Ernest Maltravers — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ humming his favourite airs through the dreary streets, or along the bleak waters, or amidst the leafless woods, just as the humour seized him; for he was not an Edwin or Harold, who reserved speculation only for lonely brooks and pastoral hills. Maltravers delighted to contemplate nature in men as well as in sheep or trees. The humblest alley in a crowded town had something poetical for him; he was ever ready to mix in a crowd, if it were only gathered round a barrel-organ or a dog-fight, and listen to all that was said and notice all that was done. And this I take to be the true poetical temperament essential to every artist who aspires to be something more than a scene-painter. But, above all things, he was most interested in any display of human passions or affections; he loved to see the true colours of the heart, where they are most transparent—in the uneducated and poor—for he was something of an optimist, and had a hearty faith in the loveliness of our nature. Perhaps, indeed, he owed much of the insight into and mastery over character that he was afterwards considered to display, to his disbelief that there is any wickedness so dark as not to be susceptible of the light in some place or another. But Maltravers had his fits of unsociability, and then nothing but the most solitary scenes delighted him. Winter or summer, barren waste or prodigal verdure, all had beauty in his eyes; for their beauty lay in his own soul, through which he beheld them. From these walks he would return home at dusk, take his simple meal, rhyme or read away the long evenings with such alternation as music or the dreamy thoughts of a young man with gay life before him could afford. Happy Maltravers!—youth and genius have luxuries all the Rothschilds cannot purchase! And yet, Maltravers, you are ambitious!—life moves too slowly for you!—you would push on the wheels of the clock!—Fool—brilliant fool!—you are eighteen, and a poet!—What more can you desire?—Bid Time stop for ever!

      One morning Ernest rose earlier than his wont, and sauntered carelessly through the conservatory which adjoined his sitting-room; observing the plants with placid curiosity (for besides being a little of a botanist, he had odd visionary notions about the life of plants, and he saw in them a hundred mysteries which the herbalists do not teach us), when he heard a low and very musical voice singing at a little distance. He listened, and recognised, with surprise, words of his own, which he had lately set to music, and was sufficiently pleased with to sing nightly.

      When the song ended, Maltravers stole softly through the conservatory, and as he opened the door which led into the garden, he saw at the open window of a little room which was apportioned to Alice, and jutted out from the building in the fanciful irregularity common to ornamental cottages, the form of his discarded pupil. She did not observe him, and it was not till he twice called her by name, that she started from her thoughtful and melancholy posture.

      “Alice,” said he, gently, “put on your bonnet, and walk with me in the garden: you look pale, child; the fresh air will do you good.”

      Alice coloured and smiled, and in a few moments was by his side. Maltravers, meanwhile, had gone in and lighted his meerschaum, for it was his great inspirer whenever his thoughts were perplexed, or he felt his usual fluency likely to fail him, and such was the case now. With this faithful ally he awaited Alice in the little walk that circled the lawn, amidst shrubs and evergreens.

      “Alice,” said he after a pause; but he stopped short.

      Alice looked up at him with grave respect.

      “Tush!” said Maltravers; “perhaps the smoke is unpleasant to you. It is a bad habit of mine.”

      “No, sir,” answered Alice; and she seemed disappointed. Maltravers paused, and picked up a snowdrop.

      “It is pretty,” he said; “do you love flowers?”

      “Oh, dearly,” answered Alice, with some enthusiasm; “I never saw many till I came here.”

      “Now then I can go on,” thought Maltravers; why, I cannot say, for I do not see the sequitur; but on he went in medias res. “Alice, you sing charmingly.”

      “Ah! sir, you—you—” she stopped abruptly, and trembled visibly.

      “Yes, I overheard you, Alice.”

      “And you are angry?”

      “I!—Heaven forbid! It is a talent—but you don’t know what that is; I mean it is an excellent thing to have an ear; and a voice, and a heart for music; and you have all three.”

      He paused, for he felt his hand touched; Alice suddenly clasped and kissed it. Maltravers thrilled through his whole frame; but there was something in the girl’s look that showed she was wholly unaware that she had committed an unmaidenly or forward action.

      “I was so afraid you would be angry,” she said, wiping her eyes as she dropped his hand; “and now I suppose you know all.”

      “All!”

      “Yes; how I listened to you every evening, and lay awake the whole night with the music ringing in my ears, till I tried to go over it myself; and so at last I ventured to sing aloud. I like that much better than learning to read.”

      All this was delightful to Maltravers: the girl had touched upon one of his weak points; however, he remained silent. Alice continued:

      “And now, sir, I hope you will let me come and sit outside the door every evening and hear you; I will make no noise—I will be so quiet.”

      “What, in that cold corridor, these bitter nights?”

      “I am used to cold, sir. Father would not let me have a fire when he was not at home.”

      “No, Alice, but you shall come into the room while I play, and I will give you a lesson or two. I am glad you have so good an ear; it may be a means of your earning your own honest livelihood when you leave me.”

      “When I—but I never intend to leave you, sir!” said Alice, beginning fearfully and ending calmly.

      Maltravers had recourse to the meerschaum.

      Luckily, perhaps, at this time, they were joined by Mr. Simcox, the old writing-master. Alice went in to prepare her books; but Maltravers laid his hand upon the preceptor’s shoulder.

      “You have a quick pupil, I hope, sir?” said he.

      “Oh, very, very, Mr. Butler. She comes on famously. She practises a great deal when I am away, and I do my best.”

      “And,” asked Maltravers, in a grave tone, “have you succeeded in instilling into the poor child’s mind some of those more sacred notions of which I spoke to you at our first meeting?”

      “Why, sir, she was indeed quite a heathen—quite a Mahometan, I may say; but she is a little better now.”

      “What have you taught her?”

      “That God made her.”

      “That is a great step.”

      “And that He loves good girls, and will watch over them.”

      “Bravo! You beat Plato.”

      “No, sir, I never beat any one, except little Jack Turner; but he is a dunce.”

      “Bah! СКАЧАТЬ