Lucretia — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

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СКАЧАТЬ profile was purely Greek, and so seen, Lucretia’s beauty seemed incontestable; but in front face, and still more when inclined between the two, all the features took a sharpness that, however regular, had something chilling and severe: the mouth was small, but the lips were thin and pale, and had an expression of effort and contraction which added to the distrust that her sidelong glance was calculated to inspire. The teeth were dazzlingly white, but sharp and thin, and the eye-teeth were much longer than the rest. The complexion was pale, but without much delicacy,—the paleness seemed not natural to it, but rather that hue which study and late vigils give to men; so that she wanted the freshness and bloom of youth, and looked older than she was,—an effect confirmed by an absence of roundness in the cheek not noticeable in the profile, but rendering the front face somewhat harsh as well as sharp. In a word, the face and the figure were not in harmony: the figure prevented you from pronouncing her to be masculine; the face took from the figure the charm of feminacy. It was the head of the young Augustus upon the form of Agrippina. One touch more, and we close a description which already perhaps the reader may consider frivolously minute. If you had placed before the mouth and lower part of the face a mask or bandage, the whole character of the upper face would have changed at once,—the eye lost its glittering falseness, the brow its sinister contraction; you would have pronounced the face not only beautiful, but sweet and womanly. Take that bandage suddenly away and the change would have startled you, and startled you the more because you could detect no sufficient defect or disproportion in the lower part of the countenance to explain it. It was as if the mouth was the key to the whole: the key nothing without the text, the text uncomprehended without the key.

      Such, then, was Lucretia Clavering in outward appearance at the age of twenty,—striking to the most careless eye; interesting and perplexing the student in that dark language never yet deciphered,—the human countenance. The reader must have observed that the effect every face that he remarks for the first time produces is different from the impression it leaves upon him when habitually seen. Perhaps no two persons differ more from each other than does the same countenance in our earliest recollection of it from the countenance regarded in the familiarity of repeated intercourse. And this was especially the case with Lucretia Clavering’s: the first impulse of nearly all who beheld it was distrust that partook of fear; it almost inspired you with a sense of danger. The judgment rose up against it; the heart set itself on its guard. But this uneasy sentiment soon died away, with most observers, in admiration at the chiselled outline, which, like the Grecian sculpture, gained the more the more it was examined, in respect for the intellectual power of the expression, and in fascinated pleasure at the charm of a smile, rarely employed, it is true, but the more attractive both for that reason and for its sudden effect in giving brightness and persuasion to an aspect that needed them so much. It was literally like the abrupt breaking out of a sunbeam; and the repellent impression of the face thus familiarized away, the matchless form took its natural influence; so that while one who but saw Lucretia for a moment might have pronounced her almost plain, and certainly not prepossessing in appearance, those with whom she lived, those whom she sought to please, those who saw her daily, united in acknowledgment of her beauty; and if they still felt awe, attributed it only to the force of her understanding.

      As she now came midway up the room, Gabriel started from his seat and ran to her caressingly. Lucretia bent down, and placed her hand upon his fair locks. As she did so, he whispered,—

      “Mr. Vernon has been watching for you.”

      “Hush! Where is your father?”

      “Behind the screen, at chess with Sir Miles.”

      “With Sir Miles!” and Lucretia’s eye fell, with the direct gaze we have before referred to, upon the boy’s face.

      “I have been looking over them pretty often,” said he, meaningly: “they have talked of nothing but the game.” Lucretia lifted her head, and glanced round with her furtive eye; the boy divined the search, and with a scarce perceptible gesture pointed her attention to Mainwaring’s retreat. Her vivid smile passed over her lips as she bowed slightly to her lover, and then, withdrawing the hand which Gabriel had taken in his own, she moved on, passed Vernon with a commonplace word or two, and was soon exchanging greetings with the gay merry-makers in the farther part of the room. A few minutes afterwards, the servants entered, the tea-table was removed, chairs were thrust back, a single lady of a certain age volunteered her services at the piano, and dancing began within the ample space which the arch fenced off from the whist-players. Vernon had watched his opportunity, and at the first sound of the piano had gained Lucretia’s side, and with grave politeness pre-engaged her hand for the opening dance.

      At that day, though it is not so very long ago, gentlemen were not ashamed to dance, and to dance well; it was no languid saunter through a quadrille; it was fair, deliberate, skilful dancing amongst the courtly,—free, bounding movement amongst the gay.

      Vernon, as might be expected, was the most admired performer of the evening; but he was thinking very little of the notice he at last excited, he was employing such ingenuity as his experience of life supplied to the deficiencies of a very imperfect education, limited to the little flogged into him at Eton, in deciphering the character and getting at the heart of his fair partner.

      “I wonder you do not make Sir Miles take you to London, my cousin, if you will allow me to call you so. You ought to have been presented.”

      “I have no wish to go to London yet.”

      “Yet!” said Mr. Vernon, with the somewhat fade gallantry of his day; “beauty even like yours has little time to spare.”

      “Hands across, hands across!” cried Mr. Ardworth.

      “And,” continued Mr. Vernon, as soon as a pause was permitted to him, “there is a song which the prince sings, written by some sensible old-fashioned fellow, which says,—

      “‘Gather your rosebuds while you may, For time is still a flying.”’

      “You have obeyed the moral of the song yourself, I believe, Mr. Vernon.”

      “Call me cousin, or Charles,—Charley, if you like, as most of my friends do; nobody ever calls me Mr. Vernon,—I don’t know myself by that name.”

      “Down the middle; we are all waiting for you,” shouted Ardworth.

      And down the middle, with wondrous grace, glided the exquisite nankeens of Charley Vernon.

      The dance now, thanks to Ardworth, became too animated and riotous to allow more than a few broken monosyllables till Vernon and his partner gained the end of the set, and then, flirting his partner’s fan, he recommenced,—

      “Seriously, my cousin, you must sometimes feel very much moped here.”

      “Never!” answered Lucretia. Not once yet had her eye rested on Mr. Vernon. She felt that she was sounded.

      “Yet I am sure you have a taste for the pomps and vanities. Aha! there is ambition under those careless curls,” said Mr. Vernon, with his easy, adorable impertinence.

      Lucretia winced.

      “But if I were ambitious, what field for ambition could I find in London?”

      “The same as Alexander,—empire, my cousin.”

      “You forget that I am not a man. Man, indeed, may hope for an empire. It is something to be a Pitt, or even a Warren Hastings.”

      Mr. Vernon stared. Was this stupidity, or what?

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