 | OVER HIS CIGAR. Reveries of a bachelor, or, A book of the heart |  |
I.
Lighted with a Coal.
I TAKE up a coal with the tongs, and setting the
end of my cigar against it, puff—and puff again;
but there is no smoke. There is very little hope of
lighting from a dead coal;—no more hope, thought
I,—than of kindling one's heart into flame, by contact
with a dead heart.
To kindle, there must be warmth and life; and I
sat for a moment, thinking,—even before I lit my
cigar,—on the vanity and folly of those poor, purblind
fellows, who go on puffing for half a lifetime,
against dead coals. It is to be hoped that Heaven,
in its mercy, has made their senses so obtuse, that
they know not when their souls are in a flame, or
when they are dead. I can imagine none but the
what has got no ember of love within it. The Italians
have a very sensible sort of proverb,—amare, e
non essere amato, è tempo perduto:—to love, and not
be loved, is time lost.
I take a kind of rude pleasure in flinging down a
coal that has no life in it. And it seemed to me,—
and may Heaven pardon the ill-nature that belongs
to the thought,—that there would be much of the
same kind of satisfaction, in dashing from you a luke-warm
creature, covered over with the yellow ashes
of old combustion, that with ever so much attention,
and the nearest approach of the lips, never shows
signs of fire. May Heaven forgive me again, but I
should long to break away, though the marriage bonds
held me, and see what liveliness was to be found elsewhere.
I have seen before now a creeping vine try to grow
up against a marble wall; it shoots out its tendrils in
all directions, seeking for some crevice by which to
fasten and to climb;—looking now above and now
below,—twining upon itself,—reaching farther up,
but after all, finding no good foothold, and falling
away as if in despair. But nature is not unkind;
twining things were made to twine. The longing
tendrils take new strength in the sunshine, and in the
showers, and shoot out toward some hospitable trunk.
and stretch up, dragging after them the vine; which
by and by, from the topmost bough, will nod its blossoms
over at the marble wall, that refused it suceour,
as if it said,—stand there in your pride, cold, white
wall! we, the tree and I are kindred, it the helper,
and I the helped; and bound fast together, we riot
in the sunshine, and in gladness.
The thought of this image made me search for a
new coal that should have some brightness in it.
There may be a white ash over it indeed; as you
will find tender feelings covered with the mask of
courtesy, or with the veil of fear; but with a breath
it all flies off, and exposes the heat, and the glow that
you are seeking.
At the first touch, the delicate edges of the cigar
crimple, a thin line of smoke rises,—doubtfully for a
while, and with a coy delay; but after a hearty respiration
or two, it grows strong, and my cigar is fairly
lighted.
That first taste of the new smoke, and of the fragrant
leaf is very grateful; it has a bloom about it,
that you wish might last. It is like your first love,—
fresh, genial, and rapturous. Like that, it fills up
all the craving of your soul; and the light, blue
wreaths of smoke, like the roseate clouds that hang
around the morning of your heart life, cut you off
and make a gorgeous firmament for your
fancy to riot in.
I do not speak now of those later, and manlier passions,
into which judgment must be thrusting its cold
tones, and when all the sweet tumult of your heart has
mellowed into the sober ripeness of affection. But I
mean that boyish burning, which belongs to every
poor mortal's lifetime, and which bewilders him with
the thought that he has reached the highest point of
human joy, before he has tasted any of that bitterness,
from which alone our highest human joys have
spring. I mean the time, when you cut initials with
your jack-knife on the smooth bark of beech trees;
and went moping under the long shadows at sunset;
and thought Louise the prettiest name in the wide
world; and picked flowers to leave at her door; and
stole out at night to watch the light in her window;
and read such novels as those about Helen Mar, or
Charlotte, to give some adequate expression to your
agonized feelings.
At such a stage, you are quite certain that you are
deeply, and madly in love; you persist in the face of
heaven, and earth. You would like to meet the individual
who dared to doubt it.
You think she has got the tidiest, and jauntiest
upon some time when in your games of forfeit, you
gained a kiss from these lips; and it seems as if the
kiss was hanging on you yet, and warming you all
over. And then again, it seems so strange that your
lips did really touch hers! You half question if it
could have been actually so,—and how you could have
dared;—and you wonder if you would have courage
to do the same thing again?—and upon second
thought, are quite sure you would,—and snap your
fingers at the thought of it.
What sweet little hats she does wear; and in the
school room, when the hat is hung up—what curls—
golden curls, worth a hundred Golcondas! How
bravely you study the top lines of the spelling book
—that your eyes may run over the edge of the cover,
without the schoolmaster's notice, and feast upon
her!
You half wish that somebody would run away with
her, as they did with Amanda, in the Children of the
Abbey;—and then you might ride up on a splendid
black horse, and draw a pistol, or blunderbuss, and
shoot the villians, and carry her back, all in tears,
fainting, and languishing upon your shoulder;—and
have her father (who is Judge of the County Court,)
take your hand in both of his, and make some eloquent
remarks. A great many such re-captures you
would be to peril your life, either by flood, or fire,—to
cut off your arm, or your head, or any such trifle,—
for your dear Louise.
You can hardly think of anything more joyous in
life, than to live with her in some old castle, very far
away from steamboats, and post-offices, and pick wild
geraniums for her hair, and read poetry with her,
under the shade of very dark ivy vines. And you
would have such a charming boudoir in some corner
of the old ruin, with a harp in it, and books bound in
gilt, with cupids on the cover, and such a fairy couch,
with the curtains hung—as you have seen them hung
in some illustrated Arabian stories—upon a pair of
carved doves!
And when they laugh at you about it, you turn it
off perhaps with saying—“it isn't so;” but afterward,
in your chamber, or under the tree where you
have cut her name, you take Heaven to witness, that
it is so; and think—what a cold world it is, to be so
careless about such holy emotions! You perfectly
hate a certain stout boy in a green jacket, who is forever
twitting you, and calling her names; but when
some old maiden aunt teases you in her kind, gentle
way, you bear it very proudly; and with a feeling as
if you could bear a great deal more for her sake.
And when the minister reads off marriage anonuncements
of these days, to have your name, and hers, read from
the pulpit;—and how the people will all look at you,
and how prettily she will blush; and how poor little
Dick, who you know loves her, but is afraid to say so,
will squirm upon his bench.
—Heigho!—mused I,—as the blue smoke rolled
up around my head,—these first kindlings of the love
that is in one, are very pleasant!—but will they last?
You love to listen to the rustle of her dress, as she
stirs about the room. It is better music than grownup
ladies will make upon all their harpsichords, in
the years that are to come. But this, thank Heaven,
you do not know.
You think you can trace her foot-mark, on your
way to the school;—and what a dear little foot-mark
it is! And from that single point, if she be out of
your sight for days, you conjure up the whole image,
—the elastic, lithe little figure,—the springy step,—
the dotted muslin so light, and flowing,—the silk
kerchief, with its most tempting fringe playing upon
the clear white of her throat,—how you envy that
fringe! And her chin is as round as a peach—and
the lips—such lips!—and you sigh, and hang your
head; and wonder when you shall see her again!
You would like to write her a letter; but then people
would talk so coldly about it; and beside you are
of Warsaw used to write; and anything less
warm or elegant, would not do at all. You talk about
this one, or that one, whom they call pretty, in the
coolest way in the world; you see very little of their
prettiness; they are good girls to be sure; and you
hope they will get good husbands some day or other;
but it is not a matter that concerns you very much.
They do not live in your world of romance; they are
not the angels of that sky which your heart makes
rosy, and to which I have likened the blue waves of
this rolling smoke.
You can even joke as you talk of others; you can
smile,—as you think—very graciously; you can say
laughingly that you are deeply in love with them, and
think it a most capital joke; you can touch their
hands, or steal a kiss from them in your games, most
imperturbably;—they are very dead coals.
But the live one is very lively. When you take
the name on your lip, it seems somehow, to be made
of different materials from the rest; you cannot half
so easily separate it into letters;—write it, indeed
you can; for you have had practice,—very much private
practice on odd scraps of paper, and on the flyleaves
of geographies, and of your natural philosophy.
You know perfectly well how it looks; it seems to
be written indeed, somewhere behind your eyes; and
nerve, that you see it all the time, though you are
looking in an opposite direction; and so distinctly,
that you have great fears lest people looking into your
eyes, should see it too!
For all this, it is a far more delicate name to handle
than most that you know of. Though it is very
cool, and pleasant on the brain, it is very hot, and
difficult to manage on the lip. It is not, as your
schoolmaster would say,—a name, so much as it is an
idea;—not a noun, but a verb,—an active, and transitive
verb; and yet a most irregular verb, wanting
the passive voice.
It is something against your schoolmaster's doctrine,
to find warmth in the moonlight; but with that
soft hand—it is very soft—lying within your arm,
there is a great deal of warmth, whatever the philosophers
may say, even in pale moonlight. The beams
too, breed sympathies, very close-running sympathies,
—not talked about in the chapters on optics, and altogether
too fine for language. And under their influence,
you retain the little hand, that you had not
dared retain so long before; and her struggle to recover
it,—if indeed it be a struggle,—is infinitely less
than it was;—nay, it is a kind of struggle, not so
much against you, as between gladness and modesty.
It makes you as bold as a lion; and the feeble hand
and very meek;—and failing of escape, it will sue for
gentle treatment; and will meet your warm promise,
with a kind of grateful pressure, that is but half
acknowledged, by the hand that makes it.
My cigar is burning with wondrous freeness; and
from the smoke flash forth images bright and quick
as lightning—with no thunder, but the thunder of
the pulse. But will it all last? Damp will deaden
the fire of a cigar; and there are hellish damps—
alas, too many,—that will deaden the early blazing
of the heart.
She is pretty,—growing prettier to your eye, the
more you look upon her, and prettier to your ear, the
more you listen to her. But you wonder who the
tall boy was, who you saw walking with her, two days
ago? He was not a bad-looking boy; on the contrary,
you think,—(with a grit of your teeth)—that
he was infernally handsome! You look at him very
shyly, and very closely, when you pass him; and turn
to see how he walks, and to measure his shoulders,
and are quite disgusted with the very modest, and
gentlemanly way, with which he carries himself.
You think you would like to have a fisticuff with him,
if you were only sure of having the best of it. You
sound the neighborhood coyly, to find out who the
doing it.
You gather a magnificent bouquet to send her, and
tie it with a green ribbon, and a love knot,—and get
a little rose-bud in acknowledgment. That day, you
pass the tall-boy with a very patronizing look; and
wonder if he would not like to have a sail in your
boat?
But by and by, you find the tall boy walking with
her again; and she looks sideways at him, and with a
kind of grown up air, that makes you feel very boy-like,
and humble, and furious. And you look daggers
at him when you pass; and touch your cap to
her, with quite uncommon dignity;—and wonder if
she is not sorry, and does not feel very badly, to have
got such a look from you?
On some other day, however, you meet her alone;
and the sight of her makes your face wear a genial,
sunny air; and you talk a little sadly about your
fears and your jealousies; she seems a little sad, and
a little glad, together;—and is sorry she has made
you feel badly,—and you are sorry too. And with
this pleasant twin sorrow, you are knit together again
—closer than ever. That one little tear of hers has
been worth more to you than a thousand smiles.
Now you love her madly; you could swear it—swear
it to her, or swear it to the universe. You even say
your mention of her, is tremulous and joyful,—with
a kind of bound in your speech, as if the heart worked
too quick for the tongue; and as if the lips were
ashamed to be passing over such secrets of the soul,
to the mere sense of hearing. At this stage, you
cannot trust yourself to speak her praises; or if you
venture, the expletives fly away with your thought,
before you can chain it into language; and your
speech, at your best endeavor, is but a succession of
broken superlatives, that you are ashamed of. You
strain for language that will scald the thought of her;
but hot as you can make it, it falls back upon your
heated fancy, like a cold shower.
Heat so intense as this consumes very fast; and
the matter it feeds fastest on, is—judgment; and
with judgment gone, there is room for jealousy to
creep in. You grow petulant at another sight of that
tall-boy; and the one tear, which cured your first
petulance, will not cure it now. You let a little of
your fever break out in speech—a speech which you
go home to mourn over. But she knows nothing of
the mourning, while she knows very much of the
anger. Vain tears are very apt to breed pride; and
when you go again with your petulance, you will find
your rosy-lipped girl taking her first studies in dignity
You will stay away, you say;—poor fool, you
are feeding on what your disease loves best! You
wonder if she is not sighing for your return,—and if
your name is not running in her thought,—and if
tears of regret are not moistening those sweet eyes.
— And wondering thus, you stroll moodily, and
hopefully toward her father's home; you pass the
door once—twice; you loiter under the shade of an
old tree, where you have sometimes bid her adieu;
your old fondness is struggling with your pride, and
has almost made the mastery; but in the very moment
of victory, you see yonder your hated rival, and
beside him looking very gleeful, and happy—your perfidious
Louise.
How quick you throw off the marks of your struggle,
and put on the boldest air of boyhood; and what
a dexterous handling to your knife, and a wonderful
keenness to the edge, as you cut away from the bark
of the beech tree, all trace of her name! Still there
is a little silent relenting, and a few tears at night,
and a little tremor of the hand, as you tear out—the
next day,—every fly leaf that bears her name. But
at sight of your rival,—looking so jaunty, and in such
capital spirits, you put on the proud man again.
You may meet her, but you say nothing of your
struggles;—oh no, not one word of that!—but you
talk with amazing rapidity about your games, or what
into your boyish heart!
For a week, you do not see her,—nor for a month,
—nor two months—nor three.
—Puff—puff once more; there is only a little
nauseous smoke and now—my cigar is gone out
altogether. I must light again.
| OVER HIS CIGAR. Reveries of a bachelor, or, A book of the heart | |