Under the Hill 2

Under the Hill 2

CONTENTS

 

DEDICATION TO "UNDER THE HILL"

UNDER THE HILL

THE THREE MUSICIANS

THE BALLAD OF A BARBER

TRANSLATION OF CATULLUS: CARMEN CI

TABLE TALK OF AUBREY BEARDSLEY

TWO LETTERS OF AUBREY BEARDSLEY

 

 

 

 

ILLUSTRATIONS

 

_AUBREY BEARDSLEY AT MENTONE, IN THE ROOM IN

WHICH HE DIED Frontispiece_

_THE ABBÉ_

_THE TOILET OF HELEN_

_THE FRUIT BEARERS_

_THE ASCENSION OF SAINT ROSE OF LIMA_

_FOR THE THIRD TABLEAU OF "DAS RHEINGOLD_"

_THE THREE MUSICIANS_

_THE THREE MUSICIANS_

_TAILPIECE TO "THE THREE MUSICIANS"_

_THE COIFFING_

_CUL-DE-LAMPE TO "THE BARBER_"

_ATE ATQUE VALE_

_TITLE-PAGE TO VOL. I. OF "THE YELLOW BOOK"_

_FRONTISPIECE TO "PLAYS" BY JOHN DAVIDSON _

_ARBUSCULA_

_PORTRAIT SKETCHES_

_L'ABBÉ MOURET_

 

 

 

 

UNDER THE HILL

 

A ROMANTIC NOVEL

 

TO

 

THE MOST EMINENT AND REVEREND PRINCE

 

GIULIO POLDO PEZZOLI

 

CARDINAL OF THE HOLY ROMAN CHURCH

TITULAR BISHOP OF S. MARIA IN TRASTAVERE

ARCHBISHOP OF OSTIA AND VELLETRI

NUNCIO TO THE HOLY SEE

IN

NICARAGUA AND PATAGONIA

A FATHER TO THE POOR

A REFORMER OF ECCLESIASTICAL DISCIPLINE

A PATTERN OF LEARNING

WISDOM AND HOLINESS OF LIFE

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED WITH DUE REVERENCE

BY HIS HUMBLE SERVITOR

A SCRIVENER AND LIMNER OF WORLDLY THINGS

WHO MADE THIS BOOK

 

AUBREY BEARDSLEY

 

 

_Most Eminent Prince_,

 

I know not by what mischance the writing of epistles dedicatory has

fallen into disuse, whether through the vanity of authors or the

humility of patrons. But the practice seems to me so very beautiful

and becoming that I have ventured to make an essay in the modest art,

and lay with formalities my first book at your feet. I have it must

be confessed many fears lest I shall be arraigned of presumption in

choosing so exalted a name as your own to place at the beginning of

this history; but I hope that such a censure will not be too lightly

passed upon me, for if I am guilty it is but of a most natural pride

that the accidents of my life should allow me to sail the little

pinnace of my wit under your protection.

 

But though I can clear myself of such a charge, I am still minded to

use the tongue of apology, for with what face can I offer you a book

treating of so vain and fantastical a thing as love? I know that in

the judgment of many the amorous passion is accounted a shameful thing

and ridiculous; indeed it must be confessed that more blushes have

risen for love's sake than for any other cause and that lovers are an

eternal laughing-stock. Still, as the book will be found to contain

matter of deeper import than mere venery, inasmuch as it treats of the

great contrition of its chiefest character, and of canonical things in

certain pages, I am not without hopes that your Eminence will pardon my

writing of a loving Abbé, for which extravagance let my youth excuse me.

 

Then I must crave your forgiveness for addressing you in a language

other than the Roman, but my small freedom in Latinity forbids me to

wander beyond the idiom of my vernacular. I would not for the world

that your delicate Southern ear should be offended by a barbarous

assault of rude and Gothic words; but methinks no language is rude

that can boast polite writers, and not a few such have flourished

in this country in times past, bringing our common speech to very

great perfection. In the present age, alas! our pens are ravished by

unlettered authors and unmannered critics, that make a havoc rather

than a building, a wilderness rather than a garden. But, alack! what

boots it to drop tears upon the preterit?

 

It is not of our own shortcomings though, but of your own great merits

that I should speak, else I should be forgetful of the duties I have

drawn upon myself in electing to address you in a dedication. It is of

your noble virtues (though all the world know of 'em), your taste and

wit, your care for letters, and very real regard for the arts that I

must be the proclaimer.

 

Though it be true that all men have sufficient wit to pass a judgment

on this or that, and not a few sufficient impudence to print the same

(these last being commonly accounted critics), I have ever held that

the critical faculty is more rare than the inventive. It is a faculty

your Eminence possesses in so great a degree that your praise or blame

is something oracular, your utterance infallible as great genius or as

a beautiful woman. Your mind, I know, rejoicing in fine distinctions

and subtle procedures of thought, beautifully discursive rather than

hastily conclusive, has found in criticism its happiest exercise. It is

a pity that so perfect a Mecænas should have no Horace to befriend, no

Georgies to accept; for the offices and function of patron or critic

must of necessity be lessened in an age of little men and little work.

In times past it was nothing derogatory for great princes and men of

State to extend their loves and favour to poets, for thereby they

received as much honour as they conferred. Did not Prince Festus with

pride take the masterwork of Julian into his protection, and was not

the Æneis a pretty thing to offer Cæsar?

 

Learning without appreciation is a thing of naught, but I know not

which is greatest in you--your love of the arts, or your knowledge of

'em. What wonder then that I am studious to please you, and desirous

of your protection. How deeply thankful I am for your past affections

you know well, your great kindness and liberality having far outgone my

slight merits and small accomplishment that seemed scarce to warrant

any favour. Alas I 'tis a slight offering I make you now, but if after

glancing into its pages (say of an evening upon your terrace) you

should deem it worthy of the remotest place in your princely library,

the knowledge that it rested there would be reward sufficient for my

labours, and a crowning happiness to my pleasure in the writing of this

slender book.

 

The humble and obedient servant of your Eminence,

 

AUBREY BEARDSLEY.

 

 

 

 

UNDER THE HILL

 

A ROMANTIC NOVEL

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I

 

 

The Abbé Fanfreluche, having lighted off his horse, stood doubtfully

for a moment beneath the ombre gateway of the mysterious Hill, troubled

with an exquisite fear lest a day's travel should have too cruelly

undone the laboured niceness of his dress. His hand, slim and gracious

as La Marquise du Deffand's in the drawing by Carmontelle, played

nervously about the gold hair that fell upon his shoulders like a

finely-curled peruke, and from point to point of a precise toilet the

fingers wandered, quelling the little mutinies of cravat and ruffle.

 

It was taper-time; when the tired earth puts on its cloak of mists and

shadows, when the enchanted woods are stirred with light footfalls and

slender voices of the fairies, when all the air is full of delicate

influences, and even the beaux, seated at their dressing-tables, dream

a little.

 

A delicious moment, thought Fanfreluche, to slip into exile.

 

The place where he stood waved drowsily with strange flowers, heavy

with perfume, dripping with odours. Gloomy and nameless weeds not to

be found in Mentzelius. Huge moths, so richly winged they must have

banqueted upon tapestries and royal stuffs, slept on the pillars that

flanked either side of the gateway, and the eyes of all the moths

remained open and were burning and bursting with a mesh of veins.

The pillars were fashioned in some pale stone and rose up like hymns

in the praise of pleasure, for from cap to base, each one was carved

with loving sculptures, showing such a cunning invention and such a

curious knowledge, that Fanfreluche lingered not a little in reviewing

them. They surpassed all that Japan has ever pictured from her maisons

vertes, all that was ever painted in the cool bath-rooms of Cardinal

La Motte, and even outdid the astonishing illustrations to Jones's "Nursery Numbers."