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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Greville Fane, by Henry James
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
+other parts of the world 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.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
+to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
+
+
+
+
+Title: Greville Fane
+
+
+Author: Henry James
+
+
+
+Release Date: February 15, 2015  [eBook #2719]
+[This file was first posted on July 3, 2000]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREVILLE FANE***
+
+
+Transcribed from 1893 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
+ccx074@pglaf.org.  Proofed by Nina Hall, Mohua Sen, Bridie, Francine
+Smith and David.
+
+
+
+
+
+                              GREVILLE FANE.
+
+
+COMING in to dress for dinner, I found a telegram: “Mrs. Stormer dying;
+can you give us half a column for to-morrow evening?  Let her off easy,
+but not too easy.”  I was late; I was in a hurry; I had very little time
+to think, but at a venture I dispatched a reply: “Will do what I can.”
+It was not till I had dressed and was rolling away to dinner that, in the
+hansom, I bethought myself of the difficulty of the condition attached.
+The difficulty was not of course in letting her off easy but in
+qualifying that indulgence.  “I simply won’t qualify it,” I said to
+myself.  I didn’t admire her, but I liked her, and I had known her so
+long that I almost felt heartless in sitting down at such an hour to a
+feast of indifference.  I must have seemed abstracted, for the early
+years of my acquaintance with her came back to me.  I spoke of her to the
+lady I had taken down, but the lady I had taken down had never heard of
+Greville Fane.  I tried my other neighbour, who pronounced her books “too
+vile.”  I had never thought them very good, but I should let her off
+easier than that.
+
+I came away early, for the express purpose of driving to ask about her.
+The journey took time, for she lived in the north-west district, in the
+neighbourhood of Primrose Hill.  My apprehension that I should be too
+late was justified in a fuller sense than I had attached to it—I had only
+feared that the house would be shut up.  There were lights in the
+windows, and the temperate tinkle of my bell brought a servant
+immediately to the door, but poor Mrs. Stormer had passed into a state in
+which the resonance of no earthly knocker was to be feared.  A lady, in
+the hall, hovering behind the servant, came forward when she heard my
+voice.  I recognised Lady Luard, but she had mistaken me for the doctor.
+
+“Excuse my appearing at such an hour,” I said; “it was the first possible
+moment after I heard.”
+
+“It’s all over,” Lady Luard replied.  “Dearest mamma!”
+
+She stood there under the lamp with her eyes on me; she was very tall,
+very stiff, very cold, and always looked as if these things, and some
+others beside, in her dress, her manner and even her name, were an
+implication that she was very admirable.  I had never been able to follow
+the argument, but that is a detail.  I expressed briefly and frankly what
+I felt, while the little mottled maidservant flattened herself against
+the wall of the narrow passage and tried to look detached without looking
+indifferent.  It was not a moment to make a visit, and I was on the point
+of retreating when Lady Luard arrested me with a queer, casual, drawling
+“Would you—a—would you, perhaps, be _writing_ something?”  I felt for the
+instant like an interviewer, which I was not.  But I pleaded guilty to
+this intention, on which she rejoined: “I’m so very glad—but I think my
+brother would like to see you.”  I detested her brother, but it wasn’t an
+occasion to act this out; so I suffered myself to be inducted, to my
+surprise, into a small back room which I immediately recognised as the
+scene, during the later years, of Mrs. Stormer’s imperturbable industry.
+Her table was there, the battered and blotted accessory to innumerable
+literary lapses, with its contracted space for the arms (she wrote only
+from the elbow down) and the confusion of scrappy, scribbled sheets which
+had already become literary remains.  Leolin was also there, smoking a
+cigarette before the fire and looking impudent even in his grief, sincere
+as it well might have been.
+
+To meet him, to greet him, I had to make a sharp effort; for the air that
+he wore to me as he stood before me was quite that of his mother’s
+murderer.  She lay silent for ever upstairs—as dead as an unsuccessful
+book, and his swaggering erectness was a kind of symbol of his having
+killed her.  I wondered if he had already, with his sister, been
+calculating what they could get for the poor papers on the table; but I
+had not long to wait to learn, for in reply to the scanty words of
+sympathy I addressed him he puffed out: “It’s miserable, miserable, yes;
+but she has left three books complete.”  His words had the oddest effect;
+they converted the cramped little room into a seat of trade and made the
+“book” wonderfully feasible.  He would certainly get all that could be
+got for the three.  Lady Luard explained to me that her husband had been
+with them but had had to go down to the House.  To her brother she
+explained that I was going to write something, and to me again she made
+it clear that she hoped I would “do mamma justice.”  She added that she
+didn’t think this had ever been done.  She said to her brother: “Don’t
+you think there are some things he ought thoroughly to understand?” and
+on his instantly exclaiming “Oh, thoroughly—thoroughly!” she went on,
+rather austerely: “I mean about mamma’s birth.”
+
+“Yes, and her connections,” Leolin added.
+
+I professed every willingness, and for five minutes I listened, but it
+would be too much to say that I understood.  I don’t even now, but it is
+not important.  My vision was of other matters than those they put before
+me, and while they desired there should be no mistake about their
+ancestors I became more and more lucid about themselves.  I got away as
+soon as possible, and walked home through the great dusky, empty
+London—the best of all conditions for thought.  By the time I reached my
+door my little article was practically composed—ready to be transferred
+on the morrow from the polished plate of fancy.  I believe it attracted
+some notice, was thought “graceful” and was said to be by some one else.
+I had to be pointed without being lively, and it took some tact.  But
+what I said was much less interesting than what I thought—especially
+during the half-hour I spent in my armchair by the fire, smoking the
+cigar I always light before going to bed.  I went to sleep there, I
+believe; but I continued to moralise about Greville Fane.  I am reluctant
+to lose that retrospect altogether, and this is a dim little memory of
+it, a document not to “serve.”  The dear woman had written a hundred
+stories, but none so curious as her own.
+
+When first I knew her she had published half-a-dozen fictions, and I
+believe I had also perpetrated a novel.  She was more than a dozen years
+older than I, but she was a person who always acknowledged her
+relativity.  It was not so very long ago, but in London, amid the big
+waves of the present, even a near horizon gets hidden.  I met her at some
+dinner and took her down, rather flattered at offering my arm to a
+celebrity.  She didn’t look like one, with her matronly, mild, inanimate
+face, but I supposed her greatness would come out in her conversation.  I
+gave it all the opportunities I could, but I was not disappointed when I
+found her only a dull, kind woman.  This was why I liked her—she rested
+me so from literature.  To myself literature was an irritation, a
+torment; but Greville Fane slumbered in the intellectual part of it like
+a Creole in a hammock.  She was not a woman of genius, but her faculty
+was so special, so much a gift out of hand, that I have often wondered
+why she fell below that distinction.  This was doubtless because the
+transaction, in her case, had remained incomplete; genius always pays for
+the gift, feels the debt, and she was placidly unconscious of obligation.
+She could invent stories by the yard, but she couldn’t write a page of
+English.  She went down to her grave without suspecting that though she
+had contributed volumes to the diversion of her contemporaries she had
+not contributed a sentence to the language.  This had not prevented
+bushels of criticism from being heaped upon her head; she was worth a
+couple of columns any day to the weekly papers, in which it was shown
+that her pictures of life were dreadful but her style really charming.
+She asked me to come and see her, and I went.  She lived then in
+Montpellier Square; which helped me to see how dissociated her
+imagination was from her character.
+
+An industrious widow, devoted to her daily stint, to meeting the butcher
+and baker and making a home for her son and daughter, from the moment she
+took her pen in her hand she became a creature of passion.  She thought
+the English novel deplorably wanting in that element, and the task she
+had cut out for herself was to supply the deficiency.  Passion in high
+life was the general formula of this work, for her imagination was at
+home only in the most exalted circles.  She adored, in truth, the
+aristocracy, and they constituted for her the romance of the world or,
+what is more to the point, the prime material of fiction.  Their beauty
+and luxury, their loves and revenges, their temptations and surrenders,
+their immoralities and diamonds were as familiar to her as the blots on
+her writing-table.  She was not a belated producer of the old fashionable
+novel, she had a cleverness and a modernness of her own, she had
+freshened up the fly-blown tinsel.  She turned off plots by the hundred
+and—so far as her flying quill could convey her—was perpetually going
+abroad.  Her types, her illustrations, her tone were nothing if not
+cosmopolitan.  She recognised nothing less provincial than European
+society, and her fine folk knew each other and made love to each other
+from Doncaster to Bucharest.  She had an idea that she resembled Balzac,
+and her favourite historical characters were Lucien de Rubempré and the
+Vidame de Pamiers.  I must add that when I once asked her who the latter
+personage was she was unable to tell me.  She was very brave and healthy
+and cheerful, very abundant and innocent and wicked.  She was clever and
+vulgar and snobbish, and never so intensely British as when she was
+particularly foreign.
+
+This combination of qualities had brought her early success, and I
+remember having heard with wonder and envy of what she “got,” in those
+days, for a novel.  The revelation gave me a pang: it was such a proof
+that, practising a totally different style, I should never make my
+fortune.  And yet when, as I knew her better she told me her real tariff
+and I saw how rumour had quadrupled it, I liked her enough to be sorry.
+After a while I discovered too that if she got less it was not that _I_
+was to get any more.  My failure never had what Mrs. Stormer would have
+called the banality of being relative—it was always admirably absolute.
+She lived at ease however in those days—ease is exactly the word, though
+she produced three novels a year.  She scorned me when I spoke of
+difficulty—it was the only thing that made her angry.  If I hinted that a
+work of art required a tremendous licking into shape she thought it a
+pretension and a _pose_.  She never recognised the “torment of form”; the
+furthest she went was to introduce into one of her books (in satire her
+hand was heavy) a young poet who was always talking about it.  I couldn’t
+quite understand her irritation on this score, for she had nothing at
+stake in the matter.  She had a shrewd perception that form, in prose at
+least, never recommended any one to the public we were condemned to
+address, and therefore she lost nothing (putting her private humiliation
+aside) by not having any.  She made no pretence of producing works of
+art, but had comfortable tea-drinking hours in which she freely confessed
+herself a common pastrycook, dealing in such tarts and puddings as would
+bring customers to the shop.  She put in plenty of sugar and of
+cochineal, or whatever it is that gives these articles a rich and
+attractive colour.  She had a serene superiority to observation and
+opportunity which constituted an inexpugnable strength and would enable
+her to go on indefinitely.  It is only real success that wanes, it is
+only solid things that melt.  Greville Fane’s ignorance of life was a
+resource still more unfailing than the most approved receipt.  On her
+saying once that the day would come when she should have written herself
+out I answered: “Ah, you look into fairyland, and the fairies love you,
+and _they_ never change.  Fairyland is always there; it always was from
+the beginning of time, and it always will be to the end.  They’ve given
+you the key and you can always open the door.  With me it’s different; I
+try, in my clumsy way, to be in some direct relation to life.”  “Oh,
+bother your direct relation to life!” she used to reply, for she was
+always annoyed by the phrase—which would not in the least prevent her
+from using it when she wished to try for style.  With no more prejudices
+than an old sausage-mill, she would give forth again with patient
+punctuality any poor verbal scrap that had been dropped into her.  I
+cheered her with saying that the dark day, at the end, would be for the
+like of _me_; inasmuch as, going in our small way by experience and
+observation, we depended not on a revelation, but on a little tiresome
+process.  Observation depended on opportunity, and where should we be
+when opportunity failed?
+
+One day she told me that as the novelist’s life was so delightful and
+during the good years at least such a comfortable support (she had these
+staggering optimisms) she meant to train up her boy to follow it.  She
+took the ingenious view that it was a profession like another and that
+therefore everything was to be gained by beginning young and serving an
+apprenticeship.  Moreover the education would be less expensive than any
+other special course, inasmuch as she could administer it herself.  She
+didn’t profess to keep a school, but she could at least teach her own
+child.  It was not that she was so very clever, but (she confessed to me
+as if she were afraid I would laugh at her) that _he_ was.  I didn’t
+laugh at her for that, for I thought the boy sharp—I had seen him at
+sundry times.  He was well grown and good-looking and unabashed, and both
+he and his sister made me wonder about their defunct papa, concerning
+whom the little I knew was that he had been a clergyman.  I explained
+them to myself by suppositions and imputations possibly unjust to the
+departed; so little were they—superficially at least—the children of
+their mother.  There used to be, on an easel in her drawing-room, an
+enlarged photograph of her husband, done by some horrible posthumous
+“process” and draped, as to its florid frame, with a silken scarf, which
+testified to the candour of Greville Fane’s bad taste.  It made him look
+like an unsuccessful tragedian; but it was not a thing to trust.  He may
+have been a successful comedian.  Of the two children the girl was the
+elder, and struck me in all her younger years as singularly colourless.
+She was only very long, like an undecipherable letter.  It was not till
+Mrs. Stormer came back from a protracted residence abroad that Ethel
+(which was this young lady’s name) began to produce the effect, which was
+afterwards remarkable in her, of a certain kind of high resolution.  She
+made one apprehend that she meant to do something for herself.  She was
+long-necked and near-sighted and striking, and I thought I had never seen
+sweet seventeen in a form so hard and high and dry.  She was cold and
+affected and ambitious, and she carried an eyeglass with a long handle,
+which she put up whenever she wanted not to see.  She had come out, as
+the phrase is, immensely; and yet I felt as if she were surrounded with a
+spiked iron railing.  What she meant to do for herself was to marry, and
+it was the only thing, I think, that she meant to do for any one else;
+yet who would be inspired to clamber over that bristling barrier?  What
+flower of tenderness or of intimacy would such an adventurer conceive as
+his reward?
+
+This was for Sir Baldwin Luard to say; but he naturally never confided to
+me the secret.  He was a joyless, jokeless young man, with the air of
+having other secrets as well, and a determination to get on politically
+that was indicated by his never having been known to commit himself—as
+regards any proposition whatever—beyond an exclamatory “Oh!”  His wife
+and he must have conversed mainly in prim ejaculations, but they
+understood sufficiently that they were kindred spirits.  I remember being
+angry with Greville Fane when she announced these nuptials to me as
+magnificent; I remember asking her what splendour there was in the union
+of the daughter of a woman of genius with an irredeemable mediocrity.
+“Oh! he’s awfully clever,” she said; but she blushed for the maternal
+fib.  What she meant was that though Sir Baldwin’s estates were not vast
+(he had a dreary house in South Kensington and a still drearier “Hall”
+somewhere in Essex, which was let), the connection was a “smarter” one
+than a child of hers could have aspired to form.  In spite of the social
+bravery of her novels she took a very humble and dingy view of herself,
+so that of all her productions “my daughter Lady Luard” was quite the one
+she was proudest of.  That personage thought her mother very vulgar and
+was distressed and perplexed by the occasional license of her pen, but
+had a complicated attitude in regard to this indirect connection with
+literature.  So far as it was lucrative her ladyship approved of it, and
+could compound with the inferiority of the pursuit by doing practical
+justice to some of its advantages.  I had reason to know (my reason was
+simply that poor Mrs. Stormer told me) that she suffered the inky fingers
+to press an occasional bank-note into her palm.  On the other hand she
+deplored the “peculiar style” to which Greville Fane had devoted herself,
+and wondered where an author who had the convenience of so lady-like a
+daughter could have picked up such views about the best society.  “She
+might know better, with Leolin and me,” Lady Luard had been known to
+remark; but it appeared that some of Greville Fane’s superstitions were
+incurable.  She didn’t live in Lady Luard’s society, and the best was not
+good enough for her—she must make it still better.
+
+I could see that this necessity grew upon her during the years she spent
+abroad, when I had glimpses of her in the shifting sojourns that lay in
+the path of my annual ramble.  She betook herself from Germany to
+Switzerland and from Switzerland to Italy; she favoured cheap places and
+set up her desk in the smaller capitals.  I took a look at her whenever I
+could, and I always asked how Leolin was getting on.  She gave me
+beautiful accounts of him, and whenever it was possible the boy was
+produced for my edification.  I had entered from the first into the joke
+of his career—I pretended to regard him as a consecrated child.  It had
+been a joke for Mrs. Stormer at first, but the boy himself had been
+shrewd enough to make the matter serious.  If his mother accepted the
+principle that the intending novelist cannot begin too early to see life,
+Leolin was not interested in hanging back from the application of it.  He
+was eager to qualify himself, and took to cigarettes at ten, on the
+highest literary grounds.  His poor mother gazed at him with extravagant
+envy and, like Desdemona, wished heaven had made _her_ such a man.  She
+explained to me more than once that in her profession she had found her
+sex a dreadful drawback.  She loved the story of Madame George Sand’s
+early rebellion against this hindrance, and believed that if she had worn
+trousers she could have written as well as that lady.  Leolin had for the
+career at least the qualification of trousers, and as he grew older he
+recognised its importance by laying in an immense assortment.  He grew up
+in gorgeous apparel, which was his way of interpreting his mother’s
+system.  Whenever I met her I found her still under the impression that
+she was carrying this system out and that Leolin’s training was bearing
+fruit.  She was giving him experience, she was giving him impressions,
+she was putting a _gagnepain_ into his hand.  It was another name for
+spoiling him with the best conscience in the world.  The queerest
+pictures come back to me of this period of the good lady’s life and of
+the extraordinarily virtuous, muddled, bewildering tenor of it.  She had
+an idea that she was seeing foreign manners as well as her petticoats
+would allow; but, in reality she was not seeing anything, least of all
+fortunately how much she was laughed at.  She drove her whimsical pen at
+Dresden and at Florence, and produced in all places and at all times the
+same romantic and ridiculous fictions.  She carried about her box of
+properties and fished out promptly the familiar, tarnished old puppets.
+She believed in them when others couldn’t, and as they were like nothing
+that was to be seen under the sun it was impossible to prove by
+comparison that they were wrong.  You can’t compare birds and fishes; you
+could only feel that, as Greville Fane’s characters had the fine plumage
+of the former species, human beings must be of the latter.
+
+It would have been droll if it had not been so exemplary to see her
+tracing the loves of the duchesses beside the innocent cribs of her
+children.  The immoral and the maternal lived together in her diligent
+days on the most comfortable terms, and she stopped curling the mustaches
+of her Guardsmen to pat the heads of her babes.  She was haunted by
+solemn spinsters who came to tea from continental _pensions_, and by
+unsophisticated Americans who told her she was just loved in _their_
+country.  “I had rather be just paid there,” she usually replied; for
+this tribute of transatlantic opinion was the only thing that galled her.
+The Americans went away thinking her coarse; though as the author of so
+many beautiful love-stories she was disappointing to most of these
+pilgrims, who had not expected to find a shy, stout, ruddy lady in a cap
+like a crumbled pyramid.  She wrote about the affections and the
+impossibility of controlling them, but she talked of the price of
+_pension_ and the convenience of an English chemist.  She devoted much
+thought and many thousands of francs to the education of her daughter,
+who spent three years at a very superior school at Dresden, receiving
+wonderful instruction in sciences, arts and tongues, and who, taking a
+different line from Leolin, was to be brought up wholly as a _femme du
+monde_.  The girl was musical and philological; she made a specialty of
+languages and learned enough about them to be inspired with a great
+contempt for her mother’s artless accents.  Greville Fane’s French and
+Italian were droll; the imitative faculty had been denied her, and she
+had an unequalled gift, especially pen in hand, of squeezing big mistakes
+into small opportunities.  She knew it, but she didn’t care; correctness
+was the virtue in the world that, like her heroes and heroines, she
+valued least.  Ethel, who had perceived in her pages some remarkable
+lapses, undertook at one time to revise her proofs; but I remember her
+telling me a year after the girl had left school that this function had
+been very briefly exercised.  “She can’t read me,” said Mrs. Stormer; “I
+offend her taste.  She tells me that at Dresden—at school—I was never
+allowed.”  The good lady seemed surprised at this, having the best
+conscience in the world about her lucubrations.  She had never meant to
+fly in the face of anything, and considered that she grovelled before the
+Rhadamanthus of the English literary tribunal, the celebrated and awful
+Young Person.  I assured her, as a joke, that she was frightfully
+indecent (she hadn’t in fact that reality any more than any other) my
+purpose being solely to prevent her from guessing that her daughter had
+dropped her not because she was immoral but because she was vulgar.  I
+used to figure her children closeted together and asking each other while
+they exchanged a gaze of dismay: “Why should she _be_ so—and so
+_fearfully_ so—when she has the advantage of our society?  Shouldn’t _we_
+have taught her better?”  Then I imagined their recognising with a blush
+and a shrug that she was unteachable, irreformable.  Indeed she was, poor
+lady; but it is never fair to read by the light of taste things that were
+not written by it.  Greville Fane had, in the topsy-turvy, a serene good
+faith that ought to have been safe from allusion, like a stutter or a
+_faux pas_.
+
+She didn’t make her son ashamed of the profession to which he was
+destined, however; she only made him ashamed of the way she herself
+exercised it.  But he bore his humiliation much better than his sister,
+for he was ready to take for granted that he should one day restore the
+balance.  He was a canny and far-seeing youth, with appetites and
+aspirations, and he had not a scruple in his composition.  His mother’s
+theory of the happy knack he could pick up deprived him of the wholesome
+discipline required to prevent young idlers from becoming cads.  He had,
+abroad, a casual tutor and a snatch or two of a Swiss school, but no
+consecutive study, no prospect of a university or a degree.  It may be
+imagined with what zeal, as the years went on, he entered into the
+pleasantry of there being no manual so important to him as the massive
+book of life.  It was an expensive volume to peruse, but Mrs. Stormer was
+willing to lay out a sum in what she would have called her _premiers
+frais_.  Ethel disapproved—she thought this education far too
+unconventional for an English gentleman.  Her voice was for Eton and
+Oxford, or for any public school (she would have resigned herself) with
+the army to follow.  But Leolin never was afraid of his sister, and they
+visibly disliked, though they sometimes agreed to assist, each other.
+They could combine to work the oracle—to keep their mother at her desk.
+
+When she came back to England, telling me she had got all the continent
+could give her, Leolin was a broad-shouldered, red-faced young man, with
+an immense wardrobe and an extraordinary assurance of manner.  She was
+fondly obstinate about her having taken the right course with him, and
+proud of all that he knew and had seen.  He was now quite ready to begin,
+and a little while later she told me he _had_ begun.  He had written
+something tremendously clever, and it was coming out in the _Cheapside_.
+I believe it came out; I had no time to look for it; I never heard
+anything about it.  I took for granted that if this contribution had
+passed through his mother’s hands it had practically become a specimen of
+her own genius, and it was interesting to consider Mrs. Stormer’s future
+in the light of her having to write her son’s novels as well as her own.
+This was not the way she looked at it herself; she took the charming
+ground that he would help her to write hers.  She used to tell me that he
+supplied passages of the greatest value to her own work—all sorts of
+technical things, about hunting and yachting and wine—that she couldn’t
+be expected to get very straight.  It was all so much practice for him
+and so much alleviation for her.  I was unable to identify these pages,
+for I had long since ceased to “keep up” with Greville Fane; but I was
+quite able to believe that the wine-question had been put, by Leolin’s
+good offices, on a better footing, for the dear lady used to mix her
+drinks (she was perpetually serving the most splendid suppers) in the
+queerest fashion.  I could see that he was willing enough to accept a
+commission to look after that department.  It occurred to me indeed, when
+Mrs. Stormer settled in England again, that by making a shrewd use of
+both her children she might be able to rejuvenate her style.  Ethel had
+come back to gratify her young ambition, and if she couldn’t take her
+mother into society she would at least go into it herself.  Silently,
+stiffly, almost grimly, this young lady held up her head, clenched her
+long teeth, squared her lean elbows and made her way up the staircases
+she had elected.  The only communication she ever made to me, the only
+effusion of confidence with which she ever honoured me, was when she
+said: “I don’t want to know the people mamma knows; I mean to know
+others.”  I took due note of the remark, for I was not one of the
+“others.”  I couldn’t trace therefore the steps of her process; I could
+only admire it at a distance and congratulate her mother on the results.
+The results were that Ethel went to “big” parties and got people to take
+her.  Some of them were people she had met abroad, and others were people
+whom the people she had met abroad had met.  They ministered alike to
+Miss Ethel’s convenience, and I wondered how she extracted so many
+favours without the expenditure of a smile.  Her smile was the dimmest
+thing in the world, diluted lemonade, without sugar, and she had arrived
+precociously at social wisdom, recognising that if she was neither pretty
+enough nor rich enough nor clever enough, she could at least in her
+muscular youth be rude enough.  Therefore if she was able to tell her
+mother what really took place in the mansions of the great, give her
+notes to work from, the quill could be driven at home to better purpose
+and precisely at a moment when it would have to be more active than ever.
+But if she did tell, it would appear that poor Mrs. Stormer didn’t
+believe.  As regards many points this was not a wonder; at any rate I
+heard nothing of Greville Fane’s having developed a new manner.  She had
+only one manner from start to finish, as Leolin would have said.
+
+She was tired at last, but she mentioned to me that she couldn’t afford
+to pause.  She continued to speak of Leolin’s work as the great hope of
+their future (she had saved no money) though the young man wore to my
+sense an aspect more and more professional if you like, but less and less
+literary.  At the end of a couple of years there was something monstrous
+in the impudence with which he played his part in the comedy.  When I
+wondered how she could play _her_ part I had to perceive that her good
+faith was complete and that what kept it so was simply her extravagant
+fondness.  She loved the young impostor with a simple, blind, benighted
+love, and of all the heroes of romance who had passed before her eyes he
+was by far the most brilliant.
+
+He was at any rate the most real—she could touch him, pay for him, suffer
+for him, worship him.  He made her think of her princes and dukes, and
+when she wished to fix these figures in her mind’s eye she thought of her
+boy.  She had often told me she was carried away by her own creations,
+and she was certainly carried away by Leolin.  He vivified, by
+potentialities at least, the whole question of youth and passion.  She
+held, not unjustly, that the sincere novelist should feel the whole flood
+of life; she acknowledged with regret that she had not had time to feel
+it herself, and it was a joy to her that the deficiency might be supplied
+by the sight of the way it was rushing through this magnificent young
+man.  She exhorted him, I suppose, to let it rush; she wrung her own
+flaccid little sponge into the torrent.  I knew not what passed between
+them in her hours of tuition, but I gathered that she mainly impressed on
+him that the great thing was to live, because that gave you material.  He
+asked nothing better; he collected material, and the formula served as a
+universal pretext.  You had only to look at him to see that, with his
+rings and breastpins, his cross-barred jackets, his early _embonpoint_,
+his eyes that looked like imitation jewels, his various indications of a
+dense, full-blown temperament, his idea of life was singularly vulgar;
+but he was not so far wrong as that his response to his mother’s
+expectations was not in a high degree practical.  If she had imposed a
+profession on him from his tenderest years it was exactly a profession
+that he followed.  The two were not quite the same, inasmuch as _his_ was
+simply to live at her expense; but at least she couldn’t say that he
+hadn’t taken a line.  If she insisted on believing in him he offered
+himself to the sacrifice.  My impression is that her secret dream was
+that he should have a _liaison_ with a countess, and he persuaded her
+without difficulty that he had one.  I don’t know what countesses are
+capable of, but I have a clear notion of what Leolin was.
+
+He didn’t persuade his sister, who despised him—she wished to work her
+mother in her own way, and I asked myself why the girl’s judgment of him
+didn’t make me like her better.  It was because it didn’t save her after
+all from a mute agreement with him to go halves.  There were moments when
+I couldn’t help looking hard into his atrocious young eyes, challenging
+him to confess his fantastic fraud and give it up.  Not a little tacit
+conversation passed between us in this way, but he had always the best of
+it.  If I said: “Oh, come now, with _me_ you needn’t keep it up; plead
+guilty, and I’ll let you off,” he wore the most ingenuous, the most
+candid expression, in the depths of which I could read: “Oh, yes, I know
+it exasperates you—that’s just why I do it.”  He took the line of earnest
+inquiry, talked about Balzac and Flaubert, asked me if I thought Dickens
+_did_ exaggerate and Thackeray _ought_ to be called a pessimist.  Once he
+came to see me, at his mother’s suggestion he declared, on purpose to ask
+me how far, in my opinion, in the English novel, one really might venture
+to “go.”  He was not resigned to the usual pruderies—he suffered under
+them already.  He struck out the brilliant idea that nobody knew how far
+we might go, for nobody had ever tried.  Did I think _he_ might safely
+try—would it injure his mother if he did?  He would rather disgrace
+himself by his timidities than injure his mother, but certainly some one
+ought to try.  Wouldn’t _I_ try—couldn’t I be prevailed upon to look at
+it as a duty?  Surely the ultimate point ought to be fixed—he was
+worried, haunted by the question.  He patronised me unblushingly, made me
+feel like a foolish amateur, a helpless novice, inquired into my habits
+of work and conveyed to me that I was utterly _vieux jeu_ and had not had
+the advantage of an early training.  I had not been brought up from the
+germ, I knew nothing of life—didn’t go at it on _his_ system.  He had
+dipped into French feuilletons and picked up plenty of phrases, and he
+made a much better show in talk than his poor mother, who never had time
+to read anything and could only be vivid with her pen.  If I didn’t kick
+him downstairs it was because he would have alighted on her at the
+bottom.
+
+When she went to live at Primrose Hill I called upon her and found her
+weary and wasted.  It had waned a good deal, the elation caused the year
+before by Ethel’s marriage; the foam on the cup had subsided and there
+was a bitterness in the draught.
+
+She had had to take a cheaper house and she had to work still harder to
+pay even for that.  Sir Baldwin was obliged to be close; his charges were
+fearful, and the dream of her living with her daughter (a vision she had
+never mentioned to me) must be renounced.  “I would have helped with
+things, and I could have lived perfectly in one room,” she said; “I would
+have paid for everything, and—after all—I’m some one, ain’t I?  But I
+don’t fit in, and Ethel tells me there are tiresome people she _must_
+receive.  I can help them from here, no doubt, better than from there.
+She told me once, you know, what she thinks of my picture of life.
+‘Mamma, your picture of life is preposterous!’  No doubt it is, but she’s
+vexed with me for letting my prices go down; and I had to write three
+novels to pay for all her marriage cost me.  I did it very well—I mean
+the outfit and the wedding; but that’s why I’m here.  At any rate she
+doesn’t want a dingy old woman in her house.  I should give it an
+atmosphere of literary glory, but literary glory is only the eminence of
+nobodies.  Besides, she doubts my glory—she knows I’m glorious only at
+Peckham and Hackney.  She doesn’t want her friends to ask if I’ve never
+known nice people.  She can’t tell them I’ve never been in society.  She
+tried to teach me better once, but I couldn’t learn.  It would seem too
+as if Peckham and Hackney had had enough of me; for (don’t tell any one!)
+I’ve had to take less for my last than I ever took for anything.”  I
+asked her how little this had been, not from curiosity, but in order to
+upbraid her, more disinterestedly than Lady Luard had done, for such
+concessions.  She answered “I’m ashamed to tell you,” and then she began
+to cry.
+
+I had never seen her break down, and I was proportionately moved; she
+sobbed, like a frightened child, over the extinction of her vogue and the
+exhaustion of her vein.  Her little workroom seemed indeed a barren place
+to grow flowers, and I wondered, in the after years (for she continued to
+produce and publish) by what desperate and heroic process she dragged
+them out of the soil.  I remember asking her on that occasion what had
+become of Leolin, and how much longer she intended to allow him to amuse
+himself at her cost.  She rejoined with spirit, wiping her eyes, that he
+was down at Brighton hard at work—he was in the midst of a novel—and that
+he _felt_ life so, in all its misery and mystery, that it was cruel to
+speak of such experiences as a pleasure.  “He goes beneath the surface,”
+she said, “and he _forces_ himself to look at things from which he would
+rather turn away.  Do you call that amusing yourself?  You should see his
+face sometimes!  And he does it for me as much as for himself.  He tells
+me everything—he comes home to me with his _trouvailles_.  We are artists
+together, and to the artist all things are pure.  I’ve often heard you
+say so yourself.”  The novel that Leolin was engaged in at Brighton was
+never published, but a friend of mine and of Mrs. Stormer’s who was
+staying there happened to mention to me later that he had seen the young
+apprentice to fiction driving, in a dogcart, a young lady with a very
+pink face.  When I suggested that she was perhaps a woman of title with
+whom he was conscientiously flirting my informant replied: “She is
+indeed, but do you know what her title is?”  He pronounced it—it was
+familiar and descriptive—but I won’t reproduce it here.  I don’t know
+whether Leolin mentioned it to his mother: she would have needed all the
+purity of the artist to forgive him.  I hated so to come across him that
+in the very last years I went rarely to see her, though I knew that she
+had come pretty well to the end of her rope.  I didn’t want her to tell
+me that she had fairly to give her books away—I didn’t want to see her
+cry.  She kept it up amazingly, and every few months, at my club, I saw
+three new volumes, in green, in crimson, in blue, on the book-table that
+groaned with light literature.  Once I met her at the Academy soirée,
+where you meet people you thought were dead, and she vouchsafed the
+information, as if she owed it to me in candour, that Leolin had been
+obliged to recognise insuperable difficulties in the question of _form_,
+he was so fastidious; so that she had now arrived at a definite
+understanding with him (it was such a comfort) that _she_ would do the
+form if he would bring home the substance.  That was now his position—he
+foraged for her in the great world at a salary.  “He’s my ‘devil,’ don’t
+you see? as if I were a great lawyer: he gets up the case and I argue
+it.”  She mentioned further that in addition to his salary he was paid by
+the piece: he got so much for a striking character, so much for a pretty
+name, so much for a plot, so much for an incident, and had so much
+promised him if he would invent a new crime.
+
+“He _has_ invented one,” I said, “and he’s paid every day of his life.”
+
+“What is it?” she asked, looking hard at the picture of the year; “Baby’s
+Tub,” near which we happened to be standing.
+
+I hesitated a moment.  “I myself will write a little story about it, and
+then you’ll see.”
+
+But she never saw; she had never seen anything, and she passed away with
+her fine blindness unimpaired.  Her son published every scrap of
+scribbled paper that could be extracted from her table-drawers, and his
+sister quarrelled with him mortally about the proceeds, which showed that
+she only wanted a pretext, for they cannot have been great.  I don’t know
+what Leolin lives upon, unless it be on a queer lady many years older
+than himself, whom he lately married.  The last time I met him he said to
+me with his infuriating smile: “Don’t you think we can go a little
+further still—just a little?”  _He_ really goes too far.
+
+
+
+
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