedant and a fool; but I have always thought
him very wise in his strong objection to the increase of London. If
you allow cities to increase in this way, you ultimately get them so
big that it is impossible to have fresh air. I am as serious as I
ever was in my life, when I say that the perpetual and rapid
increase of London is a grief to me.
_Milverton._ I quite agree with you.
_Ellesmere._ Well, then, I would build a house--a model house. I
really think that a great many of the evils that afflict mankind are
to be traced to the badness of habitations. I do not bother myself
with what your sanitary reformers say about things; but I can see
that nine-tenths of your difficulties would vanish if good houses
and cottages were built.
_Cranmer._ But what do you mean by a good house?
_Ellesmere._ Well, if you must know, I mean, in the first place, a
washable house--washable thoroughly, inside and outside. Building,
as I should, for 800 years, I should resolve to be free from
paperers and painters and plasterers, and, in short, from repairers
of all kinds.
_Sir Arthur._ But, Ellesmere, as Milverton says, you have hitherto
mentioned such trivial things--mere mint and cummin.
_Ellesmere._ I would reform dress. Is that a small thing?
Again: I would establish recreation--such recreation as has never
hitherto been thought of. There should be no town, however small,
which should not have its appointed place for recreation--for
indoors and out-of-doors recreations. In every town--yes, almost in
every village--there is musical talent enough to form the delight of
the population if it were well developed.
_Milverton._ I really think that Ellesmere is upon the right tack
now.
_Ellesmere._ I would also provide medical aid and service for almost
every centre of population, however small.
By the way, I would certainly set up an Ædile.
_Mrs. Milverton._ I am very ignorant, but I do not know what an
Ædile is. I suppose it is a person, not a thing. And if it is a
person, what duties has he to perform?
_Ellesmere._ It is said that the late Bishop of London being asked
by some inquisitive foreigner (what a nuisance it is when people are
always wanting information) what an English Archdeacon had to do,
judiciously replied, “Oh, an Archdeacon is a person who performs
Archidiaconal duties.” So I say an Ædile was a person who performed
Ædilian duties. Seriously, I am afraid, in the presence of these
learned men, to undertake to give a full account of an Ædile’s
duties. I may say briefly that he was the arch-putter-down of
nuisances. If there was such an officer now--mark you, he was a very
powerful man--I should not be plagued with street cries, with the
howling of my neighbour’s dog, with unwholesome odours of all kinds;
and it would be his business to see that I was generally made
comfortable. Only tell him that you suspected that your goods were
dealt out to you with false weights and measures, and he would soon
settle that matter for you. No Boards, nor Commissioners, nor people
of that kind to consult, and to receive dreary official letters
from; but you would have a swiftly-perambulating Lord Mayor with
plenary authority. London would require a good many Ædiles.
_Cranmer._ Would you abolish lawyers?
_Ellesmere._ This is a very painful question; but I think I would.
In the course of 800 years, using the legal talents of each
generation, I should be able to arrange and codify the law; and then
I would only have public notaries.
_Sir Arthur._ What about war?
_Ellesmere._ Here I should shine. Here would come in that practical
good sense of which I possess so large a share. We are such a set of
foolish, quarrelsome little beasts, and we derive so much pleasure
from hearing about sieges and battles, and knowing of the miseries
of our fellow-creatures, that I should not endeavour to abolish war
altogether. But what I should do is this. I should reduce the
European armies in the following proportion. I should allow them one
man for each thousand that they now possess. France, for instance,
should have 700 soldiers; Austria, about the same number; Prussia,
600; England, 450; Russia, 800; and the United States, 900.[31] The
great naval powers should be allowed a ship apiece, and one or two
gun-boats. These little armies and navies should go about fighting
away like fun, and undertaking what would then be thought great
battles and sieges. The newspapers would still be well fed with
interesting events; and taxation for war purposes would be
insignificant. I should have outside the great cities little model
cities, which should represent them for warlike purposes--a neat
little Paris outside Paris: and I should scatter some squalidity in
the way of building about Wimbledon Common, and call it in military
despatches, London.
Footnote 31:
It must be remembered that this conversation took place some time
ago.
Again, another reform I should institute of the utmost magnitude is
this: I should abolish after-dinner speeches.
_Sir Arthur._ The world would be grateful to you for that.
_Ellesmere._ Then I should bring my enormous power and experience to
bear upon all literature. I should reduce three-volume novels to
one.
_Cranmer._ But about the newspaper press? What should you do with
that?
_Ellesmere._ For the sake of freedom, I should allow one article in
each newspaper to be published without signature. To all the others
I should require signature. I should make the newspapers into an
octavo shape, with the leaves cut.
_Johnson._ What about the Church?
_Ellesmere._ I should forbid any one to preach a sermon more than
once in three weeks. I would make sermons, instead of being
nuisances, things to which the congregation would look forward with
expectation, and listen with delight.
_Mauleverer._ What about education?
_Ellesmere._ Oh, in that matter I would institute reforms that would
astound you. I would organize bands of well-instructed persons who
should go about the country and teach everybody everything; and not
merely teach in the ordinary way, but exemplify.
_Cranmer._ And this is your practical man, who laughs at theorists
and enthusiasts!
_Ellesmere._ Recollect I have 800 years and more to work in. I
should be able to organize a system which, if it were well
developed, would far surpass the present. I would have people who
could teach the rudiments of the best arts in life--who could
instruct in cookery, in natural history--in the properties of earth,
air, and water. I know what is to be said in respect of the
shallowness that may result from mere lecturing; but, on the other
hand, I have observed how greatly those people are enlightened,
elevated, and instructed, who have had only what is called a
smattering of knowledge, derived from judicious lectures. And then,
look at this. There is a genius in some remote place or obscure
position--one of those people described in Gray’s Elegy,--
“Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear,”--
and the good seed of instruction falls upon his or her mind; and
then we have an inventor. The consideration of Newton’s life has
always weighed much with me. It has been a great blessing to mankind
that that wonderful man was not a labourer’s child. Being a farmer’s
son, he got the _rudiments_ of education, and upon that small
platform what a building did he not erect! I mean my peasants’
children to have, at least, all the advantages that Newton had.
_Sir Arthur._ I declare, Sir John, you are becoming quite eloquent.
_Ellesmere._ Oh! I should mainly rely upon education. That is the
chief fulcrum upon which we could raise society.
_Cranmer._ What about political economy?
_Ellesmere._ Don’t be unhappy, Cranmer. In the course of 800
years--about the 781st--I would settle the Bank Charter Act, and
there should be no more of these absurd panics.
_Milverton._ What about government?
_Ellesmere._ I would in this respect institute reforms of which you
are now only dreaming. Do you think I would be plagued to death with
distant peoples’ affairs? Not I. Do you think, as Sydney Smith says,
I would have upon every bare rock, where a cormorant can hardly get
its living, a Governor, and a Bishop, and an Attorney-General? Not
but what the last-named officer would be useful anywhere; but still
we must do without even him when we cannot afford to have him.
_Milverton._ I beg you all especially to remember what Ellesmere has
just now said.
_Ellesmere._ Then, as to home government; I would abolish bribery
and suppress bores in the House of Commons.
A man should prove to me that he knew something about government
before he should govern; and not even Milverton himself, with all
his schemes, should educe a more comprehensive form of official
government than I, in my 800 years, would strive to create. You do
not think I would have a Lord Privy Seal, do you, when the Privy
Seal had ceased to be an entity of any importance?
_Cranmer._ What about the House of Lords?
_Ellesmere._ I would certainly make my House of Lords a senate
consisting of the wisest and ablest men who had filled public
functions, and also consisting of those men who, from their
education, their health--or rather, their want of health--and their
peculiar nature, were not especially fit to solicit popular
suffrages, but were justly fitted to become members of a legislative
assembly.
_Milverton._ What would you do about the poor?
_Ellesmere._ Well, I feel that the labouring poor have an immense
claim upon us. I would render smooth and happy their lives in their
latter days. I believe that we could well afford to do so, and that
these poor people have the greatest claim upon us. If a man or woman
has worked, we will say, for fifty or sixty years, in the production
of the fruits of the earth for us, we are bound, I think, to render
happy, as far as we can, the last years of this poor person’s life.
_Sir Arthur._ I must still say, Sir John, that your inventive genius
does not take great flights. You would crush the penny post,
disinvent--I think that was the word--the telegraph, build a house,
abolish bell-ringing, and send round lecturers, who--if I make out
right--were chiefly to be good cooks, improve the House of Lords,
and a few other little transactions of that kind. But the human
mind----
_Ellesmere._ Wait a bit, Sir Arthur. I am going to take the human
mind, or rather the human soul, in hand presently. You may depend
upon it, however, that the human body needs our first attention. How
can a man be virtuous in a smoky house, listening to the noise of
those detestable bells, startled by the penny postman’s rap,
delivering bills all the day, and being threatened by those alarming
telegraph envelopes?
But now for the human mind. I shall put down jealousy. I do not mean
man-and-woman jealousy; but all that misery which arises from
sensitive people being afraid that they are not liked enough, that
they are not made enough of, that they are neglected, that somebody
is foolish enough to prefer somebody else to them.
_Milverton._ Your 863 years will be full of work, I see.
_Ellesmere._ I am discontented with that word jealousy. Give me
another word, Milverton.
_Milverton._ Claimfulness?
_Ellesmere._ Not a bad idea; but the word is an ugly word, and will
not do.
_Milverton._ Claimativeness, then?
_Ellesmere._ That is better.
Now the reason that Milverton and I have been such good friends from
boyhood upwards is, that we are both so free from jealousy, or, to
use his own word, claimativeness.
This is no merit on his part; but a great one on mine. Of course
Milverton has great faults in my eyes. He always likes everybody. He
has fewer dislikes than any man I ever met with. Whereas I own to
having a good many hearty dislikes--and he never partakes them with
me. I might have been jealous or claimative a thousand times, seeing
him take to people whom I cannot endure, and whom I might fancy he
prefers to me.
You come and complain to him that So-and-So is a horrid bore, and
Milverton replies:--“Well, but he has built a great many cottages on
his estate,”--or “he is very kind to his three maiden aunts,”--or
“he is very great in Byzantine literature,”--or “his views upon the
digamma are sound,”--or “he is a great natural historian,
supereminent in moths,”--or “he knows which are the edible fungi;
and the poor would gain so much if the right fungi were brought into
fashion.”
Well, I distrust fungi: I do not care much for moths, they are sure
to worry one by burning themselves in the candle as a poor clergyman
is to invest his savings in Poyais Bonds or any other destructive
security. I loathe the digamma, which I believe to have been a thing
invented by schoolmasters to plague mankind, or rather boykind. I am
not attracted by the three maiden aunts, and I am not going to live
in So-and-So’s cottages; but I know that So-and-So is an egregious
bore, and I might naturally be jealous of Milverton’s making so much
of this man.
I am really so free from jealousy or claimativeness, that if I were
to find that Milverton had invited a very agreeable party to Worth
Ashton, and I was not asked, I should not feel that I was neglected;
but should conclude at once that there was good reason for my not
being asked--that the digamma man was to be there, and it was
thought that I should speak irreverently of the digamma, or that
there was scarlatina in the village, and that no risk was to be run
for dear little Johnny. In a word, I should firmly believe that
Milverton would long to have me with him; but could not manage it. I
should not be in the least claimative. Indeed the more I consider
myself, which I seldom have time to do sufficiently, the more I
perceive that I am really a very great man (though Lady Ellesmere
does not think so); and in the course of these 863 years I should
make other people as great as myself.
_Mr. Cranmer._ But how is this to be done, Sir John?
_Ellesmere._ Why, man, I should direct all literature and all
education, and all sermonizing; and I should have claimativeness
written, talked, educated, and sermonized down.
_Sir Arthur._ Does it ever enter into your imagination, Sir John,
that this claimativeness, which you inveigh against, proceeds from
modesty?
_Ellesmere._ I hate modesty.
_Lady Ellesmere._ No wonder.
_Milverton._ But, seriously, my dear fellow, do consider that you
have always been a successful man; that you have good health; that
your enemies would say--not that I say it--that you have a little
touch of hardness in your character; and that, perhaps, you do not
make sufficient allowance for humble, timid, sensitive people, who
are naturally prone to think they are neglected.
_Ellesmere._ It is all selfishness or immoderate self-esteem. That,
too, is the cause of shyness. I am not shy.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Oh yes, you are, John. I do not know anybody who
is more shy when he is in the company of those who do not sympathise
with him, or understand him.
_Ellesmere._ Well, in the course of the 863 years I will get rid of
shyness, and modesty, and claimativeness, and all my other vices--if
I have any; and I will become a great man, and will bring all other
people up to my level.
_Sir Arthur._ You are gradually to rule all literature. You kindly
intimated to us that you would reduce all three-volume novels to
one. How is this to be done?
_Ellesmere._ I am an outrageous and immoderate reader of fiction. I
admire, as I have told you, the writers of fiction amazingly; but I
have great faults to find with them, especially with their
incidents.
Now, there is dear old Sandy there. He is just the sort of quiet,
observant fellow to be mapping all our characters down, and forming
us into a novel. I will address him as if he were an arch-novel
writer, and will give him such a lecture as will make him the first
novel-writer of his time.
_Johnson._ Pray, do, Sir John, for then my fortune is made.
_Ellesmere._ Now, Sandy, you are the arch-novel writer, and I am the
hero of the novel.
In the first place I decline to go to a picnic party. You
novel-writers always make something very important occur at a
picnic, whereas in real life I have never found anything important
occur, except that the earwigs are mixed up with the salt. I will
not go to a picnic.
_Johnson._ Yes, sir.
_Ellesmere._ I will not be upset from a boat. No sooner do I read in
any novel that there is a river, or a lake, near the principal
house, than I know that I, the hero, am to be upset from a boat.
Matilda and Louisa are to be with me. Matilda I really love, Louisa
I am engaged to. In rescuing these two dear creatures I am to throw
Louisa carelessly into the bottom of the boat, while I am to support
Matilda in my arms, and to whisper to her (loud enough to be heard
by Louisa), “Matilda, dearest, open your eyes once more, and gaze
upon your beloved Augustus.” I object, in this damp fashion, to be
brought to betray my affections and to lengthen out the second
volume. Do you hear, Mr. Novel-writer?
_Johnson._ I do, Mr. Hero. You shall not be upset from a boat.
_Ellesmere._ Thank you. Well then, sir, I decline, after having
enjoyed my property for twenty years, to have a will of my
great-uncle’s discovered in an old book, which should dispossess me
of the property, and make me liable for the back rents received
during those twenty years.
_Johnson._ The great-uncle’s will shall not be found, Sir John.
_Ellesmere._ Thank you. Again, I do not wish my uncle in India, Mr.
Currie Pudder, to have made a fortune and to leave it to me exactly
at the right moment. I can do without my uncle.
_Sir Arthur._ There are few people who can.
_Johnson._ I must not be rash. I cannot promise you, Sir John, that
you are not to have Mr. Currie Pudder as your rich uncle in India;
and if you please, I must kill him when I choose, and not when it is
perfectly convenient to you.
_Ellesmere._ Very good. There is one comfort, Master Sandy, that
_you_ are not going to live for 863 years.
I am now going to impress upon Mr. Novel-writer one of my strongest
objections to his usual mode of proceeding. I have declined many
pleasant things; and now I decline to be made successful in any
calling or profession upon having merely distinguished myself upon
one occasion. In your novel, Johnson, if I, the hero, make a speech,
as a lawyer or a politician, produce a remarkable sermon as a
clergyman, cure one difficult case as a doctor--all of a sudden,
honours, dignities, and riches pour in upon me like a flood, and
Matilda’s father withdraws all his objections. If I am a poet, and
write a sonnet; if I am a prose-writer, and write an essay; the
great publishers all at once besiege my doors--that is, in the
novel, for in real life I never experienced anything of the kind. My
early sonnets were laughed at, and my first speeches were said to be
“very well for a young man;” but Pump Court was not inundated by
attorneys’ clerks inquiring the way to Mr. Ellesmere’s chambers.
The truth is, the world is very hard, and yet a somewhat elastic
substance; and you have to hit it many consecutive blows, and to
keep on hitting it, before you produce any such impression as will
create for you a serviceable reputation.
Why, in a novel I have known Mr. Hero rise suddenly from being a
private secretary to being a Cabinet Minister; but nothing like this
happens in real life. When you see a successful man, you generally
find him middle-aged, slightly bald, very haggard-looking, and
generally with dints in his face which show how much he has endured
and laboured. He is a much battered-about individual, and not at all
like the young man who rejoices in Matilda’s love, and who has
suddenly, at one bound, prevailed over adverse fates, and conquered
fortune.
Now, without any joking, it is a very mischievous thing to
misrepresent life as novelists often do in this respect, and so to
indicate that success is to be attained by anything but hard, long,
and continuous effort.
Mr. Novel-writer, I would rather you would overwhelm me with rich
uncles, or make me pick up treasure in Oxford Street, than delude me
by making me put forth an all-commanding speech, sonnet, essay, or
sermon. What do you say to this, Sandy?
_Johnson._ I really am placed in very unpleasant and difficult
circumstances. My hero is without any money; and Matilda’s father is
obdurate. My hero has gone forth to seek his fortune in the world;
and I really cannot wait until he is slightly bald and somewhat
“battered,” to use Sir John’s expression, and Matilda has grown very
stout, before they are to be married. What is to be done? There must
certainly be an unlimited supply of uncles, or on that little bit of
land which my hero has retained out of all his possessions, and
which lies on the top of a down, a coal-mine must be discovered. I
am not to be bullied by geology, at any rate.
_Ellesmere._ Well, discover your coal-mine for me, Sandy, in
preference to your making statesmen and attorneys and publishers act
contrary to their natures.
Well, then, I absolutely refuse to have a brain-fever brought on by
change of circumstances and unaccustomed work at a critical time of
my fortunes. I never had a brain-fever--even when Lady Ellesmere,
benighted woman, at first refused to have anything to say to me.
Have you had a brain-fever? or you, or you, or you, or you, or you?
[turning to us all.]
We all answered in the negative.
Then why should I have one; and why should I reveal in moments of
delirium my especial regard for Matilda--and her blue-grey eyes,
black eyelashes, and auburn hair?
_Johnson._ I am very sorry not to be able to oblige a gentleman-hero
in your position; but I am not sure that I can carry on my novel
without your having a brain-fever.
_Ellesmere._ What tyrants and pedants these novel-writers are!
Well, one thing I protest against, namely--Matilda’s coming and
nursing me when I have the brain-fever. I cannot imagine a more
disagreeable thing for a poor hero, when he is ill, than having the
young woman he keeps company with come to look after him in his
dangerous illness.
Would you like to hear the passage in the novel which describes the
unpleasant transaction?
[We said that we should.]
“Edwin”--I like the name of Edwin better than Augustus--“had for a
month been hovering between life and death. Dimly, during the last
four days, he had been conscious of a presence which had seemed to
him like a beautiful vision. On the fifth day he opened his eyes,
and discerned a creature of joy and beauty which reminded him of his
Matilda, but which he thought to be an angel.
“On the sixth day with a sigh he opened his eyes, regarded the
vision steadily, and exclaimed, ‘Matilda!’
“Later in the day he uttered the words, ‘Again, again!’ This was in
reality a demand for more chicken broth, but was supposed by the
bystanders to be a demand for the reappearance of his
Matilda--especially as he stretched out his white and wasted hand as
if to have it clasped in hers.”
I cannot go on any more. My feelings overpower me; but to speak
plainly, Matilda is a nuisance in the sick-room. Now I am getting
used to Lady Ellesmere; but if I were to tell the honest truth, I
should prefer being nursed by Peter Robinson, my old clerk, to
anybody in the world. Peter does not mind one’s fractiousness. Scold
Peter ever so much about the gruel, and he would only move up and
down his bushy eyebrows and wink at you, as much as to say, “You are
very tiresome; but I don’t mind it a bit.” Now Lady Ellesmere would
go and cry--Yes, my dear, you know you would--and would never
recognise the fact that an invalid is a tiresome, querulous,
irritable, unreasonable being.
No: as the hero of the novel, I take my stand upon this. I will go
to a picnic; I will be tumbled out from a boat; I will be
dispossessed of my property; I will spring into full success at one
bound; I will have a brain-fever; but I will not be nursed by the
young woman that I keep company with. Don’t talk to me about Richard
Swiveller and the Marchioness. The Marchioness was accustomed to
squalidity and misery; but my Matilda has been brought up in the
best circles, and I cannot be plagued with her in a sick-room.
_Johnson._ I will be merciful, Sir John. You shall not be plagued
with Matilda when you have a brain-fever.
_Ellesmere._ I could go on throughout the whole evening, cutting
down the incidents which form the ordinary staple of modern
novel-writers. For example, I would insist that when the
novel-writer has brought eight or ten characters upon the scene, he
shall not contrive their movements in such a way as that whether the
hero or heroine remain in England, or go to Australia, or to India,
he or she shall always find himself or herself surrounded by the
same people.
Now I have said enough, I think, to show that if I could eliminate
these foolish and unreasonable accidents and incidents, we should
have no more three-volume novels; and by the time I had lived
through my eight hundred and sixty-three years, all fiction would be
so much like fact that there would be no more occasion for any
biographers or historians; and if that would not increase the
happiness of the world, I do not know what would.
But I have not done yet. I should devote myself greatly to
instructing the people in the arts of reading and writing. In the
course of 800 years I should persuade the English to open their
mouths, and speak plainly. This would be a grand improvement.
Then, as to writing, I would insist upon everybody being able to
write clearly. I am “lost in astonishment,”--do you know that phrase
of Milverton’s which he is so fond of, and also that other one of
“humanity shudders when it contemplates?” Well, I am going to borrow
them both for the occasion. I say that I am “lost in astonishment”
at the audacity of people who write letters to me which I cannot
read. And “humanity shudders when it contemplates,” or at least it
ought to “shudder when it contemplates,” how very badly, all over
the world, it writes. It is all the fault of that villain who
invented a fine up-stroke.
There have been one or two sneers at my having mentioned only small
matters. Did you hear that I meant to put down the bores in the
House of Commons? Do you call that a small thing? Why, all the other
things I should accomplish in the first 300 years; and the remaining
500 I should devote to putting down bores and sending up balloons.
Not easy matters, either of them; but still, I believe, within the
reach of human power.
_Sir Arthur._ You said something about reforming dress, Ellesmere?
_Ellesmere._ Yes; the lion should have his mane again.
_Cranmer._ I haven’t a conception what he means.
_Ellesmere._ Why, that the male creature should dress well.
_Mrs. Milverton._ But what about us?
_Ellesmere._ My dear Blanche, I should devote thirty solid years to
your improvement; and, in the course of those thirty years, I should
institute two such great reforms in your nature, that I should make
you all both perfectly lovable and perfectly lovely.
I should make each woman not to be afraid of all other women. They
are to fear us, and not their own sex--consequently a woman should
not be ashamed of going out five times following to parties in the
same dress, if the dress were becoming, and pleased her husband, her
brother, or her lover.
_Lady Ellesmere._ The second great reform?
_Ellesmere._ I should develop vanity amongst women--personal
vanity--which seems now to be so dead amongst them.
_Sir Arthur._ I have always prided myself upon having the greatest
admiration for women, and never uttering any foolish sneer against
them; but Sir John goes far beyond me. I did imagine, I dare say
without due thought, that they had vanity enough.
_Ellesmere._ No, no, Sir Arthur, you are quite mistaken. Each woman
sacrifices her own personal appearance to the conceits of
fashion--whereas, when I had properly developed every woman’s
personal vanity, she would only think how she could dress herself in
the manner that would be most becoming to her. At present, they are
all sadly deficient in a care for their own especial beauties.
_Mrs. Milverton._ There is a great deal of truth in what Sir John
says.
_Ellesmere._ I believe there is, but I have yet a great deal more to
say.
I would make everything in the way of festivity shorter and earlier.
Balls should begin at eight o’clock in the winter, and nine in the
summer. Dinners should never last more than two hours, concerts be
abridged by one hour. There should never be performed more than one
play at a time. As for evening parties, unless they are very much
improved in the course of these 900 years, I shall abolish them
altogether.
At remote railway stations, I shall have lending libraries. Is there
anything more suicidal in its tendency than having to wait at one of
these stations for two mortal hours?
Now I come to what I suppose you will call a great thing, as if the
things I have just proposed were little things! I shall do away with
the adulteration of food and drugs. I believe I could do that now,
with my present term of life, if I could only get one or two clever
young members of Parliament to back me, and get up the facts,
leaving me to see how the matter could be dealt with legally.
_Milverton._ This is really good, Ellesmere.
_Ellesmere._ Now I don’t take that as any compliment--just as if the
other things were not good!
Why, man! do you suppose that there are not as many lives injured or
lost by ill-managed festivity as even by the adulteration of food?
And recollect this, that I mean to take care of the recreation of
the poor, and not allow them to bolt down their beer and their
spirits without tempering it with plenty of real recreation--open
air, music, dancing, quoits, bowls, and cricket; and for quiet
people, like Milverton, dominoes, backgammon, and whist.
I shall set my face against hurry.
Lastly, I shall put down parentheses, snub fine writing of all
kinds, and make people say what they have to say in clear, distinct
sentences, with a proper nominative, verb, and accusative; and
nobody shall use words of which he does not understand the meaning;
consequently, the words “objective” and “subjective” will be
banished from the language.
I have said my say.
_Sir Arthur._ I must sum up, for I have noted down the great labours
which Ellesmere purposes for himself in these 863 years.
You will observe that three-fourths of them have reference to
getting rid of something tiresome, and indicate the natural wishes
of a man who, unhappily for himself in this tiresome world, is
easily bored.
He would abolish the penny post, disinvent the telegraph, silence
bell-ringing, stop the growth of great cities, build a good house,
reform dress (chiefly by making women more vain), abolish lawyers
and substitute notaries, reduce armies 999 per 1000, send lecturers
on practical subjects throughout the country, put down bores in the
House of Commons and set up balloons, crush all jealousy, do away
with after-dinner speeches, reduce all three-volume novels to one
volume, make everybody write well, make everything in the way of
recreation shorter and earlier, prevent the adulteration of food,
provide lending libraries at remote stations, set his face against
hurry, and put down parentheses.
Goodly work, all of it! Let us hope that he will make a beginning of
some of this work during his natural lifetime.
_Ellesmere._ One thing more! My afterthoughts are, perhaps, the best
of my thoughts. I will have it declared, absolutely and finally,
that this nation does not undertake to protect missionaries who go
into distant countries with which we have no settled diplomatic
relations.
Great will be the joy of the Three per Cents, as Sydney Smith would
say, when I have brought the nation to this most needful resolve.
More last words! I have a brilliant idea. Indeed I am as full of
ideas as an egg is of meat.
I told you that I should make a small London for military purposes,
out of London--on Wimbledon Common, I think. Well, I shall remove
most of the London statues to that small town. If the enemy should
be of an æsthetic turn of mind, and should gain entrance into the
town, they will be so disgusted, horrified, and amazed by these
statues that they will fall an easy prey to our troops. On the other
hand, if they should survive the shock, and take the town, they will
carry off the statues as trophies taken from the barbarians. At any
rate, we shall get rid of the statues from London proper.
Now, is it not desirable that I should have this long life, which
Milverton and Sandy are kind enough to arrange for me, if only to
effect this grand reform?
I end with what I began with--that Milady must not have this length
of life too. You know women are so persevering, and so one idea’d.
Men can be bored out of anything. I do feel that if you gave her the
same vitality as I am to have, it would be Lady Ellesmere, and not
Sir John, who would govern the world. And I leave you to guess how
it would then be governed. Eventually, she would put down smoking,
and take away from the male part of the human race the chief element
of consolation--the one thing which enables men to bear their
troubles with an equal mind.
Our conversation had now lasted so long that it was getting towards
evening, and the gong began to sound for dressing. Mr. Mauleverer, who
had hitherto been silent, now burst out with the exclamation,--“Oh, what
dinners we should have, if Sir John could rule us for eight hundred and
sixty-three years! What a pretty idea that was of his to send about the
country consummate cooks as lecturers. But humanity, as I have always
told you, is a poor creature. And even in the greatest characters,--Sir
John’s, for instance,--there are sad defects and shortcomings. The
remarks he made about edible fungi were those of a man, comparatively
speaking, small-minded, prejudiced, and ignorant.”
We all laughed at Mr. Mauleverer’s enthusiasm, and then separated to
dress for dinner.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XV.
I am so anxious to get on with the story of Realmah that I do not like
to interrupt it by the account of long conversations. I cannot help,
however, giving a part of a conversation which occurred when we
assembled together to hear a reading. Sir John Ellesmere had been
propounding one of his favourite maxims; namely, that all vice is but
dulness.
_Ellesmere._ Not idleness, you know; but dulness. How often the word
dull could advantageously be substituted for wicked, or malicious,
or cruel, or criminal! Many a puffy, fluffy sentence of historians
might be most advantageously abridged if they would but use the
right words. I will give an instance.
An historian of the Huns, a learned Hun, not known to many people,
but much studied by me, writes as follows of Attila:--“The great
King’s disposition, which, even in his earliest years, could not
have been accounted as humane and forbearing as that of other Huns,
was now exacerbated by the impertinent and unwarrantable resistance
which had been opposed to his victorious and civilizing arms by the
inhabitants of Verona, Mantua, and Brescia: he felt that the power
he had gained by unsparing vigour might be lost by the exercise of a
mercy that would have been considered weakness: religious
controversy, in the course of which a fanatic Christian had dared to
suggest that the great King was the scourge of God, had not
sweetened his temper, or soothed his suspiciousness: moreover, the
number of his prisoners embarrassed and delayed his progress; and
accordingly Attila resolved to put them all to the sword.”
Now, I should merely say, Attila was dull that day; and, wanting
something to amuse him, ordered a general slaughter of the
prisoners.
_Sir Arthur._ What an historian is lost to the world in this great
lawyer! But what is your remedy, Ellesmere, for dulness?
_Ellesmere._ Oh, inducing men to take an interest in what you would
call little things; in cultivating all manner of small
pursuits--that is, if they cannot be persuaded to take up great
ones. A man who loves his garden, and works in it, is sure to be a
less dull, and therefore a better man, than other men who have no
such pursuit. This is a very commonplace remark; but it is true.
_Milverton._ I quite agree with you.
_Ellesmere._ I don’t believe that any of you see the full force of
what I mean. Calumny, ill-nature, malice--all the minor vices,
which, however, give so much pain to the world, are merely
functions, to use a mathematical phrase, of dulness.
Now, suppose I were to die suddenly. I might easily do so of
irritable over-yawning some day in the House of Commons, or at the
Bar. In the ---- case, that fellow Wordall spoke consecutively for
three days--his speech in all exceeding fourteen hours, when it
might easily have been made in one and a half. I had to listen,
because I had to reply to the fellow, and I declare to you I might
have expired then and there, from suppressed irritability.
Well, I die. Now I do believe I am not an unpopular fellow, and that
a good many men rather like me than not; but their first feeling
would be of satisfaction at something having happened that
interested them, that they could go home and tell their wives: “My
dear, such a sad thing has happened; Sir John Ellesmere is dead--and
suddenly. You’ve heard of him, of course? He was Leonard Milverton’s
great friend. A much cleverer fellow, by the way, as people, who
knew them both, have often told me! There was always some good
saying of his floating about the world. He was the man who said that
the greatest humbug of all humbugs is the pretending to despise
humbugs.”
“Poor fellow, I am afraid he had a sad time of it with Milady! You
have only to look at her face to see that she has a temper of her
own. A _nez_ does not become _retroussé_ by internal _angelic_
influences.” (Don’t hit me, Lady Ellesmere. Milverton, you should
protect your guests against battery and assault.)
Now this heartlessness about my death; this just but depreciatory
view of poor Milverton; this painful truthfulness about poor Lady
Ellesmere,--all of it is the result, not of ill-nature, but of
dulness. Dulness it is that creates the momentary unkindness. The
same thing with calumny; people calumniate because they are dull; in
nine times out of ten they do not mean any harm!
_Sir Arthur._ Moralist as well as historian! We shall never come to
the end of Ellesmere’s powers. But what pursuit have you got, Sir
John, which always prevents you from being dull, and therefore
malicious?
_Lady Ellesmere._ Why, don’t you know, Sir Arthur? Perhaps, though,
you thought the other day, when my amiable husband talked about
setting up balloons, he was joking. Would that it were so! There is
a back room in our house in town, where knocking and hammering, and
screwing and pasting, and warming and cooling, and gas-burning, are
constantly going on. He and his clerk--for they are both bitten with
the same mania--shut themselves up in that room for hours; and it is
as much as my place is worth to disturb them. Sometimes, when things
are going well with them, I am kept awake through the small hours of
the night to hear all about the machine, which is to combine
lightness with strength and with power, and is to enable us all to
be aëronauts. Truth, not dulness, compels me to say that my husband
has all other demerits known in the human character but that of
dulness--that is, dulness for himself, because he can make other
people dull by being so eminently disagreeable.
_Sir Arthur._ I think you are paid off, Ellesmere, for what you have
made your friends say about Lady Ellesmere; but if we once get into
recriminations of this kind, we shall never have the reading: so
please, Milverton, begin.
_Ellesmere._ Stay a bit. I must say more. I want to show you how
benevolent my view of dulness makes me. When I hear that any man has
been speaking ill of me behind my back, I am not angry with him, but
I merely say to myself, “How dull he must have been to have had
nothing better to do!” I long to address to him an oration in the
form of a single sentence, the outlines of which I have often
imagined, and talked over to myself. The gracious Milverton was good
enough, as you will perhaps remember, to tell me, patronisingly,
that some sentence I uttered some time ago was not so bad.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Take breathing time, John. I wonder, by the way,
whether ears can take hearing time; for, if so, we must all prepare
for John’s oration, which is to be compressed into one grand, full
(perhaps we may say overflowing) sentence.
_Ellesmere._ Yes, my dear, prepare; for it is always a difficult
thing for a woman to listen for any time to anything that is well
worth hearing.
I should take my dull maligner aside (probably it would be in
Westminster Hall), tell him I had heard what he had said of
me--prove to him that it was not my demerit, but his dulness, which
had caused him to speak in that manner of me; and should then
address him thus:--
“What, dull! when you do not know what gives its loveliness of form
to the lily, its depth of colour to the violet, its fragrance to the
rose; when you do not know in what consists the venom of the adder
any more than you can imitate the glad movements of the dove; when,
unlike the wisest of monarchs and of men, far from knowing trees as
he did, ‘from the cedar tree that is in Lebanon even unto the hyssop
that springeth out of the wall,’ you do not know anything even of
the two extremes of Solomon’s great knowledge in this behalf; and
when even these crushed syringa[32] leaves might form a subject for
you to investigate, which, for the remainder of your natural life,
should save you from dulness:--what, dull! when the all-pervading
forces and powers of chemistry are unknown to you; when light, heat,
electricity, are mere words to you, clad with no more ideas for you
than they are for that boy who is whistling as he goes along,
unmindful, nay unconscious, of the beauty and grandeur of this
glorious building:--what, dull! when earth, air, and water are all
alike mysteries to you; and when, as you stretch out your hand, you
do not touch anything the properties of which you have mastered;
while, all the time, Nature is inviting you to talk earnestly with
her, to understand her, to subdue her, and to be blessed by
her:--what, dull! when you have not travelled to the ends of the
earth, and have not seen what your forefathers, the mighty men of
old--some of whom were not dull men--have formed, and built, and
restrained, and vanquished:--what, dull! when you have travelled
over so few minds, and have not read the hundred great books of the
world--for there have been at least a hundred books written by men
who were not dull, and whose works fulfil the words of Samson, when
he went down to Timnath to take a wife from among the Philistines,
and found that which, as he said, combined leonine strength with
honied sweetness:--what, dull! when you know nothing of the niceties
of theology, the subtleties of metaphysics, the closeness of logic,
the completeness of mathematics, the intricacies, and withal the
beauties, of jurisprudence and of law:--dull, you say; and you know
nothing, comparatively nothing, of the long, finely-woven chain-work
of history, telling you, as best it can, of the innumerable tribes
of men who have fought and bled--sinned, suffered, and
rejoiced--even as we are now doing, in these which are rashly
denominated the later ages:--what, dull! when Art divine, whether
expressed in painting, in sculpture, or in architecture, is a thing
which, even when you admire it, you ignorantly gaze at, as the
heathens at Athens ignorantly worshipped their ‘Unknown God;’--what,
dull! when there are thousands, nay millions of human beings, at
least as worthy as yourself (ay, and poor animals too; for God only
knows how much they need care, and what a burden lies upon our souls
for our conduct to them), some of whom might be aided, cheered,
improved, invigorated, soothed, by the smallest deed or word of
sympathy on your part. Go away, man; learn something, do something,
understand something; and let me hear no more of your dulness
condensing itself into malignity.”
Footnote 32:
Lady Ellesmere afterwards told us that Sir John was passionately
fond of the syringa, and that she had made an arrangement for a
gardener who comes to Covent Garden to supply her with flowers and
leaves from this shrub, which, as she said, she sometimes gave her
husband when he was good.
_Sir Arthur._ I think I see the poor man dazed and amazed by
Ellesmere’s torrent of grand words, and passing the remainder of his
life, not in the expression of dull malignity, but in the vain
endeavour to recall Ellesmere’s sentence. By the way, is it not
droll to see that he brought in, unconsciously, one or two legal
phrases, such as, “in this behalf”--“Solomon’s knowledge in this
behalf?”
_Mauleverer._ It was a full and gorgeous sentence. Ellesmere would
be a grand fellow if he were not so disagreeable sometimes.
_Lady Ellesmere._ When? How? Where? Never to anybody, Mr.
Mauleverer, but to me; and he has a right to be so to me, if he
please.
_Milverton._ Don’t be angry, Mildred. Mauleverer only said that to
tease you; and, as the vulgar say, to get “a rise” out of you.
_Lady Ellesmere._ I am much obliged to him, I am sure.
_Ellesmere._ Now then, Milverton, you may proceed. After a great
effort of mind, one can never stoop to answer small criticisms.
_Milverton._ I will proceed: but after one of these grand flights of
Ellesmere’s, which occur about two or three times a year, I really
am ashamed to read to you my poor, slow, dull, creeping, crawling
sentences.
[The reading was then continued.]
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE SHAM FIGHT.
In the embroidered language of the Sheviri (and all people in the
beginning of their education are fond of this embroidery), a hundred
times since the last day of the siege had the celestial maiden who
adorns the heavens grown up from delicate childhood to the full beauty
of womanhood, when we are again called to look upon the town of Abibah.
Very different was it from that town as it might have been beheld on the
day succeeding the siege. It had greatly increased both in size and
beauty. Its new foundations had been made much more substantial; and the
buildings placed upon them were of a much more enduring character than
those which had been consumed in the great fire. That part of the town,
however, which had not suffered from fire remained unaltered, and
Realmah still continued to occupy his palace in that quarter.
Most men hate details, and it is a delightful thing for the historian
and the novelist, as well as for their readers, that they can
judiciously pass over details; and, as in dramatic writing, bring a
fresh scene before you without tiresome explanations as to what had
occurred in the interval between that scene and the previous one
commemorated.
It was early on a beautiful morning that Realmah came forth from his
palace, accompanied by many courtiers and attendants. He was much
altered in appearance. He walked with greater difficulty, and his face
was deeply marked with the long furrows ploughed in by that sedulous
husbandman, Care. He was more richly dressed than he had formerly been,
but the old habit of carelessness was still strong upon him, so that his
clothes seemed to be huddled on anyhow.
As he descended the steps of the palace, he tripped and nearly fell,
whereupon a courtier, who--though a courtier--knew but little of human
nature, rushed forward to assist the King; which assistance Realmah
waved away with a gesture of petulance, for great people do not like to
be thought failing in strength, and do not approve of being publicly
assisted.
Joy and excitement sat upon the faces of all the people of Abibah that
morning--on all, at least, but that of the King; and he seemed not
unhappy, but only anxious.
A large historical work might be written to commemorate the proceedings
of Realmah during these waxings and wanings of the celestial goddess by
whose movements they chiefly measured time. There is, however, so much
material for history in the world, that there are long periods abounding
in great transactions which are obliged to be chronicled in a few
sentences; and every day the need for compression in historical
narrative becomes greater.
This day was the day of the year on which a festival was held to
commemorate the last day of the siege, when the greater part of the city
was consumed by fire, and when the men of the North were driven away.
Hitherto this festival had been celebrated in a commonplace way--by
games, feasts, and illuminations; but to-day a much more striking mode
of commemorating the great event was to be adopted. The scene was to be
acted over again, without, of course, the accompaniment of fire; but
there were to be parties of besieged and besiegers; in short, a mock
fight. The King had with great difficulty been induced to give his
consent to this mode of celebration.
He had been inclined to remind his people of a very ancient proverb
which had much meaning in it, and ran thus, “_In the games there are no
two sons of the same mother_,” intimating that even in playful contest
all the ties of brotherhood are forgotten. The King, however, restrained
himself from saying this, by thinking of another proverb, “_Why tell him
that his two eyes look two different ways?_” meaning, it is no good
telling people of evils which they cannot cure.[33]
Footnote 33:
Though the best proverbs are common to all nations, we find something
peculiar in the proverbs of each nation. For instance, this was a
favourite proverb of the Sheviri which I do not remember to have seen
elsewhere--“Do not turn round sharply lest you catch them laughing at
you.”
Still, Realmah did not like the idea of this mimic fight, and was not by
any means sure that it would not lead to serious consequences; the more
so as he had detected some unwillingness to serve in those young men to
whom it had fallen by lot to play the part of the besiegers. However,
they all looked very happy on this bright morning, for the spirits of
people are always raised when they put on their best clothes.
Iron weapons had been brought to a great state of perfection, but these
were not allowed to be used on the present occasion, except by the
King’s guard, who were not to take any part in the action.
During the earlier part of the day everything went well; but, after some
hours of struggle, men’s tempers began to be irritated; and what annoyed
the besiegers greatly was the part which the women took in the fight,
both in jeering at them, and also in throwing down upon them glutinous
masses made from the gums of trees, which caused very severe contusions.
It was in the new market-place that the sham fight raged most furiously.
The time came when the leaders of the besieging force were to give the
signals for retreat; but some of them, especially the younger ones,
refrained from giving the appointed signals, and the common soldiers
were so excited that those orders which were given by the older officers
were not attended to. In short, the fight at this point became a real
one.
Realmah, wearied with the day’s proceedings, and seeing that, as far as
he had observed, nothing unpleasant had occurred, had retired to his
palace, when news was brought to him that the worst he had anticipated
was occurring.
Hastily summoning his guards, he rushed to the market-place and into the
thickest of the fray. Before the combatants were thoroughly aware of his
presence, he had received two wounds, one in the arm and one in the
thigh; and several people were either slain or much injured by the royal
guards in their endeavour to protect the fallen King.
At last the tumult was allayed, and Realmah was carried back on a litter
to his palace.
For some time he was insensible, for he was a man very sensitive to the
effects of pain; but, to the astonishment of the Varnah and of all the
bystanders, when the medicine-men had dressed his wounds, he burst into
an immoderate fit of laughter, and was heard to mutter to himself many
times, “There never was anything so fortunate.”
Throughout the city that evening it was generally reported and believed
that the King was delirious. The shame and vexation of the men of Abibah
were unutterable; as also their fears, for they feared that they would
never be forgiven by their King.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
REALMAH’S GREAT PROJECT.
They erred, indeed, who thought that the words of the King, which had
expressed his joy, and declared his good fortune, in having been
wounded, were the words of delirium. Never had Realmah been more sane
than when, with laughter, he had uttered those words; for he saw in that
occurrence an additional means of carrying into action a project which,
from his earliest years, had been very near to his heart.
He was one of those men who, even when not gifted with genius, or with
manifold talents, yet have their way in the world, simply because they
never become tired of their projects.
What chance have ordinary men against such men as these? The ordinary
man, after he has said his say a few times, begins to be tired of that
saying. If he is a person of any refinement, he becomes ashamed of so
much repetition. He seeks to clothe his idea, even if he maintains it,
in new words; and at last, perhaps, he varies, not only the expression,
but the substance of his idea. Now, the world of thought is a thing
which requires to be penetrated by constant hammering in the same place.
What would be thought of the woodman who became tired or ashamed of
driving his axe into the one cutting which he had begun to make in the
tree? It would be a long time before that tree would be felled, if it
had only such an inconstant woodman to attack it.
In a neighbouring territory, belonging to a people called the Azarees,
there was a narrow strip of land which was occupied by a fortress
belonging to the Sheviri. Some generations past, the Sheviri had
conquered the Azarees; and, after the conquest, had held this strip of
land, and built this fortress, as a means of keeping the Azarees in a
kind of subjection, and also of controlling all the tribes on the lake
which had to pass that way, as it was in the nature of a defile which
had to be passed by many peoples.
From his earliest years, bred up in government in the house of his
uncle, Realmah had been much accustomed to listen to the talk of
statesmen and ambassadors. The silent, reserved boy had heard the old
statesmen of his nation gloat over the fact that this fortress was a
thorn in the side of all their enemies, and even of their allies. He had
also noticed what a bitter subject of complaint the existence of this
fortress had often been with the ambassadors from foreign tribes.
Without daring to breathe a word of what he thought, the studious boy
had come to a conclusion totally different from his elders, and had
even, at the age of fourteen, resolved, that if ever he should come to
power, he would win the hearts of all the nations of the lake by
abolishing, in time of peace, this obnoxious fortress.
He _had_ come to power; and the resolve of his boyhood was as much fixed
in his mind as ever. With that patient sagacity, however, which was so
striking a part of his character, he waited for some time before he even
dared to broach to his wise favourite, the court jester, the strange
idea which beset him. Not from the jester even, not from any of his most
intimate friends, did he at first win a single word of encouragement for
his great project. They had not in their vocabulary the word “romantic,”
or they would have used it; but they had the word “starlight,” which
they used in the same sense as we use moonshine, signifying something
which is unreal, which pretends to be warm, and is not. There was not a
soul to whom Realmah at first confided his great project who did not
intimate to him that his idea was starlight. Even the Ainah, to whom he
told it first, had but said in answer, “If all men were like my Realmah,
it would be well to be so generous; but there are none like him.” And
Realmah sighed, for the fondness of her words did not console him for
the absence of her sympathy with him in this his dearest project.
The way in which his proposition was received by three or four of his
principal councillors may well illustrate the difficulties with which
Realmah had to contend. When he did at last broach the matter to the
court jester, that great functionary, as was natural, conveyed his views
chiefly by means of a fable.
He said that of course the great king, who was not only the greatest but
the most learned man in his dominions, must know the old fable about
“the good-natured Otlocol.”
“That magnificent but fearful creature, the Otlocol, was wont in former
days to hold long conversations with mankind; and the particular Otlocol
in question would often walk about the ancient streets of Abibah.
“One day a friend of his, a man, said, ‘My good Otlocol, why do you take
such trouble in getting your food, being up all night sometimes, as I
hear, to hunt after the poor reindeer?[34] If you would but allow me
just to break off the ends of those two formidable teeth of yours, and
pare your front claws a little, everybody would be delighted to partake
their food with you. But now, good-natured as you are, people are a
little afraid of you. _Then_, even the little children would share their
crusts with you.’
Footnote 34:
The reindeer in those times came as far south as the Swiss lakes, as
may be seen from the bones that have been exhumed from the bottom of
those lakes.
“The good-natured Otlocol, always ready to believe what his friends told
him, consented. The teeth were broken, and the nails were pared, by his
kind friend. But somehow or other, from that day forth, the Otlocol grew
thinner and thinner. He did not, after all, find so many people ready to
share their bones and their crusts with him. He was no longer
interesting, now that he could not do anybody any harm; and, in the end,
the poor animal died of starvation.
“That is all your poor jester has to say, my prince, to your magnanimous
proposal.”
The next person that Realmah tried was Llama-Mah. That courtier was
dismayed. He had never yet disagreed with the King; but there are bounds
to everything, and even Llama-Mah could not give his approbation to the
surrender of this fortress. But though he could not assent, he could
flatter; and, after a few minutes’ silence, he said to Realmah: “The
King is always wise and judicious; but I have observed sometimes that
his wisdom takes a higher flight upon the second discussion of any great
subject than that which it did on the first.”
Realmah knew full well what a decided negative was most unwillingly
conveyed by Llama-Mah in these flattering words.
Not daunted, however, he resolved to lay the question before Lariska.
Here there was not so fatal and immediate a negative, for Lariska was
always delighted to discuss anything; but he had so many ingenious
things to say against the proposition, as well as some few things for
it, that Realmah felt more disheartened by his discourse than by that of
either of the others.
The next day the King broached the matter to Londardo. Now, as we know,
Londardo was one of those men who think that the reasons for, or
against, anything, are about equal, and that the main object in this
world’s affairs is to adopt some course, and to keep consistently to
that. After listening carefully to Realmah’s explanation of his project,
Londardo looked very grave; and, to Realmah’s astonishment, asked for
two days’ delay before he should say anything at all about the matter.
When those two days had elapsed, Londardo waited upon the King. Without
any preamble he said, “It is a great idea, and I should be for its
adoption if only we could, from this moment, act consistently with the
continuous generosity that such a plan demands. It will not do to be
conquering here, and giving up the results of conquest there. For
example, you had thought of punishing the disobedience of the
Malquas--that must be abandoned, and you must give them the option of
refusing all allegiance to you. From all quarters there must come, at
the same time, reports of your generosity and of your unwillingness to
place a yoke upon any new tributaries.
“Public affairs differ from private affairs only in largeness; and, if
you observe, the effect of great forbearance and generosity in dealing
with private individuals, breaks down solely because you do not go far
enough. You keep up some restriction, or maintain some advantage; and,
in doing this, you retain as much odium as if you had maintained all
your advantages, and kept up all your restrictions. I will vote as you
wish me in the council, provided you will, from that time, be consistent
in a course of complete generosity.”
This conversation took place in the early days of Realmah’s reign.
Londardo, as we have seen, was slain by the Northmen; and bitterly did
the King mourn over the loss of such a counsellor--especially in regard
to this great project.
It is not needful to give in detail the constant efforts made, both in
council and out of council, by Realmah to win over his chief friends and
councillors. Suffice it to say, however, that gradually he did win them
over.
I do not think he would have been able to do so, but that this project
of abandoning the fortress called Ravala-Mamee was consistent with the
rest of Realmah’s policy, which had proved eminently successful. The
older councillors were astounded when they found that embassies came to
Realmah, absolutely offering him a kind of suzerainty over nations that
had hitherto been in no manner whatever connected with the Sheviri.
These councillors began to see that there really is such a thing as the
power of love, as well as the power of hatred. Oh, if Realmah had but
been blessed with such a religion as Christianity in his time, what a
difference there might have been in the aspect of the world!
The councillors had been at last convinced of the wisdom of Realmah’s
policy, but they dreaded its being put forth to the people. Year after
year they had persuaded the King to postpone the announcement of his
intentions, always using the common phrase of statesmen in all ages and
in all nations, that the time was not ripe for it; _as if the time were
ever ripe for the utterances of a great man--as if he did not create the
time!_
It may appear surprising to the hearers of this tale that these secret
conferences of Realmah with his friends and his councillors on this
important subject, lasting as these conferences did for so many years,
never became known to his people, nor even to the inhabitants of Abibah.
This fact was in direct contradiction to a celebrated proverb, or rather
trilogy of proverbs, said to have been made by the King himself.
It is this--_The dragon-fly told the bee a secret: the whole hive of
bees knew it that evening._
_The dragon-fly told another dragon-fly the secret: for three whole days
it remained a secret._
_The dragon-fly told the lark the secret: the lark soared up to heaven
and did not think much of the dragon-fly’s secret: the other larks never
knew it._
This proverb, naturally a kingly one, meant: “Trust equals a little:
inferiors not at all: superiors (that is, me the King) thoroughly.”
Now, Realmah had not been betrayed by these inferiors to whom he had
trusted the great secret. But the reason why it had never been betrayed
was evidently this--that each man who knew it, feared that he might be
considered by the common people as a traitor to his country, if he knew
of such a project, and had not at once put his veto upon it.
It was as if, in the times of Louis XIII. of France, a man should have
been known to have had correspondence with the Court of Spain.
This will show the dangers and the difficulties which Realmah had to
encounter in the execution of this great design. In truth, for the last
twenty years he had maintained this project at the risk of his throne,
and even of his life.
_Milverton._ I do not think that I am especially timid or nervous on
ordinary occasions of speaking or talking. I feel what I suppose all
people feel when they have to make a speech. One’s heart beats a
little faster for a few minutes before the time, and one feels that,
on this particular occasion, one is sure to make a failure of it.
But when I have got through my first sentence, and have looked into
the eyes of my audience, I am seldom troubled by any further
embarrassment.
So, in talking: I never feel nervous or uncomfortable, except when I
have to explain something, or to argue about something, that will
require a certain portion of time to be given to it, and which time
I know my auditors will not, or cannot give. One becomes very
nervous then.
_Cranmer._ That is a very frequent case. I have often felt it
myself.
_Ellesmere._ Probably; but proceed, Milverton, with what you were
going to say.
_Milverton._ Well, I was going to say that to-day I am in a
permanent state of nervousness, which has almost hitherto been
unknown to me.
I feel that you are to a certain extent representative men. If I
fail in persuading any of you, I know that I have no chance with the
world in general.
Of course, you see what I have been aiming at, and why I have
written the story of Realmah. I do not care at all about your saying
that mine has been an inartistic mode of proceeding--namely, the
writing of a story with a purpose. It is my way of doing the thing,
and you must bear with it. At any rate you must own, that I have
followed Goethe’s great maxim of not talking away my interest in the
subject. You have never heard me speak about it, and yet it has been
in my mind for years.
_Ellesmere._ What a restraint the man must have put upon himself! It
is just what my favourites, the dogs, do. They could talk well
enough about the subjects nearest to their hearts, but they have
read their Carlyle, and they know that stern purpose is gradually
frittered away by idle talk.
_Milverton._ Now I want to discuss the matter most carefully with
you; and you must allow me to commence the discussion. I should wish
to divide my subject into five heads.
_Ellesmere._ Good heavens! this is becoming serious. I should like
to tell you my experience about a sermon that was divided into five
heads.
_Milverton._ Now, don’t joke, Ellesmere.
_Ellesmere._ Sir Oliver Roundhead come again! who never laughed
himself, nor ever permitted any of his family to laugh. But, indeed,
I will be a thoroughly good boy, and as serious as the men who sell
fish about the streets, for I have observed they never joke with
their customers.
_Milverton._ (1) _The diminution of expense._ And to this branch of
the subject I especially invite Mr. Cranmer’s attention, reminding
him of Tennyson’s words,
“And that eternal want of pence
Which vexes public men;”
which I know vexes him and Mr. Gladstone, and sundry other great
financial authorities.
You, Sir Arthur, who love the works of the great Greek tragedians,
will recollect that passage in the “Prometheus vinctus,” in which
Prometheus is exhorted to cease from his philanthropic ways. I have
often thought how that applies to modern times. If Governments will
indulge in philanthropic ways, they must be prepared for constantly
increasing expense in this direction. For instance, if we are to go
on taking care of the health and sanitary conditions of the people,
the expenses of our Medical Department must go on increasing.
If we are to go on educating the people, the expenses of the
Education Department must inevitably increase.
If we are to go on cultivating art and science amongst our people,
the expenses of the Art and Science Department must also increase.
If we are to go on caring for the recreation of the people, there
will be increased expense in this direction.
And, taking the Civil Service generally, considering that, under the
new order of things, it will be required to be strengthened and
added to, rather than to be reduced, and that of all men in this
country, excepting country surgeons, the public servants are the
worst paid, I do not see how we can hope for any reduction of
expenditure under the heads I have just enumerated.
I stop here for the moment, and wish to know what Sir Arthur and Mr.
Cranmer will say.
_Sir Arthur._ You are quite right, Milverton; these philanthropic
ways must not cease.
_Cranmer._ And I have no hope of reducing the Civil Service
estimates. That excellent man, Joseph Hume, did not look for much
economy in that direction.
_Milverton._ Very good. Where, then, must we look for it? I answer,
mainly in the naval, military, and colonial departments.
_Ellesmere._ Of course we all know that. So far the Court is with
you.
_Milverton._ Now, I say that the way in which the expenses in those
departments are to be reduced, _is not by diminishing expense over
the whole surface generally, and so producing general weakness
everywhere, but by totally doing away with the need for expense at
certain fixed points_.
The above I hold to be a great maxim, applicable alike in private
and in public affairs. Don’t stint your wife and your children, and
your servants and your horses, but do away with the carriage and
horses at once, if you really cannot afford to keep it handsomely.
Of course you see how I mean to apply this. The wisest political
move in our time was the cession of the Ionian Islands. What was the
expense to us annually, Cranmer, of the Ionian Islands?
_Cranmer._ Say 50,000_l._
_Milverton._ May I ask you, Cranmer, what has been the expense to us
of fortifying Alderney?
_Cranmer._ About 1,177,000_l._
Milverton. What about Bermuda?
_Cranmer._ The cost incurred by Imperial Funds for the defence of
Bermuda, in 1859-60, was, if I remember rightly, about 87,000_l._
_Milverton._ And Gibraltar?
_Cranmer._ About 420,000_l._ for that year; and I do not think that
was a heavy year.
_Milverton._ For the present I drop the question of expense. You are
men of that degree of intelligence and knowledge of the world, that
one need not bother you with details, and need only indicate to you
a course of argument.
I am now going to the second branch of my subject.
(2) _The increase of prestige._ Mark you, I have not confined myself
to any particular case. I do not choose to tell you whether
Realmah’s fortress of Ravala-Mamee means Gibraltar, or Malta, or
Bermuda. I argue the case generally; and I say that that nation will
gain greatly in prestige which first dares to do some great act of
renunciation of the kind that I have intimated. Am I right in this?
_Sir Arthur._ I am with you.
_Cranmer._ I doubt.
_Mauleverer._ Dreams! Moonshine! Starlight!
_Ellesmere._ I should like the question to be more specific. The
peculiar circumstances of the case would much affect my opinion.
_Milverton._ Well, then, I will be more specific. Suppose that we
possess a fortress naturally belonging to another great nation,
which nation this fortress menaces, discourages, and mortifies; and
suppose that this great nation is one which is never likely to come
into direct hostility with ourselves, and the amity of which great
nation we should probably win by such an act of renunciation, what
should you say then?
_Ellesmere._ I should say that it would be a grand thing to do; but
I should wish to know whether this fortress might not be one which
it would be important for us to hold in reference to our own
military and naval movements, and our possible hostility with other
States. I think that is rather an ugly question, Master Milverton.
_Milverton._ It is; but I shall be prepared to answer it in its
proper place. I beg you to keep to the point, and to answer me,
whether there would be any loss of prestige in such an act of
renunciation as I propose?
_Ellesmere._ No, there would not. Prestige is never lost by anything
which indicates fearlessness----
_Sir Arthur._ And magnanimity.
_Ellesmere._ A thing may be very unwise, and yet not cause you to
lose prestige.
_Milverton._ Very good. I now come to the third branch of the
subject.
(3) _Safety for the State._ That safety, you may be sure, in the
present condition of the means and appliances for warfare, depends
upon the concentration of the powers and forces of the State.
The more you extend the line of possible attack by the enemy, the
more you render yourself liable to be defeated at some point, which,
though unimportant in itself, as a place to be guarded, is for the
moment all-important to you, as being a part of your empire which
you are bound to defend. A great empire cannot bear defeat anywhere.
I might bring a host of metaphors and similes to illustrate this
assertion, but every-day facts will perhaps do so better. You have
to take the same care of some obscure British subject, if that man
is unduly molested, as you have of your whole Indian dominions. What
have you to say to this branch of the subject?
_Cranmer._ I am with you.
_Sir Arthur._ So am I.
_Milverton._ The rest, I perceive, are silent.
_Ellesmere._ I do not like pledging myself. You see he is gradually
getting us into his net. He has nearly gained an assent to three of
his propositions, and I do not see what we may be led to. We must
beware of letting ourselves be treated as the characters are in an
imaginary dialogue. You have your Euphranor and Lycidas and
Polyphrastes. Euphranor really represents the author, and the other
fellows his opponents. Lycidas and Polyphrastes seem at first to
come out very grandly and boldly; but anybody who is experienced in
such writing easily discerns that the buttons are on their foils,
while Euphranor’s weapon is unguarded. I decline to be Polyphrastes.
I tell you what these unhappy characters always remind me of--the
performing monkeys of a showman: the poor little creatures hop about
gaily enough, but if, springing to the end of their tether, they
struggle to get beyond it, the hard-featured showman jerks them back
again, and makes them know their proper place, close to his
barrel-organ. They are only to dance to his tunes, and are not to be
indulged in caperings of their own.
Now, I am not going to be perverse or unreasonable. I will
ultimately admit anything that I am convinced of; but I decline, as
we go along, to make more admissions than I can help, so that it may
not afterwards happen, that Polyphrastes having admitted this, and
Polyphrastes having said that, Euphranor comes forth triumphantly,
and shuts poor Polyphrastes up in a syllogism. We are not here to
play our parts according to Milverton’s bidding, but to argue out a
very serious question seriously and guardedly.
_Milverton._ I proceed to Number 4.
(4) _The physical well-being of the community._
This part of the subject has incidentally been treated in Number 1,
when we were considering the question of expense. All projected
improvements tending to the physical well-being of the State are now
met with the answer, “No funds.”
But I have more to say about it. It is not only that funds are
wanting; but time, attention, and forethought are wanting. Look what
a lot of time and attention on the part of Ministers and Parliament
is taken up by small questions concerning these petty dependencies.
This course of argument will apply to education as well as to
physical well-being. The greatest things for our general well-being
as a nation fail to have due thought given to them, because we are
busied with all manner of details connected with possessions that
are really of no use to us.
What do you say to all this?
_Mauleverer._ Are people any the happier for this physical
well-being and for education? I doubt.
_Sir Arthur._ No, no, Mauleverer; you mustn’t go into your usual
course of depreciation of all human effort. We must keep close to
the subject. For my part I have nothing to say against Milverton as
regards this last branch of the subject.
_Cranmer._ Nor I. I know I never got sufficient attention to
anything; and I believe that we, the British people, are distracted
from the consideration of matters that most concern us, by a
multiplicity of cares and troubles brought to us from afar.
_Milverton._ I am delighted to hear you say that, Cranmer. I may now
proceed to the fifth branch of my subject.
(5) _The advancement and development of Christianity._ I have very
little to say upon this head. If you do not feel with me at once, I
have no hope of persuading you by long arguments. I would just ask
you, is it not most inconsistent to advocate the adoption of
Christianity by individuals, and not to ask Governments to act upon
principles which are essentially Christian?
You all regret and dread the perpetual increase of armaments in
Europe. You admit the cruel and wicked expense of these armaments,
the loss occasioned by which has lately been estimated at
178,000,000_l._ per annum, and you ask how on earth this great
mischief is to be remedied?
I say that some one nation must make the first move, and why should
not this nation be England?
At present it is an auction of folly. Each nation goes on bidding
against the other. There is no end to it. It is like the conduct of
ostentatious people, contending who shall make most show; and this
kind of contest can only be ended by the absolute ruin of almost all
the contending parties.
Now, what have you to say to my argument taken as a whole?
Here a curious thing occurred. There was a good deal of whispering
between Sir John, Sir Arthur, and Mr. Cranmer; and then Sir John spoke.
_Ellesmere._ Whenever there is a rude thing to be done, I am the
unlucky wight upon whom it falls to do it. We wish that our good
host and hostess should take a little conjugal walk, arm in arm, to
the fountain in the front garden, and there, reclining on the grass
in sweet repose, should consider what they would give us for dinner
to-morrow, while we make up our minds what we shall reply to this
elaborate talk of Milverton’s. He has had time to prepare, and so
must we.
Sandy must go too, because, though he is a good and trusty fellow,
he so thoroughly belongs to the other camp, that we should be a
little afraid of his presence.
_Sir Arthur._ Just write down for us, Milverton, the heads of your
discourse.
Mr. Milverton did so, and left the paper with Sir Arthur. We then began
to move away.
_Ellesmere._ Fairy stays with us.
But Fairy did not stay with them, but moved away slowly in our
direction, in the odd fashion that a dog sometimes does, moving its hind
legs like a rheumatic old gentleman, indicating a certain unwillingness
to go--just what it does when told to go to its kennel, or to go to bed.
We went to the fountain, and I brought out some railway rugs for us to
lie down upon. Mr. Milverton soon fell asleep, for he had been up half
the night writing the last chapters. Thus half an hour passed.
Afterwards we went into the study and worked. At length we were sent
for, and when we had returned to them Sir Arthur began the conversation.
_Sir Arthur._ It was somewhat impertinent in us, Milverton, to send
you and your wife and Mr. Johnson away, but we felt we could discuss
the matter better without you, and settle amongst ourselves where
the argument was weak, and where it was strong, and what we should
finally resolve to say. I am to be the spokesman.
I have first the pleasure of informing you that you have made a
convert in the person of Mr. Cranmer.
_Cranmer._ No, not exactly a convert. I assure you I had many of
these ideas floating in my mind before; and now I only mean, that if
I were obliged to vote to-day, I should vote with Milverton.
_Milverton._ I am delighted to hear it, Cranmer.
_Ellesmere._ Milverton does love anybody who agrees with him. That
is the sure way to his heart. You have risen thirty-three and a half
per cent. in his affections, Cranmer. I know you like exact
calculations.
_Sir Arthur._ I now resume my office as your spokesman.
In the first place, we are all agreed, except Mauleverer, that
philanthropic ways must not cease, and, in short, we agree with you
in the main with regard to all you said about expense.
With regard to the increase of prestige, we do not seem to care much
about it. We think, however, that you may be right in what you said.
With regard to safety for the State depending on the concentration
of its powers and its forces, we thoroughly agree with you.
Here you must forgive me for a little interruption in the way of
illustration that has occurred to me. You know the Highland saying,
“Cut your talk with a little drink.” So I say, even in the most
serious discussion, the talk may be allowed to be cut with something
that is either jocose or fanciful.
Is there any insect that has a particular enmity to the spider? I
daresay there is; and, if we had your entomologist here, he would
probably tell us all about this insect. I will call him the
fly-friend. It is rather a shame, by the way, to compare a great
nation to a spider, but still I think you will say the illustration
is a good one.
You have observed how spiders’ webs are often formed with filaments
thrown out to a great distance, the points of attachment being of
great importance for the maintenance of the web.
My fly-friend comes and cuts one of these filaments at the furthest
point. Before the spider can reach him, he has gone to another spot
and cut the filament there; and before the irritated spider can
reach his enemy, half the web is flapping helplessly down; for the
damage to these distant points is as fatal as if the spider and the
fly-friend had come to close quarters.
You may rely upon it that a great nation, with many distant
dependencies, is as liable to mischief in this way as any spider’s
web.
_Milverton._ The illustration is admirable; but I think it all comes
to be included in the saying of Napoleon, “That the art of war is
the art of being strongest at a given time, at a given place.” Now I
just wish to ask you this ugly question, How are we to be strongest
at a given time in Canada?
How few, even of our greatest statesmen, have given any indication
that they are meditating deeply upon our colonial policy?
Johnson’s story about his Spoolans had a great deal of meaning in
it. There is next to no looking forward to prepare for great
political emergencies.
_Sir Arthur._ I must resume.
With regard to what you said about the physical well-being of a
state, we are agreed with you.
With regard to what you said about the advancement of Christianity,
we are all of the same mind with you, except Mauleverer, who said
that he had observed that the advancement of Christianity generally
meant an increase in the number of clergymen and priests. He was not
for that. Then he told us that the most malignant human being he had
ever known was a parson. We did not see that this had much to do
with the present subject, and we outvoted him.
_Milverton._ I scarcely know how to construe what I hear. You appear
to have nothing to say against me; and yet you tell me I have only
made one convert.
_Sir Arthur._ Lady Ellesmere is on the point of conversion.
_Ellesmere._ I think nothing of that. I do not mean to depreciate
women: I am in a thoroughly serious mood to-day; but I knew
beforehand that they would be sure to be with you. Your proposition
has in it everything to please them. They like anything that looks
great and magnanimous; and you are not to expect them to go into all
the statesmanship of the matter.
_Sir Arthur._ I am afraid it is now my painful duty, as a
schoolmaster would say when he is going to give a boy a whipping, to
set before you, Milverton, the great objections that have occurred
to us, and which prevent us from being converts, or at least keep us
undecided.
Is not this matter for a congress? Should there not be something
like give and take, in such affairs? Is our Ravala-Mamee to be given
up for nothing? Would not more of what you would wish to be
accomplished, be accomplished by making the question European
instead of British?
These are grave questions, my friend.
_Milverton._ They are. I wish you had allowed me to be present while
you were discussing this part of the subject. I shall merely reply
by asking you in turn some grave questions.
Would there have been such a thing as free-trade in our time if we
had waited until other nations had been convinced of the wise policy
of freedom in trade?
Would slavery have been abolished by us if we had waited till other
slave-holding nations had come to an agreement with us upon this
point?
And, to take a recent instance, should we ever have ceded the Ionian
Islands if we had made that cession a matter of European talk, and
haggled about it with other nations?
_Sir Arthur._ I proceed to tell you further what we thought; and I
am now really afraid that I shall have to say something very
unpleasant, and which you will have great difficulty in getting
over.
If any cession of the kind you imagine is to be made, it will have
to be discussed in Parliament. You know how injudiciously they often
talk there about foreign affairs, and how little power the Ministers
have either in preventing or directing dangerous discussions of this
kind. Now, the transaction which you mean to be a great and generous
thing, winning you the love and amity of the nation to whom you make
this cession, will be so be-slimed with disagreeable and injurious
talk, that you are as likely to be hated as to be loved for what you
do.
_Milverton._ This is a hard blow, I admit; but it is not a fatal
one. Such a transaction as I contemplate will never take place
without a great burst of generous enthusiasm, and there will be a
great many noble as well as ignoble things said about it.
But take the worst: say that we do not win the amity of the nation
to whom we cede any possession. Will this affect the surrounding
nations? Will it make the act really less noble? Will it be the less
an initiation of a great policy? And remember this, that some of the
advantages I have held out, affect our own individual
interests--such as diminution of expense, and concentration of
forces.
_Sir Arthur._ I proceed. I am not to enter into discussion, but
simply to tell you what we all thought and felt.
We felt, then, that we were not competent to decide upon such a
question without having evidence of a military kind before us.
Of course you are not able to give us that; and we should not quite
trust you if you were able to give it. We admit that there would
probably be great prejudice from a military point of view against
your proposal; but, whether that view is prejudiced or not, we must
hear it before pledging ourselves, even in friendly talk, upon such
a grave matter.
_Milverton._ I have nothing to say in reply on this head, or rather
I have a great deal to say; but it must be said after your military
views have been expressed, and when I should be able to call in
counter-evidence. I could say a great deal from history, bearing
upon this point.
_Ellesmere._ Yes, yes; of course you could. You are better up in
such subjects than we are; and you would only give us the instances
which are in your favour. I do not mean that you would be
intentionally unfair; but, in the course of your reading, the
historical examples which are favourable to your own views would
naturally have attracted your attention, and have retained the
foremost place in your memory.
_Sir Arthur._ I will not allow discussion just yet. I must complete
my statement.
We are afraid, Milverton, of being led away, or rather misled, by
the consideration of some one of your projects--such as the giving
up of a particular fortress. We see that it would be a great change
in our imperial policy, especially as regards the colonies, if we
were to consent to come over to your idea, and vote as you propose.
We must look upon the thing as a whole. The power, influence, and
reputation of a great nation are very delicate things. We are
afraid, lest in touching some bit, we should derange the whole. In
fact, to use an official word, we are not “prepared” to give our
assent, however much or little it may be worth to your proposition.
We admit that it is worthy of the most serious, the most anxious
consideration. From this time forward we shall, no doubt, keep it in
our minds, and find many things to bear upon it which may be either
for you or against you. In fine, to talk after a parliamentary
fashion, we shall not go into the lobby with you, nor will our names
be found in the division list amidst your opponents; but we shall
walk out before the end of the debate.
_Ellesmere._ A mode of action which, in general, I detest; but, in
this particular case, I must hear a great deal more on both sides
before I can come to any conclusion upon so grave a matter.
_Milverton._ I do not wish to say anything disrespectful, and I am
very deeply obliged to you for the earnest attention you have given
to this important subject; but I must remark that some of the
arguments, or rather some of the feelings--for it seemed to me
rather sentiment than argument that Sir Arthur has just adduced--are
such as have been brought forward to stop the way of every great
reform. “Touch this, and what will become of that?” “Suppress here,
and you will cause detriment there.” You must admit it is hard to
meet these vague accusations.
Sir Arthur advised that we should sometimes cut our talk by
something that was either jocose or fanciful; and, whilst he was
speaking, I couldn’t help thinking of a proverb in vogue amongst the
Sheviri:--
“The frog leapt from the bank into the water; and, making a little
splash, said that he was so much afraid lest his friend, the
pescara,[35] who ate up pike for him in the deep waters of the lake,
should be troubled by it.”
Footnote 35:
Mr. Milverton afterwards told me a droll proverb, or rather
proverbial story, about the pescara and the frog. They are always
supposed to be great friends. The story is this: “The pike had
hold of the frog’s leg; the pescara came up and swallowed both of
them. As the frog was being swallowed he protested against this
breach of friendship. Upon which the pescara said, ‘It is a pity,
but how is it I find you in such bad company?’” The story used
politically to intimate that a small State cannot get into
relation with a larger State, even that of hostility, without
partaking of its troubles.
_Ellesmere._ Now that won’t do, Milverton: it is very well meant,
and very sarcastic, but it won’t do; for you begin by telling us
that the leap of your frog was a most important plunge--the
initiation of a new policy.
_Milverton._ Then I will give you another proverb which shall be
more applicable. No: it shall not be a proverb, but a fable, which
was a favourite with the Sheviri.
In the great wood where the Ramassa curves round the Bidolo-Vamah (I
know that Ellesmere always makes fun of this bit of description)
there dwelt two lions, occupying respectively the north-east and
south-west corners of the wood.
This was in the time when lions and men were very friendly, and
often had good talk together.
Both of these lions had scratched out with their powerful fore-claws
deep pitfalls near and afar from their respective caves.
These pitfalls troubled the poor men very much when they came to
gather beech-mast in the woods. So they said to the lions, whom they
met walking out together one fine day in the woods, “These holes
that you make everywhere are a great trouble to us; and we have lost
some of our people in them. Please fill them up, that friendship may
abide between us.”
And the lions said that they would consider about it; and, after the
men had gone, they reasoned together, but could not agree.
The lion of the south-west, calling all his friends of the forest
together, did fill up these pitfalls: the other lion remained sullen
and obdurate.
Now there came a great drought in the land; and the lions, drinking
filthy water, fell sick, and the little lions were at death’s door.
Then the men sent their chief medicine-man to the good lion, who
restored him and his young lions to their full strength; but the
other lion lost his lioness and his young cubs, and became more
gloomy and ferocious than ever.
_Ellesmere._ But there was a time when war did break out between men
and lions, and what happened then?
_Milverton._ That is exactly what I was going to tell you.
War did break out between men and the lions; and the suspicious
lion, flying from a band of armed men who were too strong for
him, fell into one of his pitfalls far away from his cave, the
existence of which he had forgotten; and he died miserably of
starvation. But the good and wise lion mocked at the pursuit of
armed men, and roamed freely, or if he fled, fled fast and
unharmed, over his part of the forest, for he had not to beware
of pitfalls; and he and his descendants occupied his corner of
the wood securely, down to the days of the great King
Realmah--commonly called Realmah-Lelaipah-Mu,----Realmah, the
youth who could foresee things.
_Ellesmere._ I must admit that the fable is a very significant one,
and keeps close to the matter it is meant to illustrate; but these
kind of illustrations never convince me.
_Milverton._ Before I conclude, there is one point upon which I wish
especially not to be misunderstood; and I trust that you will not
misunderstand me.
I trust that you will not think that I wish Great Britain to act
like a cruel stepmother--the stepmother that we meet with in
fiction; for I have often observed that in real life stepmothers are
very kind--and to get rid of her colonies in the most summary and
careless manner.
All I wish is, that these great colonial questions should be
carefully considered by our statesmen. There may be a great State,
or what will soon be a great State, which, in case of the outbreak
of any European war, will be molested solely in consequence of its
being attached to us by ties, however slight. Now, for the interest
of such a State (if such a State there be), still more than for our
own interest, I wish to disengage it from us, and so to free it from
any mischief that might come upon it from its connexion with
ourselves.
I have come to no fixed conclusions upon the difficult points
connected with this matter. I only wish, both for the sake of our
colonies and ourselves, that this great subject should have due and
instant consideration.
I do not pretend that I have not some distinct views and principles
in my own mind upon this subject; but I do not desire to impress
them, at the present moment, upon you. All I ask for, is
consideration.
_Sir Arthur._ I must say, Milverton, that you are very good and
reasonable upon this great subject. I should have much less faith in
you, and much less interest in your treatment of the subject, if you
were to endeavour, at this early period of the discussion, to
enforce upon us any cut and dried opinions upon it.
_Ellesmere._ Oh, he is as cunning a dog as ever lived, as regards
the artful way in which he gradually gets his opinions to sink into
your mind! He began with me, as a little boy in a pepper-and-salt
jacket and trousers, to convince me about the Corn-laws, and
Free-trade, and other great questions about which he had made up his
boyish mind most conclusively. To be sure he turned out to be right;
but that is no matter. That was a mere accident. I warn you that
when he is most fair-spoken, he is most dangerous.
_Milverton._ I cannot talk any more to-day. I am very tired.
Having so said, Mr. Milverton rose to go away. Before doing so, however,
he put his arm in a brotherly fashion round Lady Ellesmere, and gave her
a kiss, saying, “I am so glad, my dear Mildred, that you are on my side,
for I know you are; and you must bring him round. It is an important
admission, by the way, that he makes--namely, that all the women would
be on my side of the question.”
_Ellesmere._ Oh dear me, how wonderfully affectionate we are to
those people who agree with us! It is not often that my poor wife,
“a poor thing, sir, but mine own,” is honoured in this way. And I am
not sure that I should like it to occur very often.
Please don’t go yet. After a painful and elaborate discussion one
ought to have something to amuse one. Do you remember that just
before Milverton announced his five propositions, I said I could
tell you something about a sermon that was divided into five heads?
And Milverton would not let me interrupt.
_Sir Arthur._ Yes.
_Ellesmere._ Well, I was a boy of thirteen, at church with my
father; and opposite to us, in the gallery, was a lad of about the
same age as I was, in a pew with his family.
The sermon was of the order called drowsy, and we were well into the
third head of the discourse, and I was trying to get a glance at the
MS. in order to see whether we had got through more than half the
number of pages, which I am sorry to say was a favourite device of
mine, when my attention was arrested by a noise in the pew opposite.
Up started the lad I have told you of (we will call him Tom Brown,
remembering Tom Hughes’s story): in the most decisive manner he
brushed by his family, banged the pew door, and marched away, making
a considerable disturbance.
Immediately after church, my father, one of the most amiable of men
(Lady Ellesmere is thinking now how different from her son), said to
me, “Johnny, we must go and call at the Browns’ directly. Tommy is
either very ill, or there is something extraordinary the matter with
the boy.” Accordingly we went to pay a visit to the Browns’, and
there we found what really had happened. My little friend Tom Brown
had been chaffering the whole week with a gipsy boy from the
neighbouring common, about the purchase of a donkey. Late on
Saturday evening the negotiation stood thus:--Tommy had offered
1_l._ 15_s._ The gipsy boy stood out for 1_l._ 17_s._ 6_d._
During the first and the second head of the sermon, the wicked Tommy
had been thinking over all the good points of the donkey; and in the
course of the third head had come to the conclusion that he would
give 1_l._ 17_s._ 6_d._ And, being a boy of a most decisive turn of
mind, he resolved at once to complete the bargain.
That boy was the only person I ever saw go boldly out of church,
banging the pew door, and stamping out as if he thought the whole
congregation, if they knew what was in his mind, would entirely
approve of what he was doing. You know if one has ever so good a
reason for going out of church, one generally sneaks out as if one
were doing the most wicked thing possible.
Now the recollection of that transaction has stood me in good stead
ever since. When I have been arguing before the House of Lords, or
the Privy Council, and have noticed that the attention of one of the
Lords is wandering a little, I say to myself, he is thinking whether
he will give 1_l._ 17_s._ 6_d._ for the donkey, so I must quit this
branch of the subject, and rouse him up with a fresh argument.
How invaluable this story would be to Members of Parliament! When a
man, in a long and tiresome speech that he is labouring through,
sees that the attention of the House is wandering, he should
immediately realize the fact that it is thinking whether it will
give its 1_l._ 17_s._ 6_d._ for the donkey, and he should at once
conclude by firing off his peroration, long ago prepared. It is the
most foolish thing in the world to go on, even with good
argumentation, when you see that your audience is tired. I should
like it to be told of me that my auditors had always said, “I wish
Ellesmere would have given us a longer speech; but he is always so
succinct and curt.” What an example the late Sir William Follett was
to all of us! There _was_ a man. People did not presume to cough
while he was speaking. It was really one of the highest intellectual
pleasures to hear that man deal with a difficult case, or a great
subject. And how appreciative even the most uncultivated intellects
are of such closeness of reasoning! I knew a common soldier who
always went to hear the late Archbishop of Dublin preach, because,
to use an expression which delighted me, “it was so well argued and
put.” By the way, what a good essay that is of that man of many
initials, A.K.H.B., on the “Art of Putting Things.”
Now you will all remember this story of mine about the 1_l._ 17_s._
6_d._ for the donkey. You are very good, Sir Arthur, in respect of
speech-making, for you never make a speech in Parliament but it is a
great speech, and I honour you for that. You are very seldom
tiresome.
_Sir Arthur_ (putting his hand to his heart). It is indeed a
compliment to be praised by Sir John Ellesmere, whose praise, from
its exceeding rarity, is certainly most valuable. I hope I may
always deserve it.
[_Exeunt omnes._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XVI.
For some few days we had no readings nor conversations. The truth is,
Mr. Milverton was ill. I think the excitement and the anxiety that he
had lately undergone, from his desire to convince these people, had made
him ill, but he would not allow, even to his wife or to me, that this
was the case.
When he had recovered, we had another meeting. Sir Arthur began the
conversation.
_Sir Arthur._ Do you know, I think, Milverton, that we behaved
rather badly to you the other day. We treated you and Mrs.
Milverton, and Mr. Johnson, as if you were enemies; and we, the
know-nothings, held our private caucus, and arranged our opposition
to you, somewhat ungraciously perhaps. But I can assure you that you
had great friends in this caucus, in Lady Ellesmere and Mr. Cranmer.
_Cranmer._ I am very anxious to hear Realmah’s speech.
_Ellesmere._ And so am I; not that there will be anything new in it;
for, depend upon it, Master Realmah has nothing to say beyond that
which Master Milverton has already said to us. But he (Realmah) is
an interesting specimen of a savage, and I should like to see how he
deals with his Sir Arthur, his Cranmer, his Ellesmere----
_Cranmer._ Say, his Condore.
_Ellesmere._ And his Mauleverer, who, after all, will be the most
difficult person to deal with.
_Mauleverer._ I do not know what the Lake City Mauleverer might have
been like; but I can only say, that the British Mauleverer is a most
reasonable person to deal with. It is true that he does not partake
of any of your enthusiasms; but, at least, he is very like that good
man, Londardo, and is apt to think that the arguments for and
against anything are about equal; and so he is generally inclined to
go the way that his friends would have him.
He is not like a certain yappetting little poodle that I once
ventured to describe, but is rather of the bull-dog order, ready and
willing to take up his friend and master’s side, without looking too
anxiously into the rights of the dispute.
_Sir Arthur._ Let us have the King’s speech, Milverton. The greatest
proof that we can give you of our interest in your subject is, that
we would rather listen to you than have any more of our own talk.
And I am sure that this is the general feeling.
_Milverton._ I don’t know how you all became aware that Realmah is
to make a speech; I never told you. But Mildred knew it, and I
suppose she told her husband, for there is no trusting a married
woman with anything. She is sure to go and tell her husband; and
then he, not having been trusted himself in the first instance, has
no scruple in telling the whole world. The speech, however, does not
come just yet.
Mr. Milverton then commenced the reading.
The Story of Realmah.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE KING’S BIRTHDAY.
The King began to look very old and worn and wan. It was a weakness of
this great monarch that he would not know of this approach of age and
decay. Never did he look in the polished shells that served as mirrors
amongst the Sheviri, nor gaze down into the waters of the lake by
daylight. He felt that he had yet much to do. Life had few, if any,
pleasures for him; but it abounded in duties. That man is very strong
and powerful who has no more hope for himself: who looks not to be loved
any more; to be admired any more; to have any more honour or dignity;
and who cares not for gratitude; but whose sole thought is for others,
and who only lives on for them.
This was the state of Realmah. He ever feared that the civilization he
had created with such great rapidity, would die away with equal rapidity
after his death. Fearing this, even he, wise as he was, redoubled his
efforts at a time when he ought, in great measure, to have relaxed them;
and he would not know that he was fading away.
Quick to discern what was in their monarch’s mind, the courtiers were
prone to talk before him of his never-failing youth and vigour; and had
the effrontery to dwell upon this welcome theme, even when they saw the
pale grey King, in his grand heavy robes, wearily make his way to a
council, or drag himself along in some state ceremony.
Do what you will, you never can get to the end of the odd folly of
mankind. It is a sea that cannot be sounded. The witty Erasmus may write
a book[36] about it, but it defies the satire of the keenest satirist,
and is beyond the imagination of the most imaginative man. Here was a
prince who had done great things, and was inaccessible to any flattery
about them. Indeed, he could not bear to hear them alluded to. So
impatient was he in this respect, that he had cut short an ambassador
from a neighbouring people, who commenced an oration by a long and
laudatory description of the King’s great doings. “Could we not, my Lord
Ambassador,” said Realmah, “take all this for granted, and proceed at
once to the business in hand?”
Footnote 36:
The celebrated work, “Moriæ Encomium.”
The same man, however, was open to gross flattery upon the subject of
his youthfulness and continued vigour; and did not object to be told,
though he knew it to be false, at each recurring birthday, that the King
possessed a charmed life, and that the past year seemed to have added to
his vigour, rather than to have taken from it.
The art of sculpture is one which makes its appearance at the earliest
periods of civilization; and the Sheviri were already considerable
adepts in this art. As was to be expected, the representation of their
monarch was a favourite subject with the artists of Abibah. On the
Bridge of Leopards, an elegant little wooden bridge which connected two
portions of the eastern part of the city, there were two statues of the
King. The second one had been taken from life, seventeen years after the
first. The costumes of the statues were different--one being the garb of
a warrior, the other that of a king; but the second statue was even more
juvenile-looking, if anything, than the first. And both of them
represented a very young man, a kind of Apollo, who would by no means
halt in his gait.
There was not a person, man or woman, in Abibah, who did not know the
foible of the great King; and probably it endeared him to them, for a
man of great merit ought to have many foibles, if he would be much
loved.
There is generally something very interesting in premature decay, and
that because of the strange contrast it mostly affords. It is seldom, or
ever, total. There has been either great physical or great mental
overwork; and part of the vital energies is deadened or destroyed, while
the other part remains intact. Upon this other part new strain is put;
and gallantly for a time, if backed by a great soul, this other part
answers to the strain put upon it. But each day the enemy is stronger,
and the resisting power is weaker.
There was also in Realmah a quality which is to be noticed in the
greatest men, but it is one which tells with great severity upon the
vital powers. There was an almost infinite pitifulness[37] in Realmah.
The private and the public troubles of his subjects became his own, and
there was not a disease or a disaster amongst his numerous subjects that
did not weigh upon the heart, and tax the energies, of the great and
loving King.
Footnote 37:
It is a strange thing, by the way, that that word “pitiful” should
have been so corrupted, and that the man whose heart is full of pity
should have come to be looked upon as a small and poor kind of man.
His career, which we have but in a small degree narrated, shows that he
possessed that first quality needful for a ruler--justice. But if there
was any exception to this rule, any weakness of favouritism to be
observed in him, it was in a leaning which he always showed to the tribe
of the fishermen. Never was it known that the poorest fisherman was kept
long waiting for an audience with Realmah. That tribe never suspected
that the King’s especial regard for them proceeded from his never-dying
love for the Ainah. They thought that it was their own especial services
to him on the night of the great revolution that endeared them to him.
And, perhaps, his leaning to the fishermen’s tribe was, after all, a
stroke of policy (at any rate he pretended to himself that it was so),
for it is a grand thing for any person in power to have any man, or body
of men, upon whose affection he can profoundly rely, and whom he has not
to study to win upon any particular occasion of difficulty. Even the
great Napoleon, as hard a man as ever lived, could speak with loving
tenderness of those who were “devoted to my person;” and it is one of
the few blessings that attend great men, that they are sure to elicit a
large amount of personal affection amongst those who come into close
contact with them.
The forty-seventh birthday of the King approached, and was to be
celebrated throughout the city with great rejoicings. It was customary,
on that anniversary, for the King to receive all the official persons
connected with his government, both of the city of Abibah and of the
neighbouring towns.
It had been doubtful, on account of the wounds which the King had
received on the occasion of the mock fight, whether he would be well
enough to undertake this ceremony. But, notwithstanding those wounds
were still unhealed, he did so, though on this day it was a very long
reception, which lasted indeed for five hours. Never was the King more
gracious--never did he give more ample encouragement to those of his
high officers who had pleased him by the diligent discharge of their
duties, and who had loyally promoted his great designs; but, at the end
of the reception, he fainted away in the arms of his attendants. Still
this warning had no effect in rendering the King more prudent; and, with
unabated vigour, he prepared to undertake in a few days’ time a great
ceremony, the particulars of which will be narrated in the following
chapter.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE FESTIVAL OF THE FOUNDATION OF ABIBAH.
It was the festival of the foundation of the city of Abibah. The
festival was always celebrated on the ninety-sixth day of the year,[38]
and it was an occasion upon which the King was expected to speak very
frankly to his people, and to declare to them his hopes, his fears, and
his wishes for the future.
Footnote 38:
The manner in which the day for holding this anniversary was fixed
upon was by calculating as follows:--three fours were _multiplied_
together; and to their product was added the sum of eight fours, thus
making the total 96.
Whether Realmah felt that his health was in a precarious state (though
no man dared to say that he was not as young and vigorous as ever), or
whether he feared any quarrel amongst his allies and tributaries (and he
was well aware that what he intended to do could only be done in a time
of profound peace), he resolved that at this festival he would declare
his great project to the people. His recent wounds, he knew, would not
be otherwise than most serviceable to him on this occasion. In fact this
may have determined him, as he was well aware that his people were much
afraid that they had not yet earned his forgiveness, and would therefore
be most anxious to conciliate him, and to make their peace at any
sacrifice.
Now Realmah was a great orator--a born orator. After the first moments
of abject nervousness, which all men of fine temperament experience at
beginning a speech, Realmah was never greater, never more
self-possessed, than when he was addressing a multitude of his subjects.
The thousands of eyes looking up at him seemed to endow him with a part
of their own magnetic force. He felt that he could move his audience to
tears, to laughter, and even, what is more difficult still, to
self-abnegation. He was well aware that on this great occasion he must
tax his powers to the utmost, and either win or lose the cause which,
for thirty-five years, he had set his heart upon.
It was from a platform ascended by steps in the centre of the great
market-place of Abibah, that the King was accustomed to address the
assembled people on the auspicious day of the anniversary of the
founding of their city.
Slowly and painfully did the King ascend the steps on this memorable
day. He smiled a strange, ghastly smile, composed partly of pain, partly
of a wish to appear very gracious and very much delighted at meeting the
assembled people. In the distance the smile looked very well, and seemed
all graciousness; but to the faithful Omki, his foster-brother, this set
smile brought tears to the heart. And, strange to say (which was only
too painfully noticed by Omki), the King, in the middle of the ascent,
laid hold of his arm, and leant heavily upon it. “Keep close to me, dear
Omki,” he said; and Omki shuddered, for the King was not wont to say
“dear,” or to be so openly affectionate, even to him.
A word or two must be said of Omki before we proceed to give an account
of the royal speech, and of its direful results.
There is much hero-worship even in these days, but, alas, of what a
different kind to that of this faithful foster-brother! It is the
hero-worship of asking the hero out to unwelcome festivity, in order to
show him off, of invading his privacy, of molesting him in every way: it
is not the hero-worship of devoting labour and time, and fortune and
self-sacrifice, and life itself, to a great man, who would be worth it
all. Now it is little to say that Omki would have given his life for his
foster-brother the King: he would have waded deep in blood, regardless
of his own soul, to obey any order of the King. I am describing a pagan,
and not a Christian; but there is great merit in such self-devotion, in
whatever way it may be shown.
The King gained the platform, and wearily threw his jasper-studded robes
behind him.
His great Council followed--a body of venerable men, who looked as if
the cares of state were deeply marked in their expressive countenances.
There was a flourish of trumpets, or of the instruments that
corresponded with trumpets, which was by no means ineffective, for the
Sheviri were an eminently musical people, and, in their rude
instruments, there were the beginnings of all the instruments that are
now most potent in the expression of musical ideas. The people were
hushed into a supreme silence.
_Milverton._ I reserve the speech for a new chapter; and, before
describing its effect upon the men of Abibah, would like to hear
what the guests at Worth-Ashton have to say further upon Realmah’s
great project.
Here there was a pause for a time, but nobody chose to make any remark,
and then Mr. Milverton resumed.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE KING’S SPEECH.
The King commenced his speech. He began in those low, soft, musical
tones which compel attention from a crowd.
He told his people of the delight it was to him to meet them; and how,
in that vast assemblage of thoughtful men (and he should that day demand
the utmost of their thought) he believed that there was not one single
human being who was not a friend of his--who was not indeed devotedly
attached to his person and his government.
He went into various details, which we need not recount here, to show
what had been done during the past year; and he dwelt at some length
upon the ever-increasing prosperity which had gladdened the streets of
Abibah. He spoke of their improvements in manufacture, especially of the
manufacture of iron, and pointed out to them how wise and how
advantageous had been the policy which had made them the manufacturers
of iron for all that part of the world. “See,” he said, “the fruits of a
generous policy. Had we kept this art to ourselves, we might, it is
true, have been almost supernaturally strong to resist invasion; but now
we not only can defy invasion, but we have gained the goodwill of all
the people both far and near, and, in the last three years, our city is
doubled in extent.”
From all parts of the vast assemblage, at that and at other portions of
the speech, the cries of “Maralah! maralah!”--“He has said it! He has
said it!” (which corresponded to our “Hear, hear,”) were heard.
While the King was giving these details there was a gentle murmur of
under-talk amongst the crowd, for neither civilized nor uncivilized men
can long endure the narration of details, however interesting they may
be, or rather however interesting they ought to be. But this murmur was
entirely hushed into a supreme silence when the King changed the
subject, and began to speak about the mock-fight.
This subject he touched upon with great skill and delicacy. He took all
the blame upon himself, saying that he ought to have known that the
Sheviri, even in play, could not bear to be defeated. He was glad that
he had been one of the principal sufferers. With regard to those few
poor men who had fallen, our good Queen, he said, had taken care to
provide for their families.
When he ceased speaking on this topic, the crowd felt that a weight had
been taken off them, and there was a general murmur of satisfaction,
each man congratulating his neighbour that no evil thing had happened to
them, and saying how good and kind the King was, so ill too as he looked
from the effects of his wounds.
Realmah won many hearts by this part of his speech.
Then there came a long and elaborate story, or rather fable. Some such
fable had always been told by Realmah on these occasions, and for this
occasion it had cost him many a weary midnight hour to think over this
fable and to prepare it. All the rest of his speech flowed from his
heart, and was the gift of the moment; but the fable was a work of art.
He was not so much in advance in thought of his fellow-countrymen as not
to think these fables a most significant way of conveying ideas; and
what to us would seem childish, was to him a great flight of imagination
and of thoughtfulness.
The story was all about a crane and a serpent, and it told how the good
crane was loved and favoured by everybody--brought good fortune wherever
it alighted, and, in fact, was a sort of much-loved king. While, on the
other hand, the serpent was hated by all living creatures; and even when
it was innocent, and had left its poison behind it for the day, the
remembrance of its treachery and its malignity made all creatures
pitiless towards it, and anxious to destroy it.
The people did not quite perceive the drift of the story, which,
however, was soon to be made manifest to them; but they applauded it,
because any story about beasts, or birds, or reptiles, was very welcome
to them.
The King then dwelt upon the various embassies which had reached the
town of Abibah in the course of the preceding year, and showed his
people what credit and what vast advantages had flowed from the
commanding position which the Sheviri now occupied amongst the sons of
men. “Is it not better,” he said, “to be called upon to arbitrate than
to be deluded into a participation in their trumpery wars? Not that we
fear war--all the nations know that; and there lives not a prince so
daring as, even in his dreams, to contemplate a war with the Sheviri;”
and all the people shouted again with renewed enthusiasm, “Maralah!
maralah!”
“What,” Realmah continued, “could be said of the frenzy of those who
should dare to attack the men by whose valour and sagacity alone the
warlike nations of the North (now no longer dreaded) had been
triumphantly beaten back to their inhospitable, ice-bound climes?”
And now he dexterously changed his mode of speech; he dwelt upon the
beauty and the power possessed not only by himself, but by every one in
that assemblage, even the meanest, of being as it were an arbiter of the
fate of surrounding nations, of settling quarrels, of appeasing feuds,
of being, if he might presume to say so, humble representatives upon
earth of the great God whose name he did not dare to mention, who loved
all men, and only wished that all mankind should be one brotherhood.
Here the exclamations of applause were redoubled, and the soft voices of
women might also have been heard exclaiming “Maralah! maralah!”
Realmah then, with great tact, alluded to the labours of his Council; he
was but the meanest of the servants of his people. What should he, a
comparatively young man (here there was a smile on the faces of the
whole assemblage, which each man and each woman strove to suppress), be,
if he had not the guidance, the affectionate guidance, of their fathers,
who had grown old in the service of the country, and who stood around
him, a devoted band of trusty councillors, second to none upon this
green earth?
He then, with the skill of an accomplished orator, affected to hesitate
and to be overcome, while from the most distant outskirts of the vast
assemblage there arose cries of the most endearing encouragement. They
called upon the gods to bless him, to prosper all his doings, to
preserve him to them for untold years; and even Realmah, who had meant
the interlude as a mere artful point in oratory, was himself, for the
moment, overcome by the vast display of real affection exhibited towards
him by his people. He absolutely wept; but knowing how mistaken a thing
it is for an orator to be really overcome by his feelings, he threw
himself back upon the thought of the great work he had to undertake, and
of the immense difficulty that it would be to overcome his people’s
prejudices. He himself, however, scarcely recognised the effect he had
produced,--that there was not a man in that vast assemblage who at that
moment would not have thought it almost treason to presume to differ
from their great King.
A little incident, too, succeeded in recovering Realmah more than almost
anything else could have done. His eyes had fallen upon the critical
Condore; and, to the King’s amazement, Condore, who by the way was
always fascinated by oratory, was one of those who gesticulated most
furiously, and made the most tempestuous exclamations of applause.
But Condore, true to his critical character, the moment he found the
King’s eyes upon him, changed immediately, and began to move his head
from right to left, in token of the severest disapproval. Realmah, who
like most men of genius had the keenest sense of what was ridiculous,
was amazingly tickled by Condore’s behaviour; and the good Condore
probably at that moment unconsciously fulfilled his mission on the
earth, for he succeeded in restoring the King, who had been nearly
overcome by these outbursts of affection, to the full mastery of his
usual cool, crafty, self-possessed nature.
Realmah resumed his oration, feeling that it was almost the supreme
moment of his life. “What then have we gained, and how have we gained
it? We have gained the affection of all the peoples who dwell within
four hundred innesangs.[39] Now look,” he said, “what is it that
governs? Is it force? Force lasts only as long as it is present, but the
power of affection lasts for ever, speaks even out of the tomb. Most of
us here present are men.--Are we ruled? Doubtless we are. By whom are we
ruled? Is it by those who have strength to compel us, or is it by those
whose weakness and whose delicacy contain their most undoubted strength?
What man amongst us, from the king on his throne to the fisherman whose
daily bread is precarious, will not own, if he be a man, to an infinite
desire to win and to gratify those who are dearest to him in his
household, his wives and his children?” (There was enormous shouting in
the crowd, with loud bursts of laughter, in which the women did not
join, and great cries of “Maralah! maralah!”)
Footnote 39:
Innesang, a measure in use with the Sheviri, being 400 times 4 feet,
taking the average length of the human foot as the unit.
The King proceeded: “I have spoken, it may be jestingly, it may be that
the most earnest thoughts that I have ever uttered underlie this playful
speech. Do you think that the law of affection is confined to individual
men and women alone? May there not be states that should feel towards
one another a similar relation? And now I will tell you what I have felt
from my youth upwards, and, if ever you have loved your King, you must
listen to him when he seeks to persuade you of that which, from his
earliest years, has been his deepest wish, and to which the endeavours
of his years of maturity--years not passed without suffering, such as
only a king can know--have been devoted. What has been the one thing
which has long prevented our being supremely loved and admired by the
nations around us; which has stood in the way of our being loved by them
with the devotedness which a woman has for the lord of her household,
her chief? It has been our possession of the great fortress of
Ravala-Mamee. This, and this alone, has alienated the affections of the
nations from us. When we were a weak people, it might have been well to
preserve it; but now we are beyond all fears, and our rule will best be
enlarged, maintained, and preserved, by our possessing the entire
confidence and love of all the surrounding nations.
“I am for abandoning this fortress” (there were cries of “Maralah
nevee”--“He has not spoken it!” The King disregarded them; he
continued): “Is it much to confide in your king? There are not many
times in a man’s life when it becomes him to say what he has done; but
there are such times. Have not I--have not we” (turning to his
councillors)--“raised you from a petty state to the most commanding
nation known in this part of the world? Is it for ordinary men to
measure the wisdom of chiefs? But I need not upbraid you. I see by your
countenances that you are only too willing to believe in your king, who
has led you on so often to victory; who has made each of you a
conqueror; and who now seeks, with your aid, which you will not refuse
your king, to place your dominion upon a basis which cannot be
removed--the love, the affection, and the gratitude of all the
surrounding nations, upon whose necks you might have trampled, but to
whom you say, ‘Rise, and be one with us, who are the leaders of arts, of
knowledge, and of policy--the indomitable Sheviri.’” The vast assemblage
answered to the King’s noble words with corresponding enthusiasm, and
there was but one cry, or if there was, the voices of dissentients were
drowned by the predominant shout of “Maralah! maralah!”
The King, upon whose face there beamed the light of joy such as no man
had yet seen upon it, resumed: “It is not I--who am I that I should
guide your councils? It is your fathers, the venerable men who stand
around me, who sanction all that I propose, and who, far superior to me,
have overcome their attachment to a policy in which they were bred;
which they have long maintained by arts and by arms; but which, with the
greatness of minds open to conviction, they are now determined to
supersede by a policy of wise and affectionate conciliation.” The
surrounding members of the Council intimated, by expressive gestures,
their consent, and the approving shouts of the whole assemblage were
redoubled.
Realmah resumed his speech; and resolved, in one splendid peroration,
long ago prepared in those midnight walks of his up and down the
balcony, to fix upon the minds of his people his own prophetic ideas. I
call them prophetic, for, alas! they were not to be realized in his
time; but such ideas were to be for the guidance of nations to whom the
very name of Realmah, of his nation, of his generation, would be
entirely foreign, and to whom his wars, his alliances, and his
suzerainties would be as utterly unknown as the battles of the kites and
the crows, or any of the inferior animals.
Realmah resumed: “And now these are my last words to-day to all of you.
And it may be that the King may not speak to you many more times, for he
is feeble”--(from all parts of the assemblage arose shouts of “Long live
the King!”)--“yes, he is feeble; and he knows, though he has sought to
disguise it from you and from himself, that he is not the man he was. He
would have you drink in these words as if indeed they were his last. He
has sought to be a father to you; and all his own joys and sorrows have
been put aside to fulfil to each one of you the loving relation of a
father. And you have been good sons to him.
“What man amongst you is there that does not love Realmah?” (The
audience were moved to an inexpressible degree.) “But I come back to my
great subject. What is the highest power? What is the greatest force?
What is the most unbounded dominion? Is it the power of the sword? Is it
the force of arms? Is it the dominion gained by conquest? Lives there
one amongst you, the most daring, the highest placed, whom Realmah could
not, by a word, condemn to death? But what would the King gain by the
loss of a loving subject? And so it is with each one of us, all of whom
are kings. We will rule in the hearts of surrounding nations, and not
diminish or destroy them. It shall be for ever said of the Sheviri that
they were dauntless in battle, merciful in conquest, and good lords whom
all men desired to live under, and whose beneficent sway spread out
undivided, unresisted, unopposed, from where that bright luminary rises
joyous in the strength of youth, to where, surrounded by his purple
guards, he descends into the waters that receive him tenderly, and
refresh him for the labours of the ensuing day.
“I say again, What is conquest? What is power? What is domination?” And
here, strangely enough, Realmah concluded in a form of speech that was
adopted on a similar occasion by one of our own greatest orators,[40] so
true is it that the highest flights of oratory are alike in all nations,
and under all circumstances. “To have found the peoples of this vast
region sunk in barbarism,[41] living from day to day a mean,
care-driven, hazardous life, each man set against his neighbour, each
chief against his brother chief, each state against its neighbour state;
their arms of defence and offence the weapons of children; their
habitations, huts; their policy, only craft; their ambition, only
self-interest; their mode of life, little better than that of the wild
animals of the woods--to have raised all these people till they are men,
statesmen, members of great nations--these are the triumphs of
reason[42] over barbarism. This is the just, the only just, and
God-rewarded conquest insured to us by our arts and our morals, by our
divine policy and our heaven-descended laws.”
Footnote 40:
Lord Macaulay, in his Indian speech.
Footnote 41:
The word for barbarism is “_pralo-mi-mamee_,”--“only able to count 1,
2, 3.”
Footnote 42:
The word was a long compound, “sitting alone at night.”
The King ceased. The assemblage was moved to a degree that had never
been known before, even at these high festivals. Upon their recovering
from their emotion, they shouted with one voice, “Let it be as the King
has said; we are his slaves,--long live Realmah.”
But, strange to say, the King, for a minute or two, moved not, but gazed
at his people with a glassy stare, as if all intelligence had gone out
of him. Then, recovering himself, he grasped at the balcony, afterwards,
in a moment, at the arm of the faithful Omki, who was close to him.
“Stay near me,” he muttered in strangely indistinct words, “guards,
close around me: let the trumpets sound.”
The faithful Omki divined the coming danger. Leaning heavily upon Omki,
and tottering down the steps, surrounded by his body-guard, and followed
by the councillors, whose looks to one another betrayed their fears, the
King was half led, half carried, to his palace, the populace remaining
in profound ignorance of the sudden seizure by illness of their beloved
sovereign.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE DEATH OF THE KING.
Even during the days of his last illness, Realmah’s exertions for the
good of the kingdom were unremitting. The heir to the throne,
Andarvi-Milcar, who loved the King fervently, and who, perhaps, of all
the men in the city least desired his death, was constantly with him,
receiving his last instructions. And here the exceeding sagacity of
Realmah may be noticed; for though he spoke much of what had been his
designs for the future, he spoke more of the men who were to carry them
out, giving to Andarvi, even in the minutest particulars, his opinion of
the characters, not only of the principal officers of the kingdom, but
even of those lesser magistrates who had considerable power in distant
settlements.
It was a curious thing, as illustrating the King’s mechanical skill and
love of science, that while he was ill he had invented an ingenious
arrangement by which the sponges containing nutritious liquid could be
conveyed to his lips by his slightly moving a particular string or wire.
During his last illness he saw much of his wives. Realmah had really
been very good to the Varnah. On ordinary occasions, and when his mind
was full of business, he could not pretend to sympathise with her in her
petty cares and hopes, but every now and then he made a great effort to
please her. He would send for some rare product or some rare work of art
to a distant part of his dominions, and would then confide to the Varnah
what he had done, pretending all the while that he was doubtful whether
he should get it, though he knew full well that no one ever refused the
great King anything he asked for. Then he would charm the Varnah by
talking about the expected present, as if he were deeply interested in
it, and he would contrive that it should come upon some festal day,
especially upon the birthday of her departed mother; for the mother’s
birthday was always held in great reverence. Realmah really liked the
Varnah, admired her skill in household management, was pleased with her
orderliness (though he had none of that quality himself), never forgot
the aid he had received from her during the siege, and believed that in
her way she was attached to him. Indeed, to the court jester, the only
man whom he allowed a glimpse into his inmost soul, he would say, “I am
the Varnah’s choicest possession, and she will mourn for me, poor thing,
when I am gone, as no one else will mourn. In truth I am afraid lest
then all the other possessions should lose favour in her sight.” And
when she came into his presence, as he was dying, he would take her
hand, and speak kindly to her, and tell her how to guide her household
and her wealth. And the poor Varnah was astonished to find that even in
those matters in which she had thought her husband but a good-natured
child, he was her master--a wise and sagacious man, full of foresight.
To the beautiful Talora, too, though less loving, he was kind; and she
was astonished to find that he read the utmost depths of her soul,
counselling her, notwithstanding her protests, as to whom she might
marry hereafter, and what alliance she might with least loss of royal
dignity advantageously contract; and Talora wept bitterly, discerning,
perhaps for the first time, what a great man she had married, and what a
small part of her heart she had given to him. The intensity of this
feeling on her part may best be shown by the fact that it was three long
years before Athlah could win the still beautiful Talora to be his
bride, and that Realmah was never mentioned but that Talora blushed and
sighed and looked sad, when she thought how great a soul had nearly been
her own, and what she might have made of the love of a man who had so
large a capacity for loving.
But, poor woman, she was somewhat mistaken, for it was not in her nature
to comprehend the love that the Ainah had called forth in Realmah, and
what immeasurable regrets and infinite longings of his had been buried
in her tomb.
On the ninth day after the festival, at three in the morning, when the
air was coldest, a deep groan from the King summoned his drowsy
attendants. He started up in bed. In a loud voice he said, “Preserve my
kingdom; be faithful to Andarvi-Milcar. I go to meet her for ever--for
ever; light, more, more light.” And saying this, the great King sank
back upon his couch, and with a sigh poured forth his spirit.
The next morning there was sorrow and lamentation in almost every house
in Abibah; and they mourned for him as for a father.
His funeral was magnificent. They raised a great mound for him, which,
amidst the changes of the earth’s surface, is still visible in the wood
that lies adjacent to those waters which were once a great lake, and are
now but a small one, and which mound still puzzles the learned amongst
the antiquarians.
What a strange memorial is that round, coarse, undescriptive thing, a
mound, to tell of heroic deeds, grand thoughts, and unbounded suffering!
And yet how often in the world’s history is it all that does remain to
commemorate these deeds, these thoughts, and this suffering. Perhaps,
too, all that will remain of us in after-ages, and of our intricate
civilization, will be a few such mounds, and some collected heaps of
rubbish, to be pored over by the learned men of a new generation,
occupying a little portion of that surface of the earth which is, after
all, but one vast unrecorded burial-ground.
_Ellesmere._ And so poor Realmah is dead! You all think me a very
hard man, but if there is anything in this world that I have a
horror of, it is my friends dying, whether in real life, or even in
fiction.
I have become quite accustomed to Milverton’s droning on about
Realmah, and thought that it was to last for the greater part of my
natural life. I must not say that he is a friend in fiction, and not
an entire reality. As for Mrs. Milverton, Lady Ellesmere, Sandy, and
even Milverton himself, they have the firmest belief in their
Realmah. You could not offer them a greater insult than to suppose
for a moment that such a being as Realmah had not existed, and that
he had not done all these fine things. They get together in the
study, and I hear them in my room overhead buzzing away, and I know
that it is all talk about Realmah. I have very little doubt that
Blanche and Mildred had a good sisterly cry together (nothing
comforts a woman so much as having a good cry) over “poor dear
Realmah’s death.”
_Sir Arthur._ I agree with Ellesmere, it is hateful to come to the
end of anything, or anybody.
There is one thing I am very curious to know; and that is, whether
Andarvi-Milcar, Realmah’s successor, fulfilled Realmah’s wish, and
gave up, or demolished, the fortress of Ravala-Mamee.
_Milverton._ He did; but whether he was successful or not in so
doing, I do not know. I suppose that in some succeeding age the
Northmen did come down again, and make an end of the Lake-cities.
I feel, now that it is all written, that I have omitted to dwell
upon many things and persons that I ought to have described, but I
did not like to worry you with details. For instance, I should like
to have told you about the King’s jester, whom I have alluded to,
but never described.
He was a very clever man, but excessively indolent. He never cared
to take much interest in public affairs. He had the right of
accompanying the King everywhere, and being near him whether at a
council or a feast. Sometimes at a council he said very shrewd
things, and was really of use. At other times he took no interest in
the business in hand, but all the time played a game with himself
called _kinwee_, which was played with fishes’ bones. He was very
fond of Realmah, and followed him about like a dog. He delighted in
witnessing so much energy and activity, and felt almost as if he
himself was energetic and active. He kept the King’s secrets well,
and that endeared him to Realmah. His mischievous propensities
plagued the good Varnah a great deal, and he delighted to tease her,
but she bore with him most kindly for the King’s sake.
_Ellesmere._ Just as Mrs. Milverton tolerates me for Milverton’s
sake.
_Milverton._ It was very comical sometimes to see the jester at a
council, when he was in one of his queer moods. He would throw down
a large number of these fishes’ bones on the table, close to
Realmah, then make a grab at them, shutting his eyes; then say, “Odd
or even?” and retire into a corner to count the bones, nobody of
course paying any attention to him. At last he would get tired of
playing by himself, and would resolve to bring Realmah into the
game. The poor jester did not dare to go near anybody else, so he
would whisper persuasively in the King’s ear, “Loftiness, my dear,
do let us have a bet, it’s so dull.”
_Ellesmere._ I thoroughly sympathise with this poor man. Everybody
does so over-explain everything to me. I am so tired sometimes of
everybody.
_Milverton._ And the King would return the whisper, “Go into the
corner, throw ten times,--even bet of two shells there are more odds
than evens. Play fair, don’t cheat your poor King, he has always
enough to do with his shells.” And so the jester was kept quiet for
a time.
The jester might have served the new King, but he would not do so.
After the funeral of Realmah, the poor jester sadly followed the
Varnah home to the house which had been Realmah’s in his earliest
days, and where the Varnah meant to dwell for the remainder of her
life. He (the jester) had never asked leave to live with Her
Loftiness, nor had she made the offer to him to do so, but she would
have taken care of a dog (though she disliked dogs) which Realmah
had loved, and she was secretly delighted that the jester had
elected to live with her.
Two more uncongenial souls could not have been imagined than Her
Loftiness and the poor jester. She could not understand his wit (he
was really very witty), and she detested his coarse fun and his
practical jokes, but had endured them most kindly for Realmah’s
sake. Realmah, too, was not the man to be amused by practical jokes,
but he liked to see the people about him laugh, and be amused with
anything, for he said, “Then they do not busy themselves too much
with the affairs of my government.”
_Ellesmere._ The poor jester! I pity him from the bottom of my
heart. I know full well what it is to live with people who do not
quite understand one. None of you, except perhaps Milverton, quite
understand me--not even always Lady Ellesmere.
_Milverton._ Be comforted, Ellesmere. It was not long before the
jester had a companion.
The faithful Omki had, in obedience to Realmah’s dying command,
attached himself to the new King. But he could not take any real
interest in public affairs, or in the new King. He became utterly
listless and depressed, so, at the end of a year, he went to
Andarvi-Milcar, and said, “My lord and king, Omki’s heart is not a
big heart, and it has not room for more than one love. I am the man
who was in the same cradle with the great King, and I cannot love
anybody else. Let thy servant go, for he is stupid and useless.”
Andarvi-Milcar consented; and Omki, also, went and took up his abode
with the Varnah. Her Loftiness rejoiced that she had now two
feckless, listless, human beings to look after, who had loved her
Realmah.
See what a dangerous thing it is to come within the influence of a
very great man, or of a very admirable woman. If you have not a
great capacity for loving, they take all the love out of you at
once, and make the rest of the world uninteresting to you.
These two, the jester and Omki, would sit in the porch before the
house of Her Loftiness, the jester playing his game of odd-and-even
by himself, while Omki sat silent, full of sad memories of Realmah;
and then an old man would join them, and pass the sunny hours of the
day in their company.
This old man was Condore. His chief happiness consisted in talking
with the jester and with Omki about the late King; and there was a
great deal of talk, in which you could hear the words, “and he said
to me,” and “I said to him;” and then they went through the strange
scenes which had occurred on Realmah’s coming to the throne, and on
the defeat of the Northmen, and on the sham fight, and on the last
days of Realmah’s public appearance.
Thus these three men passed the remainder of their lives. Condore
lived to a great age, for the daily exercise of criticism is not a
thing which rapidly exhausts the vital powers.
_Ellesmere._ I am glad at least to find that, according to
Milverton, I am to have a long life.
_Milverton._ There was a councillor whom I forgot to mention at the
time when I described to you the rest of Realmah’s councillors. I
thought of this omission afterwards, but imagined you would not care
to have it remedied. However, I should like to describe him to you
now, for his was a very peculiar form of mind, but one not unknown
in modern times.
His name was Pimmenee. Like the other councillors, he was a very
clever man. He was the most observant person amongst the Sheviri of
natural phenomena; and, in general, knew more facts than anybody
else. He would make a statement very boldly, and apparently well
founded upon facts. But then there would come such a string of
exceptions that the original statement would seem to be broken down
by them, and at last you felt as if you had nothing to rely upon.
Realmah would try and bring him back to his original statement by
repeating it; but Pimmenee would never admit that the repetition was
correct. He had not said quite this. That was not the exact word he
had used; or, if he had, it would not quite bear out his meaning.
For instance, a question would arise where the summer camp should be
placed, and Pimmenee would at first pronounce very decidedly against
a particular spot as being near a morass. Then there would come a
host of exceptions to the statement--there were morasses and
morasses. It might even be an advantage to be near a morass. And so
he would go on, fining down his original statement till at last
hardly anything remained of it.
_Ellesmere._ Is he not a little like two of the other fellows,
namely, Lariska and Delaimah-Daree?
_Milverton._ No: there is where you are so often deluded in
estimating men, and fail to get the most out of them--summing them
up under some one general form of condemnation: saying, for
instance, that they are not _practical_.
Now, Lariska was simply too argumentative: Delaimah-Daree too
resourceful, and therefore too inconclusive; while this man,
Pimmenee, was too exceptive. To get the good that was really to be
got out of these men, you must have mastered the peculiar bent of
each of their minds, which prevented each one of them, taken by
himself, from becoming a perfect councillor; but which did not
prevent their being of great use as individual members of a council.
I should like to give you some of the proverbs of the Sheviri. These
were, in after-ages, all attributed to Realmah; and some of them, I
really think, were his.
_Sir Arthur._ I should like to hear them. There is nothing in all
literature more interesting to me than proverbs, and the fact that
they are no man’s children makes them more interesting. I do not
know a single instance, except in the Bible, where you can say for
certain that such a proverb was made by such a man.
_Milverton._ Well then, here are some of them:--
_The viper will stand upon the tip of his tail to make himself
agreeable in good company._
_The crane stands upon one leg, in heavenly meditation; but all the
while he is looking sharply after his fish._
_When the eyes and the lips lie, look to the hands and the feet._
_The prudent man_ (literally, the man who has eyes in the back of
his head) _cares more whom he is with, than even what he does._
_Four fishes smelt at the bait and turned their tails to it; one
fish came by and swallowed it._ (The advantage of a council.)
_Before the journey is over, the dog has run twice the distance._
(Applied to a man who does not go directly to the point; but wanders
hither and thither like a dog.)
_Make the four salutations to a friend every day._ (This alludes to
the four bows that were made to foreign ambassadors by all who met
them; and the proverb means this,--Keep up always the highest forms
of courtesy with your friends.)
_Jealousy kisses its left hand, because the right hand caught the
fish._
_The man you hate cannot carry his food to his mouth, but you hate
him more for his way of doing so._
_The ghosts of snails get into their shells_ (money) _by night, and
go, for company, where there are most shells._ (_i.e._ Money makes
money.)
_Eukee! Eukee! Eukee! but, wife, the salt fish will do._ (“Eukee” is
a solemn word addressed to the gods; and the proverb alludes to the
hypocrite, who addresses the gods fervently, but sacrifices to them
only salt fish.)
_The tears of a chief cause sore eyes to all other chiefs._
_The water sends you back_ (reflects you), _so do all men and
women._
_Better be quite blind than see one side only of everything._
_If you will do the thing that has not been done before, first hide
all the stones that are in the streets of the city._
_To the tiger his claws; to the serpent her venom; to the eagle his
talons; to the rat his teeth; and to men and women calumny:--the
good God gives weapons to all._
_The Sheviri cursed the rain; but the patient rain went on raining,
and the earth became green._
_Say it often; men, as well as parrots, will say it too._
_If you slay your adversary, are you sure you have done him any
harm?_
_The ants march in one line, and overrun kingdoms._ (An argument for
unity and order.)
_The echo says nothing of itself; so, the people._
_The clever lizard leaves its tail in your hand._ (This was a
favourite saying of the King when he was urging compromises on his
councillors.)
_A lie lasts for a day: but it may be the day._ (This, in the
original language, is really a most effective proverb. The articles
“a” and “the” are not expressed directly, but are included in the
substantives. A day, _i.e._ an ordinary day, is _Tala_. _The_ day,
_i.e._ the day upon which some important decision is arrived at, is
_Talammah_; and so the proverb runs in the original language,
_Strag_ (a lie) _marlt Tala; pol kree Talammah._)
_When you want to sell the blunt hatchet, be the first to say that
it is blunt._
_How wise the clever men would be if they could understand the
foolish!_
_All make the four bows to yesterday._ (Meaning, I suppose, that all
must submit to what we call now “the logic of facts.”)
_One wise man knew the secret way into the city; but all said, “Why
should we follow one man?”_
_The king had a friend before he was king._
_Only the quite deaf hear praises always of themselves._
_If the spider barked like a dog, would he catch flies?_
_He who looks down, gathers shells_ (_i.e._ money); _he who looks
up, sighs for stars, but they do not come to him._
_The tiger that you look at will not give you the death-stroke._
_A wise man said a word too much: that word was the word of a fool._
_While the lightning lasted, two bad men were friends._
_Ellesmere._ Some of the proverbs are not bad. I like “the clever
lizard” one, and “the dog that runs twice the distance.”
There, again though, how hard men are upon dogs. Why, men,
metaphorically speaking, run ten times the distance! Then I like
“the four fishes” one. I have myself observed that it is much easier
to delude fish when they come singly, than when they come three or
four together, and are fishes in council.
There are several of the other proverbs, Milverton, that are far too
modern in their substance, and that you could never persuade me were
uttered by any savage, however much you may try to make him out a
Solomon.
_Sir Arthur._ _I_ like all of them very much.
_Ellesmere._ Of course you do. As I have said before, one never gets
an author to speak disrespectfully of another author--in his
presence. Now I’ll give you a proverb which shall be worth
something. _Never believe a man when he talks about anything which
he thoroughly understands._
_Mauleverer._ That is the most impudent proverb I have ever heard.
_Ellesmere._ Impudent it may be; but true, it undoubtedly is.
When a man understands anything very well, he generally has an
especial repute for it, and he speaks with an eye to that repute of
his. Sir Arthur being an eminent man of letters, his _public_
opinion of other men of letters is not worth that [snapping his
fingers].
_Sir Arthur._ I shall respond to Ellesmere by giving him a proverb,
or rather a saying, which I met with the other day, and which has
delighted me beyond measure. It was in that recent work of Sir Henry
Bulwer. Some Frenchman said, “_C’est un avantage terrible de n’avoir
rien fait; mais il ne faut pas en abuser._” What a wonderful lesson
that is for some critics! Eh, Ellesmere?
_Ellesmere._ I don’t seem to feel it personally, but it certainly is
not bad. It is indeed a tremendous advantage to have done nothing,
when one is oneself the subject of criticism.
_Milverton._ Well, now that “Realmah” is ended, all that I have got
to say to you is, whether you have done anything or whether you have
not done anything (in which latter case you will certainly be in the
best position for criticism), do not trouble yourselves with
criticising, but do consider whether we may not draw some lesson
from this savage chief as to the management of our own political
affairs. Only promise me that, and I shall be amply rewarded for any
pains that I have taken in telling you the truthful story of his
life.
[Here the conversation ended, and we went our separate ways.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XVII.
The holidays were coming to an end, a melancholy fact which, as may be
imagined, we did not at all like to contemplate.
It was breakfast time on the Monday morning preceding that on which we
should have to return to town. After we had sat down, Sir John, as
usual, was the first to begin talking.
_Ellesmere._ Oh dear, dear! ’Tis sad to think that, after one more
revolving week, I shall have to go back to town with Lady Ellesmere,
to be entrusted to her tender mercies, and to take leave of Fairy
and of the water-rats, of whose bright little eyes and inquiring
countenances I see so much when I go fishing; and of Milverton, too,
and of all the other intelligent creatures with whom I am at present
domiciled. Let us make the most of this week.
_Milverton._ I am preparing, at Sir Arthur’s particular desire, an
essay for you for next Saturday.
_Ellesmere._ And that is what the fellow calls “making the most of
this week.” However, it is all right. The blackness of Black Monday
is greatly diminished in intensity when the preceding Saturday is
made of a dark brown colour by having to listen to an essay.
_Milverton._ But this will be an essay that you will like, I think.
_Ellesmere._ That is what you always hold out. The particular thing
that you are at work upon is always to give life a new savour. It is
the one subject which mankind is pining to hear discussed.
_Milverton._ It is to be an abrupt, disjointed essay. It is to sum
up, as it were, our discussion, of late, of many subjects. There
will be much that is commonplace in it; much that you have often
heard me talk about before; much that you yourselves have said; and,
perhaps, there will be a few new things. I really believe it will be
the last I shall ever write.
Hereupon Sir John muttered something which sounded very like a grace
after meat; but Lady Ellesmere put her hand upon his mouth and stopped
his muttering. When she removed it, however, he began talking.
_Ellesmere._ No: I don’t believe it. Placards up! “Signor
Doncatelli, or Herr von Klinkel, has consented, at the urgent
request of his many friends and admirers, to give one more
representation, in which he will appear in his well known part of,
&c. &c.”
No one seems to know when to leave off. Poor dear Sir Walter Scott!
even he, shrewd man though he was, must write “Count Robert of
Paris.”
Pooh! don’t tell me. I know but too well the nature of all you
fellows who are accustomed to exhibit, and to be pointed out as
monsters by the finger of the passers-by (_monstrari digito
prætereuntium_), whether you are statesmen, actors, or authors. You
never can be quiet unless you are upon your stage. There will no
more be a last essay by Milverton, while he is alive, than there
will be a last muffin baked as long as there are people who have the
rude digestion to consume muffins. Don’t hold out false hopes: there
is nothing more cruel.
_Milverton._ I shall not reply to Ellesmere’s sneers. He will be
sure, after all, to take a box for Lady Ellesmere and himself, to
hear Doncatelli.
What I want, however, to consult you about--for I am very much
puzzled myself about it--is, what title we shall take. The essay
will consist of endeavours to show how human life may be improved. I
do not for a moment agree with Mauleverer that we are at a
standpoint of misery, as he imagines; but, no doubt, there is a
great deal that is very miserable in the world, and within our
power, I think, to ameliorate.
_Cranmer._ What should you say to this for a title?--“On the
improvement of things in general.”
_Milverton._ Too vague, Mr. Cranmer.
_Sir Arthur._ “On the improvement of the human race?”
_Ellesmere._ That’s right; lug in “the human race:” that is sure to
please Milverton. What says Sandy?
_Johnson._ “On physical and mental development, with a view to the
future welfare of the world.”
_Ellesmere._ Oh, you pedantic Scotch boy! we can’t have that.
_Mauleverer._ “On the possible, but very far from probable,
diminution of the extreme wretchedness of mankind.”
_Milverton._ No. I can’t accept that; I do not begin by looking at
things from your point of view, Mauleverer.
_Mrs. Milverton._ “On consolation.”
_Ellesmere._ Pour out a cup of tea for me directly, please, Mrs.
Milverton. She will well water the teapot, I know, to spite me, if I
say what I think of her title before my cup is poured out.
My dear woman, it is _not_ “consolation” that we are going to write
about. It is to prevent the necessity for your rubbishing
consolation. We all know that you women think you are such “dabs,”
as we used to say at Eton, at consoling. It is not bolts and bars
for the stable door that we are going to provide, after the donkey
has been stolen; but we are here assembled, or rather shall be next
Saturday, to prevent the stealing of donkeys.
And now, Lady Ellesmere, what wise suggestion are you going to make
for a title?
_Lady Ellesmere._ “On _man_kind being made less provoking.”
_Ellesmere._ What would that do for the solace of the world, if
_woman_kind were left as they are? For surely the art of provoking
is their own.
I see you will have to come to me for a title. I boldly suggest this
one: “On the art of making men comfortable.”
In this Act of Parliament, or, if you like it, essay, the word “men”
shall include men, women, dogs, horses, cows, water-rats,
black-beetles, and all other animals and insects.
_Milverton._ Your title is rather long, Ellesmere, especially if
your interpretation of the word “men” be added to it.
_Ellesmere._ Not a bit too long. The Act, I mean the essay, shall
always be referred to as “The Comfortable.” That will please Sir
Arthur.
_Sir Arthur._ It will show what a forgiving disposition I have, and
how fond I am of “The Magnanimous,” that I confess I agree with
Ellesmere, and am quite content that his title, in its full length,
should be adopted.
_Milverton._ So be it then; and Mr. Johnson and I will do our best
to get ready by next Saturday. I shall want a good deal of
indulgence from you.
_Ellesmere_ (tapping his breast). This is the shop, as Mr. Squeers
would say, to come to for indulgence.
Here the conversation about the essay ended. Mr. Milverton and I worked
very hard during the whole week, and succeeded in getting our materials
ready by Saturday.
That Saturday was a lovely day. Indeed, it was one of those calm, warm,
bright days, which we sometimes have in England, and in which are
combined almost all the beauties of summer and winter. There had been a
frost in the early morning; and a white rime was still upon the trees,
marking out each spray and twig most beautifully. We took our places in
the summer-house in the garden that overlooks a vast expanse of country.
Sir John Ellesmere thus began:--
_Ellesmere._ Who shall say we understand anything about “The
Comfortable,” when we take our places in this summer-house to listen
to a shivering essay which might have been delivered to us in a
comfortable study?
_Milverton._ Shall we go back then?
_Ellesmere._ Oh, by no means!
_Lady Ellesmere._ That is so like John. He will object to anything,
even when he likes it himself, merely for the sake of making, or, as
he calls it, taking, an objection.
_Ellesmere._ Don’t interrupt, Lady Ellesmere, and waste time. Don’t
you see that Milverton is wild to begin, and that there is an
alarming mass of paper in his hands to be got through before we
shall have any comfort?
Mr. Milverton commenced reading: “On the Art of making Men Comfortable;
the word ‘Men’ to include Men, Women, Dogs, Horses, Cows, Water-rats,
Black-beetles, and all other animals and insects.”
_Milverton._ You see I have adopted your title literally, for so you
willed that I should. And now, first, I am not going to read an
essay, but to make a speech. I shall speak to you in a most familiar
way; and, moreover, shall consider that you recollect a great deal
that I have already said, so that I may merely have to deal with it
by allusion.
* * * * *
It is a very great difficulty to introduce anything like method into
this vast and complicated subject. What I shall do is this: I shall
first consider all the main points which bear upon a man from without: I
shall then take him to his home and see how he is to be made comfortable
there: afterwards, I shall conclude with several general reflections,
which will have for their tendency to show how man and other animals (I
do not neglect Ellesmere’s “rider”) should be made more comfortable.
* * * * *
[Here Mr. Milverton spoke upon the topics of Government, Education,
Religion, War, and Railway Management. I omit all that he said upon
these subjects, because otherwise the essay, or rather the speech, would
stretch to an immoderate length. He spoke for nearly forty minutes; and,
as he speaks very rapidly, the speech contained a great deal of matter
which it is quite impossible for me to give now. At a future time I may
take some opportunity of doing so. He then proceeded, and said as
follows:--]
I descend now to questions that may be considered of lower importance
than those I have discussed, but which are nevertheless of great
importance as regards the comfort of mankind.
I go first to the consideration of their dwellings. These are at present
deplorable. We have not made any advance (indeed I think our movement
has been retrograde in this respect) since the time of the Romans. The
main objects are for the most part neglected. How dampness should be
avoided? how noise should be subdued? how fresh air should be provided?
how smoke should be carried off? seem to be unimportant questions, so
that the exterior is kept according to the style most in favour with the
architect.
The waste that there is in this matter is most surprising. If houses
were well built, there would be very little expense for repairs, for
painting, and, perhaps, for fire insurance. We have excellent materials;
we make hardly any use of them: and there is scarcely a house in which
any provision is made for the exceptional events, either festive or
calamitous, which are sure to occur at some time or other, in every
household.
Then look at the waste in decoration, in furniture, in knick-knacks of
all kinds. I often take an individual room, and I say to myself, “If I
had the money which that foolish cornice has cost, which that hideous
centre-piece in the ceiling has cost, which that painful furniture,
constructed so as to retain the utmost amount of dust, has cost, which
those knick-knacks, which amuse one for two or three minutes and are a
trouble ever afterwards, have cost, the room could be so enlarged and
improved that the people who inhabit it would be far more comfortable.”
The last thing architects and builders generally seem to consider is,
that the room is really to be inhabited. I have seen the whole wing of a
great palace or castle so spoilt for the want of a little additional
space, that there was not sufficient room for the furniture which would
be imperatively required in the twenty or thirty apartments of that
wing. There has been no space in these rooms (which people are not only
supposed to sleep in by night, but to live in by day) for a sofa, and
for a writing-table.
Again, no attention has been paid to climate. It has been forgotten that
there are a good many rainy days in Great Britain in the course of the
year, and that the British spring is not altogether a balmy season. In
this respect our ancestors were much wiser than we are, and understood
what is called “Gardenesque architecture.” Now, one often sees a great
white staring house situated in the midst of a great park. Nobody seems
ever to have considered that people might like to have some walking
exercise or to breathe some fresh air without being exposed to inclement
weather in that spacious park. I have often seen that the needless,
foolish, and ugly decorations of two or three of the principal rooms
would have provided a beautiful colonnade like our cloisters at Trinity,
in which the sickly and the young might enjoy the sun, and have the
advantage of fresh air and exercise throughout the winter days.
The above are trifling things to speak of; but, while we are discussing
“The Comfortable,” they are scarcely out of place.
As to the cottages of the poor, they are outrageous. Often constructed
without the means of drainage--the walls in some instances being built
up against the earth, the outlets being exposed without any protection
against the east winds--they are really nothing better than nests for
fever, and well-devised traps for rheumatism and consumption.
Here comes in that sad neglect of admirable materials for building which
I have before commented upon. Terra-cotta, slates, and tiles might be
used with the greatest advantage in such constructions. In fact, a
house, and still more a cottage, ought to be impregnable to damp
throughout, and capable of thorough ventilation. Will you have the
kindness to show me any such constructions from the highest to the
lowest class of buildings?
And now look at our buildings in London. I am very sensitive, I
acknowledge, to noise; but I do not believe I am altogether singular in
this respect. Now, you know, one is absolutely dependent upon one’s
neighbour to the right and to the left. We enjoy smoke from their
chimneys. We have the pleasure of listening to their daughters
practising the first scales in music; we partake, uninvited, of the
clamour, if not of the enjoyment, of their feasts.
But I must not dwell much more on this subject: all I wish is, that when
people are building houses they would not forget that these houses are
to be inhabited, and would act accordingly. If half the thought which is
given to obscure questions in theology or metaphysics had been given to
the question of making men more comfortable by building better
habitations for them, what a much happier and more endurable world it
would have been.
When Sir Walter Scott died, and critics were commenting upon his works,
one of the best criticisms was to this effect:--“Shakspeare builds up
his characters from within to without. Their coats, dresses, and
external paraphernalia of any kind are the last things about which he
gives any indication; whereas Sir Walter commences from without, and his
heroes or heroines are greatly connected in your mind with their outside
paraphernalia.” There was some little truth in this, though I think it
was much too severe on Sir Walter; but I have often thought that we
mostly do what was complained of in Sir Walter, and nearly always attend
to the outside first. There is charming Gothic architecture, as seen
from the outside, in which the Gothic architect, neglecting the
improvements which have taken place in materials since the time of the
Goths, gives you foolish windows and dark passages, and every evil with
which the Goths were contented--as indeed they were by their ignorance
obliged to be contented--to endure.
The same error is to be found in those men who live for the outer world
instead of for home. This brings me naturally to the subject of
ostentation, the direst enemy of comfort. No, I will not put it down
exactly as ostentation, but as the doing of things because others do
them, whether you like them or not, and whether they are suitable or
not, to you or your means. I think I will call it imitation, and say
that imitation is the direst enemy of comfort. Women, I am sorry to say,
are greatly to blame in this matter. It is always an unanswerable
argument in their minds that other people do anything. In fact, women
are the only real and sound Conservatives, or rather Tories, in the
world; and one great end that we shall gain from their education, if
ever a better education is given to them, is this, that we shall have
much less conventionalism to contend with.
Now I proceed to the next point, viz., as to what should be done inside
a house to make it a happy and comfortable home. Of course, the great
danger, the pressing danger, of domestic life is its familiarity--mark
you, there is immense pleasure in this familiarity, but I think we might
have all the pleasure without the mischief. I recur to a few of the
points which I have often dwelt upon before. Never scold for little
things and for things in which there is no intention to do wrong: people
don’t mean to break glass or china, or to spill the grease; and yet you
often hear a child or a servant reproved for some accident as if it had
been done out of _malice prepense_.
Never ridicule other people’s tastes, especially the tastes of those who
live with you, or any of your neighbours’ tastes, unless those tastes
are absolutely noxious and mischievous.
Cultivate the great art of leaving people alone, even those whom you
think you have a right to direct in the minutest particular.
Now here I am going to say a most important thing, and I beg your
attention to it.
Praise those with whom you live, if they really deserve it. Do not be
silent upon their merits, for you should cultivate their reasonable
self-esteem. If they have merits, other people--strangers--will tell
them of it, and they think it is unkind of you who have lived with them,
and ought to love them, not to have recognised their merits. A person
shall live with a person his junior, and during the whole of his life
shall never have told that junior of his good qualities or his merits;
and it is only perhaps when that first person dies, that the other finds
out that, during the time they had lived together, he had been
thoroughly appreciated; but, unfortunately, it has been a silent
appreciation.
Domestic comfort is the very core of happy life. Now what perfection it
would be if, in domestic life, the courtesy and civility which strangers
show to us were combined with the affection and the absence of restraint
which belong to domesticity!
Now I am going to insist upon a point which might be thought very
trivial, but which yet has something in it. Do not merely endeavour to
be joyous and pleasant with those with whom you live, but even to be
agreeable to look at; in fact, I say it boldly, although you may laugh
at me, try and look your best for your own people as well as for the
stranger.
[Here there came in a somewhat long statement about communism, which I
am sure would not be very interesting to most people, and which I omit.
Then the subject of wealth was introduced by Sir Arthur. Mr. Milverton
proceeded:--]
Riches! In any discourse about human happiness, something must be said
upon this subject. Everybody admits that money is the source of all
evil, and everybody tries to get as much money as he or she can. Of
course, seriously speaking, wealth is a good thing. That we should have
plenty of corn, of coal, of wool, of cotton, and of cattle, is before
all things necessary if we are to be comfortable; but what is a bad
thing is, that too much respect should be paid, and too much honour
given, to merely wealthy people.
“The learned pate ducks to the golden fool:
All is oblique.”
Now instead of its being a thing which is _primâ facie_ for a man, it
may be argued that it is rather _primâ facie_ against him, that he is
rich: it is a fact which he has to account for, and often the account he
may have to give is anything but creditable to him. What may be called
the legitimate influence of riches is surely enough. That a rich man has
the services of other men and animals in every way at his command is
surely power enough. You have, doubtless, heard me tell the story of a
dignitary in the Romish Church, one of the most actively benevolent of
men--a sort of Borromeo; and he was descanting among his friends about
the worthlessness of worldly goods, and he concluded by saying, “All,
all, is vanity--except a carriage.” Doubtless the good man had often
found, in his career of active benevolence, the advantage of rapid
locomotion.
Well, let the rich have their carriages, and make good use of them.
_Ellesmere._ Only one word! I won’t interrupt again. Let them take
care to send their carriages to the railway station, to meet their
poor friends who come to visit them.
But you will say, give us instances of the illegitimate influence of
wealth. There is one that occurs to me directly. I say it is iniquitous,
it is monstrous, that a man should be raised to the peerage merely
because he is a rich man, and can--to use the cant phrase--afford to
support the dignity of the peerage. That dignity of the peerage would be
easily supported, if only those persons were made peers who had, by
public service and distinguished merit, deserved the honour.
If it were universally recognised that there were great objects in human
life, such as social distinctions, over which riches had no influence
whatever, riches would be less unreasonably, and less immoderately
pursued. Again, I object strongly to a man’s power of voting, in any
capacity, being augmented by his wealth. I do not care about your
telling me that this is sheer Radicalism, and talking to me about stakes
in the country: that betting phrase has no weight with me. The judgment
of men who have devoted themselves to the getting, the saving, or the
enjoying of riches, may be as much warped by those employments as the
poor man’s judgment may be by his poverty. I beg to ask you one
question: do you think the railways would have been worse managed if the
qualifications for directorship had been lowered, or had been abandoned
altogether?
However, all that I contend is, do no honour to a rich man merely
because he is rich. If this maxim were adopted, riches would be robbed
of half their mischief.
I now pass to quite another subject, which, however, is not unconnected
with the foregoing. I maintain that now life goes too fast, too fussily,
and too anxiously, to admit of much comfort, at least for those who have
any prominent part to play in life. All our swiftness of locomotion, our
promptitude of communication, tends to promote this fussiness. Here,
again, I am merely talking after Ellesmere. I must own I am very much
puzzled as to how to suggest any remedy for this state of things. I have
tried to think over it deeply, and the only thing that has occurred to
me, as a remedy, is this,--that more persons should be taken into
partnership with those who have to bear the arduous parts in life, and
who would then have more time for thinking. The general complaint now
is, which I have heard uttered dozens of times, that those who have
anything to do, have generally too much to do, while there remains a
number of intelligent and active-minded people who have nothing to
do--unless, indeed, the shooting at hares and pheasants be considered
something to do.
Now, I want to put before you a dilemma: either this increase of work is
profitable to the community, or it is not; if it is not, let us drop it;
but if it is, then the benefit to the public will pay for the employment
of additional heads and hands.
I mean this to apply to Government, and to all public services useful to
the community. But I will illustrate my meaning by an example taken from
Government.
[Here Mr. Milverton gave an account, which would not interest my readers
much, of the labours and duties of the Secretary of State for the Home
Department, and strongly urged the division of the work of that office
into two branches, with a new Minister.]
I pass now to another subject,--recreation. I do not advocate recreation
exactly upon the same grounds as those upon which it has often been
argued for. I say this--I say that men----
_Ellesmere._ Yes, and women too. Oh, dear! I ought not to have
interrupted.
--that men are such mischievous animals, that you can hardly take too
much pains to occupy their spare moments innocently. Oh, if we could
have put down frequently to a game at whist Attila, Charlemagne, Genghis
Khan, and the First Napoleon! I am afraid that there would be
chronological difficulties in the way of this arrangement; but you know
what I mean.
As to recreation for the poor, I agree with Ellesmere, that that man
will be one of the greatest benefactors to his species, and will fulfil
the functions of a great statesman, who contrives that the poor man
shall take a little longer time than he does at present to consume his
pot of beer. Remember there is but standing-room in those bright and
odious gin-palaces; and one “go”--I believe that is the word--is
swallowed hastily after another, because the poor man has nothing else
to amuse him, or to do.
Now I do not care what amusement you provide for him, so that it is
tolerably innocent,--whether, following the humble Milverton, he sits
quietly down to draughts and dominoes, like a French peasant; or
whether, imitating the ambitious Ellesmere, he makes “ducks and drakes”
with a flat stone upon a pond; or whether, partaking the poetic nature
of Sir Arthur, he devotes his spare energies to the beautiful
accomplishment of dancing; or whether, following the example of the
solid Mauleverer, he plays at bowls and quoits (for those, I know, are
your favourite games, Mauleverer); or whether (to please you, Johnson)
he indulges in golf and cricket; or whether, to the delight of the wise
and fact-loving Cranmer, he plays at the game of Mechanics’
Institutes--it is all one to me, so only that he is amused, and does not
drink off his gin or his beer quite so quickly.
Why is it, by the way, that women are so much better than men--less
given to drunkenness, or any similar excess? Simply because they have a
thousand little occupations. A woman, who is not oppressed by much
riches and many servants, always finds plenty to do about her house,
and, in that, finds her chief occupation in life and often her chief
happiness. And if Sir Arthur’s plans[43] are adopted, women must also,
of necessity, partake in the recreation provided for men. Now all the
feminine species love dancing, either as actors or spectators. The other
day, in a hideous back street, an organ-grinder came down the street
while I was passing, and six or eight young ragamuffinesses, who seemed
to spring from the gutters, began to dance to the polka which the
organ-man was grinding out. They danced capitally, keeping the right
time, while their rags fluttered in the wind. Their little grimy faces
were suffused with joy, and their bright teeth shone all the more
brightly from the contrast with the general dirt of the countenance.
Their mothers came out to see them. One or two slouching men lounged to
the doors and looked on complacently. For the moment that wretched
street was quite lit up with festivity.
Footnote 43:
This alludes to some views of Sir Arthur’s given in a conversation
which I have not recorded.
You may think me a foolish man, overmuch given to sentimentality; but I
could have sat down, if there had been any clean place to sit upon, and
cried, though crying is not much in my way. But it did grieve me to
think how few opportunities for recreation these poor little wretches
had; and I pictured to myself a scene which I have often beheld near
Dresden, where, in some tea-garden near to the town, I have seen the
artisan and his wife and his children all making themselves supremely
happy (at an expense which is often consumed in one or two “goes” at a
gin-palace, swallowed in a few minutes’ time by the respectable father
of a family in England), dancing being the principal amusement, and
eating and drinking only secondary.
I pass on to other topics connected with the great subject of promoting
the comfort of mankind. These topics will be of a general character. The
main enemies to human comfort are--intolerance, denigration,
unjustifiable repetition, unjust criticism, uncalled-for publicity,
pedantry, irrational conservatism, and the cultivation of hardness of
character.
It would be like giving out one of Blair’s sermons, just such as we used
to have at Eton from Dr. Keate, and which we called “Second-prose”--a
juvenile corruption for “Second-prayers”--to dilate much upon these
topics; but I shall say a word or two upon each.
Touching intolerance, it is comparatively easy for men of large and
tolerant nature to be tolerant, generally speaking. Their difficulty
will ever be to be tolerant of intolerant people. Let them remember that
intolerance is the twin sister of ignorance, and that they do not
understand nor appreciate these intolerant people if they cannot
tolerate them.
Denigration. It may be very stupid in me, but I cannot understand the
pleasure which people take in blackening each other. In the first place,
it is such an easy thing to do. The clever thing to do, is to find out
people’s merits. I do not say this satirically; but it is often the
outer points of men’s characters--little foolish habits, modes of talk
that are not agreeable, tiresome ways, unpleasant roughness on the
surface, all which afford such easy opportunities for denigration,
while, to discern the sterling worth and merit and kindness which there
are in so many human beings (I believe in nearly all) does require nice
observation, guided by a kindly imagination.
I should not care so much about this denigration, if there were not
always people ready to repeat to the person blackened all the dark and
unpleasant things which others have said about him or her.
Touching unjustifiable repetition, which makes so much mischief and
destroys so much comfort in the world, I would only quote that good man,
Thomas à Kempis, whom I have quoted before, and who says, “Do not hasten
to repeat even those things which you believe” (“_Nec audita, vel
credita, mox ad aliorum aures effundere_”).
With respect to unjust criticism. The world is full of this, and the
critics little know what pain they occasion. I do not say that critics
should be able to do the work they criticise, but really they ought to
sympathise to some extent with whatever they criticise. Do they ever
think how difficult it is to do anything? It is lucky that we come upon
the fruits of other men’s work in former generations, when there was
less criticism, for there is no knowing what good work might not have
been stifled, if it had been subjected to the same ordeal of criticism
which abounds in the present day. If we do not take care, we shall enter
into a Byzantine period of the world’s history, in which there is
endless comment, and little or no original production.
Now, for pedantry. This is one of the greatest enemies, in a small way,
to human comfort; it pervades every class of society. Scholars and
official men are especially accused of it; but they are not more guilty
than other people. How dreadfully pedantic doctors are, and railway
officials, and, above all, servants! A doctor would see his dearest
friend die rather than interfere with another doctor, or presume to say
that the treatment is not quite judicious. And I believe if a superior
being, who had only observed our world from a distance, were obliged to
come down and live amongst us, he would not be surprised at our
stupidities and our cruelties--our wars for example--so much as he would
be by all the pedantries, vanities, and conventionalities, by which we
create so much discomfort. The utterances that would astonish him, until
he became familiar with them, would be, “It is not my place to do this:”
“It is not your place to do that:” “I think I ought to have been
consulted:” “It seems I am nobody now;” and the like. He would say to
himself, “They are always tormenting themselves about trifles. They do
not look at the substance. They do not consider what things should be
done; but rather, how these things should be done according to certain
narrow formularies.”
Now, for irrational conservatism. I am sure that I am fully alive to the
advantages of conservatism. It is a grand thing, as some one has said,
that in England we never wake up some fine morning and find from the
newspapers that everything has changed, and that we are about to live
under quite a new dynasty. But there is such a thing as irrational
conservatism. An evil is fully proved to be an evil, and an obvious
remedy is suggested to counteract it. You say to yourself, paraphrasing
Shakspeare--
“The times have been,
That, when the brains were out, the _thing_ would die,
And there an end.”
But no, it won’t die. It goes on spasmodically without brains, and
continues to cause a great deal of practical discomfort. All this is the
result of an irrational conservatism, prone to reject every new thing
merely because it is new.
Now I come to unreasonable publicity. Publicity in these days is too
rapid, and not inquiring enough. There comes out a flaming attack
against some poor man, based upon certain statements. In a day or two,
the man generally contradicts some of these statements, and apparently
with truth. But the mischief has been done. The accused person has been
made very uncomfortable, for people are always in a great rage at being
accused in any respect wrongfully. Now it occurs to me to ask, Why could
not the accusing writer have made a little more investigation before he
wrote the accusing article? I suppose the answer will be, that he must
write to live, and he cannot make a living out of it if he is to take
all this trouble in investigation. All I can say is, that as there seems
to be a likelihood of publicity increasing greatly, an immense amount of
discomfort will be caused, both to public and to private individuals, by
rash and injurious publications.
I am now going to touch upon another subject, not before alluded to by
me, and which I daresay you will take to be very fanciful in me, and
somewhat effeminate. Is there not a certain hardness in the English
character which, instead of being repressed, is much cultivated in
modern times? I scarcely know how to describe it--whether to class it as
stoicism or cynicism, or any other ism; but I perceive it, and feel it.
No young man likes to show that he feels anything very much, or cares
for anybody very much. Now you see from the literature of former ages
that people then were not so reticent. I admit that there is something
grand in the Spartan-like endurance which enables you to let the fox
gnaw you, without your making any unpolite allusion to the pain you
suffer. But there is a wide distinction between this endurance and the
reticence to which I have referred. If you constantly repress the
expression of feelings, you will gradually cease to have these feelings.
Now, for the comfort of the world--and it is that which I am
advocating--it is desirable that we should know more of the better and
more amiable parts of each other’s characters, and that amiability
should not be diminished by the constant avoidance of the manifestation
of it. Do you hear, Sir John?
[Ellesmere nodded.]
I am afraid I have hitherto neglected to comment upon the rider which
Sir John Ellesmere was good enough, with the consent of the company, to
add to the title of my essay. I can only say that I shall never be happy
or comfortable in this world while the lower animals are treated as they
are; and I believe that mine is not an exceptional case, but that there
are tens of thousands of human beings who feel exactly as I do. If you
were to amend all other evils, and yet resolve to leave this untouched,
we should not be satisfied. It is an immense responsibility that
Providence has thrown upon us, in subjecting these sensitive creatures
to our complete sway; and I tremble at the thought of how poor an answer
we shall have to give when asked the question how we have made use of
the power entrusted to us over the brute creation.
* * * * *
_Ellesmere._ According to Milverton, in order to make people
comfortable, we are to praise them when they deserve it, even though
we have the misfortune to live with them. Don’t pinch my arm, Lady
Ellesmere! I praised you so much before we were married, that there
is an immense balance of praise, still unaccounted for, that will
never be deserved on your part. But I have not indulged Milverton to
this extent, and therefore I can afford to say now that the essay is
not despicable. Useful, too, it is. People come bothering me, even
in court, and saying, “How I wish I were you, having the pleasure of
assisting at those essays and conversations which take place at
Worth-Ashton.” And these people are wonderfully suggestive too,
telling me what you should write about, and what I should talk
about. Now I can answer them, “My good fellows, only read his last
essay, the very last that ever is to be, together with my talk upon
it, and then you need not read any more, and need not bother me any
more, for you will know exactly what we think upon every subject.”
Now I will at once point out the things I agree with. I agree with
what you say about government and education; also about riches and
religion. Indeed, what you said about riches and education was
chiefly derived from me.
By the way, with respect to religion, could you not have said
something more about sermons? I have only heard three sermons in my
life upon what may be called the daily topics of common life.
Kindness to animals, gentleness and tolerance in domestic life, not
ridiculing the young, not hurrying to repeat everything you hear,
and several other topics that you dwelt upon, would make excellent
subjects for sermons. Only the sermons must not be vague; they must
not be Blairish; they must condescend to details. The preacher must
sometimes say, “I saw this or that the other day, and I must protest
against it.” He must not be afraid of using common words, and must
call a spade a spade, and not an agricultural implement. If he is
going to speak against bribery at an election, he must use the word
“bribe” pretty plainly.
“It is no doubt, my Christian brethren, a thing to be greatly
reprehended that when a person is admitted to exercise the privilege
connected with a great trust, held for the good of the community at
large, and for the welfare of our holy religion, he should, in an
unseemly manner, betray that trust for the sake of any creature
comfort, or endanger his soul by yielding to the desire of the
natural man for filthy lucre, when lucre of any kind cannot be
honourably or virtuously conjoined with the due exercise of this
important privilege.”
What poor man discerns in that sentence any allusion to pots of beer
and five-pound notes for his vote? He perceives that somebody has
done wrong, or will do wrong. Naturally he thinks it is the squire,
and he goes away saying, “Parson have a-been giving of it to the
squire this morning, he have.”
_Sir Arthur._ I perceive a great opening for “filthy lucre” to be
gained by Sir John Ellesmere, if he would but write a series of
skeleton sermons.
_Ellesmere._ I will do it when I have time, and you shall have a
presentation copy, Sir Arthur. I think they might even be of use to
you when you are composing sonnets.
There is one thing you have omitted, Milverton, as regards the art
of making men comfortable. I shan’t be comfortable until you give me
some good plays to go to, played by great players. It is true there
is always the House of Commons, which Charles II. said was as good
as a play; but I want something beyond that.
_Mauleverer._ Yes; I like a good play. It is the only time one
thoroughly forgets one’s private miseries.
_Cranmer._ I don’t care much about plays.
_Mrs. Milverton._ I think they are the most enjoyable things in the
world.
_Milverton._ I will tell you a very foolish thing that is often
said, even by very clever men, about playgoing. They say, “Why care
to go and see Shakspeare acted? Can’t you read it in your closet?”
Now this appears to me such nonsense.
_Ellesmere._ Yes, it is. I don’t believe that anybody thoroughly
understands a great play until he has seen it acted.
_Milverton._ If there is anything in the world that I think I know
well, it is _Macbeth_. I knew it when I was six years old, for my
mother used to spend hour after hour, and day after day, in teaching
it to me, and making me play it with her; but when I came to see a
great actress in Lady Macbeth’s part--Helen Faucit--new lights burst
in upon me, and I saw what a delicate and refined fiend Lady Macbeth
could be.
_Ellesmere._ Yes, I know, Milverton, that is a theory of yours, that
“Lady Macbeth” is her best part; but I differ from you, and think
that in “Rosalind” is her greatest triumph. Now I will tell you what
I think is one of that lady’s greatest merits as an actress. It is
that she is not always quite the same. Of course her main conception
of the part does not much vary; but there will be particular
touches--new felicities--evolved in each representation. She gives
me the notion of one to whom her part is always fresh, because, like
the characters of all persons who are good for anything, it is, in
fact, an inexhaustible subject of study.
_Sir Arthur._ Well, now, I like her in the _Lady of Lyons_. She it
was who made the Pauline. I remember seeing her act with Macready in
that play, and I never was more delighted in my life.
_Ellesmere._ You see now what a pleasure is lost to us if we neglect
the drama. I shan’t be comfortable, Milverton, until you have the
kindness to restore that to us--an easy matter, of course, for such
a genius as you are.
But to revert to Milverton’s speech. I quite agree with what he said
about the iniquity of adding undeserved honours to riches. Riches
ought to have no effect over the distribution of honours and
dignities. All merit throughout the world receives an insult and a
discouragement when a rich man receives an honour on account of his
riches.
_Sir Arthur._ As to discouragement, I differ from you.
_Milverton._ And so do I.
_Sir Arthur._ The men who do anything that is worth doing seldom
think about reward of any kind. You can get their best work from
them, whether you treat them well or ill.
_Milverton._ Quite true, Sir Arthur. We should confer honours upon
them, not so much for their sakes as for ours. And not for ours in a
worldly or acquisitive point of view, for, as you say, we shall get
their best work from them, whether we reward them or not.
_Cranmer._ I don’t know. They knock pretty hard at the doors of the
Treasury sometimes.
_Mauleverer._ Yes; after their work is done.
_Ellesmere._ Let us proceed with the discussion on the essay. How
severe Milverton was upon our present mode of building and
decorating. I think some general principles might have been enounced
there--such as that celebrated one of Pugin’s, “Do not conceal the
construction.” The mischief that is done by concealing the
construction is immense.
Let us each invent a maxim. Of course it will only be partially
true, as all maxims are. Let us be silent for five minutes. Walk
about if you like (my locomotive thoughts are always best), and then
each of us shall propound his or her nostrum in the form of a maxim.
We agreed to do so, and in five minutes were reseated and ready to
produce our maxims.
_Ellesmere._ Of course I am ready first, and mine will be the wisest
maxim. _Never mind the outside._
_Lady Ellesmere._ _Avoid uniformity._
_Ellesmere._ Very good. What an advantage it is to live with clever
people: how it sharpens the wits! I almost think I shall change my
maxim into, _Find out clever people, and insist upon living with
them._
_Lady Ellesmere._ One would think I had followed John about before
we were married, and had implored him to allow me to live in the
light of his sagacity, and to sun myself in the warmth of his tender
nature.
_Ellesmere._ You gave clear proof of your good sense in doing it.
Why deny it? What do you say, Mauleverer? What is your maxim?
_Mauleverer._ _No artificial surfaces of any kind._
_Ellesmere._ That is grand, but there must be many
exceptions--gilding, for instance.
_Cranmer._ _No house to be built on leasehold property._
_Ellesmere._ Tyrannous, and inadmissible, I fear; but very
suggestive. What do you say, Milverton? We expect something very
good from you, as it is your especial subject.
_Milverton._ _Never do anything in building which cannot give a good
account of itself._
_Ellesmere._ A splendid moral maxim! but is it not a little remote
from bricklaying and plastering?
_Milverton._ I really do not know how to sum up what I mean in one
maxim, but I will endeavour to explain.
The other day, before we left London, I took a walk. I came upon
some masons busily chipping holes in some blocks of stone at the
basement of a grand house; making, in short, little dust-pans for
the London dirt to accumulate in. This was done, I believe, because
at the Pitti Palace, in Florence, the architect had, doubtless to
save trouble, used rough and indented blocks of stone. Now what
account could these little dust-pans give of themselves?
Then I saw a house with three huge brick pilasters rising nearly to
the roof, but not quite, and all that they supported was a beam of
wood fantastically and ridiculously ornamented? What account could
those pilasters give of themselves?
Then I paid a visit, and was shown into a fine room with a coved
ceiling. There were seventy-eight half-brackets, which, if they had
been completed, would have had to support four beams of wood, which
had manifestly other support. These semi-brackets were elaborately
carved, and abounded in leaves. They were splendid receptacles for
dust and dirt. The only account they could give of themselves would
be that they were put up to accommodate spiders. Indeed the
benevolent attention paid in house decorations to the judicious
lodgment of spiders is quite marvellous. I wish people, when they
were building, provided as carefully for the accommodation of
servants.
_Ellesmere._ The illustrations are good, but the maxim remains
somewhat vague and obscure, according to my judgment. What do you
say, Sandy?
_Johnson._ _Let every house in the country, and, where possible, in
London, have a good large playroom, separated from the house by a
passage having double doors at each end of it._
_Ellesmere._ Elevate Sandy upon a tub, send at once for Theed or
Woolner, and have a statue made of Sandy, with a battledore in his
hand. It is a most judicious suggestion that he has contributed.
What a place that room would be to send children to on rainy days,
and whenever their irrepressible animal spirits keep the nerves of
the elder people in a state of anxious quivering!
N.B. (and this would make that playroom an earthly paradise). It
should be an understood thing that the family are not “at home” to
visitors, when they are in the playroom.
_Sir Arthur._ What a place for private theatricals, without
upsetting the rest of the house!
_Ellesmere._ No foolish flowers to be put there to take up room. It
should be big enough for croquet, while battledore and shuttlecock
and children’s hoops should revel in it.
_Milverton._ What a place it would be for a good jovial dinner to
one’s poor neighbours after a cricket-match or an archery meeting!
_Lady Ellesmere._ What a place to practise archery in!
_Milverton._ I will engage to build it out of the expensive and ugly
follies----
_Ellesmere._ Which would, of course, be committed, if you were not
entrusted with the building of the house.
_Sir Arthur._ Another good point is that there would be much less
space required in the ordinary reception rooms, if one had such a
room as this for extraordinary occasions.
_Ellesmere._ You are all going into too much grandeur. Sandy and I
mean this room to be roughly constructed and attached to houses of
very moderate calibre; and, if we were left alone for a fortnight,
without being bothered with essays, and had one carpenter attached
to us, we would knock up something of the kind here.
Now, Mrs. Milverton, what is your maxim?
_Mrs. Milverton._ I will give up the playroom, though with great
regret, if you will only give me two rooms separated, in a similar
manner to that which Mr. Johnson proposes, from the house, to be
used in case of illness, and especially in case of infectious
illness.
_Ellesmere._ An excellent idea! But you must put it in the form of a
maxim.
_Mrs. Milverton._ Leonard, do put it for me. You know I am not
clever in putting things.
_Milverton._ Mrs. Milverton wishes to say that _Every house should
be so arranged as to contain a domestic infirmary._
_Ellesmere._ Well, you are all very clever! and have offered a heap
of good suggestions.
As I proposed the game, I think I ought to be allowed to have
another turn.
[We all assented.]
Then I say, _When you are building, think of the comfort of your
servants, even before you think of your own._
[“Hear, hear,” from Mr. Milverton and Sir Arthur.]
My first maxim, however, was the great one. I really am proud of it.
I should like it to be commemorated in my epitaph. By the way, as
this is Milverton’s last essay, it would be a very appropriate thing
if I were to give you a sketch of what my epitaph should be. I think
it should run thus. Give me your pencil, Sandy; let me write it
out:--
He was a sound lawyer;
And, by a peculiar felicity,
Not uncommon to great advocates,
The side on which he argued
Happened always to be
The side of justice and of truth.
He never beat his wife, though she was often
Very provoking.
He was an endurable friend,
And, in a dull country house,
Was worth a deal of money
As a guest.
He was a good master to his dogs,
A persevering fisherman,
A powerful singer;
And when he borrowed books, he always
Took care to return them.
The grand maxim,
NEVER MIND THE OUTSIDE,
Which has improved the Art of Building
Throughout the world,
And which has tended to dignify and purify
All other departments in human life,
Was his’n.
_Sir Arthur._ Excellent! But there must be a Latin quotation
somewhere.
_Ellesmere._ Oh, ah! Latin. Yes, I have it. “_Quis tulerit Gracchos
de seditione querentes._”
_Sir Arthur._ I must be very stupid, I suppose; but I do not see the
appropriateness.
_Mauleverer._ Nor I.
_Ellesmere._ Nor I; but it will set people thinking. They will say I
used it in some great speech, and that, as it had never been heard
in the House of Commons before, it completely crushed Mr. Disraeli,
or Mr. Gladstone.
_Sir Arthur._ No: say something of which nobody can make any
meaning, such as “_Sed memor quia immemor_” (“But mindful, because
unmindful,” ladies).
_Milverton._ No: turn it this way, “_Immemor quia memor_”
(“Unmindful because mindful”), and then a very subtle interpretation
might be given. Don’t you know that, when you know a person very
well, and love him or her very much, you have more difficulty in
recalling his or her countenance than that of any ordinary person?
_Ellesmere._ That is too fine-drawn. I stick to my Gracchi.
But is not my epitaph modest and touching? I could almost myself
shed tears for the loss of such a man. I do not say that I was a
perfect friend, but only an _endurable_ one. And then how
exquisitely my honesty, carefulness, and general propriety of
conduct are indicated in what is said about the returning of
borrowed books! Some people might think there is a little flattery
in the words “powerful singer,” but I know that Lady Ellesmere
always goes out of the room when I begin to sing, and I conclude
that her exit is from an excess of pleasure that requires solitude
to moderate it.
I observed that Lady Ellesmere did not say anything, and looked grave.
Women do not like this kind of jesting about serious subjects, such as
epitaphs. Sir John saw this too, and immediately turned into another
branch of the subject.
_Ellesmere._ What you said about pedantry, Milverton, was not bad,
but I think it was muddled up in your mind with other things, and,
if you examined the matter, you would find that what you disapproved
of was a mixture of pedantry and insolence.
_Sir Arthur._ Resulting in disobligingness, which is but too common
everywhere.
_Ellesmere._ Everybody knows, and Lady Ellesmere better than
anybody, that I am the least offendable of mortal men. But I have
been offended thrice in my life, and in each case it was by an
official personage. Mark you that, Sir Arthur and Mr. Cranmer.
_Milverton._ Let us hear all about it. I can hardly imagine your
being offended with anybody.
_Ellesmere._ The guilty official personages were the croupier of a
gaming-table, a young woman in a refreshment-room at a
railway-station, and an Under-Secretary of State.
_Mauleverer._ How came you to be on such terms with a croupier as to
be offended?
_Ellesmere._ Don’t be alarmed! I never lost a penny at a
gaming-table in my life. When once I am convinced that the odds, in
however small a degree, are against me, not a thaler would I
venture. But I met this fellow in some reading-room, and I asked him
to do me some little service, such as one man may reasonably ask
another, to show me where the bell was, or to be good enough to
indicate the way to the hotel of the Three Knaves, or to allow me to
have the _Kölnischer Zeitung_ when he had done with it.
He intimated to me that people mustn’t speak to people if people had
not been introduced to people, and snubbed me entirely. He was the
most insolent of the three.
She was the haughtiest. I was foolish and tiresome enough, seeing a
largely-spread board, to wish for something to eat and to drink. The
young lady was apparently absorbed in writing an epic poem. She
looked over my head, as Dickens describes, “into the far distance,”
and yet I felt she saw this tiresome person. I never was cut so dead
in my life. I went away hungry and thirsty; but I found another
damsel who was gracious and kind to me, and gave me a bun, from the
stifling effect of which I have not yet fully recovered. Oh, she was
haughty, I can tell you, that first young woman!
Now for my third snubbing. My time is too highly appreciated for me
to bestow it unnecessarily; but I had to represent some grievance--I
think it was for some constituents--to the ---- Office.
I made my way, not without difficulty, to the Under-Secretary,--not
without difficulty too, from the many interruptions, did I contrive
to state my case. Then he commenced snubbing me fearfully. You will
think I was in a rage. Nothing of the kind. An odd idea struck me
while he was talking, that amused me all the time.
Did you ever hear the story of Mrs. Siddons, “How gat he there?” You
don’t know it? Well, she heard some one say of a Frenchman that he
was in his bureau. Her ideas of a bureau were not of a room, but of
a piece of furniture, and so the great tragic actress naturally
exclaimed, “How gat he there?”
And so, too, all the time I was listening to this gentleman’s
objurgations, I was saying to myself, “How gat you there? What
Minister originally took you out of the ruck of men?” I say
originally, because when once a man has got anything, he rises
afterwards by a kind of routine, in parliamentary official life, as
well as in the permanent civil service.
And then I thought of Milverton. He once wrote a story--the best
thing he ever did write, to my mind. By the way, he will not live in
future days by anything he has written that the public has read as
his; but if he does survive in men’s minds it will be by some
obscure thing he has written, which neither he nor the public has
taken any account of.
_Milverton._ Thank you, Ellesmere!
_Ellesmere._ Oh, where was I?
_Milverton._ That’s so like Ellesmere; he has often so many persons
on his hands to attack--in this case the croupier, the
refreshment-girl, the Under-Secretary, the Minister who first
noticed him, and my unfortunate self--that he hardly knows where he
is, and whom he is mauling.
_Ellesmere._ Oh, yes: I know where I was. Milverton wrote a story
about some people who were always obliged to speak the truth when it
was dark. I began to fear that I was one of these people. It was a
November day when I saw the Under-Secretary, and, though only four
o’clock (I was on my way to the House), the shades of evening were
coming on. A nervous dread seized me lest I should be obliged to
tell my thoughts, and ask the Under-Secretary, “How gat you there?”
I hurriedly took my departure.
That man was the rudest of the three.
But, seriously speaking--for I mean that all my stories should bear
closely on the subject--this illustrates what I mean.
These three people were probably pedants. The croupier had a
pedantic idea of acquaintanceship--the Under-Secretary of official
work--the refreshment-girl about giving refreshments. I have no
doubt I did something that was out of due course: asked for coffee
at a wrong time, or committed some solecism in refreshment manners.
I daresay they were all pedants, but they were ill-conditioned
people too. Pedantry is not so harmful as you would make out; and
besides, you often mistake a necessary preciseness, or an inevitable
division of labour, for mere pedantry.
_Sir Arthur._ I really think that, when a man has written his own
epitaph, it indicates a great desire on his part for rest and
quietness. I am sure, therefore, that Sir John will be very much
obliged to me if I take up the running in his stead, and offer what
few objections occur to me.
I think you are all too much inclined to look at what is physical.
What you have said about houses is very good; but, really, man is
too great a creature to be made very comfortable merely by
comfortable houses. I like best what Milverton said about social and
domestic intercourse.
How many human beings, Mr. Cranmer, were there found to be in the
British Islands on the occasion of the last census?
_Cranmer._ 29,423,628; I know you will believe in my odd figures.
_Sir Arthur._ Divide that number roughly by four, and it will come
to something like 7,000,000. I have no doubt, then, that there are,
at this moment, 7,000,000 of misunderstandings in the British Isles.
You know what I mean by misunderstandings;--that A thinks that he
has reason to think that B thinks meanly of him; and that B thinks
that C said something very unkind about him behind his back; and
that E is sure that F has prejudiced G against him, for G has never
been so friendly with him since he (G) made F’s acquaintance; and so
it goes on, through innumerable alphabets. Now this habit of
self-tormenting might be considerably diminished by judicious
education. Here is a thing, too, for preachers to preach against.
_Milverton._ The mischief chiefly arises from a kind of
modesty--from a keen sense in most people of their own shortcomings
and deficiencies. If people would only exercise their imagination in
imagining that others think as well and as kindly of them (and this
is surely not a great stretch of imagination) as they do of these
others, the world would be a much more comfortable place to live in.
The agonies that sensitive people invent--no, absolutely create--for
themselves are as astounding in magnitude as they are ingenious in
conception. I have seen the tears start into the eyes of a child on
its being called by some new name of affection which it did not
understand. Now, though a very humble, what a striking instance this
is of the misery of misunderstanding!
_Sir Arthur._ A great French writer, I think it was Eugène Sue,
said, “_Tout pardonner, c’est tout comprendre._” I would rather he
had turned it the other way, and had said, “_Tout comprendre, c’est
tout pardonner._” For, in truth, one would never be angry with
anybody, if one understood him or her thoroughly. Now there is not
time to understand them thoroughly. One must trust a great deal to
the imagination: and therefore, I say, educate the imagination to
believe that people are saying many favourable things of John behind
his back.[44]
Footnote 44:
I did not understand this expression, but afterwards found out
that it was anciently a way by which a man delicately alluded to
favourable things that had been said about himself, “_Dicebant
multa favorabilia de Johanne._”
_Ellesmere._ I know a John who never indulges in this fond
imagination, and yet does not make himself very miserable by
fretting over what he imagines people may be saying of him.
_Sir Arthur._ I was going on to say that we do not make enough of,
or give sufficient encouragement to, pleasantness in people. I know
I am only saying here what Milverton would say, and indeed what he
has said elsewhere; but I do not think he gave the just weight to
such topics in his speech, and that he, like the rest of you, dwelt
too much on material comforts. He led you from the senate or the
school to the social circle and the home; but I want to deal with
the man himself, and with his modes of thought, if I am to make him
“comfortable.” And I believe that a great deal can be done by
training, especially by early training, to habituate our minds to
“comfortable” modes of thought.
To illustrate how rare a thing is pleasantness of demeanour. I knew
a lady who received, as it is called, London society very
extensively. This lady was a comely, cosy woman, “fair, fat, and
forty,” and one of those persons in whom others inevitably confide,
and to whom they come and tell their grievances.
One day I was alone with her, when she began to talk of her
experience of the world. I listened very attentively.
“Now, as regards you men,” she said, “what a number of clever and
intelligent men there are! A clever man is no rarity! Also, what a
number of good people there are; people (perhaps of rough, queer,
awkward exterior) who gave no sign of their goodness and
kindheartedness, but who, on the contrary, ‘from the cradle to the
grave,’ are misunderstood; and who are very cross, too, at being
misunderstood, when it is really their own fault, or rather the
fault of their training. But if you want to know what is a rarity
among men, it is a pleasant man--one who is safe, who never makes,
nor takes, needless offence; who brings out the best points of other
people. I assure you, Sir Arthur, when one has to give many parties,
one learns to value such persons very much, and to discern that they
are highly gifted.”
I never forgot this conversation, and have ever since been looking
about for pleasant people. The lady was quite right: they are the
rarities. Double their number, and the world would be much more
“comfortable.”
Now, don’t come down upon me by saying that a man must be somewhat
false, or too much given to assent to everything that everybody
says, in order to be a pleasant companion. Falseness, or insincere
assent, is immediately perceived, and destroys pleasantness of
intercourse, instead of creating it. But a pleasant man can dissent
from you heartily and earnestly, without giving the least cause for
offence. Of course no man is pleasant who is not truthful. Now a
disagreeable man will often dissent from you from the mere love of
opposition, and you do not call that untruthful, whereas it is the
essence of falsehood, and you never know what the man’s opinions
really are, because he is so given to object to everything that
anybody else says.
_Milverton._ I agree with every word you say, Sir Arthur; but do not
blame me for not having introduced all these things into my speech;
if I had done so, I should have spoken from breakfast-time till
dinner-time.
_Ellesmere._ I must revive, and return to this dull earth; for I
have something very good to say. I object to a species of
ill-natured ridicule which is very rife in these days, and which
goes by the vulgar name of “chaff.” I have heard the most
ill-natured things said chaffingly.
_Mauleverer._ Well! If I ever!
_Sir Arthur._ Upon my word, Ellesmere, we must revert to the Latin
of your epitaph, and exclaim:--“_Quis tulerit Ellesmere, de
chaffatione querentem._”
_Ellesmere._ And I must revert to what you say about
misunderstandings. I will knock off, at once, some four or five
units from your seven millions of misunderstandings, for I daresay
there are four or five foolish people who misunderstand me. Cranmer
did, for one; but that’s all over. I never say anything that can
hurt anybody of any sense. Half an hour ago, I said something to
Milverton about his works which might be taken to be an unpleasant
saying, whereas it was a high compliment; delicately veiled, I
admit, but still a high compliment. Other people valued his
well-known works; I, for my part, delight most in those which are at
present obscure. All my _dis_pliments (if I may coin a word for the
occasion) are (when unmasked) highly complimentary.
_Lady Ellesmere._ There never were masks, then, so like real flesh
and blood.
_Ellesmere._ It is very kind of you, my lady, to point out how well
the thing is done, and that the deception is so like real life; and
yet, as I contend, it does not deceive anybody. The birds do not
come and peck at my picture: they merely say to one another, “How
well Sir John paints his cherries! It is quite a treat to look at
them.”
Now, for goodness’ sake do admit that there is a gulf so wide
between fun and ill-nature that no Curtius can fill it up. Don’t
think you are going to make men comfortable by making them dull.
_Mauleverer._ I am going to have my “innings” now, and I shall
presume to take you back to a very grave part of the subject. You
may try to improve individual men as much as you like, but I can
tell you that they will always be little, spiteful, vain, sensitive,
backbiting creatures.
Now I think you may possibly do something to make governments wiser,
and so improve the comfort of mankind. I do not wish to be
censorious, but the statesmen of modern days do not seem to me to be
well educated for statesmanship--to be well grounded in the things
it most behoves them to know. A signal proof of this seems to me to
be, that all great measures are carried by the very men who began by
opposing them. I will not use the ugly words “renegades” and
“apostates,” but, to use parliamentary language, I will say that the
best measures are carried by gentlemen “who have seen reason, and
are not ashamed to own it, for greatly modifying their opinions on
this important subject,” which generally means that they have come
right round.
I know full well that to make too much of mere consistency is a
great mistake; but it does occur to me as a subject of regret, that
statesmen should not have apprehended the drift of certain main
lines of policy. Now I must speak a little egotistically, but it
will illustrate what I mean. When I was a young man, and thought it
likely that I should some day or other be in parliament, the great
noise was beginning to be made about Free-trade and the Corn-laws. I
said to myself, I will study these questions for myself: and I did
study them carefully. I came to the conclusion, which was not
particularly welcome to me, that the principles of Free-trade must
prevail, and that the Corn-laws must be abolished. Now, really, I
cannot help giving myself, and others who did as I did, more credit
for statesmanlike views than those men who filled a much greater
place in the world, but who seemed to be very deaf to sound
reasoning, and never to have looked into things for themselves. I
cannot respect them so much for their inconsistency, whatever merit
it may have, as I should have done for their sagacity, if they had
been consistently right from the first.
Another point has struck me about statesmen. Sometimes they do not
seem to be equal to the clever men outside, or even to the general
body of ordinary men, for that is the point. A Cabinet, perhaps
consisting of really clever men, puts forth something which gods,
men, and omnibus drivers protest against, not only as a thing bad in
itself, but which has also this disadvantage, that it cannot
possibly be carried. That good sense which forms the best part of
what we call “the public mind,” seems sometimes to have no
representatives amongst even first-class statesmen. This has really
puzzled me. I am not speaking satirically at all, but very
earnestly, and I hope humbly. Do explain this phenomenon to me.
_Cranmer._ Let me answer him. You seem to forget, Mauleverer, that
these things you object to, which are put forth by statesmen, and
which, as you say, are discovered to be foolish, even by commonplace
persons, are the results of compromise. Now, every compromise is
easily attackable. Your commonplace man has nobody whom he is
obliged to consult. His views are therefore uncompromising and
clear. You would see what modifications he would have to make if he
had to act with others, instead of merely talking out his own views,
upon his own responsibility alone.
_Sir Arthur._ It seems but fair to consider this.
_Milverton._ Still, does there not remain an important residuum of
truth in what Mr. Mauleverer has stated?
_Sir Arthur._ Perhaps; but much less, I think, than you imagine.
_Lady Ellesmere._ Now may I not take up the running, or have the
innings, to use the elegant phrases which you gentlemen adopt, and
make my comment upon the speech?
How was it, Leonard, that you did not say anything about marriage,
upon which, surely, so much of comfort or discomfort depends?
_Milverton._ My dear Mildred, are you going to be unreasonable too,
like the rest of them? To discourse properly on such a subject would
have required a long speech, and who is to make such a speech? An
unmarried man cannot, for want of experience, and a married man will
not; consequently there has been very little written or said about
marriage, if we except Jeremy Taylor’s celebrated sermon, which is
worth listening to.
I will tell you something which occurs to me, but it has reference
to love-making rather than to marriage. I think that some of you
women make a point of being too reserved and too reticent in the
expression of your feelings, or rather of neglecting to give any
intimation of what those feelings might be; and so, many a marriage,
that might have proved very happy, has been prevented.
_Ellesmere._ I quite agree with Milverton that, considering the
greater natural modesty and timidity of men, women should make more
of an advance than they do. What would have become of me if Mildred
had not been somewhat different from the rest of her sex? You know
how it all happened?
“Johnny!” she said (I did think that a little familiar, and that she
might have contented herself with “John”), “Johnny! you are
intolerable to most men, and nearly to all women; but you are not so
very intolerable to me. I don’t mind, if you don’t. Pegotty is
willing.”
What could I do, but close at once with the proposition, and say,
“Barkis is willing, and has been for many a long day”? And so it
ended; no, it didn’t end there; I always do what the books tell me
to do--I believe in books--and so down I knelt and kissed her hand.
And here we are, not more miserable than other married people. Oh,
it’s a capital instance of the advantage of women coming forward.
Speaking on the part of men, having received a “brief,” marked with
a large fee, and intituled “Mankind in general _v._ Mauleverer and
Others,” I say we should not mind at all if women would take the
leading part in love affairs.
_Lady Ellesmere._ I think I need not contradict this statement. The
Court is too well aware of my learned friend’s power of statement,
which is nearly equal in truth and accuracy to his “powerful
singing.” Johnny’s audacity (I suppose I may call him Johnny now) is
too well known for it to be supposed that it was wanting to him on
any occasion. Their lordships, I am sure, are so far with me.
_Milverton._ Have you anything to say, Johnson? for, if not, I shall
commence my speech in reply.
_Johnson._ I have something to say, but it is not quite relevant to
the subject.
_Ellesmere._ Say it, Sandy. Hang relevancy and consistency, and all
other strait-laced inventions for tying up the tongues of men.
_Johnson._ No, I shall postpone it to another time.
_Milverton._ Have you anything you wish to say, Blanche?
_Mrs. Milverton._ No, dear; I agree, chiefly, with what Sir Arthur
has said.
_Milverton._ Then, I suppose, I may commence my reply.
In the first place, Ellesmere sneered at me about repetition.
[I did not hear Sir John say anything of the kind: I suppose it was an
aside.]
I shall begin with a story.
I was travelling with one of the leading men of the extreme Liberal
party in Ireland, a man of great eloquence, and it was at a time
when O’Connell was in full force, and creating immense agitation for
repeal. “What a great man he is!” said my friend. “Is there any man
who can repeat the same thing over and over again in the way that he
does? You do not see the greatness that there is in that. If you or
I, poor creatures, were to have said the same thing once or twice,
however appropriate, should we not be too shamefaced to say it
again?--
‘Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not,
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?’
Now, could you ‘hereditary bondsmen’ them more than once or twice in
your life? You know you couldn’t. Whereas O’Connell can and will do
so a hundred times. Those lines exactly convey his meaning, and he
is not going to waste his time in searching for what would be sure
to do not quite so well.”
What my Irish friend said made a deep impression upon me, and when I
am drawing back from a word, or a phrase, or a sentiment, merely
because I have said it once or twice before, I mutter to myself,
“Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not?” and on I go with my word or my
phrase, which happens to suit me now as it suited me before. Have I
not answered you, Master Ellesmere?
[Ellesmere made a shrug of negation, but said nothing.]
I should like now to add a few words in explanation of my speech. I
do not think I made very clear what I meant by unreasonable
conservatism. I will give an instance. A man who has given
considerable attention to the poor, and has been noted for
benevolence, tells me that it would be an immense advantage if wages
were paid in the middle of the week instead of at the end. I thought
I knew something about this matter, but when I came to talk with
this man, I found there were advantages, in the plan he proposed,
that had entirely escaped me. Look, for instance, how much longer
time the poor woman would have for laying out her husband’s wages to
advantage. Whereas, under the present system of paying on a
Saturday, she has scarcely any choice given her; for recollect that
Sunday is the feast day: the day for which meat is bought.
Then another thing that you would never have thought of is, that no
extra blaze of gas would be brought on, like there now is on a
Saturday night, for the purpose of selling an inferior article under
the deceiving influence of that extra light. Well, this man had two
great establishments; one in town, and one in the country. At one he
succeeded, but at the other conservatism, as he told me, was too
strong for him.
Now, take another instance,--the locking of the doors of railway
carriages. I never met with a man who could give me valid reasons
for the continuance of that practice that almost everybody wishes to
be discontinued. I believe that the reason mainly adduced for the
practice is, that some madman might jump out while the train is in
motion. But what a one-sided madman he must be, for the doors are
only locked on one side. Bring the people of England to the poll on
this question, and not one in one hundred thousand would vote for
this locking up--except, perhaps, the madmen. They might naturally
enough vote with the directors.
But the thing having been done once, irrational conservatism comes
in, and years pass away before the thing can be undone.
Take another instance,--we mend our roads with rough stones, and
omit to press them down properly. This injures our horses, spoils
our carriage-wheels, and annoys ourselves; and, moreover, is a great
detriment to the road. But to bring a heavy roller over these stones
would be a Whig-Radical device, and irrational conservatism shudders
at it.
Now I come to Sir Arthur’s remarks. Of course, if it had been an
essay or a speech chiefly directed to the government of the man’s
own mind, I should have dwelt much more upon the art of making men
more comfortable in their minds. I should have mentioned, for
instance, what I have said before, about the folly of hating, and of
imagining evils for, others, upon this ground alone, that, exercise
your imagination as much as you will, you cannot imagine anything
which is sure to do your enemy, if you are stupid enough and
extravagant enough to indulge in such a luxury as an enemy, any
harm.
I should have endeavoured to deal with envy and jealousy in a
similar way: but I was not speaking about the passions, but about
the possible comforts of mankind.
Finally, I should like to say something more about communism. I fear
I shall be misunderstood in what I said about that. I do certainly
think that some of the advantages which communists aim at might be
gained by central government, which, in my judgment, is bound to
undertake that good for individuals which they cannot possibly
compass by individual exertion.
But now, following the line of Sir Arthur, I will show that there is
a much larger and higher communism in my mind--the communism of
sympathy that should pervade all classes.
What is the great misery of each individual man? Isolation. “No
losses but of my making, no tears but of my shedding,” says Shylock,
being himself, partly from his own fault, and partly from the fault
of cruel prejudices, one of the most isolated of beings.
You all know those words in the “Flauto Magico” which I admire so
much. I have often repeated them to you, and (“Hereditary bondsmen,
know ye not?”) I shall repeat them again. The words which please me
most are--
“Fra noi ciascun divide
L’ affanno ed il piacer.”
What a comfort it would be to human life if men felt they could
divide their sorrows with other men, and how willingly they would
then allow those others to partake their joys! Of course, I know
that, upon this earth, such a state of things is impossible. The
only approach that can be made to it is by sympathy, and sympathy
must grow with knowledge. Changing and enlarging a little your
French proverb, I would say--“_Tout comprendre c’est tout aimer._”
We dined together, and everybody tried, at least everybody except Sir
John Ellesmere, to make the evening go off cheerfully; but it was
manifestly an effort, and the wheels “drave heavily.” It was in vain
that Mr. Milverton, playing the part of a good host, threw out topics of
conversation, chiefly political. Sir John gave short, snappish answers,
which led to nothing.
When we had left the table, and had drawn round the fire, there was a
heavy silence for a minute or two, which was at last broken by Sir John.
_Ellesmere._ No, I will not come again; it is such a detestable
thing, the breaking-up. Nothing is worth it.
I will come and see you, Milverton, if you are in trouble or ill,
but I will not assist any more at these pleasant meetings.
What did Dr. Johnson say when he went over Garrick’s cheerful house,
and saw Garrick’s pleasant, comely wife, and Garrick’s well-chosen
furniture? It was something of this sort:--“Oh, Davy, Davy, these
are the things which make it so terrible to die!”--and parting is a
kind of death.
Now there is Sir Arthur. I knew him to be a great writer and a great
politician, but I did not know that he was such a good fellow, and
that he would endure the impertinences of a certain flippant lawyer,
presuming to chaff him (shall I admit the word “chaff”?) about “The
True,” “The Good,” and “The Beautiful.”
And then there is Cranmer. Who would have thought that an
ex-Secretary of the Treasury would be so tolerant of such an
unofficial-minded man as I am? And then, Mauleverer,--I now know
that he has a large soul, and am sure that he likes me better than
any turtle;--and Sandy, there; what a clever boy he is! Have I not
taught him many athletic sports--such as fishing, and making ducks
and drakes on the water? And I am very sorry to part from him, too.
I hate parting, that’s a fact! and I am not such a hypocrite and
impostor as, like the rest of you, to pretend to be very cheerful
this evening.
By the way, having mentioned Garrick’s wife reminds me of something.
With my fear of any great felicity in this world, and my horror of
having to part from it, I almost wish I had never seen Mildred. She
has made life too agreeable to me. Now then, dear, have I not said a
thing which compensates for all rude speeches, past, present, and to
come?
[It is always very difficult to know how far Sir John is in earnest. I
think there was a touch of earnestness in that last sentence of his.
Lady Ellesmere evidently thought so, too. In that beautiful woman’s eyes
there came that mist which rises before tears, or upon the conquest and
suppression of tears, and which gives the deepest and tenderest
expression to a face. She stole her hand into his; but said nothing. Sir
John continued--:]
Talking of “The Comfortable,” there is one comfort in having a wife,
that one can throw one’s packing upon her; and, as no true woman can
refuse a good opportunity for making a fuss, she is sure to delight
in it. To-morrow is Sunday, and we start early on Monday; so, my
dear, you really must set to work now. Remember to return those
books of Milverton’s that we have carried off into our room, or my
epi---- Don’t look so reproachful, my dear. Do you know, Milverton,
our wives are angry with us: yours because you said it was your last
essay; and mine, because I wrote a posthumous account of myself. You
silly thing! it does not make one die a bit the sooner; and as for
you, Blanche, Milverton’s threat of its being the last essay is
merely a sign of increased liveliness, and a decent way of informing
us that he is coming out next season with renewed vigour. Do
Ministers always mean to resign when they threaten to do so?
No, don’t go just yet. I will give you a good winding up of all our
writing and talking. Do you remember the concluding chapter of
Rasselas, “in which nothing is concluded”? I will give you my
version of it as applicable to ourselves. It is as follows:--
It rained incessantly (that is, it did yesterday), and the Friends
in Council were confined to the house. A juicy day in the country
promotes meditation of the most serious kind; and they had ample
time to think over and to communicate to each other the various
schemes of happiness which each of them had formed.
Mr. Cranmer thought that, of all sublunary things, taxation was the
prettiest. He desired to found a state where the people would pay
their taxes gladly, and where financial statements made by the
Government would be universally believed in.
Mr. Mauleverer sought to enrol himself in a community where every
man, woman, and child should know how thoroughly and hopelessly
miserable he or she is, and where a joke should be a crime
punishable by instant death.
Sir Arthur maintained that a perception of “The Beautiful” would, of
itself, render all people sufficiently happy; but his wanderings
from Mesopotamia to Yucatan had only brought him in contact with
coarse people, who seemed more intent upon “The Beefy” than “The
Beautiful.”
Mr. Milverton desired a kingdom in which right reason--that is to
say, his own ideas--should always prevail. He had carefully fixed
the limits of this kingdom; but could never find anybody worthy to
be an inhabitant of it except himself and his private secretary,
Sandy Johnson.
Mr. Alexander Johnson thought that literature was the salt of life,
and that any man who had written a book must be very wise and very
good. Some converse, however, with men who had written books,
induced him greatly to modify this opinion; and he was now inclined
to maintain that the northern part of each community contained all
the worth, and wit, and wisdom of the land, and that the universe,
to be well governed, should chiefly be ruled over by Scotchmen.
Mrs. Milverton desired to find--that greatest of household
treasures--a good cook, with a good temper.
Lady Ellesmere proposed to form a female community, herself to be
the head of it, where, freed from the turbulence of men, gentle
means should be employed for the attainment of generous ends, and
where rationality of enjoyment should be the just reward of
perspicuity of design; but, never having been for any ten minutes
alone with other women, without finding their society rather dull,
she was beginning to conclude that men, as well as wasps, must have
their place in creation (though she could not quite see why) and
must be endured as necessary evils.
Sir John Ellesmere was contented to be driven along the stream of
life without expecting to find anybody much wiser, more judicious,
or less unreasonable than himself.
Of the many discussions and deliberations in which the “Friends” had
been involved, they were now aware that some of them were wise, and
that some of them were inept. Of the opinions they had pronounced,
the precepts they had urged, the suggestions they had presumed to
offer for the benefit--as they had been pleased to fancy--of
mankind, reflection taught them that those which were the utterances
of folly would be readily adopted by the common nonsense of their
fellow-men; while such--alas, but few!--as were the dictates of
sound wisdom would mostly be devoid of growth in the shallow soil
upon which such seeds are, of necessity, scattered by the sower.
Rejoicing in the thought that, if their lucubrations would do no
good, at any rate they would cause but little harm--for the world is
so full of foolishness that if a new folly is introduced it must
perforce expel some other folly--the Friends in Council resolved, if
the train should not break down, to return to their smoke-stained
habitations in the “unlovely” precincts of modern Babylon.
After this there was much humorous conversation, everybody, except Mrs.
Milverton and Mr. Cranmer, protesting that their views and hopes had
been grossly misrepresented by Sir John Ellesmere. We then separated for
the night; and I have nothing further to relate respecting our sojourn
during the holidays at Worth-Ashton.
And now I must say a word or two for myself. I may not always have set
forth accurately the conversations which I have undertaken to record. I
may not even have chosen the most interesting of them. I am very young,
but I think I am not unobservant; and the love I have had from my
childhood for investigating character may have been useful to me in this
instance. I hope it may have been so. But, at any rate, I have done my
best, and can only hope that what I have done will not be received with
disfavour by the public.
LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Notes
This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. In the original
text, the passages in dialogue are set in a slightly smaller font. In
this edition, they are indented. New original cover art included with
this ebook is granted to the public domain.
The following changes and corrections have been made:
• p. 21: Added quotation mark before phrase “Who is she.”
• p. 76: Added quotation mark before phrase “and that the same thing
holds good.”
• p. 144 note 15: Change closing single quotation mark to double after
poem.
• p. 183: Added period between “Mauleverer” and “some nine miles out of
town.”
• p. 190: Added period after phrase “of course there are.”
• p. 250: Added period between “Cranmer” and “I should like to have
been a mail-coachman.”
• p. 268: Changed “Quousque” to “Quo usque” in phrase “Quo usque tandem
abutêre, Caitlina.”
• p. 360: Changed “aer” to “are” in phrase “their grey-eyed descendants
are ruling men.”
• p. 368: Added period between “Mauleverer” and “and never could mount
higher than thirty feet.”
• p. 378: Added period after phrase “who are naturally prone to think
they are neglected.”
• p. 379: Changed “mazingly” to “amazingly” in phrase “I admire, as I
have told you, the writers of fiction amazingly.”
• p. 390: Added period after phrase “He was Leonard Milverton’s great
friend.”
• p. 412: Changed “to morrow” to “to-morrow” in phrase “consider what
they would give us for dinner to-morrow.”
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