The Marquis thanked him in terms by no means deficient in
gratitude. Lorenzo then informed him that He had nothing more
to apprehend from Donna Rodolpha's enmity. Five Months had
already elapsed since, in an excess of passion, She broke a
blood-vessel and expired in the course of a few hours. He then
proceeded to mention the interests of Antonia. The Marquis was
much surprized at hearing of this new Relation: His Father had
carried his hatred of Elvira to the Grave, and had never given
the least hint that He knew what was become of his eldest Son's
Widow. Don Raymond assured his friend that He was not mistaken
in supposing him ready to acknowledge his Sister-in-law and her
amiable Daughter. The preparations for the elopement would not
permit his visiting them the next day; But in the meanwhile He
desired Lorenzo to assure them of his friendship, and to supply
Elvira upon his account with any sums which She might want. This
the Youth promised to do, as soon as her abode should be known to
him: He then took leave of his future Brother, and returned to
the Palace de Medina.
The day was already on the point of breaking when the Marquis
retired to his chamber. Conscious that his narrative would take
up some hours, and wishing to secure himself from interruption
on returning to the Hotel, He ordered his Attendants not to sit
upfor him. Consequently, He was somewhat surprised on entering
his Antiroom, to find Theodore established there. The Page sat
near a Table with a pen in his hand, and was so totally occupied
by his employment that He perceived not his Lord's approach. The
Marquis stopped to observe him. Theodore wrote a few lines, then
paused, and scratched out a part of the writing: Then wrote
again, smiled, and seemed highly pleased with what He had been
about. At last He threw down his pen, sprang from his chair, and
clapped his hands together joyfully.
'There it is!' cried He aloud: 'Now they are charming!'
His transports were interrupted by a laugh from the Marquis, who
suspected the nature of his employment.
'What is so charming, Theodore?'
The Youth started, and looked round. He blushed, ran to the
Table, seized the paper on which He had been writing, and
concealed it in confusion.
'Oh! my Lord, I knew not that you were so near me. Can I be of
use to you? Lucas is already gone to bed.'
'I shall follow his example when I have given my opinion of your
verses.'
'My verses, my Lord?'
'Nay, I am sure that you have been writing some, for nothing else
could have kept you awake till this time of the morning. Where
are they, Theodore? I shall like to see your composition.'
Theodore's cheeks glowed with still deeper crimson: He longed to
show his poetry, but first chose to be pressed for it.
'Indeed, my Lord, they are not worthy your attention.'
'Not these verses, which you just now declared to be so charming?
Come, come, let me see whether our opinions are the same. I
promise that you shall find in me an indulgent Critic.'
The Boy produced his paper with seeming reluctance; but the
satisfaction which sparkled in his dark expressive eyes betrayed
the vanity of his little bosom. The Marquis smiled while He
observed the emotions of an heart as yet but little skilled in
veiling its sentiments. He seated himself upon a Sopha:
Theodore, while Hope and fear contended on his anxious
countenance, waited with inquietude for his Master's decision,
while the Marquis read the following lines.
LOVE AND AGE
The night was dark; The wind blew cold;
Anacreon, grown morose and old,
Sat by his fire, and fed the chearful flame:
Sudden the Cottage-door expands,
And lo! before him Cupid stands,
Casts round a friendly glance, and greets him by his name.
'What is it Thou?' the startled Sire
In sullen tone exclaimed, while ire
With crimson flushed his pale and wrinkled cheek:
'Wouldst Thou again with amorous rage
Inflame my bosom? Steeled by age,
Vain Boy, to pierce my breast thine arrows are too weak.
'What seek You in this desart drear?
No smiles or sports inhabit here;
Ne'er did these vallies witness dalliance sweet:
Eternal winter binds the plains;
Age in my house despotic reigns,
My Garden boasts no flower, my bosom boasts no heat.
'Begone, and seek the blooming bower,
Where some ripe Virgin courts thy power,
Or bid provoking dreams flit round her bed;
On Damon's amorous breast repose;
Wanton-on Chloe's lip of rose,
Or make her blushing cheek a pillow for thy head.
'Be such thy haunts; These regions cold
Avoid! Nor think grown wise and old
This hoary head again thy yoke shall bear:
Remembering that my fairest years
By Thee were marked with sighs and tears,
I think thy friendship false, and shun the guileful snare.
'I have not yet forgot the pains
I felt, while bound in Julia's chains;
The ardent flames with which my bosom burned;
The nights I passed deprived of rest;
The jealous pangs which racked my breast;
My disappointed hopes, and passion unreturned.
'Then fly, and curse mine eyes no more!
Fly from my peaceful Cottage-door!
No day, no hour, no moment shalt Thou stay.
I know thy falsehood, scorn thy arts,
Distrust thy smiles, and fear thy darts;
Traitor, begone, and seek some other to betray!'
'Does Age, old Man, your wits confound?'
Replied the offended God, and frowned;
(His frown was sweet as is the Virgin's smile!)
'Do You to Me these words address?
To Me, who do not love you less,
Though You my friendship scorn, and pleasures past revile!
'If one proud Fair you chanced to find,
An hundred other Nymphs were kind,
Whose smiles might well for Julia's frowns atone:
But such is Man! His partial hand
Unnumbered favours writes on sand,
But stamps one little fault on solid lasting stone.
'Ingrate! Who led Thee to the wave,
At noon where Lesbia loved to lave?
Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay?
And who, when Caelia shrieked for aid,
Bad you with kisses hush the Maid?
What other was't than Love, Oh! false Anacreon, say!
'Then You could call me--''Gentle Boy!
''My only bliss! my source of joy !''--
Then You could prize me dearer than your soul!
Could kiss, and dance me on your knees;
And swear, not wine itself would please,
Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl!
'Must those sweet days return no more?
Must I for aye your loss deplore,
Banished your heart, and from your favour driven?
Ah! no; My fears that smile denies;
That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes
Declare me ever dear and all my faults forgiven.
'Again beloved, esteemed, c
arest,
Cupid shall in thine arms be prest,
Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep:
My Torch thine age-struck heart shall warm;
My Hand pale Winter's rage disarm,
And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.'--
A feather now of golden hue
He smiling from his pinion drew;
This to the Poet's hand the Boy commits;
And straight before Anacreon's eyes
The fairest dreams of fancy rise,
And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.
His bosom glows with amorous fire
Eager He grasps the magic lyre;
Swift o'er the tuneful chords his fingers move:
The Feather plucked from Cupid's wing
Sweeps the too-long-neglected string,
While soft Anacreon sings the power
and praise of Love.
Soon as that name was heard, the Woods
Shook off their snows; The melting floods
Broke their cold chains, and Winter fled away.
Once more the earth was deckt with flowers;
Mild Zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;
High towered the glorious Sun, and poured the blaze of day.
Attracted by the harmonious sound,
Sylvans and Fauns the Cot surround,
And curious crowd the Minstrel to behold:
The Wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove;
Eager They run; They list, they love,
And while They hear the strain, forget the Man is old.
Cupid, to nothing constant long,
Perched on the Harp attends the song,
Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes:
Now on the Poet's breast reposes,
Now twines his hoary locks with roses,
Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.
Then thus Anacreon--'I no more
At other shrine my vows will pour,
Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire:
From Phoebus or the blue-eyed Maid
Now shall my verse request no aid,
For Love alone shall be the Patron of my Lyre.
'In lofty strain, of earlier days,
I spread the King's or Hero's praise,
And struck the martial Chords with epic fire:
But farewell, Hero! farewell, King!
Your deeds my lips no more shall sing,
For Love alone shall be the subject of my Lyre.
The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement.
'Your little poem pleases me much,' said He; 'However, you must
not count my opinion for anything. I am no judge of verses, and
for my own part, never composed more than six lines in my life:
Those six produced so unlucky an effect that I am fully resolved
never to compose another. But I wander from my subject. I was
going to say that you cannot employ your time worse than in
making verses. An Author, whether good or bad, or between both,
is an Animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; For though
All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to
judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own
punishment, contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and
entails upon its Author a thousand mortifications. He finds
himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured Criticism: One Man
finds fault with the plan, Another with the style, a Third with
the precept, which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot
succeed in finding fault with the Book, employ themselves in
stigmatizing its Author. They maliciously rake out from
obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule
upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the
Man, since They cannot hurt the Writer. In short, to enter the
lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows
of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you
write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from
blame; Indeed this circumstance contains a young Author's chief
consolation: He remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had
unjust and envious Critics, and He modestly conceives himself to
be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious that all
these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is
a mania to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong; and
you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you
not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally
seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of
communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for
you secures their approbation.'
'Then, my Lord, you do not think these lines tolerable?' said
Theodore with an humble and dejected air.
'You mistake my meaning. As I said before, they have pleased me
much; But my regard for you makes me partial, and Others might
judge them less favourably. I must still remark that even my
prejudice in your favour does not blind me so much as to prevent
my observing several faults. For instance, you make a terrible
confusion of metaphors; You are too apt to make the strength of
your lines consist more in the words than sense; Some of the
verses only seem introduced in order to rhyme with others; and
most of the best ideas are borrowed from other Poets, though
possibly you are unconscious of the theft yourself. These faults
may occasionally be excused in a work of length; But a short Poem
must be correct and perfect.'
'All this is true, Segnor; But you should consider that I only
write for pleasure.'
'Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrectness may be
forgiven in those who work for money, who are obliged to compleat
a given task in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk,
not value of their productions. But in those whom no necessity
forces to turn Author, who merely write for fame, and have full
leisure to polish their compositions, faults are impardonable,
and merit the sharpest arrows of criticism.'
The Marquis rose from the Sopha; the Page looked discouraged and
melancholy, and this did not escape his Master's observation.
'However' added He smiling, 'I think that these lines do you no
discredit. Your versification is tolerably easy, and your ear
seems to be just. The perusal of your little poem upon the whole
gave me much pleasure; and if it is not asking too great a
favour, I shall be highly obliged to you for a Copy.'
The Youth's countenance immediately cleared up. He perceived not
the smile, half approving, half ironical, which accompanied the
request, and He promised the Copy with great readiness. The
Marquis withdrew to his chamber, much amused by the
instantaneous effect produced upon Theodore's vanity by the
conclusion of his Criticism. He threw himself upon his Couch;
Sleep soon stole over him, and his dreams presented him with the
most flattering pictures of happiness with Agnes.
On reaching the Hotel de Medina, Lorenzo's first care was to
enquire for Letters. He found several waiting for him; but that
which He sought was not amongst them. Leonella had found it
impossible to write that evening. However, her impatience to
secure Don Chris
toval's heart, on which She flattered herself
with having made no slight impression, permitted her not to pass
another day without informing him where She was to be found. On
her return from the Capuchin Church, She had related to her
Sister with exultation how attentive an handsome Cavalier had
been to her; as also how his Companion had undertaken to plead
Antonia's cause with the Marquis de las Cisternas. Elvira
received this intelligence with sensations very different from
those with which it was communicated. She blamed her Sister's
imprudence in confiding her history to an absolute Stranger, and
expressed her fears lest this inconsiderate step should
prejudice the Marquis against her. The greatest of her
apprehensions She concealed in her own breast. She had observed
with inquietude that at the mention of Lorenzo, a deep blush
spread itself over her Daughter's cheek. The timid Antonia dared
not to pronounce his name: Without knowing wherefore, She felt
embarrassed when He was made the subject of discourse, and
endeavoured to change the conversation to Ambrosio. Elvira
perceived the emotions of this young bosom: In consequence, She
insisted upon Leonella's breaking her promise to the Cavaliers.
A sigh, which on hearing this order escaped from Antonia,
confirmed the wary Mother in her resolution.
Through this resolution Leonella was determined to break: She
conceived it to be inspired by envy, and that her Sister dreaded
her being elevated above her. Without imparting her design to
anyone, She took an opportunity of dispatching the following
note to Lorenzo; It was delivered to him as soon as He woke.
'Doubtless, Segnor Don Lorenzo, you have frequently accused me of
ingratitude and forgetfulness: But on the word of a Virgin, it
was out of my power to perform my promise yesterday. I know not
in what words to inform you how strange a reception my Sister
gave your kind wish to visit her. She is an odd Woman, with many
good points about her; But her jealousy of me frequently makes
her conceive notions quite unaccountable. On hearing that your
Friend had paid some little attention to me, She immediately took
the alarm: She blamed my conduct, and has absolutely forbidden
me to let you know our abode. My strong sense of gratitude for
your kind offers of service, and . . . Shall I confess it? my
desire to behold once more the too amiable Don Christoval, will
not permit my obeying her injunctions. I have therefore stolen a
The Monk - A Romance Page 22