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diff --git a/23420-h/23420-h.htm b/23420-h/23420-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..510a680 --- /dev/null +++ b/23420-h/23420-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1958 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Folly of Eustace, by R. S. Hichens + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Folly Of Eustace, by Robert S. Hichens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Folly Of Eustace + 1896 + +Author: Robert S. Hichens + +Release Date: November 8, 2007 [EBook #23420] +Last Updated: December 17, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOLLY OF EUSTACE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE FOLLY OF EUSTACE. + </h1> + <h2> + By R. S. Hichens + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1896 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III. </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I. + </h2> + <p> + Some men deliberately don a character in early youth as others don a mask + before going to an opera ball. They select it not without some care, being + guided in their choice by the opinion they have formed of the world’s mind + and manner of proceeding. In the privacy of the dressing-room, the candles + being lighted and the mirror adjusted at the best angle for a view of + self, they assume their character, and peacock to their reflection, + meditating: Does it become me? Will it be generally liked? Will it advance + me towards my heart’s desire? Then they catch up their cloak, twist the + mirror back to its usual position, puff out the candles, and steal forth + into their career, shutting the door gently behind them. And, perhaps till + they are laid out in the grave, the last four walls enclosing them, only + the dressing-room could tell their secret. And it has no voice to speak. + For, if they are wise, they do not keep a valet. + </p> + <p> + At the age of sixteen Eustace Lane chose his mask, lit the candles, tried + it on, and resolved to wear it at the great masquerade. He was an Eton boy + at the time. One fourth of June he was out in the playing-fields, paying + polite attentions to another fellow’s sister, when he overheard a fragment + of a conversation that was taking place between his mother and one of the + masters. His mother was a kind Englishwoman, who was very short-sighted, + and always did her duty. The master was a fool, but as he was tall, + handsome, and extremely good-natured, Eustace Lane and most people + considered him to be highly intelligent. Eustace caught the sound of his + name pronounced. The fond mother, in the course of discreet conversation, + had proceeded from the state of the weather to the state of her boy’s + soul, taking, with the ease of the mediocre, the one step between the + sublime and the ridiculous. She had told the master the state of the + weather—which, for once, was sublime; she wanted him, in return, to + tell her the state of her boy’s soul—which was ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + Eustace forgot the other fellow’s sister, her limpid eyes, her open-worked + stockings, her panoply of chiffons and of charms. He had heard his own + name. Bang went the door on the rest of the world, shutting out even + feminine humanity. Self-consciousness held him listening. His mother said: + </p> + <p> + “Dear Eustace! What do you think of him, Mr. Bembridge? Is he <i>really</i> + clever? His father and I consider him unusually intelligent for his age—so + advanced in mind. He judges for himself, you know. He always did, even as + a baby. I remember when he was quite a tiny mite I could always trust to + his perceptions. In my choice of nurses I was invariably guided by him. If + he screamed at them I felt that there was something wrong, and dismissed + them—of course with a character. If he smiled at them, I knew I + could have confidence in their virtue. How strange these things are! What + is it in us that screams at evil and smiles at good?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! what, indeed?” replied the master, accepting her conclusion as an + established and very beautiful fact. “There is more in the human heart + than you and I can fathom, Mrs. Lane.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed! But tell me about Eustace. You have observed him?” + </p> + <p> + “Carefully. He is a strange boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Strange?” + </p> + <p> + “Whimsical, I mean. How clever he may be I am unable to say. He is so + young, and, of course, undeveloped. But he is an original. Even if he + never displays great talents the world will talk about him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” asked Mrs. Lane in some alarm. + </p> + <p> + To be talked about was, she considered, to be the prey of scandalmongers. + She did not wish to give her darling to the lions. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that Eustace has a strain of quaint fun in him—a sort of + passion for the burlesque of life. You do not often find this in boys. It + is new to my experience. He sees the peculiar side of everything with a + curious acuteness. Life presents itself to him in caricature. I——— + Well hit! Well hit indeed!” + </p> + <p> + Someone had scored a four. + </p> + <p> + The other fellow’s sister insisted on moving to a place whence they could + see the cricket better, and Eustace had to yield to her. But from that + moment he took no more interest in her artless remarks and her artful + open-worked stockings. In the combat between self and her she went to the + wall. He stood up before the mirror looking steadfastly at his own image. + </p> + <p> + And, finding it not quite so interestingly curious as the fool of a master + had declared it to be, he lit some more candies, selected a mask, and put + it on. + </p> + <p> + He chose the mask of a buffoon. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + From that day Eustace strove consistently to live up to the reputation + given to him by a fool, who had been talking at random to please an avid + mother. Mr. Bembridge knew that the boy was no good at work, wanted to say + something nice about him, and had once noticed him playing some absurd but + very ordinary boyish prank. On this supposed hint of character the master + spoke. Mrs. Lane listened. Eustace acted. A sudden ambition stirred within + him. To be known, talked about, considered, perhaps even wondered at—was + not that a glory? Such a glory came to the greatly talented—to the + mightily industrious. Men earned it by labour, by intensity, insensibility + to fatigue, the “roughing it” of the mind. He did not want to rough it. + Nor was he greatly talented. But he was just sharp enough to see, as he + believed, a short and perhaps easy way to a thing that his conceit desired + and that his egoism felt it could love. Being only a boy, he had never, + till this time, deliberately looked on life as anything. Now he set + himself, in his, at first, youthful way, to look on it as burlesque—to + see it in caricature. How to do that? He studied the cartoons in <i>Vanity + Fair</i>, the wondrous noses, the astounding trousers, that delight the + cynical world. Were men indeed like these? Did they assume such postures, + stare with such eyes, revel in such complexions? These were the + celebrities of the time. They all looked with one accord preposterous. + Eustace jumped to the conclusion that they were what they looked, and, + going a step farther, that they were celebrated because they were + preposterous. Gifted with a certain amount of imagination, this idea of + the interest, almost the beauty of the preposterous, took a firm hold of + his mind. One day he, too, would be in <i>Vanity Fair</i>, displaying + terrific boots, amazing thin legs, a fatuous or a frenetic countenance to + the great world of the unknown. He would stand out from the multitude if + only by virtue of an unusual eyeglass, a particular glove, the fashion of + his tie or of his temper. He would balance on the ball of peculiarity, and + toe his way up the spiral of fame, while the music-hall audience applauded + and the managers consulted as to the increase of his salary. Mr. Bembridge + had shown him a weapon with which he might fight his way quickly to the + front. He picked it up and resolved to use it. Soon he began to slash out + right and left. His blade chanced to encounter the outraged body of an + elderly and sardonic master. Eustace was advised that he had better leave + Eton. His father came down by train and took him away. + </p> + <p> + As they journeyed up to town, Mr. Lane lectured and exhorted, and Eustace + looked out of the window. Already he felt himself near to being a + celebrity. He had astonished Eton. That was a good beginning. Papa might + prose, knowing, of course, nothing of the poetry of caricature, of the + wild joys and the laurels that crown the whimsical. So while Mr. Lane + hunted adjectives, and ran sad-sounding and damnatory substantives to + earth, Eustace hugged himself, and secretly chuckled over his pilgrim’s + progress towards the pages of <i>Vanity Fair</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Eustace! Eustace! Are you listening to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what have you to say? What explanation have you to offer for your + conduct? You have behaved like a buffoon, sir—d’you hear me?—like + a buffoon!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, father.” + </p> + <p> + “What the deuce do you mean by ‘yes,’ sir?” + </p> + <p> + Eustace considered, while Mr. Lane puffed in the approved paternal fashion + What did he mean? A sudden thought struck him. He became confidential. + With an earnest gaze, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t help doing what I did. I want to be like the other fellows, + but somehow I can’t. Something inside of me won’t let me just go on as + they do. I don’t know why it is, but I feel as if I must do original + things—things other people never do; it—it seems in me.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lane regarded him suspiciously, but Eustace had clear eyes, and knew, + at least, how to look innocent. + </p> + <p> + “We shall have to knock it out of you,” blustered the father. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you could, father,” the boy said. “I know I hate it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lane began to be really puzzled. There was something pathetic in the + words, and especially in the way they were spoken. He stared at Eustace + meditatively. + </p> + <p> + “So you hate it, do you?” he said rather limply at last. “Well, that’s a + step in the right direction, at any rate. Perhaps things might have been + worse.” + </p> + <p> + Eustace did not assent. + </p> + <p> + “They were bad enough,” he said, with a simulation of shame. “I know I’ve + been a fool.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” Mr. Lane said, whirling, as paternal weathercocks will, to + another point of the compass, “never mind, my boy. Cheer up! You see your + fault—that’s the main thing. What’s done can’t be undone.” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank heaven!” thought the boy, feeling almost great. + </p> + <p> + How delicious is the irrevocable past—sometimes! + </p> + <p> + “Be more careful in future. Don’t let your boyish desire for follies carry + you away.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall,” was his son’s mental rejoinder. + </p> + <p> + “And I dare say you’ll do good work in the world yet.” + </p> + <p> + The train ran into Paddington Station on this sublime climax of + fatherhood, and the further words of wisdom were jerked out of Mr. Lane + during their passage to Carlton House Terrace in a four-wheeled cab. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “What an extraordinary person Mr. Eustace Lane is!” said Winifred Ames to + her particular friend and happy foil, Jane Fraser. “All London is + beginning to talk about him. I suppose he must be clever?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course, darling, very clever; otherwise, how could he possibly + gain so much notice? Just think—why, there are millions of people in + London, and I’m sure only about a thousand of them, at most, attract any + real attention. I think Mr. Eustace Lane is a genius.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really, Jenny?” + </p> + <p> + “I do indeed.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred mused for a moment. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “It must be very interesting to marry a genius, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, enthralling, simply. And, then, so few people can do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And it must be grand to do what hardly anybody can do.” + </p> + <p> + “In the way of marrying, Jenny?” + </p> + <p> + “In any way,” responded Miss Fraser, who was an enthusiast, and habitually + sentimental. “What would I give to do even one unique thing, or to marry + even one unique person!” + </p> + <p> + “You couldn’t marry two at the same time—in England.” + </p> + <p> + “England limits itself so terribly; but there is a broader time coming. + Those who see it, and act upon what they see, are pioneers; Mr. Lane is a + pioneer.” + </p> + <p> + “But don’t you think him rather extravagant?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes. That is so splendid. I love the extravagance of genius, the + barbaric lavishness of moral and intellectual supremacy.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether the supremacy of Eustace Lane is moral, or intellectual, + or—neither?” said Winifred. “There are so many different + supremacies, aren’t there? I suppose a man might be supreme merely as a—as + a—well, an absurdity, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Jenny smiled the watery smile of the sentimentalist; a glass of still + lemonade washed with limelight might resemble it. + </p> + <p> + “Eustace Lane likes you, Winnie,” she remarked. + </p> + <p> + “I know; that is why I am wondering about him. One does wonder, you see, + about the man one may possibly be going to marry.” + </p> + <p> + There had never been such a man for Jane Fraser, so she said nothing, but + succeeded in looking confidential. + </p> + <p> + Presently Winifred allowed her happy foil to lace her up. She was going to + a ball given by the Lanes in Carlton House Terrace. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he will propose to you to-night,” whispered Jane in a gush of + excitement as the two girls walked down the stairs to the carriage. “If he + does, what will you say?”. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darling, but surely——” + </p> + <p> + “Eustace is so odd. I can’t make him out.” + </p> + <p> + “That is because he is a genius.” + </p> + <p> + “He is certainly remarkable—in a way. Good-night, dear.” + </p> + <p> + The carriage drove off, and the happy foil joined her maid, who was + waiting to conduct her home. On the way they gossipped, and the maid + expressed a belief that Mr. Lane was a fine young gentleman, but full of + his goings-on. + </p> + <p> + Jane knew what she meant. Eustace had once kissed her publicly in Jane’s + presence, which deed the latter considered a stroke of genius, and the act + of a true and courageous pioneer. + </p> + <p> + Eustace was now just twenty-two, and he had already partially succeeded in + his ambition. His mask had deceived his world, and Mr. Bembridge’s + prophecy about him was beginning to be fulfilled. He had done nothing + specially intellectual or athletic, was not particularly active either + with limbs or brain; but people had begun to notice and to talk about him, + to discuss him with a certain interest, even with a certain wonder. The + newspapers occasionally mentioned him as a dandy, a fop, a whimsical, + irresponsible creature, yet one whose vagaries were not entirely without + interest. He had performed some extravagant antic in a cotillon, or worn + some extraordinary coat. He had invented a new way of walking one season, + and during another season, although in perfect health, he had never left + the house, declaring that movement of any kind was ungentlemanly and + ridiculous, and that an imitation of harem life was the uttermost bliss + obtainable in London. His windows in Carlton House Terrace had been + latticed, and when his friends came there to see him they found him lying, + supported by cushions, on a prayer-carpet, eating Eastern sweetmeats from + a silver box. + </p> + <p> + But he soon began to tire of this deliberate imprisonment, and to reduce + buffoonery to a modern science. His father was a rich man, and he was an + only child. Therefore he was able to gratify the supposed whims, which + were no whims at all. He could get up surprise parties, which really bored + him, carry out elaborate practical jokes, give extraordinary + entertainments at will. For his parents acquiesced in his absurdities, + were even rather proud of them, thinking that he followed his + Will-o’-the-wisp of a fancy because he was not less, but more, than other + young men. In fact, they supposed he must be a genius because he was + erratic. Many people are of the same opinion, and declare that a goose + standing on its head must be a swan. By degrees Eustace Lane’s practical + jokes became a common topic of conversation in London, and smart circles + were in a perpetual state of mild excitement as to what he would do next. + It was said that he had put the latchkey of a Duchess down the back of a + Commander-in-Chief; that he had once, in a country house, prepared an + apple-pie bed for an Heir-apparent, and that he had declared he would + journey to Rome next Easter in order to present a collection of penny toys + to the Pope. Society loves folly if it is sufficiently blatant. The folly + of Eustace was just blatant enough to be more than tolerated—enjoyed. + He had by practice acquired a knack of being silly in unexpected ways, and + so a great many people honestly considered him one of the cleverest young + men in town. + </p> + <p> + But, you know, it is the proper thing, if you wear a mask, to have a sad + face behind it. Eustace sometimes felt sad, and sometimes fatigued. He had + worked a little to make his reputation, but it was often hard labour to + live up to it. His profession of a buffoon sometimes exhausted him, but he + could no longer dare to be like others. The self-conscious live to gratify + the changing expectations of their world, and Eustace had educated himself + into a self-consciousness that was almost a disease. + </p> + <p> + And, then, there was his place in the pages of <i>Vanity Fair</i> to be + won. He put that in front of him as his aim in life, and became daily more + and more whimsical. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, he did one prosaic thing. He fell in love with Winifred + Ames, and could not help showing it. As the malady increased upon him his + reputation began to suffer eclipse, for he relapsed into sentiment, and + even allowed his eyes to grow large and lover-like. He ceased to worry + people, and so began to bore them—a much more dangerous thing. For a + moment he even ran the fearful risk of becoming wholly natural, dropping + his mask, and showing himself as he really was, a rather dull, quite + normal young man, with the usual notions about the usual things, the usual + bias towards the usual vices, the usual disinclination to do the usual + duties of life. + </p> + <p> + He ran a risk, but Winifred saved him, and restored him to his fantasies + this evening of the ball in Carlton House Terrace. + </p> + <p> + It was an ordinary ball, and therefore Eustace appeared to receive his + guests in fancy dress, wearing a powdered wig and a George IV. Court + costume. This absurdity was a mechanical attempt to retrieve his buffoon’s + reputation, for he was really very much in love, and very serious in his + desire to be married in quite the ordinary way. With a rather lack-lustre + eye he noticed the amusement of his friends at his last vagary; but when + Winifred Ames entered the ballroom a nervous vivacity shook him, as it has + shaken ploughmen under similar conditions, and for just a moment he felt + ill at ease in the lonely lunacy of his flowered waistcoat and olive-green + knee-breeches. He danced with her, then took her to a scarlet nook, + apparently devised to hold only one person, but into which they gently + squeezed, not without difficulty. + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him with her big brown eyes, that were at the same time + honest and fanciful. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “You have taken an unfair advantage of us all to-night, Mr. Lane.” + </p> + <p> + “Havel? How?” + </p> + <p> + “By retreating into the picturesque clothes of another age. All the men + here must hate you.” + </p> + <p> + “No; they only laugh at me.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent a moment. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “What is it in you that makes you enjoy that which the rest of us are + afraid of?” + </p> + <p> + “And that is——” + </p> + <p> + “Being laughed at. Laughter, you know, is the great world’s + cat-o’-nine-tails. We fear it as little boys fear the birch on a winter’s + morning at school.” + </p> + <p> + Eustace smiled uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “Do you laugh at me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have. You surely don’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, with an effort. Then: “Are you laughing to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “No. You have done an absurd thing, of course, but it happens to be + becoming. You look—well, pretty—yes, that’s the word—in + your wig. Many men are ugly in their own hair. And, after all, what would + life be without its absurdities? Probably you are right to enjoy being + laughed at.” + </p> + <p> + Eustace, who had seriously meditated putting off his mask forever that + night, began to change his mind. The sentence, “Many men are ugly in their + own hair,” dwelt with him, and he felt fortified in his powdered wig. What + if he took it off, and henceforth Winifred found him ugly? Does not the + safety of many of us lie merely in dressing up? Do we not buy our fate at + the costumier’s? + </p> + <p> + “Just tell me one thing,” Winifred went on. “Are you natural?” + </p> + <p> + “Natural?” he hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I think you must be. You’ve got a whimsical nature.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so.” He thought of his journey with his father years ago, and + added: “I wish I hadn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? There is a charm in the fantastic, although comparatively few people + see it. Life must be a sort of Arabian Nights Entertainment to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes. To-night it is different. It seems a sort of Longfellow life.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “Real and earnest.” + </p> + <p> + And then he proposed to her, with a laugh, to shoot an arrow at the dead + poet and his own secret psalm. + </p> + <p> + And Winifred accepted him, partly because she thought him really strange, + partly because he seemed so pretty in his wig, which she chose to believe + his own hair. + </p> + <p> + They were married, and on the wedding-day the bridegroom astonished his + guests by making a burlesque speech at the reception. + </p> + <p> + In anyone else such an exhibition would have been considered the worst + taste, but nobody was disgusted, and many were delighted. They had begun + to fear that Eustace was getting humdrum. This harlequinade after the + pantomime at the church—for what is a modern smart wedding but a + second-rate pantomime?—put them into a good humour, and made them + feel that, after all, they had got something for their presents. And so + the happy pair passed through a dreary rain of rice to the mysteries of + that Bluebeard’s Chamber, the honeymoon. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. + </h2> + <p> + Winifred anticipated this honeymoon with calmness, but Eustace was too + much in love to be calm. He was, on the contrary, in a high state of + excitement, and of emotion, and the effort of making his ridiculous speech + had nearly sent him into hysterics. But he had now fully resolved to + continue in his whimsical course, and to play for ever the part of a + highly erratic genius, driven hither and thither by the weird impulses of + the moment. That he never had any impulses but such as were common to most + ordinary young men was a sad fact which he meant to most carefully conceal + from Winifred. He had made up his mind that she believed his mask to be + his face. She had, therefore, married the mask. To divorce her violently + from it might be fatal to their happiness. If he showed the countenance + God had given him, she might cry: “I don’t know you. You are a stranger. + You are like all the other men I didn’t choose to marry.” His blood ran + cold at the thought. No, he must keep it up. She loved his fantasies + because she believed them natural to him. She must never suspect that they + were not natural. So, as they travelled, he planned the campaign of + married life, as doubtless others, strange in their new bondage, have + planned. He gazed at Winifred, and thought, “What is her notion of the + ideal husband, I wonder?” She gazed at him, and mused on his affection and + his whimsicality, and what the two would lead to in connection with her + fate. And the old, scarlet-faced guard smiled fatuously at them both + through the window on which glared a prominent “Engaged” as he had smiled + on many another pair of fools—so he silently dubbed them. Then they + entered Bluebeard’s Chamber and closed the door behind them. + </p> + <p> + Brighton was their destination. They meant to lose themselves in a marine + crowd. + </p> + <p> + They stayed there for a fortnight, and then returned to town, Eustace more + in love than ever. + </p> + <p> + But Winifred? + </p> + <p> + One afternoon she sat in the drawing-room of the pretty little house they + had taken in Deanery Street, Park Lane. She was thinking, very definitely. + The silent processes of even an ordinary woman’s mind—what great + male writer would not give two years of his life to sit with them and + watch them, as the poet watches the flight of a swallow, or the astronomer + the processions of the sky? A curious gale was raging through the town, + touzling its thatch of chimney-pots, doing violence to the demureness of + its respectable streets. Night was falling, and in Piccadilly those + strange, gay hats that greet the darkness were coming out like eager, + vulgar comets in a dim and muttering firmament. It was just the moment + when the outside mood of the huge city begins to undergo a change, to + glide from its comparative simplicity of afternoon into its leering + complexity of evening. Each twenty-four hours London has its moment of + emancipation, its moment in which the wicked begin to breathe and the good + to wonder, when “How?” and “Why?” are on the lips of the opposing + factions, and only the philosophers who know—or think they know—their + human nature hold themselves still, and feel that man is at the least + ceaselessly interesting. + </p> + <p> + Winifred sat by the fire and held a council. She called her thoughts + together and gave audience to her suspicions, and her brown eyes were wide + and rather mournful as her counsellors uttered each a word of hope or of + warning. + </p> + <p> + Eustace was out. He had gone to a concert, and had not returned. + </p> + <p> + She was holding a council to decide something in reference to him. + </p> + <p> + The honeymoon weeks had brought her just as far as the question, “Do I + know my husband at all, or is he, so far, a total stranger?” + </p> + <p> + Some people seem to draw near to you as you look at them steadily, others + to recede until they reach the verge of invisibility. Which was Eustace + doing? Did his outline become clearer or more blurred? Was he daily more + definite or more phantasmal? And the members of her council drew near and + whispered their opinions in Winifred’s attentive ears. They were not all + in accord at the first. Pros fought with cons, elbowed them, were hustled + in return. Sometimes there was almost a row, and she had to stretch forth + her hands and hush the tumult. For she desired a calm conclave, although + she was a woman. + </p> + <p> + And the final decision—if, indeed, it could be arrived at that + evening—was important. Love seemed to hang upon it, and all the + sweets of life; and the little wings of Love fluttered anxiously, as the + little wings of a bird flutter when you hold it in the cage of your hands, + prisoning it from its wayward career through the blue shadows of the + summer. + </p> + <p> + For love is not always and for ever instinctive—not even the finest + love. While many women love because they must, whether the thing to be + loved or not loved be carrion or crystal, a child of the gods or an imp of + the devil, others love decisively because they see—perhaps can even + analyze—a beauty that is there in the thing before them. One woman + loves a man simply because he kisses her. Another loves him because he has + won the Victoria Cross. + </p> + <p> + Winifred was not of the women who love because they are kissed. + </p> + <p> + She had accepted Eustace rather impulsively, but she had not married him + quite uncritically. There was something new, different from other men, + about him which attracted her, as well as his good looks—that + prettiness which had peeped out from the white wig in the scarlet nook at + the ball. His oddities at that time she had grown thoroughly to believe + in, and, believing in them, she felt she liked them. She supposed them to + spring, rather like amazing spotted orchids, from the earth of a quaint + nature. Now, after a honeymoon spent among the orchids, she held this + council while the wind blew London into a mood of evening irritation. + </p> + <p> + What was Eustace? + </p> + <p> + How the wind sang over Park Lane! Yet the stars were coming out. + </p> + <p> + What was he? A genius or a clown? A creature to spread a buttered slide or + a man to climb to heaven? A fine, free child of Nature, who did, freshly, + what he would, regardless of the strained discretion of others, or a + futile, scheming hypocrite, screaming after forced puerilities, without + even a finger on the skirts of originality? + </p> + <p> + It was a problem for lonely woman’s debate. Winifred strove to weigh it + well. In Bluebeard’s Chamber Eustace had cut many capers. This activity + she had expected—had even wished for. And at first she had been + amused and entertained by the antics, as one assisting at a good + burlesque, through which, moreover, a piquant love theme runs. But by + degrees she began to feel a certain stiffness in the capers, a + self-consciousness in the antics, or fancied she began to feel it, and + instead of being always amused she became often thoughtful. + </p> + <p> + Whimsicality she loved. Buffoonery she possibly, even probably, could + learn to hate. + </p> + <p> + Of Eustace’s love for her she had no doubt. She was certain of his + affection. But was it worth having? That depended, surely, on the nature + of the man in whom it sprang, from whom it flowed. She wanted to be sure + of that nature; but she acknowledged to herself, as she sat by the fire, + that she was perplexed. Perhaps even that perplexity was merciful. Yet she + wished to sweep it away. She knit her brows moodily, and longed for a + secret divining-rod that would twist to reveal truth in another. For + truth, she thought, is better than hidden water-springs, and a sincerity—even + of stupidity—more lovely than the fountain that gives flowers to the + desert, wild red roses to the weary gold of sands. + </p> + <p> + The wind roared again, howling to poor, shuddering Mayfair, and there came + a step outside. Eustace sprang in upon Winifred’s council, looking like a + gay schoolboy, his cheeks flushed, his lips open to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Dreaming?” he said. + </p> + <p> + She smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “That concert paralyzed me. Too much Beethoven. I wanted Wagner. Beethoven + insists on exalting you, but Wagner lets you revel and feel naughty. + Winnie, d’you hear the wind?” + </p> + <p> + “Could I help it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Does it suggest something to you?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her, and made his expression mischievous, or meant to make + it. She looked up at him, too. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, many things,” she said—“many, many things.” + </p> + <p> + “To me it suggests kites.” + </p> + <p> + “Kites?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’m going to fly one now in the Park. The stars are out. Put on your + hat and come with me.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed all impulse, sparkling to the novelty of the idea. + </p> + <p> + “Well, but———” She hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got one—a beauty, a monster! I noticed the wind was getting up + yesterday. Come!” + </p> + <p> + He pulled at her hand; she obeyed him, not quickly. She put on her hat, a + plain straw, a thick jacket, gloves. Kite-flying in London seemed an odd + notion. Was it lively and entertaining, or merely silly? Which ought it to + be? + </p> + <p> + Eustace shouted to her from the tiny hall. + </p> + <p> + “Hurry!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + The wind yelled beyond the door, and Winifred ran down, beginning to feel + a childish thrill of excitement. Eustace held the kite. It was, indeed, a + white monster, gaily decorated with fluttering scarlet and blue ribbons. + </p> + <p> + “We shall be mobbed,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no one about,” he answered. “The gale frightens people.” + </p> + <p> + He opened the door, and they were out in the crying tempest. The great + clouds flew along the sky like an army in retreat. Some, to Winifred, + seemed soldiers, others baggage-waggons, horses, gun-carriages, rushing + pell-mell for safety. One drooping, tattered cloud she deemed the colours + of a regiment streaming under the stars that peeped out here and there—watching + sentinel eyes, obdurate, till some magic password softened them. + </p> + <p> + As they crossed the road she spoke of her cloud army to Eustace. + </p> + <p> + “This kite’s like a live thing,” was his reply. “It tugs as a fish tugs a + line.” + </p> + <p> + He did not care for the tumult of a far-off world. + </p> + <p> + They entered the Park. It seemed, indeed, strangely deserted. A swaggering + soldier passed them by, going towards the Marble Arch. His spurs clinked; + his long cloak gleamed like a huge pink carnation in the dingy dimness of + the startled night. How he stared with his unintelligent, though bold, + eyes as he saw the kite bounding to be free. + </p> + <p> + Eustace seemed delighted. + </p> + <p> + “That man thinks us mad!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Are we mad?” Winifred asked, surprised at her own strange enjoyment of + the adventure. + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” said Eustace, looking at her narrowly. “You like this + escapade?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “My mask!” he thought, secretly longing to be quietly by the fire sipping + tea and reading <i>Punch</i>. “She loves that.” + </p> + <p> + They were through the trees now, across the broad path, out on the open + lawns. + </p> + <p> + “Now for it!” he shouted, as the wind roared in their faces. + </p> + <p> + He paid out the coils of the thin cord. The white monster skimmed, + struggled near the ground, returned, darted again upward and outward, felt + for the wind’s hands, caught them and sprang, with a mad courage, + star-wards, its gay ribbons flying like coloured birds to mark its course. + But soon they were lost to sight, and only a diminished, ghost-like shadow + leaping against the black showed where the kite beat on to liberty. + </p> + <p> + Eustace ran with the wind, and Winifred followed him. The motion sent an + exultation dancing through her veins, and stirred her blood into a + ferment. The noises in the trees, the galloping music of the airs on their + headlong courses, rang in her ears like clashing bells. She called as she + ran, but never knew what words. She leaped, as if over glorious obstacles. + Her feet danced on the short grass. She had a sudden notion: “I am living + now!” and Eustace had never seemed so near to her. He had an art to find + why children are happy, she thought, because they do little strange + things, coupling mechanical movements, obvious actions that may seem + absurd, with soft flights of the imagination, that wrap their prancings + and their leaps in golden robes, and give to the dull world a glory. The + hoop is their demon enemy, whom they drive before them to destruction. The + kite is a great white bird, whom they hold back for a time from heaven. + Suddenly Winifred longed to feel the bird’s efforts to be free. + </p> + <p> + “Let me have it!” she cried to Eustace, holding out her hands eagerly. “Do + let me!” + </p> + <p> + He was glad to pass the cord to her, being utterly tired of a prank which + he thought idiotic, and he could not understand the light that sprang into + her eyes as she grasped it, and felt the life of the lifeless thing that + soared towards the clouds. + </p> + <p> + For the moment it was more to her—this tugging, scarce visible, + white thing—than all the world of souls. It gave to her the + excitement of battle, the joy of strife. She felt herself a Napoleon with + empires in her hand; a Diana holding eternities, instead of hounds, in + leash. She had quite the children’s idea of kites, the sense of being in + touch with the infinite that enters into baby pleasures, and makes the + remembrance of them live in us when we are old, and have forgotten wild + passions, strange fruitions, that have followed them and faded away for + ever. + </p> + <p> + How the creature tore at her! She fancied she felt the pulsings of its + fly-away heart, beating with energy and great hopes of freedom. And + suddenly, with a call, she opened her hands. Her captive was lost in the + night. + </p> + <p> + In a moment she felt sad, such a foolish sorrow, as a gaoler may feel sad + who has grown to love his prisoner, and sees him smile when the gaping + door gives him again to crime. + </p> + <p> + “It’s gone,” she said to Eustace; “I think it’s glad to go.” + </p> + <p> + “Glad—a kite!” he said. + </p> + <p> + And it struck her that he would have thought it equally sensible if she + had spoken, like Hans Andersen, of the tragedies of a toy-shop or the + Homeric passions of wooden dolls. + </p> + <p> + Then, why had he been prompted by the wind to play the boy if he had none + of the boy’s ardent imagination? + </p> + <p> + They reached Deanery Street, and passed in from the night and the + elements. Eustace shut the door with a sigh of relief. Winifred’s echoing + sigh was of regret. + </p> + <p> + It seemed a listless world—the world inside a lighted London house, + dominated by a pale butler with black side-whiskers and endless + discretion. But Eustace did not feel it so. Winifred knew that beyond hope + of doubt as she stole a glance at his face. He had put off the child—the + buffoon—and looked for the moment a grave, dull young man, naturally + at ease with all the conventions. She could not help saying to herself, as + she went to her room to live with hairpins and her lady’s-maid: “I believe + he hated it all!” + </p> + <p> + From that night of kite-flying Winifred felt differently towards her + husband. She was of the comparatively rare women who hate pretence even in + another woman, but especially in a man. The really eccentric she was not + afraid of—could even love, being a searcher after the new and + strange, like so many modern pilgrims. But pinchbeck eccentricity—Brummagem + originalities—gave to her views of the poverty of poor human nature + leading her to a depression not un-tinged with contempt. + </p> + <p> + And the fantasies of Eustace became more violent and more continuous as he + began to note the lassitude which gradually crept into her intercourse + with him. London rang with them. At one time he pretended to a strange + passion for death; prayed to a skull which grinned in a shrine raised for + it in his dressing-room; lay down each day in a coffin, and asked Winifred + to close it and scatter earth upon the lid, that he might realize the end + towards which we journey. He talked of silence, long and loudly—an + irony which Winifred duly noted—sneered at the fleeting phantoms in + the show of existence, called the sobbing of women, the laughter of men, + sounds as arid as the whizz of a cracker let off by a child on the fifth + of November. + </p> + <p> + “We should kill our feelings,” he said. “They make us absurd. Life should + be a breathing calm, as death is a breathless calm.” + </p> + <p> + The calm descending upon Winifred was of the benumbing order. + </p> + <p> + Later he recoiled from this coquetting with the destroyer. + </p> + <p> + “After all,” he said, “which of us does not feel himself eternal, exempt + from the penalty of the race? You don’t believe that you will ever die, + Winifred?” + </p> + <p> + “I know it,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but you don’t believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “You think knowledge less real than belief? Perhaps it is. But I, at + least, hope that some day I shall die. To live on here for ever would be + like staying eternally at a party. After all, when one has danced, and + supped, and flirted, and wondered at the gowns, and praised the flowers, + and touched the hand of one’s hostess, and swung round in a final gallop, + and said how much one has enjoyed it all—one wants to go home.” + </p> + <p> + “Does one?” Eustace said. “Home you call it!” + </p> + <p> + He shuddered. + </p> + <p> + “I call it what I want it to be, what I think it may be, what the poor and + the weary and the fallen make it in their lonely thoughts. Let us, at + least, hope that we travel towards the east, where the sun is.” + </p> + <p> + “You have strange fancies,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I! Not so strange as yours.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him in the eyes as she spoke. He wondered what that look + meant. It seemed to him a menace. + </p> + <p> + “I must keep it up—I must keep it up,” he murmured to himself as he + left the room. “Winifred loves fancies—loves me for what she thinks + mine.” + </p> + <p> + He went to his library, and sat down heavily, to devise fresh outrages on + the ordinary. + </p> + <p> + His pranks became innumerable, and Society called him the most original + figure of London. The papers quoted him—his doings, not his sayings. + People pointed him out in the Park. His celebrity waxed. Even the Marble + Arch seemed turning to gaze after him as he went by, showing the + observation which the imaginative think into inanimate things. + </p> + <p> + At least, so a wag declared. + </p> + <p> + And Winifred bore it, but with an increasing impatience. + </p> + <p> + At this time, too, a strange need of protection crept over her, the + yearning for man’s beautiful, dog-like sympathy that watches woman in her + grand dark hour before she blooms into motherhood. When she knew the + truth, she resolved to tell Eustace, and she came into his room softly, + with shining eyes. He was sitting reading the Financial News in a nimbus + of cigarette smoke, secretly glorying in his momentary immunity from the + prison rules of the fantastic. Winifred’s entry was as that of a warder. + He sprang up laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Winnie,” he said, “I think I am going to South Africa.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” she said in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; to give acrobatic performances in the street, and so pave the way to + a position as a millionaire. Who ever heard of a man rising from a + respectable competence to a fortune? According to the papers, you must + start with nothing; that is the first rule of the game. We have ten + thousand a year, so we can never hope to be rich. Fortune only favours the + pauper. I am mad about money to-day. I can think of nothing else.” + </p> + <p> + And he began showing her conjuring tricks with sovereigns which he drew + from his pockets. + </p> + <p> + She did not tell him that day. And when she told him, it was without + apparent emotion. She seemed merely stating coldly a physical fact, not + breathing out a beautiful secret of her soul and his, a consecrated wonder + to shake them both, and bind them together as two flowers are bound in the + centre of a bouquet, the envy of the other flowers. + </p> + <p> + “Eustace,” she said, and her eyes were clear and her hands were still, “I + think I ought to tell you—we shall have a child.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was unwavering as a doctor’s which pronounces, “You have the + influenza.” She stood there before him. + </p> + <p> + “Winifred!” he cried, looking up. His impulse was to say, “Wife! My + Winifred!” to take her in his arms as any clerk might take his little + middle-class spouse, to kiss her lips, and, in doing it, fancy he drew + near to the prison in which every soul eternally dwells on earth. Finely + human he felt, as the dullest, the most unknown, the plainest, the most + despised, may feel, thank God! “Winifred!” he cried. And then he stopped, + with the shooting thought, “Even now I must be what she thinks me, what + she perhaps loves me for.” + </p> + <p> + She stood there silently waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Toys!” he exclaimed. “Toys have always been my besetting sin. Now I will + make a grand collection, not for the Pope, as people pretend, but for our + family. You will have two children to laugh at, Winnie. Your husband is + one, you know.” He sprang up. “I’ll go into the Strand,” he said. “There’s + a man near the Temple who has always got some delightful novelty + displaying its paces on the pavement. What fun!” + </p> + <p> + And off he went, leaving Winifred alone with the mystery of her woman’s + world, the mystic mystery of birth that may dawn out of hate as out of + love, out of drunken dissipation as out of purity’s sweet climax. + </p> + <p> + Next day a paragraph in the papers told how Mr. Eustace Lane had bought up + all the penny toys of the Strand. Mention was again made of his supposed + mission to the Vatican, and a picture drawn of the bewilderment of the + Holy Father, roused from contemplation of the eternal to contemplation of + jumping pasteboard, and the frigid gestures of people from the world of <i>papier-mache</i>. + </p> + <p> + Eustace showed the paragraph to Winifred. + </p> + <p> + “Why will they chronicle all I do?” he said, with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Would you rather they did not?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if it amuses them,” he answered. “To amuse the world is to be its + benefactor.” + </p> + <p> + “No, to comfort the world,” was Winifred’s silent thought. . + </p> + <p> + To her the world often seemed a weary invalid, playing cards on the + coverlet of the bed from which it longed in vain to move, peeping with + heavy eyes at the shrouded windows of its chamber, and listening for faint + sounds from without—soft songs, soft murmurings, the breath of + winds, the sigh of showers; then turning with a smothered groan to its + cards again, its lengthy game of “Patience.” Clubs, spades, hearts, + diamonds—there they all lay on the coverlet ready to the hands of + the invalid. But she wanted to take them away, and give to the sufferer a + prayer and a hope. + </p> + <p> + At this period she was often full of a vague, chaotic tenderness, + far-reaching, yet indefinite. She could rather have kissed the race than a + person. + </p> + <p> + And so the days went by, Winifred in a dream of wonder, Eustace in the + toy-shops. + </p> + <p> + Until the birthday dawned and faded. + </p> + <p> + All through that day Eustace was in agony. He did not care so much for the + child, but he loved the mother. Her danger tore at his heart. Her pain + smote him, till he seemed to feel it actually and physically. That she was + giving him something was naught to him; that she might be taken away in + the giving was everything. And when he learnt that all was well, he cried + and prayed, and thought to himself afterwards, “If Winifred could know + what I am like, what I have done to-day, how would it strike her?” + </p> + <p> + She did not know; for when at length Eustace was admitted to her room, he + trained himself to murmur, “A girl, that’s lucky because of all the dolls. + The Pope sha’n’t have even one now.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred lay back white on her pillow, and a little frown travelled across + her face. If Eustace had just kissed her, and she had felt a tear of his + on her face, and he had said nothing, she could have loved him then as a + father, perhaps, more than as a husband. His allusion to the supposed + Papal absurdity disgusted her at such a time, only faintly, because of her + weakness, but distinctly, and in a way to be remembered. + </p> + <p> + She recovered; but just as the child was beginning to smile, and to + express an approbation of life by murmurous gurglings, an infantile + disease gripped it, held it, would not release it. And Winifred knelt + beside it, dead, and thought, with a new and vital horror, of the invalid + world playing cards upon the drawn coverlet of its bed. Baby was outside + that chamber now, beyond the curtained windows, outside in sun or shower + that she could not see, could only dream of, while the game of “Patience” + went on and on. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. + </h2> + <p> + The death of the child meant more to Winifred than she would at first + acknowledge even to herself. Almost unconsciously she had looked forward + to its birth as to a release from bondage. There are moments when a duet + is gaol, a trio comparative liberty. The child, the tiny intruder into + youthful married life, may come in the guise of an imp or of a good fairy: + one to cloud the perfect and complete joy of two, or one to give sunlight + to their nascent weariness and dissatisfaction. Or, again, it may be + looked for with longing by one of two lovers, with apprehension by the + other. Only when it lay dead did Winifred understand that Eustace was to + her a stranger, and that she was lonely alone with him. The “Au revoir” of + two bodies may be sweet, but the “Au revoir” of two minds is generally but + a hypocritical or sarcastic rendering of the tragic word “Adieu.” + Winifred’s mind cried “Au revoir” to the mind of Eustace, to his nature, + to his love, but deep in her soul trembled the minor music, the shuddering + discord, of “Adieu.” Adieu to the body of child; adieu more complete, more + eternal, to the soul of husband. Which good bye was the stranger? She + stood as at cross-roads, and watched, with hand-shaded eyes, the tiny, + wayward babe dwindling on its journey to heaven; the man she had married + dwindling on his journey—whither? And the one she had a full hope of + meeting again, but the other—— + </p> + <p> + After the funeral the Lanes took up once more the old dual life which had + been momentarily interrupted. Had it not been for the interruption, + Winifred fancied that she might not have awakened to the full knowledge of + her own feelings towards Eustace until a much later period. But the baby’s + birth, existence, passing away, were a blow upon the gate of life from the + vague without. She had opened the gate, caught a glimpse of the shadowy + land of the possible. And to do that is often to realize in a flash the + impossibility of one’s individual fate. So many of us manage to live + ignorantly all our days and to call ourselves happy. Winifred could never + live quite ignorantly again. + </p> + <p> + To Eustace the interruption meant much less. So long as he had Winifred he + could not feel that any of his dreams hung altogether in tatters. + Sometimes, it is true, he contemplated the penny toys, and had a moment of + quaint, not unpleasant regret, half forming the thought, Why do we ever + trouble ourselves to prepare happiness for others, when happiness is a + word of a thousand meanings? As often as not, to do so is to set a dinner + of many courses and many wines before an unknown guest, who proves to be + vegetarian and teetotaler, after all. + </p> + <p> + “What shall I do with the toys?” he asked Winifred one day. + </p> + <p> + “The toys? Oh, give them to a children’s hospital,” she said, and her + voice had a harsh note in it. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered, after a moment’s reflection; “I’ll keep them and play + with them myself; you know I love toys.” + </p> + <p> + And on the following Sunday, when many callers came to Deanery Street, + they found him in the drawing-room, playing with a Noah’s ark. Red, green, + violet, and azure elephants, antelopes, zebras, and pigs processed along + the carpet, guided by an orange-coloured Noah in a purple top-hat, and a + perfect parterre of sons and wives. The fixed anxiety of their painted + faces suggested that they were in apprehension of the flood, but their + rigid attitudes implied trust in the Unseen. + </p> + <p> + Winifred’s face that day seemed changed to those who knew her best. To one + man, a soldier who had admired her greatly before her marriage, and\who + had seen no reason to change his opinion of her since, she was more + cordial than usual, and he went away curiously meditating on the mystery + of women. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened to Mrs. Lane?” he thought to himself as he walked down + Park Lane. “That last look of hers at me, when I was by the door, going, + was—yes, I’ll swear it—Regent Street. And yet Winnie Lane is + the purest—I’m hanged if I can make out women! Anyhow, I’ll go there + again. People say she and that fantastic ass she’s married are devoted. + H’m!” He went to Pall Mall, and sat staring at nothing in his Club till + seven, deep in the mystery of the female sex. + </p> + <p> + And he went again to Deanery Street to see whether the vision of Regent + Street was deceptive, and came away wondering and hoping. From this time + the vagaries of Eustace Lane became more incessant, more flamboyant, than + ever, and Mrs. Lane was perpetually in society. If it would not have been + true to say, conventionally, that no party was complete without her, yet + it certainly seemed, from this time, that she was incomplete without a + party. She was the starving wolf after the sledge in which sat the gay + world. If the sledge escaped her, she was left to face darkness, snow, + wintry winds, loneliness. In London do we not often hear the dismal + howling of the wolves, suggesting steppes of the heart frigid as Siberia? + </p> + <p> + Eustace grew uneasy, for Winifred seemed eluding him in this maze of + entertainments. He could not impress the personality of his mask upon her + vitally when she moved perpetually in the pantomime processions of + society, surrounded by grotesques, mimes, dancers, and deformities. + </p> + <p> + “We are scarcely ever alone, Winnie,” he said to her one day. + </p> + <p> + “You must learn to love me in a crowd,” she answered. “Human nature can + love even God in isolation, but the man who can love God in the world is + the true Christian.” + </p> + <p> + “I can love you anywhere,” he said. “But you———” And + then he stopped and quickly readjusted his mask which was slipping off. + </p> + <p> + From that day he monotonously accentuated his absurdities. All London rang + with them. He was the Court Fool of Mayfair, the buffoon of the inner + circles of the Metropolis, and, by degrees, his painted fame, jangling the + bells in its cap, spun about England in a dervish dance, till Peckham + whispered of him, and even the remotest suburbs crowned him with parsley + and hung upon his doings. All the blooming flowers of notoriety were his, + to hug in his arms as he stood upon his platform bowing to the general + applause. His shrine in <i>Vanity Fair</i> was surely being prepared. But + he scarcely thought of this, being that ordinary, ridiculous, middle-class + thing, an immoderately loving husband, insane enough to worship + romantically the woman to whom he was unromantically tied by the law of + his country. With each new fantasy he hoped to win back that which he had + lost. Each joke was the throw of a desperate gamester, each tricky + invention a stake placed on the number that would never turn up. That wild + time of his career was humorous to the world, how tragic to himself we can + only wonder. He spread wings like a bird, flew hither and thither as if a + vagrant for pure joy and the pleasure of movement, darted and poised, + circled and sailed, but all the time his heart cried aloud for a nest and + Winifred. Yet he wooed her only silently by his follies, and set her each + day farther and farther from him. + </p> + <p> + And she—how she hated his notoriety, and was sick with weariness + when voices told her of his escapades, modulating themselves to wondering + praise. Long ago she had known that Eustace sinned against his own nature, + but she had never loved him quite enough to discover what that nature + really was. And now she had no desire to find out. He was only her husband + and the least of all men to her. + </p> + <p> + The Lanes sat at breakfast one morning and took up their letters. Winifred + sipped her tea, and opened one or two carelessly. They were invitations. + Then she tore, the envelope of a third, and, as she read it, forgot to sip + her tea. Presently she laid it down slowly. Eustace was looking at her. + </p> + <p> + “Winifred,” he said, “I have got a letter from the editor of <i>Vanity + Fair</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “He wishes me to permit a caricature of myself to appear in his pages.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred’s fingers closed sharply on the letter she had just been reading. + A decision of hers in regard to the writer of it was hanging in the + balance, though Eustace did not know it. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Eustace, inquiring of her silence. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to reply?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I am wondering.” + </p> + <p> + She chipped an eggshell and took a bit of dry toast. + </p> + <p> + “All those who appear in <i>Vanity Fair</i> are celebrated, aren’t they?” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so,” Eustace said. + </p> + <p> + “For many different things.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you refuse the editor’s request?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why I should.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. Tell me when you have written to him, and what you have written, + Eustace.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Winnie, I will.” + </p> + <p> + Later on in the day he came up to her boudoir, and said to her: + </p> + <p> + “I have told him I am quite willing to have my caricature in his paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Your portrait,” she said. “All right. Leave me now, Eustace; I have some + writing to do.” + </p> + <p> + As soon as he had gone she sat down and wrote a short letter, which she + posted herself. + </p> + <p> + A month later Eustace came bounding up the stairs to find her. + </p> + <p> + “Winnie, Winnie!” he called. “Where are you? I’ve something to show you.” + </p> + <p> + He held a newspaper in his hand. Winifred was not in the room. Eustace + rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Mrs. Lane?” he asked of the footman who answered it. + </p> + <p> + “Gone out, sir,” the man answered. + </p> + <p> + “And not back yet? It’s very late,” said Eustace, looking at his watch. + </p> + <p> + The time was a quarter to eight. They were dining at half-past. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder where she is,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + Then he sat down and gazed at a cartoon which represented a thin man with + a preternaturally pale face, legs like sticks, and drooping hands full of + toys—himself. Beneath it was written, “His aim is to amuse.” + </p> + <p> + He turned a page, and read, for the third or fourth time, the following: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Eustace Lane. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Eustace Bernhard Lane, only son of Mr. Merton Lane, of Carlton House + Terrace, was born in London twenty-eight years ago. He is married to one + of the belles of the day, and is probably the most envied husband in town. + </p> + <p> + “Although he is such a noted figure in society, Mr. Eustace Lane has never + done any conspicuously good or bad deed. He has neither invented a bicycle + nor written a novel, neither lost a seat in Parliament, nor found a mine + in South Africa. Careless of elevating the world, he has been content to + entertain it, to make it laugh, or to make it wonder. His aim is to amuse, + and his whole-souled endeavour to succeed in this ambition has gained him + the entire respect of the frivolous. What more could man desire?” + </p> + <p> + As he finished there came a ring at the hall-door bell. + </p> + <p> + “Winifred!” he exclaimed, and jumped up with the paper in his hand. + </p> + <p> + In a moment the footman entered with a note. + </p> + <p> + “A boy messenger has just brought this, sir,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Eustace took it, and, as the man went out and shut the door, opened it, + and read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Victoria Station. + + “This is to say good-bye. By the time it reaches you I + shall have left London. Not alone. I have seen the cartoon. + It is very like you. + Winifred.” + </pre> + <p> + Eustace sank down in a chair. + </p> + <p> + On the table at his elbow lay <i>Vanity Fair</i>. Mechanically he looked + at it, and read once more the words beneath his picture, “His aim is to + amuse.” + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Folly Of Eustace, by Robert S. 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