This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
Now, to clear up a point or two: You may think the Comic Muse isstraining human nature rather toughly in making the Countess de Saldarrush open-eyed into the jaws of Demogorgon, dreadful to her. She hasseen her brother pointed out unmistakeably as the tailor-fellow. Thereis yet time to cast him off or fly with him. Is it her extraordinaryheroism impelling her onward, or infatuated rashness? or is it her mereanimal love of conflict?
The Countess de Saldar, like other adventurers, has her star. They whopossess nothing on earth, have a right to claim a portion of the heavens.In resolute hands, much may be done with a star. As it has empires inits gift, so may it have heiresses. The Countess's star had not blinkedbalefully at her. That was one reason why she went straight on toBeckley.
Again: the Countess was a born general. With her star above, withcertain advantages secured, with battalions of lies disciplined andzealous, and with one clear prize in view, besides other undevelopedbenefits dimly shadowing forth, the Countess threw herself headlong intothe enemy's country.
But, that you may not think too highly of this lady, I must add that thetrivial reason was the exciting cause—as in many great enterprises.This was nothing more than the simple desire to be located, if but for aday or two, on the footing of her present rank, in the English country-house of an offshoot of our aristocracy. She who had moved in the firstsociety of a foreign capital—who had married a Count, a minister of hissovereign, had enjoyed delicious high-bred badinage with refulgentambassadors, could boast the friendship of duchesses, and had been theamiable receptacle of their pardonable follies; she who, moreover,heartily despised things English:—this lady experienced thrills of proudpleasure at the prospect of being welcomed at a third-rate Englishmansion. But then, that mansion was Beckley Court. We return to ourfirst ambitions, as to our first loves not that they are dearer to us,—quit that delusion: our ripened loves and mature ambitions are probablyclosest to our hearts, as they deserve to be—but we return to thembecause our youth has a hold on us which it asserts whenever adisappointment knocks us down. Our old loves (with the bad natures Iknow in them) are always lurking to avenge themselves on the new bytempting us to a little retrograde infidelity. A schoolgirl in Fallowfield, the tailor's daughter, had sighed for the bliss of Beckley Court.Beckley Court was her Elysium ere the ardent feminine brain conceived aloftier summit. Fallen from that attained eminence, she sighed anew forBeckley Court. Nor was this mere spiritual longing; it had its materialside. At Beckley Court she could feel her foreign rank. Moving with ournobility as an equal, she could feel that the short dazzling glitter ofher career was not illusory, and had left her something solid; not coinof the realm exactly, but yet gold. She could not feel this in theCogglesby saloons, among pitiable bourgeoises—middle-class people dailysoiled by the touch of tradesmen. They dragged her down. Their veryhomage was a mockery.
Let the Countess have due cre