CHAPTER XXV.
THE PLEASURE OF RETALIATING HUMILIATION.--CONSTANCE'S DEFENCE OF
FASHION.--REMARKS ON FASHION.--GODOLPHIN'S WHEREABOUT.--FANNY MILLINGER'S
CHARACTER OF HERSELF.--WANT OF COURAGE IN MORALISTS.
It was a proud moment for Constance when the Duchess of Winstoun and Lady
Margaret Midgecombe wrote to her, worried her, beset her, for a smile, a
courtesy, an invitation, or a ticket to Almack's.
They had at first thought to cry her down; to declare that she was
plebeian, mad, bizarre, and a blue. It was all in vain. Constance rose
every hour. They struggled against the conviction, but it would not do.
The first person who confounded them with a sense of their error was the
late King, then Regent; he devoted himself to Lady Erpingham for a whole
evening, at a ball given by himself. From that hour they were assured
they had been wrong: they accordingly called on her the next day.
Constance received them with the same coldness she had always evinced; but
they went away declaring they never saw any one whose manners were so
improved. They then sent her an invitation! she refused it; a second!
she refused; a third, begging her to fix the day!!! she fixed the day, and
disappointed them. Lord bless us!--how sorry they were, how alarmed, how
terrified!--their dear Lady Erpingham must be ill!--they sent every day
for the next week to know how she was!
"Why," said Mrs. Trevor to Lady Erpingham,--"why do you continue so cruel
to these poor people? I know they were very impertinent, and so forth,
once; but it is surely wiser and more dignified now to forgive; to appear
unconscious of the past: people of the world ought not to quarrel with
each other."
"You are right, and yet you are mistaken," said Constance: "I do forgive,
and I don't quarrel; but my opinion, my contempt, remain the same, or are
rather more disdainful than ever. These people are not worth losing the
luxury we all experience in expressing contempt. I continue, therefore,
but quietly and without affectation, to indulge that luxury. Besides, I
own to you, my dear Mrs. Trevor, I do think that the mere insolence of
titles must fairly and thoroughly be put down, if we sincerely wish to
render society agreeable; and where can we find a better example for
punishment than the Duchess of Winstoun?"
"But, my dear Lady Erpingham, you are thought insolent: your friend, Lady
----, is called insolent, too;--are you sure the charge is not merited?"
"I allow the justice of the charge; but you will observe, ours is not the
insolence of rank: we have made it a point to protect, to the utmost, the
poor and unfriended of all circles. Are we ever rude to governesses or
companions, or poor writers, or musicians? When a man marries below him,
do we turn our backs on the poor wife? Do we not, on the contrary, lavish
our attention on her, and throw round her equivocal and joyless state the
protection of Fashion? No, no! _our_ insolence is Justice! it is the
chalice returned to the lips which prepared it; it is insolence to the
insolent; reflect, and you will allow it."
The fashion that Constance set and fostered was of a generous order; but
it was not suited to the majority; it was corrupted by her followers into
a thousand basenesses. In vain do we make a law, if the general spirit is
averse to the law. Constance could humble the great; could loosen the
links of extrinsic rank; could undermine the power of titles; but that was
all! She could abase the proud, but not elevate the general tone: for one
slavery she only substituted another,--people hugged the chains of
Fashion, as before they hugged those of Titular Arrogance.
Amidst the gossip of the day Constance heard much of Godolphin, and all
spoke of him with interest--even those who could not comprehend his very
intricate and peculiar character. Separated from her by lands and seas,
there seemed no danger in allowing herself the sweet pleasure of hearing
his actions and his mind discussed. She fancied she did not permit
herself to _love_ him; she was too pure not to start at such an idea; but
her mind was not so regulated, so trained and educated in sacred
principle, that she forbade herself the luxury to _remember._ Of his
present mode of life she heard little. He was traced from city to city;
from shore to shore; from the haughty noblesse of Vienna to the gloomy
shrines of Memphis, by occasional report, and seemed to tarry long in no
place. This roving and unsettled life, which secretly assured her of her
power, suffused his image in all tender and remorseful dyes. Ah! where is
that one person to been vied, could we read the heart?
The actress had heard incidentally from Saville of Godolphin's attachment
to the beautiful countess. She longed to see her; and when, one night at
the theatre, she was informed that Lady Erpingham was in the Lord
Chamberlain's box close before her, she could scarcely command her
self-possession sufficiently to perform with her wonted brilliancy of
effect.
She was greatly struck by the singular nobleness of Lady Erpingham's face
and person: and Godolphin rose in her estimation, from the justice of the
homage he had rendered to so fair a shrine. What a curious trait, by the
by, that is in women;--their exaggerated anxiety to see one who has been
loved by the man in whom they themselves take interest: and the manner
which the said man rises or falls in their estimation, according as they
admire, or are disappointed in, the object of his love.
"And so," said Saville, supping one night with the actress, "you think the
world does not overlaud Lady Erpingham?"
"No: she is what Medea would have been, if innocent--full of majesty, and
yet of sweetness. It is the face of a queen of some three thousand years
back. I could have worshipped her."
"My little Fanny, you are a strange creature. Methinks you have a dash of
poetry in you."
"Nobody who has not written poetry could ever read my character," answered
Fanny, with naivete, yet with truth. "Yet you have not much of the ideal
about you, pretty one."
"No; because I was so early thrown on myself, that I was forced to make
independence my chief good. I soon saw that if I followed my heart to and
fro, wherever it led me, I should be the creature of every breath--the
victim of every accident: I should have been the very soul of romance;
lived on a smile; and died, perhaps, in a ditch at last. Accordingly, I
set to work with my feelings, and pared and cut them down to a convenient
compass. Happy for me that I did so! What would have become of me if,
years go, when I loved Godolphin, I had thrown the whole world of my heart
upon him?"
"Why, he has generosity; he would not have deserted you."
"But I should have wearied him," answered Fanny; "and that would have been
quite enough for me. But I did love him well, and purely--(ah! you may
smile!)--and disinterestedly. I was only fortified in my resolution not
to love any one too much, by perceiving that he had _affection_ but no
_sympathy_ for me. His nature was different from mine. I am _woman_ in
everything, and Godolphin is always sighing for a _goddess!_"
"I should like to sketch your character, Fanny. It is original, though
not strongly marked. I never met with it in any book; yet it is true to
your sex, and to the world."
"Few people could paint me exactly," answered Fanny. "The danger is that
they would make too much or too little of me. But such as I am, the world
ought to know what is so common, and, as you think, so undescribed."
And now, beautiful Constance, farewell for the present! I leave you
surrounded by power, and pomp, and adulation. Enjoy as you may that for
which you sacrificed affection!
