After having admired some of Murillo’s pictures, we came to one which I, unpractised as I was in judging of painting, immediately perceived to be inferior.
“You are quite right,” said Mr. Montenero; “it is inferior to Murillo, and the sudden sense of this inferiority absolutely broke the painter’s heart. This picture is by a painter of the name of Castillo, who had thought comfortably well of himself, till he saw the master-pieces of Murillo’s genius; Castillo surveyed them for some time in absolute silence, then turning away, exclaimed Castillo is no more! and soon Castillo was no more. From that moment he pined away, and shortly afterwards died: not from envy,” continued Mr. Montenero; “no, he was a man of mild, amiable temper, incapable of envy; but he fell a victim to excessive sensibility — a dangerous, though not a common vice of character.”
“Weakness, not vice, I hope,” I heard Miss Montenero say in a low voice.
The father answered with a sigh, “that, however, cannot be called a virtue, which incapacitates from the exercise of independent virtue, and which, as you find, not only depresses genius, but may extinguish life itself.”
Mr. Montenero then turned to me, and with composure went on speaking of the pictures. Ever since I knew I was to see these, I had been studying Cumberland’s Lives of the Spanish Painters, and this I honestly told Mr. Montenero, when he complimented me upon my knowing all the names and anecdotes to which he alluded: he smiled — so did his daughter; and he was so good as to say that he liked me better for telling him this so candidly, than if I had known all that the connoisseurs and anecdote-mongers, living or dead, had ever said or written. We came to a picture by Alonzo Cano, who, excelling in architecture, statuary, and painting, has been called the Michael Angelo of Spain.
“He at least was not deficient in a comfortably good opinion of himself, Mr. Montenero,” said I. “Is not it recorded of Cano, that having finished a statue of Saint Antonio de Padua for a Spanish counsellor, the tasteless lawyer and niggardly devotee hesitated to pay the artist his price, observing that Cano, by his own account, had been only twenty-five days about it? The counsellor sat down, with stupid self-sufficiency, to calculate, that at a hundred pistoles, divided by twenty-five days, the artist would be paid at a higher rate than he was himself for the exercise of his talents. ‘Wretch! talk to me of your talents!’ exclaimed the enraged artist; ‘I have been fifty years learning to make this statue in twenty-five days!’ And as he spoke, Cano dashed his statue to pieces on the pavement of the academy. The affrighted counsellor fled from the house with the utmost precipitation, concluding that the man who was bold enough to destroy a saint, would have very little remorse in destroying a lawyer.
“Happily for Cano, this story did not reach the ears of the Inquisition,” said Mr. Montenero, “or he would have been burnt alive.”
Mr. Montenero then pointed out some exquisite pieces by this artist, and spoke with enthusiasm of his genius. I perceived some emotion, of which I could not guess the cause, in the countenance of his daughter; she seemed touched by what her father said about this painter or his pictures.
Mr. Montenero concluded his panegyric on Cano’s genius by saying, “Besides being a great genius, we are told that he was very religious, and, some few peculiarities excepted, very charitable.”
“You are very charitable, I am sure,” said Miss Montenero, looking at her father, and smiling: “I am not sure that I could speak so charitably of that man.” A sigh quickly followed her smile, and I now recollected having heard or read that this painter bore such an antipathy to the Jews, that he considered every touch of theirs as contamination; and, if he accidentally came in contact with them, would cast off and give away his clothes, forbidding the servant to whom he gave them, on any account to wear them.
Miss Montenero saw that I recollected to what she alluded — that I had a just feeling of the benevolent magnanimity of her father’s character. This raised me, I perceived, in the daughter’s opinion. Though scarcely a word passed at the moment, yet I fancied that we felt immediately better acquainted. I ventured to go and stand beside her, from doing which I had hitherto been prevented by I know not what insurmountable difficulty or strange spell.
We were both opposite to a Spanish copy of Guido’s Aurora Surgens. I observed that the flame of the torch borne by the winged boy, representing Lucifer, points westward, in a direction contrary to that in which the manes of the horses, the drapery of Apollo, and that of the dancing Hours, are blown, which seemed to me to be a mistake.
Berenice said that Guido had taken this picture from Ovid’s description, and that he had, with great art, represented, by the very circumstance to which I objected, the swiftness of the motion with which the chariot was driven forward. The current of the morning wind blowing from the east was represented by the direction of the hair of Lucifer, and of the flame of his torch; while the rapidity of the motion of the chariot was such, that, notwithstanding the eastern wind, which would otherwise have blown them towards the west, the manes of the horses, and the drapery of the figures, were driven backwards, by the resistance of the air against which they were hurried. She then repeated, in a pleasing but timid manner, in support of her opinion, these two beautiful lines of Addison’s translation:
“With winged speed outstrips the eastern wind,
And leaves the breezes of the morn behind.”
I need not say that I was delighted with this criticism, and with the modest manner in which it was spoken: but I could not honestly help remarking that, to the description immediately alluded to in Ovid, Addison had added the second beautiful line,
“And leaves the breezes of the morn behind.”
Mr. Montenero looked pleased, and said to me, “It is very true, in the immediate passage describing the chariot of the Sun issuing from the gates of Heaven, this line is not in the original; but if you look further back in the fable, you will find that the idea is still more strongly expressed in the Latin than in the English.”
It was with the utmost difficulty that I at last forced myself away, nor was I in the least aware of the unconscionable length of my visit. What particularly pleased me in the conversation of Miss Montenero was, that she had none of those fashionable phrases which fill each vacuity of sense, and which level all distinctions of understanding. There was none of that commonplace stuff which passes for conversation in the world, and which we hear and repeat till we are equally tired of others and of ourselves.
There were, besides, in her manner and countenance, indications of perfect sweetness of temper, a sort of feminine gentleness and softness which art cannot feign nor affectation counterfeit; a gentleness which, while it is the charm of female manners, is perfectly consistent with true spirit, and with the higher or the stronger qualities of the mind. All I had seen of Miss Montenero in this first visit inspired me with the most ardent desire to see more. Here was a woman who could fill my whole soul; who could at once touch my heart and my imagination. I felt inspired with new life — I had now a great object, a strong and lively interest in existence. At parting, Mr. Montenero shook hands with me, which, he said, he knew was the English mode of showing kindness: he expressed an earnest, but proudly guarded wish, that I might be so circumstanced, and so inclined, as to allow him the pleasure he much desired, of cultivating my acquaintance.
CHAPTER X
The interest which Berenice inspired, so completely absorbed my mind, that I never thought again of Jacob and his story, till I met Lady Anne and her brother the next morning, when I went to take a ride in the park: they were with Colonel Topham, and some people of her ladyship’s acquaintance.
Lady Anne, after the usual preliminary quantity of nonsense, and after she had questioned and cross-questioned me, to the best of her slender abilities, about the Jewess, told me a long story about herself, and her fears, and the fears of her mare, and a horse-laugh of Mowbray’s which Colonel Topham said no horse could stand: not much applause ensuing from me, she returned to the witty colonel, and le
ft me to her brother. Mowbray directly began to talk about Jacob. He said he supposed Jacob had not failed to make his Gibraltar story good; but that “Hear both sides” was an indispensable maxim, even where such a favourite as Jacob was concerned. “But first let us take one other good gallop,” said Mowbray; “Anne, I leave you here with Mrs. Carrill and Colonel Topham;” and away he galloped. When he thought, as he said, that he had shaken off some of my prejudices, he drew up his horse, and talked over the Gibraltar affair.
His dashing, jocular, military mode of telling the thing, so different from Jacob’s plain, mercantile, matter-of-fact method, quite changed my view and opinion of the transaction. Mowbray blamed himself with such a good grace, and wished so fervently that he could make any reparation to “the poor devils who had suffered,” that I acquitted him of all malice, and forgave his imprudence.
The frankness with which he spoke to Jacob, when they met, was proof conclusive to me that he was incapable, as he declared, of harbouring any malice against Jew or Christian. He inquired most particularly into Jacob’s own losses at Gibraltar, called for pen, ink, and paper, and in his off-hand manner wrote a draft on his banker, and put it into Jacob’s hand. “Here, my honest Jacob, you are a Jew whose accounts I can take at your word. Let this settle the balance between us. No scruples, Jacob — no present, this — nothing but remuneration for your losses.”
Jacob accepted Lord Mowbray’s apologies, but could not by any means be prevailed upon to accept from him any present or remuneration. He seemed willing to forgive, but not to trust Lord Mowbray. All trace of resentment was cleared from his countenance, but no condescension of his lordship could move Jacob to throw off his reserve beyond a certain point. He conquered aversion, but he would not pretend to like. Mr. Montenero came into the room while we were speaking, and I presented Lord Mowbray to him. There was as marked a difference as politeness would allow in Mr. Montenero’s manner towards his lordship and towards me, which I justly attributed to Jacob’s previous representations. We looked at the pictures, and talked, and loitered, but I turned my eyes in vain to the door every time it opened — no Miss Montenero appeared. I was so much preoccupied with my object that I was silent, and left Mowbray to make his own way, which no one was more capable of doing. In a few minutes he was in full conversation. He went over again, without my attending to it, his pièce justificative about the riot at Gibraltar, and Jacob, and the Manessas; and between the fits of my reverie, I perceived Mowbray was talking of the Due de Crillon and General Elliot, and red-hot balls; but I took no interest in the conversation, till I heard him speak of an officers’ ball at Gibraltar, and of dancing with a Jewess. The very night he had first landed at Gibraltar, there happened to be a ball to which he went with a friend, who was also just landed, and a stranger. It was the custom to draw lots for partners. His friend, a true-born Englishman, took fright at the foreign-sounding name of the lady who fell to his lot — Mowbray changed tickets with him, and had, he said, great reason to rejoice. The lady with the foreign name was a Jewess, the handsomest, the most graceful, the most agreeable woman in the room. He was the envy of every man, and especially of his poor friend, who too late repented his rash renunciation of his ticket. Lord Mowbray, by several other slight anecdotes, which he introduced with happy effect, contrived to please Mr. Montenero; and if any unfavourable prepossession had existed against him, it was, I thought, completely removed. For my own part, I was delighted with his presence of mind in recollecting all that was best worth seeing in London, and arranging parties in which we could have the honour of attending Miss Montenero, and the pleasure of being of some use to her.
Mr. Montenero’s own acquaintance in London was chiefly with the families of some of the foreign ambassadors, and with other foreigners of distinction; but his daughter was not yet acquainted with any English ladies, except the lady of General B —— , with whom the Monteneros had been intimate in America. Lady Emily B —— was detained in the country by the illness of one of her family, and Miss Montenero, having declined going into public with Mrs. Coates, would wait quietly at home till her English friends should come to town. Again shame for my mother’s remissness obliged me to cast down my eyes in awkward silence. But Mowbray, Heaven bless him for it! went on fluently. This was the moment, he said, before Miss Montenero should appear in public, and get into the whirl of the great world, before engagements should multiply and press upon her, as inevitably they would as soon as she had made her début — this was the moment, and the only moment probably she would ever have to herself, to see all that was worth a stranger’s notice in London. Mr. Montenero was obliged to Mowbray, and I am sure so was I.
Miss Montenero, infinitely more desirous to see than to be seen, was pleased with the parties we arranged for her and from this time forward, scarcely a day passed without our having the pleasure of attending the father and daughter. My mother sighed and remonstrated in vain; my father, absorbed in the House of Commons, was satisfied with seeing me regularly at breakfast. He usually dined at clubs, and it was happily his principle to let his son amuse himself his own way. But I assured her, and truly, that I was only amusing myself, and that I had not formed any serious intentions. I wished to see more of the lady. Mowbray, with ready invention, continually suggested something particularly well worth seeing or hearing, some delightful pretext for our being together. Sometimes he accompanied us, sometimes he excused himself — he had indispensable engagements. His indispensable engagements I knew were usually with ladies of a very different sort from Miss Montenero. Mowbray was desperately in love with the young actress who had played the part of Jessica, and to her he devoted every moment he could command. I regretted for his sake his dissipated tastes, but I felt the more obliged to him for the time he sacrificed to friendship; and perhaps, to tell things just as they were, I was glad he was safely in love with a Jessica of his own, as it secured me from all apprehension of his rivalling or wishing to rival me. Miss Montenero he confessed was not in the least to his taste. In this instance I was quite satisfied that our tastes should completely differ. I never liked him so well — we went on most happily together. I felt uncommonly benevolent towards the whole world; my heart expanded with increased affection for all my friends — every thing seemed to smile upon me — even the weather. The most delicious morning I ever remember was that on which we rowed along the banks of the Thames with Miss Montenero. I always enjoyed every beautiful object in nature with enthusiasm, but now with new delight — with all the enchantment of a first love, and of hope that had never known disappointment.
I was almost angry with my dear friend Mowbray, for not being as enthusiastic this day as I was myself.
There were certain points of taste and character on which we never could agree; my romantic imagination and enthusiastic manner of expressing myself, were often in contrast with his worldly comic mode of seeing and talking. He hurt, sometimes, my feelings by his raillery — he pulled me down too suddenly from my flights of imagination. By the flashes of his wit he showed, perhaps too clearly, the danger of my fall from “high sublime to deep absurd;” but, after all, I was satisfied that Miss Montenero preferred my style, and in general I was content that he should enjoy his dear wit and gay rhetoric — even a little at my expense.
The morning we went to Westminster Abbey, I own I was provoked with him, for pointing out to my observation, at the moment when my imagination was struck with the sense of sublimity at the sight of the awful pile, the ridiculous contrast of the showman and his keys, who was impatiently waiting till I had finished my exclamations; but I soon forgot both the showman and the wit, while at every step, among the illustrious dead, my enthusiasm was raised, and some anecdote of their lives, or some striking quotation from their works, rushed upon my mind. I was inspired and encouraged by the approbation of the father, and the sympathy of the daughter.
As we were quitting the Abbey, Mr. Montenero stopped, turned to me, and said, “You have a great deal of enthusiasm, I see, Mr. Ha
rrington: so much the better, in my opinion — I love generous enthusiasm.”
And at the moment I flattered myself that the eyes of his daughter repeated “I love generous enthusiasm,” her father caught the expression, and immediately, with his usual care, moderated and limited what he had said.
“Enthusiasm well governed, of course, I mean — as one of your English noblemen lately said, ‘There is an enthusiasm of the head, and that is genius — there is an enthusiasm of the heart, and that is virtue — there is an enthusiasm of the temper, and that is—’”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 177