Mr Monckton had, at this time, a party of company assembled at his
house for the purpose of spending the Christmas holidays. He waited
with anxiety the arrival of Cecilia, and flew to hand her from the
chaise before Mr Harrel could alight. He observed the melancholy of
her countenance, and was much pleased to find that her London
journey had so little power to charm her. He conducted her to the
breakfast parlour, where Lady Margaret and his friends expected her.
Lady Margaret received her with a coldness that bordered upon
incivility; irascible by nature and jealous by situation, the
appearance of beauty alarmed, and of chearfulness disgusted her. She
regarded with watchful suspicion whoever was addressed by her
husband, and having marked his frequent attendance at the Deanery,
she had singled out Cecilia for the object of her peculiar
antipathy; while Cecilia, perceiving her aversion though ignorant of
its cause, took care to avoid all intercourse with her but what
ceremony exacted, and pitied in secret the unfortunate lot of her
friend.
The company now present consisted of one lady and several gentlemen.
Miss Bennet, the lady, was in every sense of the phrase, the humble
companion of Lady Margaret; she was low-born, meanly educated, and
narrow-minded; a stranger alike to innate merit or acquired
accomplishments, yet skilful in the art of flattery, and an adept in
every species of low cunning. With no other view in life than the
attainment of affluence without labour, she was not more the slave
of the mistress of the house, than the tool of its master; receiving
indignity without murmur, and submitting to contempt as a thing of
course.
Among the gentlemen, the most conspicuous, by means of his dress,
was Mr Aresby, a captain in the militia; a young man who having
frequently heard the words red-coat and gallantry put together,
imagined the conjunction not merely customary, but honourable, and
therefore, without even pretending to think of the service of his
country, he considered a cockade as a badge of politeness, and wore
it but to mark his devotion to the ladies, whom he held himself
equipped to conquer, and bound to adore.
The next who by forwardness the most officious took care to be
noticed, was Mr Morrice, a young lawyer, who, though rising in his
profession, owed his success neither to distinguished abilities, nor
to skill-supplying industry, but to the art of uniting suppleness to
others with confidence in himself. To a reverence of rank, talents,
and fortune the most profound, he joined an assurance in his own
merit, which no superiority could depress; and with a presumption
which encouraged him to aim at all things, he blended a good-humour
that no mortification could lessen. And while by the pliability of
his disposition he avoided making enemies, by his readiness to
oblige, he learned the surest way of making friends by becoming
useful to them.
There were also some neighbouring squires; and there was one old
gentleman, who, without seeming to notice any of the company, sat
frowning in a corner.
But the principal figure in the circle was Mr Belfield, a tall, thin
young man, whose face was all animation, and whose eyes sparkled
with intelligence. He had been intended by his father for trade, but
his spirit, soaring above the occupation for which he was designed,
from repining led him to resist, and from resisting, to rebel. He
eloped from his friends, and contrived to enter the army. But, fond
of the polite arts, and eager for the acquirement of knowledge, he
found not this way of life much better adapted to his inclination
than that from which he had escaped; he soon grew weary of it, was
reconciled to his father, and entered at the Temple. But here, too
volatile for serious study, and too gay for laborious application,
he made little progress: and the same quickness of parts and vigour
of imagination which united with prudence, or accompanied by
judgment, might have raised him to the head of his profession, being
unhappily associated with fickleness and caprice, served only to
impede his improvement, and obstruct his preferment. And now, with
little business, and that little neglected, a small fortune, and
that fortune daily becoming less, the admiration of the world, but
that admiration ending simply in civility, he lived an unsettled and
unprofitable life, generally caressed, and universally sought, yet
careless of his interest and thoughtless of the future; devoting his
time to company, his income to dissipation, and his heart to the
Muses.
“I bring you,” said Mr Monckton, as he attended Cecilia into the
room, “a subject of sorrow in a young lady who never gave
disturbance to her friends but in quitting them.”
“If sorrow,” cried Mr Belfield, darting upon her his piercing eyes,
“wears in your part of the world a form such as this, who would wish
to change it for a view of joy?”
“She’s divinely handsome, indeed!” cried the Captain, affecting an
involuntary exclamation.
Meantime, Cecilia, who was placed next to the lady of the house,
quietly began her breakfast; Mr Morrice, the young lawyer, with the
most easy freedom, seating himself at her side, while Mr Monckton
was elsewhere arranging the rest of his guests, in order to secure
that place for himself.
Mr Morrice, without ceremony, attacked his fair neighbour; he talked
of her journey, and the prospects of gaiety which it opened to her
view; but by these finding her unmoved, he changed his theme, and
expatiated upon the delights of the spot she was quitting. Studious
to recommend himself to her notice, and indifferent by what means,
one moment he flippantly extolled the entertainments of the town;
and the next, rapturously described the charms of the country. A
word, a look sufficed to mark her approbation or dissent, which he
no sooner discovered, than he slided into her opinion, with as much
facility and satisfaction as if it had originally been his own.
Mr Monckton, suppressing his chagrin, waited some time in
expectation that when this young man saw he was standing, he would
yield to him his chair: but the remark was not made, and the
resignation was not thought of. The Captain, too, regarding the lady
as his natural property for the morning, perceived with indignation
by whom he was supplanted; while the company in general, saw with
much surprize, the place they had severally foreborne to occupy from
respect to their host, thus familiarly seized upon by the man who,
in the whole room, had the least claim, either from age or rank, to
consult nothing but his own inclination.
Mr Monckton, however, when he found that delicacy and good manners
had no weight with his guest, thought it most expedient to allow
them none with himself; and therefore, disguising his displeasure
under an appearance of facetiousness, he called out, “Come, Morrice,
you that love Christmas sports, what say you to the game of move-all?”
“I like it of all things!” answered Morrice, and starting from his
chair, he skipped to another.
“So should I too,” cried Mr Monckton, instantly taking his place,
“were I to remove from any seat but this.”
Morrice, though he felt himself outwitted, was the first to laugh,
and seemed as happy in the change as Mr Monckton himself.
Mr Monckton now, addressing himself to Cecilia, said, “We are going
to lose you, and you seem concerned at leaving us; yet, in a very
few months you will forget Bury, forget its inhabitants, and forget
its environs.”
“If you think so,” answered Cecilia, “must I not thence infer that
Bury, its inhabitants, and its environs, will in a very few months
forget me?”
“Ay, ay, and so much the better!” said Lady Margaret, muttering
between her teeth, “so much the better!” “I am sorry you think so,
madam,” cried Cecilia, colouring at her ill-breeding.
“You will find,” said Mr Monckton, affecting the same ignorance of
her meaning that Cecilia really felt, “as you mix with the world,
you will find that Lady Margaret has but expressed what by almost
every body is thought: to neglect old friends, and to court new
acquaintance, though perhaps not yet avowedly delivered as a precept
from parents to children, is nevertheless so universally recommended
by example, that those who act differently, incur general censure
for affecting singularity.”
“It is happy then, for me,” answered Cecilia, “that neither my
actions nor myself will be sufficiently known to attract public
observation.”
“You intend, then, madam,” said Mr Belfield, “in defiance of these
maxims of the world, to be guided by the light of your own
understanding.”
“And such,” returned Mr Monckton, “at first setting out in life, is
the intention of every one. The closet reasoner is always refined in
his sentiments, and always confident in his virtue; but when he
mixes with the world, when he thinks less and acts more, he soon
finds the necessity of accommodating himself to such customs as are
already received, and of pursuing quietly the track that is already
marked out.”
“But not,” exclaimed Mr Belfield, “if he has the least grain of
spirit! the beaten track will be the last that a man of parts will
deign to tread,
For common rules were ne’er designed
Directors of a noble mind.”
“A pernicious maxim! a most pernicious maxim!” cried the old
gentleman, who sat frowning in a corner of the room.
“Deviations from common rules,” said Mr Monckton, without taking any
notice of this interruption, “when they proceed from genius, are not
merely pardonable, but admirable; and you, Belfield, have a peculiar
right to plead their merits; but so little genius as there is in the
world, you must surely grant that pleas of this sort are very rarely
to be urged.”
“And why rarely,” cried Belfield, “but because your general rules,
your appropriated customs, your settled forms, are but so many
absurd arrangements to impede not merely the progress of genius, but
the use of understanding? If man dared act for himself, if neither
worldly views, contracted prejudices, eternal precepts, nor
compulsive examples, swayed his better reason and impelled his
conduct, how noble indeed would he be! how infinite in faculties!
in apprehension how like a God!“[1]
“All this,” answered Mr Monckton, “is but the doctrine of a lively
imagination, that looks upon impossibilities simply as difficulties,
and upon difficulties as mere invitations to victory. But experience
teaches another lesson; experience shows that the opposition of an
individual to a community is always dangerous in the operation, and
seldom successful in the event;—never, indeed, without a
concurrence strange as desirable, of fortunate circumstances with
great abilities.”
“And why is this,” returned Belfield, “but because the attempt is so
seldom made? The pitiful prevalence of general conformity extirpates
genius, and murders originality; the man is brought up, not as if he
were ‘the noblest work of God,’ but as a mere ductile machine of
human formation: he is early taught that he must neither consult his
understanding, nor pursue his inclinations, lest, unhappily for his
commerce with the world, his understanding should be averse to
fools, and provoke him to despise them; and his inclinations to the
tyranny of perpetual restraint, and give him courage to abjure it.”
“I am ready enough to allow,” answered Mr Monckton, “that an
eccentric genius, such, for example, as yours, may murmur at the
tediousness of complying with the customs of the world, and wish,
unconfined, and at large, to range through life without any settled
plan or prudential restriction; but would you, therefore, grant the
same licence to every one? would you wish to see the world peopled
with defiers of order, and contemners of established forms? and not
merely excuse the irregularities resulting from uncommon parts, but
encourage those, also, to lead, who without blundering cannot even
follow?”
“I would have all men,” replied Belfield, “whether
philosophers or ideots, act for themselves. Every one would then
appear what he is; enterprize would be encouraged, and imitation
abolished; genius would feel its superiority, and folly its
insignificance; and then, and then only, should we cease to be
surfeited with that eternal sameness of manner and appearance which
at present runs through all ranks of men.”
“Petrifying dull work this, mon ami!” said the Captain, in a
whisper to Morrice, “de grace, start some new game.”
“With all my heart,” answered he; and then, suddenly jumping up,
exclaimed, “A hare! a hare!”
“Where?—where?—which way?” and all the gentlemen arose, and ran to
different windows, except the master of the house, the object of
whose pursuit was already near him.
Morrice, with much pretended earnestness, flew from window to
window, to trace footsteps upon the turf which he knew had not
printed it: yet, never inattentive to his own interest, when he
perceived in the midst of the combustion he had raised, that Lady
Margaret was incensed at the noise it produced, he artfully gave
over his search, and seating himself in a chair next to her, eagerly
offered to assist her with cakes, chocolate, or whatever the table
afforded.
He had, however, effectually broken up the conversation; and
breakfast being over, Mr Harrel ordered his chaise, and Cecilia
arose to take leave.
And now not without some difficulty could Mr Monckton disguise the
uneasy fears which her departure occasioned him. Taking her hand, “I
suppose,” he said, “you will not permit an old friend to visit you
in town, lest the sight of him should prove a disagreeable memorial
of the time you will soon regret having wasted in the country?”
“Why will you say this, Mr Monckton?” cried Cecilia; “I am sure you
cannot think it.”
“These profound studiers of mankind, madam,” said Belfield, “are
mighty sorry champions for constancy or friendship. They wage war
with all expectations but of depravity, and grant no quarter even to
the purest designs, where they think there will be any temptation to
deviate from them.”
“Temptation,” said Mr Monckton, “is very easy of resistance in
theory; but if you reflect upon the great change of situation Miss
Beverley will experience, upon the new scenes she will see, the new
acquaintance she must make, and the new connections she may form,
you will not wonder at the anxiety of a friend for her welfare.”
“But I presume,” cried Belfield, with a laugh, “Miss Beverley does
not mean to convey her person to town, and leave her understanding
locked up, with other natural curiosities, in the country? Why,
therefore, may not the same discernment regulate her adoption of new
acquaintance, and choice of new connections, that guided her
selection of old ones? Do you suppose that because she is to take
leave of you, she is to take leave of herself?”
“Where fortune smiles upon youth and beauty,” answered Mr Monckton,
“do you think it nothing that their fair possessor should make a
sudden transition of situation from the quietness of a retired life
in the country, to the gaiety of a splendid town residence?”
“Where fortune frowns upon youth and beauty,” returned
Belfield, “they may not irrationally excite commiseration; but where
nature and chance unite their forces to bless the same object, what
room there may be for alarm or lamentation I confess I cannot
divine.”
“What!” cried Mr Monckton, with some emotion, “are there not
sharpers, fortune-hunters, sycophants, wretches of all sorts and
denominations, who watch the approach of the rich and unwary, feed
upon their inexperience, and prey upon their property?”
“Come, come,” cried Mr Harrel, “it is time I should hasten my fair
ward away, if this is your method of describing the place she is
going to live in.”
“Is it possible,” cried the Captain, advancing to Cecilia, “that
this lady has never yet tried the town?” and then, lowering his
voice, and smiling languishingly in her face, he added, “Can
anything so divinely handsome have been immured in the country? Ah!
quelle honte! do you make it a principle to be so cruel?”
Cecilia, thinking such a compliment merited not any other notice
than a slight bow, turned to Lady Margaret, and said, “Should your
ladyship be in town this winter, may I expect the honour of hearing
where I may wait upon you?”
“I don’t know whether I shall go or not,” answered the old lady,
with her usual ungraciousness.
Cecilia would now have hastened away, but Mr Monckton, stopping her,
again expressed his fears of the consequences of her journey; “Be
upon your guard,” he cried, “with all new acquaintance; judge nobody
from appearances; form no friendship rashly; take time to look about
you, and remember you can make no alteration in your way of life,
without greater probability of faring worse, than chance of faring
better. Keep therefore as you are, and the more you see of others,
the more you will rejoice that you neither resemble nor are
connected with them.”
“This from you, Mr Monckton!” cried Belfield, “what is become of
your conformity system? I thought all the world was to be alike, or
only so much the worse for any variation?”
“I spoke,” said Mr Monckton, “of the world in general, not of this
lady in particular; and who that knows, who that sees her, would not
wish it were possible she might continue in every respect exactly
and unalterably what she is at present?”
“I find,” said Cecilia, “you are determined that flattery at least,
should I meet with it, shall owe no pernicious effects to its
novelty.”
“Well, Miss Beverley,” cried Mr Harrel, “will you now venture to
accompany me to town? Or has Mr Monckton frightened you from
proceeding any farther?”
“If,” replied Cecilia, “I felt no more sorrow in quitting my
friends, than I feel terror in venturing to London, with how light a
heart should I make the journey!”
“Brava!” cried Belfield, “I am happy to find the discourse of Mr
Monckton has not intimidated you, nor prevailed upon you to deplore
your condition in having the accumulated misery of being young, fair
and affluent.”
“Alas! poor thing!” exclaimed the old gentleman who sat in the
corner, fixing his eyes upon Cecilia with an expression of mingled
grief and pity.
Cecilia started, but no one else paid him any attention.
The usual ceremonies of leave-taking now followed, and the Captain,
with most obsequious reverence, advanced to conduct Cecilia to the
carriage; but in the midst of the dumb eloquence of his bows and
smiles, Mr Morrice, affecting not to perceive his design, skipped
gaily between them, and, without any previous formality, seized the
hand of Cecilia himself; failing not, however, to temper the freedom
of his action by a look of respect the most profound.
The Captain shrugged and retired. But Mr Monckton, enraged at his
assurance, and determined it should nothing avail him, exclaimed,
“Why how now, Morrice, do you take away the privilege of my house?”
“True, true;” answered Morrice, “you members of parliament have an
undoubted right to be tenacious of your privileges.” Then, bowing
with a look of veneration to Cecilia, he resigned her hand with an
air of as much happiness as he had taken it.
Mr Monckton, in leading her to the chaise, again begged permission
to wait upon her in town: Mr Harrel took the hint, and entreated him
to consider his house as his own; and Cecilia, gratefully thanking
him for his solicitude in her welfare, added, “And I hope, sir, you
will honour me with your counsel and admonitions with respect to my
future conduct, whenever you have the goodness to let me see you.”
This was precisely his wish. He begged, in return, that she would
treat him with confidence, and then suffered the chaise to drive
off.
Footnotes
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