Tales and Novels Volume IX Part 7

I had read accounts of some such thing in the newspapers of the day; I had heard of excesses committed by the soldiery, who were enraged against the Jew merchants; and I recollected some story [Footnote: Drinkwater's Siege of Gibraltar.] of the soldiers having roasted a pig before a Jew's door, with a fire made of the Jew's own cinnamon.

"That fire, sir," said Jacob, "was made before our door: it was kindled by a party of Lord Mowbray's soldiers, who, madly intoxicated with the spirits they had taken from the stores, came in the middle of that dreadful night to our house, and with horrible shouts, called upon my master to give up to them the _Wandering Jew_. My master refusing to do this, they burst open his house, pillaged, wasted, destroyed, and burnt all before our eyes! We lost every thing! I do not mean to say _we--I_, poor Jacob, had little to lose. It is not of that, though it was my all, it is not of that I speak--but my master! From a rich man in one hour he became a beggar! The fruit of all his labour lost--nothing left for his wife or children! I never can forget his face of despair by that fire-light. I think I see it now! He did not recover it, sir,--he died of a broken heart. He was the best and kindest of masters to me. And can you wonder now, Mr. Harrington, or do you blame Jacob, that he could not look upon that lord with a pleased eye, nor smile when he saw him again?"

I did not blame Jacob--I liked him for the warmth of his feeling for his master. When he was a little composed, however, I represented that his affection and pity might have raised his indignation too strongly, and might have made him impute to Lord Mowbray a greater share than he really had in their misfortunes. Lord Mowbray was a very young officer at that time, too young to be trusted with the command of men in such difficult circ.u.mstances. His lords.h.i.+p had been exceedingly blamable in giving, even in jest, the nicknames which had prejudiced his soldiers against an innocent individual; but I could not conceive that he had a serious design to injure; nor could he, as I observed, possibly foresee the fatal consequences that afterwards ensued. As to the excesses of his soldiers, for their want of discipline he was answerable; but Jacob should recollect the distress to which the soldiers had been previously reduced, and the general prejudice against those who were supposed to be the cause of the scarcity. Lord Mowbray might be mistaken like others; but as to his permitting their outrages, or directing them against individual Jews whom he disliked, I told Jacob it was impossible for me to believe it. Why did not the Jew merchant state his complaint to the general, who had, as Jacob allowed, punished all the soldiers who had been convicted of committing outrages? If Lord Mowbray had been complained of by Mr. Manessa, a court-martial would have been held; and if the charges had been substantiated, his t.i.tle of colonel or lord would have availed him nothing--he would have been broke. Jacob said, his poor master, who was ruined and in despair, thought not of courts-martial--perhaps he had no legal proofs--perhaps he dreaded, with reason, the popular prejudice in the garrison, and dared not, being a Jew, appear against a Christian officer. How that might have been, Jacob said, he did not know--all he knew was that his master was very ill, and that he returned to England soon afterwards.

But still, argued I, if Lord Mowbray had not been brought to a court-martial, if it had been known among his brother officers that he had been guilty of such unofficer-like conduct, no British officer would have kept company with him. I was therefore convinced that Jacob must have been misinformed and deceived by exaggerated reports, and prejudiced by the warmth of his own feelings for the loss of his master.

Jacob listened to me with a look of incredulity, yet as if with a wish to believe that I was right: he softened gradually--he struggled with his feelings.

"He knew," he said, "that it was our Christian precept to forgive our enemies--a very good precept: but was it easy? Did all Christians find it easy to put it in practice? And you, Mr. Harrington, you who can have no enemies, how can you judge?"

Jacob ended by promising, with a smile, that he would show me that a Jew could forgive.

Then, eager to discard the subject, he spoke of other things. I thanked him for his having introduced me to Mr. Israel Lyons:--he was delighted to hear of the advantage I had derived from this introduction at Cambridge, and of its having led to my acquaintance with Mr. Montenero.

He had been informed of my meeting Miss Montenero at the theatre: and he told me of his hopes and fears when he heard her say she had been a.s.sisted by a gentleman of the name of Harrington.

I did not venture, however, to speak much of Miss Montenero; but I expatiated on the pleasure I had in Mr. Montenero's conversation, and on the advantages I hoped to derive from cultivating his society.

Jacob, always more disposed to affection and grat.i.tude than to suspicion or revenge, seemed happy to be relieved from the thoughts of Lord Mowbray, and he appeared inspired with fresh life and spirit when he talked of Mr. Montenero and his daughter. He mentioned their kindness to the widow and children of his deceased master, and of Mr. Montenero's goodness to the surviving brother and partner, the London jeweller, Mr. Manessa, Jacob's first benefactor. The Manessas had formerly been settled in Spain, at the time Mr. Montenero had lived there; and when he was in some difficulties with the Inquisition, they had in some way essentially served him, either in a.s.sisting his escape from that country, or in transmitting his property. Jacob was not acquainted with the particulars, but he knew that Mr. Montenero was most grateful for the obligation, whatever it had been; and now that he was rich and the Manessas in distress, he seemed to think he could never do enough for them. Jacob became first acquainted, as he told me, with Mr. Montenero in consequence of his connexion with this family. The widow had represented him as being a faithful friend, and the two children of his deceased master were fond of him. Mr. Montenero's attachment to the Manessas immediately made him take notice of Jacob. Jacob told me that he was to go to their house in the city, and to take charge of their affairs, as soon as they could be settled; and that Mr. Montenero had promised if possible to obtain for him a share in the firm of the surviving brother and partner. In the mean time Jacob was employed by Mr. Montenero in making out catalogues of his books and pictures, arranging his library and cabinet of medals, &c., to all which he was fully competent. Jacob said he rejoiced that these occupations would keep him a little while longer at Mr. Montenero's, as he should there have more frequent opportunities of seeing me, than he could hope for when he should be at the other end of the town. "Besides," added he, "I don't know how I shall ever be able to do without the kindness Mr.

Montenero shows me; and as for Miss Montenero--!" Jacob's countenance expanded, and his voice was by turns softened into tenderness, and raised to enthusiasm, as he again spoke of the father and daughter: and when my mind was touched and warmed by his panegyric of Berenice--p.r.o.nounced with the true eloquence of the heart--she, leaning on her father's arm, entered the room. The dignified simplicity, the graceful modesty of her appearance, so unlike the fas.h.i.+onable forwardness or the fas.h.i.+onable bashfulness, or any of the various airs of affectation, which I had seen in Lady Anne Mowbray and her cla.s.s of young ladies, charmed me perhaps the more from contrast and from the novelty of the charm. There was a timid sensibility in her countenance when I spoke to her, which joined to the feminine reserve of her whole manner, the tone of her voice, and the propriety and elegance of the very little she said, pleased me inexpressibly. I wished only that she had said more. However, when her father spoke, it seemed to be almost the same as if she spoke herself--her sympathy with him appeared so strongly. He began by speaking of Jacob: he was glad to find that I was _the_ Mr. Harrington whom Jacob had been so eager to see. It was evident that they knew all the good that grateful young man could tell of me; and the smile which I received from the father and daughter at this instant would have overpaid me for any obligations I could have conferred. Jacob retired, observing that he had taken up all the time with the history of his own private affairs, and that I had not yet seen any of the pictures. Mr. Montenero immediately led me to one of Murillo's, regretting that he had not the pleasure of showing it to my mother. I began to speak of her sorrow at not being able to venture out; I made some apology, but whatever it was, I am sure I did not, I could not, p.r.o.nounce it well. Mr. Montenero bowed his head courteously, removed his eyes from my face, and glanced for one moment at Miss Montenero with a look of regret, quickly succeeded by an expression in his countenance of calm and proud independence. He was sorry, he said, that he could not have the honour of seeing Mrs. Harrington--the pleasure of presenting his daughter to her.

I perceived that he was aware of what I had hoped had escaped his penetration--my mother's prepossession against him and his daughter. I saw that he attributed it to a general prejudice against his race and religion, and I perceived that this hurt his feelings much, though his pride or his philosophy quickly repressed his sensibility. He never afterwards spoke of my mother--never hoped to see her another day--nor hoped even that the cold, which had prevented her from venturing out, would be better. I was the more vexed and ashamed that I had not been able to bring my mother with me. I turned the conversation as quickly as I could to Mr. Israel Lyons.

I observed, by what Mr. Montenero said, that from the information he had received from Mr. Lyons and from Jacob, he was thoroughly aware of my early prejudices and antipathy to the Jews. He observed to his daughter, that Mr. Harrington had double merit in his present liberality, since he had conquered what it is so difficult, scarcely possible, completely to conquer--an early prepossession, fostered perhaps by the opinion of many who must have had great influence on his mind. Through this compliment, I thought I saw in Mr. Montenero's, and still more in the timid countenance of his daughter, a fear that I might relapse; and that _these early prepossessions, which were so difficult, scarcely possible, completely to conquer_, might recur. I promised myself that I should soon convince them they were mistaken, if they had formed any such notion, and I was flattered by the fear, as it implied that I had inspired some interest. We went on with the pictures. Not being a connoisseur, though fond of the arts, I was relieved and pleased to find that Mr. Montenero had none of the jargon of connoisseurs.h.i.+p: while his observations impressed me with a high idea of his taste and judgment, they gave me some confidence in my own. I was delighted to find that I understood, and could naturally and truly agree with all he said, and that my untutored preferences were what they ought to be, according to the right rules of art and science. In short, I was proud to find that my taste was in general the same as his and his daughter's. What pleased me far more than Mr. Montenero's taste, was the liberality and the enlargement of mind I saw in all his opinions and sentiments. There was in him a philosophic calmness and moderation; his reason seemed to have worked against great natural sensibility, perhaps susceptibility, till this calm had become the unvarying temper of his mind. I fancied, also, that I perceived a constant care in him to cultivate the same temper in his daughter, and to fortify her against that extreme sensibility to the opinion of others, and that diffidence of herself, to which, as I recollected, he had formerly adverted.

After having admired some of Murillo's pictures, we came to one which I, unpractised as I was in judging of painting, immediately perceived to be inferior.

"You are quite right," said Mr. Montenero; "it is inferior to Murillo, and the sudden sense of this inferiority absolutely broke the painter's heart. This picture is by a painter of the name of Castillo, who had thought comfortably well of himself, till he saw the master-pieces of Murillo's genius; Castillo surveyed them for some time in absolute silence, then turning away, exclaimed _Castillo is no more!_ and soon Castillo was no more. From that moment he pined away, and shortly afterwards died: not from envy," continued Mr. Montenero; "no, he was a man of mild, amiable temper, incapable of envy; but he fell a victim to excessive sensibility--a dangerous, though not a common vice of character."

"Weakness, not vice, I hope," I heard Miss Montenero say in a low voice.

The father answered with a sigh, "_that_, however, cannot be called a virtue, which incapacitates from the exercise of independent virtue, and which, as you find, not only depresses genius, but may extinguish life itself."

Mr. Montenero then turned to me, and with composure went on speaking of the pictures. Ever since I knew I was to see these, I had been studying c.u.mberland's Lives of the Spanish Painters, and this I honestly told Mr. Montenero, when he complimented me upon my knowing all the names and anecdotes to which he alluded: he smiled--so did his daughter; and he was so good as to say that he liked me better for telling him this so candidly, than if I had known all that the connoisseurs and anecdote-mongers, living or dead, had ever said or written. We came to a picture by Alonzo Cano, who, excelling in architecture, statuary, and painting, has been called the Michael Angelo of Spain.

"He at least was not deficient in a comfortably good opinion of himself, Mr. Montenero," said I. "Is not it recorded of Cano, that having finished a statue of Saint Antonio de Padua for a Spanish counsellor, the tasteless lawyer and n.i.g.g.ardly devotee hesitated to pay the artist his price, observing that Cano, by his own account, had been only twenty-five days about it? The counsellor sat down, with stupid self-sufficiency, to calculate, that at a hundred pistoles, divided by twenty-five days, the artist would be paid at a higher rate than he was himself for the exercise of his talents. 'Wretch! talk to me of your talents!' exclaimed the enraged artist; 'I have been fifty years learning to make this statue in twenty-five days!' And as he spoke, Cano dashed his statue to pieces on the pavement of the academy. The affrighted counsellor fled from the house with the utmost precipitation, concluding that the man who was bold enough to destroy a saint, would have very little remorse in destroying a lawyer.

"Happily for Cano, this story did not reach the ears of the Inquisition," said Mr. Montenero, "or he would have been burnt alive."

Mr. Montenero then pointed out some exquisite pieces by this artist, and spoke with enthusiasm of his genius. I perceived some emotion, of which I could not guess the cause, in the countenance of his daughter; she seemed touched by what her father said about this painter or his pictures.

Mr. Montenero concluded his panegyric on Cano's genius by saying, "Besides being a great genius, we are told that he was very religious, and, some few peculiarities excepted, very charitable."

"You are very charitable, I am sure," said Miss Montenero, looking at her father, and smiling: "I am not sure that I could speak so charitably of that man." A sigh quickly followed her smile, and I now recollected having heard or read that this painter bore such an antipathy to the Jews, that he considered every touch of theirs as contamination; and, if he accidentally came in contact with them, would cast off and give away his clothes, forbidding the servant to whom he gave them, on any account to wear them.

Miss Montenero saw that I recollected to what she alluded--that I had a just feeling of the benevolent magnanimity of her father's character.

This raised me, I perceived, in the daughter's opinion. Though scarcely a word pa.s.sed at the moment, yet I fancied that we felt immediately better acquainted. I ventured to go and stand beside her, from doing which I had hitherto been prevented by I know not what insurmountable difficulty or strange spell.

We were both opposite to a Spanish copy of Guido's Aurora Surgens.

I observed that the flame of the torch borne by the winged boy, representing Lucifer, points westward, in a direction contrary to that in which the manes of the horses, the drapery of Apollo, and that of the dancing Hours, are blown, which seemed to me to be a mistake.

Berenice said that Guido had taken this picture from Ovid's description, and that he had, with great art, represented, by the very circ.u.mstance to which I objected, the swiftness of the motion with which the chariot was driven forward. The current of the morning wind blowing from the east was represented by the direction of the hair of Lucifer, and of the flame of his torch; while the rapidity of the motion of the chariot was such, that, notwithstanding the eastern wind, which would otherwise have blown them towards the west, the manes of the horses, and the drapery of the figures, were driven backwards, by the resistance of the air against which they were hurried. She then repeated, in a pleasing but timid manner, in support of her opinion, these two beautiful lines of Addison's translation:

"With winged speed outstrips the eastern wind, And leaves the breezes of the morn behind."

I need not say that I was delighted with this criticism, and with the modest manner in which it was spoken: but I could not honestly help remarking that, to the description immediately alluded to in Ovid, Addison had added the second beautiful line,

"And leaves the breezes of the morn behind."

Mr. Montenero looked pleased, and said to me, "It is very true, in the immediate pa.s.sage describing the chariot of the Sun issuing from the gates of Heaven, this line is not in the original; but if you look further back in the fable, you will find that the idea is still more strongly expressed in the Latin than in the English."

It was with the utmost difficulty that I at last forced myself away, nor was I in the least aware of the unconscionable length of my visit. What particularly pleased me in the conversation of Miss Montenero was, that she had none of those fas.h.i.+onable phrases which fill each vacuity of sense, and which level all distinctions of understanding. There was none of that commonplace stuff which pa.s.ses for conversation in the world, and which we hear and repeat till we are equally tired of others and of ourselves.

There were, besides, in her manner and countenance, indications of perfect sweetness of temper, a sort of feminine gentleness and softness which art cannot feign nor affectation counterfeit; a gentleness which, while it is the charm of female manners, is perfectly consistent with true spirit, and with the higher or the stronger qualities of the mind.

All I had seen of Miss Montenero in this first visit inspired me with the most ardent desire to see more. Here was a woman who could fill my whole soul; who could at once touch my heart and my imagination. I felt inspired with new life--I had now a great object, a strong and lively interest in existence. At parting, Mr. Montenero shook hands with me, which, he said, he knew was the English mode of showing kindness: he expressed an earnest, but proudly guarded wish, that I might be _so circ.u.mstanced_, and so inclined, as to allow him the pleasure he much desired, of cultivating my acquaintance.

CHAPTER X

The interest which Berenice inspired, so completely absorbed my mind, that I never thought again of Jacob and his story, till I met Lady Anne and her brother the next morning, when I went to take a ride in the park: they were with Colonel Topham, and some people of her ladys.h.i.+p's acquaintance.

Lady Anne, after the usual preliminary quant.i.ty of nonsense, and after she had questioned and cross-questioned me, to the best of her slender abilities, about the Jewess, told me a long story about herself, and her fears, and the fears of her mare, and a horse-laugh of Mowbray's which Colonel Topham said no horse could stand: not much applause ensuing from me, she returned to the witty colonel, and left me to her brother.

Mowbray directly began to talk about Jacob. He said he supposed Jacob had not failed to make his Gibraltar story good; but that "Hear both sides" was an indispensable maxim, even where such a favourite as Jacob was concerned. "But first let us take one other good gallop," said Mowbray; "Anne, I leave you here with Mrs. Carrill and Colonel Topham;"

and away he galloped. When he thought, as he said, that he had shaken off some of my prejudices, he drew up his horse, and talked over the Gibraltar affair.

His das.h.i.+ng, jocular, military mode of telling the thing, so different from Jacob's plain, mercantile, matter-of-fact method, quite changed my view and opinion of the transaction. Mowbray blamed himself with such a good grace, and wished so fervently that he could make any reparation to "the poor devils who had suffered," that I acquitted him of all malice, and forgave his imprudence.

The frankness with which he spoke to Jacob, when they met, was proof conclusive to me that he was incapable, as he declared, of harbouring any malice against Jew or Christian. He inquired most particularly into Jacob's own losses at Gibraltar, called for pen, ink, and paper, and in his off-hand manner wrote a draft on his banker, and put it into Jacob's hand. "Here, my honest Jacob, you are a Jew whose accounts I can take at your word. Let this settle the balance between us. No scruples, Jacob--no present, this--nothing but remuneration for your losses."

Jacob accepted Lord Mowbray's apologies, but could not by any means be prevailed upon to accept from him any present or remuneration. He seemed willing to forgive, but not to trust Lord Mowbray. All trace of resentment was cleared from his countenance, but no condescension of his lords.h.i.+p could move Jacob to throw off his reserve beyond a certain point. He conquered aversion, but he would not pretend to like. Mr.

Montenero came into the room while we were speaking, and I presented Lord Mowbray to him. There was as marked a difference as politeness would allow in Mr. Montenero's manner towards his lords.h.i.+p and towards me, which I justly attributed to Jacob's previous representations. We looked at the pictures, and talked, and loitered, but I turned my eyes in vain to the door every time it opened--no Miss Montenero appeared.

I was so much preoccupied with my object that I was silent, and left Mowbray to make his own way, which no one was more capable of doing. In a few minutes he was in full conversation. He went over again, without my attending to it, his _piece justificative_ about the riot at Gibraltar, and Jacob, and the Manessas; and between the fits of my reverie, I perceived Mowbray was talking of the Due de Crillon and General Elliot, and red-hot b.a.l.l.s; but I took no interest in the conversation, till I heard him speak of an officers' ball at Gibraltar, and of dancing with a Jewess. The very night he had first landed at Gibraltar, there happened to be a ball to which he went with a friend, who was also just landed, and a stranger. It was the custom to draw lots for partners. His friend, a true-born Englishman, took fright at the foreign-sounding name of the lady who fell to his lot--Mowbray changed tickets with him, and had, he said, great reason to rejoice. The lady with the foreign name was a Jewess, the handsomest, the most graceful, the most agreeable woman in the room. He was the envy of every man, and especially of his poor friend, who too late repented his rash renunciation of his ticket. Lord Mowbray, by several other slight anecdotes, which he introduced with happy effect, contrived to please Mr. Montenero; and if any unfavourable prepossession had existed against him, it was, I thought, completely removed. For my own part, I was delighted with his presence of mind in recollecting all that was best worth seeing in London, and arranging parties in which we could have the honour of attending Miss Montenero, and the pleasure of being of some use to her.

Mr. Montenero's own acquaintance in London was chiefly with the families of some of the foreign amba.s.sadors, and with other foreigners of distinction; but his daughter was not yet acquainted with any English ladies, except the lady of General B----, with whom the Monteneros had been intimate in America. Lady Emily B---- was detained in the country by the illness of one of her family, and Miss Montenero, having declined going into public with Mrs. Coates, would wait quietly at home till her English friends should come to town. Again shame for my mother's remissness obliged me to cast down my eyes in awkward silence. But Mowbray, Heaven bless him for it! went on fluently. This was the moment, he said, before Miss Montenero should appear in public, and get into the whirl of the great world, before engagements should multiply and press upon her, as inevitably they would as soon as she had made her debut--this was the moment, and the only moment probably she would ever have to herself, to see all that was worth a stranger's notice in London. Mr. Montenero was obliged to Mowbray, and I am sure so was I.

Miss Montenero, infinitely more desirous to see than to be seen, was pleased with the parties we arranged for her and from this time forward, scarcely a day pa.s.sed without our having the pleasure of attending the father and daughter. My mother sighed and remonstrated in vain; my father, absorbed in the House of Commons, was satisfied with seeing me regularly at breakfast. He usually dined at clubs, and it was happily his principle to let his son amuse himself his own way. But I a.s.sured her, and truly, that I was only amusing myself, and that I had not formed any serious intentions. I wished to see more of the lady.

Mowbray, with ready invention, continually suggested something particularly well worth seeing or hearing, some delightful pretext for our being together. Sometimes he accompanied us, sometimes he excused himself--he had indispensable engagements. His _indispensable engagements_ I knew were usually with ladies of a very different sort from Miss Montenero. Mowbray was desperately in love with the young actress who had played the part of Jessica, and to her he devoted every moment he could command. I regretted for his sake his dissipated tastes, but I felt the more obliged to him for the time he sacrificed to friends.h.i.+p; and perhaps, to tell things just as they were, I was glad he was safely in love with a Jessica of his own, as it secured me from all apprehension of his rivalling or wis.h.i.+ng to rival me. Miss Montenero he confessed was not in the least to his taste. In this instance I was quite satisfied that our tastes should completely differ. I never liked him so well--we went on most happily together. I felt uncommonly benevolent towards the whole world; my heart expanded with increased affection for all my friends--every thing seemed to smile upon me--even the weather. The most delicious morning I ever remember was that on which we rowed along the banks of the Thames with Miss Montenero. I always enjoyed every beautiful object in nature with enthusiasm, but now with new delight--with all the enchantment of a first love, and of hope that had never known disappointment.

I was almost angry with my dear friend Mowbray, for not being as enthusiastic this day as I was myself.

There were certain points of taste and character on which we never could agree; my romantic imagination and enthusiastic manner of expressing myself, were often in contrast with his worldly comic mode of seeing and talking. He hurt, sometimes, my feelings by his raillery--he pulled me down too suddenly from my flights of imagination. By the flashes of his wit he showed, perhaps too clearly, the danger of my fall from "high sublime to deep absurd;" but, after all, I was satisfied that Miss Montenero preferred my style, and in general I was content that he should enjoy his dear wit and gay rhetoric--even a little at my expense.

The morning we went to Westminster Abbey, I own I was provoked with him, for pointing out to my observation, at the moment when my imagination was struck with the sense of sublimity at the sight of the awful pile, the ridiculous contrast of the showman and his keys, who was impatiently waiting till I had finished my exclamations; but I soon forgot both the showman and the wit, while at every step, among the ill.u.s.trious dead, my enthusiasm was raised, and some anecdote of their lives, or some striking quotation from their works, rushed upon my mind. I was inspired and encouraged by the approbation of the father, and the sympathy of the daughter.

As we were quitting the Abbey, Mr. Montenero stopped, turned to me, and said, "You have a great deal of enthusiasm, I see, Mr. Harrington: so much the better, in my opinion--I love generous enthusiasm."

And at the moment I flattered myself that the eyes of his daughter repeated "I love generous enthusiasm," her father caught the expression, and immediately, with his usual care, moderated and limited what he had said.