“We should differ, I suppose,” said Lawrence, “if we tried to explain what we each call the natural. I fancy your ‘real life’ is different from mine.”
“Pictures of real life,” said Isabella, “are sometimes pictures of horses and dogs, sometimes of children playing, sometimes of fruits of different seasons heaped upon one dish, sometimes of watermelons cut open.”
“That is hardly your picture of real life,” said Lawrence, laughing,–”a watermelon cut open! I think you would rather choose the picture of the Water Fairies from the Düsseldorf Gallery.”
“Why not?” said Isabella. “The life we see must be very far from being the only life that is.”
“That is very true,” answered Lawrence; “but let the fairies live their life by themselves, while we live our life in our own way. Why should they come to disturb our peace, since we cannot comprehend them, and they certainly cannot comprehend us?”
“You do not think it well, then,” said Isabella, stopping in their walk, and looking down,–”you do not think it well that beings of different natures should mingle?”
“I do not see how they can,” replied Lawrence. “I am limited by my senses; I can perceive only what they show me. Even my imagination can picture to me only what my senses can paint.”
“Your senses!” cried Otho, contemptuously,–”it is very true, as you confess, you are limited by your senses. Is all this beauty around you created merely for you–and the other insects about us? I have no doubt it is filled with invisible life.”
“Do let us go in!” said Celia. “This talk, just at twilight, under the shade of this shrubbery, makes me shudder. I am not afraid of the fairies. I never could read fairy stories when I was a child; they were tiresome to me. But talking in this way makes one timid. There might be strollers or thieves under all these hedges.”
They went into the house, through the hall, and different apartments, till they reached the drawing-room. Isabella stood transfixed upon the threshold. It was all so familiar to her!–everything as she had known it before! Over the mantelpiece hung the picture of the scornful Spanish lady; a heavy bookcase stood in one corner; comfortable chairs and couches were scattered round the room; beautiful landscapes against the wall seemed like windows cut into foreign scenery. There was an air of ease in the room, an old-fashioned sort of ease, such as the Fogertys must have loved.
“It is a pretty room, is it not?” said Lawrence. “You look at it as if it pleased you. How much more comfort there is about it than in the fashionable parlors of the day! It is solid, substantial comfort.”
“You look at it as if you had seen it before,” said Otho to Isabella. “Do you know the room impressed me in that way, too?”