Vivian Grey

Beckendorff started and looked round, as if he were for the first moment aware that any being had heard him.

“Encore!” said he, with a kind sneer: “who ever could sing or play the same thing twice! Are you fond of music, sir?”

“Very much so, indeed. I fancied I recognised that air. You are an admirer I imagine, of Mozart?”

“I never heard of him; I know nothing of those gentry. But if you really like music, I will play you something worth listening to.”

Mr. Beckendorff began a beautiful air very adagio, gradually increasing the time in a kind of variation, till at last his execution became so rapid that Vivian, surprised at the mere mechanical action, rose from his chair in order better to examine the player’s management and motion of his bow. Exquisite as were the tones, enchanting as were the originality of his variations and the perfect harmony of his composition, it was nevertheless extremely difficult to resist smiling at the contortions of his face and figure. Now, his body bending to the strain, he was at one moment with his violin raised in the air, and the next instant with the lower nut almost resting upon his foot. At length, by well-proportioned degrees, the air died away into the original soft cadence; and the player, becoming completely entranced in his own performance, finished by sinking back on the sofa, with his bow and violin raised over his head. Vivian would not disturb him by his applause. An instant after, Mr. Beckendorff, throwing down the instrument, rushed through an open window into the garden.

As soon as Beckendorff was out of sight, Vivian looked at the Prince; and his Highness, elevating his eyebrows, screwing up his mouth, and shrugging his shoulders, altogether presented a comical picture of a puzzled man.

“Well, my dear friend,” said he, “this is rather different from what we expected.”

“Very different; but much more amusing.”

“Humph!” said the Prince, slowly; “I do not think it exactly requires a ghost to tell us that Mr. Beckendorff is not in the habit of going to court. I do not know how he is accustomed to conduct himself when he is honoured by a visit from the Grand Duke; but I am quite sure that, as regards his treatment of myself, to say the least, the incognito is well observed.”

“Mr. von Philipson,” said the gentleman of whom they were speaking, putting his head in at the window, “you shall see my blue passion-flower. We will take a walk round the garden.”

The Prince gave Vivian a look which seemed to suppose they must go, and accordingly they stepped into the garden.

“You do not see my garden in its glory,” said Mr. Beckendorff, stopping before the bow window of the library. “This spot is my strong point; had you been here earlier in the year, you might have admired with me my invaluable crescents of tulips; such colours! such brilliancy! so defined! And last year I had three king-tulips; their elegantly-formed, creamy cups I have never seen equalled. And then my double variegated ranunculuses; my hyacinths of fifty bells, in every tint, single and double; and my favourite stands of auriculas, so large and powdered that the colour of the velvet leaves was scarcely discoverable! The blue passion-flower is, however, now beautiful. You see that summer-house, sir,” continued he, turning to Vivian; “the top is my observatory. You will sleep in that pavilion to-night, so you had better take notice how the walk winds.”

The passion-flower was trained against the summer-house in question.

“There,” said Mr. Beckendorff; and he stood admiring with outstretched arms; “the latter days of its beauty, for the autumn frosts will soon stop its flower. Pray, Mr. von Philipson, are you a botanist?”

“Why,” said the Prince, “I am a great admirer of flowers, but I cannot exactly say that—”

“Ah! no botanist. The flower of this beautiful plant continues only one day, but there is a constant succession from July to the end of the autumn; and if this fine weather continue—Pray, sir, how is the wind?”

“I really cannot say,” said the Prince; “but I think the wind is either—”

“Do you know, sir?” continued Beckendorff to Vivian.

“I think, sir, that it is—”

“Westerly. Well! If this weather continue, the succession may still last another month. You will be interested to know, Mr. von Philipson, that the flower comes out at the same joint with the leaf, on a peduncle nearly three inches long; round the centre of it are two radiating crowns; look, look, sir! the inner inclining towards the centre column; now examine this well, and I will be with you in a moment.” So saying, Mr. Beckendorff, running down the walk, jumped over the railing, and in a moment was coursing across the lawn, towards the river, in a chase after a dragon-fly.

Mr. Beckendorff was soon out of sight, and after lingering half-an-hour in the vicinity of the blue passion-flower, the Prince proposed to Vivian that they should quit the spot. “So far as I can observe,” continued his Highness, “we might as well quit the house. No wonder that Beckendorff’s power is on the wane, for he appears to me to be growing childish. Surely he could not always have been this frivolous creature!”

“I am really so astonished,” said Vivian, “that it is quite out of my power to assist your Highness in any supposition. But I should recommend you not to be too hasty in your movements. Take care that staying here does not affect the position which you have taken up, or retard the progress of any measures on which you have determined, and you are safe. What will it injure you if, with the chance of achieving the great and patriotic purpose to which you have devoted your powers and energies, you are subjected for a few hours to the caprices, or even rudeness, of any man whatever? If Beckendorff be the character which the world gives him credit to be, I do not think he can imagine that you are to be deceived twice; and if he do imagine so, we are convinced that he will be disappointed. If, as you have supposed, not only his power is on the wane, but his intellect also, four-and-twenty hours will convince us of the fact; for in less than that time your Highness will necessarily have conversation of a more important nature with him. I recommend, therefore, that we continue here to-day, although,” added Vivian, smiling, “I have to sleep in his observatory.”

After walking in the gardens about an hour, the Prince and Vivian again went into the house, imagining that Beckendorff might have returned by another entrance; but he was not there. The Prince was much annoyed; and Vivian, to amuse himself, had recourse to the library. After re-examining the armour, looking at the garden through the painted windows, conjecturing who might be the original of the mysterious picture and what could be the meaning of the withered branch, the Prince was fairly worn out. The precise dinner hour he did not know; and notwithstanding repeated exertions, he had hitherto been unable to find the blooming Clara. He could not flatter himself, however, that there were less than two hours to kill before the great event took place; and so, heartily wishing himself back again at Turriparva, he prevailed upon Vivian to throw aside his book and take another walk.

This time they extended their distance, stretched out as far as the river, and explored the adjoining woods; but of Mr. Beckendorff they saw and heard nothing. At length they again returned: it was getting dusk. They found the bow window of the library closed. They again entered the dining-room, and, to their surprise, found no preparations for dinner. This time the Prince was more fortunate in his exertions to procure an interview with Madam Clara, for that lady almost immediately entered the room.

“Pray, my good madam,” inquired the Prince, “has your master returned?”

“Mr. Beckendorff is in the library, sir,” said the old lady, pompously.

“Indeed! we do not dine in this room, then?”

“Dine, sir!” said the good dame, forgetting her pomposity in her astonishment.

“Yes, dine,” said the Prince.

“Mr. Beckendorff never takes anything after his noon meal.”

“Am I to understand, then, that we are to have no dinner?” asked his Highness, angry and agitated.

“Mr. Beckendorff never takes anything after his noon meal, sir; but I am sure that if you and your friend are hungry, sir, I hope there is never a want in this house.”

“My good lady, I am hungry, very hungry, indeed; and if your master, I mean Mr. von, that is Mr. Beckendorff, has such a bad appetite that he can satisfy himself with picking, once a day, the breast of a pheasant; why, if he expect his friends to be willing or even able to live on such fare, the least that I can say is, that he is much mistaken; and so, therefore, my good friend Grey, I think we had better order our horses and be off.”

“No occasion for that, I hope,” said Mrs. Clara, rather alarmed at the Prince’s passion; “no want, I trust, ever here, sir; and I make no doubt you will have dinner as soon as possible; and so, sir, I hope you will not be hasty.”

“Hasty! I have no wish to be hasty; but as for disarranging the whole economy of the house, and getting up an extemporaneous meal for me, I cannot think of it. Mr. Beckendorff may live as he likes, and if I stay here I am contented to live as he does. I do not wish him to change his habits for me, and I shall take care that, after today, there will be no necessity for his doing so. However, absolute hunger can make no compliments; and therefore I will thank you, my good madam, to let me and my friend have the remains of that cold game, if they be still in existence, on which we lunched, or, as you term it, took our noon meal, this morning; and which, if it were your own cooking, Mrs. Clara, I assure you, as I observed to my friend at the time, did you infinite credit.”

The Prince, although his gentlemanlike feelings had, in spite of his hunger, dictated a deprecation of Mrs. Clara’s making a dinner merely for himself, still thought that a seasonable and deserved compliment to the lady might assist in bringing about a result which, notwithstanding his politeness, he much desired; and that was the production of another specimen of her culinary accomplishments. Having behaved, as he considered, with moderation and dignified civility, he was, it must be confessed, rather astounded when Mrs. Clara, duly acknowledging his compliment by her curtsey, was sorry to inform him that she dared give no refreshment in this house without Mr. Beckendorff’s special order.

“Special order! Why! surely your master will not grudge me the cold leg of a pheasant?”

“Mr. Beckendorff is not in the habit of grudging anything,” answered the housekeeper, with offended majesty.

“Then why should he object?” asked the Prince.

“Mr. Beckendorff is the best judge, sir, of the propriety of his own regulations.”

“Well, well!” said Vivian, more interested for his friend than himself, “there is no difficulty in asking Mr. Beckendorff?”

“None in the least, sir,” answered the housekeeper, “when he is awake.”

“Awake!” said the Prince, “why! is he asleep now?”

“Yes, sir, in the library.”

“And how long will he be asleep?” asked the Prince, with eagerness.

“It is uncertain; he may be asleep for hours, he may wake in five minutes; all I can do is to watch.”

“But, surely in a case like the present, you can wake your master?”

“I could not wake Mr. Beckendorff, sir, if the house were on fire. No one can enter the room when he is asleep.”

“Then how can you possibly know when he is awake?”

“I shall hear his violin immediately, sir.”

“Well, well! I suppose it must be so. I wish we were in Turriparva; that is all I know. Men of my station have no business to be paying visits to the sons of the Lord knows who! peasants, shopkeepers, and pedagogues!”

As a fire was blazing in the dining-room, which Mrs. Clara informed them Mr. Beckendorff never omitted having every night in the year, the Prince and his friend imagined that they were to remain there, and they consequently did not attempt to disturb the slumbers of their host. Resting his feet on the hobs, his Highness, for the fiftieth time, declared that he wished he had never left Turriparva; and just when Vivian was on the point of giving up in despair the hope of consoling him, Mrs. Clara entered and proceeded to lay the cloth.

“Your master is awake, then?” asked the Prince, very quickly.

“Mr. Beckendorff has been long awake, sir! and dinner will be ready immediately.”

His Highness’ countenance brightened; and in a short time the supper appearing, the Prince, again fascinated by Mrs. Clara’s cookery and Mr. Beckendorff’s wine, forgot his chagrin, and regained his temper.

In about a couple of hours Mr. Beckendorff entered.

“I hope that Clara has given you wine you like, Mr. von Philipson?”

“The same bin, I will answer for that.”

Mr. Beckendorff had his violin in his hand, but his dress was much changed. His great boots being pulled off, exhibited the white silk stockings which he invariably wore. His coat had given place to the easier covering of a brocade dressing-gown. He drew a chair round the fire, between the Prince and Vivian. It was a late hour, and the room was only lighted by the glimmering coals, for the flames had long died away. Mr. Beckendorff sat for some time without speaking, gazing earnestly on the decaying embers. Indeed, before many minutes had elapsed, complete silence prevailed; for both the endeavours of the Prince and of Vivian to promote conversation had been unsuccessful. At length the master of the house turned round to the Prince, and pointing to a particular mass of coal, said, “I think, Mr. von Philipson, that is the completest elephant I ever saw. We will ring the bell for some coals, and then have a game of whist.”

The Prince was so surprised by Mr. Beckendorff’s remark that he was not sufficiently struck by the strangeness of his proposition, and it was only when he heard Vivian professing his ignorance of the game that it occurred to him that to play at whist was hardly the object for which he had travelled from Turriparva.

“An Englishman not know whist!” said Mr. Beckendorff:

“Ridiculous! You do know it. Let us play! Mr. von Philipson, I know, has no objection.”

“But, my good sir,” said the Prince, “although previous to conversation I may have no objection to join in a little amusement, still it appears to me that it has escaped your memory that whist is a game which requires the co-operation of four persons.”

“Not at all! I take dummy! I am not sure it is not the finest way of playing the game.”

The table was arranged, the lights brought, the cards produced, and the Prince of Little Lilliput, greatly to his surprise, found himself playing whist with Mr. Beckendorff. Nothing could be more dull. The Minister would neither bet nor stake, and the immense interest which he took in every card that was played ludicrously contrasted with the rather sullen looks of the Prince and the very sleepy ones of Vivian. Whenever Mr. Beckendorff played for dummy he always looked with the most searching eye into the next adversary’s face, as if he would read his cards in his features. The first rubber lasted an hour and a half, three long games, which Mr. Beckendorff, to his triumph, hardly won. In the first game of the second rubber Vivian blundered; in the second he revoked; and in the third, having neglected to play, and being loudly called upon, and rated both by his partner and Mr. Beckendorff, he was found to be asleep. Beckendorff threw down his hand with a loud dash, which roused Vivian from his slumber. He apologised for his drowsiness; but said that he was so sleepy that he must retire. The Prince, who longed to be with Beckendorff alone, winked approbation of his intention.

“Well!” said Beckendorff, “you spoiled the rubber. I shall ring for Clara. Why you all are so fond of going to bed I cannot understand. I have not been to bed these thirty years.”

Vivian made his escape; and Beckendorff, pitying his degeneracy, proposed to the Prince, in a tone which seemed to anticipate that the offer would meet with instantaneous acceptation, double dummy. This, however, was too much.

“No more cards, sir, I thank you,” said the Prince; “if, however, you have a mind for an hour’s conversation, I am quite at your service.”

“I am obliged to you; I never talk. Good night, Mr. von Philipson.”

Mr. Beckendorff left the room. His Highness could contain himself no longer. He rang the bell.

“Pray, Mrs. Clara,” said he, “where are my horses?”

“Mr. Beckendorff will have no quadrupeds within a mile of the house, except Owlface.”

“How do you mean? Let me see the man-servant.”

“The household consists only of myself, sir.”

“Why! where is my luggage, then?”

“That has been brought up, sir; it is in your room.”

“I tell you I must have my horses.”

“It is quite impossible to-night, sir. I think, sir, you had better retire. Mr. Beckendorff may not be home again these six hours.”

“What! is your master gone out?”

“Yes, sir, he is just gone out to take his ride.”

“Why! where is his horse kept, then?”

“It is Owlface, sir.”

“Owlface, indeed! What! is your master in the habit of riding out at night?”

“Mr. Beckendorff rides out, sir, just when it happens to suit him.”

“It is very odd I cannot ride out when it happens to suit me! However, I will be off to-morrow; and so, if you please, show me my bed-room at once.”

“Your room is the library, sir.”

“The library! Why, there is no bed in the library.”

“We have no beds, sir; but the sofa is made up.”

“No beds! Well! it is only for one night. You are all mad, and I am as mad as you for coming here.”

CHAPTER VII

The morning sun peeping through the window of the little summer-house roused its inmate at an early hour; and finding no signs of Mr. Beckendorff and his guest having yet risen from their slumbers, Vivian took the opportunity of strolling about the gardens and the grounds. Directing his way along the margin of the river, he soon left the lawn and entered some beautiful meadows, whose dewy verdure glistened in the brightening beams of the early sun. Crossing these, and passing through a gate, he found himself in a rural road, whose lofty hedge-rows, rich with all the varieties of wild fruit and flower, and animated with the cheering presence of the busy birds chirping from every bough and spray, altogether presented a scene which reminded him of the soft beauties of his own country. With some men, to remember is to be sad; and unfortunately for Vivian Grey, there were few objects which with him did not give rise to associations of a painful nature. The strange occurrences of the last few days had recalled, if not revived, the feelings of his boyhood. His early career flitted across his mind. He would have stifled the remembrance with a sigh, but man Is the slave of Memory. For a moment he mused over Power; but then he, shuddering, shrank from the wearing anxiety, the consuming care, the eternal vigilance, the constant contrivance, the agonising suspense, the distracting vicissitudes of his past career. Alas! it is our nature to sicken, from our birth, after some object of unattainable felicity, to struggle through the freshest years of our life in an insane pursuit after some indefinite good, which does not even exist! But sure and quick is the dark hour which cools our doting frenzy in the frigid waves of the ocean of oblivion! We dream of immortality until we die. Ambition! at thy proud and fatal altar we whisper the secrets of our mighty thoughts, and breathe the aspirations of our inexpressible desires. A clouded flame licks up the offering of our ruined souls, and the sacrifice vanishes in the sable smoke of Death.

But where are his thoughts wandering? Had he forgotten that day of darkest despair? There had that happened to him which had happened to no other man. He was roused from his reverie by the sound of a trotting horse. He looked up, but the winding road prevented him at first from seeing the steed which evidently was approaching. The sound came nearer and nearer; and at length, turning a corner, Mr. Beckendorff came in sight. He was mounted on a strong-built, rough, and ugly pony, with an obstinate mane, which, defying the exertion’s of the groom, fell in equal divisions on both sides of its bottle neck, and a large white face, which, combined with its blinking vision, had earned for it the euphonious title of Owlface. Both master and steed must have travelled hard and far, for both were covered with dust and mud from top to toe, from mane to hoof. Mr. Beckendorff seemed surprised at meeting Vivian, and pulled up his pony as he reached him.

“An early riser, I see, sir. Where is Mr. von Philipson?”

“I have not yet seen him, and imagined that both he and yourself had not yet risen.”

“Hum! how many hours is it to noon?” asked Mr. Beckendorff, who always spoke astronomically.

“More than four, I imagine.”

“Pray do you prefer the country about here to Turriparva?”

“Both, I think, are beautiful.”

“You live at Turriparva?” asked Mr. Beckendorff.

“As a guest,” answered Vivian.

“Has it been a fine summer at Turriparva?”

“I believe everywhere.”

“I am afraid Mr. von Philipson finds it rather dull here?”

“I am not aware of it.”

“He seems a ve-ry—?” said Beckendorff, looking keenly in his companion’s face. But Vivian did not supply the desired phrase; and so the Minister was forced to finish the sentence himself, “a very gentlemanlike sort of man?” A low bow was the only response.

“I trust, sir, I may indulge the hope,” continued Mr. Beckendorff, “that you will honour me with your company another day.”

“You are exceedingly obliging!”

“Mr. von Philipson is fond, I think, of a country life?” said Beckendorff.

“Most men are.”

“I suppose he has no innate objection to live occasionally in a city?”

“Few have.”

“You probably have known him long?”

“Not long enough to wish our acquaintance at an end.”

“Hum!”

They proceeded in silence for some moments, and then Beckendorff again turned round, and this time with a direct question.

“I wonder if Mr. Von Philipson can make it convenient to honour me with his company another day. Can you tell me?”

“I think the best person to inform you of that would be his Highness himself,” said Vivian, using his friend’s title purposely to show Mr. Beckendorff how ridiculous he considered his present use of the incognito.

“You think so, sir, do you?” answered Beckendorff, sarcastically.

They had now arrived at the gate by which Vivian had reached the road.

“Your course, sir,” said Mr. Beckendorff, “lies that way. I see, like myself, you are no great talker. We shall meet at breakfast.” So saying, the Minister set spurs to his pony, and was soon out of sight.

When Vivian reached the house, he found the bow window of the library thrown open, and as he approached he saw Mr. Beckendorff enter the room and bow to the prince. His Highness had passed a good night in spite of not sleeping in a bed, and he was at this moment commencing a delicious breakfast. His ill-humour had consequently vanished. He had made up his mind that Beckendorff was mad; and although he had given up all the secret and flattering hopes which he had dared to entertain when the interview was first arranged, he nevertheless did not regret his visit, which on the whole had been amusing, and had made him acquainted with the person and habits, and, as he believed, the intellectual powers of a man with whom, most probably, he should soon be engaged in open hostility. Vivian took his seat at the breakfast, table, and Beckendorff stood conversing with them with his back to the fireplace, and occasionally, during the pauses of conversation, pulling the strings of his violin with his fingers. It did not escape Vivian’s observation that the Minister was particularly courteous and even attentive to the Prince; and that he endeavoured by his quick and more communicative answers, and occasionally by a stray observation, to encourage the good humour visible on the cheerful countenance of his guest.

“Have you been long up, Mr. Beckendorff?” asked the Prince; for his host had resumed his dressing-gown and slippers.

“I generally see the sun rise.”

“And yet you retire late! out riding last night, I understand?”

“I never go to bed.”