Part 4

Young America does not take kindly to correction in any form, probably resenting it as an infringement of natural liberties. One little boy having been punished for some childish transgression, astonished his family by coming down suddenly from his room up-stairs with a small bundle under his arm, saying, ‘I’m going to leave this blessed house.’

American children are, as a rule, more practical and less imaginative than those of the old country—inclined from the very beginning to look on life as a struggle, though a pleasant one on the whole, and on the world as their oyster, which they, with their sharp-set wits, must open. They bring this matter-of-fact element even into their devotions. A little girl was promised by her father, on his leaving home for a few days, that he would bring dolls for her and her sister when he came back. That night, when at her prayers, she put in the very laudable petition, ‘Pray God, bring papa home safely;’ but somewhat compromised the effect by adding with great emphasis, after a moment’s rapt reflection—‘with the dolls.’ But this was devotion itself compared with the following. A little mite of a creature running out of her room one morning was called back by her mother: ‘Dolly, you haven’t said your prayers.’ ‘I dess Dod tan wait,’ returned little Miss Irreverence; ‘I’se in a hurry.’ In both these cases, the utter unconsciousness of presumption on the part of the tiny speakers took away the effect of profanity from their words.

Reverence is certainly not the strong point of our small kinsfolk across the water. Almost from their entrance into the world, they begin to assume airs of equality with all around them. One sweet little damsel, who was of peculiarly small and fairy-like proportions, could with difficulty be prevailed upon to call her parents otherwise than by their Christian names; and the effect was quaint to hear her, when offered candy or such-like forbidden dainties, refuse them with a wistful look and the words: ‘Willie not likes it’ (Willie being her father); or, ‘Annie’ (her mother) ‘said no.’ Nay, she did not scruple even to call her grandmother by _her_ name, as far as she could pronounce it, for ‘Margaret’ offered some obstacles to the baby lips. You would have fancied this same little maiden too soft and gentle to brush the down from a butterfly’s wing; but on one occasion she shocked the sensibilities of her young cousin, fresh from England, by exclaiming, on an innocent, newly fledged chicken being brought in for the inspection of the family: ‘Me have dat pitty bird for my dinner!’

From the youngest age, American children are ready to share—as Wordsworth once expressed it—‘in anything going.’ A visitor injudiciously offering a little boy some wine at dinner, was requested by his watchful mother not to give him ‘too much;’ when young Hopeful took the words out of her mouth by protesting with vehement eagerness: ‘I _like_ too much!’

It is no easy task to impose any restrictions, even of time or place, on one of these little free-born Americans, or to impress them with any sense of restraint or regard of persons. One little daughter of Eve, brought up for baptism at the ripe age of two—episcopal visits being rare in the part of the country where she lived—somewhat scandalised the bishop by calling his attention, just before the ceremony, to her attire, thus: ‘Look at my new dess;’ and drawing it back to display her dainty feet—‘Look, bissop, at my pitty new boots!’ The good father took it all in very amiable part, though he remarked to her mother afterwards, that the little one had evidently no intention of giving up the vanities of the world just yet.

But we must say good-bye for the present to our little American cousins, on whom we must not be understood to have cast the shadow of an aspersion. Their intelligence and quickness, indeed, combined with the other charms of infancy—of which they have their full share—make them as attractive, to say the least, as any of their kind. We can assert, moreover, from our own knowledge, that some of these tiny gentry, with whose scarce-conscious childish profanity we have dallied for a while, are growing up at this present moment into decent and in every way excellent members of society.

A STRANGE LOVE AFFAIR.

Hector Mackinnon, the hero of the strange story we are about to unfold, a story perhaps unequalled for uniqueness in the annals of love, was a divinity student. He had just completed his fourth year of the Hall, and expected soon to be licensed as a probationer. He was the only son of a wealthy merchant, and had been destined for the ministry from his birth.

Mr Mackinnon, senior, was a prominent and influential adherent of one of our strictest dissenting bodies, and had brought up his son in the belief that there was little else good in the world outside the pale of its communion. There was some mystery about Hector’s mother, who had died shortly after giving him birth. Some people whispered that she had been on the stage before she was married, and that Mr Mackinnon had fallen violently in love with her pretty face, and married the young girl while in the ecstasy of his passion, and before the cold dictates of prudence, or the counsel of his friends, could intervene. The marriage had not been, it was said, a happy one. While the magic glamour of love lasted, all went well; when it began to wane, the angular austerities of Mr Mackinnon’s disposition became painfully apparent to the young bride. On his part, he looked without sympathy, if not indeed with positive contempt, on what he termed the ‘worldly frivolities’ of her gay and joyous nature. Above all, he felt keenly the loss of social status which the marriage entailed on him in the estimation of his own sect. The young wife was sternly forbidden to have any intercourse with her relatives and friends; and her husband’s sister, who was a maiden lady of very gloomy religious views, was installed as housekeeper ostensibly, but really to play ‘propriety’ to her unregenerate young relative. Happiness could not, of course, exist in this state of matters; and when the grim messenger arrived with the fiat which dissolved the ill-assorted union, it was perhaps a relief to all.

Brought up under a terribly severe code of social ethics, the theatre, concert, and ballroom were represented to Hector as only so many roads to perdition; and being of an amiable disposition, and desirous of pleasing his father, he had up till now, when he had attained his twenty-third year, sedulously eschewed these enticing forms of social amusement. It was not destined, however, that he was always to remain in this state of innocent ignorance. A brilliant theatrical star visited the city, and turned the heads of all—both young and old, male and female, alike. Her stage-name was Violet d’Esterre (no one knew her real name), and it was on her exquisite delineation of Shakspearean tragedy that her justly earned fame rested. The college students were particularly enthusiastic in her praise, and crowded the theatre nightly to admire her beauty, and listen entranced to the melody of her sublime elocution. One evening, Hector, persuaded by his companions, consented to accompany them to hear this paragon of passionate declamation. The play was the old, old story of the hapless lovers of Verona. Such a hold had her impersonation of the intensely loving Juliet taken of the public, that they insisted on it being performed night after night, to the exclusion of other tragic parts in which she was equally celebrated. If any of our readers have not been in a theatre until they were about the age of Hector, they will be able to realise the very powerful sensuous effect the music, beautiful scenery, bright dresses, and decorations had on his imagination, and how they conduced to give full effect to the sense of bewildered admiration he felt when the curtain rose on the banqueting hall in Capulet’s house, and the fair daughter of Capulet. How feebly, it seemed to him, did Romeo express his feelings in saying:

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear: Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

Mademoiselle d’Esterre’s physical qualifications for the part were superb. Her countenance, which was Italian in cast of features and complexion, boasted of a pair of orbs of the deepest violet black. Large and lustrous, they were mobile and expressive in the highest degree. When they first rested on Romeo’s form, they dilated with the eager fire of southern passion, and as quickly drooped in maidenly confusion and modesty. Her whole attitude showed she felt she had met her destiny; and before she had even spoken a syllable, the audience felt they were under the spell of an enchantress. Then, with what simple natural dignity did she invest the few words the girl-lover addresses to love-stricken Romeo, already commencing his love-making as ‘holy palmer.’ From the moment the curtain was raised until it descended at the end of the fifth act, Hector sat spellbound, oblivious to everything on earth save the scenes that were being enacted on the stage. His companions had to arouse him when it became time to quit the theatre.

‘Well, Mackinnon,’ said Charley Smith, ‘what do you think of the d’Esterre? Jolly-like girl, isn’t she?’

‘Don’t speak of the young lady in that vulgar way,’ he replied. ‘I am certain that girl is as pure and good as Juliet was.’

‘I am not saying a word against her—nobody can do that,’ his companion rejoined. ‘Surely, surely, you’ve not got hit with her charms—you, of all men!’

Hector was in no mood for badinage at that moment, and pleading a headache, he hurried off to his lodgings. He could not imagine what was the matter; but after tossing all night uneasily in bed, he had to confess to himself next morning that he, Hector Mackinnon, the budding clergyman, the lifelong hater of things theatrical and bohemianisms of every sort, had fallen hopelessly and irretrievably in love with an actress he had seen for the first and only time a few hours ago! There was no use in trying to disguise the truth to himself; he felt—or fancied he felt, which comes to much the same thing—that life without possession of this fair divinity would not be worth living; but that, with her by his side, the roughest tempests that fate could send would feel like gentle wooing zephyrs.

It was not to be expected that this state of matters could long remain secret from Hector’s companions. His theses and themes remained unwritten; his answers to the Professor’s questions were of the most incoherent description, and at last he discontinued his attendance at college altogether. Inheriting a considerable share of his father’s stern determination, he was not of a nature to suffer in silence the agonies of a secret and unrequited passion. The inspirer of the consuming yet delicious flame which burned within his bosom must, he admitted, be some few years older than himself; for had she not been a celebrity in her profession for over a dozen years now? Well, what of that? Was that any reason why he should deny himself the lifelong companionship of the only woman he ever loved or could love? To marry her meant, he knew, an open rupture with his father, and the abandonment of his ministerial career; but were these trifles for one moment to be weighed in the balance against the pure and unalloyed bliss of a lifetime spent in the society of his darling? No—a thousand times, no! In this wise did he reason with himself, as many a lover has done before, and, we may safely predict, will do again. His life had now only one object, and that was to gain an introduction to Mademoiselle d’Esterre, and press his suit with all the ardour of a lover who felt that his life’s happiness depended on the result.

Every night found him at the theatre, gazing on the unconscious cause of his distraction ‘till his life’s love left him through his eyes.’ The rich clear notes of her magnificent contralto voice seemed to flood the theatre with the music of the spheres, and filled his soul with an agony of delight. At this period, it would have been an unspeakable relief to his overcharged feelings, if he had had some sympathetic friend to make a confidant of. But, alas, the sufferer from the darts of the rosy god, like the victim of prosaic toothache, obtains no sympathy from his kind.

Time wore on, and the posters announced the last six nights of Mademoiselle’s engagement. He had tried his best to procure an introduction, but without success, the friends and associates of his past life being widely outside of theatrical circles. He found out, however, where she lodged, and the hour at which she usually took her daily promenade. In vain did he follow her at a respectful distance, in the fond hope that some drunk man, runaway horse, or other street casualty, might afford the means of an impromptu introduction; unfortunately, the pedestrians were all sober, and the horses jogged on in a manner remarkably sedate and correct. At last, when almost reduced to despair, an ingenious thought occurred to him. The talented actress occasionally gave morning recitations and readings. He was possessed of considerable literary ability, and what was to hinder him from composing a suitable piece for recitation, sending it to her for approval, and by that means obtaining a personal interview? Being favourably impressed with the feasibility of the scheme, he set to work, and composed a hundred-line poem in blank verse, in which the torments of unrequited love were very forcibly if not elegantly portrayed. With a trembling hand, he dropped this in the letter-box, accompanied by a polite note craving her acceptance of the offering.

Who shall attempt to describe the thirty-six dreary hours of suspense that elapsed before a reply came, in a polite little epistle redolent of patchouli, thanking Mr Mackinnon for his kind present, which she would be glad to use on the first suitable occasion? She was, however, of opinion that, from an elocutionary point of view, certain alterations would tend to make it much more effective. Would Mr Mackinnon honour Mademoiselle by calling on her at her residence at noon the following day, when said alterations could be discussed? The poor fellow almost cried as he again and again pressed the precious missive to his lips; and it was some time before his spirits were sufficiently calmed down to admit of his inditing a coherent reply. Hope now lent her roseate hues to our hero’s love prospects, and it was with difficulty he compelled himself to await the slow progress of the hands on the dial of his watch till they were conjoined over the happy hour appointed for his interview with her who held his life’s happiness at her sole command.

Arrived at his destination, he timidly rang the door-bell, and on giving the servant his card, was informed the lady was ‘at home.’ On entering the drawing-room, he beheld Mademoiselle reclining in a graceful attitude on a low ottoman. She wore a _négligé_ costume of some sort of soft warm cream-coloured material, which harmonised delightfully with her clear, transparent, olive complexion, and displayed the symmetry of her exquisitely formed figure to great advantage. She wore no jewelry; her only ornament was a beautiful Marshal M‘Mahon rose, the deep crimson petals of which formed a charming contrast to the raven tresses on which they reposed. There were two other occupants of the room; and it was easy to see, from their ‘at-home’ air, that they were not merely visitors. One was a brisk little lady, with a pleasant good-humoured expression, who it would be safe to guess had seen at least fifty summers. The other was a tall stately girl of not more than seventeen or eighteen. She had evidently been practising at the piano, which lay open, with the score of a new opera on the music-holder. Had Hector’s mind not been so fully engrossed, he probably would have noticed a considerable resemblance between her and the fair object of his devotions. The principal difference lay in the colour of the hair, the complexion, and the stature. The young lady was a pronounced blonde, possessing large azure orbs of almost dreamy softness, and a wealth of light reddish-golden hair carelessly twisted and fastened in a coil at the back of the head.

As Hector advanced, Mademoiselle rose gracefully from her seat and, glancing at his card, said in the same rich contralto tones which had so inthralled him in the theatre: ‘Ah, Mr Mackinnon, I perceive! Good-morning, sir. Pray, be seated.’ Holding out her hand, he had the brief precious delight of pressing it for a second in his trembling palm.—‘Now, you needn’t leave the room,’ she said, addressing her two companions. ‘This is the gentleman who did me the honour of sending me the poem entitled _Amor in Mors_.—Permit me to introduce you to my good friend Mrs Eskell; and to Mademoiselle Andresen, my niece.’

The introductions being over, Hector resumed his seat. He never felt so embarrassed in the whole course of his life. How fondly had he rehearsed in his mind the many brilliant tender speeches he would give utterance to on this occasion! Now that the wished-for opportunity had arrived, he sat speechless. It is but fair to say, however, that he did not contemplate the presence of third parties at the interview. Still, their presence should not have tongue-tied him as it did—he, the glibest debater and the best elocutionist in the college.

Seeing his embarrassment, the lady came to his relief. ‘Well, Mr Mackinnon, I am very much pleased with your poem, and I think, with a few slight alterations, it might make a very effective recitation. Do you not think, though, the title is a little too lugubrious? Could you not substitute some other word for Mors? Just reflect! Fancy me dying every night for the past fortnight as Juliet! It is really too bad of the good folks of your city to insist on my manager making me repeat night after night a part which I have begun really to detest.’

‘O Mademoiselle, do not say that,’ cried Hector. ‘Ah, if you but knew the delightful thrill you send through the audience in the balcony scene—and—and—the tears you cause them to shed when the unfortunate heroine—Shakspeare’s greatest creation’——

‘Shakspeare’s greatest fiddlestick!’ she replied, laughing merrily. ‘What people see in her, I’m sure I don’t know! To my mind, she’s a forward young chit, that would have been much better employed in mending Papa Capulet’s hose and helping her mother to keep house, than philandering with her Romeo.—But about _Amor in Mors_. Don’t you think, now, you could make it just the tiniest little bit funny? I do so long to get out of this continued round of love-making, murder, and suicide.’

Could he believe his ears? Was this cynical, matter-of-fact woman identical with the fair embodiment of transcendental, ethereal love, on whose accents he had hung with enraptured delight for the past few nights? No, it could not be; there must be some strange mistake. Yet, when her mobile features were for a moment in repose, there he beheld the same deep, lustrous, unfathomable eyes—the same sweet innocent mouth, with its half-childlike pouting lips. He was bewildered, and as in a dream.

‘You are pleased, Mademoiselle, to be satirical this morning,’ he replied. ‘I cannot do you the injustice of supposing you are in earnest in what you say. No one could enact the part of Juliet so nobly unless she were capable of imbuing herself thoroughly with the divine passion attributed to her by her creator.’

‘Believe me, you are quite wrong there, Mr Mackinnon. It is not by any means those parts which actors have the natural emotional qualifications for, that they excel in portraying. Nature in that case _destroys_ art; and hence it is that parts that actors like best are precisely those they act worst. For myself, I am guided entirely by public criticism, and confine myself to those rôles that draw the best houses. Of course I have my own predilections. I have a very fair singing voice, and think I should be able to do very well in opera-bouffe. Oh, I _do_ dote on opera-bouffe!—But about _Amor in Mors_. I really think the language is splendid—quite as good as Shakspeare’s, I daresay, although I don’t profess to be a literary critic. Well, if you would alter the conclusion in such a way as to make the audience take a good hearty laugh after I had wound them up to the crying pitch, I believe it would be effective, and I will line it in the bills for my first Saturday morning readings.’

‘Alas, Mademoiselle, I fear my poor verses are not susceptible of being changed in the way you wish; but if you allow me, I shall endeavour to write something in a lighter vein, that may have the happiness to merit your approval. Permit me to ask you to retain the verses you have.’

‘With pleasure, sir,’ she replied.—‘I presume you are of the literary profession?’

Hector was not very sure whether a divinity student came of right under that category or not, but he replied in the affirmative.

‘Well, then, we shall be glad to see you, if you can come along here to supper at twelve o’clock on Friday first. It is a farewell entertainment I am giving to a few friends of the press, and others. If you have your new piece done, bring it with you; I’ll recite it, and we’ll see what they think of it.’ Thus saying, she rose, as if to indicate the interview was at an end; and after making his adieux, Hector departed in a very anomalous state of mind. The bright, girlish, gushing Juliet of the footlights was for ever annihilated in his mind. In her stead stood an undeniably handsome, accomplished woman of the world, gay, good-humoured, and apparently good-hearted; but so utterly devoid of all sentiment as to frankly avow a longing for opera-bouffe! By all the rules of common-sense, our hero being disillusioned, should have at once fallen _out_ of love. This, however, did not happen. After the first shock of finding her so different in her ideas from what he expected was over, the subjectivity of his passion asserted itself, and his mind soon formed a fresh ideal of female perfection, of which she was again the incarnation.