A Love Story
beautiful Miss Vignoles, the Mrs. Glenallan of our story; and, in a
strange adventure with some Neapolitan guides, was of some service to
her party. They saw his designs of some tombs, and took the trouble of
drawing him out. The young man now for the first time basked in the
sweets of society; in a fortnight, to Mr. Hargrave's horror, was
rolling in its vortex; in a couple of months found himself indulging
in, and avowing, a hopeless passion; and in three, was once again in
his native land, falsely deeming that his peace of mind had fled for
ever. He was shortly, however, called upon to exert his energies. The
death of his uncle suddenly made him, to his very great surprise, one
of the wealthiest commoners of England. At this period he was quite
unknown. In a short time Mr. Hargrave and himself were lodged
luxuriously--were deep in the pursuit of science, literature, and the
belle arte--and on terms of friendship with the cleverest and most
original men of the day. Mr. Græme's occupations being sedentary, and
his habits very regular, he shortly found that his great wealth enabled
him, not only to indulge in every personal luxury at Rendlesham Park,
but to patronise largely every literary work of merit. In him the needy
man of genius found a friend, the man of wit a companion, and the
publisher a generous customer. He became famous for his house, his
library, his exclusive society. But he did not become spoilt by his
prosperity, and never neglected his old tutor.
Our party from Delmé were ushered into a large drawing-room, the sole
light of which was from an immense bow window, looking out on the
extensive lawn. The panes were of enormous size, and beautiful specimens
of classique plated glass. The only articles of furniture, were some
crimson ottomans which served to set off the splendid paintings; and one
table of the Florentine manufacture of pietra dura, on which stood a
carved bijou of Benvenuto Cellini's. Our party were early. They were
welcomed by Mr. Græme with great cordiality, and by Mr. Hargrave with
some embarrassment, for the tutor was still the bashful man of former
days. Mr. Græme's dress shamed these degenerate days of black stock and
loose trowser. Diamond buckles adorned his knees, and fastened his
shoes. His clear blue eye--the high polished forehead--the deep lines of
the countenance--revealed the man of thought and intellect. The playful
lip shewed he could yet appreciate a flash of wit or spark of humour.
"Miss Delmé, you are looking at my paintings; let me show you my late
purchases. Observe this sweet Madonna, by Murillo! I prefer it to the
one in the Munich Gallery. It may not boast Titian's glow of colour, or
Raphael's grandeur of design,--in delicate angelic beauty, it may yield
to the delightful efforts of Guido's or Correggio's pencil,--but surely
no human conception can ever have more touchingly portrayed the
beauteous resigned mother. The infant, too! how inimitably blended is
the God-like serenity of the Saviour, with the fond and graceful
witcheries of the loving child! How little we know of the beauties of
the Spanish school! Would I could ransack their ancient monasteries, and
bring a few of them to light!
"You are a chess player! Pass not by this check-mate of Caravaggio's.
What undisguised triumph in one countenance! What a struggle to repress
nature's feelings in the other! Here is a Guido! sweet, as his ever are!
He may justly be styled the female laureat. What artist can compete with
him in delineating the blooming expression, or the tender, but lighter,
shades of female loveliness? who can pause between even the Fornarina,
and that divine effort, the Beatrice Cenci of the Barberini?"
The party were by this time assembled. Besides our immediate friends,
there was his Grace the Duke of Gatten, a good-natured fox-hunting
nobleman, whose estate adjoined Mr. Græme's; there was the Viscount
Chambéry, who had penned a pamphlet on finance--indited a folio on
architecture--and astonished Europe with an elaborate dissertation on
modern cookery; there was Charles Selby, the poet and essayist;
Daintrey, the sculptor--a wonderful Ornithologist--a deep read
Historian--a learned Orientalist--and a novelist, from France; whose
works exhibited such unheard of horrors, and made man and woman so
irremediably vicious, as to make this young gentleman celebrated, even
in Paris--that Babylonian sink of iniquity.
Dinner was announced, and our host, giving his arm very stoically to
Mrs. Glenallan, his love of former days, led the way to the dining-room.
Round the table were placed beautifully carved oaken fauteuils, of a
very old pattern. The service of plate was extremely plain, but of
massive gold. But the lamp! It was of magnificent dimensions! The light
chains hanging from the frescoed ceiling, the links of which were hardly
perceptible, were of silver, manufactured in Venice; the lower part was
of opal-tinted glass, exactly portraying some voluptuous couch, on which
the beautiful Amphitrite might have reclined, as she hastened through
beds of coral to crystal grot, starred with transparent stalactites. In
the centre of this shell, were sockets, whence verged small hollow
golden tubes, resembling in shape and size the stalks of a flower. At
the drooping ends of these, were lamps shaped and coloured to imitate
the most beauteous flowers of the parterre. This bouquet of light had
been designed by Mr. Græme. Few novelties had acquired greater
celebrity than the Græme astrale. The room was warmed by heating the
pedestals of the statues.
"Potage à la fantôme, and à l'ourika."
"I will trouble you, Græme," said my Lord Chambéry, "for the fantôme. I
have dined on la pritannière for the last three months, and a novel soup
is a novel pleasure."
Of the fish, the soles were à la Rowena, the salmon à l'amour. Emily
flirted with the wing of a chicken sauté au suprême, coquetted with
perdrix perdu masqué à la Montmorenci, and tasted a boudin à la
Diebitsch. The wines were excellent--the Geisenheim delicious--the
Champagne sparkling like a pun of Jekyll's. But nothing aroused the
attention of the Viscount Chambéry so much as a liqueur, which Mr.
Græme assured him was new, and had just been sent him by the Conte de
Desir. The dessert had been some time on the table, when the Viscount
addressed his host.
"Græme! I am delighted to find that you at length agree with me as to
the monstrous superiority of a French repast. Your omelette imaginaire
was faultless, and as for your liqueur, I shall certainly order a supply
on my return to Paris."
"That liqueur, my dear lord," replied Mr. Græme, "is good old cowslip
mead, with a flask of Maraschino di Zara infused in it. For the rest,
the dinner has been almost as imaginaire as the omelet. The greater part
of the recipes are in an old English volume in my library, or perhaps
some owe their origin to the fertile invention of my housekeeper. Let
us style them à la Dorothée."
"Capital! I thank you, Græme!" said his Grace of Gatten, as he shook
his host by the hand, till the tears stood in his eyes.
The prescient Chambéry had made a good dinner, and bore the joke
philosophically. Coffee awaited the gentlemen in a small octagonal
chamber, adjoining the music room. There stood Mr. Græme's three
favourite modern statues:--a Venus, by Canova--a Discobole, by
Thorwaldson--and a late acquisition--the Ariadne, of Dannecker.
"This is the work of an artist," said Mr. Græme, "little known in
this country, but in Germany ranking quite as high as Thorwaldson.
This is almost a duplicate of his Ariadne at Frankfort, but the
marble is much more pure. How wonderfully fine the execution! Pray
notice the bold profile of the face; how energetic her action as she
sits on the panther!"
Mr. Græme touched the spring of a window frame. A curtain of crimson
gauze fell over a globe lamp, and threw a rich shade on the marble.
The features remained as finely chiselled, but their expression was
totally changed.
They adjourned to the music-room, which deserved its title. Save some
seats, which were artfully formed to resemble lyres, nothing broke the
continuity of music's tones, which ascended majestically to the lofty
dome, there to blend and wreath, and fall again. At one extremity of
music's hall was an organ; at the other a grand piano, built by a German
composer. Ranged on carved slabs, at intermediate distances, was placed
almost every instrument that may claim a votary. Of viols, from the violin
to the double bass,--of instruments of brass, from trombones and bass
kettledrums even unto trumpet and cymbal,--of instruments of wood, from
winding serpents to octave flute,--and of fiddles of parchment, from the
grosse caisse to the tambourine. Nor were ancient instruments wanting.
These were of quaint forms and diverse constructions. Mr. Græme would
descant for hours on an antique species of spinnet, which he procured from
the East, and which he vehemently averred, was the veritable dulcimer. He
would display with great gusto, his specimens of harps of Israel; whose
deep-toned chorus, had perchance thrilled through the breast of more than
one of Judea's dark-haired daughters. Greece, too, had her
representatives, to remind the spectators that there had been an Orpheus.
There were flutes of the Doric and of the Phrygian mode, and--let us
forget not--the Tyrrhenian trumpet, with its brazen-cleft pavilion. But by
far the greater part of his musical relics he had acquired during his stay
in Italy. He could show the litui with their carved clarions--the twisted
cornua--the tuba, a trumpet so long and taper,--the concha wound by
Tritons--and eke the buccina, a short and brattling horn.
Belliston Græme was an enthusiastic musician; and was in this peculiar,
that he loved the science for its simplicity. Musicians are but too apt
to give to music's detail and music's difficulties the homage that
should be paid to music's self: in this resembling the habitual man of
law, who occasionally forgetteth the great principles of jurisprudence,
and invests with mysterious agency such words as latitat and certiorari.
The soul of music may not have fled;--for we cultivate her
assiduously,--worship Handel--and appreciate Mozart. But music _now_
springs from the head, not the heart; is not for the mass, but for
individuals. With our increased researches, and cares, and troubles, we
have lost the faculty of being pleased. Past are those careless days,
when the shrill musette, or plain cittern and virginals, could with
their first strain give motion to the blythe foot of joy, or call from
its cell the prompt tear of pity. Those days are gone! Music may affect
some of us as deeply, but none as readily!
Mr. Græme had received from Paris an unpublished opera of Auber's.
Emily seated herself at the piano--her host took the violin--Clarendon
was an excellent flute player--and the tinkle of the Viscount's guitar
came in very harmoniously. By the time refreshments were introduced,
Charles Selby too was in his glory. He had already nearly convulsed the
Orientalist by a theory which he said he had formed, of a gradual
metempsychosis, or, at all events, perceptible amalgamation, of the
yellow Qui Hi to the darker Hindoo; which said theory he supported by
the most ingenious arguments.
"How did you like your stay in Scotland, Mr. Selby?" said Sir
Henry Delmé.
"I am a terrible Cockney, Sir Henry,--found it very cold, and was very
sulky. The only man I cared to see in Scotland was at the Lakes; but I
kept a register of events, which is now on the table in my
dressing-room. If Græme will read it, for I am but a stammerer, it is
at your service."
The paper was soon produced, and Mr. Græme read the following:--
"THE BRAHMIN.