CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN WHICH TWO PERSONS, PERMANENTLY UNITED, DISCOVER THAT NO TIE CAN PRODUCE
UNION OF MINDS.
Weeks passed on, and, apparently, Godolphin had reconciled himself to the
disappearance and precarious destiny of Lucilla. It was not in his calm
and brooding nature to show much of emotion; but there was often, even.
in the presence of Constance, a cloud on his brow, and the fits of
abstraction to which he had always been accustomed grew upon him more
frequently than ever. Constance had been inured for years to the most
assiduous, the most devoted attentions; and now, living much alone with
Godolphin, she began somewhat to miss them; for Godolphin could be a
passionate, a romantic, but he could not be a very watchful lover. He had
no petits soins. Few husbands have, it is true; nor is it necessary for
husbands in general. But Constance was not an ordinary woman; she loved
deeply, but she loved according to her nature--as a woman proud and
exacting must love. For Godolphin, her haughty step waxed timorous and
vigilant; she always sprang forward the first to meet him on his return
from his solitary ramblings, and he smiled upon her with his wonted
gentleness but not so gratefully, thought Constance, as he ought. In
truth, he had been too much accustomed to the eager love of Lucilla, to
feel greatly surprised at any proof of tenderness from Constance. Thus,
too proud to speak--to hint a complaint, Constance was nevertheless
perpetually wounded, and by degrees (although not loving her husband less)
she taught that love to be more concealed. Oh, that accursed
secretiveness in women, which makes them always belie themselves!
Godolphin, too, was not without his disappointments. There was something
so bright, so purely intellectual about Constance's character, that at
times, when brought into constant intercourse with her, you longed for
some human weakness--some wild, warm error on which to repose. Dazzling
and fair as snow, like snow your eye ached to gaze upon her. She had,
during the years of her ungenial marriage, cultivated her mind to the
utmost; few women were so accomplished--it might be learned; her
conversation flowed for ever in the same bright, flowery, adorned stream.
There were times when Godolphin recollected how hard it is to read a
volume of that Gibbon who in a page is so delightful. Her affection for
him was intense, high, devoted; but it was wholly of the same intellectual
spiritualised order; it seemed to Godolphin to want human warmth and
fondness. In fact, there never was a woman who, both by original nature
and after habits, was so purely and abstractedly "mind" as was Constance;
there was not a single trait or taste in her character that a sensualist
could have sneered at. Her heart was wholly Godolphin's; her mind was
generous, sympathising, lofty; her person unrivalled in the majesty of its
loveliness; all these, too, were Godolphin's, and yet the eternal
something was wanting still.
"I have brought you your hat, Percy," said Constance; "you forget the dews
are falling fast, and your head is uncovered."
"Thank you," said Percy, gently; yet Constance thought the tone might have
been warmer. "How beautiful is this hour! Look yonder, the sun's rays
still upon those immortal hills--that lone grey tower amongst the far
plains--the pines around--hearken to their sighing! These are indeed the
scenes of the Dryad and the Faun. These are scenes where we could melt
our whole nature down to love: Nature never meant us for the stern and
arid destinies we fulfil. Look round, Constance, in every leaf of her
gorgeous book, how glowingly is written the one sentence, 'Love and be
happy!' You answer not; to these thoughts you are cold."
"They breathe too much of the Epicurean and his roseleaves for me,"
answered Constance, smilingly. "I love better that stern old tower,
telling of glorious strife and great deeds, than all the softer landscape,
on which the present debasement of the south seems written."
"You and your English," said Godolphin, somewhat bitterly, "prate of the
debasement of my poor Italians in a jargon that I confess almost enrages
me. (Constance coloured and bit her lip.) Debasement! why debasement?
They enjoy themselves: they take from life its just moral; they do not
affect the more violent crimes; they feel their mortality, follow its
common ends, are frivolous, contented, and die! Well; this is debasement.
Be it so. But for what would you exchange it? The hard, cold, ferocious
guilt of ancient Rome; the detestable hypocrisy, the secret villany,
fraud, murder, that stamped republican Venice? The days of glory that you
lament are the days of the darkest guilt; and man shudders when he reads
what the fair moralisers over the soft and idle Italy sigh to recall!"
"You are severe," said Constance, with a pained voice. "Forgive me,
dearest; but you are often severe on my feelings."
Constance was silent; the magic of the sunset was gone; they walked back
to the house, thoughtful, and somewhat cooled towards each other.
Another day, on which the rain forbade them to stir from home, Godolphin,
after he had remained long silent and meditating, said to Constance, who
was busy writing letters to her political friends, in which, avoiding
Italy and love, the scheming countess dwelt only on busy England and its
eternal politics:
"Will you read to me, dear Constance? my spirits are sad to-day; the
weather affects them."
Constance laid aside her letters, and took up one of the many books that
strewed the table: it was a volume of one of our most popular poets.
"I hate poetry," said Godolphin, languidly.
"Here is Machiavel's history of the Prince of Lucca," said Constance,
quickly.
"Ah, read that, and see how odious is ambition," returned Godolphin.
And Constance read, but she warmed at what Godolphin's lip curled with
disdain. The sentiments, however, drew him from his apathy; and
presently, with the eloquence he could command when once excited, he
poured forth the doctrines of his peculiar philosophy. Constance
listened, delighted and absorbed; she did not sympathise with the thought,
but she was struck with the genius which clothed it. "Ah!" said she,
with enthusiasm, "why should those brilliant words be thus spoken and lost
for ever? Why not stamp them on the living page, or why not invest them
in the oratory that would render you illustrious and them immortal?"
"Excellent!" said Godolphin laughing; "the House of Commons would
sympathise with philosophy warmly!"
Yet Constance was right on the whole. But the curse of a life of pleasure
is its aversion to useful activity. Talk of the genius that lies crushed
and obscure in poverty! Wealth and station have also their mute Miltons
and inglorious Hampdens.
Alas! how much of deep and true wisdom do we meet among the triflers of
the world! How much that in the stern middle walks of life would have
obtained renown, in the withering and relaxed air of loftier ranks dies
away unheeded! The two extremes meet in this,--the destruction of mental
gifts.
