Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience

From, I know not what caprice, she disliked this part now, although once it had been her favorite above all others. Her friends made every effort to induce her to resume it, but in vain. Their entreaties, indeed, only served to excite her opposition; and the subject was at last dropped as hopeless. The Court, however, had fixed on a night to visit the “Français” and “Bajazet” was their choice. There was now no alternative left her but to accept her part or see it filled by another. The latter was her immediate resolve; and Mademoiselle Leonie, her rival, was at length installed in all the honors of the “first character.” It was evident now to all Margot’s friends that her career was over. An act of abdication like this was always irrevocable; and the Parisian public was never known to forgive what they regarded as an open act of insult to their authority in taste. Well knowing that all attempts at dissuasion would be hopeless, we made no appeal against her determination, but in calm submission waited for the course of events, – waited, in fact, to witness the last crash of ruin to that fame in whose edifice we once had gloried.

Mademoiselle Mars advised Margot to travel. Italy had been always the land of her predilection. She had even acted there with immense success in Alfieri’s tragedies, for her knowledge of the language equalled that of her own country. It would be a good opportunity to revisit it; “And perhaps, who knew,” said she, “but that the echo of her fame coming over the Alps might again rouse the enthusiasm of Paris in her favor?” I warmly supported this plan, and Margot consented to it. A dame de compagnie, an old friend of Mademoiselle de Mars, was chosen to be her travelling companion, and I was to be of the party as secretary.

We hurried on all the arrangements as rapidly as possible. We desired that she should leave Paris before the night of the command, and thus remove her from all the enthusiasm of praise the press had prepared to shower down on her rival, with the customary expressions of contemptuous contrast for the fallen idol. We well knew the excess of adulation that was in readiness to burst forth, and dreaded less the effect it might produce on Margot’s mind regarding her rival than that it should inspire her with a curiosity to witness her performance; for such was exactly the wayward character of her mode of thinking and acting.

To our joy, we discovered that Margot’s impatience equalled, if not exceeded, our own. She entered with an almost childish delight into all the preparations for the journey. We hung over the map for hours together, tracing our route, and revelling in anticipated pleasure at the thought of all those glorious old cities of the peninsula. We consulted guide-books and journals, and pictured to ourselves all the delights of a happy journey. With what ecstasy she recalled the various scenes of her former visit to Italy, and the names of those whose friendship she had acquired, and with whom she longed to make me acquainted! In her enthusiasm she seemed to recover her long-lost buoyancy of heart, and to be of the same gay and happy nature I had known her. I dare not trust myself with more of these memories; they come upon me like the thought of those moments when on a sick bed some dear friend has uttered words to be treasured up for years long, – words of promise, mayhap words of hope, for a future that was never to come; plans for a time that dark destiny had denied us!

Our arrangements were all completed, our passports procured, a courier engaged, and everything in readiness for the road. We were to set out on the following day. It was a Friday, and Margot’s prejudices would not permit her to begin a journey on such an inauspicious day. I reasoned with her and argued earnestly, for I remembered it was on that night Mademoiselle Leonie was to appear at the Français. She was resolved, however, to have her way, and I gave in. No allusion to the theatre, nor to anything concerning it, had ever escaped either of us. By as it were a tacit understanding, each avoided the theme as one only suggestive of distressing memories; and then we had so many topics that were delightful to talk over.

I went out early in the morning to make some purchases, some trifling things we wanted for the road, and on my return I found Margot with flushed face and feverish look rapidly walking to and fro in the drawing-room. She tried to seem calm and composed as I entered, she even made jest of her own agitation, and tried to laugh it off as a weakness she was ashamed of; but her efforts were sad failures: her quivering lip and trembling accents showed that deep agitation was at work within her.

“I cannot tell you, I will not tell you, what is the matter with me,” said she, at last; “it would but lead to some rash outbreak of your temper, – the very last thing I could endure at such a time. No, no; let us go; let us leave Paris at once, – to-day, now, if you wish it; I am ready.”

This was impossible; all our arrangements had been made, and horses ordered for the next day. My curiosity now became an agony, and I grew almost angry at her continued refusal to satisfy me; when at last, after exacting from me a solemn oath to do nothing nor to take any step without her concurrence, she placed in my hands a letter, saying, “This came while you were out.”

It ran to this effect: —

“The Vicomte Dechaine begs to offer to Mademoiselle De La Veronie [Margot’s name in the theatre] his box at the Français for this evening, as it must doubtless be interesting to her to witness the performance of Roxalane by one who labors under the double difficulty of her beauty and her reason. An answer will be called for.”

“You cannot expect me to endure this outrage, Margot!” cried I, trembling with passion; “you could not suppose that I can live under it?”

“I have your oath, sir,” said she, solemnly, and with a dignity that at once recalled me to myself.

“But if I am to drag out life dishonored and degraded even to my own heart, Margot,” said I, imploringly, “you surely would take pity on me!”

“And who would pity me, sir, were I to make you a murderer? No, no!” cried she, “you would have this secret, – you insisted on it; show yourself worthy of this confidence, by keeping your solemn pledge. We leave this to-morrow; a few hours is not too much sacrifice for one who will give her whole life to you after.”

As she spoke she fell into my arms, and sobbed as though her heart was breaking. As for me, my transports knew no bounds. I dropped at her feet; I vowed and swore a thousand times that not only my life, but that my fame, my honor, were all hers; that to deserve her there was no trial I would not dare. Oh, the glorious ecstasy of that moment comes back like a flood of youth once more upon this old and shattered heart; and, as I write these lines, the hot tears are falling on the paper, and my lips are murmuring a name I have not strength to write.

“I will put your loyalty to the test at once,” said she, gayly, and with a degree of wild joyousness the very opposite to her late emotion. “Sit down there, and write as I dictate.”

I obeyed, and she began: —

“‘Mademoiselle De La Veronie begs to acknowledge, with a gratitude suitable to the occasion, the polite note of the Vicomte Déchaîne, and to accept – ‘”

“What!” cried I, dropping the pen.

“Go on,” said she, calmly; “write as I tell you: ‘to accept his box this evening at the Français.’”

“Margot, you are not in earnest!” said I, entreatingly.

“I am resolved, sir,” said she, with a voice of determination and a look of almost reproving sternness. “I hope it is not from you, at least, will come any doubts of my courage!”

These words seemed to indicate the spirit in which her resolution had been taken, and to show that she preferred accepting, as it were, this challenge, to the humbler alternative of an escape from it.

I wrote as she bade me, and despatched the letter.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE PRICE OF FAME

If the triumphs of genius be amongst the most exalted pleasures of our nature, its defeats and reverses are also the very saddest of all afflictions. He who has learned to live, as it were, on the sympathies of his fellows – to be inspired by them at times, and inspire them at others – to feel his existence like a compact with the world, wherein he alternately gives and receives, cannot endure the thought of being passed over and forgotten. The loss of that favor in which, as in a sunshine, he basked, is a bereavement too great to be borne. He may struggle for a while against this depression – he may arm himself with pride against what his heart denounces as injustice – he may even deceive him* self into a mock indifference of such judgments; but, do all he will, he comes at the last to see that his greatest efforts were prompted by the very enthusiasm they evoked, – that the impression he produced upon others was like an image in a mirror, by which he could view the proportions of his mind, and that the flame of his intellect burned purest and brightest when fanned by the breath of praise.

It will be seen that I limit these observations to dramatic success; that I am only speaking of the stage and the actor. For him there is no refuge in the calmer judgment of posterity; there is no appeal to a dispassionate future. The value stamped upon him now is to be his fame forever. No other measure of his powers can be taken than the effect he produced upon his contemporaries; and hence the great precariousness of a career wherein each passing mood of illness, sorrow, anxiety, or exhaustion may influence the character of a reputation that might seem established beyond reversal.

How leniently, then, should we deal with those who labor for our pleasure in these capacities! How indulgent should we show ourselves even to their caprices, – justly remembering the arduous nature of a struggle in which so many requirements are summoned, and that genius itself is insufficient, if there be not the vigor of health, the high promptings of ambition, and the consciousness of power that springs from unimpaired faculties.

I have come to think over these things with a sad heart. Within the circle of such memories lies enshrined the greatest sorrow of a life that has not been without its share of trials. I had intended to have revealed to my reader a painful incident, but I find that age has not yet blunted the acute misery of my feelings; nor can I, with all the weight of long years upon me, endure to open up again a grief whose impress has stamped every hour of existence. Let me not be supposed as uttering these words in any spirit of querulousness with fortune; I have had much, far more than most men, to feel grateful for. Well do I know, besides, that to my successes in life I can lay no claim in any merits or deservings of my own; that my shortcomings have been numerous, and leniently dealt with. I speak, therefore, not complainingly. I would not, moreover, like to spend in repinings the last hours of a long life: the goal cannot well be distant now; and as, footsore and weary, I tread the few remaining miles of my earthly pilgrimage, I would rather cheer my heart with the prospect of rest before me, than darken the future with one shadow of the past.

Margot had insisted on remaining. She felt as though a challenge had been offered to her, and it would be cowardice to decline it. Over and over again was she wont to repeat to herself the contempt she felt for that applause in which it was believed she exulted. She burned, therefore, for a moment wherein she could display this haughty contempt, and throw back with proud disdain their homage, by showing herself as indifferent to rebuke as she had ever been to adulation. The day was passed in moods of silence, or paroxysms of the wildest excitement. After an hour or more perhaps of unbroken calm, she would burst forth into a passionate denunciation of the world’s injustice, with bitter and poignant regrets for the hour when she became a suppliant for its favors. The proudest efforts she would make to rise above this were sure to be defeated by some sudden sense of defeat, – an agonizing conviction that threw her into violent weeping; a state of suffering that even now I dread to think of.

She grew calmer towards evening, but it was a calm that terrified me: there was a slow and careful precision in every word she spoke that denoted effort; her smile, too, had a fixity in it that remained for seconds after the emotion which occasioned it; and while a stern and impassive quietude characterized her expression generally, her eyes at times flashed and sparkled like the glaring orbs of a lioness. She descended to the drawing-room most magnificently attired, a splendid diamond tiara on her head, and a gorgeous bouquet of rubies and brilliants on the corsage of her dress. Although pale as death, – for she wore no rouge, – I had never seen her look so beautiful. There is a Titian picture of Pompey’s daughter receiving the tidings of Pharsalia, and, while too proud to show her agony, is yet in the very struggle of a breaking heart: the face is like enough to have been her portrait, and even to the color of the massive, waving hair, is wonderfully identical.

The play had already begun when we arrived at the theatre, and in the little bustle caused by our entry into the box, a half impatient expression ran through the audience; but as suddenly suppressed, it became a murmur of wondering admiration. The stage was forgotten, and every eye turned at once towards her who so often had moved their hearts by every emotion, and who now seemed even more triumphant in the calm self-possession of her beauty. Rank over rank leaned forward in the boxes to gaze at her, and the entire pit turned and stood, as it were, spell-bound at her feet. Had she wished for a triumph over her rival, she could not have imagined a more signal one; for none now directed their attention to the business of the play, but all seemed forgetful of everything save her presence. Margot appeared to accept this homage with the naughty consciousness of its being her due; her eyes ranged proudly over the dense crowd, and slowly turned away, as though she had seen nothing there to awaken one sentiment of emotion.

There was less an expression of disdain than of utter indifference in her look, – it was almost like the cold impassive-ness of a statue.

For myself I am unable to speak. I saw nothing of the play or the actors. Margot, and Margot alone, filled my eyes; and I sat far back in the box. My glances revelled on her, watching with unceasing anxiety that pale and passionless face. In the fourth act comes the scene where Roxalane, aware of her lover’s falsehood, hears him profess the vows that he but feigns to feel. It was the great triumph of Margot’s genius, – the passage of power in which she rose unapproachably above all others; and now in the stilled and silent assembly might be noted the anxiety with which they awaited her rival’s delineation. Unlike the cold, unmoved, and almost patient bearing which Margot displayed at first, as though, having schooled her mind to a lesson, she would practise it, had not aversion or contempt overmastered her, and in the very sickness of her soul revealed her sorrow, the other burst forth into a wild and passionate declamation, – an outburst of vulgar rage. A low murmur of discontent ran through the house, and, swelling louder and louder, drowned the words of the piece. The actress faltered and stopped; and, as if by some resistless impulse, turned towards the box where Margot sat, still and motionless. The entire audience turned likewise, and every eye was now bent on her whose genius had become so interwoven with the scene that it was as though associated with her very identity. Slowly rising from her seat, Margot stood erect, gazing on that dense mass with the proud look of one who defied them. The same stern, cold stare of insult she had once bestowed on the stage she now directed on the spectators. It was a moment of terrible interest, as thus she stood, confronting, almost daring, those who had presumed to condemn her; and then, in the same words Roxalane uses, she addressed them, every accent tremulous with passion, and every syllable vibrating with the indignant hate that worked within her. The measured distinctness of every word rang out clear and full. It was less invective than scornful, and scorn that seemed to sicken her as she spoke it.

The effect upon the audience will best evidence the power of the moment. On all sides were seen groups gathered around one who had swooned away. Many were carried out insensible, and fearful cries of hysteric passion betrayed the secret sympathies her words had smitten. She paused, and, with that haughty gesture with which she takes eternal farewell of her lover, she seemed to say, “Adieu forever!” and then pushing back her dark ringlets, and tearing away the diamond coronet from her brows, she burst into a fit of laughter. Oh! how terribly its very cadence sounded, – sharp, ringing, and wild! the cry of an escaped intellect, – the shriek of an intelligence that had fled forever!

Margot was mad. The violent conflict of passion to which her mind was exposed had made shipwreck of a glorious intellect, and the very exercise of emotion had exhausted the wells of feeling. I cannot go on. Already have these memories sapped the last foundations of my broken strength, and my old eyes are dimmed with tears.

The remainder of her life was passed in a little château near Sèvres, where Mademoiselle Mars had made arrangements for her reception. She lingered for three years, and died out, like one exhausted. As for me, I worked as a laborer in the garden of the château to the day of her death; and although I never saw her, the one thought that I was still near her sustained and supported me, – not, indeed, with hope, for I had long ceased to hope.

I knew the window of the room she sat in; and when, at evening, I left the garden, I knew it was the time she walked there. These were the two thoughts that filled up all my mind; and out of these grew the day-dreams in which my hours were passed. Still fresh as yesterday within my heart are the sensations with which I marked a slight change in the curtain of her window, or bent over the impress of her foot upon the gravel. How passionately have I kissed the flowers that I hoped she might have plucked! how devotedly knelt beside the stalks from which she had broken off a blossom!

These memories live still, nor would I wish it otherwise. In the tender melancholy, I can sit and ponder over the past, more tranquilly, may be, than if they spoke of happiness.

CHAPTER XLV. DARK PASSAGES OF LIFE

For some years after the death of Margot, my life was like a restless dream, – a struggle, as it were, between reality and a strange scepticism with everything and every one. At moments a wish would seize me to push my fortune in the world, – to become rich and powerful; and then as suddenly would I fall back upon my poverty as the condition least open to great reverses, and hug myself in the thought that my obscurity was a shield against adverse fortune. I tried to school my mind to a misanthropy that might throw me still more upon myself; but I could not. Even in my isolated, friendless condition, I loved to contemplate the happiness of others. I could watch children for hours long at their play; and if the sounds of laughter or pleasant revelry came from a house as I passed at nightfall, my heart beat responsively to every note of joy, and in my spirit I was in the midst of them. I had neither home nor country, and my heart yearned for both. I felt the void like a desert, bleak and desolate, within me; and it was in vain I endeavored, by a hundred artifices, to make me suffice to myself. I came, at length, to think that it were better to attach myself to the world by even the interests of a crime than to live on thus, separated and apart from all sympathy. In humble life, he who retreats from association with his fellows must look to be severely judged. The very lightest allegation against him will be a charge of pride; and even this is no slight offence before such a tribunal. Vague rumors of worse will gain currency, and far weightier derelictions be whispered about him. His own rejection of the world now recoils upon himself, and he comes to discover that he has neglected to cultivate the sympathies which are not alone the ties of brotherhood between men, but the strong appeals to mercy when mercy is needed.

By much reflection on these things, I was led to feel at last that nothing but a strong effort could raise me from the deep depression I had fallen into; that I should force myself to some pursuit which might awaken zeal or ambition within me; and that, at any cost, I should throw off the hopeless, listless lethargy of my present life. While I was yet hesitating what course to adopt, my attention was attracted one morning to a large placard affixed to the walls of the Hôtel de Ville, and which set forth the tidings that “all men who had not served as soldiers, and were between the ages of fifteen and thirty, were to present themselves at the Prefecture at a certain hour of a certain day.” The consternation this terrible announcement called forth may easily be imagined; for although only a very limited number of these would be drafted, yet each felt that the evil lot might be his own.

I really read the announcement with a sense of pleasure, It seemed to me as though fate no longer ignored my very existence, but had at length agreed to reckon me as one amongst the wide family of men. Nor was it that the life of a soldier held out any prize to my ambition; I had never at any time felt such. It was the simple fact that I should be recognized by others, and no longer accounted a mere waif upon the shore of existence.

The conscription is a stern ordinance. Whatever its necessities, there is something painfully afflicting in every detail of its execution. The disruption of a home, and the awful terrors of a dark future, are sad elements to spread themselves over the peaceful monotony of a village life. Nor does a war contain anything more heart-rending in all its cruel history than the tender episodes of these separations. I have the scene before me now as I saw it on that morning, and a sadder sight I never have looked upon. The little village was crowded, not alone by those summoned by the conscription, but by all their friends and relations; and as each new batch of twelve were marched forward within the gloomy portals of the Hôtel de Ville, a burst of pent-up sorrow would break forth, that told fearfully the misery around. But sad as was this, it was nothing to the scene that ensued when the lot had fallen upon some one well known and respected by his neighbors. He who had drawn the lowest number was enlisted, and instead of returning to join his fellows outside, never made his appearance till his hair had been closely cropped, and the addition of a tri-colored ribbon to his cap proclaimed him a soldier. Of these poor fellows some seemed stunned and stupefied, looked vaguely about them, and appeared incapable to recognize friends or acquaintances; some endeavored to carry all off with an air of swaggering recklessness, but in the midst of their assumed indifference natural feeling would burst forth, and scenes of the most harrowing misery be exhibited; and, lastly, many came forth so drunk that they knew nothing either of what happened or where they were; and to see these surrounded by the friends who now were to take their last leave of them was indescribably painful.

Like most of those who care little for fortune, I was successful; that is, I drew one of the highest numbers, and was pronounced “exempt from service.” There was not one, however, to whom the tidings could bring joy, nor was there one to whom I could tell the news with the hope of hearing a word of welcome in return. I was turning away from the spot, not sorry to leave a place so full of misery, when I came upon a group around a young man who had fainted and been carried out for fresh air. He had been that moment enlisted, and the shock had proved over-much for him. Poor fellow! well might it – the same week saw him the happy father of his firstborn, and the sworn soldier of the Empire. What a wide gulf separates such fortunes!

I pushed my way into the midst, and offered myself to take his place. At first none so much as listened to me; they deemed my proposal absurd, perhaps impossible. An old sergeant who was present, however, thought differently, and, measuring me calmly with his eye, left the spot. He returned soon, and beckoned me to follow. I did so. A few brief questions were put to me. I answered them, was desired to pass on to an inner room, where, in a file of some twenty strong, the chosen recruits were standing before a desk. A man rapidly repeated certain words, to which we were ordered to respond by lifting the right hand to the face.