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Letterpress
I. The Death of the Lion .. By Henry James ..
II. Tree-Worship .. Richard Le
Gallienne .. 57
III. A Defence of
Cosmetics .. Max Beerbohm .. 65
IV. Δαιμονζσμενος .. Arthur
Christopher Benson .. 83
V. Irremediable .. Ella D'Arcy .. 87
VI.
The Frontier .. William
Watson .. 113
VII. Night on Curbar
Edge
VIII. A Sentimental Cellar ..
George Saintsbury .. 119
IX.
X.
XI. A
Broken Looking-Glass
XII.
XIII. A Dream of
November
XIV. The Dedication ..
Fred M. Simpson .. 159
XV. A Lost Masterpiece .. George
Egerton .. 189
XVI. Reticence in
Literature .. Arthur Waugh .. 201
XVII.
Modern Melodrama .. Hubert
Crackanthorpe .. 223
XVIII.
XIX. Down-a-down.
.. 235
XX. The Love-Story of
XXI. The Fool's
Hour .. John Oliver Hobbes
Pictures
I. A Study .. By Sir Frederic
Leighton,
II.
III.
IV. The
V. Portrait of a Gentleman .. Will
Rothenstein .. 111
VI. The Reflected
Faun .. Laurence Housman .. 117
VII.
Night Piece .. Aubrey
Beardsley .. 127
VIII. A Study ...
Sir Frederic Leighton,
IX. Portrait of a Lady ..Will Rothenstein ..
151
X. Portrait of Mrs. Patrick
XI. The Head of Minos .. J. T.
Nettleship .. 187
XII. Portrait of a
Lady .. Charles W. Furse .. 199
XIII.
A Lady Reading .. Walter
Sickert .. 221
XIV. A Book Plate
.. Aubrey Beardsley .. 251
XV. A Book Plate .. R. Anning
Bell .. 251
I
HAD simply, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must
have
begun when I received my manuscript back from
had accepted the high mission of bringing the paper up. This
was a
weekly periodical, and had been supposed to be almost past
redemption when
he took hold of it. It was
let it down so dreadfully — he was never mentioned in the
office
now save in connection with that misdemeanour. Young as I
was I
had been in a manner taken over from
had been owner as well as editor; forming part of
a promiscuous
lot, mainly plant and office-furniture, which poor
her bereavement and
depression, parted with at a rough valuation.
I could account for my
continuity only on the supposition that
I had been cheap. I rather resented
the practice of fathering
all flatness on my late protector, who was in his
unhonoured
grave; but as I had my way to make I found matter enough
for
complacency in being on a "staff."
At the same time I was
aware that I was exposed to suspicion as a product of the old
lowering
system. This made me feel that I was doubly bound to
have ideas, and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposing
to
I remember
that he looked at me first as if he had never heard of
this celebrity, who
indeed at that moment was by no means in the
middle of the heavens; and
even when I had knowingly explained
he expressed but little confidence in
the demand for any such
matter. When I had reminded him that the great
principle on
which we were supposed to work was just to create the
demand
we required, he considered a moment and then rejoined: "I
see;
you want to write him up."
"Call it that if you like."
"And what's your inducement?"
"Bless my soul — my admiration!"
"Is
there much to be done
with him?"
"Whatever there is, we should have it all to ourselves for he
hasn't
been touched."
This argument was effective, and
"Very well, touch him."
Then he added: "But where can you
do
it?"
"Under the fifth rib!"
I laughed.
"Where's
that?"
"You want me to go down and see him?"
I inquired, when I
had enjoyed
his visible search for this obscure suburb.
"I don't
said "want"
anything — the proposal's your own. But you
must remember that that's the way we do things
Pinhorn
Unregenerate as I was, I could read the queer implications
this speech. The present owner's superior virtue as well as
his
deeper craft spoke in his reference to the late editor as one of
that baser sort who deal in false representations.
would as soon have sent me to call on
have published a holiday-number; but
such scruples presented
themselves as mere ignoble thrift to his successor,
whose own
sincerity took the form of ringing door-bells and whose
definition
of genius was the art of finding people at home. It was as if
Deedy
generate, as I have hinted, and I was not concerned to
straighten
out the journalistic morals of my chief, feeling them indeed to
be
an abyss over the edge of which it was better not to peer. Really
to be there this time moreover was a vision that made the idea of
writing
something subtle about
inspiring. I would be as considerate as even
have wished, and yet I
should be as present as only
could conceive. My allusion to the sequestered manner in which
though I knew of it only by hearsay) was, I could
divine, very
much what had made
consistent with the
success of his paper that any one should be so
sequestered as that.
Moreover, was not an immediate exposure of
everything just what the public
wanted?
called me to order by reminding me of the promptness with which
I had met
the
were unimpaired,
national episode? I
felt somewhat uneasy at this coupling of the
actress and the author, and I
confess that after having enlisted
Pinhorn
better than I wished, and I had, as it happened, work nearer
at
hand. A few days later I called on
off in triumph the most unintelligible
statement that had yet
appeared of his lordship's reasons for his change of front. I thus
set in
motion in the daily papers columns of virtuous verbiage.
The following week
I ran down to
Pinhorn
subject of her divorce, many curious particulars that had not been
articulated in court. If ever an article flowed from the primal
fount it
was that article on
I became aware that
appearing, and that
its approach had been the ground of my
original appeal to
for having lost so many days. He bundled me off—we would at
least
not lose another. I have always thought his sudden alertness a
remarkable
example of the journalistic instinct. Nothing had
occurred, since I first
spoke to him, to create a visible urgency,
and no enlightenment could
possibly have reached him. It was a
pure case of professional
an
animal smells its distant prey.
I may as well say at once that this little record pretends in no
degree to
be a picture either of my introduction to
or of certain proximate steps and stages. The scheme
of my
narrative allows no space for these things and in any case a
pro-
hibitory sentiment would be attached to my recollection of so
rare
an hour. These meagre notes are essentially private, and if they
see the light the insidious forces that, as my story itself shows,
make at
present for publicity will simply have overmastered my
precautions. The
curtain fell lately enough on the lamentable
drama. My memory of the day I alighted at
is a fresh memory of kindness, hospitality,
compassion, and of the
wonderful illuminating talk in which the welcome was
conveyed.
Some voice of the air had taught me the right moment, the
moment of his life at which an act of unexpected young allegiance
might
most come home. He had recently recovered from a long,
grave illness. I had
gone to the neighbouring inn for the night,
but I spent the evening in his
company, and he insisted the next
day on my sleeping under his roof. I had
not an indefinite leave:
gallop. It was later, in the office, that the step was
elaborated
and regulated. I fortified myself however, as my training
had
taught me to do, by the conviction that nothing could be more
advantageous for my article than to be written in the very atmo-
sphere. I
said nothing to
morning, after my removal from the inn, while he was occupied
in
his study, as he had notified me that he should need to be, I com-
mitted to paper the quintessence of my impressions. Then
thinking to
commend myself to
walked out and posted my little packet before luncheon.
Once
my paper was written I was free to stay on, and if it was
designed
to divert attention from my frivolity in so doing I could
reflect
with satisfaction that I had never been so clever I don't mean
to
deny of course that I was aware it was much too good for
Pinhorn
supreme
shrewdness of recognising from time to time the cases in
which an article
was not too bad only because it was too good,
There was nothing he loved so
much as to print on the right
occasion a thing he hated. I had begun my
visit to
on a Monday, and
on the Wednesday his book came out. A copy
of it arrived by the first post,
and he let me go out into the garden
with it immediately after breakfast. I read it from beginning to
end that
day, and in the evening he asked me to remain with him
the rest of the week
and over the Sunday.
That night my manuscript came back from
accompanied with a letter, of which the gist was
the desire to
know what I meant by sending him such stuff. That was
the
meaning of the question, if not exactly its form, and it made my
mistake immense to me. Such as this mistake was I could now
only look it in
the face and accept it. I knew where I had failed,
but it was exactly where
I couldn't have succeeded. I had been
sent down there to be personal, and
in point of fact I hadn't been
personal at all; what I had sent up to
finicking, feverish study of my author's talent. Anything less
relevant to
he was visibly angry at my having (at his expense, with a
second-
class ticket) approached the object of our arrangement only to
be
so deucedly distant. For myself, I knew but too well what had
happened, and how a miracle — as pretty as some old miracle of
legend — had been wrought on the spot to save me. There had
been a
big brush of wings, the flash of an opaline robe, and then,
with a great
cool stir of the air, the sense of an angel's having
swooped down and
caught me to his bosom. He held me only
till the danger was over, and it
all took place in a minute. With
my manuscript back on my hands I
understood the phenomenon
better, and the reflections I made on it are what
I meant, at the
beginning of this anecdote, by my change of heart.
note was hot only a
rebuke decidedly stern, but an invitation
immediately to send him (it was
the case to say so) the genuine
article, the revealing and reverberating
sketch to the promise of
which — and of which alone — I owed
my squandered privilege. A
week or two later I recast my peccant paper, and
giving it a
particular application to
the hospitality of another journal, where, I must
admit,
horn
I was frankly, at the end of three days, a very prejudiced critic,
so that
one morning when, in the garden,
offered to read me something I quite held my
breath as I listened.
It was the written scheme of another
book—something he had
put aside long ago, before his illness, and
lately taken out again to
reconsider. He had been turning it round when I
came down
upon him, and it had grown magnificently under this second
hand. Loose, liberal, confident, it might have passed for a great
gossiping, eloquent letter—the overflow into talk of an artist's
amorous plan. The subject I thought singularly rich, quite the
strongest he
had yet treated; and this familiar statement of it, full
too of fine
maturities, was really, in summarised splendour, a mine
of gold, a
precious, independent work. I remember rather pro-
fanely wondering whether
the ultimate production could possibly
be so happy. His reading of the
epistle, at any rate, made me
feel as if I were, for the advantage of
posterity, in close corre-
spondence with him — were the
distinguished person to whom it had
been affectionately addressed. It was
high distinction simply to
be told such things. The idea he now
communicated had all the
freshness, the flushed fairness of the conception
untouched and
untried: it was
blown upon her. I had never been
so throbbingly present at such
an unveiling. But when he had tossed the
last bright word after
the others, as I had seen cashiers in banks, weighing mounds of
coin, drop a
final sovereign into the tray, I became conscious of a
sudden prudent
alarm.
"My dear toaster, how, after all, are you going to do it?"
I
asked.
"It's infinitely noble, but what rime it will take, what
patience
and independence, what assured, what perfect conditions
it will demand!
Oh for a lone isle in a tepid sea!"
"Isn't this practically a lone isle, and aren't you, as an encircling
he replied; alluding with a laugh to the
medium, tepid enough?"
wonder of my young admiration and the narrow limits of his little
provincial home. "Time isn't what I’ve lacked hitherto: the
question
hasn't been to find it, but to use it. Of course my
illness made a
great hole, but I daresay there would have been a
hole at any rate. The
earth we tread bas more pockets than a
billiard-table. The great thing
is now to keep on my feet."
"That's exactly what I mean."
had — in which, as I now recall
their expression, I seem to have
seen a dim imagination of his fate. He was
fifty years old, and
his illness had been cruel, his convalescence slow.
"It isn't as if
I weren't all right."
"Oh, if you weren't all right I wouldn't look at you!"
I
tenderly
said.
We had both got up, quickened by the full sound of it all, and
he had
lighted a cigarette. I had taken a fresh one, and, with an
intenser smile,
by way of answer to my exclamation, he touched it
with the flame of his
match. "If I weren't better I shouldn't have
He flourished his epistle in his
hand.
thought of
"I don't want to be discouraging, but that's not true,"
I re-
turned.
" I'm sure that during the months you lay here in pain
You had
visitations sublime. You thought of a thousand things.
You think of more and more all the while. That's what makes
you, if you
will pardon my familiarity, so respectable. At a time
when so many
people are spent you come into your second wind.
But, thank God, all
the same, you're better! Thank God, too,
you're not, as you were
telling me yesterday, 'successful.'
If
weren't a failure, what would be the use of trying? That's
my
one reserve on the subject of your recovery — that it makes you
"score,"
as the newspapers say. It looks well in the newspapers,
and almost anything that does that is horrible. 'We are happy
Somehow I shouldn't like to
to
announce that
the enjoyment of excellent
health.'
see it."
"You won't see it; I'm not in the least celebrated — my
my companion asked.
obscurity
protects me. But couldn't you bear even to see I was
dying or
dead?"
"Dead —
knows what a living artist may do
— one has mourned so many.
However, one must make the worst of
it; you must be as dead as
you can."
"Don't I meet that condition in having just published a book?"
"Adequately, let us hope; for the book is verily a master- piece."
At this moment the parlour-maid appeared in the door that
opened into the
garden:
frisk of petticoats, with a timorous "Sherry, sir?"
was
about his
modest mahogany. He allowed hall his income to his wife,
from
whom he had succeeded in separating without redundancy of legend.
I had a general faith in his having behaved well, and I had once, in
speak to the maid,
who offered him, on a trait, some card or note,
while agitated, excited, I wandered to the end of the garden.
The idea of
his security became supremely dear to me, and I asked
myself if I were the
same young man who had come down a few
days before to scatter him to the
four winds. When I retraced
my steps he had gone into the house and the
woman (the second
on a bench. I sat down there to the letters, which
were a brief
business, and then, without heeding the address, took the
paper
from its envelope. It was the journal of highest renown,
The article was not, I thanked Heaven, a review; it was a
leader, the last
of three, presenting
race. His new book, the fifth from his hand, had been but a day
or two out, and
higher, between the watching faces and the envious sounds — away
up
to the daïs and the throne. The article was a date; he had
taken rank at a
bound — waked up a national glory. A national
glory was needed, and
it was an immense convenience he was there.
What all this meant rolled over
me, and I fear I grew a little faint
—it meant so much more than I
could say "yea"
to on the spot.
land a flash, somehow, all was
different; the tremendous wave I
speak of had swept something away. It had
knocked down, I
suppose, my little customary altar, my twinkling tapers and
my
flowers, and had reared itself into the likeness of a temple vast
and
bare. When
come out a contemporary. That was what had
happened — the
poor man was to be squeezed into his horrible age. I
felt as if
he had been overtaken on the crest of the hill and brought
back
to the city. A little more and he would have dipped down to
posterity and escaped.
When he came out it was exactly as if he had been in custody,
for beside him
walked a stout man with a big black beard, who,
save that he wore
spectacles, might have been a policeman, and
in whom at a second glance I
recognised the highest contemporary
enterprise.
"This is
said
rather white;
"he wants to publish heaven knows what about
me."
I winced as I remembered that this was exactly what I myself
had wanted.
"Already?"
I exclaimed, with a sort of sense that
my friend had
fled to me for protection.
suggested the electric headlights of some monstrous modern
ship,
and I felt as if
bows. I saw that his momentum was
irresistible, "I was
he declared.
confident that I should be the first in the
field,"
"A great interest is naturally felt in
"I hadn't the least idea of it,"
said
told he had been snoring.
"I find he has not read the article in
remarked to me. "That's
so very interesting — something to
he smiled.
He had begun to pull off his gloves,
start with,"
which were violently new, and to look
encouragingly round the
little garden. As a "surrounding"
I felt
that I myself had
already been taken in; I was a little fish in the stomach
of a
bigger one. "I represent,"
our visitor continued, "a
syndicate of
influential journals, no less than thirty-seven, whose
public —
whose publics, I may say — are in peculiar
sympathy with
Paraday's
expression of his views
on the subject of the art he so brilliantly
practises. Besides my
connection with the syndicate just men-
tioned, I hold a particular
commission from
most prominent department,
you've often enjoyed it
— attracts such attention. I was honoured
only last week, as a
representative of
dence of
expressed herself thoroughly pleased with
my sketch of her
method; she went so far as to say that I had made her
genius
more comprehensible even to herself."
at once detached and confused; he looked hard
at a bare spot in
the lawn, as if with an anxiety that had suddenly made
him grave.
His movement had been interpreted by his visitor as an invitation
to sink
sympathetically into a wicker chair that stood hard by,
and as
official possession and that there was no undoing it. One had
heard of unfortunate people's having
this was just what we had. There was a silence of a moment,
during
which we seemed to acknowledge in the only way that
was possible the
presence of universal fate; the sunny stillness
took no pity, and my
thought, as I was sure
performed within the minute a great distant revolution. I saw
just how emphatic I should make my rejoinder to
and that having come, like
remain as
long as possible to save. Not because I had brought
my mind back, but
because our visitor's last words were in my
ear, I presently inquired with
gloomy irrelevance if
ingham
"Oh yes, a mere pseudonym; but convenient, you know, for
a lady who goes
in for the larger latitude.
So-and-So would look a little odd, but men are more naturally
indelicate. Have you peeped into
continued sociably to our
companion.
heard the question: a manifestation that appeared
to suit the
cheerful
he was a man of resources —
he only needed to be on the spot.
He had pocketed the whole poor place
while
woolgathering, and I could imagine that he had already got his
evitability with which I replied, to save my friend the trouble:
"Dear, no; he hasn't read it. He doesn't read such things!"
I
unwarily added.
"Things that are too far over the fence, eh?"
I was indeed a
godsend
to
determined the appearance of his notebook, which, however, he
at
first kept slightly behind him, as the dentist, approaching his
victim, keeps his horrible forceps. "
And, thinking of the thirty-seven
good old proprieties — I
see!"
influential journals, I
found myself, as I found poor
lessly gazing at the promulgation of this ineptitude.
"There's
no point on which distinguished views are so acceptable as
on this
question — raised perhaps more strikingly than ever by
ingham
appointment,
precisely in connection with it, next week, with
everybody is talking
about. Has
Other Way Round'
me. I took upon myself to repudiate the supposition, while our
companion,
still silent, got up nervously and walked away. His
visitor paid no heed to
his withdrawal; he only opened out the
notebook with a more motherly pat.
"
the ground, the same as
latitude has simply got to
come. He holds that it bas got to
squarely faced. Of course his sex
makes him a less prejudiced
witness. But an authoritative word from
point of view of his sex, you know — would go right round the
globe. He takes the line that we haven't got to face it?"
I was bewildered; it sounded somehow as if there were three
sexes. My
interlocutor's pencil was poised, my private responsi-
bility great. I
simply sat staring, however, and only, found
presence of mind to say:
"Is this
"It wouldn't be
"Miss"
— there's a wife!"
"I mean is she a man?"
"The wife?"
—
as myself. But when I explained that I alluded to
in person he informed
me, with visible amusement at my being
so out of it, that this was the
pen-name of an indubitable male
— he had a big red moustache. "He
only assumes a feminine
Our host at
this moment
personality because the ladies are such popular
favourites. A great
deal of interest is felt in this assumption, and
there's every pro-
spect of its being widely imitated."
joined us again, and
should be happy to make a
note of any observation the movement
in question, the bid for success under
a lady’s name, might suggest
to
tion,
excused himself, pleading that, though he was greatly
honoured by his
visitor's interest, he suddenly felt unwell and
should have to take leave
of him — have to go and lie down and
keep quiet. His young friend
might be trusted to answer for
him, but he hoped
of his young
friend. His young friend, at this moment, looked
at
doomed to be ill again; but
tion reassuringly,
seemed to say in a glance intelligible enough:
"Oh, I'm not ill, but I'm scared: get him out of the house as
Getting newspaper-men out of the house was
quietly as
possible."
odd business
for an emissary of
rated by the idea of it that I called after him as he left
us:
"Read the article in
right!"
"Delicious my having come down to tell him of it!"
Morrow"My cab was
at the door twenty minutes
he continued, dropping again into
after
what have
you got for me?"
his chair, from
which, however, the next moment he quickly
rose. "I was shown into the
drawing-room, but there must be
more to see—his study, his
literary sanctum, the little things he
has about, or other domestic
objects or features. He wouldn't be
lying down on his study-table?
There's a great interest always
felt in the scene of an author's
labours. Sometimes we're favoured
with very delightful peeps.
drawers, and almost jammed my hand into one into which I made
a dash! I
don't ask that of you, but if we could talk things
over right there
where he sits I feel as if I should get the
keynote."
I had no wish whatever to be rude to
much too initiated not to prefer the safety of
other ways; but I
had a quick inspiration and I entertained an
insurmountable, an
almost superstitious objection to his crossing the
threshold of my
friend's little lonely, shabby, consecrated workshop.
"No,
I said.
we sha'n't get at his lire that way,""The way
to get at
I broke off
and went
his lire is to — But wait a moment!"
quickly into the house; then, in three minutes, I reappeared before
"His life's here"
I went on, "and I'm so full of this admirable
thing that I can't talk of anything else. The artist's life's his
work,
and this is the place to observe him. What he has to tell
us he tells us with
viewer's the best reader."
"Do you mean to
say that no other source of information should be
opened to us?"
"None other till this particular one — by far the most copious
—
has been quite exhausted. Have you exhausted it, my dear
sir
Had you exhausted it when you came down here? It seems to
me
in our time almost wholly neglected, and something should
surely be
done to restore its ruined credit. It's the course to
which the artist
himself at every step, and with such pathetic
confidence, refers us.
This last book of
revelations."
"Revelations."
panted
again into his chair.
"The only kind that count. It tells you with a perfection that
seems to
me quite final all the author thinks, for instance, about the
advent of
the larger latitude."
"Where does it do that?"
asked
up the second volume and was
insincerely thumbing it.
"Everywhere — in the whole treatment of his case. Extract the
opinion, disengage the answer — those are the real acts of
homage."
"Ah, but
you mustn't take me for a reviewer."
"Heaven forbid I should take you for anything so dreadful!
You came down
to perform a little act of sympathy, and so, I
may confide to you, did
I. Let us perform our little act together.
These pages overflow with
the testimony we want: let us read
them and taste them and interpret
them. You will of course
have perceived for yourself that one scarcely
does read
Paraday
Ordinary quality,
and it's only when you expose it confidently to
that test that you really get near his style. Take up your book
again
and let me listen, while you pay it out, to that wonderful
fifteenth
chapter. If you feel that you can't do it justice, compose
yourself to
attention while I produce for you — I think I can! —
this
scarcely less admirable ninth."
blow between the eyes; he had turned rather red and a
question had
formed itselfin his mind which reached my sense as distinctly
as if
he had uttered it: "What sort of a damned fool are you?"
Then
he got up, gathering together his hat and gloves, buttoning his
coat, projecting hungrily all over the place the big transparency of
his
mask. It seemed to flare over
made the actual spot distressingly humble: there was so little
for
it to feed on unless he counted the blisters of our stucco or saw
his way to do something with the roses. Even the poor roses
were common
kinds. Presently his eyes fell upon the manuscript
from which
the bench. As my own followed them I saw that it looked
promising, looked pregnant, as if it gently throbbed with the lire
the
reader had given it.
it and a vague thrust of his umbrella. "What's
that?"
"Oh, it's a plan — a secret."
"A secret!"
There was an instant's silence, and then
Morrow
but it affected me as the translated impulse of the
desire to lay
hands on the manuscript, and this led me to indulge in a
quick
anticipatory grab which may very well have seemed ungraceful, or
even impertinent, and which at any rate left
admirers very erect, glaring at each other
while one of them held
a bundle of papers well behind him. An instant later
Morrow
thing away. To reassure myself, watching his broad back recede,
I only
grasped my manuscript the tighter. He went to the
back-door of the house,
the one he had come out from, but on
trying the handle he appeared to find
it fastened. So he passed
round into the front garden, and, by listening
intently enough, I
could presently hear the outer gate close behind him
with a bang.
I thought again of the thirty-seven influential journals
and
wondered what would be his revenge. I hasten to add that he was
rnagnanimous: which was just the most dreadful thing he could
have been.
A week later, early in May, my glorified friend came up to
town, where, it
may be veraciously recorded, he was the king of
the beasts of the year. No
advancement was ever more rapid, no
exaltation more complete, no
bewilderment more teachable. His
book sold but moderately, though the
article in
the portable sophistries about the nature of the artist's task.
Observation
too was a kind of work and experience a kind of
success;
were fruitful toil. "No one
has the faintest conception of what
he said to me,
I'm trying for,""and not many have read three
He found himself in truth
equally amused and fatigued;
pages that I've written; but they're
all enthusiastic, enchanted,
devoted."
but the fatigue had the merit of being a new
sort, and the phantas-
magoric town was perhaps after all less of a
battlefield than the
haunted study. He once told me that he had had no
personal life
to speak of since his fortieth year, but had had more than
was
good for him before.
him in relations; one of the most inevitable
of these being that in
which he found himself to
boundless brewer and
proprietress of the universal menagerie.
In this establishment, as
everybody knows, on occasions when the
crush is great, the animais rub
shoulders freely with the spectators
and the lions sit down for whole
evenings with the lambs.
It had been ominously clear to me from the first that in
Paraday
fun, considered that she had secured a prime
attraction, a creature
of almost heraldic oddity. Nothing could exceed ber
enthusiasm
over ber capture, and nothing could exceed the confused
apprehen-
sions it excited in me. I had an instinctive fear of her which
I
tried without effect to conceal from her victim, but which I let
her
perceive with perfect impunity.
never did, for her conscience was that of a romping
child. She was
a blind, violent force, to which I could attach no more idea
of
responsibility than to the hum of a spinning-top. It was difficult
to say what she conduced to but to circulation. She was constructed
of sted
and leather, and all I asked of her for our tractable friend
was not to do him to death. He had consented for a time to be
of
indiarubber, but my thoughts were fixed on the day he should
resume his
shape or at least get back into his box. It was evi-
dently all right, but
I should be glad when it was well over. I
was simply nervous — the
impression was ineffaceable of the hour
when, after
in his study. That pretext of indisposition had not in the least
been meant as a snub to the envoy of
One day, in
landlord, who
had come to the door in answer to my knock. Two
vehicles, a barouche and a
smart hansom, were drawn up before
the house.
"In the drawing-room, sir?
"And in the dining-room?"
"A young lady, sir — waiting: I think a foreigner."
It was three o'clock, and on days when
out he attached a value to these
subjugated hours. On which
days, however, didn't the dear man lunch out?
at such a crisis,
would have rushed round immediately after her
own repast. I went into the
dining-room first, postponing the
pleasure of seeing how, upstairs, the
lady of the barouche would,
on my arrival, point the moral of my sweet
solicitude. No one
took such an interest as herself in his doing only what
was good
for him, and she was always on the spot to see that he did
it.
She made appointments with him to discuss the best means of
economising his time and protecting his privacy. She further
made his
health her special business, and had so much sympathy
with my own zeal for
it that she was the author of pleasing
fictions on the subject of what my
devotion had led me to give
up. I gave up nothing (I don't count
had nothing, and all
I had as yet achieved was to find myself
also in the menagerie. I had
dashed in to save my friend, but I
had only got domesticated and wedged; so
that I could do nothing
for him but exchange with him over people's heads
looks of
intense but futile intelligence.
The young lady in the dining-room had a brave face, black
hair, blue eyes,
and in her lap a big volume. "I've come for his
she
said, when I had explained to her that I was
autograph,"
under bonds to see people for
him when he was occupied. "I've
I
been waiting half an bout, but I'm
prepared to wait all day."
don't know whether it was this that
told me she was American,
for the propensity to wait all day is not in general characteristic
of her
race. I was enlightened probably not so much by the
spirit of the utterance
as by some quality of its sound. At an
y rate I saw she had an individual
patience and a lovely frock, to-
gether with an expression that played
among her pretty features
as a breeze among flowers. Putting her book upon
the table, she
showed me a massive album, showily bound and full of
autographs
of price. The collection of faded notes, of still more faded
formidable purpose.
"Most people apply to
I said.
"Yes, but he doesn't answer, I’ve written three times."
"Very true,"
I reflected; "the sort of letter you mean goes
straight into the fire."
"How do you know the sort I mean?"
my interlocutress
asked. She had
blushed and smiled and in a moment she added:
"I don't believe he gets many like them!"
"I'm sure they're beautiful, but he burns without reading."
I
didn't
add that I had told him he ought to.
"Isn't he then in danger of burning things of importance?"
"He would be, if distinguished men hadn't an infallible nose for
She looked at me a moment — her face was sweet and
gay.
a
petition."
"Do
she asked;
in answer to
which I assured her that if she would trust me with her
repository
I would see that
She considered a
little. "That's very well, but it wouldn't
make me see him."
"Do you want very much to see him?"
It seemed ungracious
to catechise
so charming a creature, but somehow I had never yet
taken my duty to the
great author so seriously.
"Enough to have come from
I stared. "All alone?"
"I don't see that that's exactly your business; but if it will
make me
more appealing I will confess that I am quite by myself.
I had to come
alone or not at all."
She was interesting; I could imagine that she had lost parents,
natural
protectors — could conceive even that she had inherited
money. I was
in a phase of my own fortunes when keeping
hansoms at doors seemed to me
pure swagger. As a trick of
this frank and delicate girl, however, it
became romantic — a part
of the general romance of her freedom, her
errand, her innocence.
The confidence of young Americans was notorious, and
I speedily
arrived at a conviction that no impulse could have been
more
generous than the impulse that had operated here. I foresaw at
that moment that it would make her my peculiar charge, just as cir-
cumstances had made
to look after, and one's honour would be concerned
in guiding
her straight. These things became clearer to me later; at
the
instant I had scepticism enough to observe to her, as I turned the
pages of her volume, that her net had, all the same, caught many a
big
fish. She appeared to have had fruitful access to the great
ones of the
earth; there were people moreover whose signatures
she had presumably
secured without a personal interview. She
couldn't have waylaid
and
throwing up the album without a pang. It wasn't even her
own;
she was responsible for none of its treasures. It belonged to a
girl-friend in
young lady had insisted on her bringing it, to pick up
more auto-
graphs: she thought they might like to see, in
company they would be. The
the immortal names, the curious errand, the idyllic faith, all made
a story
as strange to me, and as beguiling, as some tale in the
I demurred a little. "And why do you require to do that?"
"Because I just love him!"
Before I could recover from the
agitating
effect of this crystal ring my companion had continued:
"Hasn't there ever been any face that you've wanted to look
into?"
How could I tell her so soon how much I appreciated the
opportunity of
looking into hers? I could only assent in general
to the proposition that
there were certainly for every one such
faces; and I felt that the crisis
demanded all my lucidity, all my
wisdom. "Oh, yes, I'm a student of
physiognomy. Do you
I pursued,
mean,""that you've a passion for
books?"
"They've been everything to me — I know them by heart.
They've
completely taken hold of me. There's no author about
whom I feel as I
do about
"Permit me to remark then,"
I presently rejoined, "that
you're one
of the right sort."
"One of the enthusiasts? Of course I am!"
"Oh, there are enthusiasts who are quite of the wrong. I
mean you're one
of those to whom an appeal can be made."
"An appeal?"
Her face lighted as if with the chance of some
great
sacrifice.
If she was ready for one it was only waiting for her, and in a
moment I mentioned it. "Give up this rigid purpose of seeing
him. Go away
without it. That will be far better."
She looked mystified; then she turned visibly pale. "Why,
The girl was terrible and laugh-
hasn't
he any personal charm?"
able in
her bright directness.
"Ah, that dreadful word
I exclaimed;
"we're
dying of it, and you women bring it out with murderous
effect.
When you encounter a genius as fine as this idol of ours, let
him
off the dreary duty of being a personality as well. Know him
only by what's best in him, and spare him for the same sweet
sake."
My young lady continued to look at me in confusion and mis-
trust, and the
result of her reflection on what I had just said
was to make her suddenly
break out: "Look here, sir — what's the
matter with him?"
"The matter with him is that, if he doesn't look out, people
will eat a
great hole in his life."
She considered a moment. "He hasn't any disfigurement?"
"Nothing to speak of!"
"Do you mean that social engagements interfere with his occu-
pations?"
"That but feebly expresses it."
"So that he can't give himself up to his beautiful imagin-
ation?"
"He's badgered, bothered, overwhelmed, on the pretext of
being
applauded. People expect him to give them his time, his
golden time,
who wouldn't themselves give five shillings for one of
his books."
"Five? I'd give five thousand!"
"Give your sympathy — give your forbearance. Two-thirds of
those
who approach him only do it to advertise themselves."
"Why, it’s too bad!"
the girl exclaimed, with the face of an
angel.
I followed up my advantage. "There's a lady with him now
who's a terrible
complication, and who yet hasn't read, I am sure,
ten pages that he
ever wrote."
My visitor's wide eyes grew tenderer. "Then how does she
talk?"
"Without ceasing. I only mention her as a single case. Do
you want to
know how to show a superlative consideration?
Simply, avoid him."
"Avoid him?"
she softly wailed.
"Don't force him to have to take account of you; admire him
I continued, warming to
in silence,
cultivate him at a distance and secretly, appropriate his
message. Do
you want to know,"
my idea, "how to
perform an act of homage really sublime?"
Then as she hung on mg
words: "Succeed in never seeing
him!"
"Never?"
she pathetically gasped.
"The more you get into his writings the less you'll want to;
and you'll
be immensely sustained by the thought of the good
you're doing
him."
She looked at me without resentment or spite, and at the truth
I had put
before her with candour, credulity and pity. I was
afterwards happy to
remember that she must have recognised in
my face the liveliness of my
interest in herself. "I think I see
what you mean."
"Oh, I express it badly; but I should be delighted if you would
let me
come to see you — to explain it better."
She made no response to this, and her thoughtful eyes fell on
the big
album, on which she presently laid her hands as if to take
it away. "I
did use to say out West that they might write a little
less for autographs (to all the great poets, you know) and study
the
thoughts and style a little more."
"What do they care for the thoughts and style? They didn't
I added,
even
understand you. I'm not sure,""that I do myself,
She had got
and I
daresay that you by no means make me out."
up to go,
and though I wanted her to succeed in not seeing
Paraday
I was at any rate far from desiring to hustle her off. As
Weeks Wimbush
way, I asked my young lady to let me
briefly relate, in illustration
of my point, the little incident of my
having gone clown into the
country for a profane purpose and been converted
on the spot to
holiness. Sinking again into her chair to listen, she showed
a deep
interest in the anecdote. Then, thinking it over gravely she
ex-
claimed with her odd intonation:
"Yes, but you do see him!"
I had to admit that this was the
case; and
I was not so prepared with an effective attenuation as I
could have wished.
She eased the situation off, however, by the
charming quaintness with which
she finally said: "Well, I
This
time she rose in earnest,
wouldn't want him to be lonely!"
but I persuaded her to let me keep the album to
show to
Paraday
"Well, you'll find my address somewhere in it, on a paper!"
she
sighed resignedly, as she took leave.
I blush to confess it, but I invited
to transcribe into the album one of
his most characteristic passages.
I told him how I had got rid of the strange girl who had brought
it —
her ominous name was
quite agreeing with him moreover as to the wisdom of
getting
rid with equal promptitude of the book itself. This was why I
carried it to
failed to find her at home, but she wrote to me and I
went again:
she wanted so much to hear more about
repeatedly, I may
briefly declare, to supply her with this informa-
tion. She had been
immensely taken, the more she thought of it,
with that idea of mine about
the act of homage: it had ended by
filling her with a generous rapture. She
positively desired to do
something sublime for him, though indeed I could
see that, as this
particular flight was difficult, she appreciated the fact
that my visits
kept her up. I had it on my conscience to keep her up;
I
neglected nothing that would contribute to it, and her conception
of
our cherished author's independence became at last as fine as his
own
conception. "Read him, read him,"
I constantly repeated;
while,
seeking him in his works, she represented herself as con-
vinced that,
according to my assurance, this was the system that
had, as she expressed
it, weaned her. We read him together when
I could find time, and the
generous creature's sacrifice was fed by
our conversation. There were
twenty selfish women, about whom
I told her, who stirred her with a
beautiful rage. Immediately
after my first visit her sister,
and the two ladies began to present, as
they called it, their letters.
I thanked our stars that none had been
presented to
They
received invitations and dined out, and some of these occa-
sions enabled
touching feats of submission. Nothing indeed would now
have
induced her even to look at the object of her admiration. Once,
hearing his name announced at a party, she instantly left the room
by another door and then straightway quitted the house. At
another time,
when I was at the opera with them (
had invited me to their box) I attempted to point
out to her in the
stalls. On this she asked her sister to change
places with her, and, while
that lady devoured the great man
through a powerful glass, presented, all
the rest of the evening,
her inspired back to the house. To torment her
tenderly I pressed
the glass upon her, telling her how wonderfully near it
brought our
friend's handsome head. By way of answer she simply looked at
me
in grave silence; on which I saw that tears had gathered in her
eyes.
These tears, I may remark, produced an effect on me of which
the
end is not yet. There was a moment when I felt it my
duty to mention them
to
by the reflection that there were questions more relevant to his
happiness.
These questions indeed, by the end of the season, were reduced
to a single
one — the question of reconstituting, so far as might be
possible,
the conditions under which he had produced his best
work. Such conditions
could never all come back, for there was
a new one that took up too much
place; but some perhaps were
not beyond recall. I wanted above all things
to see him sit down
to the subject of which, on my making his acquaintance,
he had
read me that admirable sketch. Something told me there was no
security but in his doing so before the new factor, as we used to say
at
half reassured me that the sketch itself was
so copious and so eloquent
that even at the worst there would be the making
of a small but com-
plete book, a tiny volume which, for the faithful,
might well become
an object of adoration. There would even not be wanting
critics
to declare, I foresaw, that the plan was a thing to be more
thankful
for than the structure to have been reared on it. My
impatience
for the structure, none the less, grew and grew with the interrup-
tions. He
had, on coming up to town, begun to sit for his portrait
to a young
painter,
say at
of renown.
of the hour, and still more the woman, leaped through the hoops
of
his showy frames almost as electrically as they burst into tele-
grams and
back;
he was the reporter on canvas, the
and there was one roaring year in which
Braby
from the same pictured walls that no one had yet got
ahead of
him.
characteristic good-humour his confidential hint
that to figure in
his show was not so much a consequence as a cause of
immortality.
From
ascertain his twelve
favourite dishes, it was the same ingenuous
assumption that he would
rejoice in the repercussion. There
were moments when I fancied I might have
had more patience
with them if they had not been so fatally benevolent. I
hated,
at all events,
ment ready when, later on, I found my
distracted friend had
been stuffed by
A young artist in
whom she was intensely interested, and who
had no connection with
could
shoot him. Poor
something somewhere about the young artist. She played
her
victims against each other with admirable ingenuity, and her
establishment was a huge machine in which the tiniest and the
biggest
wheels went round to the same treadle. I had a scene
with her in which I tried to express that the function of such a
man was to
exercise his genius — not to serve as a hoarding for
pictorial
posters. The people I was perhaps angriest with were
the editors of
magazines who had introduced what they called new
features, so aware were
they that the newest feature of all would
be to make him grind their axes
by contributing his views on
vital topics and taking part in the periodical
prattle about the
future of fiction. I made sure that before I should have
done
with him there would scarcely be a current form of words left
me
to be sick of; but meanwhile I could make surer still of my
animosity to
bustling ladies for whom he drew the water that
irrigated their social
flower-beds.
I had a battle with
and another over the question of a certain week, at
the end of
July, that
her in the country. I protested
against this visit; I intimated
that he was too unwell for hospitality
without a
without
imagination; I begged he might rather take the time in
some restorative
way. A sultry air of promises, of reminders hung
over his August, and he
would great]y profit by the interval of
test. He had not told me he was ill
again — that he had a
warning; but I had not needed this, and I
found his reticence
his worst symptom. The only thing he said to me was
that he
believed a comfortable attack of something or other would set
him
up: it would put out of the question everything but the exemp-
tions he prized. I am afraid I shall have presented him as a
martyr in a
very small cause if I fail to explain that he surren-
dered himself much
more liberally than I surrendered him. He
filled his lungs, for the most
part, with the comedy of his queer
fate: the tragedy was in the spectacles
through which I chose to
look. He was conscious of inconvenience, and above
all of a
great renouncement; but how could he have heard a mere dirge
in the bells of
his accession? The sagacity and the jealousy were
mine, and his the
impressions and the anecdotes. Of course, as
regards
not the state of his health the very reason for his coming to
her
at
be coddled,
and wasn't the dear
coddle him? The dear
of a famous foreign house, and, in her gilded
cage, with her retinue
of keepers and feeders, was the most expensive
specimen in the
good lady's collection. I don't think her august presence
had had
to do with
that he had operated as a bait
to the illustrious stranger. The
party had been made up for him,
every one was
counting on it, the dear
was well enough he was to read them something absolutely
fresh,
and it was on that particular prospect the
heart. She was so fond
of genius, in
so
used to it, and understood it so well; she was the greatest of
then he read like an angel.
had again
and again given her,
listening to him.
I looked at her a moment. "What has he read to you"
I
crudely
inquired.
For a moment too she met my eyes, and for the fraction of a
moment she
hesitated and coloured, "Oh, all sorts of things!"
I wondered whether this were a perfect fib or only an imperfect
Recollection, and she quite understood my unuttered comment on
her
perception of such things. But if she could forget
Paraday
three days later she invited me, by telegraph, to join the party at
what I had given up to be near the toaster. I addressed
from
that fine residence several communications to a young lady in
and whom the reminder of what she herself could
give up was
required to make me quit at all. It adds to the gratitude I
owe
her on other grounds that she kindly allows me to transcribe from
my letters a few of the passages in which that hateful sojourn is
candidly
commemorated.
"I suppose I ought to enjoy the joke," I wrote, "of what's
going on here, but somehow it doesn't amuse me. Pessimism on
the contrary
possesses me and cynicism solicits. I positively feel
my own flesh sore
from the brass nails in
harness. The house is full of people who like him, as they
mention, awfully, and with whom his talent for talking nonsense
has
prodigious success. I delight in his nonsense myself; why is
it therefore
that I grudge these happy folk their artless satisfac-
tion? Mystery of the
human heart — abyss of the critical spirit!
want of gaiety has at last worn out her patience she
has given me
a glimpse of her shrewd guess. I am made restless by the
selfish-
ness of the insincere friend — I want to monopolise
order that he may push
me on. To be intimate with him is a
feather in my cap; it gives me an
importance that I couldn't
naturally pretend to, and I seek to deprive him
of social refresh-
ment because I fear that meeting more disinterested
people may
enlighten him as to my real spirit. All the disinterested people
here are
his particular admirers and have been carefully selected as
such. There is
supposed to be a copy of his last book in the
house, and in the hall I
come upon ladies, in attitudes, bending
gracefully over the first volume. I
discreetly avert my eyes, and
when I next look round the precarious joy has
been superseded by
the book of life. There is a sociable circle or a
confidential
couple, and the relinquished volume lies open on its face, as
if it
had been dropped under extreme coercion. Somebody else pre-
sently finds it and transfers it, with its air of momentary deso-
lation,
to another piece of furniture. Every one is asking every
one about it all
day, and every one is telling every one where they
put it last. I'm sure
it's rather smudgy about the twentieth page.
I have a strong impression too
that the second volume is lost —
has been packed in the bag of some
departing guest; and yet
everybody has the impression that somebody else
has read to the
end. You see therefore that the beautiful book plays a
great
part in our conversation. Why should I take the occasion of
such
distinguished honours to say that I begin to see deeper into
I refer you again to the perverse
constitution of man.
"The
athlete and the confusion of tongues of a
contrives to commit herself
extraordinarily little in a great many
languages, and is entertained and
conversed with in detachments
and relays, like an institution which goes on
from generation to
generation or a big building contracted for under a
forfeit. She
can't have a personal taste, any more than, when her
husband
succeeds, she can have a personal crown, and her opinion on
any
matter is rusty and heavy and plain — made, in the night of
ages,
to last and be transmitted. I feel as if I ought to pay some one
a
fee for my glimpse of it. She has been told everything in the
world and has
never perceived anything, and the echoes of her
education respond awfully
to the rash footfall — I mean the casual
remark — in the cold
Valhalla of her memory.
delights in her wit and says there is nothing so charming as to
hear
job, and he tells me it has a peculiarly
exhausting effect. Every
one is beginning — at the end of two days
— to sidle obsequiously
away from her, and
the breach: None of the uses I have yet seen him put to irritate
me quite so much. He looks very fagged, and has at last confessed
to me
that his condition makes him uneasy — has even promised
me that he
will go straight home instead of returning to his final
engagements in
town. Last night I had some talk with him
about going to-day, cutting his
visit short; so sure am I that he
will be better as soon as he is shut up
in his lighthouse. He told
me that this is what he would like to do;
reminding me, how-
ever, that the first lesson of his greatness has been
precisely that
he can't do what he likes.
him if he should leave her
before the
last hand. When I say that a violent rupture with our hostess
would be the
best thing in the world for him he gives me to
understand that if his
reason assents to the proposition his courage
hangs wofully back. He makes
no secret of being mortally afraid
of her, and when I ask what harm she can
do him that she hasn't
already done he simply repeats: "I'm afraid, I'm
afraid! Don't
he said last night;
inquire too closely,""only
believe that I feel
It sounds dreadfully weak, but
a sort of terror. It's strange, when she's so kind!
At any rate,
I would as soon overturn that piece of priceless
that I must go before my
date."
he has some reason, and he
pays for his imagination, which puts
him (I should hate it) in the place of others and makes him feel,
even
against himself, their feelings, their appetites, their motives.
He's so
beastly intelligent. Besides, the famous reading is still to
come off, and
it has been postponed a day, to allow
ham
house a few miles off, which means of course that
has forcibly annexed her.
She's to come over in a day or two —
"To-day's wet and cold, and several of the company, at the
invitation
of the Duke, have driven over to luncheon at
I saw poor
supplementary seat of a brougham in which the
hostess were already ensconced. If the
front glass isn't open on
his dear old back perhaps he'll survive.
grand
and frigid, all marble and precedence, and I wish him well
out of the
adventure. I can't tell you how much more and more
your attitude to him, in
the midst of all this, shines out by contrast.
I never willingly talk to
these people about him, but see what a
comfort I find it to scribble to
you! I appreciate it; it keeps me
warm; there are no fires in the house.
the
calendar, the temperature goes by the weather, the weather
goes by God
knows what, and the
have nothing but my acrimony to warm me, and have been out
under an umbrella to restore my circulation. Coming in an hour
ago, I found
When I asked her what she was looking for she said she had
mislaid something that
in a moment that the article in question is a
manuscript and I
have a foreboding that it's the noble morsel he read me
six weeks
ago. When I expressed my surprise that he should have passed
about anything so precious (I happen to know it's his only copy —
in the most beautiful hand in all the world)
to me that she had not had it from
himself, but from
Wimbush
for her not being able to
stay and hear it read.
""Is that the piece he's to read,"
I asked, "when
ingham
""It's not for
"She's coming, I
believe, early
to-morrow. Meanwhile
and is actively wiring to him. She says he also must hear
him."
""You bewilder me a little,"
I replied; "in the age we live
in
one gets lost among the genders and the pronouns. The clear
thing is that
jealously as she might."
""Poor dear, she has the
her
the manuscript to look over."
""Did she speak as if it were the morning paper?"
""She
didn't have time, so she gave me a chance first;
because unfor-
tunately I go to-morrow to
""And your chance has only proved a chance to lose it?"
""I haven't lost it. I remember now — it was very stupid of
me to have forgotten. I told my maid to give it to Lord Dori-
mont
— or at least to his man."
""And
""Of course he gave it back to my maid — or else his man did,"
said "I daresay it's all
right."
"The conscience of these people is like a summer sea. They
haven't time
to
time to
kick it about the house. I suggested that the
with
a noble emulation, had perhaps kept the work for his own
perusal; and her ladyship wanted to know whether, if the thing
didn't turn
up again in time for the session appointed by out
hostess, the author
wouldn't have something else to read that would
do just as well. Their
questions are too delightful! I declared
to
well as the thing that does best; and at this she looked a little
confused
and scared. But I added that if the manuscript had gone
astray our little
circle would have the less of an effort of attention
to make. The piece in
question was very long — it would keep
them three hours.
""Three hours! Oh, the
said Lady
Augusta.
""I thought she was
"'I daresay she is — she's so awfully clever. But what's the
use
of being a
"
""If you can't dissemble your love?"
I asked, as
was vague. She said, at
any rate, that she would question her
maid; and I am hoping that when I
go down to dinner I shall
find the manuscript has been
recovered."
"It has not been recovered,"
I wrote early the next day, "and
I am
moreover much troubled about out friend. He came back
from
room, lay down a while before dinner. I tried to send him
to
bed and indeed thought I had put him in the way of it; but
after
I had gone to dress
inevitable result
that when I returned I found him under arms and
flushed and feverish, though decorated with the rare flower she
had
brought him for his button-hole. He came down to dinner,
but
great pain, and the advent of those ladies — I
mean of Guy
Walsingham and
does
maining in bed, so that he may be all right
to-morrow for the
for
the doctor. I tried to get him to say that out invalid must
go
straight home — I mean to-morrow or next day; but he
quite
refuses to talk about the future. Absolute quiet and warmth
and
the regular administration of an important remedy are the
points
he mainly insists on. He returns this afternoon, and I'm to
go
back to see the patient at one o'clock, when he next takes his
medicine. It consoles me a little that he certainly won't be able
to
read — an exertion he was already more than unfit for.
Augusta
would be to follow up the lost
manuscript. I can see she thinks
me a shocking busybody and doesn't
understand my alarm, but
she will do what she can, for she's a
good-natured woman. "So
That was
precisely what made her
are they all honourable men."
give the thing to
it. What use
forebodings, but somehow
I'm strangely without passion — des-
perately calm. As I
consider the unconscious, the well-meaning
ravages of our appreciative
circle I bow my head in submission to
some great natural, some
universal accident; I'm rendered almost
indifferent, in fact quite gay
(ha-ha!) by the sense of immitigable
rate.
let me have it, through the post, by the time
Later in the day I informed my
correspondent, for whom
enough to play his part with it. The
last evidence is that her
maid did give it to his lordship's valet. One
would think it was
some thrilling number of
who is aware of the accident, is much less
agitated by it than she
would doubtless be were she not for the hour
inevitably engrossed
with
indeed I kept a sort of diary of the situation,
that I had made the
acquaintance of this celebrity and that she was a
pretty little girl
who wore her hair in what used to be called a crop. She
looked
so juvenile and so innocent that if, as
she was resigned to the larger
latitude, her fortitude must have
come to her early. I spent most of the
day hovering about
Paraday
I became
conscious somehow that her resignation was contagious
and by the time the
company separated for the night I was sure
that the larger latitude had
been generally accepted. I thought of
I received a telegram from "Lord
Dorimont
thinks he must have left bundle in train — inquire."
How
could I inquire — if I was to take the word as a command?
I was too
worried and now too alarmed about
The doctor came back, and it was an immense
satisfaction to me
to feel that he was wise and interested. He was proud of
being
called to so distinguished a patient, but he admitted to me that
night that my friend was gravely iii. It was really a relapse, a
recrudescence of his old malady. There could be no question of
moving him:
we must at any rate see first, on the spot, what
turn his condition would
take. Meanwhile, on the morrow, he
was to have a nurse. On the morrow the dear man was easier,
and my spirits
rose to such cheerfulness that I could almost laugh
over "
I did laugh, I
been to station
— nothing found. Push inquiries."
am sure, as
I remembered this was the mystic scroll I had scarcely
allowed poor
I had been: the thirty-seven influential journals wouldn't
have
destroyed it, they would only have printed it. Of course I said
nothing to
When the nurse
arrived she turned me out of the room, on
which I went downstairs. I should
premise that at breakfast the
news that our brilliant friend was doing well
excited universal
complacency, and the
only to be
commiserated for missing the society of
dry decorum with which she accepted this blemish
on her perfec-
tion, mentioned to me that
favourable impression on her
every one did so and that, like the money-market or the national
honour,
her
There was a certain gladness, a perceptible bustle in the air,
how-
ever, which I thought slightly anomalous in a house where a great
author lay critically ill. "
: I was
reminded that
another great author had already stepped into his
shoes. When I came down
again after the nurse had taken
possession I found a strange gentleman
hanging about the hall
and pacing to and fro by the closed door of the
drawing-room.
This personage was florid and bald, he had a big red
moustache
and wore showy knickerbockers — characteristics all that
fitted into
my conception of the identity of
saw what had happened: the
author of
had just alighted at the portals of
scruple to restrain him from penetrating further. I
recognised his
scruple when, pausing to listen at his gesture of caution, I
heard a
shrill voice lifted in a prolonged monotonous quaver. The
famous
reading had begun, only it was the author of
"
I
smiled, "and the
has a
thirst for the
"
"
your formidable rival?"
"Oh!"
growled "Shall I
spoil it if I go in?"
"I should think nothing could spoil it!"
I ambiguously
laughed.
crook to his moustache. "
he presently asked.
We looked at each
other hard a moment; then I expressed
something bitter that was in me,
expressed it in an infernal
"Yes!"
After this I got out into the air, but not so quickly as
not
to hear, as the door of the drawing-room opened, the dis-
concerted drop of
been in the midst of the larger latitude. Producing with extreme
rapidity,
amiable people who are not initiated have been
pained to see the
genius of a sister-novelist held up to unmistakable
ridicule; so
fresh an exhibition does it seem to them of the dreadful way
men
have always treated women.
present hour, is immensely pushed
by
for his portrait to the young artists she protects, sat for it not
only in
oils but in monumental alabaster.
What happened at
temporary history. If the interruption I had whimsically
sanc-
tioned was almost a scandal, what is to be said of that general
dispersal of the company which, under the doctor's rule, began to
take
place in the evening? His rule was soothing to behold, small
comfort as I
was to have at the end. He decreed in the interest
of his patient an
absolutely soundless house and a consequent
break-up of the party. Little
country practitioner as he was, he
literally packed off the
a
revolution had broken out, and
her. I was kindly permitted to
remain, and this was not denied
even to
from
temporarily concealed. This
was so little, however, her usual way
of dealing with her eminent friends
that a couple of days of it
exhausted her patience, and she went up to town
with him in
great publicity. The sudden turn for the worse her
afflicted
guest had, after a brief improvement, taken on the third
night
raised an obstacle to her seeing him before her retreat; a
fortunate
circumstance doubtless, for she was fundamentally disappointed
in
him. This was not the kind of performance for which she had
invited
him to
to add
that none of the generous acts which have characterised her
patronage of
intellectual and other merit have done so much for
her reputation as her
lending
her numerous homes to die in. He took advantage to the utmost
of
the singular favour. Day by day I saw him sink, and I roamed
alone about
the empty terraces and gardens. His wife never came
near him, but I
scarcely noticed it: as I paced there with rage in
my heart I was too full of another wrong. In the event of his
death it would
fall to me perhaps to bring out in some charming
form, with notes, with the
tenderest editorial care, that precious
heritage of his written project.
But where
heritage, and were
both the author and the book to have been
snatched from us?
all
she could and that poor
worried to death, was extremely sorry. I couldn't have the
matter
out with
with desiring to aggrandise myself by a
public connection with
meet the expense of all advertising, as indeed she was
always ready
to do. The last night of the horrible series, the night
before
he died, I put my ear closer to his pillow.
"That thing I read you that morning, you know."
"In your garden — that dreadful day? Yes!"
"Won't it do as it is?"
"It would have been a glorious book."
"It
"Print it
as
it stands — beautifully."
"Beautifully!"
I passionately promised.
It may be imagined whether,
now that he has gone, the promise
seems to me less sacred. I am convinced
that if such pages had
appeared in his lifetime the Abbey would hold him
to-day. I
have kept the advertising in my own hands, but the
manuscript
has not been recovered. It's impossible, and at any rate
intoler-
able, to suppose it can have been wantonly destroyed. Perhaps
some chance blundering hand, some brutal ignorance has lighted
kitchen-fires with it. Every stupid and hideous accident haunts
my
meditations. My undiscouragable search for the lost treasure
would make a
long chapter. Fortunately I have a devoted
associate in the person of a young lady who has every day a fresh
indignation and a fresh idea and who maintains with intensity
that the
prize will still turn up. Sometimes I believe her, but I
have quite ceased
to believe myself. The only thing for us, at
all events, is to go on
seeking and hoping together; and we should
be closely united by this firm
tie even were we not at present by
another.
NAY but it is useless to
protest. Artifice must queen it once
more in the town, and so, if there be
any whose hearts chafe
at her return, let them not say, "We have come
into evil times,"
and be all for resistance, reformation or angry
cavilling. For did
the king's sceptre send the sea retrograde, or the wand
of the
sorcerer avail to turn the sun from its old course ? And what
man or what number of men ever stayed that reiterated process by
which the
cities of this world grow, are very strong, fail and grow
again ? Indeed,
indeed, there is charm in every period, and only
fools and flutterpates do
not seek reverently for what is charming
in their own day. No martyrdom,
however fine, nor satire, how
ever splendidly bitter, has changed by a
little tittle the known
tendency of things. It is the times that can
perfect us, not we
the times, and so let all of us wisely acquiesce. Like
the little
wired marionettes, let us acquiesce in the dance.
For behold ! The Victorian era comes to its end and the day
of sancta
simplicitas is quite ended. The old signs are here and
the portents to warn
the seer of life that we are ripe for a new
epoch of artifice. Are not men
rattling the dice-box and ladies
dipping their fingers in the rouge-pots ?
At
time of her
degringolade, when there was gambling even in the holy
temples, great ladies (does not
squander all they had upon unguents from
and unhappy wife,
ling retinue fifteen -or, as some say, fifty- she-asses, for the
sake
of their milk, that was thought an incomparable guard against
cosmetics with poison in them. Last century, too, when life was
lived by
candle-light, and ethics was but etiquette, and even art a
question of
punctilio, women, we know, gave the best hours of the
day to the crafty
farding of their faces and the towering of their
coiffures. And men,
throwing passion into the wine-bowl to sink
or swim, turned out thought to
browse upon the green cloth.
Cannot we even now in our fancy see them,
those silent exquisites
round the long table at "lest the
in quinze masks, through
countenance
should betray feeling,"
whose eyelets they
sat peeping, peeping, while macao brought them
riches or ruin ? We can see
them, those silent rascals, sitting there
with their cards and their
rouleaux and their wooden money-
bowls, long after the dawn had crept up
haggard
face against the window of the little club. Yes, we can
raise their
ghosts—and, more, we can see manywhere a devotion
to hazard fully as
meek as theirs. In
wonderful revival of cards. Roulette may rival dead faro in the
tale
of her devotees. Her wheel is spinning busily in every house
and ere long
it may be that tender parents will be writing to
complain of the compulsory
baccarat in our public school.
In fact, we are all gamblers once more, but our gambling is on
a finer scale
than ever it was. We fly from the card-room to the
heath, and from the
heath to the City, and from the City to the
coast of the
courages the clergy in its frantic efforts to lay the spirit of
chance,
that has thus resurged among us, so no longer are many faces
set
against that other great sign of a more complicated life, the love
for
cosmetics. No longer is a lady of fashion blamed if, to escape
the
outrageous persecution of time, she fly for sanctuary to the
toilet-table ;
and if a damosel, prying in her mirror, be sure that
with brush and pigment
she can trick herself into more charm, we
are not angry. Indeed, why should
we ever have been ? Surely
it is laudable, this wish to make fair the ugly
and overtop fairness,
and no wonder that within the last five years the
trade of the
makers of cosmetics has increased
immoderately—twentyfold, so
one of these makers has said to me. We
need but walk down
any modish street and peer into the little broughams
that flit
past, or (in
we meet, to see over how wide a
kingdom rouge reigns. We
men, who, from
whom
cosmetics, are quite yielding ; and there are, I fancy,
many such
husbands as he who, suddenly realising that his wife was
painted,
bad her sternly, "Go up and take it all off,"
and, on her
reappear
ance, bad her with increasing sternness, "Go up and put it
all
on again."
But now that the use of pigments is becoming general, and
most women are not
so young as they are painted, it may be asked
curiously how the prejudice
ever came into being. Indeed, it is
hard to trace folly, for that it is
inconsequent, to its start ; and
perhaps it savours too much of reason to
suggest that the prejudice
was due to the tristful confusion man has made
of soul and surface.
Through trusting so keenly to the detection of the one
by keeping
watch upon the other, and by force of the thousand errors
following,
he has come to think of surface even as the reverse of soul.
He
supposes that every clown beneath his paint and lip-salve is
moribund
and knows it, (though in verity, I am told, clowns are as
cheerful
a class of men as any other), that the fairer the fruit's rind and the
more
delectable its bloom, the closer are packed the ashes within it.
The very
jargon of the hunting-field connects cunning with a
mask. And so perhaps
came man's anger at the embellishment of
women—that lovely mask of
enamel with its shadows of pink
and tiny pencilled veins, what must lurk
behind it ? Of what
treacherous mysteries may it not be the screen ? Does
not the
heathen lacquer her dark face, and the harlot paint her
cheeks,
because sorrow has made them pale ?
After all, the old prejudice is a-dying. We need not pry into
the secret of
its birth. Rather is this a time of jolliness and glad
indulgence. For the
era of rouge is upon us, and as only in an
elaborate era can man by the
tangled accrescency of his own
pleasures and emotions reach that refinement
which is his highest
excellence, and by making himself, so to say,
independent of
Nature, come nearest to God, so only in an elaborate era is
woman
perfect. Artifice is the strength of the world, and in that same
mask of paint and powder, shadowed with vermeil tinct and most
trimly
pencilled, is woman's strength.
For see ! We need not look so far back to see woman under
the direct
influence of Nature. Early in this century, our grand
mothers, sickening of
the odour of faded exotics and spilt wine,
came out into the daylight once
more and let the breezes blow
around their faces and enter, sharp and
welcome, into their lungs.
Artifice they drove forth, and they set
throne of
mahogany to rule over them. A very reign of terror set
in. All things were
sacrificed to the fetish Nature. Old ladies
may still be heard to tell how,
when they were girls, affectation
was not ; and, if we verify their
assertion in the light of such
literary authorities as
Women appear to have been in those days utterly natural in their
conduct—flighty, gushing, blushing, fainting, giggling and shaking
their curls. They knew no reserve in the first days of the
Victorian era.
No thought was held too trivial, no emotion too
silly, to express. To
Nature everything was sacrificed. Great
heavens! And in those barren days
what influence was exerted
by women? By men they seem not to have been
feared nor loved,
but regarded rather as "dear little creatures"
or
" wonderful little
and in their relation to life as
foolish and ineffectual as the
beings,"
landscapes they did in water-colour. Yet, if
the women of those
years were of no great account, they had a certain charm
and they
at least had not begun to trespass upon men's ground ; if
they
touched not thought, which is theirs by right, at any rate they
refrained from action, which is ours. Far more serious was it
when, in the
natural trend of time, they became enamoured of
rinking and archery and
galloping along the
Swiftly they have sped on since then from horror to horror. The
invasion of
the tennis-courts and of the golf-links, the seizure of
the tricycle and of
the type-writer, were but steps preliminary in
that campaign which is to
end with the final victorious occupation
of
who gad hither and thither and, confounding wisdom with the
device on her
shield, shriek for the unbecoming, are doomed.
Though they spin their
tricycle-treadles so amazingly fast, they
are too late. Though they scream
victory, none follow them.
Artifice, that fair exile, has returned.
Yes, though the pioneers know it not, they are doomed already.
For of the
curiosities of history not the least strange is the manner
in which two
social movements may be seen to overlap, long after
the second has, in
truth, given its deathblow to the first. And,
in like manner as one has
seen the limbs of a murdered thing in
lively movement, so we need not doubt
that, though the voices of
those who cry out for reform be very terribly shrill, they will soon
be
hushed. Dear Artifice is with us. It needed but that we
should wait.
Surely, without any of my pleading, women will welcome their
great and
amiable protectrix, as by instinct. For (have I not
said ?) it is upon her
that all their strength, their life almost,
depends. Artifice's first
command to them is that they should
repose. With bodily activity their
powder will fly, their enamel
crack. They are butterflies who must not
flit, if they love their
bloom. Now, setting aside the point of view of
passion, from
which very many obvious things might be said, (and probably
have
been by the minor poets), it is, from the intellectual point of
view, quite necessary that a woman should repose. Hers is the
resupinate
sex. On her couch she is a goddess, but so soon as
ever she put her foot to
the ground—lo, she is the veriest little
sillypop and quite done
for. She cannot rival us in accion, but she
is our mistress in the things
of the mind. Let her not by second-
rate athletics, nor indeed by any
exercise soever of the limbs,
spoil the pretty procedure of her reason. Let
her be content to
remain the guide, the subtle suggester of what
strategist whose soldiers we are,
the little architect whose work
men.
" After all,"
as a pretty girl once said to me, "women are a sex
and the sharper the line between
by themselves, so to speak,"
their worldly functions and ours, the better. This greater
swiftness and
less erring subtlety of mind, their forte and privilege,
justifies the
painted mask that Artifice bids them wear. Behind
it their minds can play
without let. They gain the strength of
reserve. They become important, as
in the days of the Roman
Empire were the Emperor's mistresses, as was the
lined with thought ; beautiful and without meaning are their
faces.
And, truly, of all the good things that will happen with the
full renascence
of cosmetics, one of the best is that surface will
finally be severed from
soul. That damnable confusion will be
solved by the extinguishing of a
prejudice which, as I suggest,
itself created. Too long has the face been
degraded from its rank
as a thing of beauty to a mere vulgar index of
character or
emotion. We had come to troubling ourselves, not with its
charm of colour and line, but with such questions as whether the
lips were
sensuous, the eyes full of sadness, the nose indicative of
determination. I
have no quarrel with physiognomy. For my
own part, I believe in it. But it
has tended to degrade the face
Aesthetically, in such wise as the study of
cheirosophy has tended
to degrade the hand. And the use of cosmetics, the
masking of
the face, will change this. We shall gaze at a woman merely
because she is beautiful, not stare into her face anxiously, as into
the
face of a barometer.
How fatal it has been, in how many ways, this confusion of
soul and surface
! Wise were the Greeks in making plain masks
for their mummers to play in,
and dunces we not to have done the
same ! Only the other day, an actress
was saying that what she
was most proud of in her art—next, of
course, to having appeared
in some provincial pantomime at the age of
three—was the deft
ness with which she contrived, in parts demanding
a rapid succes-
sion of emotions, to dab her cheeks quite quickly with
rouge from
the palm of her right hand, or powder from the palm of her
left.
Gracious goodness! why do not we have masks upon the stage ?
Drama is the presentment of the soul in action. The mirror of
the soul is
the voice. Let the young critics, who seek a cheap
reputation for
austerity, by cavilling at " incidental music,"
set
their faces rather against the attempt to justify inferior dramatic
art by
the subvention of a quite alien art like painting, of any art,
indeed,
whose sphere is only surface. Let those, again, who sneer,
so rightly, at
the " painted anecdotes of the Academy,"
censure
equally the writers
who trespass on painter's ground. It is a
proclaimed sin that a painter
should concern himself with a good
little girl's affection for a Scotch
greyhound, or the keen enjoyment
of their port by elderly gentlemen of the
early forties. Yet, for a
painter to prod the soul with his paint-brush is
no worse than for
a novelist to refuse to dip under the surface, and the
fashion of
avoiding a psychological study of grief by stating that the
owner's
hair turned white in a single night, or of shame by mentioning
a
sudden rush of scarlet to the cheeks, is as lamentable as may
be.
But ! But with the universal use of cosmetics and the
consequent secernment
of soul and surface, which, at the risk of
irritating a reader, I must
again insist upon, all those old properties
that went to bolster up the
ordinary novel the trembling lips, the
flashing eyes, the determined curve
of the chin, the nervous trick of
biting the moustache—aye and the
hectic spot of red on either
cheek—will be made spiflicate, as the
puppets were spiflicated by
spirit
that has revived rouge, smote his mouth as it grinned at
the wondrous
painter of mist and river, and now sends him
sprawling for the pearls that
waters of romance.
Indeed the revival of cosmetics must needs be so splendid an
influence,
conjuring boons innumerable, that one inclines almost
to mutter against
that inexorable law by which Artifice must
perish from time to time. That
such branches of painting as the
staining of glass or the illuminating of
manuscripts should fall into
disuse seems, in comparison, so likely ; these
were esoteric arts ;
they died with the monastic spirit. But personal appearance is
art's very
basis. The painting of the face is the first kind of
painting man can have
known. To make beautiful things
is it not an impulse laid upon few ? But to
make oneself beautiful
is an universal instinct. Strange that the resultant
art could ever
perish ! So fascinating an art too ! So various in its
materials
from stimmis, psimythium and fuligo to bismuth and arsenic,
so
simple in that its ground and its subject-matter are one, so
marvellous in that its very subject-matter becomes lovely when an
artist
has selected it ! For surely this is no idle nor fantastic
saying. To deny
that "making-up"
is an art, on the pretext
that the finished work of
its exponents depends for beauty and
excellence upon the ground chosen for
the work, is absurd. At
the touch of a true artist, the plainest face turns
comely. As
subject-matter the face is no more than suggestive, as
ground,
merely a loom round which the beatus artifex may spin the
threads of any golden fabric : Quae nunc nomen habent
operosi signa Maronis
and, as
Pondus iners quondam duraque massa fuit.
Multa viros nescire decet ; pars maxima rerum
Offendat, si non
interiora tegas,
set
aglow on a woman's cheek, from enamel the features take any
form. Insomuch
that surely the advocates of soup-kitchens and
free-libraries and other
devices for giving people what providence
did not mean them to receive,
should send out pamphlets in the
praise of self-embellishment. For it will
place Beauty within
easy reach of many who could not otherwise hope to
attain it
But of course Artifice is rather exacting. In return for the
repose she
forces so—wisely !—upon her followers when the sun is
high or the moon is blown across heaven, she demands that
they should pay
her long homage at the sun's rising. The initiate
may not enter lightly
upon her mysteries. For, if a bad com-
plexion be inexcusable, to be
ill-painted is unforgivable; and when
the toilet is laden once more with
the fulness of its elaboration, we
shall hear no more of the proper
occupation for women. And
think, how sweet an energy, to sit at the mirror
of coquetry !
See the dear merits of the toilet as shown upon old vases, or
upon
the walls of Roman dwellings, or, rather still, read
alluring, scholarly
description of "
Read of
Einer
Reichen Rmerin.
through the
curtain of her bed-chamber to the chamber of her
toilet. The slave-girls
have long been charing their white feet
upon the marble floor. They stand,
those timid Greek girls,
marshalled in little battalions. Each has her
appointed task, and
all kneel in welcome as
toilet chair.
tiny sponge in a bowl of hot milk, passes it lightly,
ever so lightly,
over her mistress face. The Poppaean pastes melt beneath
it like
snow. A cooling lotion is poured over her brow and is fanned
with feathers.
sea-skirmish in the
box wherein
are the phucus and that white powder, psimythium;
in her right a sheaf of
slim brushes. With how sure a touch does
she mingle the colours, and in
what sweet proportion blushes
and blanches her lady's upturned face.
the slaves. Now
floats, liquid and sable, in the hollow of her
palm. Standing upon
tip-toe and with lips parted, she traces the arch of
the eyebrows.
The slaves whisper loudly of their lady's beauty, and two of
them
hold up a mirror to her. Yes, the eyebrows are rightly arched.
But why does
of the cedar-tree, and a Gallic perfumer,
whose stall is near the
And so, when four
special slaves have piled up the head-dress, out
of a perforated box this
glistening powder is showered. Into every
little brown ringlet it enters,
till
gold coins. Lest the breezes send it flying, the girls lay the
powder with sprinkled attar. Soon
Ah ! Such are the lures of the toilet that none will for long
hold aloof
from them. Cosmetics are not going to be a mere
prosaic remedy for age or
plainness, but all ladies and all young girls
will come to love them. Does
not a certain blithe
whose
than their wit would merit, tell us how she was scandalised to see
"
So it shall be with
us. Surely the common prejudice against
painting the lily can but be based
on mere ground of economy.
That which is already fair is complete, it may
be urged—urged
implausibly, for there are not so many lovely things
in this world
that we can afford not to know each one of them by
heart.
There is only one white lily, and who that has ever seen—as I
have
a lily—really well painted could grudge the artist so fair a
ground
for his skill ? Scarcely do you believe through how many nice
metamorphoses a lily may be passed by him. In like manner, we
all know the
young girl, with her simpleness, her goodness, her
wayward ignorance. And a
very charming ideal for
must
she have been, and a very natural one, when a young girl
sat even on the
throne. But no nation can keep its ideal for ever
and it needed none of
"
to
remind us that she had passed out of our ken with the rest of
the early
Victorian era. What writer of plays, as lately
asked some pressman, who had
been told off to attend many first
nights and knew what he was talking
about, ever dreams of
making the young girl the centre of his theme ?
Rather he seeks
inspiration from the tried and tired woman of the world, in
all her
intricate maturity, whilst, by way of comic relief, he sends
the
young girl flitting in and out with a tennis-racket, the poor
ticated is gone by, and the young girl's
final extinction beneath the
rising tides of cosmetics will leave no gap in
life and will rob art of
nothing.
"Tush,"
I can hear some damned flutterpate exclaim, "girlish-
Indeed, the
triumph of that
ness
and innocence are as strong and as permanent as womanhood
itself ! Why,
a few months past, the whole town went mad over
and the absence of rouge? If such things
as these be outmoded,
why was she so wildly popular?"
clever girl, whose dbut made
another witness to the
truth of my contention. In a very
sophisticated time, simplicity has a new
dulcedo. Hers was a
success of contrast. Accustomed to clever malaperts
like
Lloyd
the sun-bonnet are a standing burlesque of innocence and
girlish-
ness,
real presentment of these things
upon his stage. Coming after all
those sly series, coming so young and mere
with her pink frock
and straightly combed hair,
which
things of another period often do possess. Besides, just as
we adored her
for the abrupt nod with which she was wont at
first to acknowledge the
applause, so we were glad for her to come
upon the stage with nothing to tinge the ivory of her cheeks. It
seemed so
strange, that neglect of convention. To be behind
footlights and not rouged
! Yes, hers was a success of
contrast. She was like a daisy in the window
at
was delightful.
And yet, such is the force of convention, that
when last I saw her, playing
in some burlesque at the
fringe was curled and her pretty face rouged with the best of
them. And, if
further need be to show the absurdity of having
called her performance
"a triumph of naturalness over the jaded
let us reflect that the little mimic was not a
spirit of modernity"
real old-fashioned girl
after all. She had none of that restless
naturalness that would seem to
have characterised the girl of the
early Victorian days. She had no pretty
ways—no smiles—nor
blushes nor tremors. Possibly
sentment
of girlishness unrestrained.
But with her grave insouciance,
of the reserve that is one of the factors of
feminine perfection, and
to most comes only, as I have said, with artifice.
Her features
played very, very slightly. And in truth, this may have been
one
of the reasons of her great success. For expression is but too
often the ruin of a face ; and, since we cannot as yet so order the
circumstances of life that women shall never be betrayed into "an
when the brunette shall never have cause
unbecoming emotion,"
to
blush, and the lady who looks well with parted lips be kept in a
permanent
state of surprise, the safest way by far is to create, by
brush and
pigments, artificial expressions for every face.
And this—say you?—will make monotony? You are mis-
taken, toto
ccelo mistaken. When your mistress has wearied you
with one expression,
then it will need but a few touches of that
pencil, a backward sweep of
that brush, and lo, you will be
revelling in another. For though, of
course, the painting of the
face is, in manner, most like the painting of canvas, in outcome it
is
rather akin to the art of music lasting, like music's echo, not
for very
long. So that, no doubt, of the many little appurte-
nances of the Reformed
Toilet Table, not the least vital will be
a list of the emotions that
become its owner, with recipes for
simulating them. According to the colour
she wills her hair to
be for the time—black or yellow or,
peradventure, burnished red
—she will blush for you, sneer for you,
laugh or languish for you.
The good combinations of line and colour are
nearly numberless,
and by their means poor restless woman will be able to
realise her
moods in all their shades and lights and dappledoms, to live
many
lives and masquerade through many moments of joy. No mono-
tony
will be. And for us men matrimony will have lost its
sting.
But be it remembered ! Though we men will garner these
oblique boons, it is
into the hands of women that Artifice gives her
pigments. I know, I know
that many men in a certain sect of
society have shown a marked tendency to
the use of cosmetics. I
speak not of the countless gentlemen who walk about
town in the
time of its desertion from August to October, artificially
bronzed,
as though they were fresh from the moors or from the
This, I conceive, is done for purely
social reasons and need not
concern me here. Rather do I speak of those who
make them
selves up, seemingly with an aesthetic purpose.
Doubtless—I
wish to be quite just—there are many who look the
better
for such embellishment ; but, at the hazard of being thought
old-
fashioned and prejudiced, I cannot speak of the custom with any
thing but strong disapproval. If men are to lie among the
rouge-pots,
inevitably it will tend to promote that amalgamation of
the sexes which is
one of the chief planks in the decadent platform
and to obtund that piquant
contrast between him and her, which
is one of the redeeming features of creation. Besides, really, men
have not
the excuse of facial monotony, that holds in the case of
women. Have we not
hair upon our chins and upper lips ? And
can we not, by diverting the trend
of our moustache or by growing
our beard in this way or that, avoid the
boredom of looking the same
for long ? Let us beware. For if, in violation
of unwritten
sexual law, men take to trifling with the paints and brushes
that
are feminine heritage, it may be that our great ladies will don
false
imperials, and the little doner deck her pretty chin with a
Newgate
fringe ! After all, I think we need not fear that many men
will
thus trespass. Most of them are in the City nowadays, and the
great wear and tear of that place would put their use of rouge—
that
demands bodily repose from its dependents—quite outside the
range of
practical aesthetics.
But that in the world of women they will not neglect this art,
so ripping in
itself, in its result so wonderfully beneficent, I am
sure indeed. Much, I
have said, is already done for its full
renascence. The spirit of the age
has made straight the path of
its professors. Fashion has made
of the
rouge-pot. As yet, the great art of self-embellishment is
for us but in its
infancy. But if Englishwomen can bring it to
the flower of an excellence so
supreme as never yet has it known,
then, though Old
supremacy, we patriots will have the satisfaction of knowing that
she has
been advanced at one bound to a place in the councils of
aesthetic
countrywomen ? True that, as the art seems always to
have
appealed to the ladies of
time of the Republic that Roman ladies
learned to love the practice
of it, so
hitherto as a far more vivid centre of the art than
in
and shall it not be in
its Roman
perfection ? Surely there must be among us artists as
cunning in the use of
brush and puff as any who lived at
Surely the splendid, impalpable advance of good taste, as shown in
dress
and in the decoration of houses, may justify my hope of the
preeminence of
Englishwomen in the cosmetic art. By their
innate delicacy of touch they
will accomplish much, and much, of
course, by their swift feminine
perception. Yet it were well that
they should know something also of the
theoretical side of the craft.
Modern authorities upon the mysteries of the
toilet are, it is true,
rather few ; but among the ancients many a writer
would seem to
have been fascinated by them.
the Court of
scholarly treatises that would have given many a
precious hint.
It is a pity they are not extant. From
with his bitter picture of a Roman
from
the staid pages of
But
best of all is that fine book of the
"theI amVertuous Ladyes and Gentlewomen of ,"Great Britain
sure that the gallant writer, could he know of our great renascence
of
cosmetics, would wish his little work to be placed once more
within their
reach. "
so he writes in his queer little dedication,
women,"
It is rather sad to
pigments doth first
addresse itself, that it may kisse your hands and
afterward have
the lines thereof in reading sweetened by the odour
of your breath,
while the dead letters formed into words by your
divided lips may
receive new life by your passionate expression,
and the words
marryed in that Ruby coloured temple may thus
happily united,
multiply your contentment.
think
that, at this crisis in the history of pigments, the
Ladyes and Gentlewomen
stall
But since the days when these great critics wrote their treatises,
with what
gifts innumerable has Artifice been loaded by Science !
Many little
partitions must be added to the narthecium before it
can comprehend all the
new cosmetics that have been quietly
devised since classical days, and will
make the modern toilet chalks
away more splendid in its possibilities. A
pity that no one has
devoted himself to the compiling of a new list ; but
doubtless all the
newest devices are known to the admirable unguentarians
of
Street
should be given to Science for ridding
us of the old danger that
was latent in the use of cosmetics. Nowadays they
cannot, being
purged of any poisonous element, do harm to the skin that
they
make beautiful. There need be no more sowing the seeds of
destruction in the furrows of time, no martyrs to the cause like
relate, from the effect of a poisonous rouge
upon her lips. No,
we need have no fears now. Artifice will claim not
another
victim from among her worshippers.
Loveliness shall sit at the toilet, watching her oval face in the
oval
mirror. Her smooth fingers shall flit among the paints and
powder, to tip
and mingle them, catch up a pencil, clasp a phial,
and what
laid aptly, the enamel quite hardened. And, heavens, how she will
charm us and ensorcel our eyes ! Positively rouge will rob us for
a time of
all our reason ; we shall go mad over masks. Was it
not at
but dyes and unguents ? We must have such a street, and, to fill
our new Seplasia, our Arcade of the Unguents, all herbs and minerals
and
live creatures shall give of their substance. The white cliffs
of
by the ghost of many a little violet. The fluffy
eider-ducks, that
are swimming round the pond, shall lose their feathers,
that the
powder-puff may be moonlike as it passes over loveliness's
lovely
face. Even the camels shall become ministers of delight, giving
their hair in many tufts to be stained by the paints in her
colour-box, and
across her cheek the swift hare's foot shall fly as of
old. The sea shall
offer her the phucus, its scarlet weed. We
shall spill the blood of
mulberries at her bidding. And, as in
another period of great ecstasy, a
dancing wanton, la belle Aubrey,
was crowned upon
a "green-
ashamed at length of
skulking between the soup
tress'd goddess,"
of the unpopular and the test-tubes of the
exalted to a place of highest honour upon loveliness's toilet-table.
! All
these things shall come to pass. Times of jolliness and
glad indulgence !
For Artifice, whom we drove forth, has returned
among us, and, though her
eyes are red with crying, she is
smiling forgiveness. She is kind. Let us
dance and be glad, and
trip the cockawhoop ! Artifice, sweetest exile, is
come into her
kingdom. Let us dance her a welcome !
A YOUNG man strolled along a
country road one August evening
after a long delicious day—a day of
that blessed idleness
the man of leisure never knows : one must be a bank
clerk forty-
nine weeks out of the fifty-two before one can really
appreciate
the exquisite enjoyment of doing nothing for twelve hours at
a
stretch.
sunny rickyard ; then, when the heat grew
unbearable, he had
retreated to an orchard, where, lying on his back in the
long cool
grass, he had traced the pattern of the apple-leaves diapered
above
him upon the summer sky ; now that the heat of the day was over
he had come to roam whither sweet fancy led him, to lean over
gates, view
the prospect and meditate upon the pleasures of a well-
spent day. Five
such days had already passed over his head,
fifteen more remained to him.
Then farewell to freedom and
clean country air ! Back again to
toil.
He came to a gate on the right of the road. Behind it a foot
path meandered
up over a glassy slope. The sheep nibbling on
its summit cast long shadows
down the hill almost to his feet.
Road and field-path were equally new to
him, but the latter offered
greener attractions ; he vaulted lightly over
the gate and had so
little idea he was taking thus the first step towards ruin that he
began to
whistle " White Wings "
from pure joy of life.
The sheep stopped feeding and raised their heads to stare at him
from
pale-lashed eyes ; first one and then another broke into a
startled run,
until there was a sudden woolly stampede of the entire
flock. When
just scattered he came in sight of a woman sitting on a stile
at
the further end of the field. As he advanced towards her he saw
that she was young and that she was not what is called "a
lady"
—
of which he was glad : an e arlier episode in his career
having
indissolubly associated in his mind ideas of feminine
refinement
with those of feminine treachery.
He thought it probable this girl would be willing to dispense
with the
formalities of an introduction and that he might venture
with her on some
pleasant foolish chat.
As she made no movement to let him pass he stood still, and,
looking at her,
began to smile.
She returned his gaze from unabashed dark eyes and then
laughed, showing
teeth white, sound, and smooth as split hazel-nuts.
" Do you wanter get over ?"
she remarked familiarly.
" I'm afraid I can't without disturbing you."
"Dontcher think you're much better where you are ? "
said the
girl,
on which
"You mean to say looking at you ? Well, perhaps I am ! "
The girl at this laughed again, but nevertheless dropped herself
down into
the further field ; then, leaning her arms upon the cross
bar, she informed
the young man : "No, I don't wanter spoil your
walk. You were goin'
p'raps ter
that wye."
"I was going nowhere in particular,"
he replied : "just exploring,
so to speak. I m a stranger in these parts."
" How funny ! Imer stranger here too. I only come down
larse Friday to
stye with a Naunter mine in
stying in
Farm out in the other direction.
" Oh,
takes summer boarders, don't chee ? I
egspec you come from
"And I expect you come from
said
recognising the familiar accent.
" You're as sharp as a needle,"
cried the girl with her un-
restrained laugh ; " so I do. I'm here for a hollerday 'cos I was
so
done up with the work and the hot weather. I don't look as
though I'd
bin ill, do I ? But I was, though : for it was just
stifflin' hot up in
our workrooms all larse month, an' tailorin's
awful hard work at the
bester times."
many intelligent young men, he had dabbled a little
in Socialism
and at one time had wandered among the dispossessed ; but
since
then, had caught up and held loosely the new doctrine—It is a
good
and fitting thing that woman also should earn her bread by the
sweat of her brow. Always in reference to the woman who,
fifteen months
before, had treated him ill, he had said to himself
that even the breaking
of stones in the road should be considered
a more feminine employment than
the breaking of hearts.
He gave way therefore to a movement of friendliness for this
working
daughter of the people, and joined her on the other side
of the stile in
token of his approval. She, twisting round to face
him, leaned now with her
back against the bar, and the sunset fires
lent a fleeting glory to her
face. Perhaps she guessed how
becoming the light was, for she took off her
hat and let it touch to
gold the ends and fringes of her rough abundant hair. Thus and
at this
moment she made an agreeable picture, to which stood as
background all the
beautiful wooded
" You don't really mean to say you are a tailoress ? "
said
" I do, though ! An I've bin one ever since I was fourteen.
Look at my
fingers if you don't b'lieve me."
She put out her right hand, and he took hold of it, as he was
expected to
do. The finger-ends were frayed and blackened by
needle-pricks, but the
hand itself was plump, moist, and not un-
shapely. She meanwhile examined
hers.
"It's easy ter see you've never done no work ! "
she said, half
admiring, half envious. "I s'pose you re a tip-top swell, ain't
you?"
"Oh, yes ! I'm a tremendous swell indeed ! "
said
ironically. He thought of his
hundred and thirty pounds salary;
and he mentioned his position in the
house, without shedding much illumination on her mind ; for she
insisted
:
" Well, anyhow, you're a gentleman. I've often wished I was
a lady. It
must be so nice ter wear fine clo'es an never have ter
do any work all
day long."
minded him of his own notion as a child—that
kings and queens
put on their crowns the first thing on rising in the
morning. His
cordiality rose another degree.
" If being a gentleman means having nothing to do,"
said he,
smiling,
"I can certainly lay no claim to the title. Life isn't all
beer and
skittles with me, any more than it is with you. Which
is the better
reason for enjoying the present moment, don't you
think? Suppose, now, like a kind little girl, you were to
show me the
way to
pretty ? "
She required no further persuasion. As he walked beside her
through the
upland fields where the dusk was beginning to fall,
and the white evening
moths to emerge from their daytime
hiding-places, she asked him many
personal questions, most of
which he thought fit to parry. Taking no
offence thereat, she
told him, instead, much concerning herself and her
family. Thus
he learned her name was
lived
her mother always ill ; and that the aunt with whom she was
staying kept the post-office and general shop in
He learned, too, that
that, though
she hated being at home, she found the country
dreadfully dull ; and that,
consequently, she was extremely glad to
have made his acquaintance. But
what he chiefly realised when
they parted was that he had spent a couple of
pleasant hours
talking nonsense with a girl who was natural, simple-minded,
and
entirely free from that repellently protective atmosphere with
which a woman of the " classes"
so carefully surrounds herself.
He
and " made friends "
with the ease and rapidity
of children before they have learned the dread
meaning of
" etiquette,"
and they said good-night, not without some talk
of
meeting each other again.
Obliged to breakfast at a quarter to eight in town,
was always luxuriously late when in the country,
where he took
his meals also in leisurely fashion, often reading from a
book
propped up on the table before him. But the morning after his
meeting with
usual. Her
image obtruded itself upon the printed page, and at
length grew so importunate he came to the conclusion the only
way to lay it
was to confront it with the girl herself.
Wanting some tobacco, he saw a good reason for going into
else at her aunt's. He found the post-office to be one of the first
houses
in the widely spaced village-street. In front of the cottage
was a small
garden ablaze with old-fashioned flowers ; and in a
larger garden at one
side were apple-trees, raspberry and currant
bushes, and six thatched
beehives on a bench. The bowed
windows of the little shop were partly
screened by sunblinds ;
nevertheless the lower panes still displayed a
heterogeneous collec-
tion of goods—lemons, hanks of yarn, white
linen buttons upon
blue cards, sugar cones, warden pipes, and tobacco jars.
A
letter-box opened its narrow mouth low down in one wall, and
over
the door swung the sign, "Stamps and money-order office,"
in black
letters on white enamelled iron.
The interior of the shop was cool and dark. A second glass-
door at the back
permitted
sitting-room, and out again through a low and square-paned
window to the sunny landscape beyond. Silhouetted against
the light were
the heads of two women : the rough young head
of yesterday's
aunt.
It was the latter who at the jingling of the door-bell rose from
her work
and came forward to serve the customer ; but the girl,
with much mute
meaning in her eyes and a finger laid upon her
smiling mouth, followed
behind. Her aunt heard her footfall.
" What do you want here,
she said with thin disapproval ;
"get back to your sewing."
slipped out into the side-garden, where he found her when
his
purchases were made. She leaned over the privet-hedge to inter-
cept him as
he passed.
"Aunt's an awful ole maid,"
she remarked apologetically ; "I
b'lieve she'd never let me say a word to enny one if she could
help
it."
" So you got home all right last night ? "
" what did your aunt say to you ? "
" Oh, she arst me where I'd been, and I tolder a lotter lies ! "
Then, with woman's intuition, perceiving that this speech
jarred, "She's so dreadful
hard on me !
I dursn't tell her I'd been with a gentleman or she'd
never have let
me out alone again."
" And at present I suppose you'll be found somewhere about
said
that same
stile every evening ? "
really did not much care
whether he met her again or not. Now
he was actually in her company he was
surprised at himself for
having given her a whole morning's thought ; yet
the eagerness of
her answer flattered him, too.
" To-night I can't come, worse luck ! It's Thursday, and the
shops here
close of a Thursday at five. I'll havter keep aunt
company. But
to-morrer ?—I can be there to-morrer. You'll
come, say ?"
"
cried a vexed voice,
and the precise, right-minded
aunt emerged through the row of
raspberry-bushes ; " whatever are
She
you thinking about, delayin the
gentleman in this fashion ?"
was full of rustic and official
civility for " the gentleman,"
but in
dignant with her niece. "I
don't want none of your
down here,"
He himself was not sorry to be released from
friendly eyes, and he spent an agreeable
evening over a book, and
this time managed to forget her completely.
Though he remembered her first thing next morning, it was to
smile wisely
and determine he would not meet her again. Yet by
dinner-time the day
seemed long ; why, after all, should he not
meet her ? By tea-time prudence
triumphed anew—no, he would
not go. Then he drank his tea hastily
and set off for the
stile.
additional colour to her cheeks, and her red-brown hair
showed
here and there a beautiful glint of gold. He could not help
admiring the vigorous way in which it waved and twisted, or the
little
curls which grew at the nape of her neck, tight and close as
those of a
young lamb's fleece. Her neck here was admirable, too,
in its smooth
creaminess ; and when her eyes lighted up with such
evident pleasure at his
coming, how avoid the conviction she was a
good and nice girl after all
?
He proposed they should go down into the little copse on the
right, where
they would be less disturbed by the occasional passer
by. Here, seated on a
felled tree-trunk,
bantering silly meaningless form of conversation known among
the
"classes"
as flirting. He had but the wish to make himself
agreeable, and to while away the time.
understood him.
noticing a ring which he wore on his little finger, took hold
of it.
" What a funny ring ! "
she said ; " let's look ? "
To disembarrass himself of her touch he pulled the ring off and
gave it her
to examine.
" What s that ugly dark green stone ?"
she asked.
" It s called a sardonyx."
" What's it for ? "
she said, turning it about.
" It's a signet ring, to seal letters with."
" An' there's a sorter king's head scratched on it, an' some
writin'
too, only I carn't make it out ?"
"It isn't the head of a king, although it wears a crown,"
"but the head and
bust of a Saracen
against whom my ancestor of many hundred years ago
went to
fight in the
motto of our house,
prevails."
in giving this bit of family history, for
laughter, at
which he was much displeased. And when the girl
made as though she would
put the ring on her own finger, asking,
" Shall I keep it ? "
he coloured up with sudden annoyance.
"It was only my fun ! "
said
ring back, but his cordiality was gone. He felt
no inclination to
renew the idle-word pastime, said it was time to go back,
and,
swinging his cane vexedly, struck off the heads of the flowers
and
the weeds as he went.
silence, a phenomenon of which he presently
became conscious.
He felt rather ashamed of having shown temper.
" Well, here s your way home,"
said he with an effort at friend-
liness. "Good-bye, we've had a nice evening anyhow. It was
pleasant down
there in the woods, eh ? "
He was astonished to see her eyes soften with tears, and to hear
the real
emotion in her voice as she answered, " It was just heaven
down there
with you until you turned so funny-like. What had
I done to make you
cross ? Say you forgive me, do ! "
"Silly child ! "
said "I'm not
and like a fool he kissed
the least angry. There ! good-bye !"
her.
He anathematised his folly in the white light of next morning,
and, remembering the kiss he had given her, repented it very
sincerely. He
had an uncomfortable suspicion she had not
received it in the same spirit
in which it had been bestowed, but,
attaching more serious meaning to it,
would build expectations
thereon which must be left unfulfilled. It were
best indeed not to
meet her again ; for he acknowledged to himself that,
though he
only half liked, and even slightly feared, her, there was a
certain
attraction about her—was it in her dark unflinching eyes or
in
her very red lips ?—which might lead him into greater
follies
still.
Thus it came about that for two successive evenings
waited for him in vain, and on the third evening he
said to himself
with a grudging relief that by this time she had probably
trans-
ferred her affections to some one else.
It was Saturday, the second Saturday since he left town. He
spent the day
about the farm, contemplated the pigs, inspected the
feeding of the stock,
and assisted at the afternoon milking. Then
at evening, with a refilled
pipe, he went for a long lean over the
west gate, while he traced fantastic
pictures and wove romances in
the glories of the sunset clouds.
He watched the colours glow from gold to scarlet, change to
crimson, sink at
last to sad purple reefs and isles, when the sudden
consciousness of some
one being near him made him turn round.
There stood
" Why have you never been to the stile again ? "
she asked him.
"You promised to come faithful, and you never came. Why
she persisted,
have you not kep
your promise ? Why ?—why ? "
stamping her
foot because
What could he say ! Tell her she had no business to follow
him like this ;
or own, what was, unfortunately, the truth, he was
just a little glad to
see her ?
" P'raps you don't care to see me ?"
she said. " Well, why did
you
kiss me, then ? "
Why, indeed ! thought
idiotcy, and yet—such is the inconsistency of
man—not wholly
without the desire to kiss her again. And while he
looked at her
she suddenly flung herself down on the hedge-bank at his feet
and
burst into tears. She did not cover up her face, but simply
pressed
one cheek down upon the grass while the water poured from her
eyes with astonishing abundance.
turn dark and moist as it
drank the tears in. This, his first
experience of
never in his life before had he seen any one weep like that;
he
should not have believed such a thing possible, and he was alarmed,
too, lest she should be noticed from the house. He opened the
gate ;
"
he begged,
"don't cry. Come out here, like
a dear girl, and let us talk
sensibly."
Because she stumbled, unable to see her way through wet eyes,
he gave her
his hand, and they found themselves in a field of corn,
walking along the
narrow grass-path that skirted it, in the shadow
of the hedgerow.
" What is there to cry about because you have not seen me for
he began ;
two days ?
"" why,
all. When we have been at home a week or two
we shall scarcely
remember each other's names."
"It's fine
she said to this.
for you to talk of home,"" You've got some
she repeated shrewdly,
seeing
thing that is a home, I s'pose ? But me! my home's
like hell,
with nothing but quarrellin' and cursin', and father who
beats us
whether sober or drunk. Yes ! "
the lively disgust on " he beat me, all ill as I
was, jus'
before I come away. I could show you the bruises on
my arms still. And now to go back there after knowin' you !
It ll be
worse than ever. I can't endure it and I won't ! I'll
put an end to it
or myself somehow, I swear ! "
" But, my poor
said
father, with all the world which makes women suffer. He
had
suffered himself at the hands of a woman, and severely, but this,
instead of hardening his heart, had only rendered it the more
supple. And
yet he had a vivid perception of the peril in which
he stood. An interior
voice urged him to break away, to seek
safety in flight even at the cost of
appearing cruel or ridiculous ;
so, coming to a point in the field where an
elm-bole jutted out
across the path, he saw with relief he could now
withdraw his
hand from the girl's, since they must walk singly to skirt
round it.
face him ; she held out her two hands and her face was
very near
his own.
"Don't you care for me one little bit ? "
she said wistfully, and
surely sudden madness fell upon him. For he kissed her again, he
kissed her
many times, and pushed all thoughts of the consequences
far from him.
But some of these consequences already called loudly to him as
he and
"You know I have only £130 a year ? "
he told her : "it s
no
very brilliant prospect for you to marry me on that."
For he had actually offered her marriage, although such
conduct to the
mediocre man must appear incredible or at least
uncalled for. But to
possible. How else justify his kisses, rescue her from her
father's
brutality, or bring back the smiles to her face ?
As for
then 'ere fifty seconds were gone by, she was certain she would
never have
consented to anything less.
"O ! I'me used to managin',"
she told him confidently, and
mentally
resolved to buy herself, so soon as she was married, a
black feather boa,
such as she had coveted last winter.
out and planning with
and her own, the secrecy to be observed, the
necessary legal steps
to be taken, and the quiet suburb in which they would
set up
housekeeping. And, so successfully did he carry out his arrange
ments, that within five weeks from the day on which he had
first met
ber
day, the streets were filled with sunshine, and
in reckless high spirits, imagined he saw a
reflection of his own
gaiety on the indifferent faces of the passers-by.
There being no
one else to perform the office he congratulated himself very
warmly,
and
Three months later
the hour-hand of the clock nearing ten the host no
longer resisted
the guest s growing anxiety to be gone. He arose and
exchanged
with him good wishes and good-byes.
" Marriage is evidently a most successful institution,"
said he,
half
jesting, half sincere ; "you almost make me inclined to go
and get
married myself. Confess now your thoughts have been
at home the whole
evening ? "
but did not deny the soft impeachment.
The other laughed. " And very commendable they should be,"
he
continued, " since you are scarcely, so to speak, out of your
honeymoon."
With a social smile on his lips Willough by calculated a moment
before
replying, " I have been married exactly three months and
then, after a few words respecting their next meeting,
three days ;
"
the two
shook hands and parted, the young host to finish the
evening with books and
pipe, the young husband to set out on a
twenty minutes walk to his
home.
It was a cold clear December night following a day of rain. A
touch of frost
in the air had dried the pavements, and
footfall ringing upon the stones re-echoed
down the empty
suburban street. Above his head was a dark remote sky
thickly
powdered with stars, and as he turned westward Alpherat hung
for a moment "
over the slender spire of
was absorbed in his own thoughts, and these, as his
friend had
surmised, were entirely with his wife. For
always before his eyes,
her voice was always in his ears, she filled
the universe for him ; yet
only four months ago he had never
seen her, had never heard her name. This
was the curious part
of it—here in December he found himself the
husband of a girl
who was completely dependent upon him not only for
food,
clothes, and lodging, but for her present happiness, her whole
future life ; and last July he had been scarcely more than a boy
himself,
with no greater care on his mind than the pleasant difficulty
of deciding
where he should spend his annual three weeks holiday.
But it is events, not months or years, which age.
who was only twenty-six, remembered his youth
as a sometime
companion irrevocably lost to him ; its vague, delightful
hopes
were now crystallised into definite ties, and its happy
irresponsi-
bility displaced by a sense of care inseparable perhaps from
the
most fortunate of marriages.
As he reached the street in which he lodged his pace involun-
tarily slackened. While still some distance off his eye sought out
and
distinguished the windows of the room in which
awaited him. Through the broken slats of the
Venetian blinds
he could see the yellow gaslight within. The parlour
beneath
was in darkness ; his landlady had evidently gone to bed,
there
being no light over the hall door either. In some apprehension
he consulted his watch under the last street-lamp he passed, to
find
comfort in assuring himself it was only ten minutes after
ten. He let
himself in with his latch-key, hung up his hat and
overcoat by the sense of
touch, and, groping his way upstairs,
opened the door of the first floor
sitting-room.
At the table in the centre of the room sat his wife, leaning upon
her
elbows, her two hands thrust up into her ruffled hair ; spread
out before
her was a crumpled yesterday's newspaper, and so
interested was she to all
appearance in its contents that she neither
spoke nor looked up as
the still uncleared tokens of her last meal : tea-slops,
bread-crumbs,
and an eggshell crushed to fragments upon a plate, which was
one
of those trifles that set
his wife ate an
egg she persisted in turning the egg-cup upside
down upon the tablecloth,
and pounding the shell to pieces in her
plate with her spoon.
The room was repulsive in its disorder. The one lighted
burner of the
gaselier, turned too high, hissed up into a long
tongue of flame. The fire
smoked feebly under a newly adminis-
tered shovelful of " slack,"
and a heap of ashes and cinders
littered the grate. A pair of walking
boots, caked in dry mud, lay
on the hearthrug just where they had been
thrown off. On the
mantelpiece, amidst a dozen other articles which had no
business
there, was a bedroom-candlestick ; and every single article
of
furniture stood crookedly out of its place.
with kindliness. "Well,
Then he
explained
you did not feel the time dull by yourself ? "
the reason of his absence. He had met a friend he had not seen
for
a couple of years, who had insisted on taking him home to dine.
His wife gave no sign of having heard him ; she kept he eyes
rivetted on the
paper before her.
"You received my wire, of course,"
"and did not wait ? "
Now she crushed the newspaper up with a passionate move-
ment, and threw it
from her. She raised her head, showing cheeks
blazing with anger, and dark,
sullen, unflinching eyes.
" I did wyte then ! "
she cried. "I wyted till near eight before
I
got your old telegraph ! I s'pose that's what you call the
manners of a
gentleman, to keep your wife mewed up here,
while you go gallivantin'
off with your fine friends ?"
Whenever
"a
gentleman,"
although this was the
precise point about him which at
other times found most favour
in her eyes. But to-night she was envenomed
by the idea he had
been enjoying himself without her, stung by fear lest he
should
have been in company with some other woman.
able. Nothing that he could do might now avert the
breaking
storm, all his words would only be twisted into fresh griefs.
But
sad experience had taught him that to take refuge in silence was
more fatal still. When
best to supply the fire with fuel, that, through the
very violence of
the conflagration, it might the sooner burn itself
out.
So he said what soothing things he could, and
them up, disfigured them, and flung them back
at him with
scorn. She reproached him with no longer caring for her ;
she vituperated
the conduct of his family in never taking the
smallest notice of her
marriage ; and she detailed the insolence of
the landlady, who had told her
that morning she pitied " poor
and had refused to go out and buy herrings for
Willoughby
Every affront or grievance, real or imaginary, since the dayshe
and
to frequent repetition, for, with the exception of
to-day's added
injuries,
before.
While she raged and he looked at her, he remembered he had
once thought her
pretty. He had seen beauty in her rough brown
hair, her strong colouring,
her full red mouth. He fell into
musing .... a woman may lack beauty, he
told himself, and yet
be loved....
Meantime
could no longer be sustained. She broke into sobs
and began to
shed tears with the facility peculiar to her. In a moment her
face
was all wet with the big drops which rolled down her cheeks
faster and faster and fell with audible splashes on to the table, on
to her
lap, on to the floor. To this tearful abundance, formerly a
surprising
spectacle,
remnant of chivalrous feeling not yet extinguished in his
bosom
forbade him to sit stolidly by while a woman wept, without
seeking to console her. As on previous occasions, his peace-
overtures were
eventually accepted.
ceased to flow, she began to exhibit a sort of compunction,
she
wished to be forgiven, and, with the kiss of reconciliation,
passed
into a phase of demonstrative affection perhaps more trying to
" You don't
love me ?"
she questioned, "I'm sure you don't love me ?"
she
reiterated ; and he asseverated that he loved her until he loathed
himself.
Then at last, only half satisfied, but wearied out with
vexation—possibly, too, with a movement of pity at the sight of
his
haggard face—she consented to leave him ; only what was he
going to
do ? she asked suspiciously : write those rubbishing
stories of his ? Well,
he must promise not to stay up more than
half an hour at the latest only
until he had smoked one pipe !
earth to secure to himself a half-hour s peace and
solitude.
groped for her
slippers, which were kicked off under the table ;
scratched four or five
matches along the box and threw them away
before she succeeded in lighting
her candle ; set it down again to
contemplate her tear-swollen reflection
in the chimney-glass, and
burst out laughing.
" What a fright I do look, to be sure ! "
she remarked com-
placently, and again thrust her two hands up through her dis-
ordered
curls. Then, holding the candle at such an angle that the
grease ran over
on to the carpet, she gave
vehement kiss and trailed out of the room with an ineffectual
attempt to close the door behind her.
that
Good God ! how irritable he
felt ! It was impossible to write.
He must find an outlet for his
impatience, rend or mend
something. He began to straighten the room, but a
wave or
disgust came over him before the task was fairly commenced.
What was the use ? To-morrow all would be bad as ever.
What was the use of
doing anything ? He sat down by the table
and leaned his head upon his
hands.
******
The past came back to him in pictures : his boyhood's past first
of all. He
saw again the old home, every inch of which was
familiar to him as his own
name ; he reconstructed in his thought
all the old well-known furniture,
and replaced it precisely as it had
stood long ago. He passed again a
childish finger over the rough
surface of the faded
strong
fragrance of the white lilac-tree, blowing in through the
open
parlour-window. He savoured anew the pleasant mental
atmosphere produced by
the dainty neatness of cultured women,
the companionship of a few good
pictures, of a few good books.
Yet this home had been broken up years ago,
the dear familiar
things had been scattered far and wide, never to find
themselves
under the same roof again ; and from those near relatives who
still
remained to him he lived now hopelessly estranged.
Then came the past of his first love-dream, when he worshipped
at the feet
of
the true fanatic, clothed his idol with every
imaginable attribute of
virtue and tenderness. To this day there remained a
secret shrine
in his heart wherein the Lady of his young ideal was still
enthroned, although it was long since he had come to perceive she
had
nothing whatever in common with the
the real
altogether out of his life and
thoughts ; and yet, so permanent is
all influence, whether good or evil,
that the effect she wrought
upon his character remained. He recognised
to-night that her
treatment of him in the past did not count for nothing
among the
various factors which had determined his fate.
Now the past of only last year returned, and, strangely enough,
this seemed
farther removed from him than all the rest. He had
been particularly
strong, well and happy this time last year. Nora
was dismissed from his
mind, and he had thrown all his energies
into his work. His tastes were sane and simple, and his dingy,
furnished
rooms had become through habit very pleasant to him.
In being his own they
were invested with a greater charm than
another man s castle. Here he had
smoked and studied, here he
had made many a glorious voyage into the land
of books. Many
a home-coming, too, rose up before him out of the dark
un-
genial streets to a clean blazing fire, a neatly laid cloth, an
evening
of ideal enjoyment ; many a summer twilight when he mused at
the open window, plunging his gaze deep into the recesses of his
neighbour's lime-tree, where the unseen sparrows chattered with
such
unflagging gaiety.
He had always been given to much day-dreaming, and it was in
the silence of
his rooms of an evening that he turned his phantas-
mal adventures into
stories for the magazines ; here had come to
him many an editorial refusal,
but, here, too, he had received the
news of his first unexpected success.
All his happiest memories
were embalmed in those shabby, badly furnished
rooms.
Now all was changed. Now might there be no longer any
soft indulgence of the
hour's mood. His rooms and everything he
owned belonged now to
his photographs, and had removed them. She hated books, and were
he ever so
ill-advised as to open one in her presence, she im-
mediately began to
talk, no matter how silent or how sullen her
previous mood had been. If he
read aloud to her she either
yawned despairingly, or was tickled into
laughter where there was
no reasonable cause. At first,
her and had
gone hopefully to the task. It is so natural to think
you may make what you
will of the woman who loves you. But
satisfaction of an illiterate mind. To her husband's
gentle
admonitions she replied with brevity that she thought her
way
quite as good as his ; or, if he didn't approve of her pronunciation,
he
might do the other thing, she was too old to go to school again.
He gave up
the attempt, and, with humiliation at his prerious
fatuity, perceived that
it was folly to expect a few weeks of his
companionship could alter or pull
up the impressions of years,
or rather of generations.
Yet here he paused to admit a curious thing : it was not only
worthy in themselves, and which he never would have
noticed in
another, irritated him in her. He disliked her manner of
standing,
of walking, of sitting in a chair, of folding her hands. Like
a
lover he was conscious of her proximity without seeing her. Like
a
lover, too, his eyes followed her every movement, his ear noted
every
change in her voice. But, then, instead of being charmed
by everything as
the lover is, everything jarred upon him.
What was the meaning of this ? To-night the anomaly pressed
upon him : he
reviewed his position. Here was he quite a young
man, just twenty-six years
of age, married to
live with her so long as life should last twenty, forty, perhaps
fifty years more. Every day of those years to be spent in her
society ; he
and she face to face, soul to soul ; they two alone
amid all the whirling,
busy, indifferent world. So near together in
semblance, in truth so far
apart as regards all that makes life dear.
he had never loved, he might not again go free ; so much
he
recognised. The feeling he had once entertained for
compound of mistaken
chivalry and flattered vanity, was long since
extinct ; but what, then, was
the sentiment with which she inspired
him ? For he was not indifferent to
her—no, never for one instant
could he persuade himself he was
indifferent, never for one instant
could he banish her from his thoughts.
His mind's eye followed
her during his hours of absence as pertinaciously as his bodily eye
dwelt
upon her actual presence. She was the principal object of
the universe to
him, the centre around which his wheel of life
revolved with an appalling
fidelity.
What did it mean ? What could it mean ? he asked himself
with anguish.
And the sweat broke out upon his forehead and his hands grew
cold, for on a
sudden the truth lay there like a written word upon
the tablecloth before
him. This woman, whom he had taken to
himself for better for worse,
inspired him with a passion intense
indeed, all-masterful, soul-subduing as
Love itself — . . . But when
he understood the terror of his Hatred,
he laid his head upon his
arms and wept, not facile tears like
from his
agonising, unavailing regret.
[It would appear from the reference to a " Queen "
that the following
" you "
and
" thou "
seems
IT chanced the other day that
I had a mind to visit my old
friend
showed me
into his study, and apologised for her master's absence
by saying that he
was in the cellar. He soon appeared, and I
rallied him a little on the
gravity of his occupation.
I must tell you, is neither a drunkard nor a man
of fortune. But
he has a pretty taste in wine, indulges it rather in
collection than
in consumption, and arranges his cellar (or, as he
sometimes calls
it, " cellaret "
) himself, having no butler or other
man-servant.
He took my pleasantry very good-humouredly ; and when I
asked him further if I might behold this temple of his devotions
he
complied at once. " Tis rather a chantry than a temple,
said he, " but you are
very welcome to see it if you
please ; and if you are minded to hear a
sermon, perhaps I can
preach one different from what you may expect at
an Oracle of
the Bottle."
We soon reached the cavern, which, indeed, was much less
magnificent than
that over which
perused, not without interest (for I had often tasted the contents),
the various bins in which bottles of different shapes and sizes were
stowed
away with a modest neatness.
self, and did not go so far as to weary me, with some tales of
luck
or disappointment in his purchases, of the singular improvement
of this vintage, and the mortifying conduct of that. For these
wine-lovers
are curious in their phrase ; and it is not disgusting to
hear them say
regretfully that the claret of such and such a year
"has not spoken yet"
; or that another was long "under the
This last phrase, indeed, had a grandilo
curse
of the seventies."
quent
and romantic turn which half surprised me from my friend,
a humourist with
a special horror of fine speech or writing, and
turning sharply I saw a
smile on his lips.
" But,"
said I, " my
think that this wine-chat would be dignified
by you with such a
name."
"You are right,
answered
he, " but I do not quite
know whether I am wise to disclose even to you
the ruling fancy
under which I have formed this little liquid museum,
or Baccheum
if you prefer it."
" I think you may,"
said I, " for in the first place we are old
enough friends for such confidences, and in the second I know
you to be
too much given to laugh at your own foibles to be
greatly afraid of
another's ridicule."
" You say well,"
he said, " so mark ! For if my sermon inflicts
what our toasts call ennui upon you, remember that in the
words of their
favourite "You have
willed it."
"
"I do not,
itself. But when I called this little
cellar of mine just now a
museum I did no dishonour to the daughters of
For you will
observe that wine, by the fact of its keeping powers
and by the other
fact of its date being known, is a sort of calendar
made to the hand of
whoso would commemorate, with a festive
solemnity, the things that are,
as
" Hid in the sacred treasure of the past."
"If not the mere juice of the grape (for the merit of the strongest
wine
after fifty or sixty years is mostly but itself a memory), strong
waters brewed on the day of a man's birth will keep their fire
and gain
ever fresh mellowness though he were to outlive the
longest lifetime ;
and in these little flasks here, my
you will find a cup of Nantz that was born
with me, and that
will keep its virtues long after thou and I have gone
to solve
the great enigma. Again, thou seest those pints of red
port
which nestle together ? Within a few days,
time when that must
was foaming round the
made mine entrance at the
what a mixture of
tender and humorous feelings I quaff them now
and then. When their
juice was tunned, what amiable visions,
what boyish hopes floated
before my eyes ! I was to carry off
all that
could give of learning. I was to
have my choice of learned
retirement on the one hand, or of ardent
struggle at the hoarse
bar on the other, with the prizes of the senate
beyond. They
were scarce throwing down their crust when that dream
faded ;
they had scarce become drinkable by a hasty toper before I
saw clearly
that metaphysical aid was wanting, and that a very
different fate must
be mine. I make no moan over it,
and I puff away like a worse than prostitute
as she is, the demon
Envy when she whispers in my ear the names of
and adds, Had they better parts,
or only better stars than you ?
But as they fable that the wine itself
throbs with the early move
ment of the sap in the vines, so,
(and
truth tis a noble vintage) the old hopes, the old follies, the
old
dreams waken in me, and I am once more eighteen."
" Look yonder again at those cobwebbed vessels of various
shapes that lie
side by side, although of different vineyards, in the
peaceful bins.
They all date from a year in which the wheel of
fortune brought honest
men to the top in
for a brief space, as, I am told, they sing in
de'il went hame wi a
the Whigs before him (I must tell you,
Mr.——, that
impeached of Jacobitism by ill-willers).
But no more of politics."
He paused a moment and then went on:
"I think I see you smile
again,
subjects for so flowing a calendar. And to tell the truth, my
friend,
the main part of my ephemerides of this kind has been filled
by the aid
of the goddess who was ever nearest and kindest to
Lusitanian summers ever blackened, and flasks
of sack from the
more southern parts of that peninsula, which our
pressing of these generous juices the earth was made
more fair by
the birth of
Lusitanian grape is
not so black as the tresses of
nor doth the golden glow of the sherris approach in flame the
locks of
Love, with fantastic triumph, shows me, as
the bright motes
flicker and flee through the sack, the tawny eyes of
the stain, no
longer black or purple, but rosy red, that floats from
the Oportian
juice on the white napery, recalls the velvet blush of
" And this ? "
I said, pointing to a bin of Bordeaux near me.
" Thou shalt try it this very day,"
said
which I thought carried off some
feelings a little overstrained ;
" tis a right pleasant wine, and they made it in the year when I first
saw the lips of
it should fluster thine head a
little, and cause thee what men call
heartburn, I will not say that the
effects are wholly dissimilar "
It is not like
another. His face cleared. " Many a year has passed,"
he said,
"since the grape that bore that juice was gathered, and even as it
was
ripening it chanced that I met
wine was always good and the love likewise ; but in
neither in
their early years was there half the pleasure that there is
now. But
I weary you,
in saying that these things
are not matters of sympathy, or, as the
Scripture saith, a stranger is
not partaker of them. Suffice it to
say that these imprisoned rubies
and topazes, amethysts and
jacinths, never flash in the glass, nor
collect their deeper body of
colour in the flagon, without bringing a
memory with them, that
my lips seldom kiss them without recalling other
kisses, my
eye never beholds them without seeing other colours and
other
forms in "the sessions of sweet silent thought." At the
refining
of this elixir I assumed the virile gown ; when that nectar
was fit
for drinking I made my first appearance in the field of letters
; and
this again recalls the death of dear friends and the waning of idle
hopes. When I am dead, or if any reverse of fortune makes me
part with
this cabinet of quintessence, it will pass to heirs or pur-
chasers as
so much good wine and nothing more. To me it is
that and much
more—a casket of magic liquors, a museum, as I
have called it,
of glasses like that of
the smile of beauty and the hope of youth, in which
once more I
win, lose, possess, conquer, am defeated ; in which I live
over
again in the recesses of fantasy the vanished life of the
past."
" But it is not often that I preach in this fashion. Let us take
and
he smiled,
a turn
in the garden while they get dinner ready, that you may
taste,""that you may taste—if you dare—the wine
that I
have likened to the lips of
WHEN I was a child some
one gave me a family of white
mice. I don't remember how old I was, I
think about
ten or eleven ; but I remember very clearly the day I
received
them. It must have been a Thursday, a half-holiday, for I
had
come home from school rather early in the afternoon.
dear old ruddy round-faced
me, smiled in a way that seemed to announce, " There's a
surprise
Then my mother smiled too, a
smile, I
in store for you, sir."
thought, of peculiar promise and interest. After I had kissed
her
she said, " Come into the dining-room. There's something
you
Perhaps I concluded it would be something to
eat.
will like."
Anyhow, all agog with curiosity, I followed her into the
dining-
room—and
rejoicing. In the window stood
a big cage, enclosing the family
of white mice.
I remember it as a very big cage indeed ; no doubt I should
find it
shrunken to quite moderate dimensions if I could see it
again. There
were three generations of mice in it : a fat old
couple, the founders
of the race, dozing phlegmatically on their
laurels in a corner ; then a dozen medium-sized, slender mice,
trim and
youthful-looking, rushing irrelevantly hither and thither,
with funny
inquisitive little faces ; and then a squirming mass of
pink things,
like caterpillars, that were really infant mice, new
born. They didn't
remain infants long, though. In a few days
they had put on virile togas
of white fur, and were scrambling
about the cage and nibbling their
food as independently as their
elders. The rapidity with which my mice
multiplied and grew
to maturity was a constant source of astonishment
to me. It
seemed as if every morning I found a new litter of young mice
in
the cage—though how they had effected an entrance through the
wire gauze that lined it was a hopeless puzzle—and these
would
have become responsible, self-supporting mice in no time.
My mother told me that somebody had sent me this soul-
stirring present
from the country, and I dare say I was made to
sit down and write a
letter of thanks. But I'm ashamed to own
I can't remember who the giver
was. I have a vague notion that
it was a lady, an elderly
maiden-lady—
thing that began with P—
to come to
box of prunes.
against the wall. I stationed myself in front
of it, and remained
there all the rest of the afternoon, gazing in,
entranced. To watch
their antics, their comings and goings, their
labours and amuse-
ments, to study their shrewd, alert physiognomies,
to wonder
about their feelings, thoughts, intentions, to try to divine
the
meaning of their busy twittering language—it was such
keen,
deep delight. Of course I was an anthropomorphist, and read
a
great deal of human nature into them ; otherwise it wouldn t
have
been such fun. I dragged myself reluctantly away when I was
called to dinner. It was hard that evening to apply myself to
my
school-books. Before I went to bed I paid them a parting
visit ; they
were huddled together in their nest of cotton-wool,
sleeping soundly.
And I was up at an unheard-of hour next
morning, to have a bout with
them before going to school. I
found
with the
put in fresh food and water, and then, pointing to the fat old
couple,
the grandparents, who stopped lazily abed, sitting up and
rubbing their
noses together, whilst their juniors scampered merrily
about their
affairs, "
he cried. I felt the appositeness
of his allusion ; and the
Denis,
old couple were forthwith officially
denominated
Madame
Denis
the song—though which was Monsieur, and which Madame, I'm
not
sure that I ever clearly knew.
It was a little after this that I was taken for the first time in
my
life to the play. I fancy the theatre must have been the
St. Martin
towards the East, for I remember the long
drive we had to reach
it. And the piece was
again so violently, desperately, consumedly. Anyhow, I went
home
terribly in love with
humour ?—I picked out the
prettiest young ladyish-looking mouse
in my collection, cut off her
moustaches, adopted her as my
especial pet, and called her by the name
of my
All of my mice by this time had become quite tame. They
had plenty to
eat and drink, and a comfortable home, and not a
care in the world ;
and familiarity with their master had bred
assurance ; and so they had
become quite tame and shamefully,
abominably lazy. Luxury, we are
taught, was ever the mother of
sloth. I could put my hand in amongst
them, and not one would
bestir himself the littlest bit to escape me.
inseparable. I used to take her to school with me every day ; she
could
be more conveniently and privately transported than a lamb.
Each
the school-hours in mine, I leaving the
lid raised a little, that she
might have light and air. One day, the
usher having left the
room for a moment, I put her down on the floor,
thereby creating
a great excitement amongst my fellow-pupils, who got
up from
their places and formed an eager circle round her. Then
suddenly
the usher came back, and we all hurried to our seats, while
he,
catching sight of " A mouse ! A white
And
mouse ! Who dares to bring a white
mouse to the class ? "
he made a dash for her. But she was
too quick, too cute, for
"the likes of"
twinkling of an eye had disappeared up my leg, under my
trousers.
The usher searched high and low for her, but she
prudently
remained in her hiding-place ; and thus her life was saved,
for
when he had abandoned his ineffectual chase, he announced, "
I
I turned pale to imagine the
doom
should have wrung her neck."
she had escaped as by a hair's breadth. " It is useless to ask
which
of you brought her here,"
he continued. " But mark my words :
if ever I find a mouse again in the class
And yet, in private life, this
bloodthirsty
kindly, underfed, underpaid, shabby, struggling fellow, with literary
aspirations, who would not have hurt a fly.
The secrets of a schoolboy's pocket! I once saw a boy
surreptitiously
angling in
a bent pin. Presently he landed a fish, a fish no bigger
than your
thumb, perhaps, but still a fish. Alive and wet and flopping
as
it was, he slipped it into his pocket. I used to carry
about in mine. One evening,
when I put in my hand to take her
out, I discovered to my bewilderment
that she was not alone.
There were four little pink mites of infant
mice clinging to her.
I had enjoyed my visit to the theatre so much that at the
de l'an
had a real curtain of
green baize, that would roll up and down,
and beautiful coloured
scenery that you could shift, and footlights,
and a trap-door in the
middle ot the stage ; and indeed it would
have been altogether perfect,
except for the Company. I have
since learned that this is not
infrequently the case with theatres.
My company consisted of pasteboard
men and women who, as
artists, struck me as eminently unsatisfactory.
They couldn't
move their arms or legs, and they had such stolid,
uninteresting
faces. I don t know how it first occurred to me to turn
them all
off, and fill their places with my mice.
leading lady ;
parents ; and a gentlemanlike young mouse named
tremendous plays. I was
stage-manager, prompter, playwright,
chorus, and audience, placing the
theatre before a looking-glass, so
that, though my duties kept me
behind, I could peer round the
edge, and watch the spectacle as from the front. I would invent
the
lines and deliver them, but, that my illusion might be the
more
complete, I would change my voice for each personage
The lines tried
hard to be verses ; no doubt they were
At any rate, they were mouth-filling and
sonorous. The first
play we attempted, I need hardly say, was
Cristo
That had rather
a long run. Then I dramatised
I don't know whether all children lack humour ; but I'm sure
no grown-up
author-manager can take his business more seriously
than I took mine. Oh, I enjoyed it hugely ; the hours I spent at
it were
enraptured hours ; but it was grim, grim earnest. After a
while I began
to long for a less subjective public, a more various
audience. I would
summon the servants, range them in chairs at
one end of the room,
conceal myself behind the theatre, and spout
the play with fervid
solemnity. And they would giggle, and make
flippant commentaries, and
at my most impassioned climaxes burst
into guffaws. My mice, as has
been said, were overfed and
lazy, and I used to have to poke them
through their parts with
sticks from the wings ; but this was a detail
which a superior
imagination should have accepted as one of the
conventions of the
art. It made the servants laugh, however ; and when
I would
step to the front in person, and, with tears in my eyes,
beseech
them to be sober, they would but laugh the louder. " Bless
you, sir,
the cook
called out on one
they're only mice—
such occasion. She meant it as an apology and a
consolation, but
it was the unkindest cut of all. Only mice, indeed !
To me
they had been a young gentleman and lady lost in the
Sahara
captured, and sold into
slavery, by a band of Bedouin Arabs. Ah,
well, the artist must steel
himself to meet with indifference or
derision from the public, to be
ignored, misunderstood, or jeered
at ; and to rely for his real, his
legitimate, reward on the pleasure
he finds in his work.
And now there befell a great change in my life. Our home in
impossible to take my mice with us ; their cage would have hope
lessly
complicated our impedimenta. So we gave them to the
children of our
concierge,
would not part with, and I carried her all the way to the
Russian
capital by hand. In my heart I was looking to her to found
another family she had so frequently become a mother in the
past. But
month succeeded month, and she forever disappointed
me, and at last I
abandoned hope. In solitude and exile
degenerated sadly ; got monstrously fat ; too
indolent to gnaw, let
her teeth grow to a preposterous length ; and in
the end died of a
surfeit of
When I returned to
drolt in the
discovered the same old concierge in the
the mice, and she
told me her children had found the care of them
such a bother that at
first they had neglected them, and at last
allowed them to escape.
"They took to the walls, and for a long
time afterwards,
Monsieur, the mice of this neighbourhood were
pied. To this day
they are of a paler hue than elsewhere."
HE climbed the three
flights of stone stairs, and put his key
into the lock ; but before he
turned it, he stopped—to rest,
to take breath. On the door his
name was painted in big white
letters,
midnight ; to-night the silence
was dense, like a fog. It was
Sunday night ; and on Sunday night, even
within the hushed
precincts of the
When he had lighted the lamp in his sitting-room, he let him
self drop
into an arm-chair before the empty fireplace. He was
tired, he was
exhausted. Yet nothing had happened to tire him.
He had dined, as he
always dined on Sundays, with the
in
no reason why he should be tired. But he was tired. A deadly
lassitude
penetrated his body and his spirit, like a fluid. He was
too tired to
go to bed.
" I suppose I am getting old,"
he thought.
To a second person the matter would have appeared one not of
supposition
but of certainty, not of progression but of accomplish
ment. Getting
old indeed ? But he
man, grey and wrinkled and wasted, who sat there, limp, sunken
upon
himself, in his easy-chair. In years, to be sure, he was
under sixty ;
but he looked like a man of seventy-five.
" I am getting old, I suppose I am getting old."
And vaguely, dully, he contemplated his life, spread out behind
him like
a misty landscape, and thought what a failure it had been.
What had it
come to ? What had it brought him ? What had
he done or won ? Nothing,
nothing. It had brought him
nothing but old age, solitude,
disappointment, and, to-night
especially, a sense of fatigue and apathy
that weighed upon him
like a suffocating blanket. On a table, a yard or
two away, stood
a decanter of whisky, with some soda-water bottles and
tumblers ;
he looked at it with heavy eyes, and he knew that there was
what
he needed. A little whisky would strengthen him, revive him,
and make it possible for him to bestir himself and undress and go
to
bed. But when he thought of rising and moving to pour the
whisky out,
he shrunk from that effort as from an Herculean
labour ; no—he
was too tired. Then his mind went back to the
friends he had left in
indefinably long time ago, years and years ago ; they were like
blurred phantoms, dimly remembered from a remote past.
Yes, his life had been a failure ; total, miserable, abject. It had
come
to nothing ; its harvest was a harvest of ashes, If it had
been a
useful life, he could have accepted its unhappiness ; if it
had been a happy life, he could have forgotten its uselessness ; but
it
had been both useless and unhappy. He had done nothing for
others, he
had won nothing for himself. Oh, but he had tried,
he had tried. When
he had left
things of him ; he had expected great things of himself. He
was
admitted to be clever, to be gifted ; he was ambitious, he was
in
earnest. He wished to make a name, he wished to justify his
existence by fruitful work. And he had worked hard. He had
put all his
knowledge, all his talent, all his energy, into his work ;
he had not
spared himself; he had passed laborious days and
studious nights. And
what remained to show for it ? Three or
four volumes upon Political
Economy, that had been read in their
day a little, discussed a little,
and then quite forgotten super
seded by the books of newer men. "
Pulped, pulped,"
he reflected
bitterly. Except for a stray
dozen of copies scattered here and
there—in the
bookshelves
his published writings had by this time (he could
not doubt) met with
the common fate of unsuccessful literature,
and been "
pulped."
" Pulped—pulped ; pulped —pulped."
The hateful word
beat
rhythmically again and again in his tired brain ; and for a
little
while that was all he was conscious of.
So much for the work of his life. And for the rest ? The
play ? The
living ? Oh, he had nothing to recall but failure.
It had sufficed that
he should desire a thing, for him to miss it ;
that he should set his
heart upon a thing, for it to be removed
beyond the sphere of his
possible acquisition. It had been so
from the beginning ; it had been
so always. He sat motionless as
a stone, and allowed his thoughts to
drift listlessly hither and
thither in the current of memory.
Everywhere they encountered
wreckage, derelicts : defeated aspirations,
broken hopes. Languidly
he envisaged these He was too tired to resent, to rebel. He
even found a
certain sluggish satisfaction in recognising with what
unvarying
harshness destiny had treated him, in resigning himself
to the
unmerited.
He caught sight of his hand, lying flat and inert upon the
brown leather
arm of his chair. His eyes rested on it, and for the
moment he forgot
everything else in a sort of torpid study of it.
How white it was, how
thin, how withered ; the nails were
parched into minute corrugations ;
the veins stood out like dark
wires ; the skin hung loosely on it, and
had a dry lustre : an old
man's hand. He gazed at it fixedly, till his
eyes closed and his
head fell forward. But he was not sleepy, he was
only tired and
weak.
He raised his head with a start, and changed his position. He
felt cold
; but to endure the cold was easier than to get up, and
put something
on, or go to bed.
How silent the world was ; how empty his room. An immense
feeling of
solitude, of isolation, fell upon him. He was quite cut
off from the
rest of humanity here. If anything should happen
to him, if he should
need help of any sort, what could he do ?
Call out ? But who would hear
? At nine in the morning the
porter's wife would come with his tea. But
if anything should
happen to him in the meantime ? There would be
npthing for it
but to wait till nine o clock.
Ah, if he had married, if he had had children, a wife, a home or
his
own, instead of these desolate bachelor chambers !
If he had married, indeed ! It was his sorrow's crown of sorrow
that he
had not married, that he had not been able to marry, that
the girl he
had wished to marry wouldn't have him. Failure ?
Success ? He could
have accounted failure in other things a trifle,
he could have laughed
at what the world calls failure, if
she wouldn't have him.
He had met her for the first time when he was a lad of twenty,
and she a
girl of eighteen. He could see her palpable before him
now : her
slender girlish figure, her bright eyes, her laughing
mouth, her warm
brown hair curling round her forehead. Oh,
how he had loved her. For
twelve years he had waited upon her,
wooed her, hoped to win her. But
she had always said, " No—I
However,
she married no one else, she
don't love you. I am very fond of
you ; I love you as a friend f
we all love you that way—my
mother, my father, my sisters.
But I can't marry you."
loved no one else ; and for twelve years
he was an ever-welcome
guest in her father's house ; and she would talk
with him, play to
him, pity him ; and he could hope. Then she died. He
called
one day, and they said she was ill. After that there came a
blank
in his memory—a gulf, full of blackness and redness,
anguish and
confusion ; and then a sort of dreadful sudden calm, when
they
told him she was dead.
He remembered standing in her room, after the funeral, with
her father,
her mother, her sister
pale daylight that filled it, and how orderly and cold
and forsaken
it all looked. And there was her bed, the bed she had died
in ;
and there her dressing-table, with her combs and brushes ;
and
there her writing-desk, her bookcase. He remembered a row of
medicine bottles on the mantelpiece ; he remembered the fierce
anger,
the hatred of them, as if they were animate, that had welled
up in his
heart as he looked at them, because they had failed to do
their
work.
" You will wish to have something that was hers,
her mother said. "
What would you like ? "
On her dressing-table there was a small looking-glass in an
ivory frame. He asked if he might have that, and carried it away
with
him. She had looked into it a thousand times, no doubt ; she
had done
her hair in it ; it had reflected her, enclosed her, contained
her. He
could almost persuade himself that something of her
must remain in it.
To own it was like owning something of
herself. He carried it home with
him, hugging it to his side with
a kind of passion.
He had prized it, he prized it still, as his dearest treasure ; the
looking-glass in which her face had been reflected a thousand
times ;
the glass that had contained her, known her ; in which
something of
herself, he felt, must linger. To handle it, look at
it, into it,
behind it, was like holding a mystic communion with
her ; it gave him
an emotion that was infinitely sweet and bitter,
a pain that was
dissolved in joy.
The glass lay now, folded in its ivory case, on the chimney-shelf
in
front of him. That was its place ; he always kept it on his
chimney-shelf, so that he could see it whenever he glanced round
his
room. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at it ; for
a long time
his eyes remained fixed upon it. " If she had married
Monotonously, automatically,
me, she wouldn
t have died. My love, my care, would have healed
her. She could not
have died."
the phrase repeated
itself over and over again in his mind, while
his eyes remained fixed
on the ivory case into which her looking-
glass was folded. It was an
effect of his fatigue, no doubt, that
his eyes, once directed upon an
object, were slow to leave it for
another ; that a phrase once
pronounced in his thought had this
tendency to repeat itself over and
over again.
But at last he roused himself a little, and leaning forward, put
his
hand out and up, to take the glass from the shelf. He wished
to hold
it, to touch it and look into it. As he lifted it towards
him, it fell
open, the mirror proper being fastened to a leather
back, which was glued to the ivory, and formed a hinge. It fell
open ;
and his gasp had been insecure ; and the jerk as it opened
was enough.
It slipped from his fingers, and dropped with a crash
upon the
hearthstone.
The sound went through him like a physical pain. He sank
back into his
chair, and closed his eyes. His heart was beating as
after a mighty
physical exertion. He knew vaguely that a calamity
had befallen him ;
he could vaguely imagine the splinters of
shattered glass at his feet.
But his physical prostration was so
great as to obliterate, to
neutralise, emotion. He felt very cold.
He felt that he was being
hurried along with terrible speed through
darkness and cold air. There
was the continuous roar of rapid
motion in his ears, a faint, dizzy
bewilderment in his head. He
felt that he was trying to catch hold of
things, to stop his progress,
but his hands closed upon emptiness ;
that he was trying to call
out for help, but he could make no sound.
On—on—on, he was
deing whirled through some immeasurable
abyss of space.
******
"Ah, yes, he's dead, quite dead,"
the doctor said. " He has
been dead some hours. He must have passed away peacefully
sitting
here in his chair."
" Poor gentleman,"
said the porter's wife. " And a broken
looking-glass beside him. Oh, it s a sure sign, a broken looking-
glass."
The period is 1863
front of the fire
making some toast.
There ! I think that will do, although it isn't anything
very great.
I always manage to toast myself very much better than I do
the
bread.
table
he sees them. How strange it is that he should really care
for
me !—I, who am so commonplace and ordinary, hardly
pretty
either, although he says I am. I always tell him he might
have
done so much better than propose to a poor governess without
a
penny.—Oh, if only his book proves a success !—a
really great
success !—how glorious it will be ! Why doesn't
the wretched
publisher make haste and bring it out ? I believe he is keeping it
back on purpose. What dreadful creatures they are ! At
first—
squabble, squabble, squabble ; squabble about terms,
squabble about
this, another squabble about that, and then, when
everything is
finally arranged, delay, delay, delay. "You must
wait for the
As though a book were a
young lady whose
publishing season."
future might be seriously jeopardised if it made
its
unfashionable time.
It's out, it's out ; out at last.
What, the book ! Really ! Where is it ? Do show it
to me.
Do you think you deserve it !
Oh ! don't tantalise me. Have you seen it ? What is
it like !
It is printed, and very much like other books.
You are horrid. I believe you have it with you. Have
you ?
And what if I say yes ?
You have. Do let me see it.
And will you be very good if I do !
I'll be angelic.
Then on that condition only—There ! take it gently.
string ?
There is never a never that hasn't an exception,
Not a woman's, certainly.
Oh ! how nice it looks ! And to think that it is yours,
really and
truly yours. " Grace : a Sketch. By
" It's delicious !
bourne
I shall begin to be jealous. You will soon be more in
love with my
book than you are with me.
And why shouldn't I be ? Haven' t you always said that
a man's work
is the best part of him ?
If my silly sayings are to be brought up in evidence
against me
like this, I shall—
You shall what ?
Take the book back.
Oh, will you ? I should like to see you do it.
it behind her.
And what are you going to give me for it ?
Isn't it a presentation copy ?
It is the very first to leave the printer's.
Then you ought not to want any payment.
I do though, all the same. Come—no payment, no
book.
There, there, there !
And there.
Oh ! don't ! You ll stifle me. And is this for me ;
may I really
keep it ?
Of course you may ; I brought it expressly for you.
How nice of you ! And you'll write my name in it ?
I'll write the dedication.
What do you mean ?
You shall see. Pen and ink for the author ! A new
pen and virgin
ink !
Your Authorship has but to command to be obeyed.
copies, but
this one I have had bound specially for you, with a
blank sheet
where the dedication comes, so that in your copy, and
yours alone,
I can write it myself. There.
To my Lady
" Oh,
Who else could I dedicate it to ? although tis—
" Not
so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that now It may immortal
be.
"
It is good of you.
"—what's to
day ? oh, yes, —
"
"
And will people know who the " Lady
" is ?
They will some day. The dedication in my next
book shall be
"To my Lady Wife.
"
I wonder if I shall ever be that. It seems so long
coming.
I don't mind when it is to-morrow, if you like.
Don't talk nonsense, although it is my fault for beginning
it. And
now sit down no, here in the arm-chair and you shall
have some nice
tea.
You won't have to wait long if this proves a success :
and it will
be one. I know it ; I feel it. It isn't only that
everybody who has
read it, likes it ; it's something else that I can't
describe, not
even to you ; a feeling inside, that—call it conceit if
you
like, but it isn't conceit ; it isn't conceit to feel confidence in
oneself. Why, look at the trash, the arrant trash, that succeeds
every day ; you will say, perhaps, that it succeeds because it is
trash,
that trash is what people want they certainly get it. But
no
book that ever had real stuff in it has failed yet, and I
feel
that—Ha ! ha ! the same old feeling mentioned above.
Don't
think me an awful prig,
as I do to you ;
and if you only knew what a relief it is to
me to let myself go a bit occasionally, you would excuse every
thing.
You have a right to be conceited.
Not yet. I have done nothing yet ; but I mean to.
your
fellows ; what will be your future ? Will you one day
adorn the
shelves of libraries, figure in catalogues of " Rare books
" and be contended for by snuffy,
long-clothed
and first editions,
bibliomaniacs, who will bid one against the other for
the honour of
possessing you ? Or will you descend to the tables of
secondhand
book-stalls marked at a great reduction ; or lie in a
heap, with
other lumber, outside the shop-front, all this lot
sixpence each,
awaiting there, uncared for, unnoticed, and unknown,
your ultimate
destination, the dust-hole ?
You are horrid. What an idea!
No, I don't think that will be your end.
the book.
be a success. No more
hack work for me after this. Why, sup-
posing only the first
edition is sold, I more than clear expenses,
and if it runs to
two—ten—twenty editions, I shall receive—the
amount fairly takes my breath away. Twentieth thousand ;
doesn't it
sound fine ? We shall have our mansion in
Square
other day up the river—we'll have that, too ; so that we
can run
down here from Saturday to Monday, to get away from
fog and nastiness.
Yes, I am going to be rich some day—rich
—in ten
years time, if this book gets a fair start and I have any
thing
like decent luck, I shall be the best known author in
be able then to repay those who helped
him when he wanted help,
and, more delightful thought still, pay
back those with interest
who did their best to keep him down, when they could just as
easily
have helped him to rise. I am going to have a success, I
feel it.
In a few weeks' time I'll bring you a batch of criticisms
that will
astonish you. But what is the matter ? why so silent
all of a
sudden ? has my long and conceited tirade disgusted you ?
No, not at all.
Then what is it ?
I was only thinking that—
Thinking what ? About me :
Yes, about you and—and also about myself
That is just as it should be, about us two together.
Yes, but I was afraid——
Nothing, nothing really. I am ashamed that let me give
you some
more tea.
No, thanks. Come, let me hear, make a clean breast
of it.
I can't, really ; you would only laugh at me.
Then why deny me a pleasure, for you know I love to
laugh ?
Well, then—if you become famous—and rich——
If I do ; well ?
You won 't—you won't forget me, will you ?
Forget you, what an idea ! Why do I want to become
famous ? why do
I want to become rich ? For my own sake ?
for the sake of the money
? Neither. I want it for your sake, so
that you can be rich ; so
that you can have everything you can
possibly want. I don't mind
roughing it a bit myself, but——
No more do I : I am sure we might be very happy living
even
here.
No, thank you ; no second pair fronts for me, or,
rather, none for my wife. I want you to forget all about this
place,
as though it had never existed ; I want you to only
remember your
giving lessons as a nightmare which has passed
and gone. I want you
to take a position in the world, to go into
society——
But, Harold——
To entertain, receive, lead——
But I could never lead. I detest receiving. I hate
entertaining——
Except me.
I often wonder if I do. You are so clever and I——
Such a goose. Whatever put such ideas into your
head ? Why, you are
actually crying.
I am not.
Then what is that ?
What is that little sparkling drop ?
It must be a tear of joy, then.
Which shall be used to christen the book !
Oh, don't there, you have left a mark.
It is your fault. My finger wouldn't have done it by
itself. Are
you going to be silly any more ?
No, I am not.
And you are going to love me, believe in me, and trust me ?
I do all three— implicitly
his watch.
So soon ?
Rather ; I have to dine in
o'clock, at
it's a beauty, a seventeenth or eighteenth century
one, with such
a gorgeous old staircase. He's awfully rich, and just a little bit
vulgar—"wool"
I think it was, or "cottons,"
or
some other
commodity ; but his daughter is charming—I should
say daughters,
as there are two of them, so you needn't be
jealous.
Jealous ? of course I am not. Have you known them long ?
Oh ! some little time. They are awfully keen to see
my book. I am
going to take—send them a copy. You see I
must be civil to
these people, they know such an awful lot of the
right sort ; and
their recommendation of a book will have more
weight than fifty
advertisements. So good-bye.
overcoat.
Let me help you. But you are going without noticing
my flowers.
I have been admiring them all along, except when I
was looking at
you.
Don't be silly.
They are charming.
just the same colours ; you ought to see them ; he
has basketsful
sent up every week from his place in
No wonder my poor little chrysanthemums didn't impress
you.
What nonsense ! I would give more for one little
flower from you,
than for the contents of all his conservatories.
Then you shall have that for nothing.
Don't, it will destroy the bunch.
What does that matter ? they are all yours.
You do your best to spoil me.
sense. There
!
What a swell you have made me look !
Good-bye ; when shall I see you again ?
Not until Sunday, I am afraid ; I am so busy just now.
But I'll
come round early, and, if fine, we'll go and lunch at
Would you like it ?
Above all things, but—but don't spend all your money
on
me.
Bother the money ! I am going to be rich. Good
bye till Sunday.
house, with lots of grand people, I am
going to enjoy a delightful
evening here, not alone, as I shall
have your book for company.
Good-bye
The Scene and Persons are the same
with a flower in his
button-hole ; he stands by the fireplace.
Well, all I have to say is, I think you are most
unreasonable.
You have no right to say that.
I have if I think it.
Well, you have no right to think it.
My thoughts are not my own, I suppose ?
They are so different from what I should have expected
you to
have that I almost doubt it.
Better say I have changed at once.
And so you have.
Who is saying things one has no right to say now ?
I am only saying what I think.
Then if you want to have the right to your own
thoughts, kindly
let me have the right to mine.
window
You need not accept them.
And make enemies right and left, I suppose ?
I don't want you to do that, and I don't want either to
prevent
your enjoying yourself ; but—but, I do want to see you
occasionally.
And so you do.
Yes, very—perhaps I should say I want to see you often.
And so do I you, but I can't be in two places at once.
This is
what I mean when I say you are unreasonable. I must
go out. If
I am to write, I must study people, character, scenes.
I can't
do that by stopping at home : I can't do that by coming
here ;
I know you and I know your landlady, and there is nobody
else
in the house, except the slavey and the cat ; and although the
slavey may be a very excellent servant and the cat a most
original
quadruped, still, I don't want to make elaborate
studies of animals
—either four-legged or two. One would
imagine, from the way
you talk, that I did nothing except enjoy
myself. I only go out in
the evenings.
Still you might spare a little time, now and then, to come
and
see me, if only for half an hour.
What am I doing now ? I gave up a dinner-party to
come here
to-night.
Do you know it is exactly a month yesterday since you were here last ?
I can't be always dangling at your apron-strings.
If we are going to be married, we——
If?
Well, when, if you like it better ; we shall see enough
of one
another then. I have written to you, it isn't as though I
hadn't done that.
But that is not the same thing as seeing you ; and your
letters, too, have been so scrappy.
arm-chair.
I had more time then.
I sometimes wish that it had never been published at all,
that
you had never written it, or, at all events, that it had never
been such a success.
That's kind, at all events—deuced kind and considerate !
It seems to have come between us as a barrier. When I
think how
eagerly we looked forward to its appearance, what
castles in
the air we built as to how happy we were going to be,
and all
the things we were going to do, if it were a success, and
now
to think that——
stand this
much longer ! Nag, nag, nag ! I can't stand it. I am
worked off
my head during the day, I am out half the night,
and when I
come here for a little quiet, a little rest, its—
off
suddenly
I am so sorry. If I had thought——
Can't you see that you are driving me mad ? I have
been here
half an hour, and the whole of the time it has been
nothing but
reproaches.
I don't think they would hove affected you so much if
you
hadn't felt that you deserved them !
There you go again ! I deserve them—
It is my fault, I suppose, that it is the season ; it is my fault
that
people give dinner-parties and balls ; it is my fault, I
suppose, that
you don't go out as much as I do ?
Certainly not ; although, as a matter of fact, I haven't
been
out one single evening for the last three—nearly
four—
months.
That's right ; draw comparisons ; say I'm a selfish
brute.
You'll tell me next that I am tired of you, and——
Harold ! don't, don't you you hurt me! Of course
I never
thought of such a— [
I—I couldn't bear it
!
Of course I am not. Don't be so silly.
It was silly of me, I confess it. I know you better than
that.
Why, it's rank high treason, I deserve to lose my head ; and
my
only excuse is that thinking such a thing proves I must have
lost it already. Will your majesty deign to pardon ?
[
you'll crumple my tie.
I am so sorry ! And now tell me all about your grand
friends
and——
They are not grand to me. Simply because a person
is rich or
has a title, I don't consider them any "grander"
than I
—by jove, no ! These people are useful to me, or else I
should't
stand it. They "patronise"
me, put their hand
on my shoulder
and say, "My dear young friend, we predict
great things for you."
The fools, as though a single
one of them was capable even of
forming an opinion, much less
of prophesying. They make
remarks about me before my face ;
they talk of, and pet, me as
though I were a poodle. I go
through my tricks and they applaud ;
and they lean over with an
idiotic simper to the dear friend next to
them and say, "Isn't he clever ? "
as though they had taught
me
themselves. Bah ! They invite me to their houses, I dine
with
them once a week ; but if I were to tell them to-morrow
that I
wanted to marry one of their daughters, they would kick
me out
of the room, and consider it a greater insult than if
the proposal had
come from their own footman.
But that doesn't matter, because you don't want to marry
one of
them, do you ? Was that
Park last Sunday ?
How do you know I was in the Park at all ?
Because I saw you there.
You were spying, I suppose.
Spying ? I don't know what you mean. I went there
for a walk
after
Alone ?
Of course not, I was with
Your landlady ?
Why not ?—Oh ! you need not be afraid. I shouldn't
have
brought disgrace upon you by obliging you to acknowledge
me
before your grand friends. I took good care to keep in the
background.
Do you mean to insinuate that I am a snob ?
Be a little kind.
Well, it is your own fault, you insinuate that——
I was wrong. I apologise, but—but—
There, don't make a scene don't, there's a good girl.
There,
rest your head here, I suppose I am nasty. I didn't
mean it,
really. You must make allowances for me. I am
worried and
bothered. I can't work—at least I can't do work that
satisfies me—and altogether I am not quite myself. Late
hours
are playing the very deuce with my nerves. There, let me
kiss
away the tears now give me your promise that you will never be
so foolish again.
I—I promise. It is silly of me—now I am all right.
the shower is quite over.
Yes, quite over ; you always are so kind. It is my
fault
entirely. I—I think my nerves must be a little upset,
too.
We shall make a nice couple, sha'n't we ? if we are often
going
to behave like this ! Now, are you quite calm ?
Yes, quite.
That s right, because I want you to listen patiently for
a few
minutes to what I am going to say ; it is something I want
to
talk to you about very seriously. You won't interrupt me until
I have quite finished, will you ?
What is it ? not that—no, I won't.
You know we talked about—I mean it was arranged
we
should be married the beginning of July—wasn't it ?
Yes.
Well, I want to know if you would mind very much
putting it off
a little—quite a little only till—the autumn ?
I'll
tell you why. Of course if you
press it,
but—it's like this : the scene of my new book is, as you
know, laid abroad. I have been trying to write it, but can't
get
on with it one little bit. I want some local colour. I
thought
I should be able to invent it, I find I can't. It is
hampering
and keeping me back terribly. And so—and so I
thought if
you didn't mind very much that that if I were to go
to
for—for
six months or so—alone, that in fact it would be the
making of me. I have never had an opportunity before ; it has
always been grind, grind, grind, and if I am prevented from
going now, I may never have a chance again. What do you
say
?
But why shouldn't we be married as arranged, and spend
our
honeymoon over there ?
Because I want to work.
And would my being there prevent you ? You used to
say you
always worked so much better when I was——
But you don't understand. This is different. I want
to work
least I know I couldn't.
No, but—And and till when did you want to put off
our—our marriage ? Until your return ?
Well, that would depend on circumstances. You don't
suppose I
would postpone it for a second, if I could help it ; but
Until
my return ? I hope sincerely that it can be managed
then, but,
you see, over there I shall be spending money all the
time, and
not earning a
little
bit longer, just until I could replenish the locker, until I
had
published and been paid for my new book.
But I have given notice to leave at midsummer.
Has
No, but——
Then you can stop on, can't you ! They will surely
be only too
delighted to keep you.
Yes—I can stop on.
not now.
And you don't really mind the postponement very
much, do you
?
Not if it will assist you.
I thought you would say that, I knew you would. It
will assist
me very much. I shouldn't otherwise suggest it. It
does seem too bad though, doesn't it ? To have to postpone it
after waiting all these years, and just as it was so near, too.
I
have a good mind not to go, after all—only, if I let
this chance
slip, I may never have another. Besides, six months
is not so
very long, is it ? And when they are over, then we
won't wait
any longer. You will come and see me off, won't you
? It would
never do for an engaged man to go away for even six
months,
without his lady love coming to see him start.
Yes, I will come. When do you go ?
The end of next week, I expect ; perhaps earlier if I
can
manage it. But I shall see you before then. We'll go and
have
dinner together at our favourite little restaurant. When
shall
it be ! Let me see, I am engaged on—I can't quite
remember
what my engagements are,
I have none.
Then that's settled. Good-bye,
very much, do you ? The
time will soon pass. You are a little
brick to behave as you
have done.
Tuesday next
for our dinner, but I will let you know. Good
bye.
Good-bye.
(her niece)
A happy New Year to you, Aunt
What !
I really think I must be getting
deaf.
What nonsense ! I didn't intend you should hear me.
I wanted to
wish you a happy New Year first.
So as to make your Aunt play second fiddle. The same
to you,
dear.
Thank you.
cold ; not here I mean, but out of doors ; the
thermometer is
down I don't know how many degrees below
freezing
It seems to agree with you, at all events. You look as
bright
and rosy as though you were the New Year itself come to
visit
me.
way, except when I slid, to the great horror of an old
gentleman
who was busily engaged lecturing some little boys on
the enormity
of their sins in making a beautifully long slide
in the middle of the
pavement.
And what brought you out so early ?
To see you, of course. Besides, the morning is so lovely
it seemed a sin to remain indoors. I do hope the frost continues
all the holidays.
It is all very well for you, but it must be terribly trying
for
many people—the poor, for instance.
Yes.
you, about how how poor people live ?
Not so much as I ought to.
I didn't mean very poor people, not working people. I
meant a
person poor like—like I am poor.
Of course I do, but—I was thinking of—of a friend
of
mine, a governess like myself, who has just got engaged ;
and I
I was wondering on how much, or, rather, how little, they
could
live. But you don't know of course. You are rich,
and——
But I wasn't always rich. Thirty years ago when I was
your
age——
When you were my age ! I like that ! why you are
not fifty.
Little flatterer. Fifty-two last birthday.
Fifty-two ! Well, you don't look it, at all events.
Gross flatterer. When I was your age I was poor and a
governess
as you are.
But I thought that your Aunt
money.
So she did, or nearly all ; but that was afterwards. It
isn't
quite thirty years yet since she came back from
widow, just after she
had lost her husband and only child. I was
very ill at the
time—I almost died ; and she, good woman as she
was,
came and nursed me.
Of course, I know. I have heard father talk about it.
And then
she was taken ill, wasn't she ?
Yes, almost before I was well. It was very unfair that
she
should leave everything to me ; your father was her nephew,
just as I was her niece, but he wouldn't hear of my sharing it
with——
I should think not indeed ! I should be very sorry to
think
that my father would ever allow such a thing. Although,
at the
same time, it is all very well for you to imagine that you
don't share it, but you do. Who pays for
Don't, please. What a huge family you are, to be sure.
And last, but not least, who gave me a chance of going
to
I know, but you see we do.
You thought you had arranged it
all so beautifully, and kept
every one of us entirely in the dark,
but you haven't one
little bit.
Nonsense, Agnes, you——
Oh, you are a huge big fraud, you know you are ; I
am quite
ashamed of you. [
not to be
thanked, I know ; and you needn't be afraid, I am not
going to
do so ; but if you could only hear us when we are talking
quietly together, you would find that a certain person, who
shall
be nameless, is simply worship—
Hush ! you silly little girl. You don't know what you
are
saying. You have nothing to thank me for whatsoever.
Haven't we just ? I know better.
Young people always do. So you see I do know some
thing of how
"the poor"
live.
Yes, but you were never married.
No, dear.
That is what I want to—Why weren't you
married ? Oh, I know I have no business to ask such a question :
it is fearfully rude I know, but I have wondered so often. You
are lovely now, and you must have been beautiful when you were
a girl.
No, I wasn't—I was barely pretty.
I can't believe that.
And I am not going to accept your description of me
now as a
true one ; although I confess I am vain enough—
even in
my present old age—to look in the glass occasionally,
and say to myself: "You are better-looking now than you ever
were."
Well, at all events you were always an angel.
And men don't like angels ; besides—I was poor.
You were not poor when you got Aunt
No, but then it was too—— I mean I then had no
wish to marry.
You mean you determined to sacrifice yourself for us,
that is
what you mean.
I must have possessed a very prophetic soul then, or
been
gifted with second sight, as none of you, except
were born. But to
come back to your friend,
money ?
No, none.
Nor he ?
Not a penny.
And they want to get married ?
Yes.
And are afraid they haven't enough.
They certainly haven't.
Then why don't they apply to some friend or relative
who has
more than enough ; say, to—an aunt, for instance.
Auntie !
And what is his name ?
And hers is ?
Oh, I never intended to tell you. I didn't mean to say
a
word.
When did it happen ?
Three days ago. That is to say, he proposed to me
then, but of
course it has been going on for a long time. I could
see that
he at least—I thought I could see. But I can hardly
realise it yet. It seems all so strange. And I
you, I felt I must tell
somebody, although
known yet, because, as I told you,
he—and so I haven't said a word
to father yet ; but I
must soon and you won't say anything, will
you ? and—and
oh, I am silly.
There, have your cry out, it will do you good. Now
tell me
about
He is a writer—an author. Don't you remember I
showed
you a story of his a little time ago ?
I thought I knew the name.
And you said you liked it ; I was so pleased.
Yes, I did. I thought it clever and——
He is clever ; and I do so want you to know him. He
wants to
know you, too. You will try to like him, won't you,
for my sake
I
I have no doubt I shall.
He is just bringing out a book. Some of the stories
have been
published before ; the one you read was one, and if that
proves
a success then it will be all right ; we shall be able to get
married and——
Wait a minute, Agnes. How long have you known him ?
Over a yea— nearly two years.
And do you really know him well ? Are you quite
certain you can
trust him ?
What a question ! How can you doubt it ? You
wouldn't for a
minute if you knew him.
I ought not to, knowing you, you mean. And supposing
this book
is a success. May it not spoil him make him con-
ceited ?
All the better if it does. He is not conceited enough,
and so I
always tell him.
But may it not make him worldly ? May he not, after a
time,
regret his proposal to you if he sees a chance of making a
more
advantageous——
Impossible. What a dreadful opinion you must have of
mankind.
You don't think it really, I know. I have never heard
you say
or hint anything nasty about anybody before.
I only do it for your own good, my dear. I once knew
a
man—just such another as you describe
was an
author, too, and—and when I knew him his first book was
also just about to appear. He was engaged to be married to
to
quite a nice girl too, although she was never so pretty as
you
are.
Who is the flatterer now ?
The book was published. It was a great success. He
became quite
the lion of the season—it is many years ago now.
The
wedding-day was definitely fixed. Two months before the
date he
suggested a postponement—for six months.
How horrible !
And just about the time originally fixed upon for the
wedding
she received a letter from him he was abroad at the
time—suggesting that their engagement had better be broken
off.
Oh, the brute ! the big brute ! But she didn't consent,
did she
?
Of course. The man she had loved was dead. The new
person she
was indifferent to.
But how—but you don't suggest that
behave like that ? he
couldn't. He wouldn't, I feel certain. But
there must surely
have been something else ; I can't believe that
any man would
behave so utterly unfeelingly—so brutally. They
say
there are always two sides to every story. Mayn't there have
been some reason that you knew nothing about ? Mayn't she
have
done something ? She must have been a little bit to blame,
too, and this side of the story you never heard.
Yes—it is possible.
I can't think that any man would deliberately behave so
like a
cad as you say he did.
It may have been her fault. I used to think it might be
—just a little, as you say.
Well, it sha'n't be mine at all events. I won't give
any
cause—besides even if I did—— Oh, no, it is
utterly
impossible to imagine such a thing !
I hope it is, for your sake.
Of course it is ; of that I am quite certain. And you
don't
think it is very wrong of me to—to——
To say Yes to a man you love. No, my dear, that can
never be
wrong, although it may be foolish.
From a worldly point of view, perhaps ; but I should
never have
thought that you——
I didn't mean that. But love seems to grow so quickly
when you
once allow it to do so, that it is sometimes wiser
to——
but never mind, bring him to see me,
and—and may you be
happy.
You are crying now, Auntie ! You have nothing——
Haven't I ? What, not at the chance of losing you ?
So this is
what brought you out so early this morning and occa-
sioned
your bright, rosy cheeks ? You didn't only come to see
me.
To see you and talk to you, yes, that was all. No,
by-the-by,
it wasn't all. Have you seen a paper this morning ?
No ? I
thought it would interest you so I brought it round. It
is bad
news, not good news ; your favourite author is dead.
I am afraid my favourite authors have been dead very
many
years.
I should say the author of your favourite book.
You mean——
He died last night. Here it is ;
here is the paragraph.
We egret to announce the death of
Shall I read it to you ?
well-known
novelist, which occurred at his town house, in
Gate
No no, give me the paper. And and,
mind going down to
you promised her ?
For the Japanese custard ? Of course I will ; I quite
forgot
all about it. There it is.
the
paragraph with her finger, then goes
out.
slowly.
but no anxiety was felt
until two days ago, when a change for the
worse set in, and
despite all the care, attention, and skill of
Thornton
rallied, and passed peacefully away, at
the early age of fifty-eight,
at the time above mentioned.
It is now thirty years ago since the
deceased baronet published his first book,
which had such an
immediate and great success. This was followed
nearly a
year afterwards by
laid in
never idle. His last work,
published
in book form, it having appeared in the pages of
Illustrated Courier
of his later works,
disclosing thoroughly, as they do, his scholarly
knowledge,
his masterly construction, vivid imagination, and his
keen
insight into character and details of every-day life, they
none
of them can, for exquisite freshness and rare delicacy
of execution,
compare with his first publication,
before
us, as we write, a first edition of this delightful story,
with
its curiously sentimental dedication 'To my Lady
the subsequent editions was omitted. A baronetcy was conferred
on
gation, it is said, of the
Prime Minister, who is one of his greatest
admirers, but
the title is now extinct, as
He married in
Mockton, who
survives him. His two daughters are both mar-
ried one to
the other to
not only in the literary world, but
wherever the English tongue is
spoken and read.
times, and even now I doubt if she
understands them properly.
knew you had a first edition.
then opens
it again.
the ink is quite faded. To my Lady
What a strong handwriting it
bourne
is !
Luce ! how strange that the name should be the same as——
dreamt—— I am so sorry.
I REGRET it, but what am I to
do ? It was not my fault—I can
only regret it. It was thus it
happened to me.
I had come to town straight from a hillside cottage in a lonely
ploughland,
with the smell of the turf in my nostrils, and the
swish of the scythes in
my ears ; the scythes that flashed in the
meadows where the upland hay,
drought-parched, stretched thirstily
up to the clouds that mustered upon
the mountain-tops, and
marched mockingly away, and held no rain.
The desire to mix with the crowd, to lay my ear once more to
the heart of
the world and listen to its life-throbs, had grown too
strong for me ; and
so I had come back—but the sights and sounds
of my late life clung
to me—it is singular how the most opposite
things often fill one
with associative memory.
That
the swallows that built in the tumble-down shed ; and I could
almost see the gleam of their white bellies, as they circled
in ever
narrowing sweeps and clove the air with forked wings,
uttering a shrill
note, with a querulous grace-note in front
of it.
The freshness of the country still lurked in me, unconsciously
influencing
my attitude towards the city.
One forenoon business drove me citywards, and following an
inclination that
always impels me to water-ways rather than road
ways, I elected to go by
river steamer.
I left home in a glad mood, disposed to view the whole world
with kindly
eyes. I was filled with a happy-go-lucky
that made walking the
pavements a loafing in Elysian fields.
The coarser touches of street-life,
the oddities of accent, the
idiosyncrasies of that most eccentric of
city-dwellers, the Lon-
doner, did not jar as at other times—rather
added a zest to enjoy
ment ; impressions crowded in too quickly to admit of
analysis, I
was simply an interested spectator of a varied panorama.
I was conscious, too, of a peculiar dual action of brain and
senses, for,
though keenly alive to every unimportant detail of the
life about me, I was
yet able to follow a process by which delicate
inner threads were being
spun into a fanciful web that had nothing
to do with my outer self.
At
The river was
wrapped in a delicate grey haze with a golden sub-
tone, like a beautiful
bright thought struggling for utterance
through a mist of obscure words. It
glowed through the turbid
waters under the arches, so that I feared to see
a face or a hand
wave through its dull amber—for I always think of
drowned
creatures washing wearily in its murky depths—it lit up the
great
warehouses, and warmed the brickwork of the monster chimneys
in
the background. No detail escaped my outer eyes not the
hideous green of
the velveteen in the sleeves of the woman on my
left, nor the supercilious
giggle of the young ladies on my right,
who made audible remarks about my
personal appearance.
But what cared I ? Was I not happy, absurdly happy ?—
because all the while my inner eyes saw undercurrents of beauty
and pathos,
quaint contrasts, whimsical details that tickled my
sense of humour
deliciously. The elf that lurks in some inner
cell was very busy, now
throwing out tender mimosa-like threads
of creative fancy, now recording
fleeting impressions with delicate
sure brushwork for future use ; touching
a hundred vagrant things
with the magic of imagination, making a running
comment on
the scenes we passed.
The warehouses told a tale of an up-to-date
of my very own, one that would thrust old
book-mart.
The tall chimneys ceased to be giraffic throats
belching soot and smoke
over the blackening city. They were
obelisks rearing granite heads
heavenwards ! Joints in the bricks,
weather-stains ? You are mistaken ;
they were hieroglyphics,
setting down for posterity a tragic epic of man
the conqueror, and
fire his slave ; and how they strangled beauty in the
grip of gain.
A theme for a
And so it talks and I listen with my inner ear—and yet nothing
outward escapes me—the slackening of the boat the stepping on
and
off of folk—the lowering of the funnel—the name "
Stanley
"
on the little tug, with its self-sufficient
puff-puff, fussing by with
a line of grimy barges in tow ; freight-laden,
for the water
washes over them—and on the last a woman sits suckling
her
baby, and a terrier with badly cropped ears yaps at us as we
pass....
And as this English river scene flashes by, lines of association
form angles
in my brain ; and the point of each is a dot of light
that expands into a
background for forgotten canal scenes, with
green-grey water, and leaning
balconies, and strange crafts
letti
A delicate featured youth with gold-laced cap, scrapes a prelude on
a thin-toned violin, and his companion thrums an accompaniment
on a
harp.
I don't know what they play, some tuneful thing with an under-
note of
sadness and sentiment running through its commonplace—
likely a
music-hall ditty ; for a lad with/a cheap silk hat, and the
hateful
expression of knowingness that makes him a type of his
kind, grins
appreciatively and hums the words.
I turn from him to the harp. It is the wreck of a handsome
instrument, its
gold is tarnished, its white is smirched, its stucco
rose-wreaths sadly
battered. It has the air of an antique beauty
in dirty ball finery ; and is
it fancy, or does not a shamed wail lurk
in the tone of its strings ?
The whimsical idea occurs to me that it has once belonged to
a lady with
drooping ringlets and an embroidered spencer ; and that
she touched its
chords to the words of a song by
Baily
The youth played mechanically, without a trace of emotion ;
whilst the
harpist, whose nose is a study in purples and whose
bloodshot eyes have the
glassy brightness of drink, felt every touch
of beauty in the poor little
tune, and drew it tenderly forth.
They added the musical note to my joyous mood ; the poetry of
the city
dovetailed harmoniously with country scenes too recent to
be treated as
memories—and I stepped off the boat with the melody
vibrating
through the city sounds.
I swung from place to place in happy, lightsome mood, glad as
a fairy prince
in quest of adventures. The air of the city was
exhilarating
ether—and all mankind my brethren—in fact I felt
effusively
affectionate.
I smiled at a pretty anaemic city girl, and only remembered that
she was a
stranger when she flashed back an indignant look of
affected affront.
But what cared I ? Not a jot ! I could afford to say
pityingly : " Go thy
way, little city maid, get thee to thy
typing."
And all the while that these outward insignificant things occu-
pied me, I
knew that a precious little pearl of a thought was
evolving slowly out of
the inner chaos.
It was such an unique little gem, with the lustre of a tear, and
the light
of moonlight and streamlight and love smiles reflected in
its pure
sheen—and, best of all, it was all my own—a priceless
possession, not to be bartered for the Jagersfontein diamond—a
city
childling with the prepotency of the country working in it—
and I
revelled in its fresh charm and dainty strength ; it seemed
original, it
was so frankly natural.
And as I dodged through the great waggons laden with wares
from outer
continents, I listened and watched it forming inside,
until my soul became
filled with the light of its brightness ; and a
wild elation possessed me
at the thought of this darling brain-child,
this offspring of my fancy,
this rare little creation, perhaps embryo
of genius that was my very
own.
I smiled benevolently at the passers-by, with their harassed
business faces,
and shiny black bags bulging with the weight of
common every-day documents,
as I thought of the treat I would
give them later on ; the delicate feast I
held in store for them,
when I would transfer this dainty elusive birthling
of my brain to
paper for their benefit.
It would make them dream of moonlit lanes and sweethearting ;
reveal to them
the golden threads in the sober city woof; creep
in close and whisper good
cheer, and smooth out tired creases
in heart and brain ; a draught from the
fountain of
could work no greater
miracle than the tale I had to unfold.
Aye, they might pass me by now, not
even give me the inside
of the pavement, I would not blame them for it !—but later on,
later
on, they would flock to thank me. They just didn't realise,
poor
money-grubbers ! How could they ? But later on . . .
I grew perfectly
radiant at the thought of what I would do for
poor humanity, and absurdly
self-satisfied as the conviction grew
upon me that this would prove a work
of genius no mere
glimmer of the spiritual afflatus—but a solid
chunk of genius.
Meanwhile I took a bus and paid my penny. I leant back
and chuckled to
myself as each fresh thought-atom added to the
precious quality of my
pearl. Pearl ? Not one any longer—a
whole quarrelet of pearls,
Oriental pearls of the greatest price!
Ah, how happy I was as I fondled my
conceit !
It was near
and disturbed the rich flow of my fancy.
I happened to glance at the side-walk. A woman, a little woman,
was hurrying
along in a most remarkable way. It annoyed me,
for I could not help
wondering why she was in such a desperate
hurry. Bother the jade ! what
business had she to thrust herself
on my observation like that, and tangle
the threads of a web of
genius, undoubted genius ?
I closed my eyes to avoid seeing her ; I could see her through
the lids. She
had square shoulders and a high bust, and a white
gauze tie, like a snowy
feather in the breast of a pouter pigeon.
We stop—I look again—aye, there she is ! Her black eyes
stare
boldly through her kohol-tinted lids, her face has a violet
tint. She grips
her gloves in one hand, her white-handled umbrella
in the other, handle up,
like a knobkerrie.
She has great feet, too, in pointed shoes, and the heels are under
her
insteps ; and as we outdistance her I fancy I can hear their
decisive
tap-tap above the thousand sounds of the street.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I return to my pearl—my pearl
that is to bring mt kudos and make countless thousands rejoice.
It is
dimmed a little, I must nurse it tenderly.
Jerk, jerk, jangle—stop.—Bother the bell ! We pull up to
drop
some passengers, the idiots ! and, as I live, she overtakes us !
How the
men and women cede her the middle of the pavement !
How her figure
dominates it, and her great feet emphasise her
ridiculous haste ! Why
should she disturb me ? My nerves are
quivering pitifully ; the sweet inner
light is waning, I am in
mortal dread of losing my little masterpiece.
Thank heaven, we
are off again....
"
—Stop !
Of course, naturally! Here she comes, elbows out, umbrella
waning ! How the
steel in her bonnet glistens ! She recalls
something, what is it
?—what is it ? A-ah ! I have it !—a strident
voice, on the
deck of a steamer in the glorious
singing :
" Je suis le vr-r-rai pompier,
Le seul pompier . . . ."
and
Corcovado is outlined clearly on the purple background as if
bending to listen ; and the palms and the mosque-like buildings,
and the
fair islets bathed in the witchery of moonlight, and the
star-gems twinned
in the lap of the bay, intoxicate as a dream of
the East.
" Je suis le vr-r-rai pompier,
Le seul pompier . . . ."
What in the world is a
word with this creature who is murdering,
deliberately murdering,
a delicate creation of my brain, begotten by the
fusion of country
and town ?
"Je suis le vr-r-rai pompier, . . . ."
I am convinced
absurd word ! I look back at her, I
criticise her, I anathematise
her, I
What is she hurrying for ? We can't escape her always we
stop and let her
overtake us with her elbowing gait, and tight skirt
shortened to show her
great splay feet—ugh !
My brain is void, all is dark within ; the flowers are faded, the
music
stilled ; the lovely illusive little being has flown, and yet she
pounds
along untiringly.
Is she a feminine presentment of the wandering Jew, a living
embodiment of
the ghoul-like spirit that haunts the city and
murders fancy ?
What business had she, I ask, to come and thrust her white-
handled umbrella
into the delicate net work of my nerves and untune
their harmony ?
Does she realise what she has done ? She has trampled a rare
little
mind-being unto death, destroyed a precious literary gem.
Aye, one that,
for aught I know, might have worked a revolution
in modern thought ; added
a new human document to the archives
of man ; been the keystone to psychic
investigations ; solved
problems that lurk in the depths of our natures and
tantalise us
with elusive gleams of truth ; heralded in, perchance, the new
era ;
when such simple problems as Home Rule, Bimetallism, or the
Woman Question will be mere themes for schoolboard composi-
tions—who can tell ?
Well, it was not my fault. No one regrets it more, no one
—but what
could I do ?
Blame her, woman of the great feet and dominating gait, and
waving
umbrella-handle !—blame her ! I can only regret it—
regret it
!
HE never
spoke out.
chance from a
private letter,
super-subtle ingenuity which loved to take the word and play upon
it and make it of innumerable colours, has constructed, as one may
conjecture some antediluvian wonder from its smallest fragment, a
full,
complete, and intimate picture of the poet
never spoke
out
tion as much in life as
in literature : so sensitive was he in private
life, so modest in public,
that the thoughts that arose in him never
got full utterance, the
possibilities of his genius were never ful-
filled ; and we, in our turn,
are left the poorer for that nervous
delicacy which has proved the bane of
the poet, living and dead
alike. It is a singularly characteristic
essay—this paper on
showing the writer's logical talent at once in its strongest and
its
weakest capacities, and a complete study of
might well, I think, be founded upon its
thirty pages. But in the
present instance I have recurred to that recurring
phrase,
spoke out
indeed, to consider
out, what the turn of
consider, namely,
the extraordinarily un-English aspect of this
reticence in
character, but still more alien to English
literature. Reticence is
not a national characteristic—far
otherwise. The phrase "
characteristic
the dangers of abuse.
Historical and ethnographical criticism,
proceeding on popular lines, has
tried from time to time to fix
certain tendencies to certain races, and to
argue from individuals
to generalities with a freedom that every law of
induction belies.
And so we have come to endow the Frenchman, universally
and
without exception, with politeness, the Indian, equally univer-
sally, with cunning, the American with the commercial talent, the
German
with the educational, and so forth. Generalisations of
this kind must, of
course, be accepted with limitations. But it is
not too much, perhaps, to
say that the Englishman has always
prided himself upon his frankness. He is
always for speaking out ;
and it is this faculty of outspokenness that he
is anxious to
attribute to those characters which he sets up in the
market-places
of his religion and his literature, as those whom he chiefly
delights
to honour. The demigods of our national verse, the heroes of
our
national fiction, are brow-bound, above all other laurels, with
this
glorious freedom of free speech and open manners, and we have
come to regard this broad, untrammelled virtue of ours, as all
individual
virtues will be regarded with the revolution of the cycle
of provinciality,
as a guerdon above question or control. We have
become inclined to forget
that every good thing has, as
pointed out so long ago, its corresponding evil, and
that the cor
ruption of the best is always worst of all. Frankness is so
great a
boon, we say : we can forgive anything to the man who has the
courage of his convictions, the feailessness of freedom—the man,
in
a word, who speaks out.
But we have to distinguish, I think, at the outset between a
national virtue in the rough and the artificial or acquired fashion
in which
we put that virtue into use. It is obvious that, though
many things are
possible to us, which are good in themselves,
many things are inexpedient,
when considered relatively to our
environment.
resistance till the beauty of his holiness seems almost
but every man who goes
forth to his work and to his labour
knows that the habitual turning of the
right cheek to the smiter
of the left, the universal gift of the cloak to
the beggar of our coat,
is subversive of all political economy, and no
slight incentive to
immorality as well. In the same way, it will be clear,
that this
national virtue of ours, this wholesome, sincere outspokenness,
is
only possible within certain limits, set by custom and expediency,
and it is probably a fact that there was nevera truly wise man yet
but
tempered his natural freedom of speech by an acquired habit
of reticence.
The man who never speaks out may be morose ;
the man who is always speaking
out is a most undesirable
acquaintance.
Now, I suppose every one is prepared to admit with
Arnold
poetry alone, be it understood, but of literature as a
whole), that
this literature must, in so far as it is truly representative
of,
and therefore truly valuable to, the time in which it is produced,
reflect and criticise the manners, tastes, development, the life, in
fact,
of the age for whose service it was devised. We have, of
course, critical
literature probing the past : we have philosophical
literature prophesying
the future ; but the truly representative
literature of every age is the
creative, which shows its people its
natural face in a glass, and leaves to
posterity the record of the
manner of man it found. In one sense, indeed,
creative literature
must inevitably be critical as well, critical in that
it employs the
double methods of analysis and synthesis, dissecting motives and
tendencies
first, and then from this examination building up a
type, a sample of the
representative man and woman of its epoch.
The truest fiction of any given
century, yes, and the truest poetry,
too (though the impressionist may deny
it), must be a criticism
of life, must reflect its surroundings. Men pass,
and fashions
change ; but in the literature of their day their characters,
their
tendencies, remain crystallised for all time : and what we know
of
the
absolutely in the truly
representative, truly creative, because truly
critical literature which
they have left to those that come after.
It is, then, the privilege, it is more, it is the duty of the man of
letters
to speak out, to be fearless, to be frank, to give no ear to
the puritans
of his hour, to have no care for the objections of
prudery ; the life that
he lives is the life he must depict, if his work
is to be of any lasting
value. He must be frank, but he must be
something more. He must
remember—hourly and momently he
must remember—that his
virtue, step by step, inch by inch, im-
perceptibly melts into the vice
which stands at its pole ; and that
(to employ Aristotelian phraseology for
the moment) there is a
sort of middle point, a centre of equilibrium, to
pass which is to
disturb and overset the entire fabric of his labours.
Midway
between liberty and license, in literature as in morals, stands
the
pivot of good taste, the centre-point of art. The natural inclina-
tion of frankness, the inclination of the virtue in the rough, is to
blunder on resolutely with an indomitable and damning sincerity,
till all
is said that can be said, and art is lost in photography.
The inclination
of frankness, restrained by and tutored to the
limitations of art and
beauty, is to speak so much as is in accord
ance with the moral idea : and
then, at the point where ideas melt
into mere report, mere journalistic
detail, to feel intuitively the
restraining, the saving influence of reticence. In every age there
has been
some point fits exact position has varied, it is true, but
the point has
always been there) at which speech stopped short ;
and the literature which
has most faithfully reflected the manners
of that age, the literature, in
fine, which has survived its little
hour of popularity, and has lived and
is still living, has inevitably,
invariably, and without exception been the
literature which stayed
its hand and voice at the point at which the taste
of the age, the
age s conception of art, set up its statue of reticence,
with her
finger to her lips, and the inscription about her feet : "
So far shall
"
thou go, and no further.
We have now, it seems, arrived at one consideration, which
must always limit
the liberty of frankness, namely, the standard of
contemporary taste. The
modesty that hesitates to allign itself
with that standard is a
shortcoming, the audacity that rushes
beyond is a violence to the
unchanging law of literature. But
the single consideration is insufficient.
If we are content with
the criterion of contemporary taste alone, our
standard of judg-
ment becomes purely historical : we are left, so to
speak, with a
sliding scale which readjusts itself to every new epoch : we
have
no permanent and universal test to apply to the literature of
different ages : in a word, comparative criticism is impossible.
We feel at
once that we need, besides the shifting standard of
contemporary taste,
some fixed unit of judgment that never
varies, some foot-rule that applies
with equal infallibility to the
literature of early
and such an unit, such a foot-rule,
can only be found in the final
test of all art, the necessity of the moral
idea. We must, in
distinguishing the thing that may be said fairly and
artistically
from the thing whose utterance is inadmissible, we must in
such
a decision control our judgment by two standards—the one,
the
shifting standard of contemporary taste : the other, the permanent
standard
of artistic justification, the presence of the moral idea,
With these two
elements in action, we ought, I think, to be able
to estimate with
tolerable fairness the amount of reticence in any
age which ceases to be a
shortcoming, the amount of frankness
which begins to be a violence in the
literature of the period. We
ought, with these two elements in motion, to
be able to employ a
scheme of comparative criticism which will prevent us
from
encouraging that retarding and dangerous doctrine that what was
expedient and justifiable, for instance, in the dramatists of the
Restoration is expedient and justifiable in the playwrights of our
own
Victorian era ; we ought, too, to be able to arrive in
stinctively at a
sense of the limits of art, and to appreciate the
point at which frankness
becomes a violence, in that it has de-
generated into mere brawling,
animated neither by purpose nor
idea. Let us, then, consider these two
standards of taste and art
separately : and first, let us give a brief
attention to the contem-
porary standard.
We may, I think, take it as a rough working axiom that
the point of
reticence in literature, judged by a contemporary
standard, should be
settled by the point of reticence in the
conversation of the taste and
culture of the age. Literature is,
after all, simply the ordered, careful
exposition of the thought
of its period, seeking the best matter of the
time, and setting it
forth in the best possible manner ; and it is surely
clear that what
is written in excess of what is spoken (in excess I mean on
the
side of license) is a violence to, a misrepresentation of, the
period
to whose service the literature is devoted. The course of the
highest thought of the time should be the course of its literature,
the
limit of the most delicate taste of the time the limit of literary
expression : whatever falls below that standard is a shortcoming,
whatever exceeds it a violence. Obviously the standard varies
immensely with
the period. It would be tedious, nor is it
necessary to our purpose, to
make a long historical research into the
development of taste ; but a few
striking examples may help us to
appreciate its variations.
To begin with a very early stage of literature, we find among
the
Heracleidae of
is the result of pure brutality. It is clear that
literature adjusted
to the frankness of the uxorious pleasantries of
able enough in its environment, would be
absolutely impossible,
directly the influences of civilisation began to
make themselves
felt. The age is one of unrestrained brutality, and the
literature
which represented it would, without violence to the
contemporary
taste, be brutal too. To pass at a bound to the
is again to be transported to an
age of national sensuality : the
escapades of
taste
that is swamped and left putrescent by limitless self-
indulgence ; and the
literature which represented this taste would,
without violence, be
lascivious and polluted to its depth. In con-
tinuing, with a still wider
sweep, to the
we find a new development
of taste altogether. Brutality is
softened, licentiousness is restrained,
immorality no longer stalks
abroad shouting its coarse phrases at every
wayfarer who passes
the
reticence is little known. The innuendoes are whispered under
the breath, but when once the voice is lowered, it matters little
what is
said.
together.
hints of experiences to come. Hamlet plies the coarsest
sugges-
tions upon
The language reflects the taste : we feel no violence here. To
take but one
more instance, let us end with
time speech had been refined by sentiment, and
the most graceful
compliments glide, without effort, from the lips of the
adept
courtier. But even still, in the drawing-rooms of fashion,
delicate
morsels of scandal are discussed by his fine ladies with a
freedom
which is absolutely unknown to the
century, where innuendo might be
conveyed by the eye and
suggested by the smile, but would never, so
reticent has taste
become, find the frank emphatic utterance which brought
no
blush to the cheek of
passage
of time reticence has become more and more pronounced ;
and literature,
moving, as it must, with the age, has assumed in its
normal and wholesome
form the degree of silence which it finds
about it.
The standard of taste in literature, then, so far as it responds to
contemporary judgment, should be regulated by the normal taste of
the hale
and cultured man of its age : it should steer a middle
course between the
prudery of the manse, which is for hiding
everything vital, and the
effrontery of the pot-house, which makes
for ribaldry and bawdry ; and the
more it approximates to the
exact equilibrium of its period, the more
thoroughly does it become
representative of the best taste of its time, the
more certain is it of
permanent recognition. The literature of shortcoming
and the
literature of violence have their reward :
" They have their day, and cease to be
" ;
the literature which reflects the hale and wholesome frankness of
its age
can be read, with pleasure and profit, long after its openness
of speech
and outlook has ceased to reproduce the surrounding life.
The environment is ephemeral, but the literature is immortal.
But why is the
literature immortal ? Why is it that a play like
Perhaps I shall show my meaning more clearly by an example
from the more
tangible art of painting ; and let me take as an
instance an artist who has
produced pictures at once the most
revolting and most moral of any in the
history of English art.
I mean
these have we known from our youth up. But it is only the
schoolboy who
searches the
Then we begin to appreciate the idea which underlies the subject :
we feel
that
Whose pictured morals charm the mind,
"—
And through the eye correct the heart
sane, because he never dallied lasciviously with his subject,
because he
did not put forth vice with the pleasing semblance of
virtue, because, like
all hale and wholesome critics of life, he
condemned excess, and pictured
it merely to portray the worth-
lessness, the weariness, the
dissatisfaction of lust and license.
Art, we say, claims every subject for
her own ; life is open to her
ken ; she may fairly gather her subjects
where she will. Most
true. But there is all the difference in the world
between
drawing life as we find it, sternly and relentlessly, surveying it
all
the while from outside with the calm, unflinching gaze of
criticism, and, on the other hand, yielding ourselves to the warmth
and
colour of its excesses, losing our judgment in the ecstasies of
the joy of
life, becoming, in a word, effeminate.
The man lives by ideas ; the woman by sensations ; and while
the man remains
an artist so long as he holds true to his own view
of life, the woman
becomes one as soon as she throws off the
habit of her sex, and learns to
rely upon her judgment, and not
upon her senses. It is only when we regard
life with the un-
trammelled view of the impartial spectator, when we
pierce below
the substance for its animating idea, that we approximate to
the
artistic temperament. It is unmanly, it is effeminate, it is in
artistic to gloat over pleasure, to revel in immoderation, to become
passion's slave ; and literature demands as much calmness of
judgment, as
much reticence, as life itself. The man who loses
reticence loses self-respect, and the man who has no respect for
himself
will scarcely find others to venerate him. After all, the
world generally
takes us at our own valuation.
We have now, I trust, arrived (though, it may be, by a rather
circuitous
journey) at something like a definite and reasonable law
for the exercise
of reticence ; it only remains to consider by what
test we shall most
easily discover the presence or absence of the
animating moral idea which
we have found indispensable to art.
It seems to me that three questions
will generally suffice. Does
the work, we should ask ourselves, make for
that standard of taste
which is normal to wholesomeness and sanity of
judgment ?
Does it, or does it not, encourage us to such a line of life as
is
recommended, all question of tenet and creed apart, by the
experience of the age, as the life best calculated to promote
individual
and general good ? And does it encourage to this life
in language and by
example so chosen as not to offend the
susceptibilities of that ordinarily
strong and unaffected taste which,
after all, varies very little with the
changes of the period and
development ? When creative literature satisfies
these three
requirements—when it is sane, equable, and well spoken,
then it
is safe to say it conforms to the moral idea, and is consonant
with
art. By its sanity it eludes the risk of effeminate demonstration
;
by its choice of language it avoids brutality ; and between these
two poles, it may be affirmed without fear of question, true taste
will and
must be found to lie.
These general considerations, already too far prolonged, become
of immediate
interest to us as soon as we attempt to apply them to
theliterature of our
own half-century, and I propose concluding what
I wished to say on the
necessity of reticence by considering, briefly
and without mention of
names, that realistic movement in English
literature which, under different
titles, and protected by the aegis of
various schools, has proved, without doubt, the most interesting and
suggestive development in the poetry and fiction of our time.
During the
last quarter of a century, more particularly, the
English man-of-letters
has been indulging, with an entirely new
freedom, his national birthright
of outspokenness, and during the
last twelve months there have been no
uncertain indications that
this freedom of speech is degenerating into
license which some of
us cannot but view with regret and apprehension. The
writers
and the critics of contemporary literature have, it would
seem,
alike lost their heads ; they have gone out into the byways and
hedges in search of the new thing, and have brought into the
study and
subjected to the microscope mean objects of the road
side, whose analysis
may be of value to science but is absolutely
foreign to art. The age of
brutality, pure and simple, is dead
with us, it is true ; but the age of
effeminacy appears, if one is to
judge by recent evidence, to be growing to
its dawn. The day
that follows will, if it fulfils the promise of its
morning, be very
serious and very detrimental to our future literature.
Every great productive period of literature has been the result of
some
internal or external revulsion of feeling, some current of
ideas. This is a
commonplace. The greatest periods of produc-
tion have been those when the
national mind has been directed
to some vast movement of emancipation the
discovery of new
countries, the defeat of old enemies, the opening of fresh
possi-
bilities. Literature is best stimulated by stirrings like these.
Now,
the last quarter of a century in English history has been
singularly
sterile of important improvements. There has been no very
inspiring
acquisition to territory or to knowledge : there has been, in
con-
sequence, no marked influx of new ideas. The mind has been
thrown
back upon itself ; lacking stimulus without, it has sought
inspiration
within, and the most characteristic literature of the
time has been introspective. Following one course, it has
betaken itself to
that intimately analytical fiction which we
associate primarily with
psychology, with the result that it has proved an exceedingly
clever, exact, and scientific, but scarcely stimulating, or progressive
school of literature. Following another course, it has sought for
subject-matter in the discussion of passions and sensations, common,
doubtless, to every age of mankind, interesting and necessary, too,
in
their way, but passions and sensations hitherto dissociated with
literature, hitherto, perhaps, scarcely realised to their depth and
intensity. It is in this development that the new school of realism
has
gone furthest ; and it is in this direction that the literature of
the
future seems likely to follow. It is, therefore, not without
value to
consider for a moment whither this new frankness is
leading us, and how far
its freedom is reconciled to that standard
of necessary reticence which I
have tried to indicate in these pages.
This present tendency to literary
frankness had its origin, I
think, no less than twenty-eight years ago. It
was then that the
dovecotes of English taste were tremulously fluttered by
the
coming of a new poet, whose naked outspokenness startled his
readers into indignation. Literature, which had retrograded into
a
melancholy sameness, found itself convulsed by a sudden access
of passion,
which was probably without parallel since the age of
the silver poets of
in sensations which for years had remained unmentioned upon the
printed page ; he even chose for his subjects refinements of lust,
which
the commonly healthy Englishman believed to have become
extinct with the
time of
was absolutely alien to the standard of contemporary
taste—an
innovation, I believe, that was equally opposed to that
final
moderation without which literature is lifeless.
Let us listen for one moment:
" By the ravenous teeth that have smitten Through the kisses that blossom and bud, By the lips intertwisted and bitten Till the foam has a savour of blood, By the pulse as it rises and falters, By the hands as they slacken and strain, I adjure thee, respond from thine altars, Our Lady of Pain .As of old when the world s heart was lighter, Through thy garments the grace of thee glows, The white wealth of thy body made whiter By the blushes of amorous blows, And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers, And branded by kisses that bruise ; When all shall be gone that now lingers, Ah, what shall we lose I Thou wert fair in thy fearless old fashion, And thy limbs are as melodies yet, And move to the music of passion With lithe and lascivious regret. What ailed us, O gods, to desert you For creeds that refuse and restrain ; Come down and redeem us from virtue, Our Lady of Pain ."
This was twenty-eight years ago ; and still the poetry lives. At
first sight
it would seem asthough the desirable reticence,upon which
we have been
insisting, were as yet unnecessary to immortality.
A quarter of a century
has passed, it might be argued, and the
verse is as fresh to-day and as widely recognised as it was in its
morning :
is not this a proof that art asks for no moderation ? I
believe not. It is
true that the poetry lives, that we all recognise,
at some period of our
lives, the grasp and tenacity of its influence;
that, even when the days
come in which we say we have no
pleasure in it, we still turn to it at
times for something we do not
find elsewhere. But the thing we seek is not
the matter, but the
manner. The poetry is living, not by reason of its
unrestrained
frankness, but in spite of it, for the sake of something else.
That
sweet singer who charmed and shocked the audiences of
charms us, if he shocks us not now, by virtue of the
one new
thing that he imported into English poetry, the unique and as
yet
imperishable faculty of musical possibilities hitherto unattained.
There is no such music in all the range of English verse, seek
where you
will, as there is in him. But the perfection of the one
talent, its care,
its elaboration, have resulted in a corresponding
decay of those other
faculties by which alone, in the long run,
poetry can live. Open him where
you will, there is in his poetry
neither construction nor proportion ; no
development, no sustained
dramatic power. Open him where you will, you
acquire as much
sense of his meaning and purpose from any two isolated
stanzas
as from the study of a whole poem. There remains in your ears,
when you have ceased from reading, the echo only of a beautiful
voice,
chanting, as it were, the melodies of some outland tongue.
Is this the sort of poetry that will survive the trouble of the
ages ? It
cannot survive. The time will come (it must) when
some newer singer
discovers melodies as yet unknown, melodies
which surpass in their
modulations and varieties those poems
and ballads of twenty-eight years ago
; and, when we have found
the new note, what will be left of the earlier
singer, to which we
shall of necessity return ? A message ? No. Philosophy
? No,
A new vision of life ? No. A criticism of contemporary existence ?
Assuredly
not. There remains the melody alone ; and this, when
once it is surpassed,
will charm us little enough. We shall forget
it then. Art brings in her
revenges, and this will be of them.
But the new movement did not stop here. If, in the poet we
have been
discussing, we have found the voice among us that
corresponds to the
decadent voices of the failing Roman Republic,
there has reached us from
should be inclined to liken to the outspoken brutality of Restora-
tion
drama. Taste no longer fails on the ground of a delicate,
weakly dalliance,
it begins to see its own limitations, and springs
to the opposite pole. It
will now be virile, full of the sap of life,
strong, robust, and muscular.
It will hurry us out into the fields,
will show us the coarser passions of
the common farm-hand ; at
any expense it will paint the life it finds
around it ; it will at least
be consonant with that standard of want of
taste which it falsely
believes to be contemporary. We get a realistic
fiction abroad,
and we begin to copy it at home. We will trace the life of
the
travelling actor, follow him into the vulgar, sordid surroundings
which he chooses for the palace of his love, be it a pottery-shed or
the
ill-furnished lodging-room with its black horsehair sofa—we
will
draw them all, and be faithful to the lives we live. Is that
the sort of
literature that will survive the trouble of the ages ? It
cannot survive.
We are no longer untrue to our time, perhaps, if
we are to seek for the
heart of that time in the lowest and meanest
of its representatives ; but
we are untrue to art, untrue to the
record of our literary past, when we
are content to turn for our own
inspiration to anything but the best line
of thought, the highest
school of life, through which we are moving. This
grosser
realism is no more representative of its time than were the
elaborate pastiches of classical degradation ; it is as though one
should repeople
serpent s head. In the history of literature this
movement, too,
will with the lapse of time pass unrecognised ; it has
mourned
unceasingly to an age which did not lack for innocent piping
and
dancing in its market-places.
The two developments of realism of which we have been
speaking seem to me to
typify the two excesses into which frank
ness is inclined to fall ; on the
one hand, the excess prompted by
effeminacy—that is to say, by the
want of restraints which starts
from enervated sensation ; and on the
other, the excess which
results from a certain brutal virility, which
proceeds from coarse
familiarity with indulgence. The one whispers, the
other shouts ;
the one is the language of the courtesan, the other of the
bargee.
What we miss in both alike is that true frankness which
springs
from the artistic and moral temperament ; the episodes are no
part
of a whole in unity with itself; the impression they leave upon
the reader is not the impression of
form they employ all their art
to render vice attractive, in the
other, with absolutely no art at all,
they merely reproduce, with
the fidelity of the kodak, scenes and
situations the existence of
which we all acknowledge, while taste prefers
to forget them.
But the latest development of literary frankness is, I think, the
most
insidious and fraught with the greatest danger to art. A
new school has
arisen which combines the characteristics of
effeminacy and brutality. In
its effeminate aspect it plays with
the subtler emotions of sensual
pleasure, on its brutal side it has
developed into that class of fiction
which for want of a better word
I must call chirurgical. In poetry it deals
with very much the
same passions as those which we have traced in the
verse to which
allusion has been made above ; but, instead of leaving these
refine
ments of lust to the haunts to which they are fitted, it has
intro-
duced them into the domestic chamber, and permeated marriage
with the
ardours of promiscuous intercourse. In fiction it infects
its heroines with
acquired diseases of names unmentionable, and
has debased the beauty of
maternity by analysis of the process
of gestation. Surely the inartistic
temperament can scarcely
abuse literature further. I own I can conceive
nothing less
beautiful.
It was said of a great poet by a little critic that he wheeled his
nuptial
couch into the area ; but these small poets and smaller
novelists bring out
their sick into the thoroughfare, and stop the
traffic while they give us a
clinical lecture upon their sufferings.
We are told that this is a part of
the revolt of woman, and certainly
our women-writers are chiefly to blame.
It is out of date, no
doubt, to clamour for modesty ; but the woman who
describes
the sensations of childbirth does so, it is to be
presumed—not as the
writer of advice to a wife—but as an
artist producing literature for
art's sake. And so one may fairly ask her :
How is art served by
all this ? What has she told us that we did not all
know, or could
not learn from medical manuals ? and what impression has she
left
us over and above the memory of her unpalatable details ? And
our
poets, who know no rhyme for "
whose snowinesses and softnesses they
are for ever describing with
every accent of indulgence, whose eyes are all
for frills, if not for
garters, what have they sung that was not sung with
far greater
beauty and sincerity in the days when frills and garters
were
alluded to with the open frankness that cried shame on him who
evil thought. The one extremity, it seems to me, offends against
the
standard of contemporary taste ; (" people,"
as
said, " do not say such
things now "
) ; the other extremity rebels
against that universal
standard of good taste that has from the days
of
losing the distinction now ; the cry for realism, naked and un-
ashamed, is
borne in upon us from every side :
"Rip your brother's vices open, strip your own foul passions bare ;
Down with Reticence, down with Reverence—forward—naked—
let them stare."
But there was an Emperor once (we know the story) who went
forth among his
people naked. It was said that he wore fairy
clothes, and that only the
unwise could fail to see them. At last
a little child raised its voice from
the crowd ! " Why, he has
it said. And so these writers
of ours go out from
nothing on,"
day to day, girded on, they would have us believe, with
the
garments of art ; and fashion has lacked the courage to cry out
with the little child : "They have nothing on."
No robe of art,
no
texture of skill, they whirl before us in a bacchanalian dance
naked and
unashamed. But the time will come, it must, when
the voices of the
multitude will take up the cry of the child, and
the revellers will hurry
to their houses in dismay. Without
dignity, without self-restraint, without
the morality of art, literature
has never survived ; they are the few who
rose superior to the
baser levels of their time, who stand unimpugned among
the
immortals now. And that mortal who would put on immortality
must
first assume that habit of reticence, that garb of humility by
which true
greatness is best known. To endure restraint—
is to be strong.
THE pink shade of a single lamp
supplied an air of subdued
mystery ; the fire burned red and still ; in
place of door
and windows hung curtains, obscure, formless; the
furniture,
dainty, but sparse, stood detached and incoordinate like the
furni-
ture of a stage-scene ; the atmosphere was heavy with heat,
and
a scent of stale tobacco ; some cut flowers, half withered,
tissue-paper
still wrapping their stalks, lay on a gilt, cane-bottomed
chair.
" Will you give me a sheet of paper, please ? "
He had crossed the room, to seat himself before the prin-
cipal table. He
wore a fur-lined overcoat, and he was tall,
and broad, and bald ; a sleek
face, made grave by gold-rimmed
spectacles.
The other man was in evening dress ; his back leaning against
the
mantelpiece, his hands in his pockets : he was moodily scraping
the
hearthrug with his toe. Clean-shaved ; stolid and coarsely
regular features
; black, shiny hair, flattened on to his head ;
under-sized eyes, moist and
glistening ; the tint of his face uniform,
the tint of discoloured ivory ;
he looked a man who ate well and
lived hard.
" Certainly, sir, certainly,"
and he started to hurry about the room.
"
he exclaimed roughly, a
moment later, " where the
deuce do you keep the note-paper ? "
" I don't know if there is any, but the girl always has some."
She
spoke in a slow tone—insolent and fatigued.
A couple of bed-pillows were supporting her head, and a scarlet
plush cloak,
trimmed with white down, was covering her feet, as
she lay curled on the
sofa. The fire-light glinted on the metallic
gold of her hair, which
clashed with the black of her eyebrows ;
and the full, blue eyes, wide-set,
contradicted the hard line of her
vivid-red lips. She drummed her ringers
on the sofa-edge,
nervously.
" Never mind,"
said the bald man shortly, producing a note
book from
his breast-pocket, and tearing a leaf from it.
He wrote, and the other two stayed silent ; the man returned to
the
hearthrug, lifting his coat-tails under his arms ; the girl went
on
drumming the sofa-edge.
"There,"
sliding back his chair, and looking from the one to
the
other, evidently uncertain which of the two he should address.
" Here is the prescription. Get it made up to-night, a table-
spoonful
at a time, in a wine-glassful of water at lunch-time, at
dinner-time
and before going to bed. Go on with the port wine
twice a day, and (to
the girl, deliberately and distinctly) you must
keep quite quiet ;
avoid all sort of excitement—that is extremely
important. Of
course you must on no account go out at night.
Go to bed early, take
regular meals, and keep always warm."
"I say,"
broke in the girl, " tell us, it isn't bad—dangerous,
I
mean?"
" Dangerous !—no, not if you do what I tell you."
He glanced at his watch, and rose, buttoning his coat.
" Good-evening,"
he said gravely.
At first she paid no heed ; she was vacantly staring before her :
then, suddenly conscious that he was waiting, she looked up at
him.
" Good-night, doctor."
She held out her hand, and he took it.
" I'll get all right, won't I ? "
she asked, still looking up at him.
" All right—of course you will—of course. But remember
you
must do what I tell you."
The other man handed him his hat and umbrella, opened the
door for him, and
it closed behind them.
****
The girl remained quiet, sharply blinking her eyes, her whole
expression
eager, intense.
A murmer of voices, a muffled tread of footsteps descending
the
stairs—the gentle shutting of a door—stillness.
She raised herself on her elbow, listening ; the cloak slipped
noiselessly
to the floor. Quickly her arm shot out to the bell-
rope : she pulled it
violently ; waited, expectant ; and pulled again.
A slatternly figure appeared a woman of middle-age her
arms, bared to the
elbows, smeared with dirt ; a grimy apron
over her knees.
" What's up ?—I was smashin' coal,"
she explained.
" Come here,"
hoarsely whispered the girl—"
here—no—nearer
—quite close. Where's he gone
?"
"Gone? 'oo?"
"That man that was her."
" I s'ppose ee's in the downstairs room. I ain't 'eard the front
door
slam."
"And
"They're both in there together, I s'ppose."
" I want you to go down quietly without making a noise
listen at the
door—come up, and tell me what they're saying."
"What? down there?"
jerking her thumb over her
shoulder.
"Yes, of course—at once,"
answered the girl, impatiently.
"And if they catches me—a nice fool I looks. No, I'm jest
she concluded.
blowed
if I do ! "" Whatever's up ? "
"You must,"
the girl broke out excitedly. "I tell you, you
must."
" Must—must—an' if I do, what am I goin' to git out of it ?
"
She paused, reflecting ; then added : " Look 'ere—I
tell yer
what—I'll do it for half a quid, there?"
" Yes—yes—all right—only make haste."
"An' 'ow d' I'know as I'll git it?"
she objected doggedly.
" It's a jolly risk, yer know."
The girl sprang up, flushed and feverish.
" Quick—or he'll be gone. I don't know where it is but you
shall
have it—I promise—quick—please go—quick."
The other hesitated, her lips pressed together ; turned, and
went out.
And the girl, catching at her breath, clutched a chair.
****
A flame flickered up in the fire, buzzing spasmodically. A
creak outside.
She had come up. But the curtains did not move.
Why didn't she come in ?
She was going past. The girl hastened
across the room, the intensity of the
impulse lending her strength.
" Come—come in,"
she gasped. "Quick—I'm
slipping."
She struck at the wall ; but with the flat of her hand, for
there was no
grip. The woman bursting in, caught her, and led
her back to the sofa.
"There, there, dearie,"
tucking the cloak round her feet.
"Lift up the piller, my 'ands are that mucky. Will yer 'ave
anythin'?"
She shook her head. " It's gone,"
she muttered. " Now—tell
me."
" Tell yer ?—tell yer what! Why—why—there ain't
jest
nothin' to tell yer."
" What were they saying ? Quick."
" I didn't 'ear nothin' . They was talking about some ballet-
woman."
The girl began to cry, feebly, helplessly, like a child in pain.
" You might tell me,
good sort to you."
"That yer 'ave. I knows yer'ave, dearie. There, there,
don't yer take on
like that. Yer'll only make yerself bad again."
"Tell me—tell me,"
she wailed. "I've been a good sort to
you,
" Well, they wasn't talkin' of no ballet-woman—that's
straight,"
the woman blurted out savagely.
" What did he say ?—tell me,"
Her voice was weaker now.
" I can't tell yer—don't yer ask me—for God's sake, don't
yer
ask me."
With a low crooning the girl cried again.
" Oh ! for God's sake, don't yer take on like that—it's
awful—
I can't stand it. There, dearie, stop that cryin' an'
I'll tell yer—I
will indeed. It was jest this way—I slips
my shoes off, an' I goes
down as careful—jest as careful as a
cat—an' when I gets to
the door I crouches myself down,
listenin' as 'ard as ever I
could. The first things as I 'ears was Mr.
like—like as if 'ee'd bin drinkin'—an' t'other chap 'ee says
some-
thin' about lungs, using some long word—I missed
that—there
was a van or somethin' rackettin' on the road. Then
'ee says
'gallopin' , gallopin' , jest like as 'ee was talkin' of a
'orse. An'
Mr.
sort of a grunt. I was awful sorry for 'im, that I was, 'ee must
'ave
been crool bad, 'ee's mostly so quiet-like, ain't ee ? An', in
a
minute, 'ee sort o' groans out somethin , 'an t'other chap 'es
answer
'im quite cool-like, that 'ee don't properly know ; but,
anyways, it
'ud be over afore the end of February. There I've
done it. Oh ! dearie,
it s awful, awful, that's jest what it is.
An I 'ad no intention to
tell yer—not a blessed word—that I
didn't—may God
strike me blind if I did ! Some 'ow it all come
out, seein' yer chokin'
that 'ard an' feelin' at the wall there. Yer
'ad no right to ask me to
do it—'ow was I to know 'ee was a
doctor ? "
She put the two corners of her apron to her eyes, gurgling
loudly.
"Look e're, don't yer b'lieve a word of it—I don't—I tell
yer
She was
retreating towards
they're a 'umbuggin' lot, them doctors, all together. I know
it.
Yer take my word for that—yer'll git all right again. Yer'll
be
as well as I am, afore yer've done—Oh, Lord ! it's jest
awful—I
feel that upset I'd like to cut my tongue out, for
'avin' told yer
—but I jest couldn't 'elp myself."
the door, wiping her eyes, and snorting out loud
sobs—" An',
don't you offer me that half quid—I
couldn't take it of yer—that
I couldn't."
****
She shivered, sat up, and dragged the cloak tight round her
shoulders. In
her desire to get warm she forgot what had
happened. She extended the palms
of her hands towards the
grate : the grate was delicious. A smoking lump of
coal clattered
onto the fender: she lifted the tongs, but the sickening
remembrance
arrested her. The things in the room were receding,
dancing
round : the fire was growing taller and taller. The woollen
scarf
chafed her skin : she wrenched it off. Then hope, keen and
bitter, shot up, hurting her. " How could he know ? Of course
he couldn't
know. She'd been a lot better this last fortnight—
the other
doctor said so—she didn't believe—it she didn't
care—
Anyway, it would be over before the end of February !
"
Suddenly the crooning wail started again : next, spasms of
weeping, harsh
and gasping.
By-and-by she understood that she was crying noisily, and that
she was alone
in the room : like a light in a wind, the sobbing
fit ceased.
"Let me live—let me live—I'll be straight—I'll go to
—I'll
do anything ! Take it away—it hurts—I can't bear it !"
Once more the sound of her own voice in the empty room
calmed her. But the
tension of emotion slackened, only to
tighten again: immediately she was
jeering at herself. What
was she wasting her breath for ? What had
her ?
She'd had her fling, and it was no thanks to Him.
"
'
"
From the street below, boisterous and loud, the refrain came up.
And, as the
footsteps tramped away, the words reached her once
more, indistinct in the
distance ;
"
'I'm jest cryzy, all for the love o'you.'
"
She felt frightened. It was like a thing in a play. It was as
if some one
was there, in the room—hiding—watching her.
Then a coughing fit started, racking her. In the middle, she
struggled to
cry for help; she thought she was going to suffocate.
Afterwards she sank back, limp, tired, and sleepy.
The end of February—she was going to die—it was important,
exciting—what would it be like ? Everybody else died.
had died in the summer—but
that was worry and going the pace.
And they said that
she wasn't going to be chicken-hearted. She'd face it. She'd
had a jolly time. She d be game till the end. Hell-fire—that
was all
stuff and nonsense—she knew that. It would be just
nothing—like a sleep. Not even painful : she'd be just shut
down in
a coffin, and she wouldn't know that they were doing it.
Ah ! but they
might do it before she was quite dead ! It had
happened sometimes. And she
wouldn't be able to get out. The
lid would be nailed, and there would be
earth on the top. And if
she called, no one would hear.
Ugh ! what a fit of the blues she was getting ! It was beastly,
being alone.
Why the devil didn't
That noise, what was that ?
Bah ! only some one in the street. What a fool she was !
She winced again as the fierce feeling of revolt swept through
her, the wild
longing to fight. It was damned rough four
months ! A year, six months
even, was a long time. The pain
grew acute, different from anything she had
felt before.
" Good Lord ! what am I maundering on about ? Four
months—I'll go
out with a fizzle like a firework. Why the
devil doesn't
they leave me alone like this for ? "
She dragged at the bell-rope.
****
He came in, white and blear-eyed.
" Whatever have you been doing all this time ? "
she began
angrily.
"I've been chatting with the doctor."
He was pretending to
read a
newspaper : there was something funny about his voice.
"It's ripping. He says you'll soon be fit again, as long as you
—a quick, crackling noise—he had gripped the news
don't get
colds, or that sort of thing. Yes, he says you'll soon be
fit again
"
paper in his fist.
She looked at him, surprised, in spite of herself. She would
never have
thought he'd have done it like that. He was a good
sort, after all.
But—she didn't know why—she broke out
furiously :
" You infernal liar—!—I know. I shall be done for by the
end
of February—ha ! ha ! "
Seizing a vase of flowers, she flung it into the grate. The
crash and the
shrivelling of the leaves in the flames brought her
an instant's relief.
Then she said quietly :
"There—I've made an idiot of myself; but"
(weakly) "I
didn't know—I didn't know—I thought it was different."
He hesitated, embarrassed by his own emotion. Presently he
went up to her
and put his hands round her cheeks.
" No,"
she said, "that's no good, I don't want that. Get me
something to drink. I feel bad."
He hurried to the cupboard and fumbled with the cork of a
champagne bottle.
It flew out with a bang. She started
violently.
" You clumsy fool ! "
she exclaimed.
She drank off the wine at a gulp.
"
he began.
She was staring stonily at the empty glass.
"
he repeated.
She tapped her toe against the fender-rail.
At this sign, he went on :
" How did you know ? "
" I sent
she
answered mechanically.
He looked about him, helpless.
"I think I'll smoke,"
he said feebly.
She made no answer.
" Here, put the glass down,"
she said.
He obeyed.
He lit a cigarette over the lamp, sat down opposite her, puffing
dense
clouds of smoke.
And, for a long while, neither spoke.
" Is that doctor a good man ? "
"I don't know. People say so,"
he answered.
THE above sonnet, one of the
finest in Italian literature, is
already known to many English readers in
another transla-
tion by the late
appeared in the
lation of the sonnets of
1878), under the title of "
In his
preface "The sonnet prefixed as
a proem
to the whole book is generally attributed to
whose Dialogue in the "
however, good reason to suppose that it was really written by
been its author, it expresses in noble and
impassioned verse the
sense of danger, the audacity, and the
exultation of those pioneers
of modern thought, for whom philosophy
was a voyage of dis-
covery into untravelled regions."
Italian
literature was so extensive that he must have had ground
for stating that
the sonnet is generally attributed to
Bruno
before the appearance of
nevertheless, remarkable that he should add : "
as if there
reason to suppose
could be a
shadow of doubt on the matter. " Eroici Furori "
is
professedly a
series of dialogues between
politan poet, who had died about twenty
years before their com-
position, and
for Tansillo does nearly all the talking, and
his instructions with singular docility.
The reason of
selection
for so great an honour was undoubtedly that, although
born at
city. In making such free
use of
done throughout these dialogues,
idea of pillaging his
distinguished countryman. In introducing
the four sonnets he has borrowed
(for there are three besides that
already quoted) he is always careful to
make
them as
his own compositions, which he never does when
own verses are put into his mouth. If a particle of
doubt could
remain, it would be dispelled by the fact that this sonnet,
with
other poems by
duced into
"
edited by
Dolce
old!
in so far, at least, as that the meaning
assigned by him never
entered into the head of the author. It is certainly
fully suscep-
tible of such an exposition. But
a
cavalier, the active part of whose life was mainly spent in naval
expeditions against the Turks, no more thought with
of " the pioneers of modern philosophy,"
than he thought with
" arising and freeing
himself from the body and sensual
On the contrary, the
sonnet is a love-sonnet, and
cognition."
depicts with extraordinary grandeur the
elation of spirit, combined
with a sense of peril, consequent upon the
poem having conceived
a passion for a lady greatly his superior in rank.
The proof of
this is to be found in the fact that the sonnet is one of a
series,
unequivocally celebrating an earthly passion ; and especially in
the
sonnet immediately preceding it in
written at the same time
and referring to the same circumstance,
in which the poet ascribes his
Icarian flight, not to the
influence of Philosophy, but of Love :
The meaning of the two sonnets is fully recognised by
"Delia per-
fetta poesia,"
"" volea dire costui che Sera imbarcato in un
amor troppo alto, e s andava facendo coraggio
It is now a matter of considerable interest to ascertain the
identity of
this lady of rank, who could inspire a passion at once
so exalted and so
perilous. The point has been investigated by
to rescue his unpublished compositions from oblivion, and his
view
must be pronounced perfectly satisfactory. She was
d'Aragona, Marchioness del Vasto,
del Vasto
able for his jealousy as the lady, grand-daughter
of a King of
his case by
showing how well all personal allusions in
poems, so far as they can be traced, agree
with the circumstances
of the Marchioness, and in particular that the
latter is represented
as at one time residing on the
was accustomed to deposit his wife for security, when absent on
his
campaigns. He is apparently not aware that the object of
the house of
sonnet, gives an interminable catalogue of ladies celebrated by
enamoured
poets, and says, "
This lady, however, the niece of the
Aragon
del Vasto
tioned by him as inconsolable for the death of a favourite dwarf.
The sentiment, therefore, of the two sonnets of
we have quoted, is sufficiently justified
by the exalted station of
the lady who had inspired his passion, and the
risk he ran from
the power and jealousy of her husband. It seems certain,
how-
ever, that the Marquis had on his part no ground for apprehension.
upon anyone, and would, in any case, have
disdained to bestow
what heart she had upon a poor gentleman and retainer
of
Garcia de Toledo
think
that she honoured him beyond his deserts by accepting his
poetical homage.
that his devotion is purely platonic ; it might have been
more
ardent, he hints, but he is dazzled by the splendour of the light he
contemplates, and intimidated by the richness of the band by which
he is led. So it may have been at first, but as time wore on the
poet
naturally craved some proof that his lady was not entirely
indifferent to
him, and did not tolerate him merely for the sake of
his verses. This, in
the nature of things, could not be given ;
and the poet's raptures pass
into doubt and suspicion, thence into
despairing resignation ; thence into
resentment and open hostility,
terminating in a cold reconciliation,
leaving him free to marry
a much humbler but probably a more affectionate person, to whom
he
addresses no impassioned sonnets, but whom he instructs in a
very elegant
poem (
"La Balia"
The first sonnet which we shall give is still all fire and rapture : —
I
Although, however,
lady,
time expeditions of the great nobleman to whom he was attached,
booting of the Turkish and Barbary rovers kept
the
in a state of commotion comparable to that of the Spanish Main
in
the succeeding age, and these expeditions, whose picturesque
history
remains to be written, were no doubt very interesting ;
though from a
philosophical point of view it is impossible not
to sympathise with the
humane and generous poet when he
inquires :—
With such feelings it may well be believed that in his enforced
absence he
was thinking at least as much of love as of war, and
that the following
sonnet is as truthful as it is an animated picture
of his feelings :
—
Before long, however, the pangs of separation overcome this
elation of
spirit, while he is not yet afraid of being forgotten :—
Continual separation, however, and the absence of any marked
token that he
is borne in memory, necessarily prey more and more
on the sensitive spirit
of the poet. During the first part, her
husband's tenure of office as
Governor of the Milanese, the
Marchioness, as already mentioned, took up
her residence in the
tions for her welfare—heartfelt, but so
worded as to convey a
reproach :
The "quaint foliage"
is in the original "Arab leaves,"
frondi
the period.
The lady rejoins her husband at
on the
eruptions, finds everywhere the image of his own bosom,
and
rejoices at the opportunity which yawning rifts and chasms of
earth afford for an appeal to the infernal powers : —
The poet's melancholy deepens, and he enters upon the stage of
dismal and
hopeless resignation to the inevitable :
A lower depth still has to be reached ere the period of salutary
and
defiant reaction : —
Slighted love easily passes from rejection into rebellion, and we
shall see
that such was the case with
sonnet denotes an intermediate stage, when resignation is
almost
renunciation, but has not yet become revolt :
This, however, is not a point at which continuance is possible,
the mind
must go either backward or forward. The lover for a
time persuades himself
that he has broken his mistress's yoke, and
that his infatuation is
entirely a thing of the past. But the poet,
like the lady, protests too
much : —
Several solutions of this situation are conceivable.
is that which was perhaps
that most likely in the case of an
emotional nature, where the feelings
are more powerful than the
will. He simply surrenders at discretion,
retracts everything dis-
paraging that he has said of the lady (taking
care, however, not to
burn the peccant verses, which are much too good to
be lightly
parted with), and professes himself her humble slave upon her
own
terms : —
There is no reason to doubt the perfect sincerity of these lines
at the
period of their composition ; but
apparently resolved that his
attachment should not henceforth have
the diet even of a chameleon ; and
it is small wonder to find him
shortly afterwards a tender husband and
father, lamenting the
death of an infant son in strains of extreme pathos,
and instructing
his wife on certain details of domestic economy in which
she
might have been supposed to be better versed than himself. His
marriage took place in
that his unhappy attachment had endured sixteen years, which,
allowing for a decent interval between the
dict
whose services had been rewarded by a judicial appointment in the
kingdom
of
her death is really the subject of the two
poems in terza rima which
appear to deplore it, he certainly lost no time
in bewailing her,
but the interval is so brief, and the poems are so weak,
that they may
have been composed on some other occasion. With respect to
the
latter consideration, however, it must be remembered that he was
himself, in all probability, suffering from disabling sickness, having
made his will on
the first sonnets composed by
are in general much inferior in depth of tenderness to those written
years after the event.
"In Memoriam "
disillusioned as his editor thinks. If the poems do not relate to
feelings towards her.
A generally fair estimate of
in
"History of Italian Literature,"vol. ix.
CHARACTERS OF THE COMEDY
a widow
"The Church Times ."
"Sir Digby Soame ."
Ah,
minutes late.
I am worried, anxious, irritable, and that has made the time seem long.
Worried, anxious ? And what about ? Are you not
well ? Have you found
that regularity of life ruins the constitu-
tion ?
No, my dear
that the existence which my wife enjoys, and which I
have learnt
to endure, would not suit every one.
I am glad to find you more tolerant. You used to hold
the very harshest
and most crude opinions. I remember when we
were boys, I could never
persuade you to accept the admirable
doctrine that a reformed rake
makes the best husband !
income as folly ! This may
explain that paradox. You know, in
my way, I, too, am something of a philosopher ! I married very
young,
whereas you entered the Diplomatic Service and resolved
to remain
single : you wished to study women. I have lived with
one for
five-and-twenty years.
Oh, I admit at once that yours is the greater achievement
and was the
more daring ambition.
I know all I wish to know about women, but men
puzzle me extremely. So
I have sent for you. I want your
advice. It is
afraid that he is not happy.
have never refused him anything ?
Never ! No man has had a kinder father ! When
he is unreasonable I
merely say "You are a fool, but please your-
No man has
had a kinder father !
self !"
Does he complain ?
He has hinted that his home is uncongenial —yet
we have an
excellent cook ! Ah, thank heaven every night and
morning, my dear
for sinners and breeding them would seem the whole duty of
man. I was no sooner born than my parents were filled with
uneasiness lest I should not live to marry and beget an heir of my
own. Now I have an heir, his mother will never know peace
until she
has found him a wife !
And will you permit
same method with
appalling
results in your own case ?
It does not seem my place to interfere, and love-
affairs are not a fit
subject of conversation between father and
son !
But what does
He seems melancholy and eats nothing but oranges.
Yes,
Does
My wife would regard a second thought on any
subject as a most
dangerous form of temptation. She insists that
he complains that the house is dull, she takes
him for a drive !
But
I think I do. If I were young again —
Ah, you regret ! I always said you would regret it if you
did not take
your fling ! The pleasures we imagine are so much
more alluring, so
much more dangerous, than those we experience.
I suppose you recognise
in
and feel that you have missed your vocation ?
all have our moments, I own, yet — well, perhaps
inherited the tastes which I
possessed at his age, but lacked the
courage to obey.
And so you wish me to advise you how to deal with
him ! Is he in love
? I have constantly observed that when
young men find their homes
unsympathetic, it is because some
particular lady does not form a
member of the household. It is
usually a lady, too, who would not be
considered a convenient
addition to any mother's visiting-list !
are the scourges of creation. You, perhaps, do not share that
view !
Certainly not. I would teach him to regard them as the
reward, the
compensation, the sole delight of this dreariest of all
possible
worlds.
beg you will not go so far as that. What notion would be more
upsettting ? Pray do not use such extreme terms !
Ha ! ha ! But tell me,
your wife insists on his retiring at eleven and rising at
eight ?
I hear that she allows him nothing stronger than ginger ale
and
lemon ; that she selects his friends, makes his engagements, and
superintends his amusements ? Should he marry, I am told she
will even undertake the office of best man !
Poor soul ! she means well ; and if devotion could
make the boy a
saint he would have been in heaven before he was
out of his long
clothes. As it is, I fear that nothing can save him.
Save him ? You speak as though you suspected that he
was not such a
saint as his mother thinks him.
I suspect nothing. I only know that my boy is
unhappy. You might speak
to him, and draw him out if occasion
should offer but do not say a
word about this to
drummond
woman. Her
hair is brown, and brushed back from her temples
In the simplest
possible fashion. Self-satisfaction (of a gentle
and ladylike
sort) and eminent contentment with her lot are the
only writings on
her smooth, almost girlish countenance. She
has a prim tenderness
and charm of manner which soften her
rather cutting voice.
]
What !
Digby ?
him to pay some calls this
afternoon, and as he may have to talk I
must tell him what to say. He
has no idea of making himself
pleasant to women, and is the shyest
creature in the world !
You have always been so careful to shield him from all
responsibility,
what decision, what energy he might display, if
you did not
possess these gifts in so pre-eminent a degree as to make
any
exertion on his part unnecessary, and perhaps disrespectful.
Ah ! mothers are going out of fashion. Even
occasionally shows a certain impatience when I
venture to correct
him. As if I would hurt any one's feelings unless
from a sense
of duty ! And pray, where is the pleasure of having a son
if you
may not direct his life ?
parents if you may not disobey them.
never makes flippant remarks of this kind.
mond.]
impression of your
character.
think I see your drift,
established in a home of his own.
You have caught my meaning. As he is now two-and-
twenty, I think he
should be allowed more freedom than may have
been expedient when he
was—say, six months old.
I quite agree with you, and I trust you will convince
Herbert that
women understand young men far better than
their fathers ever could. I
have found the very wife for
and I hope I may soon have the pleasure of welcoming her as a
daughter.
A wife ! Good heavens ! I was suggesting that the
boy had more
liberty. Marriage is the prison of all emotions, and
I should be very
sorry to ask any young girl to be a man's gaol-
keeper.
The presence of a third person has the strangest
effect on
a care and tenderness rarely bestowed nowadays even on a
girl, I
think I may show some resentment when I am asked to believe
him a being with the instincts of a ruffian and the philosophy of
a middle-aged bachelor. No,
he does not make his home
and his family the happiest in the
world !
Yes ?
He has no taste for cards, horses, brandy, or actresses.
We read
together, walk together, and drive together. In the
evening, if he is
too tired to engage in conversation, I play the
piano while he dozes.
Lately he has taken a particular interest in
elevating, and I know of nothing more
agreeable than a musical
husband.
You see she is resolved on his marriage, and she has
had
the hope of bringing matters to a crisis.
And why not ? Our marriage was arranged for
us, and what idle fancies
of our own could have led to such perfect
contentment ?
house, and who spends her time hunting for old
lovers and new
servants.
I own that dear
and women who are not fit companions for a young girl, no
matter how interesting they may be to the general public. Only
yesterday she told me she was well acquainted with
ville
to dinner. Still,
extraordinary antiquity.
But the mother ? If she has not been in the divorce
court, it is
through no fault of her own.
admit; but as she has at last decided to marry
banker, I am hoping
she will live in his house at
think a little more about her immortal soul.
Does
strong in the expression of his feelings one way or the
other.
But I may say that a deep attachment exists between them.
A man must have sound wisdom before he can appre-
ciate innocence. But
I have no desire to be discouraging, and I
hope I may soon have the
pleasure of congratulating you all on
the wedding. Good-bye.
What ! Must you go ?
Yes. But
what you say. I will
do my best. I have an engagement in
town to-night.
At the
nassus
A theatre much favoured by young men who wish to
be thought wicked, and
by young ladies who
good-bye.
goes out
Thank goodness, he is gone ! What a terrible
example for
come in.
appeal to youth and inexperience. That you should encourage
such an
acquaintance, and even discuss before him such an
intimate matter as
my hope with regard to
painful than astonishing.
They are both too young to marry. Let them
enjoy life while they may.
often observed that there is a lurking taste for the vicious in every
Doldrummond.
Mr. Banish. Mrs. de Trappe
eyes and a small waist ;
she has a trick of biting her under-lip,
and looking shocked, as
it were, at her own audacity. Her
manner is a little effusive, but
always well-bred. She does not
seem affected, and has something
artless, confiding, and pathetic.
Mr. Featherleigh
ance ;
otherwise inscrutable
rather pompous, and evidently mistakes deportment
for dignity
I knew we should surprise you.
But
house-hunting, and I thought I must run in and see you and
bringing
prospect of my marriage that
keep
him always with us. We have known each other so long.
How should we
spend our evenings without him ?
they would be tedious, don't you,
Certainly, my dear.
learned to regard
as we advance in years, it is so pleasant to have young people
about
us.
never have struck me
in that light before ! I have always thought
of
admit that he is a little young for the responsibility.
leaves in fifty-five minutes.
mond.]
which the
you
and I shall tell
But it is so amusing to think ourselves
mysterious for twenty
minutes.
say to myself,
cannot feel sufficiently
thankful that it is not the third.
The third ?
To face the possibility of a third honeymoon,
a third disappointment,
and a third funeral would tax my courage
to the utmost ! And I am not
strong.
I am shocked to see you so despondent. Surely you
anticipate every
happiness with
Oh, yes. He has money, and
him a very worthy sort of person. He is a little dull, but then
middle-class people are always so gross in their air when they
attempt to be lively or amusing ; so long as they are grave I can
bear
them well enough, but I know of nothing so unpleasant as
the sight of
a banker laughing. As
butlers should always be serious.
Do you think that the world will quite understand —
What do you mean,
have an adviser.
my future husband's friend. Surely
that should be enough to
satisfy the most exacting.
But why marry at all ? why not remain as you are ?
How unreasonable you are,
have you urged me to marry
arranged and
I thought that you liked
Better than
as that, nor would
poor. My husband, as you know,
left nearly all his money to
he made on me is spent upon
doctor's bills alone. If it were not
for
and other little things from time to time, I could not exist at all.
wipes her eyes with a
point-lace pocket-handkerchief
think of all that I endured with
roused from a sound
sleep to see the room illuminated and
I only hope that I may keep her always with me.
How she must have improved ! When she is
at home I find her so
depressing. And she does not appeal to
men in the least.
I could wish that all young girls were as modest.
Oh, I daresay
to see in some other woman's daughter. But if you
were her
mother and had to find her a husband, you would regard her
virtues
in another light. Fortunately she has eight thousand a year,
so
she may be able to find somebody. Still, even money does not
tempt men as it once did. A girl must have an extraordinary
charm. She
is so jealous of me. I cannot keep her out of the
drawing-room when I
have got callers, especially when
Mandeville
I have heard of
singer.
A lovely tenor voice. All the women are in
love with him, except me. I
would not listen to him. And now
they say he is going to marry
should like to know who would care about him or his
singing,
once he is married.
And who is
Don't you know ? She is the last great
success. She has two notes : B
flat and the lower G— the
orchestra plays the rest. You must go
to the
her.
To-night is the dress rehearsal of the new piece.
And do you receive
No, women take up too much time. They
say, too, that she is frantically jealous because
come and practise in my boudoir. He
says no one can accom-
pany him as I do !
I hope
goes to your
house.
Let me see. I believe I introduced them.
At any rate, I know I saw
them at luncheon together last week.
At luncheon together !
sings ? What could my boy and
They both appear to admire
very much. And I cannot find what men see in her. She is not
tall and her figure is most innocent ; you would say she was still
in
pinafores. As for her prettiness, I admit she has fine eyes, but
of
course she blackens them. I think the great attraction is her
atrocious temper. One never knows whom she will stab next.
midnight. He refused to answer my questions.
You seem absent-minded, my dear
We have not a moment
to lose. We are going to choose wedding
presents.
to choose
thought of that way out of the difficulty. One does one's best to
be
nice to them, and then something happens and upsets all one's
plans.
Where is
I am afraid
Then I shall not see him. Tell him I am
angry, and give my love to
you when you are in the drawing-room and have visitors. So
difficult to keep a grown-up girl out of the drawing-room. Where
can
those men be ?
along ; we haven't a moment to lose. Good-bye,
Featherleigh,
he has met her
through the one woman for whom I have
been wrong enough to forget my
prejudices. What a punish-
ment !
escapes the terrible charge of
sublimity. But there is a certain
peevishness in her expression
which adds a comfortable smack of
human nature to her classic
features
I thought mamma would never go. I have been hiding
in your boudoir
ever since I heard she was here.
Was
Oh, no ; he has gone out for a walk.
Tell me, dearest, have you and
agreement lately ? Is there any misunderstanding ?
Oh, no.
I remember quite well that before I married
he often suffered from the oddest moods of depression. Several
times he entreated me to break off the engagement. His affection
was
so reverential that he feared he was not worthy of me. I
assure you I
had the greatest difficulty in overcoming his scruples,
and persuading
him that whatever his faults were I could help him
to subdue them.
But
so humiliating.
Men take these things for granted. If the truth
were known, I daresay
he already regards you as his wife.
me so unkindly.
I have often thought that if he were my
husband he could not be more
disagreeable ! He has not a word
for me when I speak to him. He does
not hear. Oh,
Doldrummond
am not the one. You
are all wrong.
No, no, no. He loves you ; I am sure of it. Only
be patient with him
and it will come all right. Hush ! is that his
step ? Stay here,
darling, and I will go into my room and write
letters.
His Lordship will be down in half an hour, sir. He is
now having his
hair brushed.
I
hardly expected to meet you here.
And why, may I ask ?
You know what
overcome her scruples ?
Is my reputation then so very bad ?
You — you are supposed to be rather dangerous. You
sing on the
stage, and have a tenor voice.
Is that enough to make a man dangerous ?
How can
You admire mamma, of course.
A charming woman,
interesting woman ; so sympathetic.
But she said she would not listen to you.
Did she say that ?
will not be angry when I own that I do not especially
mother. A quarter of a century
ago she may have had consider-
able attractions, but— are you
offended ?
Offended ? Oh, no. Only it seems strange. I thought
that all men
admired mamma.
yet how you made
I am here at
decided that he feels no further need of
apron-strings.
Oh,
wicked ?
But you will agree with me that a young man
cannot make his mother a
kind of scribbling diary ?
Still, if he spends his time well, there does not seem to
be any
reason why he should refuse to say where he dines when he
is not at
home.
would find immorality in a sofa-cushion. If she were to
know
that
piece !
It would break her heart. And
would be indignant. Mamma says his own morals are so excellent !
Is he an invalid ?
Certainly not. Why do you ask ?
Whenever I hear of a charming husband I always
think that he must be
an invalid. But as for morals, there can be no
harm in taking
to go, however, I can easily say that the manager does
not care to
have strangers present.
ball at
Is
I believe that he has an invitation, but I will
persuade him to refuse
it, if you would prefer him to remain at
home.
You are very kind,
indifference to me where
Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned this to
you ?
fact, I am delighted to think
that you are taking
the world. He is wretched in this house.
glad to think
that he knows any one so interesting and clever and
beautiful as
beautiful ?
sometimes.
I shall be prettier
than I am at present.
You always said you liked my voice. We never
see anything of each
other now. I once thought that— well—
that you might
like me better. Are you sure you are not angry
with me because I am
taking
Quite sure. Why should I care where
only wish that I, too, might go to the
theatre to-night. What
part do you play ? And what do you sing ? A
serenade ?
that ? The costume is, of course,
picturesque, and that is the great
thing in an opera. A few men can
sing— after a fashion— but to
find the right clothes to
sing
And
Well, I do not like to say anything against her,
but she is not quite the person I should cast for
Perdrigonde
You have
just the exquisite charm, the grace, the majesty of
bearing which, in
the opinion of those who have never been to
Court, is the peculiar
distinction of women accustomed to the
highest society.
Oh, I should like to be an actress !
No ! no ! I spoke selfishly— if you only acted
with me, it
would be different ; but— but I could not bear to see
another
man making love to you— another man holding your hand
and
singing into your eyes— and— and— Oh, this is madness.
You must not listen to me.
I am not— angry, but— you must never again say things
which you do not mean. If I thought you were untruthful it
would make
me so —so miserable. Always tell me the truth.
You are very beautiful !
mirror
that delicacy and his
expression that pensiveness which promise
artistic longings and
domestic disappointment
mother, this is my
friend
tion him ?
I do not remember, but—
When I promised to go out with you this afternoon, I
forgot that I had
another engagement.
enough to call for me,
Another engagement,
Father, this is my friend
to go up to town this afternoon.
station for you ? The last train
usually arrives about —
I shall not return to-night. I intend to stay in town.
And where are you going ?
He is coming to our dress rehearsal of the
At the
place, but it amuses me to go there, and I
must learn life for
myself. I am two-and-twenty, and it is not
extraordinary that I
should wish to be my own master. I intend to have
chambers of
my own in town.
Surely you have every liberty in this house ?
If you leave us, you will leave the rooms in which
your mother has
spent every hour of her life, since the day you
were born, planning
and improving. Must all her care and
thought go for nothing ? The silk
hangings in your bedroom she
worked with her own hands. There is not
so much as a pen-
wiper in your quarter of the house which she did not
choose with
the idea of giving you one more token of her affection.
I am not ungrateful, but I cannot see much of the world
through my
mother's embroidery. As you say, I have every
comfort here. I may
gorge at your expense and snore on your
pillows and bully your
servants, I can do everything, in fact, but
live. Dear mother, be reasonable.
quite frigid
The dog-cart is at the door, my lord.
You think it well over and you will see that I am
perfectly right.
Come on,
Make haste : there is no time to be polite.
Mandeville
Was that my son ? I am ashamed of him ! To
desert us in this rude,
insolent, heartless manner. If I had
whipped him more and loved him
less, he would not have been
leaving me to lodge with a God knows who.
I disown him !
The fool !
If you have anything to say, blame
the noblest heart in the
world ;
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Peasants by HÉLÈNE VACARESCO. Trans-
lated by CARMEN SYLVA and ALMA
STRETELL. With an Introduction by
CARMEN SYLVA. Printed on hand-made paper,
crown 8vo, 10s. 6d.
New and
cheaper edition. Crown 8vo, cloth. 5s.
Fifty signed and numbered copies on imperial Japan paper,
bound in vellum. 42s
(Few remain.)
with an undertone of ghastly mystery that reminds one of the
Highland second-sight and Irish
fairy tales....They are directly,
passionately, fiercely human; rich with a poetic sympathy
with external
nature, but regarding it almost as the comrade and friend of
man....There
are elements of the Greek joy in all beautiful sights and
sounds....but there is also a fierce
love of battle and of blood, such as
rings through the Nibelungen epic."—FREDERIC HAR-
RISON in
New Novel dealing with Woman's real Rights and Wrongs in a clever Original
Mannner.
At all libraries.
A Modern Amazon.
By GEORGE
PASTON.
Two vols. Crown 8vo, cloth.
WILLIAM WESTALL'S NEW BOOK.
FOR
HONOUR AND LIFE
A
TALE OF THE TERROR.
By WILLIAM WESTALL,
Author of "The Phantom City,"
&c.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"TESS OF THE
D'URBERVILLES."
LIFE'S LITTLE IRONIES
A Set of Tales with some
Colloquial Sketches
entitled "A Few Crusted Characters."
By THOMAS
HARDY.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
EXHAUSTED, FOURTH LARGE IN
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By
THOMAS HARDY. Containing "The
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Tales.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
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trated by AUBREY
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other Full-page
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ready, price 17s. 6d.
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seen."—JOSEPH
PENNELL in The Studio. "A handsome
reprint."—
Walter Crane's Illustrations to Shakespeare.
Eight Illustrations to each
play, facsimiled the full size of the original drawings, and
printed on
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rough
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price 21s.
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work
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The issue is limited to 400 copies for sale in England
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after printing which the blocks will be
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The Tempest. (Now ready).
The Two Gentlemen of Verona. (In
preparation).
The Temple
Shakespeare.
Edited by ISRAEL GOLLANCZ, M.A. With Concise Preface, full
Glossary, and
the necessary Notes. In Schilling Volumes. Each Play
seperately. Printed on
hand-made Paper, in Red and Black, with Photogravure
Frontispiece, and Title-
page by Walter Crane.
The Two Gentlemen of
Verona.
The Merry Wives of Windsor.
Edition on Writing Paper, Broad Margins, 1s. 6d. net.
The
Tempest
Was Published last Month, and Two other Volumes will be issued
simul-
taneously each Month, in the order of the Folio Editions.
"The
most charming little book we have ever seen offered for a
schilling."—
"THE
IDEAL SHAKESPEARE."—
"No choice pocket edition of Shakespeare has hitherto made its
appearance."—
"The sum of
all that is desirable. It adds to its marvels in being marvellously
cheap."
LONDON: ALDINE HOUSE, 69 GREAT EASTERN STREET.
List of Books
IN
Belles Lettres
Elkin Mathews
& John Lane:
Publishers
and Vendors of
Choice & Rare Editions in Belles Lettres.
All the Books in this Catalogue
are Published at Net Prices
1894 Bodleian, London
"A WORD must be said for the manner in which the
publishers have produced the
volume (
Earth Fiend'), a sumptuous
folio, printed by CONSTABLE, the
etchings on Japanese paper by MR. GOULDING.
The volume
should add not only to MR. STRANG'S fame but to that
of
MESSRS. ELKIN MATHEW AND JOHN LANE, who are rapidly
gaining
distinction for their beautiful editions of belles-
lettres."—
"Silhouettes" by ARTHUR SYMONS—"we only refer
to
them now to note a fact which they illustrate, and which we
have been
observing of late, namely, the recovery to a certain
extent of good taste in
the matter of printing and binding
books. These two books, which are turned
out by MESSRS.
ELKIN MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE, are models of
artistic
publishing, and yet they are simplicity itself. The books
with
their excellent printing and their very simplicity make
a harmony which is
satisfying to the artistic sense."
"MR. LE GALLIENNE is a fortunate young gentleman. I
don't know by what
legerdemain he and his publishers work,
but here, in an age as stony to
poetry as the ages of Chatter-
ton and Richard Savage, we find the full
edition of his book
sold before publication. How is it done, MESSRS.
ELKIN
MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE? for, without depreciating MR.
LE
GALLIENNE'S sweetness and charm, I doubt that the marvel
would have
been wrought under another publisher. These
publishers, indeed, produce
books so delightfully that it must
give an added pleasure to the hoarding of
first editions."
KATHARINE TYNAN, in
"To MESSRS. ELKIN MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE almost
more than any other, we take
it, are the thanks of the
grateful singer especially due; for it is they who
have
managed, by means of limited editions and charming work-
manship,
to impress book-buyers with the belief that a
volume may have an aesthetic
and commercial value. They
have made it possible to speculate in the latest
discovered
poet, as in a new company—with the difference that
an
operation in the former can be done with three
half-
crowns."—
List of Books
IN
(Including some
Transfers)
PUBLISHED BY
Elkin Mathews & John Lane
The
Bodley Head
Vigo Street, London, W.
any book in this list if a new edition is called for, except
in cases
where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of
printing a
separate edition of any of the books for America irrespective
of the
numbers to which the English editions are limited. The
numbers
mentioned do not include copies sent to the public libraries,
nor those
sent for review.
ESSAYS IN MODERNITY. Cr. 8vo. 5s.
net.
THE LOWER SLOPES: A Volume of
Verse. With title-page
and cover design by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 600
copies,
cr. 8vo. 5
THE BACKSLIDER AND OTHER POEMS. 100 only,
sm. 4to
7
FROM THE ASOLAN HILLS. A Poem.
300 copies, imp.
16mo. 5
LYRIC POEMS. With title-page by
SELWYN IMAGE. sq. 16mo.
5
A LOST GOD. A Poem, with
Illustrations by H.J. FORD.
500 copies, 8vo. 6
A LITTLE CHILD'S
WREATH: A Sonnet Sequence. 350
copies, sq. 16mo. 3
THE SANCTITY OF
CONFESSION. A Romance. 2nd edition,
cr. 8vo. 3
RENASCENCE: a Book of Verse.
Frontispiece and 38 designs
by the Author. A few of the large paper edition
only
now left. Fcap. 4to. £1 15
THE ANCIENT CROSSES OF DARTMOOR.
With 11 plates,
8vo, cloth. 4s. 6
PLAYS: An Unhistorical Pastoral;
A Romantic Farce;
Bruce, a Chronicle Play; Smith, a Tragic Farce,
Scara-
mouch in Naxos, a Pantomime. With a frontispiece and
cover design
by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Printed at the
Ballantyne Press. 500 copies, sm. 4to.
7
FLEET ST. ECLOGUES. 2nd edition,
fcap. 8vo, buckram.
5
A RANDOM ITINERARY AND A BALLAD.
With a frontispiece
and title-page by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. 600
copies.
Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 5
THE NORTH WALL. Fcap. 8vo. 2
The few remaining
copies transferred by the Author to the
present Publishers.
UNDER THE HAWTHORN AND OTHER
VERSES. Frontis-
piece by WALTER CRANE. 300 copies, cr. 8vo. 5
Also 30 copies on Japanese vellum. 15
POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. By
JOHN LEICESTER
WARREN (Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and cover design
by C.S. RICKETTS. 2nd edition, cr. 8vo. 7
SIGHT AND SONG (Poems on
Pictures). 400 copies, fcap. 8vo.
5
STEPHANIA: A TRIALOGUE IN 3 ACTS.
250 copies, pott 4to,
6
ORCHARD SONGS. With title-page and
cover design by J.
ILLINGWORTH KAY. Fcap. 8vo. Irish Linen. 5
Also a special edition limited in number on
hand-made
paper bound in English vellum. £1 1
POEMS. With title-page by J.
ILLINGWORTH KAY. 350
copies, cr. 8vo. 5
THE LETTERS OF THOMAS LOVELL
BEDDOES. Now first
edited. Pott 8vo. 5
PAGAN PAPERS: A VOLUME OF
ESSAYS. With title-page
by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Fcap 8vo. 5
ITALIAN LYRICISTS OF TO-DAY.
Translations in the original
metres from about 35 living Italian poets with
bibliographi-
cal and biographical notes, cr. 8vo. 5
A SELECTION FROM HIS POEMS.
Edited by Mrs. MEYNELL.
With a portrait after D.G. ROSSETTI, and a cover
design
by GLEESON WHITE. Cr. 8vo. 5
THE POEMS, together with
his essay "On Some of the
Characteristics of Modern Poetry and on the
Lyrical Poems
of Alfred Tennyson." Edited, with an introduction,
by
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 550 copies, fcap. 8vo. 5
[Very few remain
THE BALLAD OF HADJI AND OTHER
POEMS. Etched
frontispiece by WM. STRANG. 550 copies, 12 mo. 3
Transferred by the Author to the present
Publishers
LIBER AMORIS, a reprint of the
1823 edition, with numerous
original documents appended never before
printed, includ-
ing Mrs. Hazlitt's Diary in Scotland, Portrait after
Bewick,
Facsimile Letters, etc., and the Critical Introduction
by
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE prefixed to the edition of 1893.
A limited
number only. 4to. £1 1
VERSE TALES, LYRICS AND
TRANSLATIONS. 300 pages,
imp. 16mo. 5
DIVERSI COLORES. Poems, with
ornaments by the Author.
250 copies, 16mo. 5
ROMANTIC PROFESSIONS: A volume of
Essays. With title-
page designed by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. Cro. 8vo. 5
net
IN THE FIRE AND OTHER FANCIES.
Frontispiece by WALTER
CRANE. 500 copies, imp. 16mo. 3
THE ART OF THOMAS HARDY. Six
Essays, with etched
portrait by WM. STRANG, and Bibliography by
JOHN
LANE, cr. 8vo. 5
ALso 150 copies, large paper, with proofs of the
portrait.
£1s. 1
A VOLUME OF POEMS. Fcap. 8vo.
5
THREE ESSAYS, now issued in book
form for the first time.
Edited by H. BUXTON FORMAN, with life-mask
by
HAYDON. Fcap. 4to. 10
Each volume with specially
designed title-page by AUBREY
BEARDSLEY. Cr. 8vo, cloth. 3
Vol. I.
KEYNOTES. By GEORGE EGERTON.
Vol. II. THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE FARR.
Vol III. POOR FOLK. Translated from
the Russian of F.
DOSTOIEVSKY by LENA MILMAN, with a preface by
GEORGE
MOORE.
Vol. IV. A CHILD OF THE
AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMS.
Vol. V. THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST LIGHT
By
ARTHUR MACHEN.
VERSES. 250 copies fcap. 8vo.
3
THE
STUDENT AND THE BODY-SNATCHER AND OTHER
TRIFLES.
A few of the 50 large
paper copies remain. 7
[Small paper edition out of print
PROSE FANCIES. With
portrait of the Author by WILSON
STEER. Cr. 8vo, purple cloth, uniform with
"The
Religion of a Literary Man." 5
large paper edition. 12
THE BOOK BILLS OF
NARCISSUS. An account rendered by
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 2nd edition, cr.
8vo, buck-
ram. 3
ENGLISH POEMS. 3rd edition, cr. 8vo, purple cloth,
uniform
with the "Religion of a Literary Man." 5
GEORGE MEREDITH: some
Characteristics; with a Bibliography
(much enlarged) by JOHN LANE, portrait
&c. 3rd edition,
cr. 8vo. 5
THE RELIGION OF A LITERARY
MAN. 4th thousand, cr. 8vo,
purple cloth. 3
Also a special rubricated edition on
hand-made paper, 8vo.
10
500 copies, fcap. 8vo.
3
MARSTON (PHILIP BOURKE).
A LAST HARVEST: LYRICS AND SONNETS FROM THE
BOOK
OF LOVE. Edited by LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
500 copies, post 8vo.
5s. net.
Also 50 copies on large paper, hand-made. 10s. 6d. net.
[Very
few remain.
MARTIN (W. WILSEY).
QUATRAINS, LIFE'S MYSTERY AND OTHER POEMS. 16mo.
2s.
6d. net. [Very few remain.
MARZIALS (THEO.).
THE GALLERY OF PIGEONS AND OTHER POEMS. Post 8vo.
4s.
6d. net. [Very few remain.
Transferred by the Author to the present
Publishers.
MEYNELL (MRS.), (ALICE C. THOMPSON).
POEMS. 2nd edition, fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d.
net. A few of the 50
large paper copies (1st edition) remain. 12s. 6d.
net.
MEYNELL (MRS.).
THE RHYTHM OF LIFE AND OTHER ESSAYS. 2nd edition,
fcap.
8vo. 3s. 6d. net. A few of the 50 large paper copies
(1st edition) remaind,
12s. 6d.net.
MONKHOUSE (ALLAN).
BOOKS AND PLAYS: A VOLUME OF ESSAYS. 400 copies.
crown
8vo. 5s. net. [Shortly,
MURRAY (ALMA),
PORTRAIT AS BEATRICE CENCI. With critical notice
con-
taining four letters from ROBERT BROWNING. 8vo, wrapper.
2s.
net.
NETTLESHIP (J.T.).
ROBERT BROWNING. Essays and Thoughts.
Third edition
cr
8vo. 5s. 6d. net, in preparation. Half a dozen of the
Whatman L.P.
copies (first edition) remain, £1 1s net
NOBLE (JAS. ASHCROFT).
THE SONNET IN ENGLAND AND OTHER ESSAYS.
Title-page
and cover design by AUSTIN YOUNG. 600 copies, cr. 8vo.
5s.
net. Also 50 copies L.P. 12s. 6d. net.
NOEL (HON. RODEN).
POOR PEOPLE'S CHRISTMAS. 250 copies, 16mo. 1s.
net.
[Very few remain.
OXFORD CHARACTERS.
A series of lithographed portraits by WILL ROTHENSTEIN,
with
text by F. YORK POWELL and others. To be issued monthly
in term.
Each number will contain two portraits. Parts I.
to V. ready. 200 sets only,
folio, wrapper, 5s. net per part;
25 special large paper sets containing
proof impressions of
the portraits signed by the artist, 10s. 6d net per
part.
PINKERTON (PERCY).
GALEAZZO: A Venetian Episode and other Poems.
Etched
frontispiece. 16 mo. 5s. net. [Very few remain.
Transferred by
the Author to the present Publishers.
RADFORD (DOLLIE).
SONGS. A new volume of verse. [In preparation.
RADFORD (ERNEST).
CHAMBERS TWAIN. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE.
250
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Also 50 copies large paper, 10s. 6d.
net. [Very few remain.
RHYMER'S CLUB, THE SECOND BOOK OF THE.
With contributions by E. DOWSON, E.J.
ELLIS, G.A. GREENE,
A. HILLIER, L. JOHNSON, R. LE GALLIENNE, V.
PLARR,
E. RADFORD, E. RHYS, T.W. ROLLESTON, A. SYMONS,
J. TODHUNTER, AND
W.B. YEATS. 500 copies (400 for
sale). Sq. 16mo. 5s. net.
Also 50 copies
large paper. 10s. 6d. net. [Immediately.
RICKETTS (C.S.) AND C.H> SHANNON.
HERO AND LEANDER. By CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
and
GEORGE CHAPMAN. With Borders, Initials, and Illus-
trations designed
and engraved on the wood by C.S.
RICKETTS AND C.H. SHANNON. Bound in
English
vellum and gold. 200 copies only. 35s. net.
[Immediately.
RHYS (ERNEST).
A LONDON ROSE AND OTHER RHYMES. With title-page
designed
by SELWYN IMAGES. 600 copies, cr. 8vo.
5s. net.[Immediately.
SCHAFF (DR. P.).
LITERATURE AND POETRY: Papers on Dante, etc.
Portrait
and Plates, 100 copies only, 8vo. 10s. net.
STODDARD (R.H.).
THE LION'S CUB; WITH OTHER VERSE. Portrait. 100
copies
only, bound in an illuminated Persian design, fcap. 8vo.
5s. net.
[Very few remain.
STREET (G.S.).
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOY. Passages selected by
his
friend, G.S.S. With title-page designed by C.W.
FURSE. 500 copies,
fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net.
[Immediately.
SYMONDS (JOHN ADDINGTON).
IN THE KEY OF BLUE, AND OTHER PROSE ESSAYS.
Cover
design by C.S. RICKETTS. 2nd edition, thick cr. 8vo.
8s. 6d.
net.
THOMPSON (FRANCIS).
A VOLUME OF POEMS. With frontispiece, title-page,
and
cover design by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. 4th edition,
pott 4to. 5s.
net.
TODHUNTER (JOHN).
A SICILIAN IDYLL. Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE.
250
copies. Imp. 16mo 5s. net.
Also 50 copies large paper, fcap. 4to.
10s. 6d. net.
[Very few remain.
TOMSON (GRAHAM R.).
AFTER SUNSET. A volume of Poems. With title-page
and
cover design by R. ANNING BELL. 12mo. 5s. net.
Also a limited large
paper edition, 12s. 6d. net.
[In preparation.
TREE (H. BEERBOHM).
THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY, a Lecture delivered at the
Royal
Institution. With portrait of Mr. TREE from an unpublished
drawing
by the Marchioness of Granby. Fcap. 8vo, boards.
2s. 6d. net.
TYNAN HINKSON (KATHARINE).
CUCKOO SOONS. With title-page and cover design by
LAUR-
ENCE HOUSMAN. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net.
VAN DYKE (HENRY).
THE POETRY OF TENNYSON. 3rd edition, enlarged, cr.
8vo.
5s. 6d. net.
The late Laureate himself gave valuable aid in
corrected
various details.
WATSON (WILLIAM).
THE ELOPING ANGELS: A CAPRICE. Second edition,
sq.
16mo, buckram. 3s. 6d. net.
WATSON (WILLIAM).
EXCURSIONS IN CRITICISM; BEING SOME PROSE
RECREATIONS
OH A RHYMER. 2nd edition, cr. 8vo. 5s. net.
WATSON (WILLIAM).
THE PRINCE'S QUEST, AND OTHER POEMS. With a
biblio-
graphical note added. 2nd edition, fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net.
WEDMORE (FREDERICK).
PASTORALS OF FRANCE—RENUNCIATIONS. A volume
of
Stories. Title-page by JOHN FULLEYLOVE, R.I. 3rd edition
cr. 8vo. 5s.
net. [In preparation.
A few of the large paper copies of Renunciations (1st
edition)
remain, 10s. 6d. net.
WICKSTEED (P.H.).
DANTE: SIX SERMONS. 3rd edition, cr. 8vo. 2s. net.
WILDE (OSCAR).
THE SPHINX. A Poem. Decorated throughout in line
and
colour and bound in a design by CHARLES RICKETTS. 250
copies, £2 2s.
net. 25 copies large paper, £ 5s, net.
[Very shortly.
WILDE (OSCAR).
The incomparable and ingenious history of Mr. W. H.,
being
the true secret of Shakespear's sonnets, now for the first
time
here fully set fort. With initial letters and cover
design by CHARLES
RICKETTS. 500 copies, 10s. 6d. net.
Also 50 copies large paper, 21s. net.
[In preparation.
WILDE (OSCAR).
DRAMATIC WORKS, now printed for the first time. With
a
specially designed binding to each volume, by CHARLES
SHANNON. 500
copies, sm. 4to, 7s. 6d. net per vol.
Also 50 copies large paper, 15s. net
per vol.
Vol. I. LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN. A comedy in four
acts.
[Ready.
Vol. II. A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE. A comedy in
four
acts. [Immediately.
Vol. III. THE DUCHESS OF PADUA. A blank verse
tragedy in
five acts. [Very shortly.
WILDE (OSCAR).
SALOME: A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT, done into English, with
10
illustrations, title-page, tail-piece, and cover design by
AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
500 copies, sm. 4to. 15s. net. Also
100 copies large paper, 30s. net.
WYNNE (FRANCES).
WHISPER. A volume of Verse. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net.
A
Memoir by KATHARINE TYNAN and a portrait have
been added.
Transferred by
the Author to the Present Publishers.
The Hobby Horse.
A new series of this illustrated magazine will be published quaterly
by
subscription, under the Editorship of Herbert P. Horne.
Subscrip-
tion £1 per annum, post free, for the four numbers. Quarto,
printed
on hand-made paper, and issued in a limited edition to
subscribers
only. The magazine will contain articles upon Literature,
Music,
Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, and the Decorative Arts;
Poems
Essays; Fiction; original Designs; with reproductions of
pictures
and drawings by the old masters and con-
temporary artists. There will be a
new title-page
and ornaments designed by the Editor.
Among the
contributors to the
Hobby Horse are:
THE LATE MATTHEW
ARNOLD.
LAURENCE BINYON.
WILFRID BLUNT.
FORD MADOX BROWN.
THE
LATE ARTHUR BURGESS.
E. BURNE-JONES, A.R.A.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
RICHARD
GARNETT, LL.D.
A.J. HIPKINS, F.S.A.
SELWYN IMAGE.
LIONEL
JOHNSON.
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
SIR F. LEIGHTON, Bart., P.R.A.
T HOPE
MCLACHLAN.
MAY MORRIS.
C. HUBERT H. PARRY, Mus. Doc.
A.W.
POLLARD.
F. YORK POWELL.
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
W.M.
ROSSETTI.
JOHN RUSKIN, D.C.L., LL.D.
FREDERICK SANDYS.
THE LATE W.
BELL SCOTT.
FREDERICK J. SHIELDS.
JH. SHORTHOUSE.
THE LATE JAMES
SMETHAM.
SIMEON SOLOMON.
A. SOMERVELL.
THE LATE J. ADDINGTON
SYMONDS.
KATHARINE TYNAN.
G.F. WATTS, R.A.
FREDERICK
WEDMORE.
OSCAR WILDE.
Prospectuses on application.
"Nearly every book put out by MESSRS. ELKIN MATHEWS
AND JOHN LANE, at the
sign of the Bodley Head, is a satis-
faction to the special senses of the
modern bookman for
bindings, shapes, types, and papers. They have
surpassed
themselves, and registered a real achievement in
English
book-making by the volume of 'Poems, Dramatic and
Lyrical,' of
Lord De Tabley."—Newcastle Daily Chronicle.
"A ray of hopefulness is stealing again into English poetry
after the
twilight greys of Clough, Arnold and Tennyson.
Even unbelief wears braver
colours. Despite the jeremiads,
which are the dirges of the elder gods,
England is still a
nest of singing-birds (teste the Catalogue of ELKIN
MATHEWS
AND JOHN LANE).—MR. ZANGWILL, in Pall Mall Magazine.
"One can nearly always be certain, when one sees on the
title-page of any
given book the name of MESSRS. ELKIN
MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE as being the
publishers thereof,
that there will be something worth reading to be
found
between the boards."—World.
"All MESSRS. ELKIN MATHEWS AND JOHN LANE's books are
so beautifully printed
and so tastefully issued, that it rejoices
the heart of a book-lover to
handle them; but they have
shown their sound judgment not less markedly in
the literary
quality of their publications. The choiceness of form is
not
inappropriate to the matter, which is always of something
more than
ephemeral worth. This was a distinction on which
the better publishers at
one time prided themselves; they
never lent their names to trash; but some
names associated
with worthy traditions have proved more than once a
delusion
and a snare. The record of MESSRS. ELKIN MATHEWS AND
JOHN LANE
is perfect in this respect, and their imprint is a
guarantee of the worth of
what they publish."
Birmingham Daily Post, Nov. 6th, 1893.