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George Meredith - "Diana of the Crossways, Complete"

Nathaniel Hawthorne - "Sylph Etherege"

Nathaniel Hawthorne - "The Lily's Quest (From Twice Told Tales)"

Unknown - "The Bible, Douay Rheims, Book 13: 1 Paralipomenon"

Sandra Belloni, Complete

G >> George Meredith >> Sandra Belloni, Complete




"Only, he is English."

"If he is, he deserves what he's got."

A stout Briton delivered this sentence, and gave in addition a sermon on
meddling, short, emphatic, and not uncheerful apparently, if estimated by
the hearty laugh that closed it; though a lady remarked, "Oh, dear me!
You are very sweeping."

"By George! ma'am," cried the Briton, holding out his newspaper, "here's
a leader on the identical subject, with all my views in it! Yes! those
Italians are absurd: they never were a people: never agreed. Egad! the
only place they're fit for is the stage. Art! if you like. They know all
about colouring canvas, and sculpturing. I don't deny 'em their merits,
and I don't mind listening to their squalling, now and then: though, I'll
tell you what: have you ever noticed the calves of those singers?--I
mean, the men. Perhaps not--for they' ve got none. They're sticks, not
legs. Who can think much of fellows with such legs? Now, the next time
you go to the Italian Opera, notice 'em. Ha! ha!--well, that would sound
queer, told at secondhand; but, just look at their legs, ma'am, and ask
yourself whether there's much chance for a country that stands on legs
like those! Let them paint, and carve blocks, and sing. They're not fit
for much else, as far as I can see."

Thus, in the pride of his manliness, the male Briton. A shrill cry drew
the attention of this group once more to the person who had just kindly
furnished a topic. He had been met on his way by a lady unmistakeably
foreign in her appearance. "Marini!" was the word of the cry; and the
lady stood with her head bent and her hands stiffened rigidly.

"Lost her husband, I dare say!" the Briton murmured. "Perhaps he's one of
the 'hanged, or shot,' in the list here Hanged! shot! Ask those Austrians
to be merciful, and that's their reply. Why, good God! it's like the
grunt of a savage beast! Hanged! shot!--count how many for one day's
work! Ten at Verona; fifteen at Mantua; five--there, stop! If we enter
into another alliance with those infernal ruffians!--if they're not
branded in the face of Europe as inhuman butchers! if I--by George! if I
were an Italian I'd handle a musket myself, and think great guns the
finest music going. Mind, if there's a subscription for the widows of
these poor fellows, I put down my name; so shall my wife, so shall my
daughters, so we will all, down to the baby!"

Merthyr's name was shouted first on his return to England by Mrs. Chump.
He was waiting on the platform of the London station for the train to
take him to Richford, when, "Oh! Mr. Pow's, Mr. Pow's!" resounded, and
Mrs. Chump fluttered before him. She was on her way to Brookfield, she
said; and it was, she added, her firm belief that heaven had sent him to
her sad, not deeming "that poor creature, Mr. Braintop, there, sufficient
for the purpose. For what I've got to go through, among them at
Brookfield, Mr. Pow's, it's perf'ctly awful. Mr. Braintop," she turned to
the youth, "you may go now. And don't go takin' ship and sailin' for
Italy after the little Belloni, for ye haven't a chance--poor fella!
though he combs 's hair so careful, Mr. Pow's, and ye might almost laugh
and cry together to see how humble he is, and audacious too--all in a
lump. For, when little Belloni was in the ship, ye know, and she
thinkin', 'not one of my friends near to wave a handkerchief!' behold,
there's that boy Braintop just as by maguc, and he wavin' his best, which
is a cambric, and a present from myself, and precious wet that night, ye
might swear; for the quiet lovers, Mr. Pow's, they cry, they do,
buckutsful!"

"And is Miss Belloni gone?" said Merthyr, looking steadily for answer.

"To be sure, sir, she has; but have ye got a squeak of pain? Oh, dear! it
makes my blood creep to see a man who's been where there's been firing of
shots in a temper. Ye're vary pale, sir."

"She went--on what day?" asked Merthyr.

"Oh! I can't poss'bly tell ye that, Mr. Pow's, havin' affairs of my own
most urrgent. But, Mr. Paricles has got her at last. That's certain.
Gall'ns of tears has poor Mr. Braintop cried over it, bein' one of the
mew-in-a-corner sort of young men, ye know, what never win the garl, but
cry enough to float her and the lucky fella too, and off they go, and he
left on the shore."

Merthyr looked impatiently out of the window. His wounds throbbed and his
forehead was moist.

"With Mr. Pericles?" he queried, while Mrs. Chump was giving him the
reasons for the immediate visit to Brookfield.

"They're cap'tal friends again, ye know, Mr. Pow's, Mr. Paricles and
Pole; and Pole's quite set up, and yesterday mornin' sends me two
thousand pounds--not a penny less! and ye'll believe me, I was in a stiff
gape for five minutes when Mr. Braintop shows the money. What a
temptation for the young man! But Pole didn't know his love for little
Belloni."

"Has she no one with her?" Merthyr seized the opportunity of her name
being pronounced to get clear tidings of her, if possible.

"Oh, dear, yes, Mr. Paricles is with her," returned Mrs. Chump. "And, as
I was sayin', sir, two thousand pounds! I ran off to my lawyer; for,
it'll seem odd to ye, now, Mr. Pow's, that know my 'ffection for the
Poles, poor dears, I'd an action against 'em. 'Stop ut,' I cries out to
the man: if he'd been one o' them that wears a wig, I couldn't ha' spoken
so--'Stop ut,' I cries, not a bit afraid of 'm. I wouldn't let the man go
on, for all I want to know is, that I'm not rrooned. And now I've got
money, I must have friends; for when I hadn't, ye know, my friends seemed
against me, and now I have, it's the world that does, where'll I hide it?
Oh, dear! now I'm with you, I don't mind, though this brown-faced
forr'ner servant of yours, he gives me shivers. Can he understand
English?--becas I've got ut all in my pockut!"

Merthyr sighed wearily for release. At last the train slackened speed,
and the well-known fir-country appeared in sight. Mrs. Chump caught him
by the arm as he prepared to alight. "Oh! and are ye goin' to let me face
the Poles without anyone to lean on in that awful moment, and no one to
bear witness how kind I've spoken of 'em. Mr. Pow's! will ye prove that
you're a blessed angel, sir, and come, just for five minutes--which is a
short time to do a thing for a woman she'll never forget."

"Pray spare me, madam," Merthyr pleaded. "I have much to learn at
Richford."

"I cann't spare ye, sir," cried Mrs. Chump. "I cann't go before that
fam'ly quite alone. They're a tarr'ble fam'ly. Oh! I'll be goin' on my
knees to ye, Mr. Pow's. Weren't ye sent by heaven now? And you to run
away! And if you're woundud, won't I have a carr'ge from the station,
which'll be grander to go in, and impose on 'em, ye know. Pray, sir! I
entreat ye!"

The tears burst from her eyes, and her hot hand clung to his imploringly.

Merthyr was a witness of the return of Mrs. Chump to Brookfield. In that
erewhile abode of Fine Shades, the Nice Feelings had foundered. The
circle of a year, beginning so fairly for them, enfolded the ladies and
their first great scheme of life. Emilia had been a touchstone to this
family. They could not know it in their deep affliction, but in manger
they had much improved. Their welcome of Mrs. Chump was an admirable
seasoning of stateliness with kindness. Cornelia and Arabella took her
hand, listening with an incomparable soft smile to her first
protestations, which they quieted, and then led her to Mr. Pole; of whom
it may be said, that an accomplished coquette could not in his situation
have behaved with a finer skill; so that, albeit received back into the
house, Mrs. Chump had yet to discover what her footing there was to be,
and trembled like the meanest of culprits. Mr. Pole shook her hand
warmly, tenderly, almost tearfully, and said to the melted woman: "You're
right, Martha; it's much better for us to examine accounts in a friendly
way, than to have strangers and lawyers, and what not--people who can't
possibly know the whole history, don't you see--meddling and making a
scandal; and I'm much obliged to you for coming."

Vainly Mrs. Chump employed alternately innuendo and outcry to make him
perceive that her coming involved a softer business, and that to money,
she having it now, she gave not a thought. He assured her that in future
she must; that such was his express desire; that it was her duty to
herself and others. And while saying this, which seemed to indicate that
widowhood would be her state as far as he was concerned, he pressed her
hand with extreme sweetness, and his bird's-eyes twinkled obligingly. It
is to be feared that Mr. Pole had passed the age of improvement, save in
his peculiar art. After a time Nature stops, and says to us 'thou art now
what thou wilt be.'

Cornelia was in black from neck to foot. She joined the conversation as
the others did, and indeed more flowingly than Adela, whose visage was
soured. It was Cornelia to whom Merthyr explained his temporary
subjection to the piteous appeals of Mrs. Chump. She smiled humorously to
reassure him of her perfect comprehension of the apology for his visit,
and of his welcome: and they talked, argued a little, differed, until
the terrible thought that he talked, and even looked like some one else,
drew the blood from her lips, and robbed her pulses of their play. She
spoke of Emilia, saying plainly and humbly: "All we have is owing to
her." Arabella spoke of Emilia likewise, but with a shade of the foregone
tone of patronage. "She will always be our dear little sister." Adela
continued silent, as with ears awake for the opening of a door. Was it in
ever-thwarted anticipation of the coming of Sir Twickenham?

Merthyr's inquiry after Wilfrid produced a momentary hesitation on
Cornelia's Part--"He has gone to Verona. We have an uncle in the Austrian
service," she said; and Merthyr bowed.

What was this tale of Emilia, that grew more and more perplexing as he
heard it bit by bit? The explanation awaited him at Richford. There, when
Georgiana had clasped her brother in one last jealous embrace, she gave
him the following letter straightway, to save him, haply, from the false
shame of that eager demand for one, which she saw ready to leap to words
in his eyes. He read it, sitting in the Richford library alone, while the
great rhododendron bloomed outside, above the shaven sunny sward, looking
like a monstrous tropic bird alighted to brood an hour in full sunlight.

"My Friend!"

"I would say my Beloved! I will not write it, for it would be false. I
have read of the defeat. Why was a battle risked at that cruel place!
Here are we to be again for so many years before we can win God to be on
our side! And I--do you not know? we used to talk of it!--I never can
think it the Devil who has got the upper hand. What succeeds, I always
think should succeed--was meant to, because the sky looks clear over it.
This knocks a blow at my heart and keeps it silent and only just beating.
I feel that you are safe. That, I am thankful for. If you were not, God
would warn me, and not let me mock him with thanks when I pray. I pray
till my eyelids burn, on purpose to get a warning if there is any black
messenger to be sent to me. I do not believe it.

"For three years I am a prisoner. I go to the Conservatorio in Milan with
Mr. Pericles, and my poor little mother, who cries, asking me where she
will be among such a people, until I wonder she should be my mother. My
voice has returned. Oh, Merthyr! my dear, calm friend! to keep calling
you friend, and friend, puts me to sleep softly!--Yes, I have my voice. I
felt I had it, like some one in a room with us when we will not open our
eyes. There was misery everywhere, and yet I was glad. I kept it secret.
I began to feel myself above the world. I dreamed of what I would do for
everybody. I thought of you least! I tell you so, and take a scourge and
scourge myself, for it is true that in her new joy this miserable
creature that I am thought of you least. Now I have the punishment!

"My friend! the Poles were at the mercy of Mr. Pericles: Wilfrid had
struck him: Mr. Pericles was angry and full of mischief. Those dear
people had been kind to me, and I heard they were poor. I felt money in
my breast, in my throat, that only wanted coining. I went to Georgiana,
and oh! how truly she proved to me that she loves you better than I do.
She refused to part with money that you might soon want. I laid a scheme
for Mr. Pericles to hear me sing. He heard me, and my scheme succeeded.
If Italy knew as well as I, she would never let her voice be heard till
she is sure of it:--Yes! from foot to head, I knew it was impossible to
fail. If a country means to be free, the fire must run through it and
make it feel that certainty. Then--away the whitecoat! I sang, and the
man twisted, as if I had bent him in my hand. He rushed to me, and
offered me any terms I pleased, if for three years I would go to the
Conservatorio at Milan, and learn submissively. It is a little grief to
me that I think this man loves music more deeply than I do. In the two
things I love best, the love of others exceeds mine. I named a sum of
money--immense! and I desired that Mr. Pericles should assist Mr. Pole in
his business. He consented at once to everything. The next day he gave me
the money, and I signed my name and pledged my honour to an engagement.
My friends were relieved.

"It was then I began to think of you. I had not to study the matter long
to learn that I did not love you: and I will not trust my own feelings as
they come to me now. I judge myself by my acts, or, Merthyr! I should
sink to the ground like a dead body when I think of separation from you
for three years. But, what am I? I am a raw girl. I command nothing but
raw and flighty hearts of men. Are they worth anything? Let me study
three years, without any talk of hearts at all. It commenced too early,
and has left nothing to me but a dreadful knowledge of the weakness in
most people:--not in you!

"If I might call you my Beloved! and so chain myself to you, I think I
should have all your firmness and double my strength. I will not; for I
will not have what I do not deserve. I think of you reading this, till I
try to get to you; my heart is like a bird caught in the hands of a cruel
boy. By what I have done I know I do not love you. Must we half-despise a
man to love him? May no dear woman that I know ever marry the man she
first loves! My misery now is gladness, is like rain-drops on rising
wings, if I say to myself 'Free! free, Emilia!' I am bound for three
years, but I smile at such a bondage to my body. Evviva! my soul is free!
Three years of freedom, and no sounding of myself--three years of
growing, and studying; three years of idle heart!--Merthyr! I throb to
think that those three years--true man! my hero, I may call you!--those
three years may make me worthy of you. And if you have given all to
Italy, that a daughter of Italy should help to return it, seems, my
friend, so tenderly sweet--here is the first drop from my eyes!

"I would break what you call a Sentiment: I broke my word to Wilfrid. But
this sight of money has a meaning that I cannot conquer. I know you would
not wish me to for your own pleasure; and therefore I go. I hope to be
growing; I fly like a seed to Italy. Let me drill, and take sharp words,
and fret at trifles! I lift my face to that prospect as if I smelt new
air. I am changeing--I have no dreams of Italy, no longings, but go to
see her like a machine ready to do my work. Whoever speaks to me, I feel
that I look at them and know them. I see the faults of my country--Oh,
beloved Breseians! not yours, Florentines! nor yours, dear Venice! We
will be silent when they speak of the Milanese, till Italy can say to
them, 'That conduct is not Italian, my children.' I see the faults.
Nothing vexes me.

"Addio! My friend, we will speak English in dear England! Tell all that I
shall never forget England! My English Merthyr! the blood you have shed
is not for a woman. The blood that you have shed, laurels spring from it!
For a woman, the blood spilt is sickly and poor, and nourishes nothing. I
shudder at the thought of one we knew. He makes Love seem like a yellow
light over a plague-spotted city, like a painting I have seen. Goodbye to
the name of Love for three years! My engagement to Mr. Pericles is that I
am not to write, not to receive letters. To you I say now, trust me for
three years! Merthyr's answer is already in my bosom. Beloved!--let me
say it once--when the answer to any noble thing I might ask of you is in
my bosom instantly, is not that as much as marriage? But be under no
deception. See me as I am. Oh, good-bye! good-bye! Good-bye to you!
Good-bye to England!

"I am,

"Most humbly and affectionately,
"Your friend,
"And her daughter by the mother's side,

"Emilia Alessandra Belloni."

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS

A plunge into the deep is of little moment
A marriage without love is dishonour
Active despair is a passion that must be superseded
Am I ill? I must be hungry!
And, ladies, if you will consent to be likened to a fruit
And he passed along the road, adds the Philosopher
Bear in mind that we are sentimentalists--The eye is our servant
Being heard at night, in the nineteenth century
Beyond a plot of flowers, a gold-green meadow dipped to a ridge
But love for a parent is not merely duty
Depreciating it after the fashion of chartered hypocrites.
Emilia alone of the party was as a blot to her
Fine Shades were still too dominant at Brookfield
Had Shakespeare's grandmother three Christian names?
He thinks that the country must be saved by its women as well
His alien ideas were not unimpressed by the picture
Hushing together, they agreed that it had been a false move
I had to cross the park to give a lesson
I cannot delay; but I request you, that are here privileged
I had to make my father and mother live on potatoes
I detest anything that has to do with gratitude
I know that your father has been hearing tales told of me
I am not ashamed
It was as if she had been eyeing a golden door shut fast
Littlenesses of which women are accused
Love that shrieks at a mortal wound, and bleeds humanly
Love discerns unerringly what is and what is not duty
Love the poor devil
Love, with his accustomed cunning
Man who beats his wife my first question is, 'Do he take his tea?'
My mistress! My glorious stolen fruit! My dark angel of love
My voice! I have my voice! Emilia had cried it out to herself
My engagement to Mr. Pericles is that I am not to write
No nose to the hero, no moral to the tale
Nor can a protest against coarseness be sweepingly interpreted
Oh! beastly bathos
On a wild April morning
Once my love? said he. Not now?--does it mean, not now?
One of those men whose characters are read off at a glance
Our partner is our master
Passion does not inspire dark appetite--Dainty innocence does
Passion, he says, is noble strength on fire
Pleasure sat like an inextinguishable light on her face
Poor mortals are not in the habit of climbing Olympus to ask
Revived for them so much of themselves
She was perhaps a little the taller of the two
She had great awe of the word 'business'
Silence was their only protection to the Nice Feelings
So it is when you play at Life! When you will not go straight
Solitude is pasturage for a suspicion
The majority, however, had been snatched out of this bliss
The circle which the ladies of Brookfield were designing
The woman follows the man, and music fits to verse,
The sentimentalists are represented by them among the civilized
The dismally-lighted city wore a look of Judgement terrible to see
The sentimentalist goes on accumulating images
The gallant cornet adored delicacy and a gilded refinement
The philosopher (I would keep him back if I could)
Their way was down a green lane and across long meadow-paths
They, meantime, who had a contempt for sleep
They had all noticed, seen, and observed
To know that you are in England, breathing the same air with me
True love excludes no natural duty
Victims of the modern feminine 'ideal'
We have now looked into the hazy interior of their systems
We are, in short, a civilized people
What was this tale of Emilia, that grew more and more perplexing
Wilfrid perceived that he had become an old man
Women are wonderfully quick scholars under ridicule
You have not to be told that I desire your happiness above all