"No; but there is this difference: the principles of justice and moral education may control the desire of despoiling or defrauding another of his property, but human passion owns no such stern control. Love is beyond volition. The husband cannot will to love his wife, the wife cannot will not to love another. Reason is powerless against the passion, because the woman loves before she is aware of it. She does not see the danger till she is enveloped in it. Marriage is indissoluble, but passion is capricious. It is foolish, impious, for a human being to swear that he will love another eternally. Passion in its intensity always believes in its eternity. But who can answer for the continuance of love? Who can say, I will not change? Because we foresee no change, are we to shut our eyes to the experience of ages: to our own experience even, which tells too plainly of the mutability of passion? Yet marriage is indissoluble!"
"And rightly so," said Cecil, "for this one reason—whatever is inevitable soon ceases to be a hardship; the very power which human beings have of adapting themselves to almost any condition, makes them accept their fate with tranquillity, provided that fate be certain and unequivocal. Passion is, as you say, mutable, capricious. But in the generality of cases, the mere consciousness of the indissolubility of the marriage tie acts as a check upon the roving fancy."
Hester shook her head.
"This much I will grant," continued Cecil, "that as a matter of sentiment, as a mere question of love, I think you are in the main correct; but as a matter of practical civilization, as a civil institution which regards the whole framework of society, I think you—pardon me—altogether wrong."
The clock on the mantelpiece struck one as he said this, and its sharp, thin note struck like ice upon his heart, as he remembered that his beloved Blanche was sitting up awaiting him, and had been since ten o'clock. He took a hasty leave of Hester, promising to renew the conversation some other evening, and, with a whisper to Frank, withdrew.
Hester saw him depart, with a vague feeling of regret. To understand this, we must not only recall the sudden friendship all have known sometimes to spring up in one evening's intercourse, but we must also consider Hester's peculiar position. She was then just recovering from the shock her illusions had sustained with reference to men of genius. In her provincial and poetical ignorance, she had imagined that every man of remarkable powers must be captivating in appearance. Apollo in the shape of Vulcan was a monstrosity which had never distorted her dreams. I do not mean that she supposed every distinguished poet, novelist, or critic was as handsome as a guardsman. She was prepared for daring oddities of appearance; and was more likely to be captivated by the "flashing eyes and floating hair," by the wild irregularities of an inspired face, than by the lineal correctness of a beauty man. But she was prepared to find singularity and youth: a striking appearance joined to all the ardour and impetuosity of youth. In both was she deceived. The men she saw were for the most part undistinguishable in appearance from the rest of the world, and when distinguishable, not picturesquely so. Above all, they were not young.
It is rather curious at first, to one unfamiliar with the artistic world, to see how little youth is to be met with amongst the celebrities. Our young poets are middle-aged men; our rising authors are bald; our distinguished painters are passing into the "sere and yellow leaf;" our very "young Englanders" are getting gray and pursy.
The truth is, life is short and art is long; and although a privileged man does sometimes in the ardour of youth reach the summit of reputation by a bound, either from the prodigal richness of his genius, or from having hit the favour of the movement, yet, as a general rule, celebrity is slowly gained, and not without many years of toilsome effort. Mastery requires immense labour. Before the proper power over materials can be gained, the artist must have spent enormous labour; and before that power can be exerted in any striking way, the artist must have lived much, suffered much, and observed much. Celebrity is not easily gained now-a-days. The lavish abundance of talent daily, weekly, and monthly squandered upon fugitive productions, makes it no easy matter to rise above the ordinary level; while the multiplicity of works so far exceeds all reading powers to keep pace with them, that, for an author to gain more than a limited and temporary reputation, it is necessary he should either be very lucky, or very earnest, hard-working, resolute, and clever. But before he has attained sufficient mastery to command respect, the gray hairs begin to show themselves. He must have made many efforts, struck many blows, before the way is opened to him, before the world will recognise him.
What a shock then to Hester, when she found, one after the other, all were middle-aged men. The ardour and freshness in their works was but the reminiscence of a youthhood which required the mastery of manhood to mould it. The men she had admired, of whom she had made idols, when she saw them as they were, with deep-lined faces, thin hair, deficient teeth, and all the signs of premature middle age, created a feeling of disappointment almost amounting to disgust. She forgot that in straining their voices to be heard above the crowd, they had grown husky by the time they had succeeded.
Cecil was the first young handsome man whom she had seen, and who, although not yet known to fame, had a sort of drawing-room reputation; she was charmed with him; his wit, vivacity, gentlemanly manner, and handsome countenance, were all calculated to make a deep impression upon her. Without acknowledging to herself the interest she felt in him, she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon what he had said, and how he had looked, rather more than was safe for her peace of mind.