Clive. Now it is altered. Now I know the difference between a poor
painter and a young lady of the world. Why haven't I a title and a great
fortune? Why did I ever see you, Ethel; or, knowing the distance which it
seems fate has placed between us, why have I seen you again?
Ethel (innocently). Have I ever made any difference between us? Whenever
I may see you, am I not too glad? Don't I see you sometimes when I should
not--no--I do not say when I should not; but when others, whom I am bound
to obey, forbid me? What harm is there in my remembering old days? Why
should I be ashamed of our relationship?--no, not ashamed--shy should I
forget it? Don't do that, sir; we have shaken hands twice already.
Leonore! Xavier!
Clive. At one moment you like me: and at the next you seem to repent it.
One day you seem happy when I come; and another day you are ashamed of
me. Last Tuesday, when you came with those fine ladies to the Louvre, you
seemed to blush when you saw me copying at my picture; and that stupid
young lord looked quite alarmed because you spoke to me. My lot in life
is not very brilliant; but I would not change it against that young
man's--no, not with all his chances.
Ethel. What do you mean with all his chances?
Clive. You know very well. I mean I would not be as selfish or as dull,
or as ill educated--I won't say worse of him--not to be as handsome, or
as wealthy, or as noble as he is. I swear I would not now change my place
against his, or give up being Clive Newcome to be my Lord Marquis of
Farintosh, with all his acres and titles of nobility.
Ethel. Why are you for ever harping about Lord Farintosh and his titles?
I thought it was only women who were jealous--you gentlemen say so.--
(Hurriedly.) I am going to-night with grandmamma to the Minister of the
Interior, and then to the Russian ball; and to-morrow to the Tuileries.
We dine at the Embassy first; and on Sunday, I suppose, we shall go to
the Rue d'Aguesseau. I can hardly come here before Mon---. Madam de
Florac! Little Leonore is very like you--resembles you very much. My
cousin says he longs to make a drawing of her.
Madame de Florac. My husband always likes that I should be present at
his dinner. Pardon me, young people, that I have been away from you for a
moment.
[Exeunt CLIVE, ETHEL, and Madame DE F. into the house.
CONVERSATION II.-SCENE I
Miss Newcome arrives in Lady Kew's carriage, which enters the court of
the Hotel de Florac.
Saint Jean. Mademoiselle--Madame la Comtesse is gone out but madame has
charged me to say, that she will be at home to the dinner of M. le Comte,
as to the ordinary.
Miss Newcome. Madame de Preville is at home?
Saint Jean. Pardon me, madame is gone out with M. le Baron, and M.
Xavier, and Mademoiselle de Preville. They are gone, miss, I believe, to
visit the parents of Monsieur le Baron; of whom it is probably to-day the
fete: for Mademoiselle Leonore carried a bouquet--no doubt for her
grandpapa. Will it please mademoiselle to enter? I think Monsieur the
Count sounds me. (Bell rings.)
Miss Newcome. Madame la Prince--Madame la Vicomtesse is at home,
Monsieur St. Jean?
Saint Jean. I go to call the people of Madame la Vicomtesse.
[Exit Old SAINT JEAN to the carriage: a Lackey comes presently
in a gorgeous livery, with buttons like little cheese plates.
The Lackey. The Princess is at home, miss, and will be most appy to see
you, miss. (Miss trips up the great stair: a gentleman out of livery has
come forth to the landing, and introduces her to the apartments of Madame
la Princesse.)
The Lackey to the Servants on the box. Good morning, Thomas. How dy' do,
old Backystopper?
Backystopper. How de do, Jim? I say, you couldn't give a feller a drink
of beer, could yer, Muncontour? It was precious wet last night, I can
tell you. 'Ad to stop for three hours at the Napolitum Embassy, when we
was a dancing. Me and some chaps went into Bob Parsom's and had a drain.
Old Cat came out and couldn't find her carriage, not by no means, could
she, Tommy? Blest if I didn't nearly drive her into a wegetable-cart. I
was so uncommon scruey! Who's this a-hentering at your pot-coshare?
Billy, my fine feller!
Clive Newcome (by the most singular coincidence). Madame la Princesse?
Lackey. We, munseer. (He rings a bell: the gentleman in black appears as
before on the landing-place up the stair.)
[Exit Clive.
Backystopper. I say, Bill: is that young chap often a-coming about here?
They'd run pretty in a curricle, wouldn't they? Miss N. and Master N.
Quiet, old woman! Jest look to that mare's ead, will you, Billy? He's a
fine young feller, that is. He gave me a covering the other night.
Whenever I sor him in the Park, he was always riding an ansum hanimal.
What is he? They said in our 'all he was a hartis. I can 'ardly think
that. Why, there used to be a hartis come to our club, and painted two or
three of my 'osses, and my old woman too.
Lackey. There's hartises and hartises, Backystopper. Why, there's some
on 'em comes here with more stars on their coats than Dukes has got. Have
you never 'eard of Mossyer Verny, or Mossyer Gudang?
Backystopper. They say this young gent is sweet on Miss N.; which, I
guess, I wish he may git it.
Tommy. He! he! he!
Backystopper. Brayvo, Tommy. Tom ain't much of a man for conversation,
but he's a precious one to drink. Do you think the young gent is sweet on
her, Tommy? I sor him often prowling about our 'ouse in Queen Street,
when we was in London.
Tommy. I guess he wasn't let in in Queen Street. I guess hour little
Buttons was very near turned away for saying we was at home to him--I
guess a footman's place is to keep his mouth hopen--no, his heyes hopen--
and his mouth shut. (He lapses into silence.)
Lackey. I think Thomis is in love, Thomis is. Who was that young woman I
saw you a-dancing of at the Showmier, Thomis? How the young Marquis was
a-cuttin' of it about there! The pleace was obliged to come up and stop
him dancing. His man told old Buzfuz upstairs, that the Marquis's goings
on is hawful. Up till four or five every morning; blind hookey,
shampaign, the dooce's own delight. That party have had I don't know how
much in diamonds--and they quarrel and swear at each other, and fling
plates: it's tremendous.
Tommy. Why doesn't the Marquis man mind his own affairs? He's a
supersellious beast: and will no more speak to a man, except he's
out-a-livery, than he would to a chimbly-swip. He! Cuss him, I'd fight
'im for 'alf-a-crown.
Lackey. And we'd back you, Tommy. Buzfuz upstairs ain't supersellious;
nor is the Prince's walet nether. That old Sangjang's a rum old guvnor.
He was in England with the Count, fifty years ago--in the hemigration--in
Queen Hann's time, you know. He used to support the old Count. He says he
remembers a young Musseer Newcome then, that used
to take lessons from
the Shevallier, the Countess' father--there's my bell.
[Exit Lackey.
Backystopper. Not a bad chap that. Sports his money very free--sings an
uncommon good song.
Thomas. Pretty voice, but no cultiwation.
Lackey (who re-enters). Be here at two o'clock for Miss N. Take
anything? Come round the corner.--There's a capital shop round the
corner.
[Exeunt Servants.
SCENE II
Ethel. I can't think where Madame de Moncontour has gone. How very odd
it was that you should come here--that we should both come here to-day!
How surprised I was to see you at the Minister's! Grandmamma was so
angry! "That boy pursues us wherever we go," she said. I am sure I don't
know why we shouldn't meet, Clive. It seems to be wrong even my seeing
you by chance here. Do you know, sir, what a scolding I had about--about
going to Brighton with you? My grandmother did not hear of it till we
were in Scotland, when that foolish maid of mine talked of it to her
maid; and, there was oh, such a tempest! If there were a Bastile here,
she would like to lock you into it. She says that you are always upon our
way--I don't know how, I am sure. She says, but for you I should have
been--you know what I should have been: but I am thankful that I wasn't,
and Kew has got a much nicer wife in Henrietta Pulleyn, than I could ever
have been to him. She will be happier than Clara, Clive. Kew is one of
the kindest creatures in the world--not very wise; not very strong: but
he is just such a kind, easy, generous little man, as will make a girl
like Henrietta quite happy.
Clive. But not you, Ethel?
Ethel. No, nor I him. My temper is difficult, Clive, and I fear few men
would bear with me. I feel, somehow, always very lonely. How old am I?
Twenty--I feel sometimes as if I was a hundred; and in the midst of all
these admirations and fetes and flatteries, so tired, oh, so tired! And
yet if I don't have them, I miss them. How I wish I was religious like
Madame de Florac: there is no day that she does not go to church. She is
for ever busy with charities, clergymen, conversions; I think the
Princess will be brought over ere long--that dear old Madame de Florac!
and yet she is no happier than the rest of us. Hortense is an empty
little thing, who thinks of her prosy fat Camille with spectacles, and of
her two children, and of nothing else in the world besides. Who is happy?
Clive!
Clive. You say Barnes's wife is not.
Ethel. We are like brother and sister, so I may talk to you. Barnes is
very cruel to her. At Newcome, last winter, poor Clara used to come into
my room with tears in her eyes morning after morning. He calls her a
fool; and seems to take a pride in humiliating her before company. My
poor father has luckily taken a great liking to her: and before him, for
he has grown very very hot-tempered since his illness, Barnes leaves poor
Clara alone. We were in hopes that the baby might make matters better,
but as it is a little girl, Barnes chooses to be very much disappointed.
He wants papa to give up his seat in Parliament, but he clings to that
more than anything. Oh, dear me! who is happy in the world? What a pity
Lord Highgate's father had not died sooner! He and Barnes have been
reconciled. I wonder my brother's spirit did not revolt against it. The
old lord used to keep a great sum of money at the bank, I believe: and
the present one does so still: he has paid all his debts off: and Barnes
is actually friends with him. He is always abusing the Dorkings, who want
to borrow money from the bank, he says. This eagerness for money is
horrible. If I had been Barnes I would never have been reconciled with
Mr. Belsize, never, never! And yet they say he was quite right: and
grandmamma is even pleased that Lord Highgate should be asked to dine in
Park Lane. Poor papa is there: come to attend his parliamentary duties as
he thinks. He went to a division the other night; and was actually lifted
out of his carriage and wheeled into the lobby in a chair. The ministers
thanked him for coming. I believe he thinks he will have his peerage yet.
Oh, what a life of vanity ours is!
Enter Madame de Moncontour. What are you young folks a-talkin' about--
balls and operas? When first I was took to the opera I did not like it--
and fell asleep. But now, oh, it's 'eavenly to hear Grisi sing!
The Clock. Ting, ting!
Ethel. Two o'clock already! I must run back to grandmamma. Good-bye,
Madame de Moncontour; I am so sorry I have not been able to see dear
Madame de Florac. I will try and come to her on Thursday--please tell
her. Shall we meet you at the American minister's to-night, or at Madame
de Brie's to-morrow? Friday is your own night--I hope grandmamma will
bring me. How charming your last music was! Good-bye, mon cousin! You
shall not come downstairs with me, I insist upon it, sir: and had much
best remain here, and finish your drawing of Madame de Moncontour.
Princess. I've put on the velvet, you see, Clive--though it's very 'ot
in May. Good-bye, my dear.
[Exit ETHEL
As far as we can judge from the above conversation, which we need not
prolong--as the talk between Madame de Moncontour and Monsieur Clive,
after a few complimentary remarks about Ethel, had nothing to do with the
history of the Newcomes--as far as we can judge, the above little
colloquy took place on Monday: and about Wednesday, Madame la Comtesse de
Florac received a little note from Clive, in which he said, that one day
when she came to the Louvre, where he was copying, she had admired a
picture of a Virgin and Child, by Sasso Ferrato, since when he had been
occupied in making a water-colour drawing after the picture, and hoped
she would be pleased to accept the copy from her affectionate and
grateful servant, Clive Newcome. The drawing would be done the next day,
when he would call with it in his hand. Of course Madame de Florac
received this announcement very kindly; and sent back by Clive's servant
a note of thanks to that young gentleman.
Now on Thursday morning, about one o'clock, by one of those singular
coincidences which, etc. etc., who should come to the Hotel de Florac but
Miss Ethel Newcome? Madame la Comtesse was at home, waiting to receive
Clive and his picture: but Miss Ethel's appearance frightened the good
lady, so much so that she felt quite guilty at seeing the girl, whose
parents might think--I don't know what they might not think--that Madame
de Florac was trying to make a match between the young people. Hence
arose the words uttered by the Countess, after a while, in--
CONVERSATION III
Madame de Florac (at work). And so you like to quit the world and to
come to our triste old hotel. After to-day you will find it still more
melancholy, my poor child.
Ethel. And why?
Madame de F. Some one who has been here to egager our little meetings
/>
will come no more.
Ethel. Is the Abbe de Florac going to quit Paris, madam?
Madame de F. It is not of him that I speak, thou knowest it very well,
my daughter. Thou hast seen my poor Clive twice here. He will come once
again, and then no more. My conscience reproaches me that I have admitted
him at all. But he is like a son to me, and was so confided to me by his
father. Five years ago, when we met, after an absence--of how many
years!--Colonel Newcome told me what hopes he had cherished for his boy.
You know well, my daughter, with whom those hopes were connected. Then he
wrote me that family arrangements rendered his plans impossible--that the
hand of Miss Newcome was promised elsewhere. When I heard from my son
Paul how these negotiations were broken, my heart rejoiced, Ethel, for my
friend's sake. I am an old woman now, who have seen the world, and all
sorts of men. Men more brilliant no doubt I have known, but such a heart
as his, such a faith as his, such a generosity and simplicity as Thomas
Newcome's--never!
Ethel (smiling). Indeed, dear lady, I think with you.
Madame de F. I understand thy smile, my daughter. I can say to thee,
that when we were children almost, I knew thy good uncle. My poor father
took the pride of his family into exile with him. Our poverty only made
his pride the greater. Even before the emigration a contract had been
passed between our family and the Count de Florac. I could not be wanting
to the word given by my father. For how many long years have I kept it?
But when I see a young girl who may be made the victim--the subject of a
marriage of convenience, as I was--my heart pities her. And if I love
her, as I love you, I tell her my thoughts. Better poverty, Ethel: better
a cell in a convent: than a union without love. Is it written eternally
that men are to make slaves of us? Here in France, above all, our fathers
sell us every day. And what a society ours is! Thou wilt know this when
thou art married. There are some laws so cruel that nature revolts
against theme, and breaks them--or we die in keeping them. You smile. I
have been nearly fifty years dying--n'est-ce pas?--and am here an old
woman, complaining to a young girl. It is because our recollections of
youth are always young: and because I have suffered so, that I would
spare those I love a like grief. Do you know that the children of those
who do not love in marriage seem to bear an hereditary coldness, and do
not love their parents as other children do? They witness our differences
and our indifferences, hear our recriminations, take one side or the
other in our disputes, and are partisans for father or mother. We force
ourselves to be hypocrites, and hide our wrongs from them; we speak of a
bad father with false praises; we wear feint smiles over our tears, and
deceive our children--deceive them, do we? Even from the exercise of that
pious deceit there is no woman but suffers in the estimation of her sons.
They may shield her as champions against their father's selfishness or
cruelty. In this case, what a war! What a home, where the son sees a
tyrant in the father, and in the mother but a trembling victim! I speak
not for myself--whatever may have been the course of our long wedded
life, I have not to complain of these ignoble storms. But when the family
chief neglects his wife, or prefers another to her, the children too,
courtiers as we are, will desert her. You look incredulous about domestic
love. Tenez, my child, if I may so surmise, I think you cannot have seen
it.
Ethel (blushing, and thinking, perhaps, how she esteems her father, how
her mother, and how much they esteem each other). My father and mother
have been most kind to all their children, madame; and no one can say
that their marriage has been otherwise than happy. My mother is the