 | CHAPTER XI. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
This incident necessarily produced a change in my
views with regard to my friend. Her fortune consisted
of a few hundreds of dollars, which, frugally administered,
might procure decent accommodation in the
country. When this was consumed, she must find subsistence
in tending the big-wheel or the milk-pail, unless
fortune should enable me to place her in a more favorable
situation. This state was, in some respects,
but little different from that in which she had spent the
former part of her life; but, in her father's house,
these employments were dignified by being, in some degree,
voluntary, and relieved by frequent intervals of
recreation and leisure. Now they were likely to prove
irksome and servile, in consequence of being performed
for hire, and imposed by necessity. Equality, parental
solicitudes, and sisterly endearments would be wanting
to lighten the yoke.
These inconveniences, however, were imaginary. This
was the school in which fortitude and independence were
to be learned. Habit, and the purity of rural manners,
would, likewise, create a-new those ties which
death had dissolved. The affections of parent and sister
would be supplied by the fonder and more rational
attachments of friendship. These toils were not detrimental
to beauty or health. What was to be dreaded
of liberal curiosity; to habituate the person to bodily,
rather than intellectual, exertions; to supersede, and
create indifference or aversion to the only instruments
of rational improvement, the pen and the book.
This evil, however, was at some distance from Eliza.
Her present abode was quiet and serene. Here
she might enjoy domestic pleasures and opportunities
of mental improvement, for the coming twelvemonth
at least. This period would, perhaps, be sufficient for
the formation of studious habits. What schemes
should be adopted, for this end, would be determined
by the destiny to which I myself should be reserved.
My path was already chalked out, and my fancy
now pursued it with uncommon pleasure. To reside
in your family; to study your profession; to pursue
some subordinate or casual mode of industry, by
which I might purchase leisure for medical pursuits,
for social recreations, and for the study of mankind
on your busy and thronged stage, was the scope
of my wishes. This destiny would not hinder punctual
correspondence and occasional visits to Eliza. Her
pen might be called into action, and her mind be awakened
by books, and every hour be made to add to her
stores of knowledge and enlarge the bounds of her capacity.
I was spiritless and gloomy when I left —,
but reflections on my future lot, and just views of the
situation of my friend, insensibly restored my cheerfulness.
I arrived at Mr. Curling's in the evening,
and hastened to impart to Eliza the issue of my
commission. It gave her uneasiness, merely as it
frustrated the design, on which she had fondly mused,
of residing in the city. She was somewhat consoled
by my promises of being her constant correspondent and
occasional visitor.
Next morning I set out on my journey hither, on
foot. The way was not long; the weather, though
cold, was wholesome and serene. My spirits were
high, and I saw nothing in the world before me but
depended not on the revolutions of nature or the
caprice of man. All without was, indeed, vicissitude
and uncertainty; but within my bosom was a centre
not to be shaken or removed. My purposes were honest
and steadfast. Every sense was the inlet of pleasure,
because it was the avenue to knowledge; and
my soul brooded over the world of ideas, and glowed
with exultation at the grandeur and beauty of its own
creations.
This felicity was too rapturous to be of long duration.
I gradually descended from these heights; and
the remembrance of past incidents, connected with the
images of your family, to which I was returning, led
my thoughts into a different channel. Welbeck and
the unhappy girl whom he had betrayed; Mrs. Villars
and Wallace were recollected a-new. The views which
I had formed, for determining the fate and affording
assistance to Clemenza, were recalled. My former
resolutions, with regard to her, had been suspended by
the uncertainty in which the fate of the Hadwins was,
at that time, wrapped. Had it not become necessary
wholly to lay aside these resolutions?
That, indeed, was an irksome conclusion. No wonder
that I struggled to repel it: that I fostered the
doubt whether money was the only instrument of
benefit: whether caution, and fortitude, and knowledge
were not the genuine preservatives from evil.
Had I not the means in my hands of dispelling her
fatal ignorance of Welbeck and of those with whom
she resided? Was I not authorized by my previous,
though slender, intercourse, to seek her presence?
Suppose I should enter Mrs. Villars' house, desire to
be introduced to the lady, accost her with affectionate
simplicity, and tell her the truth? Why be anxious to
smooth the way; why deal in apologies, circuities and
inuendoes? All these are feeble and perverse refinements,
unworthy of an honest purpose and an erect
spirit. To believe her inaccessible to my visit, was
absurd. To wait for the permission of those whose interest
This was an infringement of her liberty, which equity and
law equally condemned. By what right could she be
restrained from intercourse with others? Doors and
passages may be between her and me. With a purpose
such as mine, no one had a right to close the one or obstruct
the other. Away with cowardly reluctances
and clownish scruples, and let me hasten this moment
to her dwelling.
Mrs. Villars is the portress of the mansion. She
will probably present herself before me, and demand the
reason of my visit. What shall I say to her? The
truth. To faulter, or equivocate, or dissemble to this
woman, would be wicked. Perhaps her character has
been misunderstood and maligned. Can I render her a
greater service than to apprize her of the aspersions that
have rested on it, and afford her the opportunity of vindication?
Perhaps she is indeed selfish and profligate;
the betrayer of youth and the agent of laciviousness.
Does she not deserve to know the extent of her errors
and the ignominy of her trade? Does she not merit the
compassion of the good and the rebukes of the wise?
To shrink from the task, would prove me cowardly and
unfirm. Thus far, at least, let my courage extend.
Alas! Clemenza is unacquainted with my language.
My thoughts cannot make themselves apparent but by
words, and to my words she will be able to affix no
meaning. Yet is not that an hasty decision? The vension
from the dramas of Zeno which I found in her toilet,
was probably hers, and proves her to have a speculative
knowledge of our tongue. Near half a year has
since elapsed, during which she has dwelt with talkers
of English, and consequently could not fail to have acquired
it. This conclusion is somewhat dubious, but
experiment will give it certainty.
Hitherto I had strolled along the path at a lingering
pace. Time enough, methought, to reach your threshold
between sun-rise and moonlight, if my way had been
three times longer than it was. Yon were the pleasing
phantoms that hovered before me, and beckoned me forward.
course of a few seconds, for thus long did my reasonings
with regard to Clemenza and the Villars require to pass
through my understanding, and escape, in half muttered
soliloquy, from my lips. My muscles trembled with
eagerness, and I bounded forward with impetuosity. I
saw nothing but a visto of catalpas, leafless, loaded
with icicles, and terminating in four chimneys and a
painted roof. My fancy outstripped my footsteps, and
was busy in picturing faces and rehearsing dialogues.
Presently I reached this new object of my pursuit,
darted through the avenue, noticed that some windows
of the house were unclosed, drew thence an hasty inference
that the house was not without inhabitants, and
knocked, quickly and loudly, for admission.
Some one within crept to the door, opened it with
seeming caution, and just far enough to allow the face
to be seen. It was the timid, pale and unwashed face
of a girl who was readily supposed to be a servant, taken
from a cottage, and turned into a bringer of wood
and water, and a scourer of tubs and trenchers. She
waited in timorous silence the delivery of my message.
Was Mrs. Villars at home?
No: she was gone to town.
Were any of her daughters within?
She could not tell; she believed—she thought—
which did I want? Miss Hetty or Miss Sally?
Let me see Miss Hetty. Saying this, I pushed gently
against the door. The girl, half reluctant, yielded
way: I entered the passage, and putting my hand on the
lock of a door that seemed to lead into a parlour—is
Miss Hetty in this room?
No: there was nobody there.
Go call her then. Tell her there is one who wishes
to see her on important business. I will wait for her
coming in this room. So saying, I opened the door,
and entered the apartment, while the girl withdrew to
perform my message.
The parlour was spacious and expensively furnished,
but an air of negligence and disorder was every where
clock on the table, in a glass frame, so streaked and
spotted with dust as scarcely to be transparent, and the
index motionless, and pointing at four instead of nine;
embers scattered on the marble hearth, and tongs lying
on the fender with the handle in the ashes; an harpsicord,
uncovered, one end loaded with scores, tumbled
together in a heap, and the other with volumes of novels
and plays, some on their edges, some on their backs,
gaping open by the scorching of their covers; rent;
blurred; stained; blotted; dog-eared; tables awry;
chairs crouding each other; in short, no object but indicated
the neglect or ignorance of domestic neatness
and economy.
My leisure was employed in surveying these objects,
and in listening for the approach of Miss Hetty. Some
minutes elapsed, and no one came. A reason for delay
was easily imagined, and I summoned patience to
wait. I opened a book; touched the instrument;
surveyed the vases on the mantle-tree; the figures on
the hangings, and the print of Apollo and the Sybil,
taken from Salvator, and hung over the chimney. I
eyed my own shape and garb in the mirror, and asked
how my rustic appearance would be regarded by that
supercilious and voluptuous being, to whom I was
about to present myself.
Presently the latch of the door was softly moved, it
opened, and the simpleton, before described, appeared.
She spoke, but her voice was so full of hesitation, and so
near a whisper, that much attention was needed to
make out her words: Miss Hetty was not at home—
she was gone to town with her mistiss.
This was a tale not to be credited. How was I to
act? She persisted in maintaining the truth of it.—
Well then, said I, at length, tell Miss Sally that I wish
to speak with her. She will answer my purpose just as
well.
Miss Sally was not at home neither. She had gone
to town too. They would not be back, she did not know
when: not till night, she supposed. It was so indeed,
in the kitchen—indeed'n there wasn't.
Go tell Nanny to come here—I will leave my message
with her. She withdrew, but Nanny did not receive
the summons, or thought proper not to obey it.
All was vacant and still.
My state was singular and critical. It was absurd
to prolong it; but to leave the house with my errand
unexecuted, would argue imbecility and folly. To ascertain
Clemenza's presence in this house, and to gain an
interview, were yet in my power. Had I not boasted
of my intrepidity in braving denials and commands,
when they endeavored to obstruct my passage to this
woman? But here were no obstacles nor prohibitions.
Suppose the girl had said truth, that the matron and
her daughters were absent, and that Nanny and herself
were the only guardians of the mansion. So much
the better. My design will not be opposed. I have
only to mount the stair, and go from one room to another,
till I find what I seek.
There was hazard, as well as plausibility, in this
scheme. I thought it best once more to endeavor to
extort information from the girl, and persuade her to be
my guide to whomsoever the house contained. I put
my hand to the bell and rung a brisk peal. No one
come. I passed into the entry, to the foot of a staircase,
and to a back window. Nobody was within hearing
or sight.
Once more I reflected on the rectitude of my intentions,
on the possibility that the girl's assertions might
be true, on the benefits of expedition, and of gaining
access to the object of my visit without interruption or
delay. To these considerations was added a sort of
charm, not easily explained, and by no means justifiable,
produced by the very temerity and hazardness accompanying
this attempt. I thought, with scornful
emotions, on the bars and hindrances which pride and
caprice, and delusive maxims of decorum, raise in the
way of human intercourse. I spurned at these semblances
and substitutes of honesty, and delighted to
to dust. I wanted to see an human being, in
order to promote her happiness. It was doubtful whether
she was within twenty paces of the spot where I
stood. The doubt was to be solved. How? By examining
the space. I forthwith proceeded to examine it.
I reached the second story. I approached a door that
was closed I knocked: after a pause, a soft voice
said, who is there?
The accents were as musical as those of Clemenza,
but were in other respects, different. I had no topic
to discuss with this person. I answered not, yet hesitated
to withdraw. Presently the same voice was
again heard: what is it you want? Why don't you answer?
Come in!—I complied with the command, and
entered the room.
It was deliberation and foresight that led me hither,
and not chance or caprice. Hence, instead of being
disconcerted or vanquished by the objects that I saw, I
was tranquil and firm. My curiosity, however, made
me a vigilant observer. Two females, arrayed with
voluptuous negligence, in a manner adapted to the utmost
seclusion, and seated in a careless attitude, on a
sofa, were now discovered.
Both darted glances at the door. One, who appeared
to be the youngest, no sooner saw me, than
she shrieked, and starting from her seat, betrayed, in
the looks which she successively cast upon me, on herself
and on the chamber, whose apparatus was in no
less confusion than that of the apartment below, her
consciousness of the unseasonableness of this meeting.
The other shrieked likewise, but on her it seemed to
be the token of surprize, rather than that of terror.
There was, probably, somewhat in my aspect and garb
that suggested an apology for this instrusion, as arising
from simplicity and mistake. She thought proper, however,
to assume the air of one offended, and looking
sternely—How now, fellow, said she, what is this?
Why come you hither?
This questioner was of mature age, but had not passed
beauty that nature had bestowed was still retained, but
the portion had never been great. What the possessed
was so modelled and embellished by such a carriage and
dress, as to give it most power over the senses of the
gazer. In proportion, however, as it was intended
and adapted to captivate those, who know none but
physical pleasures, it was qualified to breed distaste and
aversion in me.
I am sensible how much error may have lurked in
this decision. I had brought with me the belief of
their being unchaste; and seized, perhaps, with too
much avidity, any appearance that coincided with my
prepossessions. Yet the younger by no means inspired
the same disgust; though I had no reason to suppose
her more unblemished than the elder. Her modesty
seemed unaffected, and was by no means satisfied, like
that of the elder, with defeating future curiosity. The
consciousness of what had already been exposed filled
her with confusion, and she would have flown away, if
her companion had not detained her by some degree of
force. What ails the girl? There's nothing to be
frightened at. Fellow! she repeated, what brings
you here?
I advanced and stood before them. I looked steadfastly,
but, I believe, with neither effrontery nor anger,
on the one who addressed me. I spoke in a tone
serious and emphatical. I come for the sake of speaking
to a woman, who formerly resided in this house,
and probably resides here still. Her name is Clemenza
Lodi. If she be here, I request you to conduct me to
her instantly.
Methought I perceived some inquietude, a less imperious
and more inquisitive air, in this woman, on hearing
the name of Clemenza. It was momentary, and
gave way to peremptory looks. What is your business
with her? And why did you adopt this mode of
enquiry? A very extraordinary intrusion! Be good
enough to leave the chamber. Any questions proper
to be answered, will be answered below.
I meant not to intrude or offend. It was not an idle
or impertinent motive that led me hither. I waited below
for some time after soliciting an audience of you,
through the servant. She assured me you were absent,
and laid me under the necessity of searching for Clemenza
Lodi myself, and without a guide. I am anxious
to withdraw, and request merely to be directed to
the room which she occupies.
I direct you, replied she in a more resolute tone, to
quit the room and the house.
Impossible, madam, I replied, still looking at her
earnestly, leave the house without seeing her! You
might as well enjoin me to pull the Andes on my head!
To walk barefoot to Peking! Impossible!
Some solicitude was now mingled with her anger.
This is strange insolence! unaccountable behaviour!— be gone from my room! will you compel me to call the
gentlemen?
Be not alarmed, said I, with augmented mildness.
There was indeed compassion and sorrow at my heart,
and these must have somewhat influenced my looks.
Be not alarmed—I came to confer a benefit, not to perpetrate
an injury. I came not to censure or expostulate
with you, but merely to counsel and aid a being that
needs both: all I want is to see her. In this chamber
I sought not you, but her. Only lead me to her, or tell
me where she is. I will then rid you of my presence.
Will you compel me to call those who will punish
this insolence as it deserves?
Dearest madam! I compel you to nothing. I
merely supplicate. I would ask you to lead me to
these gentlemen, if I did not know that there are none
but females in the house. It is you who must receive and
comply with my petition. Allow me a moment's interview
with Clemenza Lodi. Compliance will harm
you not, but will benefit her. What is your objection?
This is the strangest proceeding! the most singular
conduct! Is this a place fit to parley with you? I
warn you of the consequence of staying a moment longer.
Depend upon it, you will sorely repent it.
You are obdurate, said I, and turned towards the
younger, who listened to this discourse in tremors
and panick. I took her hand with an air of humility
and reverence. Here, said I, there seems to be purity,
innocence and condescension. I took this house to be
the temple of voluptuousness. Females, I expected to
find in it, but such only as traded in licentious pleasures:
specious, perhaps not destitute of talents, beauty
and address, but dissolute and wanton; sensual and
avaricious; yet, in this countenance and carriage there
are tokens of virtue. I am born to be deceived, and
the semblance of modesty is readily assumed. Under
this veil, perhaps, lurk a tainted heart and depraved
appetites. Is it so?
She made me no answer, but somewhat in her looks
seemed to evince that my favorable prepossessions were
just. I noticed likewise that the alarm of the elder
was greatly increased by this address to her companion.
The thought suddenly occurred that this girl
might be in circumstances not unlike those of Clemenza
Lodi; that she was not apprized of the character
of her associates, and might by this meeting be rescued
from similar evils.
This suspicion filled me with tumultuous feelings.
Clemenza was for a time forgotten. I paid no attention
to the looks or demeanor of the elder, but was
wholly occupied in gazing on the younger. My anxiety
to know the truth, gave pathos and energy to my
tones, while I spoke:
Who, where, what are you? Do you reside in this
house? Are you a sister or daughter in this family, or
merely a visitant? Do you know the character, profession
and views of your companions? Do you deem
them virtuous, or know them to be profligate? Speak!
tell me, I beseech you!
The maiden confusion which had just appeared in
the countenance of this person, now somewhat abated.
She lifted her eyes, and glanced by turns at me and at
her who sat by her side. An air of serious astonishment
overspread her features, and she seemed anxious
the utmost alarm, again upbraided my audacity, commanded
me to withdraw, and admonished me of the
danger I incurred by lingering.
I noticed not her interference, but again entreated to
know of the younger her true state. She had no time to
answer me, supposing her not to want the inclination,
for every pause was filled by the clamorous importunities
and menaces of the other. I began to perceive
that my attempts were useless to this end, but the
chief, and most estimable purpose, was attainable. It
was in my power to state the knowledge I possessed,
through your means, of Mrs. Villars and her daughters.
This information might be superfluous, since she
to whom it was given, might be one of this licentious
family. The contrary, however, was not improbable,
and my tidings, therefore, might be of the utmost moment
to her safety.
A resolute, and even impetuous manner, reduced my
incessant interruptor to silence. What I had to say
I compressed in a few words, and adhered to perspicuity
and candor with the utmost care. I still held the
hand that I had taken, and fixed my eyes upon her
countenance with a steadfastness that hindered her
from lifting her eyes.
I know you not; whether you be dissolute or chaste,
I cannot tell. In either case, however, what I am going
to say will be useful. Let me faithfully repeat
what I have heard. It is mere rumor, and I vouch
not for its truth. Rumor as it is, I submit it to your
judgment, and hope that it may guide you into paths
of innocence and honor.
Mrs. Villars and her three daughters are English
women, who supported for a time an unblemished reputation,
but who, at length, were suspected of carrying
on the trade of prostitution. This secret could not
be concealed forever. The profligates who frequented
their house, betrayed them. One of them who died under
their roof, after they had withdrawn from it into the
country, disclosed to his kinsman, who attended his
death bed, their genuine character.
The dying man likewise related incidents in which I
am deeply concerned. I have been connected with one
by name Welbeck. In his house I met an unfortunate
girl, who was afterwards removed to Mrs. Villars's.
Her name was Clemenza Lodi. Residence in this
house, under the controul of a woman like Mrs. Villars
and her daughters, must be injurious to her innocence,
and from this controul I now come to rescue
her.
I turned to the elder, and continued: By all that is
sacred, I adjure you to tell me whether Clemenza Lodi
be under this roof! if she be not, whither has she gone?
To know this, I came hither, and any difficulty or reluctance
in answering, will be useless; till an answer
be obtained, I will not go hence.
During this speech, anger had been kindling in the
bosom of this woman. It now burst upon me in a torrent
of opprobrious epithets. I was a villain, a calumniator,
a thief. I had lurked about the house, till those whose
sex and strength enabled them to cope with me, had
gone. I had entered these doors by fraud. I was a
wretch, guilty of the last excesses of insolence and
insult.
To repel these reproaches, or endure them, was
equally useless. The satisfaction that I sought was
only to be gained by searching the house. I left the
room without speaking. Did I act illegally in passing
from one story and one room to another? Did I really deserve
the imputations of rashness and insolence? My
behaviour, I well know, was ambiguous and hazardous,
and perhaps wanting in discretion, but my motives
were unquestionably pure. I aimed at nothing but the
rescue of an human creature from distress and dishonor.
I pretend not to the wisdom of experience and age;
to the praise of forethought or subtlety. I chuse the
obvious path, and pursue it with headlong expedition.
Good intentions, unaided by knowledge, will, perhaps,
produce more injury than benefit, and therefore, knowledge
must be gained, but the acquisition is not momentary;
we must not be unactive because we are ignorant.
Our good purposes must hurry to performance,
whether our knowledge be greater or less.
| CHAPTER XI. Arthur Mervyn, or, Memoirs of the year 1793 | |