Lord Monmouth’s dinners at Paris were celebrated3. It was generally agreed that they had no rivals; yet there were others who had as skilful4 cooks, others who, for such a purpose, were equally profuse5 in their expenditure6. What, then, was the secret spell of his success? The simplest in the world, though no one seemed aware of it. His Lordship’s plates were always hot: whereas at Paris, in the best appointed houses, and at dinners which, for costly7 materials and admirable art in their preparation, cannot be surpassed, the effect is always considerably8 lessened9, and by a mode the most mortifying10: by the mere11 circumstance that every one at a French dinner is served on a cold plate. The reason of a custom, or rather a necessity, which one would think a nation so celebrated for their gastronomical12 taste would recoil13 from, is really, it is believed, that the ordinary French porcelain14 is so very inferior that it cannot endure the preparatory heat for dinner. The common white pottery15, for example, which is in general use, and always found at the cafés, will not bear vicinage to a brisk kitchen fire for half-an-hour. Now, if we only had that treaty of commerce with France which has been so often on the point of completion, the fabrics16 of our unrivalled potteries17, in exchange for their capital wines, would be found throughout France. The dinners of both nations would be improved: the English would gain a delightful18 beverage19, and the French, for the first time in their lives, would dine off hot plates. An unanswerable instance of the advantages of commercial reciprocity.
The guests at Lord Monmouth’s to-day were chiefly Carlists, individuals bearing illustrious names, that animate20 the page of history, and are indissolubly bound up with the glorious annals of their great country. They are the phantoms21 of a past, but real Aristocracy; an Aristocracy that was founded on an intelligible22 principle; which claimed great privileges for great purposes; whose hereditary23 duties were such, that their possessors were perpetually in the eye of the nation, and who maintained, and, in a certain point of view justified24, their pre-eminence by constant illustration.
It pleased Lord Monmouth to show great courtesies to a fallen race with whom he sympathised; whose fathers had been his friends in the days of his hot youth; whose mothers he had made love to; whose palaces had been his home; whose brilliant fêtes he remembered; whose fanciful splendour excited his early imagination; and whose magnificent and wanton luxury had developed his own predisposition for boundless26 enjoyment27. Soubise and his suppers; his cutlets and his mistresses; the profuse and embarrassed De Lauragais, who sighed for ‘entire ruin,’ as for a strange luxury, which perpetually eluded28 his grasp; these were the heroes of the olden time that Lord Monmouth worshipped; the wisdom of our ancestors which he appreciated; and he turned to their recollection for relief from the vulgar prudence30 of the degenerate31 days on which he had fallen: days when nobles must be richer than other men, or they cease to have any distinction.
It was impossible not to be struck by the effective appearance of Lady Monmouth as she received her guests in grand toilet preparatory to the ball; white satin and minever, a brilliant tiara. Her fine form, her costume of a fashion as perfect as its materials were sumptuous32, and her presence always commanding and distinguished33, produced a general effect to which few could be insensible. It was the triumph of mien34 over mere beauty of countenance35.
The hotel of Madame S. de R——d is not more distinguished by its profuse decoration, than by the fine taste which has guided the vast expenditure. Its halls of arabesque36 are almost without a rival; there is not the slightest embellishment in which the hand and feeling of art are not recognised. The rooms were very crowded; everybody distinguished in Paris was there: the lady of the Court, the duchess of the Faubourg, the wife of the financier, the constitutional Throne, the old Monarchy37, the modern Bourse, were alike represented. Marshals of the Empire, Ministers of the Crown, Dukes and Marquesses, whose ancestors lounged in the Oeil de Boeuf; diplomatists of all countries, eminent38 foreigners of all nations, deputies who led sections, members of learned and scientific academies, occasionally a stray poet; a sea of sparkling tiaras, brilliant bouquets39, glittering stars, and glowing ribbons, many beautiful faces, many famous ones: unquestionably the general air of a firstrate Parisian saloon, on a great occasion, is not easily equalled. In London there is not the variety of guests; nor the same size and splendour of saloons. Our houses are too small for reception.
Coningsby, who had stolen away from his grandfather’s before the rest of the guests, was delighted with the novelty of the splendid scene. He had been in Paris long enough to make some acquaintances, and mostly with celebrated personages. In his long fruitless endeavour to enter the saloon in which they danced, he found himself hustled40 against the illustrious Baron2 von H——t, whom he had sat next to at dinner a few days before at Count M——é’s.
‘It is more difficult than cutting through the Isthmus41 of Panama, Baron,’ said Coningsby, alluding42 to a past conversation.
‘Infinitely43,’ replied M. de H., smiling; ‘for I would undertake to cut through the Isthmus, and I cannot engage that I shall enter this ball-room.’
Time, however, brought Coningsby into that brilliant chamber44. What a blaze of light and loveliness! How coquettish are the costumes! How vivid the flowers! To sounds of stirring melody, beautiful beings move with grace. Grace, indeed, is beauty in action.
Here, where all are fair and everything is attractive, his eye is suddenly arrested by one object, a form of surpassing grace among the graceful45, among the beauteous a countenance of unrivalled beauty.
She was young among the youthful; a face of sunshine amid all that artificial light; her head placed upon her finely-moulded shoulders with a queen-like grace; a coronet of white roses on her dark brown hair; her only ornament46. It was the beauty of the picture-gallery.
The eye of Coningsby never quitted her. When the dance ceased, he had an opportunity of seeing her nearer. He met her walking with her cavalier, and he was conscious that she observed him. Finally he remarked that she resumed a seat next to the lady whom he had mistaken for her mother, but had afterwards understood to be Lady Wallinger.
Coningsby returned to the other saloons: he witnessed the entrance and reception of Lady Monmouth, who moved on towards the ball-room. Soon after this, Sidonia arrived; he came in with the still handsome and ever courteous47 Duke D——s. Observing Coningsby, he stopped to present him to the Duke. While thus conversing48, the Duke, who is fond of the English, observed, ‘See, here is your beautiful countrywoman that all the world are talking of. That is her uncle. He brings to me letters from one of your lords, whose name I cannot recollect29.’
And Sir Joseph and his lovely niece veritably approached. The Duke addressed them: asked them in the name of his Duchess to a concert on the next Thursday; and, after a thousand compliments, moved on. Sidonia stopped; Coningsby could not refrain from lingering, but stood a little apart, and was about to move away, when there was a whisper, of which, without hearing a word, he could not resist the impression that he was the subject. He felt a little embarrassed, and was retiring, when he heard Sidonia reply to an inquiry49 of the lady, ‘The same,’ and then, turning to Coningsby, said aloud, ‘Coningsby, Miss Millbank says that you have forgotten her.’
Coningsby started, advanced, coloured a little, could not conceal50 his surprise. The lady, too, though more prepared, was not without confusion, and for an instant looked down. Coningsby recalled at that moment the long dark eyelashes, and the beautiful, bashful countenance that had so charmed him at Millbank; but two years had otherwise effected a wonderful change in the sister of his school-day friend, and transformed the silent, embarrassed girl into a woman of surpassing beauty and of the most graceful and impressive mien.
‘It is not surprising that Mr. Coningsby should not recollect my niece,’ said Sir Joseph, addressing Sidonia, and wishing to cover their mutual51 embarrassment52; ‘but it is impossible for her, or for anyone connected with her, not to be anxious at all times to express to him our sense of what we all owe him.’
Coningsby and Miss Millbank were now in full routine conversation, consisting of questions; how long she had been at Paris; when she had heard last from Millbank; how her father was; also, how was her brother. Sidonia made an observation to Sir Joseph on a passer-by, and then himself moved on; Coningsby accompanying his new friends, in a contrary direction, to the refreshment-room, to which they were proceeding53.
‘And you have passed a winter at Rome,’ said Coningsby. ‘How I envy you! I feel that I shall never be able to travel.’
‘And why not?’
‘Life has become so stirring, that there is ever some great cause that keeps one at home.’
‘Life, on the contrary, so swift, that all may see now that of which they once could only read.’
‘The golden and silver sides of the shield,’ said Coningsby, with a smile.
‘No, I would follow yours.’
‘You have not heard lately from Oswald?’
‘Oh, yes; I think there are no such faithful correspondents as we are; I only wish we could meet.’
‘You will soon; but he is such a devotee of Oxford55; quite a monk56; and you, too, Mr. Coningsby, are much occupied.’
‘Yes, and at the same time as Millbank. I was in hopes, when I once paid you a visit, I might have found your brother.’
‘But that was such a rapid visit,’ said Miss Millbank.
‘I always remember it with delight,’ said Coningsby.
‘You were willing to be pleased; but Millbank, notwithstanding Rome, commands my affections, and in spite of this surrounding splendour, I could have wished to have passed my Christmas in Lancashire.’
‘Mr. Millbank has lately purchased a very beautiful place in the county. I became acquainted with Hellingsley when staying at my grandfather’s.’
‘Ah! I have never seen it; indeed, I was much surprised that papa became its purchaser, because he never will live there; and Oswald, I am sure, could never be tempted57 to quit Millbank. You know what enthusiastic ideas he has of his order?’
‘Like all his ideas, sound, and high, and pure. I always duly appreciated your brother’s great abilities, and, what is far more important, his lofty mind. When I recollect our Eton days, I cannot understand how more than two years have passed away without our being together. I am sure the fault is mine. I might now have been at Oxford instead of Paris. And yet,’ added Coningsby, ‘that would have been a sad mistake, since I should not have had the happiness of being here.
‘Oh, yes, that would have been a sad mistake,’ said Miss Millbank.
‘Edith,’ said Sir Joseph, rejoining his niece, from whom he had been momentarily separated, ‘Edith, that is Monsieur Thiers.’
In the meantime Sidonia reached the ball-room, and sitting near the entrance was Lady Monmouth, who immediately addressed him. He was, as usual, intelligent and unimpassioned, and yet not without a delicate deference58 which is flattering to women, especially if not altogether unworthy of it. Sidonia always admired Lucretia, and preferred her society to that of most persons. But the Lady was in error in supposing that she had conquered or could vanquish59 his heart. Sidonia was one of those men, not so rare as may be supposed, who shrink, above all things, from an adventure of gallantry with a woman in a position. He had neither time nor temper for sentimental60 circumvolutions. He detested61 the diplomacy62 of passion: protocols63, protracted64 negotiations65, conferences, correspondence, treaties projected, ratified66, violated. He had no genius for the tactics of intrigue67; your reconnoiterings, and marchings, and countermarchings, sappings, and minings, assaults, sometimes surrenders, and sometimes repulses68. All the solemn and studied hypocrisies69 were to him infinitely wearisome; and if the movements were not merely formal, they irritated him, distracted his feelings, disturbed the tenor70 of his mind, deranged71 his nervous system. Something of the old Oriental vein72 influenced him in his carriage towards women. He was oftener behind the scenes of the Opera-house than in his box; he delighted, too, in the society of etairai; Aspasia was his heroine. Obliged to appear much in what is esteemed73 pure society, he cultivated the acquaintance of clever women, because they interested him; but in such saloons his feminine acquaintances were merely psychological. No lady could accuse him of trifling75 with her feelings, however decided76 might be his predilection77 for her conversation. He yielded at once to an admirer; never trespassed78 by any chance into the domain79 of sentiment; never broke, by any accident or blunder, into the irregular paces of flirtation80; was a man who notoriously would never diminish by marriage the purity of his race; and one who always maintained that passion and polished life were quite incompatible81. He liked the drawing-room, and he liked the Desert, but he would not consent that either should trench82 on their mutual privileges.
The Princess Lucretia had yielded herself to the spell of Sidonia’s society at Coningsby Castle, when she knew that marriage was impossible. But she loved him; and with an Italian spirit. Now they met again, and she was the Marchioness of Monmouth, a very great lady, very much admired, and followed, and courted, and very powerful. It is our great moralist who tells us, in the immortal83 page, that an affair of gallantry with a great lady is more delightful than with ladies of a lower degree. In this he contradicts the good old ballad84; but certain it is that Dr. Johnson announced to Boswell, ‘Sir, in the case of a Countess the imagination is more excited.’
But Sidonia was a man on whom the conventional superiorities of life produced as little effect as a flake85 falling on the glaciers86 of the high Alps. His comprehension of the world and human nature was too vast and complete; he understood too well the relative value of things to appreciate anything but essential excellence87; and that not too much. A charming woman was not more charming to him because she chanced to be an empress in a particular district of one of the smallest planets; a charming woman under any circumstances was not an unique animal. When Sidonia felt a disposition25 to be spellbound, he used to review in his memory all the charming women of whom he had read in the books of all literatures, and whom he had known himself in every court and clime, and the result of his reflections ever was, that the charming woman in question was by no means the paragon88, which some who had read, seen, and thought less, might be inclined to esteem74 her. There was, indeed, no subject on which Sidonia discoursed89 so felicitously90 as on woman, and none on which Lord Eskdale more frequently endeavoured to attract him. He would tell you Talmudical stories about our mother Eve and the Queen of Sheba, which would have astonished you. There was not a free lady of Greece, Leontium and Phryne, Lais, Danae, and Lamia, the Egyptian girl Thonis, respecting whom he could not tell you as many diverting tales as if they were ladies of Loretto; not a nook of Athenseus, not an obscure scholiast, not a passage in a Greek orator91, that could throw light on these personages, which was not at his command. What stories he would tell you about Marc Antony and the actress Cytheris in their chariot drawn92 by tigers! What a character would he paint of that Flora93 who gave her gardens to the Roman people! It would draw tears to your eyes. No man was ever so learned in the female manners of the last centuries of polytheism as Sidonia. You would have supposed that he had devoted94 his studies peculiarly to that period if you had not chanced to draw him to the Italian middle ages. And even these startling revelations were almost eclipsed by his anecdotes95 of the Court of Henry III. of France, with every character of which he was as familiar as with the brilliant groups that at this moment filled the saloons of Madame de R——d.
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1
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gastronomical
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| adj.美食法的，美食学的 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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potteries
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| n.陶器( pottery的名词复数 )；陶器厂；陶土；陶器制造（术） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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isthmus
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| n.地峡 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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vanquish
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| v.征服，战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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protocols
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| n.礼仪( protocol的名词复数 )；（外交条约的）草案；（数据传递的）协议；科学实验报告（或计划） | |
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protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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repulses
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| v.击退( repulse的第三人称单数 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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hypocrisies
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| n.伪善，虚伪( hypocrisy的名词复数 ) | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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74
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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81
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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82
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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felicitously
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| adv.恰当地，适切地 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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92
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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