CHAPTER VII.
A LITTLE later Graham found himself alone amongst the crowd. Attracted
by the sound of music, he had strayed into one of the rooms whence it
came, and in which, though his range of acquaintance at Paris was for an
Englishman large and somewhat miscellaneous, he recognized no familiar
countenance. A lady was playing the pianoforte--playing remarkably well
--with accurate science, with that equal lightness and strength of finger
which produces brilliancy of execution; but to appreciate her music one
should be musical one's self. It wanted the charm that fascinates the
uninitiated. The guests in the room were musical connoisseurs,--a class
with whom Graham Vane had nothing in common. Even if he had been more
capable of enjoying the excellence of the player's performance, the
glance he directed towards her would have sufficed to chill him into
indifference. She was not young, and with prominent features and
puckered skin, was twisting her face into strange sentimental grimaces,
as if terribly overcome by the beauty and pathos of her own melodies.
To add to Vane's displeasure, she was dressed in a costume wholly
antagonistic to his views of the becoming,--in a Greek jacket of gold and
scarlet, contrasted by a Turkish turban.
Muttering "What she-mountebank have we here?" he sank into a chair behind
the door, and fell into an absorbed revery. From this he was aroused by
the cessation of the music and the hum of subdued approbation by which it
was followed. Above the hum swelled the imposing voice of M. Louvier as
he rose from a seat on the other side of the piano, by which his bulky
form had been partially concealed.
"Bravo! perfectly played! excellent! Can we not persuade your charming
young countrywoman to gratify us even by a single song?" Then turning
aside and addressing some one else invisible to Graham he said, "Does
that tyrannical doctor still compel you to silence, Mademoiselle?"
A voice so sweetly modulated that if there were any sarcasm in the words
it was lost in the softness of pathos, answered, "Nay, Monsieur Louvier,
he rather overtasks the words at my command in thankfulness to those who
like yourself, so kindly regard me as something else than a singer."
It was not the she-mountebank who thus spoke. Graham rose and looked
round with instinctive curiosity. He met the face that he said had
haunted him. She too had risen, standing near the piano, with one hand
tenderly resting on the she-mountebank's scarlet and gilded shoulder,--
the face that haunted him, and yet with a difference. There was a faint
blush on the clear pale cheek, a soft yet playful light in the grave
dark-blue eyes, which had not been visible in the countenance of the
young lady in the pearl-coloured robe. Graham did not hear Louvier's
reply, though no doubt it was loud enough for him to hear. He sank again
into revery. Other guests now came into the room, among them Frank
Morley, styled Colonel,--eminent military titles in the United States do
not always denote eminent military services,--a wealthy American, and his
sprightly and beautiful wife. The Colonel was a clever man, rather stiff
in his deportment, and grave in speech, but by no means without a vein of
dry humour. By the French he was esteemed a high-bred specimen of the
kind of grand seigneur which democratic republics engender. He spoke
French like a Parisian, had an imposing presence, and spent a great deal
of money with the elegance of a man of taste and the generosity of a man
of heart. His high breeding was not quite so well understood by the
English, because the English are apt to judge breeding by little
conventional rules not observed by the American Colonel. He had a slight
nasal twang, and introduced "sir" with redundant ceremony in addressing
Englishmen, however intimate he might be with them, and had the habit
(perhaps with a sly intention to startle or puzzle them) of adorning his
style of conversation with quaint Americanisms.
Nevertheless, the genial amiability and the inherent dignity of his
character made him acknowledged as a thorough gentleman by every
Englishman, however conventional in tastes, who became admitted into his
intimate acquaintance.
Mrs. Morley, ten or twelve years younger than her husband, had no nasal
twang, and employed no Americanisms in her talk, which was frank, lively,
and at times eloquent. She had a great ambition to be esteemed of a
masculine understanding; Nature unkindly frustrated that ambition in
rendering her a model of feminine grace. Graham was intimately
acquainted with Colonel Morley; and with Mrs. Morley had contracted one
of those cordial friendships, which, perfectly free alike from polite
flirtation and Platonic attachment, do sometimes spring up between
persons of opposite sexes without the slightest danger of changing their
honest character into morbid sentimentality or unlawful passion. The
Morleys stopped to accost Graham, but the lady had scarcely said three
words to him, before, catching sight of the haunting face, she darted
towards it. Her husband, less emotional, bowed at the distance, and
said, "To my taste, sir, the Signorina Cicogna is the loveliest girl in
the present bee,* and full of mind, sir."
[*Bee, a common expression in "the West" for a meeting or gathering
]of people.
"Singing mind," said Graham, sarcastically, and in the ill-natured
impulse of a man striving to check his inclination to admire.
"I have not heard her sing," replied the American, dryly; "and the words
'singing mind' are doubtless accurately English, since you employ them;
but at Boston the collocation would be deemed barbarous. You fly off the
handle. The epithet, sir, is not in concord with the substantive."
"Boston would be in the right, my dear Colonel. I stand rebuked; mind
has little to do with singing."
"I take leave to deny that, sir. You fire into the wrong flock, and
would not hazard the remark if you had conversed as I have with Signorina
Cicogna"
Before Graham could answer, Signorina Cicogna stood before him, leaning
lightly on Mrs. Morley's arm.
"Frank, you must take us into the refreshment-room," said Mrs. Morley to
her husband; and then, turning to Graham, added, "Will you help to make
way for us?"
Graham bowed, and offered his arm to the fair speaker. "No," said she,
taking her husband's. "Of course you know the Signorina, or, as we
usually call her, Mademoiselle Cicogna. No? Allow me to present you.
Mr. Graham Vane, Mademoiselle Cicogna. Mademoiselle speaks English like
a native."
And thus abruptly Graham was introduced to the owner of the haunting
face. He had lived too much in the great world all his life to retain
the innate shyness of an Englishman; but he certainly was confused and
embarrassed when his eyes met Isaura's, and he felt her hand on his arm.
Before quitting the room she paused and looked back. Graham's look
followed her own, and saw behind them the lady with the scarlet jacket
escorted by some portly and decorated connoisseur. Isaura's face
brightened to another kind of brightness,--a pleased and tender light.
"Poor dear Madre," she murmured to herself in Italian. "Madre!" echoed
Graham, also in Italian. "I have been misinformed, then; that lady is
your mother."
Isaura laughed a pretty, low, silvery laugh, and replied in English, "She
is not my mother; but I call her Madre, for I know no name more loving."
Graham was touched, and said gently, "Your own mother was evidently very
dear to you."
Isaura's lip quivered, and she made a slight movement as if she would
have withdrawn her hand from his arm. He saw that he had offended or
wounded her, and with the straightforward frankness natural to him,
resumed quickly, "My remark was impertinent in a stranger; forgive it."
"There is nothing to forgive, Monsieur."
The two now threaded their way through the crowd, both silent. At last
Isaura, thinking she ought to speak first in order to show that Graham
had not offended her, said,
"How lovely Mrs. Morley is!"
"Yes; and I like the spirit and ease of her American manner. Have you
known her long, Mademoiselle?"
"No; we met her for the first time some weeks ago at M. Savarin's."
"Was she very eloquent on the rights of women?"
"What! you have heard her on that subject?"
"I have rarely heard her on any other, though she is the best and perhaps
the cleverest friend I have at Paris; but that may be my fault, for I
like to start it. It is a relief to the languid small-talk of society to
listen to any one thoroughly in earnest upon turning the world topsy-
turvy."
"Do you suppose poor Mrs. Morley would seek to do that if she had her
rights?" asked Isaura, with her musical laugh.
"Not a doubt of it; but perhaps you share her opinions."
"I scarcely know what her opinions are, but--"
"Yes?--but--"
"There is a--what shall I call it?--a persuasion, a sentiment, out of
which the opinions probably spring, that I do share."
"Indeed? a persuasion, a sentiment, for instance, that a woman should
have votes in the choice of legislators, and, I presume, in the task of
legislation?"
"No, that is not what I mean. Still, that is an opinion, right or wrong,
which grows out of the sentiment I speak of."
"Pray explain the sentiment."
"It is always so difficult to define a sentiment; but does it not strike
you that in proportion as the tendency of modern civilization has been to
raise women more and more to an intellectual equality with men, in
proportion as they read and study and think, an uneasy sentiment, perhaps
querulous, perhaps unreasonable, grows up within their minds that the
conventions of the world are against the complete development of the
faculties thus aroused and the ambition thus animated; that they cannot
but rebel, though it may be silently, against the notions of the former
age, when women were not thus educated, notions that the aim of the sex
should be to steal through life unremarked; that it is a reproach to be
talked of; that women are plants to be kept in a hothouse and forbidden
the frank liberty of growth in the natural air and sunshine of heaven?
This, at least, is a sentiment which has sprung up within myself; and I
imagine that it is the sentiment which has given birth to many of the
opinions or doctrines that seem absurd, and very likely are so, to the
general public. I don't pretend even to have considered those doctrines;
I don't pretend to say what may be the remedies for the restlessness and
uneasiness I feel. I doubt if on this earth there be any remedies; all I
know is, that I feel restless and uneasy."
Graham gazed on her countenance as she spoke with an astonishment not
unmingled with tenderness and compassion, astonishment at the contrast
between a vein of reflection so hardy, expressed in a style of language
that seemed to him so masculine, and the soft velvet dreamy eyes, the
gentle tones, and delicate purity of hues rendered younger still by the
blush that deepened their bloom.
At this moment they had entered the refreshment-room; but a dense group
being round the table, and both perhaps forgetting the object for which
Mrs. Morley had introduced them to each other, they had mechancially
seated themselves on an ottoman in a recess while Isaura was yet
speaking. It must seem as strange to the reader as it did to Graham that
such a speech should have been spoken by so young a girl to an
acquaintance so new; but in truth Isaura was very little conscious of
Graham's presence. She had got on a subject that perplexed and tormented
her solitary thoughts; she was but thinking aloud.
"I believe," said Graham, after a pause, "that I comprehend your
sentiment much better than I do Mrs. Morley's opinions; but permit me one
observation. You say truly that the course of modern civilization has
more or less affected the relative position of woman cultivated beyond
that level on which she was formerly contented to stand,--the nearer
perhaps to the heart of man because not lifting her head to his height,
--and hence a sense of restlessness, uneasiness; but do you suppose that,
in this whirl and dance of the atoms which compose the rolling ball of
the civilized world, it is only women that are made restless and uneasy?
Do you not see amid the masses congregated in the wealthiest cities of
the world, writhings and struggles against the received order of things?
In this sentiment of discontent there is a certain truthfulness, because
it is an element of human nature, and how best to deal with it is a
problem yet unsolved; but in the opinions and doctrines to which, among
the masses, the sentiment gives birth, the wisdom of the wisest detects
only the certainty of a common ruin, offering for reconstruction the same
building-materials as the former edifice,--materials not likely to be
improved because they may be defaced. Ascend from the working classes to
all others in which civilized culture prevails, and you will find that
same restless feeling,--the fluttering of untried wings against the bars
between wider space and their longings. Could you poll all the educated
ambitious young men in England,--perhaps in Europe,--at least half of
them, divided between a reverence for the past and a curiosity as to the
future, would sigh, 'I am born a century too late or a century too
soon!'"
Isaura listened to this answer with a profound and absorbing interest.
It was the first time that a clever young man talked thus sympathetically
to her, a clever young girl.
Then, rising, he said, "I see your Madre and our American friends are
darting angry looks at me. They have made room for us at the table, and
are wondering why I should keep you thus from the good things of this
little life. One word more ere we join them,--consult your own mind,
and consider whether your uneasiness and unrest are caused solely by
conventional shackles on your sex. Are they not equally common to the
youth of ours,--common to all who seek in art, in letters, nay, in the
stormier field of active life, to clasp as a reality some image yet seen
but as a dream?"
