THE ROSE GARDEN.* Wao is this authoress whose tales have
all the soft atmosphere of Miss Thackeray's, and no slight flavour of the bright humour and moral depth of touch of George Eliot, though they deal with French life? We say authoress, because it is hardly possible that the author should be a writer of the male sex. There is, for excellence of this order, far too much delicacy, too much of detail and minute effect, too little care for bold outlines and intellectual ends, to admit of our conceiving of the author as a man. In many respects, scarcely a man living could produce so much of literary effect; but if he could, he would certainly produce more. The only partial failure in this exquisitely coloured sketch of French life is the hero, M. de Savigny, who is painted just as a woman would paint such a man, as possessing the highest intensity of tenderness whilst in love, and showing even exaggerated sternness and silent reserve when offended, but who, nevertheless, looms vague and indefinite in a picture which is full of keen and bright definition in all its other parts. The whole group of characters is for the rest, nearly perfect. Perhaps not the easiest, and yet one of the most brilliant of the sketches, is that of Coquin, the poodle, who is the first actor to come upon the scene, and who, let us suggest to the authoress, the unity of art should have induced her to leave the last in view as the beautiful story closes. From his first introduc- tion in the unequal conflict with M. Picard's dog, from which he is rescued by M. de Savigny, and goes off, with a torn ear indeed, but with his tail in the air, under the false impression that because he had received overwhelming reinforcements he had been victorious in the combat, to his discovery of Renee lying in a swoon in the rose garden, Coquin is painted with perfect truth and humour. We " admire," as the Americans say, when, walking on his bind legs, he brings in the important letter by which so much of this story hangs, and Renee praises him for his discernment in knowing the letter was for her mother ;—" For Madame, my jewel,—that is right ! That foolish Manuela had put it on a shelf, and there was this clever one sitting and watching it!" But we admire still more at the delicacy of his consideration for the feelings of others when, after the mountain song in which they all join, Renee tells us, " Bah I it is false ! out of tune,—and I am the worst of you all. Did you not see poor Coquin howling under his breath ? He would not hurt me by letting me hear, the treasure!" Coquin, who is a mimic and can play dominoes, is deli- cious ; but still more delicious is the heroine Renee,—for she, and not Gabrielle, Coquin's mistress, is the true central figure of the
* The Rose Garden. By the Author of "Unawares." Loudon: Smith, Elder, & Co. piece,—Renee the true Parisian, with her mercurial feelings, her warmth of insight, her delight in pleasure, her dread of the terrible and of the terribleness of truth, and yet with that deep, impulsive sincerity which sometimes even overcomes her deliberate preference of insincerity to pain. No sketch in modern fiction so slight as this,—the whole tale only takes up one small volume,—has ex- ceeded it in power. Renee, from beginning to end, in her love and in her malice, in her generosity and in her selfishness, in her incisiveness and in her cowardice, always weak at heart, always graceful, always keen, and always brilliant, is a picture to remember by the side of Miss Thackeray's Reine in the 1 Village on the Cliff, a sketch to which it presents a curious and striking contrast. And the picture of Renee is the more perfect for the companion picture of her mother, Mdme. I Dalbarade, the affectionate, keen, satirical, worldly mother, full of unwise love for her child, deficient in sympathy for those of different natures, a little worn by anxiety and trouble, but ever ready to enjoy the present if she could only cast behind her the burden of the past. There is much more pains taken in litera- ture than there used to be to study the family likenesses between parent and child ; and the likeness and yet difference between Mdme. Dalbarade and Renee offer quite a model of such studies. Relies has more breadth, more sympathy, more instantane- ous insight, and less hardness than her mother ; and as a consequence she has more brilliance, but is in character something the weaker of the two. We cannot give a better specimen of the book than the conversation in which Madame Dalbarade per- suades Renee to ask her future husband, M. de Savigny, for the post of agent for her own uncle, Madame Dalbarade's brother, a good-for-nothing who had ruined M. Dalbarade and disgraced his own name, which be had changed, but who for that very reason had it in his power to break off the match by explaining who he really was, if Madame Dalbarade could not persuade Renee to do his bidding :- "' There is, however, another person whom I believe you must take with you,' said Mdme. Dalbarade, after a moment's pause.—' Who then ? ' —' Ma cherie, you will not, I fear, like it, but you must be reasonable.'— It was early morning, and Renee was in her mother's room. A light shower was falling at the time ; the pleasant cool smell of summer rain upon the hot ground came up ; a number of little sparrows chirruped with all their might ; Renee, leaning against the window, was flinging little bits of bread, over which they rejoiced and quarrelled. Is it perhaps, Jacqueline's niece?' she asked carelessly. — No, it is some one nearer you—your uncle Jerome—Armand.'—' Mamma! '- Renee had turned round with flashing eyes. —' Yes, indeed.' 'What do you say !' cried the young girl, in a harsh, passionate voice. But Mdme. Dalbarade looked at her steadily.—' Renee, believe me, I have done my utmost to avert this, but he is inexorable.'—'He, inexor- able!—he! Ma foi ! but I think that is putting matters the wrong way.' —' So it is, bat—if this were a necessity.'—' It is not—it shall not be.' =Do not speak so loud, Rende.'—' He may hear—they may all hear ! I detest him, and never, never, never shall he come to Château Les- tourde. There is my word for it.' But in spite of her vehemence there was something of fear in Renee's voice. Why was her mother so persistent, so grave? Wby did she still shake her head? She dashed the crumbs she had all this time held tight in her little hands upon the ground. Ma Mere, do you understand me Listen, my very dear. When I heard what I tell you, I said as you, this shall never be ; but— my poor child, we are not strong enough to deal with that man, I was obliged to promise all—everything—or he would have prevented your marriage, and that would have broken my heart.'—' He ! How then ?'— He would have said anything, have turned M. de Savigny against you at the first.'—' At the first—but now ?' Renee answered, with a shrug, and a smile of triumph in her eyes. ' Petite maman, be tranquil.'- Mdme. Dalbarado was silent. She looked up at length and said slowly,
• Renee, if M. de Savigny know who he was, would he still marry 31/41n ?' —The girl's eyes dilated ; she became pale. Mamma,' she faltered, but he would never tell !'—' You do not know him. He has no shame, and he Rays he has nothing to lose. That is what makes me fear. I had better tell you his demands. He declares he is tired of journeying about, that he desires for the present, at all events, a quiet home. He wishes to be intendant to M. de Savigny.'—' Intendant ! But that in
itself would be a disgrace He says he wishes for occupation, that it is difficult to find what he wants. He could not obtain any public appointment without inquiries being made. And, without doubt, he reflects that as your uncle the position would bo made as little dero- gatory to him as possible.'—' I shall go mad in a moment, I believe. No, he shall not, he shall not !' cried Renee, choked with passion.—' Well,' said Mdme. Dalbarade, with a sigh, it rests with yourself. Are you content to give up everything,—to relapse into poverty—to have lost both your suitors ? or do you believe that M. de Savigny's love will stand the test of learning who his future uncle is ?'—' You are very cruel, mamma.'—' No, Renee, I have done my best. Fate is against us.'—' But you speak so calmly.'—‘Becauae I do not feel as I used, that is the troth. The heart is a machine which becomes a little worn out with age.' Yet she did not look as if she were not suffering. There was a kind of dull pallor about her lips, jf Renee had not been too excited to notice it. She was putting her mother's questions to herself. Would Jean indeed stand such a test ? Could she give up her visions? 'If every one were as good as 31. de Mellon!' she cried out passion- ately; and then a new anguish came into her heart, She flung herself down, and laid her head upon the window-sill, against which the soft cool rain was falling. Mamma,' she said, ' do you know what we are
doing ? Do you know that if Jean finds out he will never forgive never ! Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do !' Mdme. Dalbarade, who
knew by this what Renee would do, gave a sigh of relief. Bah, little- foolish one,' she said, gaily. 'Is that all which troubles you ? There are harmless little deceptions without which the world could not exist. When once he is your husband all will go well. You will ask Jean for this at once, and, for your own sake, I implore you to show your dis- like to Jerome less vigorously. Va done ! let us think no more of digs- greeables. Do you know that your corbeille arrives to-morrow ? I could tell you something, but I will not.'—' Yes, yes, tell me,' said Renee, lifting her head= Do you remember the point d'Alencon of th& Princess D—, of which you read Mdme. Ferrier's description ?'—' Per- fectly.'—' There are some financial difficulties, and the lace has been sold, and from what our little milliner writes—'—'It is in my corbeille !' cried Renee, enchanted. ' Ma chore amiel I do not say— only I believe there are no bounds to M. de Savigny' s generosity:— That point d, Alencon—I shall dream of it! There is nothing in the. whole world like point d'Alencon. Madlle. de la Villemar had only Mechlin. Truly, mamma, it is charming to be married!' And M. Jerome was forgotten."
Here you have the mother and daughter etched with the most perfect definition, and all the story is in keeping with this scene. There is another study of parent and child in the book almost equally good, and still more indicative of humour, though slighter,—that of Madame de Malin and her son, the pompous, heavy, chivalrous, generous-hearted Frenchman of quality who loves Renee so hon- estly, and is so clumsy in his love-making. There, again, the- family likeness between mother and son is just as it would be in real life,—the substantial qualities common to both, but the mother possessing more tact, and more capacity for loving self-deception, the son showing a higher standard of chivalry and disinterestedness. The humour of this picture, slight as it is, is exquisite of its kind, and might have been drawn by a French Miss Austen, though a French Miss Austen with more sentiment and tenderness, if with less power.
The descriptive element of the story is that which most reminds us of Miss Thackeray. The writer's sense of beauty is exquisite, and the flash of delicate colour which she manages to diffuse over her pictures has just such a mellow charm in it as Claude gives to his most exquisite sunsets. The effect is always painted in rela- tion to the feelings which it excites at the moment,—like this, for instance, for a summer-evening picture,—the place is Bayonne,— of the scene in which one of the heroines (Gabrielle) takes leaie of the man she loved, and the other, Renee, who marries him, uses her fascination over him in the interest of her uncle, who has her in his power. It is a beautiful framework for a scene both of sad leave-taking and of agitated passion:— "That was one farewell, and there was another only -known' to. Gabrielle on the afternoon M. de Savigny came back. No one had expected him to return so quickly. Renee and her mother had gone off to a reception where all the Bayonne world were to eat bonbons and gossip, and Gabrielle was sitting alone in the balcony when he came in. He only stayed a few moments ; he was gone almost before she knew that she had put out her hand and he had taken it. Nevertheless this was the real leave-taking—just one of those one-sided farewells of which the world is full, out in the pretty balcony, where a great passion-flower was clinging with its strong young tendrils, and the air was sweet with flowers. This was the end, as she thought. But it does not do for us to talk about the end. The threads which we think we lay down are often wound about our life. It has been said before that Renee was. indulged in a little more liberty than was usual with girls in her posi- tion. She took advantage of it that very night to draw M. de Savigny into the balcony before he left them. The awnings were up ; every- thing rested quietly under the deep serene sky in which faint stars were shining. In the summer darkness, scarcely more than twilight, Renee's white dress stood out softly against the shadows; she had stuck a bunch of deep red carnations in her hair, and two more in the front of her dress. She and Jean leaned against the corner of the balcony, beyond the little white circle of light which poured from the room where the others were sitting."
Perhaps the book has only one fault. It is too ideal for the truth of human life. Not that it paints people as perfect, far from it ; but that it makes both the good and the evil of an ideal type, and brings both good and evil to an ideal conclusion. The chance is very great that M. de Mehun, generous and noble-hearted as he is, would not have remained single for his love of Renee, nor Gabrielle for her love of M. de Savigny. Again, the chance is that M. de Savigny's wrath at the deception practised upon him by Renee would never have taken that ideal form,—that manner of suppressed wrath and resentful reserve which is so well calculated for the purposes of a novelist. There is plenty of room for idealism in evil as well. as in good, and this beautiful writer avails herself of every open- ing for it. Still, idealistic though it be, there is quite enough of fine drawing in this beautiful tale to make it read like life ; and its idealism only makes it the more delightful, though not altogether the more true,—for in art the true and the delightful are by no means identical, except under the treatment of the most powerful hands.
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