Sketches Part 6

'You must know, my dearest sir,' continued Mr. Ferrers, 'that I wish to speak to you on a subject in which my happiness is entirely concerned.'

'Proceed, sir,' said the Consul, looking still more puzzled.

'You can scarcely be astonished, my dearest sir, that I should admire your daughter.'

The Consul bowed.

'Indeed,' said Mr. Ferrers; 'it seems to me impossible to know her and not admire: I should say, adore her.'

'You flatter a father's feelings,' said the Consul.

'I express my own,' replied Mr. Ferrers. 'I love her--I have long loved her devotedly.'

'Hem!' said Major Ponsonby.

'I feel,' continued Mr. Ferrers, 'that there is a great deal to apologise for in my conduct, towards both you and herself: I feel that my conduct may, in some degree, be considered even unpardonable: I will not say that the end justifies the means, Major Ponsonby, but my end was, at least, a great, and, I am sure a virtuous one.'

'I do not clearly comprehend you, Mr. Ferrers.'

'It is some consolation to me,' continued that gentleman, 'that the daughter has pardoned me; now let me indulge the delightful hope that I may be as successful with the father.'

'I will, at least, listen with patience, to you, Mr. Ferrers; but I must own your meaning is not very evident to me: let me, at least, go and shake hands with Lord Bohun.'

'I will answer for Lord Bohun excusing your momentary neglect. Pray, my dear sir, listen to me. I wish to make you acquainted, Major Ponsonby, with the feelings which influenced me when I first landed on this island. This knowledge is necessary for my justification.'

'But what is there to justify?' inquired the major.

'Conceive a man born to a great fortune,' continued Mr. Ferrers, without noticing the interruption, 'and to some accidents of life, which many esteem above fortune; a station as eminent as his wealth--conceive this man master of his destiny from his boyhood, and early experienced in that great world with which you are not unacquainted--conceive him with a heart, gifted, perhaps, with too dangerous a sensibility; the dupe and the victim of all whom he encounters--conceive him, in disgust, flying from the world that had deceived him, and divesting himself of those accidents of existence which, however envied by others, appeared to his morbid imagination the essential causes of his misery--conceive this man, unknown and obscure, sighing to be valued for those qualities of which fortune could not deprive him, and to be loved only for his own sake--a miserable man, sir!'

'It would seem so,' said the Consul.

'Now, then, for a moment imagine this man apparently in possession of all for which he had so long panted; he is loved, he is loved for himself, and loved by a being surpa.s.sing the brightest dream of his purest youth: yet the remembrance of the past poisons, even now, his joy. He is haunted by the suspicion that the affection, even of this being, is less the result of his own qualities, than of her inexperience of life--he has everything at stake--he dares to submit her devotion to the sharpest trial--he quits her without withdrawing the dark curtain with which he had enveloped himself--he quits her with the distinct understanding that she shall not even hear from him until he thinks fit to return; and entangles her pure mind, for the first time, in a secret from the parent whom she adores. He is careful, in the meanwhile, that his name shall be traduced in her presence--that the proudest fortune, the loftiest rank, shall be offered for her acceptance, if she only will renounce him, and the dim hope of his return. A terrible trial, Major Ponsonby!'

'Indeed, most terrible.'

'But she is true--truer even than truth--and I have come back to claim my unrivalled bride. Can you pardon me? Can you sympathise with me?'

'I speak, then-----' murmured the astounded Consul--

'To your son, with your permission-to Lord Bohun!'

WALSTEIN; OR A CURE FOR MELANCHOLY

CHAPTER I.

_A Philosophical Conversation between a Physician and His Patient._

DR. DE SCHULEMBOURG was the most eminent physician in Dresden. He was not only a physician; he was a philosopher. He studied the idiosyncrasy of his patients, and was aware of the fine and secret connection between medicine and morals. One morning Dr. de Schulembourg was summoned to Walstein. The physician looked forward to the interview with his patient with some degree of interest. He had often heard of Walstein, but had never yet met that gentleman, who had only recently returned from his travels, and who had been absent from his country for several years.

When Dr. de Schulembourg arrived at the house of Walstein, he was admitted into a circular hall containing the busts of the Caesars, and ascending a double staircase of n.o.ble proportion, was ushered into a magnificent gallery. Copies in marble of the most celebrated ancient statues were ranged on each side of this gallery. Above them were suspended many beautiful Italian and Spanish pictures, and between them were dwarf bookcases full of tall volumes in sumptuous bindings, and crowned with Etruscan vases and rare bronzes. Schulembourg, who was a man of taste, looked around him with great satisfaction. And while he was gazing on a group of diaphanous cherubim, by Murillo, an artist of whom he had heard much and knew little, his arm was gently touched, and turning round, Schulembourg beheld his patient, a man past the prime of youth, but of very distinguished appearance, and with a very frank and graceful manner. 'I hope you will pardon me, my dear sir, for permitting you to be a moment alone,' said Walstein, with an ingratiating smile.

'Solitude, in such a scene, is not very wearisome,' replied the physician. 'There are great changes in-this mansion since the time of your father, Mr. Walstein.'

''Tis an attempt to achieve that which we are all sighing for,' replied Walstein, 'the Ideal. But for myself, although I a.s.sure you not a _pococurante_, I cannot help thinking there is no slight dash of the commonplace.'

'Which is a necessary ingredient of all that is excellent,' replied Schulembourg.

Walstein shrugged his shoulders, and then invited the physician to be seated. 'I wish to consult you, Dr. Schulembourg,' he observed, somewhat abruptly. 'My metaphysical opinions induce me to believe that a physician is the only philosopher. I am perplexed by my own case. I am in excellent health, my appet.i.te is good, my digestion perfect. My temperament I have ever considered to be of a very sanguine character.

I have nothing upon my mind. I am in very easy circ.u.mstances. Hitherto I have only committed blunders in life and never crimes. Nevertheless, I have, of late, become the victim of a deep and inscrutable melancholy, which I can ascribe to no cause, and can divert by no resource. Can you throw any light upon my dark feelings? Can you remove them?'

'How long have you experienced them?' inquired the physician.

'More or less ever since my return,' replied Walstein; 'but most grievously during the last three months.'

'Are you in love?' inquired Schulembourg.

'Certainly not,' replied Walstein, 'and I fear I never shall be.'

'You have been?' inquired the physician.

'I have had some fancies, perhaps too many,' answered the patient; 'but youth deludes itself. My idea of a heroine has never been realised, and, in all probability, never will be.'

'Besides an idea of a heroine,' said Schulembourg, 'you have also, if I mistake not, an idea of a hero?'

'Without doubt,' replied Walstein. 'I have preconceived for myself a character which I have never achieved.'

'Yet, if you have never met a heroine nearer your ideal than your hero, why should you complain?' rejoined Schulembourg.

'There are moments when my vanity completes my own portrait,' said Walstein.

'And there are moments when our imagination completes the portrait of our mistress,' rejoined Schulembourg.

'You reason,' said Walstein. 'I was myself once fond of reasoning, but the greater my experience, the more I have become convinced that man is not a rational animal. He is only truly good or great when he acts from pa.s.sion.'

'Pa.s.sion is the ship, and reason is the rudder,' observed Schulembourg.

'And thus we pa.s.s the ocean of life,' said Walstein. 'Would that I could discover a new continent of sensation!'

'Do you mix much in society?' said the physician.

'By fits and starts,' said Walstein. 'A great deal when I first returned: of late little.'

'And your distemper has increased in proportion with your solitude?'