John Leech, His Life and Work Volume II Part 15

"And then came dark mistrust and doubt, Gathered by worming his secrets out, And slips in his conversation-- Fears which all her peace destroyed, That his t.i.tle was null, his coffers were void, And his French chateau was in Spain, or enjoyed The most airy of situations.

"But still his heart--if he had such a part-- She--only she--might possess his heart, And hold her affections in fetters.

Alas! that hope, like a crazy ship, Was forced its anchor and cable to slip When, seduced by her fears, she took a dip In his private papers and letters--

"Letters that told of dangerous leagues, And notes that hinted as many intrigues As the Count's in the 'Barber of Seville.'

In short, such mysteries came to light That the Countess-bride, on the thirtieth night, Woke and started up in a fright, And kicked and screamed with all her might, And finally fainted away outright, For she dreamt she had married the Devil!"

In short, poor Miss Kilmansegg, or, rather, the "Golden Countess," was utterly wretched:

"Her cheek is pale, and her eye is dim, And downward cast, yet not at the limb Once the centre of all speculation; But downward drooping in comfort's dearth, As gloomy thoughts are drawn to the earth-- Whence human sorrows derive their birth-- By a moral gravitation.

"How blessed the heart that has a friend A sympathizing ear to lend To troubles too great to smother!

But friend or gossip she had none To hear the vile deeds the Count had done, How night after night he rambled; And how she learned by sad degrees That he drank and smoked, and, worse than these, That he 'swindled, intrigued, and gambled'!

"He brought _strange_ gentlemen home to dine That he said were in the Fancy Line,-- And they fancied spirits instead of wine, And called her lap-dog 'Wenus.'"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE BROUGHT STRANGE GENTLEMEN HOME TO DINE."]

Leech has pretty well marked the profession of the "strange gentlemen"

in this admirable drawing; their att.i.tudes, the cut of their clothes, the character in their figures, to say nothing of the sticking-plaster on a face that could belong to no one but a "fighting man," sufficiently proclaim their habits. The figure of the Count is tragic in its intensity of drunken self-abandonment.

A leg of solid gold would, no doubt, if turned into cash, represent a large sum of money. It seems to have been the determination of the Countess, while still Miss Kilmansegg, to have reserved to herself all rights over the golden leg, for that auriferous limb was settled, as well as fixed upon herself, to be disposed of by will or otherwise, as she pleased. Says the poet:

"So the Countess, then Miss Kilmansegg, At her marriage refused to stir a peg Till her lawyers had fastened on her leg, As fast as the law could tie it."

Means which seem illimitable very speedily vanish when they fall into the hands of such people as the foreign Count. It was said of a famous _roue_ of the last century that he "practised every vice except prodigality and hypocrisy--his insatiable avarice exempted him from the first, and his matchless impudence from the second." Our Count seems to have surpa.s.sed his prototype, whose "impudence" may not have been of the brutal character from which the poor Countess suffered; whilst a slight dash of avarice might have prevented the golden leg from being all that was left of her golden fortune.

The following lines eloquently describe the Count's state of mind after his orgies:

"And then how wildly he used to stare, And shake his fist at nothing, and swear, And pluck by the handful his s.h.a.ggy hair, Till he looked like a study of Giant Despair For a new edition of Bunyan!

"For dice will run the contrary way, As is well known to all who play, And cards will conspire as in treason."

At all events, cards, dice, and other expensive amus.e.m.e.nts had so reduced the Count that he had not a leg to stand upon, except his wife's golden one, and as that limb was in her own control, it was but a doubtful security. The Countess had made a will in which the leg was left to the Count, but life is uncertain--the Countess might outlive her husband; moreover, he was so placed that delay was not only dangerous, but inconvenient. The chronicler thus continues:

"Now, the precious leg while cash was flush, Or the Count's acceptance worth a rush, Had never excited dissension; But no sooner the stocks began to fall, Than, without any ossification at all, The limb became what people call A perfect bone of contention.

"For altered days made altered ways, And instead of the complimentary phrase So current before her bridal, The Countess heard, in language low, That her precious leg was precious slow, A good 'un to look at, but bad to go, And kept quite a sum lying idle.

"But spite of hint, and threat, and scoff, The leg kept its situation; For legs are not to be taken off By a verbal amputation.

"Firmly then--and more firmly yet-- With scorn for scorn, and with threat for threat, The proud one confronted the cruel; And loud and bitter the quarrel arose, Fierce and merciless--one of those With spoken daggers, and looks like blows-- In all but the bloodshed a duel.

"Rash and wild, and wretched and wrong, Were the words that came from weak and strong, Till, maddened for desperate matters, Fierce as a tigress escaped from her den, She flew to her desk--'twas opened--and then, In the time it takes to try a pen, Or the clerk to utter his slow 'Amen,'

Her will was in fifty tatters!

"But the Count, instead of curses wild, Only nodded his head and smiled, As if at the spleen of an angry child; But the calm was deceitful and sinister!

And a lull like the lull of the treacherous sea-- For Hate in that moment had sworn to be _The golden leg's sole legatee, And that very night to administer_."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE TORN WILL."]

"That very night!"--one more night of golden dreaming, in the midst of which comes death; the deliverer from an existence which the worship of gold has made so pitiful:

"'Tis a stern and startling thing to think, How often mortality stands on the brink Of its grave without any misgiving: And yet in this slippery world of strife, In the stir of human bustle so rife, There are daily sounds to tell us that life Is dying, and Death is living!

"But breath and bloom set doom at nought-- How little the wretched Countess thought, When at night she unloosed her sandal, That the fates had woven her burial-cloth, And that Death, in the shape of a death's head moth, Was fluttering round her candle!

"As she looked at her clock of ormolu, For the hours she had gone so wearily through At the end of a day of trial, How little she saw in the pride of prime The dart of Death in the hand of Time-- That hand which moved the dial!

"As she went with her taper up the stair, How little her swollen eye was aware That the shadow which followed was double!

Or when she closed her chamber-door, It was shutting out, and for evermore, The world and its worldly trouble.

"Little she dreamt as she laid aside Her jewels--after one glance of pride-- They were solemn bequests to Vanity; Or when her robes she began to doff, That she stood so near to the putting off Of the flesh that clothes humanity.

"And when she quenched the taper's light, How little she thought, as the smoke took flight, That her day was done and merged in a night Of dreams and duration uncertain; Or along with her own That a hand of bone Was closing mortality's curtain!

"Thus, even thus, the Countess slept, While death still nearer and nearer crept, Like the Thane who smote the sleeping; But her mind was busy with early joys, Her golden treasures and golden toys, That flashed a bright And golden light Under lids still red with weeping.

"The golden guineas in silken purse, And the 'Golden Legends' she heard from her nurse, Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage-- And London streets that were paved with gold, And the golden eggs that were laid of old-- With each golden thing To the golden ring At her own auriferous marriage!

"And still the golden light of the sun Through her golden dream appeared to run, Though the night that roared without was one To terrify seamen or gipsies-- While the moon, as if in malicious mirth, Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth, As though she enjoyed the tempest's birth, In revenge of her old eclipses.

"But vainly, vainly the thunder fell, For the soul of the sleeper was under a spell, That time had lately embittered-- The Count, as once at her foot he knelt-- That foot which now he wanted to melt!

But, hush! 'twas a stir at her pillow she felt, And some object before her glittered.

"'Twas the golden leg! she knew its gleam!

And up she started and tried to scream; But even in the moment she started, Down came the limb with a frightful smash, And, lost in the universal flash That her eyeb.a.l.l.s made at so mortal a crash, The spark called vital departed.

"Gold, still gold, hard, yellow, and cold, For gold she had lived, and died for gold-- By a golden weapon, not oaken; In the morning they found her all alone-- Stiff, and b.l.o.o.d.y, and cold as a stone-- But her leg, the golden leg, was gone, And the 'golden bowl was broken.'

"HER MORAL.

"Gold! gold! gold! gold!

Bright and yellow, hard and cold, Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled; Heavy to get, and light to hold; h.o.a.rded, bartered, bought, and sold, Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled; Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mould; Price of many a crime untold; Gold! gold! gold! gold!

Good or bad a thousandfold!

How widely its agencies vary-- To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless-- As even its minted coins express, Now stamped with the image of good Queen Bess, And now of b.l.o.o.d.y Mary!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "BEDTIME."]

The admirable design--the "tailpiece" to the legend of "Miss Kilmansegg and her Golden Leg"--which Leech calls "Bedtime," is reproduced, not only for its excellence as a composition, but also in evidence of the readiness of the artist's imagination to adopt an idea that has been suggested by the poem, and of the skill with which that cunning hand has realized it. The little old miser has been "counting out his money" with the delight that "time cannot wither, nor custom stale." His shrunken shanks, thin face and hands, betray his age. Death cannot be far off; but no thought apart from the treasure can be spared for the inevitable visitor who surprises the miser at last in the midst of his golden worship. He is far from being tired; but he must go to bed, and sleep the sleep that knows no waking. His skeleton nurse has come for him; her bony hands encircle him. His shroud is on her arm; she cannot wait--no, not for him to handle once more those glittering coins, on which his eye sparkles, and his claw-like fingers make vain attempts to reach.