‘There they go,’ said Cadurcis, smiling, ‘catching John Dory, as you and I try to catch John Bull. Now if these people could understand what two great men were watching them, how they would stare! But they don’t care a sprat for us, not they! They are not part of the world the three or four thousand civilised savages for whom we sweat our brains, and whose fetid breath perfumed with musk is fame. Pah!’
Herbert smiled. ‘I have not cared much myself for this same world.’
‘Why, no; you have done something, and shown your contempt for them. No one can deny that. I will some day, if I have an opportunity. I owe it them; I think I can show them a trick or two still.[A] I have got a Damascus blade in store for their thick hides. I will turn their flank yet.’
[Footnote A: I think I know a trick or two would turn Your flanks. Don Juan.]
‘And gain a victory where conquest brings no glory. You are worth brighter laurels, Lord Cadurcis.’
‘Now is not it the most wonderful thing in the world that you and I have met?’ said Cadurcis. ‘Now I look upon ourselves as something like, eh! Fellows with some pith in them. By Jove, if we only joined together, how we could lay it on! Crack, crack, crack; I think I see them wincing under the thong, the pompous poltroons! If you only knew how they behaved to me! By Jove, sir, they hooted me going to the House of Lords, and nearly pulled me off my horse. The ruffians would have massacred me if they could; and then they all ran away from a drummer-boy and a couple of grenadiers, who were going the rounds to change guard. Was not that good? Fine, eh? A brutish mob in a fit of morality about to immolate a gentleman, and then scampering off from a sentry. I call that human nature!’
‘As long as they leave us alone, and do not burn us alive, I am content,’ said Herbert. ‘I am callous to what they say.’
‘So am I,’ said Cadurcis. ‘I made out a list the other day of all the persons and things I have been compared to. It begins well, with Alcibiades, but it ends with the Swiss giantess or the Polish dwarf, I forget which. Here is your book. You see it has been well thumbed. In fact, to tell the truth, it was my cribbing book, and I always kept it by me when I was writing at Athens, like a gradus, a gradus ad Parnassum, you know. But although I crib, I am candid, and you see I fairly own it to you.’
‘You are welcome to all I have ever written,’ said Herbert. ‘Mine were but crude dreams. I wished to see man noble and happy; but if he will persist in being vile and miserable, I must even be content. I can struggle for him no more.’
‘Well, you opened my mind,’ said Cadurcis. ‘I owe you everything; but I quite agree with you that nothing is worth an effort. As for philosophy and freedom, and all that, they tell devilish well in a stanza; but men have always been fools and slaves, and fools and slaves they always will be.’
‘Nay,’ said Herbert, ‘I will not believe that. I will not give up a jot of my conviction of a great and glorious future for human destinies; but its consummation will not be so rapid as I once thought, and in the meantime I die.’
‘Ah, death!’ said Lord Cadurcis, ‘that is a botherer. What can you make of death? There are those poor fishermen now; there will be a white squall some day, and they will go down with those lateen sails of theirs, and be food for the very prey they were going to catch; and if you continue living here, you may eat one of your neighbours in the shape of a shoal of red mullets, when it is the season. The great secret, we cannot penetrate that with all our philosophy, my dear Herbert. “All that we know is, nothing can be known.” Barren, barren, barren! And yet what a grand world it is! Look at this bay, these blue waters, the mountains, and these chestnuts, devilish fine! The fact is, truth is veiled, but, like the Shekinah over the tabernacle, the veil is of dazzling light!’
‘Life is the great wonder,’ said Herbert, ‘into which all that is strange and startling resolves itself. The mist of familiarity obscures from us the miracle of our being. Mankind are constantly starting at events which they consider extraordinary. But a philosopher acknowledges only one miracle, and that is life. Political revolutions, changes of empire, wrecks of dynasties and the opinions that support them, these are the marvels of the vulgar, but these are only transient modifications of life. The origin of existence is, therefore, the first object which a true philosopher proposes to himself. Unable to discover it, he accepts certain results from his unbiassed observation of its obvious nature, and on them he establishes certain principles to be our guides in all social relations, whether they take the shape of laws or customs. Nevertheless, until the principle of life be discovered, all theories and all systems of conduct founded on theory must be considered provisional.’
‘And do you believe that there is a chance of its being discovered?’ inquired Cadurcis.
‘I cannot, from any reason in my own intelligence, find why it should not,’ said Herbert.
‘You conceive it possible that a man may attain earthly immortality?’ inquired Cadurcis.
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘By Jove,’ said Cadurcis, ‘if I only knew how, I would purchase an immense annuity directly.’
‘When I said undoubtedly,’ said Herbert, smiling, ‘I meant only to express that I know no invincible reason to the contrary. I see nothing inconsistent with the existence of a Supreme Creator in the annihilation of death. It appears to me an achievement worthy of his omnipotence. I believe in the possibility, but I believe in nothing more. I anticipate the final result, but not by individual means. It will, of course, be produced by some vast and silent and continuous operation of nature, gradually effecting some profound and comprehensive alteration in her order, a change of climate, for instance, the great enemy of life, so that the inhabitants of the earth may attain a patriarchal age. This renovated breed may in turn produce a still more vigorous offspring, and so we may ascend the scale, from the threescore and ten of the Psalmist to the immortality of which we speak. Indeed I, for my own part, believe the operation has already commenced, although thousands of centuries may elapse before it is consummated; the threescore and ten of the Psalmist is already obsolete; the whole world is talking of the general change of its seasons and its atmosphere. If the origin of America were such as many profound philosophers suppose, viz., a sudden emersion of a new continent from the waves, it is impossible to doubt that such an event must have had a very great influence on the climate of the world. Besides, why should we be surprised that the nature of man should change? Does not everything change? Is not change the law of nature? My skin changes every year, my hair never belongs to me a month, the nail on my hand is only a passing possession. I doubt whether a man at fifty is the same material being that he is at five-and-twenty.’
‘I wonder,’ said Lord Cadurcis, ‘if a creditor brought an action against you at fifty for goods delivered at five-and-twenty, one could set up the want of identity as a plea in bar. It would be a consolation to an elderly gentleman.’
‘I am afraid mankind are too hostile to philosophy,’ said Herbert, smiling, ‘to permit so desirable a consummation.’
‘Should you consider a long life a blessing?’ said Cadurcis. ‘Would you like, for instance, to live to the age of Methusalem?’
‘Those whom the gods love die young,’ said Herbert. ‘For the last twenty years I have wished to die, and I have sought death. But my feelings, I confess, on that head are at present very much modified.’
‘Youth, glittering youth!’ said Cadurcis in a musing tone; ‘I remember when the prospect of losing my youth frightened me out of my wits; I dreamt of nothing but grey hairs, a paunch, and the gout or the gravel. But I fancy every period of life has its pleasures, and as we advance in life the exercise of power and the possession of wealth must be great consolations to the majority; we bully our children and hoard our cash.’
‘Two most noble occupations!’ said Herbert; ‘but I think in this world there is just as good a chance of being bullied by our children first, and paying their debts afterwards.’
‘Faith! you are right,’ said Cadurcis, laughing, ‘and lucky is he who has neither creditors nor offspring, and who owes neither money nor affection, after all the most difficult to pay of the two.’
‘It cannot be commanded, certainly,’ said Herbert ‘There is no usury for love.’
‘And yet it is very expensive, too, sometimes, said Cadurcis, laughing. ‘For my part, sympathy is a puzzler.’
‘You should read Cabanis,’ said Herbert, ‘if indeed, you have not. I think I may find it here; I will lend it you. It has, from its subject, many errors, but it is very suggestive.’
‘Now, that is kind, for I have not a book here, and, after all, there is nothing like reading. I wish I had read more, but it is not too late. I envy you your learning, besides so many other things. However, I hope we shall not part in a hurry; we have met at last,’ he said, extending his hand, ‘and we were always friends.’
Herbert shook his hand very warmly. ‘I can assure you, Lord Cadurcis, you have not a more sincere admirer of your genius. I am happy in your society. For myself, I now aspire to be nothing better than an idler in life, turning over a page, and sometimes noting down a fancy. You have, it appears, known my family long and intimately, and you were, doubtless, surprised at finding me with them. I have returned to my hearth, and I am content. Once I sacrificed my happiness to my philosophy, and now I have sacrificed my philosophy to my happiness.’
‘Dear friend!’ said Cadurcis, putting his arm affectionately in Herbert’s as they walked along, ‘for, indeed, you must allow me to style you so; all the happiness and all the sorrow of my life alike flow from your roof!’
In the meantime Lady Annabel and Venetia came forth from the villa to their morning meal in their amphitheatre of hills. Marmion was not there to greet them as usual.
‘Was not Plantagenet amusing last night?’ said Venetia; ‘and are not you happy, dear mother, to see him once more?’
‘Indeed I am now always happy,’ said Lady Annabel.
‘And George was telling me last night, in this portico, of all their life. He is more attached to Plantagenet than ever. He says it is impossible for any one to have behaved with greater kindness, or to have led, in every sense, a more calm and rational life. When he was alone at Athens, he did nothing but write. George says that all his former works are nothing to what he has written now.’
‘He is very engaging,’ said Lady Annabel.
‘I think he will be such a delightful companion for papa. I am sure papa must like him. I hope he will stay some time; for, after all, poor dear papa, he must require a little amusement besides our society. Instead of being with his books, he might be walking and talking with Plantagenet. I think, dearest mother, we shall be happier than ever!’
At this moment Herbert, with Cadurcis leaning on his arm, and apparently speaking with great earnestness, appeared in the distance. ‘There they are,’ said Venetia; ‘I knew they would be friends. Come, dearest mother, let us meet them.’
‘You see, Lady Annabel,’ said Lord Cadurcis, ‘it is just as I said: Mr. George is not here; he is having tea and toast on board the brig.’
‘I do not believe it,’ said Venetia, smiling.
They seated themselves at the breakfast-table.
‘You should have seen our Apennine breakfasts in the autumn, Lord Cadurcis,’ said Herbert. ‘Every fruit of nature seemed crowded before us. It was indeed a meal for a poet or a painter like Paul Veronese; our grapes, our figs, our peaches, our mountain strawberries, they made a glowing picture. For my part, I have an original prejudice against animal food which I have never quite overcome, and I believe it is only to please Lady Annabel that I have relapsed into the heresy of cutlets.’
‘Do you think I have grown fatter, Lady Annabel?’ said Lord Cadurcis, starting up; ‘I brought myself down at Athens to bread and olives, but I have been committing terrible excesses lately, but only fish.’
‘Ah! here is George!’ said Lady Annabel.
And Captain Cadurcis appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, bearing a huge case.
‘George,’ said Venetia, ‘I have been defending you against Plantagenet; he said you would not come.’
‘Never mind, George, it was only behind your back,’ said Lord Cadurcis; ‘and, under those legitimate circumstances, why even our best friends cannot expect us to spare them.’
‘I have brought Venetia her toys,’ said Captain Cadurcis, ‘and she was right to defend me, as I have been working for her.’
The top of the case was knocked off, and all the Turkish buffooneries, as Cadurcis called them, made their appearance: slippers, and shawls, and bottles of perfumes, and little hand mirrors, beautifully embroidered; and fanciful daggers, and rosaries, and a thousand other articles, of which they had plundered the bazaars of Constantinople.
‘And here is a Turkish volume of poetry, beautifully illuminated; and that is for you,’ said Cadurcis giving it to Herbert. ‘Perhaps it is a translation of one of our works. Who knows? We can always say it is.’
‘This is the second present you have made me this morning. Here is a volume of my works,’ said Herbert, producing the book that Cadurcis had before given him. ‘I never expected that anything I wrote would be so honoured. This, too, is the work of which I am the least ashamed for my wife admired it. There, Annabel, even though Lord Cadurcis is here, I will present it to you; ’tis an old friend.’
Lady Annabel accepted the book very graciously, and, in spite of all the temptations of her toys, Venetia could not refrain from peeping over her mother’s shoulder at its contents. ‘Mother,’ she whispered, in a voice inaudible save to Lady Annabel, ‘I may read this!’
Lady Annabel gave it her.
‘And now we must send for Pauncefort, I think,’ said Lady Annabel, ‘to collect and take care of our treasures.’
‘Pauncefort,’ said Lord Cadurcis, when that gentlewoman appeared, ‘I have brought you a shawl, but I could not bring you a turban, because the Turkish ladies do not wear turbans; but if I had thought we should have met so soon, I would have had one made on purpose for you.’
‘La! my lord, you always are so polite!’
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