Mr. Falconer. Ah, doctor, you should say one living man and a ghost. I am only the ghost of myself. I do the honours of my departed conviviality.
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. I thought something was wrong; but whatever it may be, take Horace’s advice— ‘Alleviate every ill with wine and song, the sweet consolations of deforming anxiety.’
Mr. Falconer. I do, doctor. Madeira, and the music of the Seven Sisters, are my consolations, and great ones; but they do not go down to the hidden care that gnaws at the deepest fibres of the heart, like Ratatosk at the roots of the Ash of Ygdrasil.
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. In the Scandinavian mythology: one of the most poetical of all mythologies. I have a great respect for Odin and Thor. Their adventures have always delighted me; and the system was admirably adapted to foster the high spirit of a military people. Lucan has a fine passage on the subject.
1 illia omne malum vino cantuque levato,
deformis aggrimonio dulcibus alloquiis.
Epod. xiii.
2 Pharsalia, 458-462.
The doctor repeated the passage of Lucan with great emphasis. This was not what Mr. Falconer wanted. He had wished that the doctor should inquire into the cause of his trouble; but independently of the doctor’s determination to ask no questions, and to let his young friend originate his own disclosures, the unlucky metaphor had carried the doctor into one of his old fields, and if it had not been that he awaited the confidence, which he felt sure his host would spontaneously repose in him, the Scandinavian mythology would have formed his subject for the evening. He paused, therefore, and went on quietly sipping his claret.
Mr. Falconer could restrain himself no longer, and without preface or note of preparation, he communicated to the doctor all that had passed between Miss Gryll and himself, not omitting a single word of the passages of Bojardo, which were indelibly impressed on his memory.
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. I cannot see what there is to afflict you in all this. You are in love with Miss Gryll. She is disposed to receive you favourably. What more would you wish in that quarter?
Mr. Falconer. No more in that quarter, but the Seven Sisters are as sisters to me. If I had seven real sisters, the relationship would subsist, and marriage would not interfere with it; but, be a woman as amiable, as liberal, as indulgent, as confiding as she may, she could not treat the unreal as she would the real tie.
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. I admit, it is not to be expected. Still there is one way out of the difficulty. And that is by seeing all the seven happily married.
Mr. Falconer. All the seven married? Surely that is impossible.
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. Not so impossible as you apprehend.
The doctor thought it a favourable opportunity to tell the story of the seven suitors, and was especially panegyrical on Harry Hedgerow, observing, that if the maxim Noscitur a sociis might be reversed, and a man’s companions judged by himself, it would be a sufficient recommendation of the other six; whom, moreover, the result of his inquiries had given him ample reason to think well of. Mr. Falconer received with pleasure at Christmas a communication which at the Midsummer preceding would have given him infinite pain. It struck him all at once that, as he had dined so ill, he would have some partridges for supper, his larder being always well stocked with game. They were presented accordingly, after the usual music in the drawing-room, and the doctor, though he had dined well, considered himself bound in courtesy to assist in their disposal; when, recollecting how he had wound, up the night of the ball, he volunteered to brew a bowl of punch, over which they sate till a late hour, discoursing of many things, but chiefly of Morgana.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE CONQUEST OF THEBES
(Greek passage)
ÆSCHYLUS: Prometheus.
Oh! wise was he, the first who taught
This lesson of observant thought,
That equal fates alone may dress
The bowers of nuptial happiness;
That never, where ancestral pride
Inflames, or affluence rolls its tide,
Should love’s ill-omened bonds entwine
The offspring of an humbler line.
Mr. Falconer, the next morning, after the doctor had set out on his return walk, departed from his usual practice of not seeing one of the sisters alone, and requested that Dorothy would come to him in the drawing-room. She appeared before him, blushing and trembling.
‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘dear Dorothy; I have something to say to you and your sisters; but I have reasons for saying it first to you. It is probable, at any rate possible, that I shall very soon marry, and perhaps, in that case, you may be disposed to do the same. And I am told, that one of the best young men I have ever known is dying for love of you.’
‘He is a good young man, that is certain,’ said Dorothy; then becoming suddenly conscious of how much she had undesignedly admitted, she blushed deeper than before. And by way of mending the matter, she said, ‘But I am not dying for love of him.’
‘I daresay you are not,’ said Mr. Falconer; ‘you have no cause to be so, as you are sure of him, and only your consent is wanting.’
‘And yours,’ said Dorothy, ‘and that of my sisters; especially my elder sisters; indeed, they ought to set the example.’
‘I am sure of that,’ said Mr. Falconer. ‘So far, if I understand rightly, they have followed yours. It was your lover’s indefatigable devotion that brought together suitors to them all. As to my consent, that you shall certainly have. So the next time you see Master Harry, send him to me.’
‘He is here now,’ said Dorothy.
‘Then ask him to come in,’ said Mr. Falconer.
And Dorothy retired in some confusion. But her lips could not contradict her heart. Harry appeared.
Mr. Falconer. So, Harry, you have been making love in my house, without asking my leave.
Harry Hedgerow. I couldn’t help making love, sir; and I didn’t ask your leave, because I thought I shouldn’t get it.
Mr. Falconer. Candid, as usual, Harry. But do you think Dorothy would make a good farmer’s wife?
Harry Hedgerow. I think, sir, she is so good, and so clever, and so ready and willing to turn her hand to anything, that she would be a fit wife for anybody, from a lord downwards. But it may be most for her own happiness to keep in the class in which she was born.
Mr. Falconer. She is not very pretty, you know.
Harry Hedgerow. Not pretty, sir! If she isn’t a beauty, I don’t know who is.
Mr. Falconer. Well, no doubt, she is a handsome girl.
Harry Hedgerow. Handsome is not the thing, sir. She’s beautiful.
Mr. Falconer. Well, Harry, she is beautiful, if that will please you.
Harry Hedgerow. It does please me, sir. I ought to have known you were joking when you said she was not pretty.
Mr. Falconer. But, you know, she has no fortune.
Harry Hedgerow. I don’t want fortune. I want her, and nothing else, and nobody else.
Mr. Falconer. But I cannot consent to her marrying without a fortune of her own.
Harry Hedgerow. Why then, I’ll give her one beforehand. Father has saved some money, and she shall have that. We’ll settle it on her, as the lawyers say.
Mr. Falconer. You are a thoroughly good fellow, Harry, and I really wish Dorothy joy of her choice; but that is not what I meant. She must bring you a fortune, not take one from you; and you must not refuse it.
Harry repeated that he did not want fortune; and Mr. Falconer repeated that, so far as depended on him, he should not have Dorothy without one. It was not an arduous matter to bring to an amicable settlement.
The affair of Harry and Dorothy being thus satisfactorily arranged, the other six were adjusted with little difficulty; and Mr. Falconer returned with a light heart to the Grange, where he presented himself at dinner on the twenty-seventh day of his probation.
He found much the same party as before; for though some of them absented themselves for a while, they could not resist Mr. Gryll’s e
arnest entreaties to return. He was cordially welcomed by all, and with a gracious smile from Morgana.
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHRISTMAS TALES — CLASSICAL TALES OF WONDER — THE HOST’S GHOST — A TALE OF A SHADOW — A TALE OF A BOGLE — THE LEGEND OF ST. LAURA
Jane... We’ll draw round
The fire, and grandmamma perhaps will tell us
One of her stories.
Harry... Ay, dear grand maamma!
A pretty story! something dismal now!
A bloody murder.
Jane... Or about a ghost.
— Southey: The Grandmother’s Fate.
In the evening Miss Gryll said to the doctor, ‘We have passed Christmas without a ghost story. This is not as it should be. One evening at least of Christmas ought to be devoted to merveilleuses histoires racontées autour du foyer; which Chateaubriand enumerates among the peculiar enjoyments of those qui n’ont pas quitté leur pays natal. You must have plenty of ghosts in Greek and Latin, doctor.’
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. No doubt. All literature abounds with ghosts. But there are not many classical ghosts that would make a Christmas tale according to the received notion of a ghost story. The ghosts of Patroclus in Homer, of Darius in Æschylus, of Polydorus in Euripides, are fine poetical ghosts: but none of them would make a ghost story. I can only call to mind one such story in Greek: but even that, as it has been turned into ballads by Goethe, in the Bride of Corinth, and by Lewis, in the Gay Gold Ring,
1 Lewis says, in a note on the Gay Gold Ring:— ‘I once
read in some Grecian author, whose name I have forgotten,
the story which suggested to me the outline of the foregoing
ballad. It was as follows: A young man arriving at the house
of a friend, to whose daughter he was betrothed, was
informed that some weeks had passed since death had deprived
him of his intended bride. Never having seen her, he soon
reconciled himself to her loss, especially as, during his
stay at his friend’s house, a young lady was kind enough to
visit him every night in his chamber, whence she retired at
daybreak, always carrying with her some valuable present
from her lover. This intercourse continued till accident
showed the young man the picture of his deceased bride, and
he recognised, with horror, the features of his nocturnal
visitor. The young lady’s tomb being opened, he found in it
the various presents which his liberality had bestowed on
his unknown innamorata.’ — M. G. Lewis: Tales of Wonder,
v. i. .
would not be new to any one here. There are some classical tales of wonder, not ghost stories, but suitable Christmas tales. There are two in Petronius, which I once amused myself by translating as closely as possible to the originals, and, if you please, I will relate them as I remember them. For I hold with Chaucer:
Whoso shall telle a tale after a man,
He most reherse, as nigh as ever he can,
Everich word, if it be in his charge,
All speke he never so rudely and so large:
Or elles he moste tellen his tale untrewe,
Or feinen things, or finden wordes newe.
1 Canterbury Tales, w. 733-738.
This proposal being received with an unanimous ‘By all means, doctor,’ the doctor went on:
‘These stories are told at the feast of Trimalchio: the first by Niceros, a freedman, one of the guests:
‘While I was yet serving, we lived in a narrow street, where now is the house of Gavilla. There, as it pleased the gods, I fell in love with the wife of Terentius, the tavern-keeper — Melissa Tarentiana — many of you knew her, a most beautiful kiss-thrower.’
Miss Gryll. That is an odd term, doctor.
The Rev. Dr. Opimian. It relates, I imagine, to some graceful gesture of pantomimic dancing: for beautiful hostesses were often accomplished dancers. Virgil’s Copa, which, by the way, is only half panegyrical, gives us, nevertheless, a pleasant picture in this kind. It seems to have been one of the great attractions of a Roman tavern: and the host, in looking out for a wife, was probably much influenced by her possession of this accomplishment. The dancing, probably, was of that kind which the moderns call demi-caractère, and was performed in picturesque costume ——
The doctor would have gone off in a dissertation on dancing hostesses, but Miss Gryll recalled him to the story, which he continued, in the words of Niceros:
‘But, by Hercules, mine was pure love; her manners charmed me, and her friendliness. If I wanted money, if she had earned an as, she gave me a semis. If I had money, I gave it into her keeping. Never was woman more trustworthy. Her husband died at a farm which they possessed in the country. I left no means untried to visit her in her distress; for friends are shown in adversity. It so happened that my master had gone to Capua, to dispose of some cast-off finery. Seizing the opportunity, I persuaded a guest of ours to accompany me to the fifth milestone. He was a soldier, strong as Pluto. We set off before cockcrow; the moon shone like day; we passed through a line of tombs. My man began some ceremonies before the pillars. I sat down, singing, and counting the stars. Then, as I looked round to my comrade, he stripped himself, and laid his clothes by the wayside. My heart was in my nose: I could no more move than a dead man. But he walked three times round his clothes, and was suddenly changed into a wolf. Do not think I am jesting. No man’s patrimony would tempt me to lie. But, as I had begun to say, as soon as he was changed into a wolf, he set up a long howl, and fled into the woods. I remained awhile, bewildered; then I approached to take up his clothes, but they were turned into stone. Who was dying of fear but I? But I drew my sword, and went on cutting shadows till I arrived at the farm. I entered the narrow way. The life was half boiled out of me; perspiration ran down me like a torrent: my eyes were dead. I could scarcely come to myself. My Melissa began to wonder why I walked so late; “and if you had come sooner,” she said, “you might at least have helped us; for a wolf entered the farm and fell on the sheep, tearing them, and leaving them all bleeding. He escaped; but with cause to remember us; for our man drove a spear through his neck.” When I heard these things I could not think of sleep; but hurried homeward with the dawn; and when I came to the place where the clothes had been turned into stone, I found nothing but blood.
‘When I reached home, my soldier was in bed, lying like an ox, and a surgeon was dressing his neck. I felt that he was a turnskin, and I could never after taste bread with him, not if you would have killed me. Let those who doubt of such things look into them. If I lie, may the wrath of all your Genii fall on me.’
This story being told, Trimalchio, the lord of the feast, after giving his implicit adhesion to it, and affirming the indisputable veracity of Niceros, relates another, as a fact of his own experience.
‘While yet I wore long hair, for from a boy I led a Chian life, our little Iphis, the delight of the family, died; by Hercules, a pearl; quick, beautiful, one of ten thousand. While, therefore, his unhappy mother was weeping for him, and we all were plunged in sorrow, suddenly witches came in pursuit of him, as dogs, you may suppose, of a hare. We had then in the house a Cappadocian, tall, brave to audacity, capable of lifting up an angry bull. He boldly, with a drawn sword, rushed out through the gate, having his left hand carefully wrapped up, and drove his sword through a woman’s bosom; here as it were; safe be what I touch! We heard a groan; but, assuredly, I will not lie, we did not see the women. But our stout fellow returning, threw himself into bed, and all his body was livid, as if he had been beaten with whips; for the evil hand had touched him. We closed the gate, and resumed our watch over the dead; but when the mother went to embrace the body of her son, she touched it, and found it was only a figure, of which all the interior was straw, no heart, nothing. The witches had stolen away the boy, and left in his place a straw-stuffed image. I ask you — it is imposs
ible not — to believe, that there are women with more than mortal knowledge, nocturnal women, who can make that which is uppermost downmost. But our tall hero after this was never again of his own colour; indeed, after a few days, he died raving.’
1 Free boys wore long hair. A Chian life is a delicate and
luxurious life. Trimalchio implies that, though he began
life as a slave, he was a pet in the household, and was
treated as if he had been free.
‘We wondered and believed,’ says a guest who heard the story, ‘and kissing the table, we implored the nocturnals to keep themselves to themselves, while we were returning from supper.’
Miss Gryll. Those are pleasant stories, doctor; and the peculiar style of the narrators testifies to their faith in their own marvels. Still, as you say, they are not ghost stories.
Lord Curryfin. Shakespeare’s are glorious ghosts, and would make good stories, if they were not so familiarly known. There is a ghost much to my mind in Beaumont and Fletcher’s Lover’s Progress. Cleander has a beautiful wife, Calista, and a friend, Lisander, Calista and Lisander love each other, en tout bien, tout honneur. Lisander, in self-defence and in fair fight, kills a court favourite, and is obliged to conceal himself in the country. Cleander and Dorilaus, Calista’s father, travel in search of him. They pass the night at a country inn. The jovial host had been long known to Cleander, who had extolled him to Dorilaus; but on inquiring for him they find he has been dead three weeks. They call for more wine, dismiss their attendants, and sit up alone, chatting of various things, and, among others, of mine host, whose skill on the lute and in singing is remembered and commended by Cleander. While they are talking, a lute is struck within; followed by a song, beginning
’Tis late and cold, stir up the fire, —
Sit close, and draw the table nigher:
Be merry! and drink wine that’s old.
And ending
Welcome, welcome, shall go round,
Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock Page 97