Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - What Will He Do with It? — Complete

“No, my dear Vance, I was hurt for a moment, but that’s long since over!”

“Still you seem to have something on your mind,” said Vance, who had now finished reading his letters, lighted his cigar, and was leaning against the window as the boy continued to walk to and fro.

“That is true: I have. I should like your advice. Read that letter. Ought I to go? Would it look mercenary, grasping? You know what I mean.”

Vance approached the candles and took the letter. He glanced first at the signature. “Darrell,” he exclaimed. “Oh, it is so, then!” He read with great attention, put down the letter, and shook Lionel by the hand. “I congratulate you: all is settled as it should be. Go? of course: you would be an ill-mannered lout if you did not. Is it far from hence must you return to town first?”

LIONEL.—“No, I find I can get across the country,—two hours by the railway. There is a station at the town which bears the post-mark of the letter. I shall make for that, if you advise it.”

“You knew I should advise it, or you would not have tortured your intellect by those researches into Bradshaw.”

“Shrewdly said,” answered Lionel, laughing; “but I wished for your sanction of my crude impressions.”

“You never told me your cousin’s name was Darrell: not that I should have been much wiser if you had; but, thunder and lightning, Lionel! do you know that your cousin Darrell is a famous man?”

LIONEL.—“Famous!—Nonsense. I suppose he was a good lawyer, for I have heard my mother say, with a sort of contempt, that he had made a great fortune at the bar.”

VANCE.—“But he was in Parliament.”

LIONEL.—“Was he? I did not know.”

VANCE.—“And this is senatorial fame! You never heard your schoolfellows talk of Mr. Darrell?—they would not have known his name if you had boasted of it?”

LIONEL.—“Certainly not.”

VANCE.—“Would your schoolfellows have known the names of Wilkie, of Landseer, of Turner, Maclise? I speak of painters.”

LIONEL.—“I should think so, indeed.”

VANCE (soliloquizing).—“And yet Her Serene Sublimity-ship, Lady Selina Vipont, says to me with divine compassion, ‘Not in the way of your delightful art to know such men as Mr. Darrell!’ Oh, as if I did not see through it, too, when she said, a propos of my jean cap and velveteen jacket, ‘What matters how you dress? Every one knows who you are!’ Would she have said that to the earl of Dunder, or even to Sir Gregory Stollhead? No. I am the painter Frank Vance,—nothing more nor less; and if I stood on my head in a check shirt and a sky-coloured apron, Lady Selina Vipont would kindly murmur, ‘Only Frank Vance the painter: what does it signify?’ Aha!—and they think to put me to use, puppets and lay figures! it is I who put them to use! Hark ye, Lionel, you are nearer akin to these fine folks than I knew of. Promise me one thing: you may become of their set, by right of your famous Mr. Darrell; if ever you hear an artist, musician, scribbler, no matter what, ridiculed as a tuft-hunter,—seeking the great, and so forth,—before you join in the laugh, ask some great man’s son, with a pedigree that dates from the Ark, ‘Are you not a toad-eater too? Do you want political influence; do you stand contested elections; do you curry and fawn upon greasy Sam the butcher and grimy Tom the blacksmith for a vote? Why? useful to your career, necessary to your ambition? Aha! is it meaner to curry and fawn upon white-handed women and elegant coxcombs? Tut, tut! useful to a career, necessary to ambition!’” Vance paused, out of breath. The spoiled darling of the circles,—he, to talk such republican rubbish! Certainly he must have taken his two guineas’ worth out of those light wines. Nothing so treacherous! they inflame the brain like fire, while melting on the palate like ice. All inhabitants of lightwine countries are quarrelsome and democratic.

LIONEL (astounded).—“No one, I am sure, could have meant to call you a tuft-hunter; of course, every one knows that a great painter—”

VANCE.—“Dates from Michael Angelo, if not from Zeuxis! Common individuals trace their pedigree from their own fathers! the children of Art from Art’s founders!”

Oh, Vance, Vance, you are certainly drunk! If that comes from dining with fine people at the Star and Garter, you would be a happier man and as good a painter if your toddy were never sipped save in honeysuckle arbours.

“But,” said Lionel, bewildered, and striving to turn his friend’s thoughts, “what has all this to do with Mr. Darrell?”

VANCE.—“Mr. Darrell might have been one of the first men in the kingdom. Lady Selina Vipout says so, and she is related, I believe, to every member in the Cabinet. Mr. Darrell can push you in life, and make your fortune, without any great trouble on your own part. Bless your stars, and rejoice that you are not a painter!”

Lionel flung his arm round the artist’s broad breast. “Vance, you are cruel!” It was his turn to console the painter, as the painter had three nights before a propos of the same Mr. Darrell consoled him. Vance gradually sobered down, and the young men walked forth in the moonlight. And the eternal stars had the same kind looks for Vance as they had vouchsafed to Lionel.

“When do you start?” asked the painter, as they mounted the stairs to bed.

“To-morrow evening. I miss the early train, for I must call first and take leave of Sophy. I hope I may see her again in after life.”

“And I hope, for your sake, that if so, she may not be in the same coloured print, with Lady Selina Vipont’s eyeglass upon her!”

“What!” said Lionel, laughing; “is Lady Selina Vipont so formidably rude?”

“Rude! nobody is rude in that delightful set. Lady Selina Vipont is excruciatingly—civil.”

Being devoted exclusively to a reflection, not inapposite to the events in this history nor to those in any other which chronicles the life of men.

There is one warning lesson in life which few of us have not received, and no book that I can call to memory has noted down with an adequate emphasis. It is this: “Beware of parting!” The true sadness is not in the pain of the parting, it is in the When and the How you are to meet again with the face about to vanish from your view! From the passionate farewell to the woman who has your heart in her keeping, to the cordial good-by exchanged with pleasant companions at a watering-place, a country-house, or the close of a festive day’s blithe and careless excursion,—a cord, stronger or weaker, is snapped asunder in every parting, and Time’s busy fingers are not practised in re-splicing broken ties. Meet again you may; will it be in the same way?—with the same sympathies?—with the same sentiments? Will the souls, hurrying on in diverse paths, unite once more, as if the interval had been a dream? Rarely, rarely! Have you not, after even a year, even a month’s absence, returned to the same place, found the same groups reassembled, and yet sighed to yourself, “But where is the charm that once breathed from the spot, and once smiled from the faces?” A poet has said, “Eternity itself cannot restore the loss struck from the minute.” Are you happy in the spot on which you tarry with the persons whose voices are now melodious to your ear? beware of parting; or, if part you must, say not in insolent defiance to Time and Destiny, “What matters!—we shall soon meet again.”

Alas, and alas! when we think of the lips which murmured, “Soon meet again,” and remember how in heart, soul, and thought, we stood forever divided the one from the other, when, once more face to face, we each inly exclaimed, “Met again!”