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Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe

Page 107

by Volume 01-05 (lit)


  propounding futile inquiries about Madame Lalande to every male

  acquaintance I met. By report she was known, I found, to all- to many

  by sight -- but she had been in town only a few weeks, and there were

  very few, therefore, who claimed her personal acquaintance. These

  few, being still comparatively strangers, could not, or would not,

  take the liberty of introducing me through the formality of a morning

  call. While I stood thus in despair, conversing with a trio of

  friends upon the all absorbing subject of my heart, it so happened

  that the subject itself passed by.

  "As I live, there she is!" cried one.

  "Surprisingly beautiful!" exclaimed a second.

  "An angel upon earth!" ejaculated a third.

  I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us, passing slowly

  down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera, accompanied

  by the younger lady who had occupied a portion of her box.

  "Her companion also wears remarkably well," said the one of my trio

  who had spoken first.

  "Astonishingly," said the second; "still quite a brilliant air, but

  art will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better than she did at

  Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still; -- don't you think so,

  Froissart? -- Simpson, I mean."

  "Still!" said I, "and why shouldn't she be? But compared with her

  friend she is as a rush -- light to the evening star -- a glow --

  worm to Antares.

  "Ha! ha! ha! -- why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at making

  discoveries -- original ones, I mean." And here we separated, while

  one of the trio began humming a gay vaudeville, of which I caught

  only the lines-

  Ninon, Ninon, Ninon a bas-

  A bas Ninon De L'Enclos!

  During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly to

  console me, although it fed the passion by which I was consumed. As

  the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group, I had observed

  that she recognized me; and more than this, she had blessed me, by

  the most seraphic of all imaginable smiles, with no equivocal mark of

  the recognition.

  As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it until

  such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the country.

  In the meantime I perseveringly frequented every reputable place of

  public amusement; and, at length, at the theatre, where I first saw

  her, I had the supreme bliss of meeting her, and of exchanging

  glances with her once again. This did not occur, however, until the

  lapse of a fortnight. Every day, in the interim, I had inquired for

  Talbot at his hotel, and every day had been thrown into a spasm of

  wrath by the everlasting "Not come home yet" of his footman.

  Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition little

  short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was a Parisian --

  had lately arrived from Paris -- might she not suddenly return? --

  return before Talbot came back -- and might she not be thus lost to

  me forever? The thought was too terrible to bear. Since my future

  happiness was at issue, I resolved to act with a manly decision. In a

  word, upon the breaking up of the play, I traced the lady to her

  residence, noted the address, and the next morning sent her a full

  and elaborate letter, in which I poured out my whole heart.

  I spoke boldly, freely -- in a word, I spoke with passion. I

  concealed nothing -- nothing even of my weakness. I alluded to the

  romantic circumstances of our first meeting -- even to the glances

  which had passed between us. I went so far as to say that I felt

  assured of her love; while I offered this assurance, and my own

  intensity of devotion, as two excuses for my otherwise unpardonable

  conduct. As a third, I spoke of my fear that she might quit the city

  before I could have the opportunity of a formal introduction. I

  concluded the most wildly enthusiastic epistle ever penned, with a

  frank declaration of my worldly circumstances -- of my affluence --

  and with an offer of my heart and of my hand.

  In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what seemed the

  lapse of a century it came.

  Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I really

  received a letter from Madame Lalande -- the beautiful, the wealthy,

  the idolized Madame Lalande. Her eyes -- her magnificent eyes, had

  not belied her noble heart. Like a true Frenchwoman as she was she

  had obeyed the frank dictates of her reason -- the generous impulses

  of her nature -- despising the conventional pruderies of the world.

  She had not scorned my proposals. She had not sheltered herself in

  silence. She had not returned my letter unopened. She had even sent

  me, in reply, one penned by her own exquisite fingers. It ran thus:

  "Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de butefulle tong

  of his contree so vell as might. It is only de late dat I am arrive,

  and not yet ave do opportunite for to -- l'etudier.

  "Vid dis apologie for the maniere, I vill now say dat, helas!-

  Monsieur Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need I say de more?

  Helas! am I not ready speak de too moshe?

  "EUGENIE LALAND."

  This noble -- spirited note I kissed a million times, and committed,

  no doubt, on its account, a thousand other extravagances that have

  now escaped my memory. Still Talbot would not return. Alas! could he

  have formed even the vaguest idea of the suffering his absence had

  occasioned his friend, would not his sympathizing nature have flown

  immediately to my relief? Still, however, he came not. I wrote. He

  replied. He was detained by urgent business -- but would shortly

  return. He begged me not to be impatient -- to moderate my transports

  -- to read soothing books -- to drink nothing stronger than Hock --

  and to bring the consolations of philosophy to my aid. The fool! if

  he could not come himself, why, in the name of every thing rational,

  could he not have enclosed me a letter of presentation? I wrote him

  again, entreating him to forward one forthwith. My letter was

  returned by that footman, with the following endorsement in pencil.

  The scoundrel had joined his master in the country:

  "Left S- -- yesterday, for parts unknown -- did not say where -- or

  when be back -- so thought best to return letter, knowing your

  handwriting, and as how you is always, more or less, in a hurry.

  "Yours sincerely,

  "STUBBS."

  After this, it is needless to say, that I devoted to the infernal

  deities both master and valet: -- but there was little use in anger,

  and no consolation at all in complaint.

  But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional audacity.

  Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to make it avail

  me to the end. Besides, after the correspondence which had passed

  between us, what act of mere informality could I commit, within

  bounds, that ought to be regarded as indecorous by Madame Lalande?

  Since the affair of the letter, I had been in the habit of watching

  her house, and thus discovered that, about twilight, it was her
/>   custom to promenade, attended only by a negro in livery, in a public

  square overlooked by her windows. Here, amid the luxuriant and

  shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of a sweet midsummer evening, I

  observed my opportunity and accosted her.

  The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this with the

  assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance. With a presence of

  mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at once, and, to greet me, held

  out the most bewitchingly little of hands. The valet at once fell

  into the rear, and now, with hearts full to overflowing, we

  discoursed long and unreservedly of our love.

  As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than she wrote it,

  our conversation was necessarily in French. In this sweet tongue, so

  adapted to passion, I gave loose to the impetuous enthusiasm of my

  nature, and, with all the eloquence I could command, besought her to

  consent to an immediate marriage.

  At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of decorum-

  that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the opportunity

  for bliss has forever gone by. I had most imprudently made it known

  among my friends, she observed, that I desired her acquaintance- thus

  that I did not possess it -- thus, again, there was no possibility of

  concealing the date of our first knowledge of each other. And then

  she adverted, with a blush, to the extreme recency of this date. To

  wed immediately would be improper -- would be indecorous -- would be

  outre. All this she said with a charming air of naivete which

  enraptured while it grieved and convinced me. She went even so far as

  to accuse me, laughingly, of rashness -- of imprudence. She bade me

  remember that I really even know not who she was -- what were her

  prospects, her connections, her standing in society. She begged me,

  but with a sigh, to reconsider my proposal, and termed my love an

  infatuation -- a will o' the wisp -- a fancy or fantasy of the moment

  -- a baseless and unstable creation rather of the imagination than of

  the heart. These things she uttered as the shadows of the sweet

  twilight gathered darkly and more darkly around us -- and then, with

  a gentle pressure of her fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a single

  sweet instant, all the argumentative fabric she had reared.

  I replied as best I could -- as only a true lover can. I spoke at

  length, and perseveringly of my devotion, of my passion -- of her

  exceeding beauty, and of my own enthusiastic admiration. In

  conclusion, I dwelt, with a convincing energy, upon the perils that

  encompass the course of love -- that course of true love that never

  did run smooth -- and thus deduced the manifest danger of rendering

  that course unnecessarily long.

  This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigor of her

  determination. She relented; but there was yet an obstacle, she said,

  which she felt assured I had not properly considered. This was a

  delicate point -- for a woman to urge, especially so; in mentioning

  it, she saw that she must make a sacrifice of her feelings; still,

  for me, every sacrifice should be made. She alluded to the topic of

  age. Was I aware -- was I fully aware of the discrepancy between us?

  That the age of the husband, should surpass by a few years -- even by

  fifteen or twenty -- the age of the wife, was regarded by the world

  as admissible, and, indeed, as even proper, but she had always

  entertained the belief that the years of the wife should never exceed

  in number those of the husband. A discrepancy of this unnatural kind

  gave rise, too frequently, alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now she

  was aware that my own age did not exceed two and twenty; and I, on

  the contrary, perhaps, was not aware that the years of my Eugenie

  extended very considerably beyond that sum.

  About all this there was a nobility of soul -- a dignity of candor-

  which delighted -- which enchanted me -- which eternally riveted my

  chains. I could scarcely restrain the excessive transport which

  possessed me.

  "My sweetest Eugenie," I cried, "what is all this about which you are

  discoursing? Your years surpass in some measure my own. But what

  then? The customs of the world are so many conventional follies. To

  those who love as ourselves, in what respect differs a year from an

  hour? I am twenty-two, you say, granted: indeed, you may as well call

  me, at once, twenty-three. Now you yourself, my dearest Eugenie, can

  have numbered no more than -- can have numbered no more than -- no

  more than -- than -- than -- than-"

  Here I paused for an instant, in the expectation that Madame Lalande

  would interrupt me by supplying her true age. But a Frenchwoman is

  seldom direct, and has always, by way of answer to an embarrassing

  query, some little practical reply of her own. In the present

  instance, Eugenie, who for a few moments past had seemed to be

  searching for something in her bosom, at length let fall upon the

  grass a miniature, which I immediately picked up and presented to

  her.

  "Keep it!" she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles. "Keep it

  for my sake -- for the sake of her whom it too flatteringly

  represents. Besides, upon the back of the trinket you may discover,

  perhaps, the very information you seem to desire. It is now, to be

  sure, growing rather dark -- but you can examine it at your leisure

  in the morning. In the meantime, you shall be my escort home

  to-night. My friends are about holding a little musical levee. I can

  promise you, too, some good singing. We French are not nearly so

  punctilious as you Americans, and I shall have no difficulty in

  smuggling you in, in the character of an old acquaintance."

  With this, she took my arm, and I attended her home. The mansion was

  quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in good taste. Of this

  latter point, however, I am scarcely qualified to judge; for it was

  just dark as we arrived; and in American mansions of the better sort

  lights seldom, during the heat of summer, make their appearance at

  this, the most pleasant period of the day. In about an hour after my

  arrival, to be sure, a single shaded solar lamp was lit in the

  principal drawing-room; and this apartment, I could thus see, was

  arranged with unusual good taste and even splendor; but two other

  rooms of the suite, and in which the company chiefly assembled,

  remained, during the whole evening, in a very agreeable shadow. This

  is a well-conceived custom, giving the party at least a choice of

  light or shade, and one which our friends over the water could not do

  better than immediately adopt.

  The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most delicious of my

  life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the musical abilities of her

  friends; and the singing I here heard I had never heard excelled in

  any private circle out of Vienna. The instrumental performers were

  many and of superior talents. The vocalists were chiefly ladies, and

  no individual sang less than well. At length, upon a peremptory call

  for "Madame Lalande," she
arose at once, without affectation or

  demur, from the chaise longue upon which she had sat by my side, and,

  accompanied by one or two gentlemen and her female friend of the

  opera, repaired to the piano in the main drawing-room. I would have

  escorted her myself, but felt that, under the circumstances of my

  introduction to the house, I had better remain unobserved where I

  was. I was thus deprived of the pleasure of seeing, although not of

  hearing, her sing.

  The impression she produced upon the company seemed electrical but

  the effect upon myself was something even more. I know not how

  adequately to describe it. It arose in part, no doubt, from the

  sentiment of love with which I was imbued; but chiefly from my

  conviction of the extreme sensibility of the singer. It is beyond the

  reach of art to endow either air or recitative with more impassioned

  expression than was hers. Her utterance of the romance in Otello --

  the tone with which she gave the words "Sul mio sasso," in the

  Capuletti -- is ringing in my memory yet. Her lower tones were

  absolutely miraculous. Her voice embraced three complete octaves,

  extending from the contralto D to the D upper soprano, and, though

  sufficiently powerful to have filled the San Carlos, executed, with

  the minutest precision, every difficulty of vocal

  composition-ascending and descending scales, cadences, or fiorituri.

  In the final of the Somnambula, she brought about a most remarkable

  effect at the words:

  Ah! non guinge uman pensiero

  Al contento ond 'io son piena.

  Here, in imitation of Malibran, she modified the original phrase of

  Bellini, so as to let her voice descend to the tenor G, when, by a

  rapid transition, she struck the G above the treble stave, springing

  over an interval of two octaves.

  Upon rising from the piano after these miracles of vocal execution,

 

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