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Mademoiselle admitted the truth of this conjecture: according to her, “ces paysannes anglaises etaient tout insupportables.” What would she not give for some “bonne cuisiniere anversoise,” with the high cap, short petticoat, and decent sabots proper to her class—something better, indeed, than an insolent coquette in a flounced gown, and absolutely without cap! (For Sarah, it appears, did not partake the opinion of St. Paul that “it is a shame for a woman to go with her head uncovered;” but, holding rather a contrary doctrine, resolutely refused to imprison in linen or muslin the plentiful tresses of her yellow hair, which it was her wont to fasten up smartly with a comb behind, and on Sundays to wear curled in front.)
“Shall I try and get you an Antwerp girl?” asked Mr. Moore, who, stern in public, was on the whole very kind in private.
“Merci du cadeau!” was the answer. “An Antwerp girl would not stay here ten days, sneered at as she would be by all the young coquines in your factory;” then softening, “You are very good, dear brother—excuse my petulance—but truly my domestic trials are severe, yet they are probably my destiny; for I recollect that our revered mother experienced similar sufferings, though she had the choice of all the best servants in Antwerp. Domestics are in all countries a spoiled and unruly set.”
Mr. Moore had also certain reminiscences about the trials of his revered mother. A good mother she had been to him, and he honoured her memory; but he recollected that she kept a hot kitchen of it in Antwerp, just as his faithful sister did here in England. Thus, therefore, he let the subject drop, and when the coffee-service was removed, proceeded to console Hortense by fetching her music-book and guitar; and having arranged the ribbon of the instrument round her neck with a quiet fraternal kindness he knew to be all-powerful in soothing her most ruffled moods, he asked her to give him some of their mother’s favourite songs.
Nothing refines like affection. Family jarring vulgarizes; family union elevates. Hortense, pleased with her brother, and grateful to him, looked, as she touched her guitar, almost graceful, almost handsome; her everyday fretful look was gone for a moment, and was replaced by a “sourire plein de bonte.” She sang the songs he asked for, with feeling; they reminded her of a parent to whom she had been truly attached; they reminded her of her young days. She observed, too, that Caroline listened with naive interest; this augmented her good-humour; and the exclamation at the close of the song, “I wish I could sing and play like Hortense!” achieved the business, and rendered her charming for the evening.
It is true a little lecture to Caroline followed, on the vanity of wishing and the duty of trying. “As Rome,” it was suggested, “had not been built in a day, so neither had Mademoiselle Gerard Moore’s education been completed in a week, or by merely wishing to be clever. It was effort that had accomplished that great work. She was ever remarkable for her perseverance, for her industry. Her masters had remarked that it was as delightful as it was uncommon to find so much talent united with so much solidity, and so on.” Once on the theme of her own merits, mademoiselle was fluent.
Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took her knitting, and sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly-shining lamp, gave now to the little parlour its best, its evening charm. It is probable that the three there present felt this charm. They all looked happy.
“What shall we do now, Caroline?” asked Mr. Moore, returning to his seat beside his cousin.
“What shall we do, Robert?” repeated she playfully. “You decide.”
“Not play at chess?”
“No.”
“Nor draughts, nor backgammon?”
“No, no; we both hate silent games that only keep one’s hands employed, don’t we?”
“I believe we do. Then shall we talk scandal?”
“About whom? Are we sufficiently interested in anybody to take a pleasure in pulling their character to pieces?”
“A question that comes to the point. For my part, unamiable as it sounds, I must say no.”
“And I too. But it is strange, though we want no third—fourth, I mean (she hastily and with contrition glanced at Hortense), living person among us—so selfish we are in our happiness—though we don’t want to think of the present existing world, it would be pleasant to go back to the past, to hear people that have slept for generations in graves that are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens and fields, speak to us and tell us their thoughts, and impart their ideas.”
“Who shall be the speaker? What language shall he utter? French?”
“Your French forefathers don’t speak so sweetly, nor so solemnly, nor so impressively as your English ancestors, Robert. To-night you shall be entirely English. You shall read an English book.”
“An old English book?”
“Yes, an old English book—one that you like; and I will choose a part of it that is toned quite in harmony with something in you. It shall waken your nature, fill your mind with music; it shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound. Your heart is a lyre, Robert; but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and touch it. You will see how he will draw the English power and melody out of its chords.”
“I must read Shakespeare?”
“You must have his spirit before you; you must hear his voice with your mind’s ear; you must take some of his soul into yours.”
“With a view to making me better? Is it to operate like a sermon?”
“It is to stir you, to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel your life strongly—not only your virtues, but your vicious, perverse points.”
“Dieu! que dit-elle?” cried Hortense, who hitherto had been counting stitches in her knitting, and had not much attended to what was said, but whose ear these two strong words caught with a tweak.
“Never mind her, sister; let her talk. Now just let her say anything she pleases to-night. She likes to come down hard upon your brother sometimes. It amuses me, so let her alone.”
Caroline, who, mounted on a chair, had been rummaging the bookcase, returned with a book.
“Here’s Shakespeare,” she said, “and there’s ‘Coriolanus.’ Now, read, and discover by the feelings the reading will give you at once how low and how high you are.”
“Come, then, sit near me, and correct when I mispronounce.”
“I am to be the teacher then, and you my pupil?”
“Ainsi, soit-il!”
“And Shakespeare is our science, since we are going to study?”
“It appears so.”
“And you are not going to be French, and sceptical, and sneering? You are not going to think it a sign of wisdom to refuse to admire?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you do, Robert, I’ll take Shakespeare away; and I’ll shrivel up within myself, and put on my bonnet and go home.”
“Sit down. Here I begin.”
“One minute, if you please, brother,” interrupted mademoiselle. “When the gentleman of a family reads, the ladies should always sew.—Caroline, dear child, take your embroidery. You may get three sprigs done to-night.”
Caroline looked dismayed. “I can’t see by lamp-light; my eyes are tired, and I can’t do two things well at once. If I sew, I cannot listen; if I listen, I cannot sew.”
“Fi, donc! Quel enfantillage!” began Hortense. Mr. Moore, as usual, suavely interposed.
“Permit her to neglect the embroidery for this evening. I wish her whole attention to be fixed on my accent; and to ensure this, she must follow the reading with her eyes—she must look at the book.”
He placed it between them, reposed his arm on the back of Caroline’s chair, and thus began to read.
The very first scene in “Coriolanus” came with smart relish to his intellectual palate, and still as he read he warmed. He delivered the haughty speech of Caius Marcius to the starving citizens with unction; he did not say he thought his irrational pride right, but he seemed to feel it so. Caroline looked up at him with a singular smile.
“There’s a vicious point hit already,” she said. “You sympathize with that proud patrician who does not sympathize with his famished fellow-men, and insults them. There, go on.” He proceeded. The warlike portions did not rouse him much; he said all that was out of date, or should be; the spirit displayed was barbarous; yet the encounter single-handed between Marcius and Tullus Aufidius he delighted in. As he advanced, he forgot to criticise; it was evident he appreciated the power, the truth of each portion; and, stepping out of the narrow line of private prejudices, began to revel in the large picture of human nature, to feel the reality stamped upon the characters who were speaking from that page before him.
He did not read the comic scenes well; and Caroline, taking the book out of his hand, read these parts for him. From her he seemed to enjoy them, and indeed she gave them with a spirit no one could have expected of her, with a pithy expression with which she seemed gifted on the spot, and for that brief moment only. It may be remarked, in passing, that the general character of her conversation that evening, whether serious or sprightly, grave or gay, was as of something untaught, unstudied, intuitive, fitful—when once gone, no more to be reproduced as it had been than the glancing ray of the meteor, than the tints of the dew-gem, than the colour or form of the sunset cloud, than the fleeting and glittering ripple varying the flow of a rivulet.
Coriolanus in glory, Coriolanus in disaster, Coriolanus banished, followed like giant shades one after the other. Before the vision of the banished man Moore’s spirit seemed to pause. He stood on the hearth of Aufidius’s hall, facing the image of greatness fallen, but greater than ever in that low estate. He saw “the grim appearance,” the dark face “bearing command in it,” “the noble vessel with its tackle torn.” With the revenge of Caius Marcius, Moore perfectly sympathized; he was not scandalized by it; and again Caroline whispered, “There I see another glimpse of brotherhood in error.”
The march on Rome, the mother’s supplication, the long resistance, the final yielding of bad passions to good, which ever must be the case in a nature worthy the epithet of noble, the rage of Aufidius at what he considered his ally’s weakness, the death of Coriolanus, the final sorrow of his great enemy—all scenes made of condensed truth and strength—came on in succession and carried with them in their deep, fast flow the heart and mind of reader and listener.
“Now, have you felt Shakespeare?” asked Caroline, some ten minutes after her cousin had closed the book.
“I think so.”
“And have you felt anything in Coriolanus like you?”
“Perhaps I have.”
“Was he not faulty as well as great?”
Moore nodded.
“And what was his fault? What made him hated by the citizens? What caused him to be banished by his countrymen?”
“What do you think it was?”
“I ask again—
‘Whether was it pride,
Which out of daily fortune ever taints
The happy man? whether defect of judgment,
To fail in the disposing of those chances
Which he was lord of? or whether nature,
Not to be other than one thing, not moving
From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace
Even with the same austerity and garb
As he controlled the war?’”
“Well, answer yourself, Sphinx.”
“It was a spice of all; and you must not be proud to your workpeople; you must not neglect chances of soothing them; and you must not be of an inflexible nature, uttering a request as austerely as if it were a command.”
“That is the moral you tack to the play. What puts such notions into your head?”
“A wish for your good, a care for your safety, dear Robert, and a fear, caused by many things which I have heard lately, that you will come to harm.”
“Who tells you these things?”
“I hear my uncle talk about you. He praises your hard spirit, your determined cast of mind, your scorn of low enemies, your resolution not ‘to truckle to the mob,’ as he says.”
“And would you have me truckle to them?”
“No, not for the world. I never wish you to lower yourself; but somehow I cannot help thinking it unjust to include all poor working-people under the general and insulting name of ‘the mob,’ and continually to think of them and treat them haughtily.”
“You are a little democrat, Caroline. If your uncle knew, what would he say?”
“I rarely talk to my uncle, as you know, and never about such things. He thinks everything but sewing and cooking above women’s comprehension, and out of their line.”
“And do you fancy you comprehend the subjects on which you advise me?”
“As far as they concern you, I comprehend them. I know it would be better for you to be loved by your workpeople than to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is more likely to win their regard than pride. If you were proud and cold to me and Hortense, should we love you? When you are cold to me, as you are sometimes, can I venture to be affectionate in return?”
“Now, Lina, I’ve had my lesson both in languages and ethics, with a touch on politics; it is your turn. Hortense tells me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you learned the other day, a piece by poor Andre Chenier—‘La Jeune Captive.’ Do you remember it still?”
“I think so.”
“Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind your accent; especially let us have no English u’s.”
Caroline, beginning in a low, rather tremulous voice, but gaining courage as she proceeded, repeated the sweet verses of Chenier. The last three stanzas she rehearsed well.
“Mon beau voyage encore est si loin de sa fin!
Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemin
J’ai passe le premiers a peine.
Au banquet de la vie a peine commence,
Un instant seulement mes levres ont presse
La coupe en mes mains encore pleine.
“Je ne suis qu’au printemps—je veux voir la moisson;
Et comme le soleil, de saison en saison,
Je veux achever mon annee,
Brillante sur ma tige, et l’honneur du jardin
Je n’ai vu luire encore que les feux du matin,
Je veux achever ma journee!”
Moore listened at first with his eyes cast down, but soon he furtively raised them. Leaning back in his chair he could watch Caroline without her perceiving where his gaze was fixed. Her cheek had a colour, her eyes a light, her countenance an expression this evening which would have made even plain features striking; but there was not the grievous defect of plainness to pardon in her case. The sunshine was not shed on rough barrenness; it fell on soft bloom. Each lineament was turned with grace; the whole aspect was pleasing. At the present moment—animated, interested, touched—she might be called beautiful. Such a face was calculated to awaken not only the calm sentiment of esteem, the distant one of admiration, but some feeling more tender, genial, intimate—friendship, perhaps, affection, interest. When she had finished, she turned to Moore, and met his eye.
“Is that pretty well repeated?” she inquired, smiling like any happy, docile child.
“I really don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know? Have you not listened?”
“Yes—and looked. You are fond of poetry, Lina?”
“When I meet with real poetry, I cannot rest till I have learned it by heart, and so made it partly mine.”
