The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 05, No. 27, January, 1860. Various
with a mole on the left cheek,—and that's Louise. Nothing striking, but pure and clear, and growing always better.
For him,—he's not one of those cliff-like men against whom you are blown as a feather, I don't fancy that kind; I can stand of myself, rule myself. He isn't small, though; no, he's tall enough, but all his frame is delicate, held to earth by nothing but the cords of a strong will, —very little body, very much soul. He, too, is pale, and has dark eyes with violet darks in them. You don't call him beautiful in the least, but you don't know him. I call him beauty itself, and I know him thoroughly. A stranger might have thought, when I spoke of those copals Rose carved, that Rose was some girl. But though he has a feminine sensibility, like Correggio or Schubert, nobody could call him womanish. "Les races se féminisent." Don't you remember Matthew Roydon's Astrophill?
"A sweet, attractive kind of grace,
A full assurance given by looks,
Continual comfort in a face."
I always think of that flame in an alabaster vase, when I see him; "one sweet grace fed still with one sweet mind"; a countenance of another sphere: that's Vaughan Rose. It provokes me that I can't paint him myself, without other folk's words; but you see there's no natural image of him in me, and so I can't throw it strongly on any canvas. As for his manners, you've seen them;—now tell me, was there ever anything so winning when he pleases, and always a most gracious courtesy in his air, even when saying an insufferably uncivil thing? He has an art, a science, of putting the unpleasant out of his sight, ignoring or looking over it, which sometimes gives him an absent way; and that is because he so delights in beauty; he seems to have woven a mist over his face then, and to be shut in on his own inner loveliness; and many a woman thinks he is perfectly devoted, when, very like, he is swinging over some lonely Spanish sierra beneath the stars, or buried in noonday Brazilian forests, half stifled with the fancied breath of every gorgeous blossom of the zone. Till this time, it had been the perfection of form rather than tint that had enthralled him; he had come home with severe ideas, too severe; he needed me, you see.
But while looking at him and Lu, on that day, I didn't perceive half of this, only felt annoyed at their behavior, and let them feel that I was noticing them. There's nothing worse than that; it is a very upas-breath, it puts on the brakes, and of course a chill and a restraint overcame them till Mr. Dudley was announced.
"Dear! dear!" I exclaimed, getting upon my feet. "What ever shall we do, Lu? I'm not dressed for him." And while I stood, Mr. Dudley came in.
Mr. Dudley didn't seem to mind whether I was dressed in cobweb or sheet-iron; for he directed his looks and conversation so much to Lu, that Rose came and sat on a stool before me and began to talk.
"Miss Willoughby"—
"Yone, please."
"But you are not Yone."
"Well, just as you choose. You were going to say?"
"Merely to ask how you liked the Islands."
"Oh, well enough."
"No more?" he said. "They wouldn't have broken your spell so, if that had been all. Do you know I actually believe in enchantments now?"
I was indignant, but amused in spite of myself.
"Well," he continued, "why don't you say it? How impertinent am I? You won't? Why don't you laugh, then?"
"Dear me!" I replied. "You are so much on the 'subtle-souled-psychologist' line, that there's no need of my speaking at all."
"I can carry on all the dialogue? Then let me say how you liked the
Islands."
"I shall do no such thing. I liked the West Indies because there is life there; because the air is a firmament of balm, and you grow in it like a flower in the sun; because the fierce heat and panting winds wake and kindle all latent color, and fertilize every germ of delight that might sleep here forever. That's why I liked them; and you knew it just as well before as now."
"Yes; but I wanted to see if you knew it. So you think there is life there in that dead Atlantis."
"Life of the elements, rain, hail, fire, and snow."
"Snow thrice bolted by the northern blast, I fancy, by which time it becomes rather misty. Exaggerated snow."
"Everything there is an exaggeration. Coming here from England is like stepping out of a fog into an almost exhausted receiver; but you've no idea what light is, till you've been in those inland hills. You think a blue sky the perfection of bliss? When you see a white sky, a dome of colorless crystal, with purple swells of mountain heaving round you, and a wilderness of golden greens royally languid below, while stretches of a scarlet blaze, enough to ruin a weak constitution, flaunt from the rank vines that lace every thicket, and the whole world, and you with it, seems breaking into blossom,—why, then you know what light is and can do. The very wind there by day is bright, now faint, now stinging, and makes a low, wiry music through the loose sprays, as if they were tense harp-strings. Nothing startles; all is like a grand composition utterly wrought out. What a blessing it is that the blacks have been imported there,—their swarthiness is in such consonance!"
"No; the native race was in better consonance. You are so enthusiastic, it is pity you ever came away."
"Not at all. I didn't know anything about it till I came back."
"But a mere animal or vegetable life is not much. What was ever done in the tropics?"
"Almost all the world's history,—wasn't it?"
"No, indeed; only the first, most trifling, and barbarian movements."
"At all events, you are full of blessedness in those climates, and that is the end and aim of all action; and if Nature will do it for you, there is no need of your interference. It is much better to be than to do;—one is a strife, the other is possession."
"You mean being as the complete attainment? There is only one Being, then. All the rest of us are"–
"Oh, dear me! that sounds like metaphysics! Don't!"
"So you see, you are not full of blessedness there."
"You ought to have been born in Abelard's time,—you've such a disputatious spirit. That's I don't know how many times you have contradicted me to-day."
"Pardon."
"I wonder if you are so easy with all women."
"I don't know many."
"I shall watch to see if you contradict Lu this way."
"I don't need. How absorbed she is! Mr. Dudley is 'interesting'?"
"I don't know. No. But then, Lu is a good girl, and he's her minister,—a Delphic oracle. She thinks the sun and moon set somewhere round Mr. Dudley. Oh! I mean to show him my amber."
And I tossed it into Lu's lap, saying,—
"Show it to Mr. Dudley, Lu,—and ask him if it isn't divine!"
Of course, he was shocked, and wouldn't go into ecstasies at all; tripped on the adjective.
"There are gods enough in it to be divine," said Rose, taking it from Lu's hand and bringing it back to me. "All those very Gnostic deities who assisted at Creation. You are not afraid that the imprisoned things work their spells upon you? The oracle declares it suits your cousin best," he added, in a lower tone.
"All the oaf knows!" I responded. "I wish you'd admire it, Mr. Dudley. Mr. Rose don't like amber,—handles it like nettles."
"No," said Rose, "I don't like amber."
"He prefers aqua-marina," I continued. "Lu, produce yours!" For she had not heard him.
"Yes," said Mr. Dudley, rubbing his finger over his lip while he gazed, "every one must prefer aqua-marina."
"Nonsense! It's no better than glass. I'd as soon wear a set of window-panes. There's no expression in it. It isn't alive, like real gems."
Mr. Dudley stared. Rose laughed.
"What a vindication of amber!" he said.
He