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diff --git a/41875-8.txt b/41875-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f288248..0000000 --- a/41875-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7742 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Yellow Book, edited by Henry Harland - -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/license - - -Title: The Yellow Book - An Illustrated Quarterly. Vol. 1, April 1894 - -Editor: Henry Harland - -Release Date: January 19, 2013 [EBook #41875] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YELLOW BOOK *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Carol Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - - - THE YELLOW BOOK - - An Illustrated Quarterly - - Volume I April 1894 - - [Illustration: Magazine Cover] - - London: Elkin Mathews & John Lane - - - - - Contents - - - - - Letterpress - - - I. The Death of the Lion By Henry James _Page_ 7 - - II. Tree-Worship Richard Le Gallienne 57 - - III. A Defence of Cosmetics Max Beerbohm 65 - - IV. Daimonizomenos Arthur Christopher Benson 83 - - V. Irremediable Ella D'Arcy 87 - - VI. The Frontier } - } William Watson 113 - VII. Night on Curbar Edge } - - VIII. A Sentimental Cellar George Saintsbury 119 - - IX. Stella Maris Arthur Symons 129 - - X. Mercedes } - } Henry Harland 135 - XI. A Broken Looking-Glass } - - XII. Alere Flammam } - } Edmund Gosse 153 - XIII. A Dream of November } - - XIV. The Dedication Fred M. Simpson 159 - - XV. A Lost Masterpiece George Egerton 189 - - XVI. Reticence in Literature Arthur Waugh 201 - - XVII. Modern Melodrama Hubert Crackanthorpe 223 - - XVIII. London } - } John Davidson 233 - XIX. Down-a-down } - - XX. The Love-Story of Luigi } Richard Garnett, LL.D. 235 - Tansillo } - - XXI. The Fool's Hour { John Oliver Hobbes } 253 - { and George Moore } - - - - - Pictures - - - I. A Study { By Sir Frederic Leighton, - { P.R.A. _Frontispiece_ - - II. L'Education Sentimentale Aubrey Beardsley _Page_ 55 - - III. Le Puy en Velay Joseph Pennell 63 - - IV. The Old Oxford Music Hall Walter Sickert 85 - - V. Portrait of a Gentleman Will Rothenstein 111 - - VI. The Reflected Faun Laurence Housman 117 - - VII. Night Piece Aubrey Beardsley 127 - - VIII. A Study Sir Frederic Leighton, P.R.A. 133 - - IX. Portrait of a Lady Will Rothenstein 151 - - X. Portrait of Mrs. Patrick } Aubrey Beardsley 157 - Campbell } - - XI. The Head of Minos J. T. Nettleship 187 - - XII. Portrait of a Lady Charles W. Furse 199 - - XIII. A Lady Reading Walter Sickert 221 - - XIV. A Book Plate Aubrey Beardsley 251 - - XV. A Book Plate R. Anning Bell 251 - - - - -[Illustration: - - The Yellow Book - An Illustrated Quarterly - Volume I April 1894 - London: Elkin Mathews - & John Lane - Boston: Copeland & - Day] - - - - - Ballantyne Press - London & Edinburgh - - - - -A Study - - By Sir Frederic Leighton, P.R.A. - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - - -[Illustration: A Study] - - - - -The Death of the Lion - - By Henry James - - - I - -I had simply, I suppose, a change of heart, and it must have begun when -I received my manuscript back from Mr. Pinhorn. Mr. Pinhorn was my -"chief," as he was called in the office: he had accepted the high -mission of bringing the paper up. This was a weekly periodical, and had -been supposed to be almost past redemption when he took hold of it. It -was Mr. Deedy who had let it down so dreadfully--he was never mentioned -in the office now save in connection with that misdemeanour. Young as I -was I had been in a manner taken over from Mr. Deedy, who had been owner -as well as editor; forming part of a promiscuous lot, mainly plant and -office-furniture, which poor Mrs. Deedy, in her bereavement and -depression, parted with at a rough valuation. I could account for my -continuity only on the supposition that I had been cheap. I rather -resented the practice of fathering all flatness on my late protector, -who was in his unhonoured grave; but as I had my way to make I found -matter enough for complacency in being on a "staff." At the same time I -was aware that I was exposed to suspicion as a product of the old -lowering system. This made me feel that I was doubly bound to have -ideas, and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposing to Mr. -Pinhorn that I should lay my lean hands on Neil Paraday. I remember that -he looked at me first as if he had never heard of this celebrity, who -indeed at that moment was by no means in the middle of the heavens; and -even when I had knowingly explained he expressed but little confidence -in the demand for any such matter. When I had reminded him that the -great principle on which we were supposed to work was just to create the -demand we required, he considered a moment and then rejoined: "I see; -you want to write him up." - -"Call it that if you like." - -"And what's your inducement?" - -"Bless my soul--my admiration!" - -Mr. Pinhorn pursed up his mouth. "Is there much to be done with him?" - -"Whatever there is, we should have it all to ourselves, for he hasn't -been touched." - -This argument was effective, and Mr. Pinhorn responded: "Very well, -touch him." Then he added: "But where can you do it?" - -"Under the fifth rib!" I laughed. - -Mr. Pinhorn stared. "Where's that?" - -"You want me to go down and see him?" I inquired, when I had enjoyed his -visible search for this obscure suburb. - -"I don't 'want' anything--the proposal's your own. But you must remember -that that's the way we do things _now_," said Mr. Pinhorn, with another -dig at Mr. Deedy. - -Unregenerate as I was, I could read the queer implications of this -speech. The present owners superior virtue as well as his deeper craft -spoke in his reference to the late editor as one of that baser sort who -deal in false representations. Mr. Deedy would as soon have sent me to -call on Neil Paraday as he would have published a "holiday-number;" but -such scruples presented themselves as mere ignoble thrift to his -successor, whose own sincerity took the form of ringing door-bells and -whose definition of genius was the art of finding people at home. It was -as if Mr. Deedy had published reports without his young men's having, as -Mr. Pinhorn would have said, really been there. I was unregenerate, as I -have hinted, and I was not concerned to straighten out the journalistic -morals of my chief, feeling them indeed to be an abyss over the edge of -which it was better not to peer. Really to be there this time moreover -was a vision that made the idea of writing something subtle about Neil -Paraday only the more inspiring. I would be as considerate as even Mr. -Deedy could have wished, and yet I should be as present as only Mr. -Pinhorn could conceive. My allusion to the sequestered manner in which -Mr. Paraday lived (which had formed part of my explanation, though I -knew of it only by hearsay) was, I could divine, very much what had made -Mr. Pinhorn bite. It struck him as inconsistent with the success of his -paper that any one should be so sequestered as that. Moreover, was not -an immediate exposure of everything just what the public wanted? Mr. -Pinhorn effectually called me to order by reminding me of the promptness -with which I had met Miss Braby at Liverpool, on her return from her -fiasco in the States. Hadn't we published, while its freshness and -flavour were unimpaired, Miss Braby's own version of that great -international episode? I felt somewhat uneasy at this coupling of the -actress and the author, and I confess that after having enlisted Mr. -Pinhorn's sympathies I procrastinated a little. I had succeeded better -than I wished, and I had, as it happened, work nearer at hand. A few -days later I called on Lord Crouchley and carried off in triumph the -most unintelligible statement that had yet appeared of his lordship's -reasons for his change of front. I thus set in motion in the daily -papers columns of virtuous verbiage. The following week I ran down to -Brighton for a chat, as Mr. Pinhorn called it, with Mrs. Bounder, who -gave me, on the subject of her divorce, many curious particulars that -had not been articulated in court. If ever an article flowed from the -primal fount it was that article on Mrs. Bounder. By this time, however, -I became aware that Neil Paraday's new book was on the point of -appearing, and that its approach had been the ground of my original -appeal to Mr. Pinhorn, who was now annoyed with me for having lost so -many days. He bundled me off--we would at least not lose another. I have -always thought his sudden alertness a remarkable example of the -journalistic instinct. Nothing had occurred, since I first spoke to him, -to create a visible urgency, and no enlightenment could possibly have -reached him. It was a pure case of professional _flair_--he had smelt -the coming glory as an animal smells its distant prey. - - - II - -I may as well say at once that this little record pretends in no degree -to be a picture either of my introduction to Mr. Paraday or of certain -proximate steps and stages. The scheme of my narrative allows no space -for these things and in any case a prohibitory sentiment would be -attached to my recollection of so rare an hour. These meagre notes are -essentially private, and if they see the light the insidious forces -that, as my story itself shows, make at present for publicity will -simply have overmastered my precautions. The curtain fell lately enough -on the lamentable drama. My memory of the day I alighted at Mr. -Paraday's door is a fresh memory of kindness, hospitality, compassion, -and of the wonderful illuminating talk in which the welcome was -conveyed. Some voice of the air had taught me the right moment, the -moment of his life at which an act of unexpected young allegiance might -most come home. He had recently recovered from a long, grave illness. I -had gone to the neighbouring inn for the night, but I spent the evening -in his company, and he insisted the next day on my sleeping under his -roof. I had not an indefinite leave: Mr. Pinhorn supposed us to put our -victims through on the gallop. It was later, in the office, that the -step was elaborated and regulated. I fortified myself however, as my -training had taught me to do, by the conviction that nothing could be -more advantageous for my article than to be written in the very -atmosphere. I said nothing to Mr. Paraday about it, but in the morning, -after my removal from the inn, while he was occupied in his study, as he -had notified me that he should need to be, I committed to paper the -quintessence of my impressions. Then thinking to commend myself to Mr. -Pinhorn by my celerity, I walked out and posted my little packet before -luncheon. Once my paper was written I was free to stay on, and if it was -designed to divert attention from my frivolity in so doing I could -reflect with satisfaction that I had never been so clever. I don't mean -to deny of course that I was aware it was much too good for Mr. Pinhorn; -but I was equally conscious that Mr. Pinhorn had the supreme shrewdness -of recognising from time to time the cases in which an article was not -too bad only because it was too good. There was nothing he loved so much -as to print on the right occasion a thing he hated. I had begun my visit -to Mr. Paraday on a Monday, and on the Wednesday his book came out. A -copy of it arrived by the first post, and he let me go out into the -garden with it immediately after breakfast. I read it from beginning to -end that day, and in the evening he asked me to remain with him the rest -of the week and over the Sunday. - -That night my manuscript came back from Mr. Pinhorn, accompanied with a -letter, of which the gist was the desire to know what I meant by sending -him such stuff. That was the meaning of the question, if not exactly its -form, and it made my mistake immense to me. Such as this mistake was I -could now only look it in the face and accept it. I knew where I had -failed, but it was exactly where I couldn't have succeeded. I had been -sent down there to be personal, and in point of fact I hadn't been -personal at all; what I had sent up to London was merely a little -finicking, feverish study of my author's talent. Anything less relevant -to Mr. Pinhorn's purpose couldn't well be imagined, and he was visibly -angry at my having (at his expense, with a second-class ticket) -approached the object of our arrangement only to be so deucedly distant. -For myself, I knew but too well what had happened, and how a miracle--as -pretty as some old miracle of legend--had been wrought on the spot to -save me. There had been a big brush of wings, the flash of an opaline -robe, and then, with a great cool stir of the air, the sense of an -angel's having swooped down and caught me to his bosom. He held me only -till the danger was over, and it all took place in a minute. With my -manuscript back on my hands I understood the phenomenon better, and the -reflections I made on it are what I meant, at the beginning of this -anecdote, by my change of heart. Mr. Pinhorn's note was not only a -rebuke decidedly stern, but an invitation immediately to send him (it -was the case to say so) the genuine article, the revealing and -reverberating sketch to the promise of which--and of which alone--I owed -my squandered privilege. A week or two later I recast my peccant paper, -and giving it a particular application to Mr. Paraday's new book, -obtained for it the hospitality of another journal, where, I must admit, -Mr. Pinhorn was so far justified that it attracted not the least -attention. - - - III - -I was frankly, at the end of three days, a very prejudiced critic, so -that one morning when, in the garden, Neil Paraday had offered to read -me something I quite held my breath as I listened. It was the written -scheme of another book--something he had put aside long ago, before his -illness, and lately taken out again to reconsider. He had been turning -it round when I came down upon him, and it had grown magnificently under -this second hand. Loose, liberal, confident, it might have passed for a -great gossiping, eloquent letter--the overflow into talk of an artist's -amorous plan. The subject I thought singularly rich, quite the strongest -he had yet treated; and this familiar statement of it, full too of fine -maturities, was really, in summarised splendour, a mine of gold, a -precious, independent work. I remember rather profanely wondering -whether the ultimate production could possibly be so happy. His reading -of the epistle, at any rate, made me feel as if I were, for the -advantage of posterity, in close correspondence with him--were the -distinguished person to whom it had been affectionately addressed. It -was high distinction simply to be told such things. The idea he now -communicated had all the freshness, the flushed fairness of the -conception untouched and untried: it was Venus rising from the sea, -before the airs had blown upon her. I had never been so throbbingly -present at such an unveiling. But when he had tossed the last bright -word after the others, as I had seen cashiers in banks, weighing mounds -of coin, drop a final sovereign into the tray, I became conscious of a -sudden prudent alarm. - -"My dear master, how, after all, are you going to do it?" I asked. "It's -infinitely noble, but what time it will take, what patience and -independence, what assured, what perfect conditions it will demand! Oh -for a lone isle in a tepid sea!" - -"Isn't this practically a lone isle, and aren't you, as an encircling -medium, tepid enough?" he replied; alluding with a laugh to the wonder -of my young admiration and the narrow limits of his little provincial -home. "Time isn't what I've lacked hitherto: the question hasn't been to -find it, but to use it. Of course my illness made a great hole, but I -daresay there would have been a hole at any rate. The earth we tread has -more pockets than a billiard-table. The great thing is now to keep on my -feet." - -"That's exactly what I mean." - -Neil Paraday looked at me with eyes--such pleasant eyes as he had--in -which, as I now recall their expression, I seem to have seen a dim -imagination of his fate. He was fifty years old, and his illness had -been cruel, his convalescence slow. "It isn't as if I weren't all -right." - -"Oh, if you weren't all right I wouldn't look at you!" I tenderly said. - -We had both got up, quickened by the full sound of it all, and he had -lighted a cigarette. I had taken a fresh one, and, with an intenser -smile, by way of answer to my exclamation, he touched it with the flame -of his match. "If I weren't better I shouldn't have thought of _that_!" -He flourished his epistle in his hand. - -"I don't want to be discouraging, but that's not true," I returned. "I'm -sure that during the months you lay here in pain you had visitations -sublime. You thought of a thousand things. You think of more and more -all the while. That's what makes you, if you will pardon my familiarity, -so respectable. At a time when so many people are spent you come into -your second wind. But, thank God, all the same, you're better! Thank -God, too, you're not, as you were telling me yesterday, 'successful.' If -_you_ weren't a failure, what would be the use of trying? That's my one -reserve on the subject of your recovery--that it makes you 'score,' as -the newspapers say. It looks well in the newspapers, and almost anything -that does that is horrible. 'We are happy to announce that Mr. Paraday, -the celebrated author, is again in the enjoyment of excellent health.' -Somehow I shouldn't like to see it." - -"You won't see it; I'm not in the least celebrated--my obscurity -protects me. But couldn't you bear even to see I was dying or dead?" my -companion asked. - -"Dead--_passe encore_; there's nothing so safe. One never knows what a -living artist may do--one has mourned so many. However, one must make -the worst of it; you must be as dead as you can." - -"Don't I meet that condition in having just published a book?" - -"Adequately, let us hope; for the book is verily a masterpiece." - -At this moment the parlour-maid appeared in the door that opened into -the garden: Paraday lived at no great cost, and the frisk of petticoats, -with a timorous "Sherry, sir?" was about his modest mahogany. He allowed -half his income to his wife, from whom he had succeeded in separating -without redundancy of legend. I had a general faith in his having -behaved well, and I had once, in London, taken Mrs. Paraday down to -dinner. He now turned to speak to the maid, who offered him, on a tray, -some card or note, while agitated, excited, I wandered to the end of -the garden. The idea of his security became supremely dear to me, and I -asked myself if I were the same young man who had come down a few days -before to scatter him to the four winds. When I retraced my steps he had -gone into the house and the woman (the second London post had come in) -had placed my letters and a newspaper on a bench. I sat down there to -the letters, which were a brief business, and then, without heeding the -address, took the paper from its envelope. It was the journal of highest -renown, _The Empire_ of that morning. It regularly came to Paraday, but -I remembered that neither of us had yet looked at the copy already -delivered. This one had a great mark on the "editorial" page, and, -uncrumpling the wrapper, I saw it to be directed to my host and stamped -with the name of his publishers. I instantly divined that _The Empire_ -had spoken of him, and I have not forgotten the odd little shock of the -circumstance. It checked all eagerness and made me drop the paper a -moment. As I sat there, conscious of a palpitation, I think I had a -vision of what was to be. I had also a vision of the letter I would -presently address to Mr. Pinhorn, breaking as it were with Mr. Pinhorn. -Of course, however, the next minute the voice of _The Empire_ was in my -ears. - -The article was not, I thanked Heaven, a review; it was a "leader," the -last of three, presenting Neil Paraday to the human race. His new book, -the fifth from his hand, had been but a day or two out, and _The -Empire_, already aware of it, fired, as if on the birth of a prince, a -salute of a whole column. The guns had been booming these three hours in -the house without our suspecting them. The big blundering newspaper had -discovered him, and now he was proclaimed and anointed and crowned. His -place was assigned him as publicly as if a fat usher with a wand had -pointed to the topmost chair; he was to pass up and still up, higher -and higher, between the watching faces and the envious sounds--away up -to the daïs and the throne. The article was a date; he had taken rank at -a bound--waked up a national glory. A national glory was needed, and it -was an immense convenience he was there. What all this meant rolled over -me, and I fear I grew a little faint--it meant so much more than I could -say "yea" to on the spot. In a flash, somehow, all was different; the -tremendous wave I speak of had swept something away. It had knocked -down, I suppose, my little customary altar, my twinkling tapers and my -flowers, and had reared itself into the likeness of a temple vast and -bare. When Neil Paraday should come out of the house he would come out a -contemporary. That was what had happened--the poor man was to be -squeezed into his horrible age. I felt as if he had been overtaken on -the crest of the hill and brought back to the city. A little more and he -would have dipped down to posterity and escaped. - - - IV - -When he came out it was exactly as if he had been in custody, for beside -him walked a stout man with a big black beard, who, save that he wore -spectacles, might have been a policeman, and in whom at a second glance -I recognised the highest contemporary enterprise. - -"This is Mr. Morrow," said Paraday, looking, I thought, rather white; -"he wants to publish heaven knows what about me." - -I winced as I remembered that this was exactly what I myself had wanted. -"Already?" I exclaimed, with a sort of sense that my friend had fled to -me for protection. - -Mr. Morrow glared, agreeably, through his glasses: they suggested the -electric headlights of some monstrous modern ship, and I felt as if -Paraday and I were tossing terrified under his bows. I saw that his -momentum was irresistible. "I was confident that I should be the first -in the field," he declared. "A great interest is naturally felt in Mr. -Paraday's surroundings." - -"I hadn't the least idea of it," said Paraday, as if he had been told he -had been snoring. - -"I find he has not read the article in _The Empire_," Mr. Morrow -remarked to me. "That's so very interesting--it's something to start -with," he smiled. He had begun to pull off his gloves, which were -violently new, and to look encouragingly round the little garden. As a -"surrounding" I felt that I myself had already been taken in; I was a -little fish in the stomach of a bigger one. "I represent," our visitor -continued, "a syndicate of influential journals, no less than -thirty-seven, whose public--whose publics, I may say--are in peculiar -sympathy with Mr. Paraday's line of thought. They would greatly -appreciate any expression of his views on the subject of the art he so -brilliantly practises. Besides my connection with the syndicate just -mentioned, I hold a particular commission from _The Tatler_, whose most -prominent department, 'Smatter and Chatter'--I daresay you've often -enjoyed it--attracts such attention. I was honoured only last week, as a -representative of _The Tatler_, with the confidence of Guy Walsingham, -the author of 'Obsessions.' She expressed herself thoroughly pleased -with my sketch of her method; she went so far as to say that I had made -her genius more comprehensible even to herself." - -Neil Paraday had dropped upon the garden-bench and sat there, at once -detached and confused; he looked hard at a bare spot in the lawn, as if -with an anxiety that had suddenly made him grave. His movement had been -interpreted by his visitor as an invitation to sink sympathetically into -a wicker chair that stood hard by, and as Mr. Morrow so settled himself -I felt that he had taken official possession and that there was no -undoing it. One had heard of unfortunate people's having "a man in the -house," and this was just what we had. There was a silence of a moment, -during which we seemed to acknowledge in the only way that was possible -the presence of universal fate; the sunny stillness took no pity, and my -thought, as I was sure Paraday's was doing, performed within the minute -a great distant revolution. I saw just how emphatic I should make my -rejoinder to Mr. Pinhorn, and that having come, like Mr. Morrow, to -betray, I must remain as long as possible to save. Not because I had -brought my mind back, but because our visitor's last words were in my -ear, I presently inquired with gloomy irrelevance if Guy Walsingham were -a woman. - -"Oh yes, a mere pseudonym; but convenient, you know, for a lady who goes -in for the larger latitude. 'Obsessions, by Miss So-and-So,' would look -a little odd, but men are more naturally indelicate. Have you peeped -into 'Obsessions'?" Mr. Morrow continued sociably to our companion. - -Paraday, still absent, remote, made no answer, as if he had not heard -the question: a manifestation that appeared to suit the cheerful Mr. -Morrow as well as any other. Imperturbably bland, he was a man of -resources--he only needed to be on the spot. He had pocketed the whole -poor place while Paraday and I were woolgathering, and I could imagine -that he had already got his "heads." His system, at any rate, was -justified by the inevitability with which I replied, to save my friend -the trouble: "Dear, no; he hasn't read it. He doesn't read such things!" -I unwarily added. - -"Things that are _too_ far over the fence, eh?" I was indeed a godsend -to Mr. Morrow. It was the psychological moment; it determined the -appearance of his notebook, which, however, he at first kept slightly -behind him, as the dentist, approaching his victim, keeps his horrible -forceps. "Mr. Paraday holds with the good old proprieties--I see!" And, -thinking of the thirty-seven influential journals, I found myself, as I -found poor Paraday, helplessly gazing at the promulgation of this -ineptitude. "There's no point on which distinguished views are so -acceptable as on this question--raised perhaps more strikingly than ever -by Guy Walsingham--of the permissibility of the larger latitude. I have -an appointment, precisely in connection with it, next week, with Dora -Forbes, the author of 'The Other Way Round,' which everybody is talking -about. Has Mr. Paraday glanced at 'The Other Way Round'?" Mr. Morrow now -frankly appealed to me. I took upon myself to repudiate the supposition, -while our companion, still silent, got up nervously and walked away. His -visitor paid no heed to his withdrawal; he only opened out the notebook -with a more motherly pat. "Dora Forbes, I gather, takes the ground, the -same as Guy Walsingham's, that the larger latitude has simply got to -come. He holds that it has got to be squarely faced. Of course his sex -makes him a less prejudiced witness. But an authoritative word from Mr. -Paraday--from the point of view of _his_ sex, you know--would go right -round the globe. He takes the line that we _haven't_ got to face it?" - -I was bewildered; it sounded somehow as if there were three sexes. My -interlocutor's pencil was poised, my private responsibility great. I -simply sat staring, however, and only found presence of mind to say: "Is -this Miss Forbes a gentleman?" - -Mr. Morrow hesitated an instant, smiling: "It wouldn't be -'Miss'--there's a wife!" - -"I mean is she a man?" - -"The wife?"--Mr. Morrow, for a moment, was as confused as myself. But -when I explained that I alluded to Dora Forbes in person he informed me, -with visible amusement at my being so out of it, that this was the -"pen-name" of an indubitable male--he had a big red moustache. "He only -assumes a feminine personality because the ladies are such popular -favourites. A great deal of interest is felt in this assumption, and -there's every prospect of its being widely imitated." Our host at this -moment joined us again, and Mr. Morrow remarked invitingly that he -should be happy to make a note of any observation the movement in -question, the bid for success under a lady's name, might suggest to Mr. -Paraday. But the poor man, without catching the allusion, excused -himself, pleading that, though he was greatly honoured by his visitor's -interest, he suddenly felt unwell and should have to take leave of -him--have to go and lie down and keep quiet. His young friend might be -trusted to answer for him, but he hoped Mr. Morrow didn't expect great -things even of his young friend. His young friend, at this moment, -looked at Neil Paraday with an anxious eye, greatly wondering if he were -doomed to be ill again; but Paraday's own kind face met his question -reassuringly, seemed to say in a glance intelligible enough: "Oh, I'm -not ill, but I'm scared: get him out of the house as quietly as -possible." Getting newspaper-men out of the house was odd business for -an emissary of Mr. Pinhorn, and I was so exhilarated by the idea of it -that I called after him as he left us: - -"Read the article in _The Empire_, and you'll soon be all right!" - - - V - -"Delicious my having come down to tell him of it!" Mr. Morrow -ejaculated. "My cab was at the door twenty minutes after _The Empire_ -had been laid upon my breakfast-table. Now what have you got for me?" he -continued, dropping again into his chair, from which, however, the next -moment he quickly rose. "I was shown into the drawing-room, but there -must be more to see--his study, his literary sanctum, the little things -he has about, or other domestic objects or features. He wouldn't be -lying down on his study-table? There's a great interest always felt in -the scene of an author's labours. Sometimes we're favoured with very -delightful peeps. Dora Forbes showed me all his table-drawers, and -almost jammed my hand into one into which I made a dash! I don't ask -that of you, but if we could talk things over right there where he sits -I feel as if I should get the keynote." - -I had no wish whatever to be rude to Mr. Morrow, I was much too -initiated not to prefer the safety of other ways; but I had a quick -inspiration and I entertained an insurmountable, an almost superstitious -objection to his crossing the threshold of my friend's little lonely, -shabby, consecrated workshop. "No, no--we sha'n't get at his life that -way," I said. "The way to get at his life is to--But wait a moment!" I -broke off and went quickly into the house; then, in three minutes, I -reappeared before Mr. Morrow with the two volumes of Paraday's new book. -"His life's here," I went on, "and I'm so full of this admirable thing -that I can't talk of anything else. The artist's life's his work, and -this is the place to observe him. What he has to tell us he tells us -with _this_ perfection. My dear sir, the best interviewer's the best -reader." - -Mr. Morrow good-humouredly protested. "Do you mean to say that no other -source of information should be opened to us?" - -"None other till this particular one--by far the most copious--has been -quite exhausted. Have you exhausted it, my dear sir? Had you exhausted -it when you came down here? It seems to me in our time almost wholly -neglected, and something should surely be done to restore its ruined -credit. It's the course to which the artist himself at every step, and -with such pathetic confidence, refers us. This last book of Mr. -Paraday's is full of revelations." - -"Revelations?" panted Mr. Morrow, whom I had forced again into his -chair. - -"The only kind that count. It tells you with a perfection that seems to -me quite final all the author thinks, for instance, about the advent of -the 'larger latitude.'" - -"Where does it do that?" asked Mr. Morrow, who had picked up the second -volume and was insincerely thumbing it. - -"Everywhere--in the whole treatment of his case. Extract the opinion, -disengage the answer--those are the real acts of homage." - -Mr. Morrow, after a minute, tossed the book away. "Ah, but you mustn't -take me for a reviewer." - -"Heaven forbid I should take you for anything so dreadful! You came down -to perform a little act of sympathy, and so, I may confide to you, did -I. Let us perform our little act together. These pages overflow with the -testimony we want: let us read them and taste them and interpret them. -You will of course have perceived for yourself that one scarcely does -read Neil Paraday till one reads him aloud; he gives out to the ear an -extraordinary quality, and it's only when you expose it confidently to -that test that you really get near his style. Take up your book again -and let me listen, while you pay it out, to that wonderful fifteenth -chapter. If you feel that you can't do it justice, compose yourself to -attention while I produce for you--I think I can!--this scarcely less -admirable ninth." - -Mr. Morrow gave me a straight glance which was as hard as a blow between -the eyes; he had turned rather red and a question had formed itself in -his mind which reached my sense as distinctly as if he had uttered it: -"What sort of a damned fool are _you_?" Then he got up, gathering -together his hat and gloves, buttoning his coat, projecting hungrily all -over the place the big transparency of his mask. It seemed to flare over -Fleet Street and somehow made the actual spot distressingly humble: -there was so little for it to feed on unless he counted the blisters of -our stucco or saw his way to do something with the roses. Even the poor -roses were common kinds. Presently his eyes fell upon the manuscript -from which Paraday had been reading to me and which still lay on the -bench. As my own followed them I saw that it looked promising, looked -pregnant, as if it gently throbbed with the life the reader had given -it. Mr. Morrow indulged in a nod toward it and a vague thrust of his -umbrella. "What's that?" - -"Oh, it's a plan--a secret." - -"A secret!" There was an instant's silence, and then Mr. Morrow made -another movement. I may have been mistaken, but it affected me as the -translated impulse of the desire to lay hands on the manuscript, and -this led me to indulge in a quick anticipatory grab which may very well -have seemed ungraceful, or even impertinent, and which at any rate left -Mr. Paraday's two admirers very erect, glaring at each other while one -of them held a bundle of papers well behind him. An instant later Mr. -Morrow quitted me abruptly, as if he had really carried something away. -To reassure myself, watching his broad back recede, I only grasped my -manuscript the tighter. He went to the back-door of the house, the one -he had come out from, but on trying the handle he appeared to find it -fastened. So he passed round into the front garden, and, by listening -intently enough, I could presently hear the outer gate close behind him -with a bang. I thought again of the thirty-seven influential journals -and wondered what would be his revenge. I hasten to add that he was -magnanimous: which was just the most dreadful thing he could have been. -_The Tatler_ published a charming, chatty, familiar account of Mr. -Paraday's "Home-life," and on the wings of the thirty-seven influential -journals it went, to use Mr. Morrow's own expression, right round the -globe. - - - VI - -A week later, early in May, my glorified friend came up to town, where, -it may be veraciously recorded, he was the king of the beasts of the -year. No advancement was ever more rapid, no exaltation more complete, -no bewilderment more teachable. His book sold but moderately, though the -article in _The Empire_ had done unwonted wonders for it; but he -circulated in person in a manner that the libraries might well have -envied. His formula had been found--he was a "revelation." His momentary -terror had been real, just as mine had been--the overclouding of his -passionate desire to be left to finish his work. He was far from -unsociable, but he had the finest conception of being let alone that I -have ever met. For the time, however, he took his profit where it seemed -most to crowd upon him, having in his pocket the portable sophistries -about the nature of the artist's task. Observation too was a kind of -work and experience a kind of success; London dinners were all material -and London ladies were fruitful toil. "No one has the faintest -conception of what I'm trying for," he said to me, "and not many have -read three pages that I've written; but they're all enthusiastic, -enchanted, devoted." He found himself in truth equally amused and -fatigued; but the fatigue had the merit of being a new sort, and the -phantasmagoric town was perhaps after all less of a battlefield than the -haunted study. He once told me that he had had no personal life to speak -of since his fortieth year, but had had more than was good for him -before. London closed the parenthesis and exhibited him in relations; -one of the most inevitable of these being that in which he found himself -to Mrs. Weeks Wimbush, wife of the boundless brewer and proprietress of -the universal menagerie. In this establishment, as everybody knows, on -occasions when the crush is great, the animals rub shoulders freely with -the spectators and the lions sit down for whole evenings with the lambs. - -It had been ominously clear to me from the first that in Neil Paraday -this lady, who, as all the world agreed, was tremendous fun, considered -that she had secured a prime attraction, a creature of almost heraldic -oddity. Nothing could exceed her enthusiasm over her capture, and -nothing could exceed the confused apprehensions it excited in me. I had -an instinctive fear of her which I tried without effect to conceal from -her victim, but which I let her perceive with perfect impunity. Paraday -heeded it, but she never did, for her conscience was that of a romping -child. She was a blind, violent force, to which I could attach no more -idea of responsibility than to the hum of a spinning-top. It was -difficult to say what she conduced to but to circulation. She was -constructed of steel and leather, and all I asked of her for our -tractable friend was not to do him to death. He had consented for a -time to be of indiarubber, but my thoughts were fixed on the day he -should resume his shape or at least get back into his box. It was -evidently all right, but I should be glad when it was well over. I was -simply nervous--the impression was ineffaceable of the hour when, after -Mr. Morrow's departure, I had found him on the sofa in his study. That -pretext of indisposition had not in the least been meant as a snub to -the envoy of _The Tatler_--he had gone to lie down in very truth. He had -felt a pang of his old pain, the result of the agitation wrought in him -by this forcing open of a new period. His old programme, his old ideal -even had to be changed. Say what one would, success was a complication -and recognition had to be reciprocal. The monastic life, the pious -illumination of the missal in the convent cell were things of the -gathered past. It didn't engender despair, but it at least required -adjustment. Before I left him on that occasion we had passed a bargain, -my part of which was that I should make it my business to take care of -him. Let whoever would represent the interest in his presence (I had a -mystical prevision of Mrs. Weeks Wimbush), I should represent the -interest in his work--in other words, in his absence. These two -interests were in their essence opposed; and I doubt, as youth is -fleeting, if I shall ever again know the intensity of joy with which I -felt that in so good a cause I was willing to make myself odious. - -One day, in Sloane Street, I found myself questioning Paraday's -landlord, who had come to the door in answer to my knock. Two vehicles, -a barouche and a smart hansom, were drawn up before the house. - -"In the drawing-room, sir? Mrs. Weeks Wimbush." - -"And in the dining-room?" - -"A young lady, sir--waiting: I think a foreigner." - -It was three o'clock, and on days when Paraday didn't lunch out he -attached a value to these subjugated hours. On which days, however, -didn't the dear man lunch out? Mrs. Wimbush, at such a crisis, would -have rushed round immediately after her own repast. I went into the -dining-room first, postponing the pleasure of seeing how, upstairs, the -lady of the barouche would, on my arrival, point the moral of my sweet -solicitude. No one took such an interest as herself in his doing only -what was good for him, and she was always on the spot to see that he did -it. She made appointments with him to discuss the best means of -economising his time and protecting his privacy. She further made his -health her special business, and had so much sympathy with my own zeal -for it that she was the author of pleasing fictions on the subject of -what my devotion had led me to give up. I gave up nothing (I don't count -Mr. Pinhorn) because I had nothing, and all I had as yet achieved was to -find myself also in the menagerie. I had dashed in to save my friend, -but I had only got domesticated and wedged; so that I could do nothing -for him but exchange with him over people's heads looks of intense but -futile intelligence. - - - VII - -The young lady in the dining-room had a brave face, black hair, blue -eyes, and in her lap a big volume. "I've come for his autograph," she -said, when I had explained to her that I was under bonds to see people -for him when he was occupied. "I've been waiting half an hour, but I'm -prepared to wait all day." I don't know whether it was this that told me -she was American, for the propensity to wait all day is not in general -characteristic of her race. I was enlightened probably not so much by -the spirit of the utterance as by some quality of its sound. At any rate -I saw she had an individual patience and a lovely frock, together with -an expression that played among her pretty features as a breeze among -flowers. Putting her book upon the table, she showed me a massive album, -showily bound and full of autographs of price. The collection of faded -notes, of still more faded "thoughts," of quotations, platitudes, -signatures, represented a formidable purpose. - -"Most people apply to Mr. Paraday by letter, you know," I said. - -"Yes, but he doesn't answer. I've written three times." - -"Very true," I reflected; "the sort of letter you mean goes straight -into the fire." - -"How do you know the sort I mean?" my interlocutress asked. She had -blushed and smiled and in a moment she added: "I don't believe he gets -many like them!" - -"I'm sure they're beautiful, but he burns without reading." I didn't add -that I had told him he ought to. - -"Isn't he then in danger of burning things of importance?" - -"He would be, if distinguished men hadn't an infallible nose for a -petition." - -She looked at me a moment--her face was sweet and gay. "Do _you_ burn -without reading, too?" she asked; in answer to which I assured her that -if she would trust me with her repository I would see that Mr. Paraday -should write his name in it. - -She considered a little. "That's very well, but it wouldn't make me see -him." - -"Do you want very much to see him?" It seemed ungracious to catechise so -charming a creature, but somehow I had never yet taken my duty to the -great author so seriously. - -"Enough to have come from America for the purpose." - -I stared. "All alone?" - -"I don't see that that's exactly your business; but if it will make me -more appealing I will confess that I am quite by myself. I had to come -alone or not at all." - -She was interesting; I could imagine that she had lost parents, natural -protectors--could conceive even that she had inherited money. I was in a -phase of my own fortunes when keeping hansoms at doors seemed to me pure -swagger. As a trick of this frank and delicate girl, however, it became -romantic--a part of the general romance of her freedom, her errand, her -innocence. The confidence of young Americans was notorious, and I -speedily arrived at a conviction that no impulse could have been more -generous than the impulse that had operated here. I foresaw at that -moment that it would make her my peculiar charge, just as circumstances -had made Neil Paraday. She would be another person to look after, and -one's honour would be concerned in guiding her straight. These things -became clearer to me later; at the instant I had scepticism enough to -observe to her, as I turned the pages of her volume, that her net had, -all the same, caught many a big fish. She appeared to have had fruitful -access to the great ones of the earth; there were people moreover whose -signatures she had presumably secured without a personal interview. She -couldn't have waylaid George Washington and Friedrich Schiller and -Hannah More. She met this argument, to my surprise, by throwing up the -album without a pang. It wasn't even her own; she was responsible for -none of its treasures. It belonged to a girl-friend in America, a young -lady in a western city. This young lady had insisted on her bringing it, -to pick up more autographs: she thought they might like to see, in -Europe, in what company they would be. The "girl-friend," the western -city, the immortal names, the curious errand, the idyllic faith, all -made a story as strange to me, and as beguiling, as some tale in the -Arabian Nights. Thus it was that my informant had encumbered herself -with the ponderous tome; but she hastened to assure me that this was the -first time she had brought it out. For her visit to Mr. Paraday it had -simply been a pretext. She didn't really care a straw that he should -write his name; what she did want was to look straight into his face. - -I demurred a little. "And why do you require to do that?" - -"Because I just love him!" Before I could recover from the agitating -effect of this crystal ring my companion had continued: "Hasn't there -ever been any face that you've wanted to look into?" - -How could I tell her so soon how much I appreciated the opportunity of -looking into hers? I could only assent in general to the proposition -that there were certainly for everyone such faces; and I felt that the -crisis demanded all my lucidity, all my wisdom. "Oh, yes, I'm a student -of physiognomy. Do you mean," I pursued, "that you've a passion for Mr. -Paraday's books?" - -"They've been everything to me--I know them by heart. They've completely -taken hold of me. There's no author about whom I feel as I do about Neil -Paraday." - -"Permit me to remark then," I presently rejoined, "that you're one of -the right sort." - -"One of the enthusiasts? Of course I am!" - -"Oh, there are enthusiasts who are quite of the wrong. I mean you're one -of those to whom an appeal can be made." - -"An appeal?" Her face lighted as if with the chance of some great -sacrifice. - -If she was ready for one it was only waiting for her, and in a moment I -mentioned it. "Give up this rigid purpose of seeing him. Go away without -it. That will be far better." - -She looked mystified; then she turned visibly pale. "Why, hasn't he any -personal charm?" The girl was terrible and laughable in her bright -directness. - -"Ah, that dreadful word 'personal'!" I exclaimed; "we're dying of it, -and you women bring it out with murderous effect. When you encounter a -genius as fine as this idol of ours, let him off the dreary duty of -being a personality as well. Know him only by what's best in him, and -spare him for the same sweet sake." - -My young lady continued to look at me in confusion and mistrust, and the -result of her reflection on what I had just said was to make her -suddenly break out: "Look here, sir--what's the matter with him?" - -"The matter with him is that, if he doesn't look out, people will eat a -great hole in his life." - -She considered a moment. "He hasn't any disfigurement?" - -"Nothing to speak of!" - -"Do you mean that social engagements interfere with his occupations?" - -"That but feebly expresses it." - -"So that he can't give himself up to his beautiful imagination?" - -"He's badgered, bothered, overwhelmed, on the pretext of being -applauded. People expect him to give them his time, his golden time, who -wouldn't themselves give five shillings for one of his books." - -"Five? I'd give five thousand!" - -"Give your sympathy--give your forbearance. Two-thirds of those who -approach him only do it to advertise themselves." - -"Why, it's too bad!" the girl exclaimed, with the face of an angel. - -I followed up my advantage. "There's a lady with him now who's a -terrible complication, and who yet hasn't read, I am sure, ten pages -that he ever wrote." - -My visitor's wide eyes grew tenderer. "Then how does she talk----?" - -"Without ceasing. I only mention her as a single case. Do you want to -know how to show a superlative consideration? Simply avoid him." - -"Avoid him?" she softly wailed. - -"Don't force him to have to take account of you; admire him in silence, -cultivate him at a distance and secretly appropriate his message. Do you -want to know," I continued, warming to my idea, "how to perform an act -of homage really sublime?" Then as she hung on my words: "Succeed in -never seeing him!" - -"Never?" she pathetically gasped. - -"The more you get into his writings the less you'll want to; and you'll -be immensely sustained by the thought of the good you're doing him." - -She looked at me without resentment or spite, and at the truth I had put -before her with candour, credulity and pity. I was afterwards happy to -remember that she must have recognised in my face the liveliness of my -interest in herself. "I think I see what you mean." - -"Oh, I express it badly; but I should be delighted if you would let me -come to see you--to explain it better." - -She made no response to this, and her thoughtful eyes fell on the big -album, on which she presently laid her hands as if to take it away. "I -did use to say out West that they might write a little less for -autographs (to all the great poets, you know) and study the thoughts and -style a little more." - -"What do they care for the thoughts and style? They didn't even -understand you. I'm not sure," I added, "that I do myself, and I daresay -that you by no means make me out." She had got up to go, and though I -wanted her to succeed in not seeing Neil Paraday I wanted her also, -inconsequently, to remain in the house. I was at any rate far from -desiring to hustle her off. As Mrs. Weeks Wimbush, upstairs, was still -saving our friend in her own way, I asked my young lady to let me -briefly relate, in illustration of my point, the little incident of my -having gone down into the country for a profane purpose and been -converted on the spot to holiness. Sinking again into her chair to -listen, she showed a deep interest in the anecdote. Then, thinking it -over gravely, she exclaimed with her odd intonation: - -"Yes, but you do see him!" I had to admit that this was the case; and I -was not so prepared with an effective attenuation as I could have -wished. She eased the situation off, however, by the charming quaintness -with which she finally said: "Well, I wouldn't want him to be lonely!" -This time she rose in earnest, but I persuaded her to let me keep the -album to show to Mr. Paraday. I assured her I would bring it back to her -myself. "Well, you'll find my address somewhere in it, on a paper!" she -sighed resignedly, as she took leave. - - - VIII - -I blush to confess it, but I invited Mr. Paraday that very day to -transcribe into the album one of his most characteristic passages. I -told him how I had got rid of the strange girl who had brought it--her -ominous name was Miss Hurter and she lived at an hotel; quite agreeing -with him moreover as to the wisdom of getting rid with equal promptitude -of the book itself. This was why I carried it to Albemarle Street no -later than on the morrow. I failed to find her at home, but she wrote to -me and I went again: she wanted so much to hear more about Neil Paraday. -I returned repeatedly, I may briefly declare, to supply her with this -information. She had been immensely taken, the more she thought of it, -with that idea of mine about the act of homage: it had ended by filling -her with a generous rapture. She positively desired to do something -sublime for him, though indeed I could see that, as this particular -flight was difficult, she appreciated the fact that my visits kept her -up. I had it on my conscience to keep her up; I neglected nothing that -would contribute to it, and her conception of our cherished author's -independence became at last as fine as his own conception. "Read him, -read him," I constantly repeated; while, seeking him in his works, she -represented herself as convinced that, according to my assurance, this -was the system that had, as she expressed it, weaned her. We read him -together when I could find time, and the generous creature's sacrifice -was fed by our conversation. There were twenty selfish women, about whom -I told her, who stirred her with a beautiful rage. Immediately after my -first visit her sister, Mrs. Milsom, came over from Paris, and the two -ladies began to present, as they called it, their letters. I thanked our -stars that none had been presented to Mr. Paraday. They received -invitations and dined out, and some of these occasions enabled Fanny -Hurter to perform, for consistency's sake, touching feats of submission. -Nothing indeed would now have induced her even to look at the object of -her admiration. Once, hearing his name announced at a party, she -instantly left the room by another door and then straightway quitted -the house. At another time, when I was at the opera with them (Mrs. -Milsom had invited me to their box) I attempted to point Mr. Paraday out -to her in the stalls. On this she asked her sister to change places with -her, and, while that lady devoured the great man through a powerful -glass, presented, all the rest of the evening, her inspired back to the -house. To torment her tenderly I pressed the glass upon her, telling her -how wonderfully near it brought our friend's handsome head. By way of -answer she simply looked at me in grave silence; on which I saw that -tears had gathered in her eyes. These tears, I may remark, produced an -effect on me of which the end is not yet. There was a moment when I felt -it my duty to mention them to Neil Paraday; but I was deterred by the -reflection that there were questions more relevant to his happiness. - -These questions indeed, by the end of the season, were reduced to a -single one--the question of reconstituting, so far as might be possible, -the conditions under which he had produced his best work. Such -conditions could never all come back, for there was a new one that took -up too much place; but some perhaps were not beyond recall. I wanted -above all things to see him sit down to the subject of which, on my -making his acquaintance, he had read me that admirable sketch. Something -told me there was no security but in his doing so before the new factor, -as we used to say at Mr. Pinhorn's, should render the problem -incalculable. It only half reassured me that the sketch itself was so -copious and so eloquent that even at the worst there would be the making -of a small but complete book, a tiny volume which, for the faithful, -might well become an object of adoration. There would even not be -wanting critics to declare, I foresaw, that the plan was a thing to be -more thankful for than the structure to have been reared on it. My -impatience for the structure, none the less, grew and grew with the -interruptions. He had, on coming up to town, begun to sit for his -portrait to a young painter, Mr. Rumble, whose little game, as we used -to say at Mr. Pinhorn's, was to be the first to perch on the shoulders -of renown. Mr. Rumble's studio was a circus in which the man of the -hour, and still more the woman, leaped through the hoops of his showy -frames almost as electrically as they burst into telegrams and -"specials." He pranced into the exhibitions on their back; he was the -reporter on canvas, the Vandyke up to date, and there was one roaring -year in which Mrs. Bounder and Miss Braby, Guy Walsingham and Dora -Forbes proclaimed in chorus from the same pictured walls that no one had -yet got ahead of him. - -Paraday had been promptly caught and saddled, accepting with -characteristic good-humour his confidential hint that to figure in his -show was not so much a consequence as a cause of immortality. From Mrs. -Wimbush to the last "representative" who called to ascertain his twelve -favourite dishes, it was the same ingenuous assumption that he would -rejoice in the repercussion. There were moments when I fancied I might -have had more patience with them if they had not been so fatally -benevolent. I hated, at all events, Mr. Rumble's picture, and had my -bottled resentment ready when, later on, I found my distracted friend -had been stuffed by Mrs. Wimbush into the mouth of another cannon. A -young artist in whom she was intensely interested, and who had no -connection with Mr. Rumble, was to show how far he could shoot him. Poor -Paraday, in return, was naturally to write something somewhere about the -young artist. She played her victims against each other with admirable -ingenuity, and her establishment was a huge machine in which the tiniest -and the biggest wheels went round to the same treadle. I had a scene -with her in which I tried to express that the function of such a man was -to exercise his genius--not to serve as a hoarding for pictorial -posters. The people I was perhaps angriest with were the editors of -magazines who had introduced what they called new features, so aware -were they that the newest feature of all would be to make him grind -their axes by contributing his views on vital topics and taking part in -the periodical prattle about the future of fiction. I made sure that -before I should have done with him there would scarcely be a current -form of words left me to be sick of; but meanwhile I could make surer -still of my animosity to bustling ladies for whom he drew the water that -irrigated their social flower-beds. - -I had a battle with Mrs. Wimbush over the artist she protected, and -another over the question of a certain week, at the end of July, that -Mr. Paraday appeared to have contracted to spend with her in the -country. I protested against this visit; I intimated that he was too -unwell for hospitality without a _nuance_, for caresses without -imagination; I begged he might rather take the time in some restorative -way. A sultry air of promises, of reminders hung over his August, and he -would greatly profit by the interval of rest. He had not told me he was -ill again--that he had had a warning; but I had not heeded this, and I -found his reticence his worst symptom. The only thing he said to me was -that he believed a comfortable attack of something or other would set -him up: it would put out of the question everything but the exemptions -he prized. I am afraid I shall have presented him as a martyr in a very -small cause if I fail to explain that he surrendered himself much more -liberally than I surrendered him. He filled his lungs, for the most -part, with the comedy of his queer fate: the tragedy was in the -spectacles through which I chose to look. He was conscious of -inconvenience, and above all of a great renouncement; but how could he -have heard a mere dirge in the bells of his accession? The sagacity and -the jealousy were mine, and his the impressions and the anecdotes. Of -course, as regards Mrs. Wimbush, I was worsted in my encounters, for was -not the state of his health the very reason for his coming to her at -Prestidge? Wasn't it precisely at Prestidge that he was to be coddled, -and wasn't the dear Princess coming to help her to coddle him? The dear -Princess, now on a visit to England, was of a famous foreign house, and, -in her gilded cage, with her retinue of keepers and feeders, was the -most expensive specimen in the good lady's collection. I don't think her -august presence had had to do with Paraday's consenting to go, but it is -not impossible that he had operated as a bait to the illustrious -stranger. The party had been made up for him, Mrs. Wimbush averred, and -everyone was counting on it, the dear Princess most of all. If he was -well enough he was to read them something absolutely fresh, and it was -on that particular prospect the Princess had set her heart. She was so -fond of genius, in _any_ walk of life, and she was so used to it, and -understood it so well; she was the greatest of Mr. Paraday's admirers, -she devoured everything he wrote. And then he read like an angel. Mrs. -Wimbush reminded me that he had again and again given her, Mrs. Wimbush, -the privilege of listening to him. - -I looked at her a moment. "What has he read to you?" I crudely inquired. - -For a moment too she met my eyes, and for the fraction of a moment she -hesitated and coloured. "Oh, all sorts of things!" - -I wondered whether this were a perfect fib or only an imperfect -recollection, and she quite understood my unuttered comment on her -perception of such things. But if she could forget Neil Paraday's -beauties she could of course forget my rudeness, and three days later -she invited me, by telegraph, to join the party at Prestidge. This time -she might indeed have had a story about what I had given up to be near -the master. I addressed from that fine residence several communications -to a young lady in London, a young lady whom, I confess, I quitted with -reluctance and whom the reminder of what she herself could give up was -required to make me quit at all. It adds to the gratitude I owe her on -other grounds that she kindly allows me to transcribe from my letters a -few of the passages in which that hateful sojourn is candidly -commemorated. - - - IX - -"I suppose I ought to enjoy the joke," I wrote, "of what's going on -here, but somehow it doesn't amuse me. Pessimism on the contrary -possesses me and cynicism solicits. I positively feel my own flesh sore -from the brass nails in Neil Paraday's social harness. The house is full -of people who like him, as they mention, awfully, and with whom his -talent for talking nonsense has prodigious success. I delight in his -nonsense myself; why is it therefore that I grudge these happy folk -their artless satisfaction? Mystery of the human heart--abyss of the -critical spirit! Mrs. Wimbush thinks she can answer that question, and -as my want of gaiety has at last worn out her patience she has given me -a glimpse of her shrewd guess. I am made restless by the selfishness of -the insincere friend--I want to monopolise Paraday in order that he may -push me on. To be intimate with him is a feather in my cap; it gives me -an importance that I couldn't naturally pretend to, and I seek to -deprive him of social refreshment because I fear that meeting more -disinterested people may enlighten him as to my real spirit. All the -disinterested people here are his particular admirers and have been -carefully selected as such. There is supposed to be a copy of his last -book in the house, and in the hall I come upon ladies, in attitudes, -bending gracefully over the first volume. I discreetly avert my eyes, -and when I next look round the precarious joy has been superseded by the -book of life. There is a sociable circle or a confidential couple, and -the relinquished volume lies open on its face, as if it had been dropped -under extreme coercion. Somebody else presently finds it and transfers -it, with its air of momentary desolation, to another piece of furniture. -Every one is asking every one about it all day, and everyone is telling -everyone where they put it last. I'm sure it's rather smudgy about the -twentieth page. I have a strong impression too that the second volume is -lost--has been packed in the bag of some departing guest; and yet -everybody has the impression that somebody else has read to the end. You -see therefore that the beautiful book plays a great part in our -conversation. Why should I take the occasion of such distinguished -honours to say that I begin to see deeper into Gustave Flaubert's -doleful refrain about the hatred of literature? I refer you again to the -perverse constitution of man. - -"The Princess is a massive lady with the organisation of an athlete and -the confusion of tongues of a _valet de place_. She contrives to commit -herself extraordinarily little in a great many languages, and is -entertained and conversed with in detachments and relays, like an -institution which goes on from generation to generation or a big -building contracted for under a forfeit. She can't have a personal -taste, any more than, when her husband succeeds, she can have a personal -crown, and her opinion on any matter is rusty and heavy and plain--made, -in the night of ages, to last and be transmitted. I feel as if I ought -to pay some one a fee for my glimpse of it. She has been told -everything in the world and has never perceived anything, and the echoes -of her education respond awfully to the rash footfall--I mean the casual -remark--in the cold Valhalla of her memory. Mrs. Wimbush delights in her -wit and says there is nothing so charming as to hear Mr. Paraday draw it -out. He is perpetually detailed for this job, and he tells me it has a -peculiarly exhausting effect. Every one is beginning--at the end of two -days--to sidle obsequiously away from her, and Mrs. Wimbush pushes him -again and again into the breach. None of the uses I have yet seen him -put to irritate me quite so much. He looks very fagged, and has at last -confessed to me that his condition makes him uneasy--has even promised -me that he will go straight home instead of returning to his final -engagements in town. Last night I had some talk with him about going -to-day, cutting his visit short; so sure am I that he will be better as -soon as he is shut up in his lighthouse. He told me that this is what he -would like to do; reminding me, however, that the first lesson of his -greatness has been precisely that he can't do what he likes. Mrs. -Wimbush would never forgive him if he should leave her before the -Princess has received the last hand. When I say that a violent rupture -with our hostess would be the best thing in the world for him he gives -me to understand that if his reason assents to the proposition his -courage hangs wofully back. He makes no secret of being mortally afraid -of her, and when I ask what harm she can do him that she hasn't already -done he simply repeats: 'I'm afraid, I'm afraid! Don't inquire too -closely,' he said last night; 'only believe that I feel a sort of -terror. It's strange, when she's so kind! At any rate, I would as soon -overturn that piece of priceless Sèvres as tell her that I must go -before my date.' It sounds dreadfully weak, but he has some reason, and -he pays for his imagination, which puts him (I should hate it) in the -place of others and makes him feel, even against himself, their -feelings, their appetites, their motives. He's so beastly intelligent. -Besides, the famous reading is still to come off, and it has been -postponed a day, to allow Guy Walsingham to arrive. It appears that this -eminent lady is staying at a house a few miles off, which means of -course that Mrs. Wimbush has forcibly annexed her. She's to come over in -a day or two--Mrs. Wimbush wants her to hear Mr. Paraday. - -"To-day's wet and cold, and several of the company, at the invitation of -the Duke, have driven over to luncheon at Bigwood. I saw poor Paraday -wedge himself, by command, into the little supplementary seat of a -brougham in which the Princess and our hostess were already ensconced. -If the front glass isn't open on his dear old back perhaps he'll -survive. Bigwood, I believe, is very grand and frigid, all marble and -precedence, and I wish him well out of the adventure. I can't tell you -how much more and more _your_ attitude to him, in the midst of all this, -shines out by contrast. I never willingly talk to these people about -him, but see what a comfort I find it to scribble to you! I appreciate -it; it keeps me warm; there are no fires in the house. Mrs. Wimbush goes -by the calendar, the temperature goes by the weather, the weather goes -by God knows what, and the Princess is easily heated. I have nothing but -my acrimony to warm me, and have been out under an umbrella to restore -my circulation. Coming in an hour ago, I found Lady Augusta Minch -rummaging about the hall. When I asked her what she was looking for she -said she had mislaid something that Mr. Paraday had lent her. I -ascertained in a moment that the article in question is a manuscript, -and I have a foreboding that it's the noble morsel he read me six weeks -ago. When I expressed my surprise that he should have passed about -anything so precious (I happen to know it's his only copy--in the most -beautiful hand in all the world) Lady Augusta confessed to me that she -had not had it from himself, but from Mrs. Wimbush, who had wished to -give her a glimpse of it as a salve for her not being able to stay and -hear it read. - -"'Is that the piece he's to read,' I asked, 'when Guy Walsingham -arrives?' - -"'It's not for Guy Walsingham they're waiting now, it's for Dora -Forbes,' Lady Augusta said. 'She's coming, I believe, early to-morrow. -Meanwhile Mrs. Wimbush has found out about _him_ and is actively wiring -to him. She says he also must hear him.' - -"'You bewilder me a little,' I replied; 'in the age we live in one gets -lost among the genders and the pronouns. The clear thing is that Mrs. -Wimbush doesn't guard such a treasure as jealously as she might.' - -"'Poor dear, she has the Princess to guard! Mr. Paraday lent her the -manuscript to look over.' - -"'Did she speak as if it were the morning paper?' - -"Lady Augusta stared--my irony was lost upon her. 'She didn't have time, -so she gave me a chance first; because unfortunately I go to-morrow to -Bigwood.' - -"'And your chance has only proved a chance to lose it?' - -"'I haven't lost it. I remember now--it was very stupid of me to have -forgotten. I told my maid to give it to Lord Dorimont--or at least to -his man.' - -"'And Lord Dorimont went away directly after luncheon.' - -"'Of course he gave it back to my maid--or else his man did,' said Lady -Augusta. 'I daresay it's all right.' - -"The conscience of these people is like a summer sea. They haven't time -to 'look over' a priceless composition; they've only time to kick it -about the house. I suggested that the 'man,' fired with a noble -emulation, had perhaps kept the work for his own perusal; and her -ladyship wanted to know whether, if the thing didn't turn up again in -time for the session appointed by our hostess, the author wouldn't have -something else to read that would do just as well. Their questions are -too delightful! I declared to Lady Augusta briefly that nothing in the -world can ever do as well as the thing that does best; and at this she -looked a little confused and scared. But I added that if the manuscript -had gone astray our little circle would have the less of an effort of -attention to make. The piece in question was very long--it would keep -them three hours. - -"'Three hours! Oh, the Princess will get up!' said Lady Augusta. - -"'I thought she was Mr. Paraday's greatest admirer.' - -"'I daresay she is--she's so awfully clever. But what's the use of being -a Princess----' - -"'If you can't dissemble your love?' I asked, as Lady Augusta was vague. -She said, at any rate, that she would question her maid; and I am hoping -that when I go down to dinner I shall find the manuscript has been -recovered." - - - X - -"It has not been recovered," I wrote early the next day, "and I am -moreover much troubled about our friend. He came back from Bigwood with -a chill and, being allowed to have a fire in his room, lay down a while -before dinner. I tried to send him to bed and indeed thought I had put -him in the way of it; but after I had gone to dress Mrs. Wimbush came up -to see him, with the inevitable result that when I returned I found him -under arms and flushed and feverish, though decorated with the rare -flower she had brought him for his button-hole. He came down to dinner, -but Lady Augusta Minch was very shy of him. To-day he's in great pain, -and the advent of those ladies--I mean of Guy Walsingham and Dora -Forbes--doesn't at all console me. It does Mrs. Wimbush, however, for -she has consented to his remaining in bed, so that he may be all right -to-morrow for the _séance_. Guy Walsingham is already on the scene, and -the doctor, for Paraday, also arrived early. I haven't yet seen the -author of 'Obsessions,' but of course I've had a moment by myself with -the doctor. I tried to get him to say that our invalid must go straight -home--I mean to-morrow or next day; but he quite refuses to talk about -the future. Absolute quiet and warmth and the regular administration of -an important remedy are the points he mainly insists on. He returns this -afternoon, and I'm to go back to see the patient at one o'clock, when he -next takes his medicine. It consoles me a little that he certainly won't -be able to read--an exertion he was already more than unfit for. Lady -Augusta went off after breakfast, assuring me that her first care would -be to follow up the lost manuscript. I can see she thinks me a shocking -busybody and doesn't understand my alarm, but she will do what she can, -for she's a good-natured woman. 'So are they all honourable men.' That -was precisely what made her give the thing to Lord Dorimont and made -Lord Dorimont bag it. What use _he_ has for it God only knows. I have -the worst forebodings, but somehow I'm strangely without -passion--desperately calm. As I consider the unconscious, the -well-meaning ravages of our appreciative circle I bow my head in -submission to some great natural, some universal accident; I'm rendered -almost indifferent, in fact quite gay (ha-ha!) by the sense of -immitigable fate. Lady Augusta promises me to trace the precious object -and let me have it, through the post, by the time Paraday is well -enough to play his part with it. The last evidence is that her maid did -give it to his lordship's valet. One would think it was some thrilling -number of _The Family Budget_. Mrs. Wimbush, who is aware of the -accident, is much less agitated by it than she would doubtless be were -she not for the hour inevitably engrossed with Guy Walsingham." - -Later in the day I informed my correspondent, for whom indeed I kept a -sort of diary of the situation, that I had made the acquaintance of this -celebrity and that she was a pretty little girl who wore her hair in -what used to be called a crop. She looked so juvenile and so innocent -that if, as Mr. Morrow had announced, she was resigned to the larger -latitude, her fortitude must have come to her early. I spent most of the -day hovering about Neil Paraday's room, but it was communicated to me -from below that Guy Walsingham, at Prestidge, was a success. Towards -evening I became conscious somehow that her resignation was contagious -and by the time the company separated for the night I was sure that the -larger latitude had been generally accepted. I thought of Dora Forbes -and felt that he had no time to lose. Before dinner I received a -telegram from Lady Augusta Minch. "Lord Dorimont thinks he must have -left bundle in train--inquire." How could I inquire--if I was to take -the word as a command? I was too worried and now too alarmed about Neil -Paraday. The doctor came back, and it was an immense satisfaction to me -to feel that he was wise and interested. He was proud of being called to -so distinguished a patient, but he admitted to me that night that my -friend was gravely ill. It was really a relapse, a recrudescence of his -old malady. There could be no question of moving him: we must at any -rate see first, on the spot, what turn his condition would take. -Meanwhile, on the morrow, he was to have a nurse. On the morrow the -dear man was easier and my spirits rose to such cheerfulness that I -could almost laugh over Lady Augusta's second telegram: "Lord Dorimont's -servant been to station--nothing found. Push inquiries." I did laugh, I -am sure, as I remembered this was the mystic scroll I had scarcely -allowed poor Mr. Morrow to point his umbrella at. Fool that I had been: -the thirty-seven influential journals wouldn't have destroyed it, they -would only have printed it. Of course I said nothing to Paraday. - -When the nurse arrived she turned me out of the room, on which I went -downstairs. I should premise that at breakfast the news that our -brilliant friend was doing well excited universal complacency, and the -Princess graciously remarked that he was only to be commiserated for -missing the society of Miss Collop. Mrs. Wimbush, whose social gift -never shone brighter than in the dry decorum with which she accepted -this blemish on her perfection, mentioned to me that Guy Walsingham had -made a very favourable impression on her Imperial Highness. Indeed I -think everyone did so and that, like the money-market or the national -honour, her Imperial Highness was constitutionally sensitive. There was -a certain gladness, a perceptible bustle in the air, however, which I -thought slightly anomalous in a house where a great author lay -critically ill. "_Le roy est mort--vive le roy_": I was reminded that -another great author had already stepped into his shoes. When I came -down again after the nurse had taken possession I found a strange -gentleman hanging about the hall and pacing to and fro by the closed -door of the drawing-room. This personage was florid and bald, he had a -big red moustache and wore showy knickerbockers--characteristics all -that fitted into my conception of the identity of Dora Forbes. In a -moment I saw what had happened: the author of "The Other Way Round" had -just alighted at the portals of Prestidge, but had suffered a scruple to -restrain him from penetrating further. I recognised his scruple when, -pausing to listen at his gesture of caution, I heard a shrill voice -lifted in a prolonged monotonous quaver. The famous reading had begun, -only it was the author of "Obsessions" who now furnished the sacrifice. -The new visitor whispered to me that he judged something was going on -that he oughtn't to interrupt. - -"Miss Collop arrived last night," I smiled, "and the Princess has a -thirst for the _inédit_." - -Dora Forbes lifted his bushy brows. "Miss Collop?" - -"Guy Walsingham, your distinguished _confrère_--or shall I say your -formidable rival?" - -"Oh!" growled Dora Forbes. Then he added: "Shall I spoil it if I go in?" - -"I should think nothing could spoil it!" I ambiguously laughed. - -Dora Forbes evidently felt the dilemma; he gave an irritated crook to -his moustache. "_Shall_ I go in?" he presently asked. - -We looked at each other hard a moment; then I expressed something bitter -that was in me, expressed it in an infernal "Yes!" After this I got out -into the air, but not so quickly as not to hear, as the door of the -drawing-room opened, the disconcerted drop of Miss Collop's public -manner: she must have been in the midst of the larger latitude. -Producing with extreme rapidity, Guy Walsingham has just published a -work in which amiable people who are not initiated have been pained to -see the genius of a sister-novelist held up to unmistakable ridicule; so -fresh an exhibition does it seem to them of the dreadful way men have -always treated women. Dora Forbes, it is true, at the present hour, is -immensely pushed by Mrs. Wimbush, and has sat for his portrait to the -young artists she protects, sat for it not only in oils but in -monumental alabaster. - -What happened at Prestidge later in the day is of course contemporary -history. If the interruption I had whimsically sanctioned was almost a -scandal, what is to be said of that general dispersal of the company -which, under the doctor's rule, began to take place in the evening? His -rule was soothing to behold, small comfort as I was to have at the end. -He decreed in the interest of his patient an absolutely soundless house -and a consequent break-up of the party. Little country practitioner as -he was, he literally packed off the Princess. She departed as promptly -as if a revolution had broken out, and Guy Walsingham emigrated with -her. I was kindly permitted to remain, and this was not denied even to -Mrs. Wimbush. The privilege was withheld indeed from Dora Forbes; so -Mrs. Wimbush kept her latest capture temporarily concealed. This was so -little, however, her usual way of dealing with her eminent friends that -a couple of days of it exhausted her patience, and she went up to town -with him in great publicity. The sudden turn for the worse her afflicted -guest had, after a brief improvement, taken on the third night raised an -obstacle to her seeing him before her retreat; a fortunate circumstance -doubtless, for she was fundamentally disappointed in him. This was not -the kind of performance for which she had invited him to Prestidge, or -invited the Princess. Let me hasten to add that none of the generous -acts which have characterised her patronage of intellectual and other -merit have done so much for her reputation as her lending Neil Paraday -the most beautiful of her numerous homes to die in. He took advantage to -the utmost of the singular favour. Day by day I saw him sink, and I -roamed alone about the empty terraces and gardens. His wife never came -near him, but I scarcely noticed it: as I paced there with rage in my -heart I was too full of another wrong. In the event of his death it -would fall to me perhaps to bring out in some charming form, with notes, -with the tenderest editorial care, that precious heritage of his written -project. But where _was_ that precious heritage, and were both the -author and the book to have been snatched from us? Lady Augusta wrote me -that she had done all she could and that poor Lord Dorimont, who had -really been worried to death, was extremely sorry. I couldn't have the -matter out with Mrs. Wimbush, for I didn't want to be taunted by her -with desiring to aggrandise myself by a public connection with Mr. -Paraday's sweepings. She had signified her willingness to meet the -expense of all advertising, as indeed she was always ready to do. The -last night of the horrible series, the night before he died, I put my -ear closer to his pillow. - -"That thing I read you that morning, you know." - -"In your garden--that dreadful day? Yes!" - -"Won't it do as it is?" - -"It would have been a glorious book." - -"It _is_ a glorious book," Neil Paraday murmured. "Print it as it -stands--beautifully." - -"Beautifully!" I passionately promised. - -It may be imagined whether, now that he has gone, the promise seems to -me less sacred. I am convinced that if such pages had appeared in his -lifetime the Abbey would hold him to-day. I have kept the advertising in -my own hands, but the manuscript has not been recovered. It's -impossible, and at any rate intolerable, to suppose it can have been -wantonly destroyed. Perhaps some chance blundering hand, some brutal -ignorance has lighted kitchen-fires with it. Every stupid and hideous -accident haunts my meditations. My undiscourageable search for the lost -treasure would make a long chapter. Fortunately I have a devoted -associate in the person of a young lady who has every day a fresh -indignation and a fresh idea and who maintains with intensity that the -prize will still turn up. Sometimes I believe her, but I have quite -ceased to believe myself. The only thing for us, at all events, is to go -on seeking and hoping together; and we should be closely united by this -firm tie even were we not at present by another. - - - - -L'Education Sentimentale - - By Aubrey Beardsley - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: L'Education Sentimentale] - - - - -Tree-Worship - - By Richard Le Gallienne - - - Vast and mysterious brother, ere was yet of me - So much as men may poise upon a needle's end, - Still shook with laughter all this monstrous might of thee, - And still with haughty crest it called the morning friend. - - Thy latticed column jetted up the bright blue air, - Tall as a mast it was, and stronger than a tower; - Three hundred winters had beheld thee mighty there, - Before my little life had lived one little hour. - - With rocky foot stern-set like iron in the land, - With leafy rustling crest the morning sows with pearls, - Huge as a minster, half in heaven men saw thee stand, - Thy rugged girth the waists of fifty Eastern girls. - - Knotted and warted, slabbed and armoured like the hide - Of tropic elephant; unstormable and steep - As some grim fortress with a princess-pearl inside, - Where savage guardian faces beard the bastioned keep: - - So hard a rind, old tree, shielding so soft a heart, - A woman's heart of tender little nestling leaves; - Nor rind so hard but that a touch so soft can part, - And spring's first baby-bud an easy passage cleaves. - - I picture thee within with dainty satin sides, - Where all the long day through the sleeping dryad dreams, - But when the moon bends low and taps thee thrice she glides, - Knowing the fairy knock, to bask within her beams. - - And all the long night through, for him with eyes and ears, - She sways within thine arms and sings a fairy tune, - Till, startled with the dawn, she softly disappears, - And sleeps and dreams again until the rising moon. - - But with the peep of day great bands of heavenly birds - Fill all thy branchy chambers with a thousand flutes, - And with the torrid noon stroll up the weary herds, - To seek thy friendly shade and doze about thy roots; - - Till with the setting sun they turn them once more home: - And, ere the moon dawns, for a brief enchanted space, - Weary with million miles, the sore-spent star-beams come, - And moths and bats hold witches' sabbath in the place. - - And then I picture thee some bloodstained Holyrood, - Dread haunted palace of the bat and owl, whence steal, - Shrouded all day, lost murdered spirits of the wood, - And fright young happy nests with homeless hoot and squeal. - - Some Rizzio nightingale that plained adulterous love - Beneath the boudoir-bough of some fast-married bird, - Some dove that cooed to some one else's lawful dove, - And felt the dagger-beak pierce while his lady heard. - - Then, maybe, dangling from thy gloomy gallows boughs, - A human corpse swings, mournful, rattling bones and chains-- - His eighteenth century flesh hath fattened nineteenth century cows-- - Ghastly Æolian harp fingered of winds and rains. - - Poor Rizpah comes to reap each newly-fallen bone - That once thrilled soft, a little limb, within her womb; - And mark yon alchemist, with zodiac-spangled zone, - Wrenching the mandrake root that fattens in the gloom. - - So rounds thy day, from maiden morn to haunted night, - From larks and sunlit dreams to owl and gibbering ghost; - A catacomb of dark, a sponge of living light, - To the wide sea of air a green and welcome coast. - - I seek a god, old tree: accept my worship, thou! - All other gods have failed me always in my need. - I hang my votive song beneath thy temple bough, - Unto thy strength I cry--Old monster, be my creed! - - Give me to clasp this earth with feeding roots like thine, - To mount yon heaven with such star-aspiring head, - Fill full with sap and buds this shrunken life of mine, - And from my boughs O might such stalwart sons be shed! - - With loving cheek pressed close against thy horny breast, - I hear the roar of sap mounting within thy veins; - Tingling with buds, thy great hands open towards the west, - To catch the sweetheart wind that brings the sister rains. - - O winds that blow from out the fruitful mouth of God, - O rains that softly fall from his all-loving eyes, - You that bring buds to trees and daisies to the sod, - O God's best Angel of the Spring, in me arise. - - - -Le Puy en Velay - - By Joseph Pennell - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: Le Puy en Velay] - - - - -A Defence of Cosmetics - - By Max Beerbohm - - -Nay, but it is useless to protest. Artifice must queen it once more in -the town, and so, if there be any whose hearts chafe at her return, let -them not say, "We have come into evil times," and be all for resistance, -reformation or angry cavilling. For did the king's sceptre send the sea -retrograde, or the wand of the sorcerer avail to turn the sun from its -old course? And what man or what number of men ever stayed that -reiterated process by which the cities of this world grow, are very -strong, fail and grow again? Indeed, indeed, there is charm in every -period, and only fools and flutterpates do not seek reverently for what -is charming in their own day. No martyrdom, however fine, nor satire, -however splendidly bitter, has changed by a little tittle the known -tendency of things. It is the times that can perfect us, not we the -times, and so let all of us wisely acquiesce. Like the little wired -marionettes, let us acquiesce in the dance. - -For behold! The Victorian era comes to its end and the day of sancta -simplicitas is quite ended. The old signs are here and the portents to -warn the seer of life that we are ripe for a new epoch of artifice. Are -not men rattling the dice-box and ladies dipping their fingers in the -rouge-pots? At Rome, in the keenest time of her degringolade, when there -was gambling even in the holy temples, great ladies (does not Lucian -tell us?) did not scruple to squander all they had upon unguents from -Arabia. Nero's mistress and unhappy wife, Poppæa, of shameful memory, -had in her travelling retinue fifteen--or, as some say, -fifty--she-asses, for the sake of their milk, that was thought an -incomparable guard against cosmetics with poison in them. Last century, -too, when life was lived by candle-light, and ethics was but etiquette, -and even art a question of punctilio, women, we know, gave the best -hours of the day to the crafty farding of their faces and the towering -of their coiffures. And men, throwing passion into the wine-bowl to sink -or swim, turned out thought to browse upon the green cloth. Cannot we -even now in our fancy see them, those silent exquisites round the long -table at Brooks', masked, all of them, "lest the countenance should -betray feeling," in quinze masks, through whose eyelets they sat -peeping, peeping, while macao brought them riches or ruin? We can see -them, those silent rascals, sitting there with their cards and their -rouleaux and their wooden money-bowls, long after the dawn had crept up -St. James' and pressed its haggard face against the window of the little -club. Yes, we can raise their ghosts--and, more, we can see manywhere a -devotion to hazard fully as meek as theirs. In England there has been a -wonderful revival of cards. Roulette may rival dead faro in the tale of -her devotees. Her wheel is spinning busily in every house and ere long -it may be that tender parents will be writing to complain of the -compulsory baccarat in our public schools. - -In fact, we are all gamblers once more, but our gambling is on a finer -scale than ever it was. We fly from the card-room to the heath, and from -the heath to the City, and from the City to the coast of the -Mediterranean. And just as no one seriously encourages the clergy in its -frantic efforts to lay the spirit of chance, that has thus resurged -among us, so no longer are many faces set against that other great sign -of a more complicated life, the love for cosmetics. No longer is a lady -of fashion blamed if, to escape the outrageous persecution of time, she -fly for sanctuary to the toilet-table; and if a damosel, prying in her -mirror, be sure that with brush and pigment she can trick herself into -more charm, we are not angry. Indeed, why should we ever have been? -Surely it is laudable, this wish to make fair the ugly and overtop -fairness, and no wonder that within the last five years the trade of the -makers of cosmetics has increased immoderately--twentyfold, so one of -these makers has said to me. We need but walk down any modish street and -peer into the little broughams that flit past, or (in Thackeray's -phrase) under the bonnet of any woman we meet, to see over how wide a -kingdom rouge reigns. We men, who, from Juvenal down to that -discourteous painter of whom Lord Chesterfield tells us, have especially -shown a dislike of cosmetics, are quite yielding; and there are, I -fancy, many such husbands as he who, suddenly realising that his wife -was painted, bad her sternly, "Go up and take it all off," and, on her -reappearance, bad her with increasing sternness, "Go up and put it all -on again." - -But now that the use of pigments is becoming general, and most women are -not so young as they are painted, it may be asked curiously how the -prejudice ever came into being. Indeed, it is hard to trace folly, for -that it is inconsequent, to its start; and perhaps it savours too much -of reason to suggest that the prejudice was due to the tristful -confusion man has made of soul and surface. Through trusting so keenly -to the detection of the one by keeping watch upon the other, and by -force of the thousand errors following, he has come to think of surface -even as the reverse of soul. He supposes that every clown beneath his -paint and lip-salve is moribund and knows it, (though in verity, I am -told, clowns are as cheerful a class of men as any other), that the -fairer the fruit's rind and the more delectable its bloom, the closer -are packed the ashes within it. The very jargon of the hunting-field -connects cunning with a mask. And so perhaps came man's anger at the -embellishment of women--that lovely mask of enamel with its shadows of -pink and tiny pencilled veins, what must lurk behind it? Of what -treacherous mysteries may it not be the screen? Does not the heathen -lacquer her dark face, and the harlot paint her cheeks, because sorrow -has made them pale? - -After all, the old prejudice is a-dying. We need not pry into the secret -of its birth. Rather is this a time of jolliness and glad indulgence. -For the era of rouge is upon us, and as only in an elaborate era can man -by the tangled accrescency of his own pleasures and emotions reach that -refinement which is his highest excellence, and by making himself, so to -say, independent of Nature, come nearest to God, so only in an elaborate -era is woman perfect. Artifice is the strength of the world, and in that -same mask of paint and powder, shadowed with vermeil tinct and most -trimly pencilled, is woman's strength. - -For see! We need not look so far back to see woman under the direct -influence of Nature. Early in this century, our grandmothers, sickening -of the odour of faded exotics and spilt wine, came out into the daylight -once more and let the breezes blow around their faces and enter, sharp -and welcome, into their lungs. Artifice they drove forth, and they set -Martin Tupper upon a throne of mahogany to rule over them. A very reign -of terror set in. All things were sacrificed to the fetish Nature. Old -ladies may still be heard to tell how, when they were girls, affectation -was not; and, if we verify their assertion in the light of such literary -authorities as Dickens, we find that it is absolutely true. Women appear -to have been in those days utterly natural in their conduct--flighty, -gushing, blushing, fainting, giggling and shaking their curls. They knew -no reserve in the first days of the Victorian era. No thought was held -too trivial, no emotion too silly, to express. To Nature everything was -sacrificed. Great heavens! And in those barren days what influence was -exerted by women? By men they seem not to have been feared nor loved, -but regarded rather as "dear little creatures" or "wonderful little -beings," and in their relation to life as foolish and ineffectual as the -landscapes they did in water-colour. Yet, if the women of those years -were of no great account, they had a certain charm and they at least had -not begun to trespass upon men's ground; if they touched not thought, -which is theirs by right, at any rate they refrained from action, which -is ours. Far more serious was it when, in the natural trend of time, -they became enamoured of rinking and archery and galloping along the -Brighton Parade. Swiftly they have sped on since then from horror to -horror. The invasion of the tennis-courts and of the golf-links, the -seizure of the tricycle and of the type-writer, were but steps -preliminary in that campaign which is to end with the final victorious -occupation of St. Stephen's. But stay! The horrific pioneers of -womanhood who gad hither and thither and, confounding wisdom with the -device on her shield, shriek for the unbecoming, are doomed. Though they -spin their tricycle-treadles so amazingly fast, they are too late. -Though they scream victory, none follow them. Artifice, that fair exile, -has returned. - -Yes, though the pioneers know it not, they are doomed already. For of -the curiosities of history not the least strange is the manner in which -two social movements may be seen to overlap, long after the second has, -in truth, given its deathblow to the first. And, in like manner as one -has seen the limbs of a murdered thing in lively movement, so we need -not doubt that, though the voices of those who cry out for reform be -very terribly shrill, they will soon be hushed. Dear Artifice is with -us. It needed but that we should wait. - -Surely, without any of my pleading, women will welcome their great and -amiable protectrix, as by instinct. For (have I not said?) it is upon -her that all their strength, their life almost, depends. Artifice's -first command to them is that they should repose. With bodily activity -their powder will fly, their enamel crack. They are butterflies who must -not flit, if they love their bloom. Now, setting aside the point of view -of passion, from which very many obvious things might be said, (and -probably have been by the minor poets), it is, from the intellectual -point of view, quite necessary that a woman should repose. Hers is the -resupinate sex. On her couch she is a goddess, but so soon as ever she -put her foot to the ground--lo, she is the veriest little sillypop and -quite done for. She cannot rival us in action, but she is our mistress -in the things of the mind. Let her not by second-rate athletics, nor -indeed by any exercise soever of the limbs, spoil the pretty procedure -of her reason. Let her be content to remain the guide, the subtle -suggester of what _we_ must do, the strategist whose soldiers we are, -the little architect whose workmen. - -"After all," as a pretty girl once said to me, "women are a sex by -themselves, so to speak," and the sharper the line between their worldly -functions and ours, the better. This greater swiftness and less erring -subtlety of mind, their forte and privilege, justifies the painted mask -that Artifice bids them wear. Behind it their minds can play without -let. They gain the strength of reserve. They become important, as in the -days of the Roman Empire were the Emperor's mistresses, as was the -Pompadour at Versailles, as was our Elizabeth. Yet do not their faces -become lined with thought; beautiful and without meaning are their -faces. - -And, truly, of all the good things that will happen with the full -renascence of cosmetics, one of the best is that surface will finally be -severed from soul. That damnable confusion will be solved by the -extinguishing of a prejudice which, as I suggest, itself created. Too -long has the face been degraded from its rank as a thing of beauty to a -mere vulgar index of character or emotion. We had come to troubling -ourselves, not with its charm of colour and line, but with such -questions as whether the lips were sensuous, the eyes full of sadness, -the nose indicative of determination. I have no quarrel with -physiognomy. For my own part, I believe in it. But it has tended to -degrade the face æsthetically, in such wise as the study of cheirosophy -has tended to degrade the hand. And the use of cosmetics, the masking of -the face, will change this. We shall gaze at a woman merely because she -is beautiful, not stare into her face anxiously, as into the face of a -barometer. - -How fatal it has been, in how many ways, this confusion of soul and -surface! Wise were the Greeks in making plain masks for their mummers to -play in, and dunces we not to have done the same! Only the other day, an -actress was saying that what she was most proud of in her art--next, of -course, to having appeared in some provincial pantomime at the age of -three--was the deftness with which she contrived, in parts demanding a -rapid succession of emotions, to dab her cheeks quite quickly with rouge -from the palm of her right hand, or powder from the palm of her left. -Gracious goodness! why do not we have masks upon the stage? Drama is the -presentment of the soul in action. The mirror of the soul is the voice. -Let the young critics, who seek a cheap reputation for austerity, by -cavilling at "incidental music," set their faces rather against the -attempt to justify inferior dramatic art by the subvention of a quite -alien art like painting, of any art, indeed, whose sphere is only -surface. Let those, again, who sneer, so rightly, at the "painted -anecdotes of the Academy," censure equally the writers who trespass on -painter's ground. It is a proclaimed sin that a painter should concern -himself with a good little girl's affection for a Scotch greyhound, or -the keen enjoyment of their port by elderly gentlemen of the early -'forties. Yet, for a painter to prod the soul with his paint-brush is no -worse than for a novelist to refuse to dip under the surface, and the -fashion of avoiding a psychological study of grief by stating that the -owner's hair turned white in a single night, or of shame by mentioning a -sudden rush of scarlet to the cheeks, is as lamentable as may be. But! -But with the universal use of cosmetics and the consequent secernment of -soul and surface, which, at the risk of irritating a reader, I must -again insist upon, all those old properties that went to bolster up the -ordinary novel--the trembling lips, the flashing eyes, the determined -curve of the chin, the nervous trick of biting the moustache--aye and -the hectic spot of red on either cheek--will be made spiflicate, as the -puppets were spiflicated by Don Quixote. Yes, even now Demos begins to -discern. The same spirit that has revived rouge, smote his mouth as it -grinned at the wondrous painter of mist and river, and now sends him -sprawling for the pearls that Meredith dived for in the deep waters of -romance. - -Indeed the revival of cosmetics must needs be so splendid an influence, -conjuring boons innumerable, that one inclines almost to mutter against -that inexorable law by which Artifice must perish from time to time. -That such branches of painting as the staining of glass or the -illuminating of manuscripts should fall into disuse seems in comparison, -so likely; these were esoteric arts; they died with the monastic -spirit. But personal appearance is art's very basis. The painting of the -face is the first kind of painting man can have known. To make beautiful -things--is it not an impulse laid upon few? But to make oneself -beautiful is an universal instinct. Strange that the resultant art could -ever perish! So fascinating an art too! So various in its materials from -stimmis, psimythium and fuligo to bismuth and arsenic, so simple in that -its ground and its subject-matter are one, so marvellous in that its -very subject-matter becomes lovely when an artist has selected it! For -surely this is no idle nor fantastic saying. To deny that "making-up" is -an art, on the pretext that the finished work of its exponents depends -for beauty and excellence upon the ground chosen for the work, is -absurd. At the touch of a true artist, the plainest face turns comely. -As subject-matter the face is no more than suggestive, as ground, merely -a loom round which the beatus artifex may spin the threads of any golden -fabric: - - "Quae nunc nomen habent operosi signa Maronis - Pondus iners quondam duraque massa fuit. - Multa viros nescire decet; pars maxima rerum - Offendat, si non interiora tegas," - -and, as Ovid would seem to suggest, by pigments any tone may be set -aglow on a woman's cheek, from enamel the features take any form. -Insomuch that surely the advocates of soup-kitchens and free-libraries -and other devices for giving people what providence did not mean them to -receive, should send out pamphlets in the praise of self-embellishment. -For it will place Beauty within easy reach of many who could not -otherwise hope to attain it. - -But of course Artifice is rather exacting. In return for the repose she -forces--so wisely!--upon her followers when the sun is high or the moon -is blown across heaven, she demands that they should pay her long homage -at the sun's rising. The initiate may not enter lightly upon her -mysteries. For, if a bad complexion be inexcusable, to be ill-painted is -unforgivable; and when the toilet is laden once more with the fulness of -its elaboration, we shall hear no more of the proper occupation for -women. And think, how sweet an energy, to sit at the mirror of coquetry! -See the dear merits of the toilet as shown upon old vases, or upon the -walls of Roman dwellings, or, rather still, read Böttiger's alluring, -scholarly description of "Morgenscenen im Puttzimmer Einer Reichen -Römerin." Read of Sabina's face as she comes through the curtain of her -bed-chamber to the chamber of her toilet. The slave-girls have long been -chafing their white feet upon the marble floor. They stand, those timid -Greek girls, marshalled in little battalions. Each has her appointed -task, and all kneel in welcome as Sabina stalks, ugly and frowning, to -the toilet chair. Scaphion steps forth from among them, and, dipping a -tiny sponge in a bowl of hot milk, passes it lightly, ever so lightly, -over her mistress' face. The Poppæan pastes melt beneath it like snow. A -cooling lotion is poured over her brow and is fanned with feathers. -Phiale comes after, a clever girl, captured in some sea-skirmish in the -Aegean. In her left hand she holds the ivory box wherein are the phucus -and that white powder, psimythium; in her right a sheaf of slim brushes. -With how sure a touch does she mingle the colours, and in what sweet -proportion blushes and blanches her lady's upturned face. Phiale is the -cleverest of all the slaves. Now Calamis dips her quill in a certain -powder that floats, liquid and sable, in the hollow of her palm. -Standing upon tip-toe and with lips parted, she traces the arch of the -eyebrows. The slaves whisper loudly of their lady's beauty, and two of -them hold up a mirror to her. Yes, the eyebrows are rightly arched. But -why does Psecas abase herself? She is craving leave to powder Sabina's -hair with a fine new powder. It is made of the grated rind of the -cedar-tree, and a Gallic perfumer, whose stall is near the Circus, gave -it to her for a kiss. No lady in Rome knows of it. And so, when four -special slaves have piled up the head-dress, out of a perforated box -this glistening powder is showered. Into every little brown ringlet it -enters, till Sabina's hair seems like a pile of gold coins. Lest the -breezes send it flying, the girls lay the powder with sprinkled attar. -Soon Sabina will start for the Temple of Cybele. - -Ah! Such are the lures of the toilet that none will for long hold aloof -from them. Cosmetics are not going to be a mere prosaic remedy for age -or plainness, but all ladies and all young girls will come to love them. -Does not a certain blithe Marquise, whose _lettres intimes_ from the -Court of Louis Seize are less read than their wit would merit, tell us -how she was scandalised to see "_même les toutes jeunes demoiselles -émaillées comme ma tabatière_?" So it shall be with us. Surely the -common prejudice against painting the lily can but be based on mere -ground of economy. That which is already fair is complete, it may be -urged--urged implausibly, for there are not so many lovely things in -this world that we can afford not to know each one of them by heart. -There is only one white lily, and who that has ever seen--as I have--a -lily really well painted could grudge the artist so fair a ground for -his skill? Scarcely do you believe through how many nice metamorphoses a -lily may be passed by him. In like manner, we all know the young girl, -with her simpleness, her goodness, her wayward ignorance. And a very -charming ideal for England must she have been, and a very natural one, -when a young girl sat even on the throne. But no nation can keep its -ideal for ever and it needed none of Mr. Gilbert's delicate satire in -"Utopia" to remind us that she had passed out of our ken with the rest -of the early Victorian era. What writer of plays, as lately asked some -pressman, who had been told off to attend many first nights and knew -what he was talking about, ever dreams of making the young girl the -centre of his theme? Rather he seeks inspiration from the tried and -tired woman of the world, in all her intricate maturity, whilst, by way -of comic relief, he sends the young girl flitting in and out with a -tennis-racket, the poor eidôlon amauron of her former self. The -season of the unsophisticated is gone by, and the young girl's final -extinction beneath the rising tides of cosmetics will leave no gap in -life and will rob art of nothing. - -"Tush," I can hear some damned flutterpate exclaim, "girlishness and -innocence are as strong and as permanent as womanhood itself! Why, a few -months past, the whole town went mad over Miss Cissie Loftus! Was not -hers a success of girlish innocence and the absence of rouge? If such -things as these be outmoded, why was she so wildly popular?" Indeed, the -triumph of that clever girl, whose début made London nice even in -August, is but another witness to the truth of my contention. In a very -sophisticated time, simplicity has a new dulcedo. Hers was a success of -contrast. Accustomed to clever malaperts like Miss Lloyd or Miss Reeve, -whose experienced pouts and smiles under the sun-bonnet are a standing -burlesque of innocence and girlishness, Demos was really delighted, for -once and away, to see the real presentment of these things upon his -stage. Coming after all those sly serios, coming so young and mere with -her pink frock and straightly combed hair, Miss Cissie Loftus had the -charm which things of another period often do possess. Besides, just as -we adored her for the abrupt nod with which she was wont at first to -acknowledge the applause, so we were glad for her to come upon the -stage with nothing to tinge the ivory of her cheeks. It seemed so -strange, that neglect of convention. To be behind footlights and not -rouged! Yes, hers was a success of contrast. She was like a daisy in the -window at Solomons'. She was delightful. And yet, such is the force of -convention, that when last I saw her, playing in some burlesque at the -Gaiety, her fringe was curled and her pretty face rouged with the best -of them. And, if further need be to show the absurdity of having called -her performance "a triumph of naturalness over the jaded spirit of -modernity," let us reflect that the little mimic was not a real -old-fashioned girl after all. She had none of that restless naturalness -that would seem to have characterised the girl of the early Victorian -days. She had no pretty ways--no smiles nor blushes nor tremors. -Possibly Demos could not have stood a presentment of girlishness -unrestrained. - -But with her grave insouciance, Miss Cissie Loftus had much of the -reserve that is one of the factors of feminine perfection, and to most -comes only, as I have said, with artifice. Her features played very, -very slightly. And in truth, this may have been one of the reasons of -her great success. For expression is but too often the ruin of a face; -and, since we cannot as yet so order the circumstances of life that -women shall never be betrayed into "an unbecoming emotion," when the -brunette shall never have cause to blush, and the lady who looks well -with parted lips be kept in a permanent state of surprise, the safest -way by far is to create, by brush and pigments, artificial expressions -for every face. - -And this--say you?--will make monotony? You are mistaken, _toto coelo_ -mistaken. When your mistress has wearied you with one expression, then -it will need but a few touches of that pencil, a backward sweep of that -brush, and lo, you will be revelling in another. For though, of course, -the painting of the face is, in manner, most like the painting of -canvas, in outcome it is rather akin to the art of music--lasting, like -music's echo, not for very long. So that, no doubt, of the many little -appurtenances of the Reformed Toilet Table, not the least vital will be -a list of the emotions that become its owner, with recipes for -simulating them. According to the colour she wills her hair to be for -the time--black or yellow or, peradventure, burnished red--she will -blush for you, sneer for you, laugh or languish for you. The good -combinations of line and colour are nearly numberless, and by their -means poor restless woman will be able to realise her moods in all their -shades and lights and dappledoms, to live many lives and masquerade -through many moments of joy. No monotony will be. And for us men -matrimony will have lost its sting. - -But be it remembered! Though we men will garner these oblique boons, it -is into the hands of women that Artifice gives her pigments. I know, I -know that many men in a certain sect of society have shown a marked -tendency to the use of cosmetics. I speak not of the countless gentlemen -who walk about town in the time of its desertion from August to October, -artificially bronzed, as though they were fresh from the moors or from -the Solent. This, I conceive, is done for purely social reasons and need -not concern me here. Rather do I speak of those who make themselves up, -seemingly with an æsthetic purpose. Doubtless--I wish to be quite -just--there are many who look the better for such embellishment; but, at -the hazard of being thought old-fashioned and prejudiced, I cannot speak -of the custom with anything but strong disapproval. If men are to lie -among the rouge-pots, inevitably it will tend to promote that -amalgamation of the sexes which is one of the chief planks in the -decadent platform and to obtund that piquant contrast between him and -her, which is one of the redeeming features of creation. Besides, -really, men have not the excuse of facial monotony, that holds in the -case of women. Have we not hair upon our chins and upper lips? And can -we not, by diverting the trend of our moustache or by growing our beard -in this way or that, avoid the boredom of looking the same for long? Let -us beware. For if, in violation of unwritten sexual law, men take to -trifling with the paints and brushes that are feminine heritage, it may -be that our great ladies will don false imperials, and the little doner -deck her pretty chin with a Newgate fringe! After all, I think we need -not fear that many men will thus trespass. Most of them are in the City -nowadays, and the great wear and tear of that place would put their use -of rouge--that demands bodily repose from its dependents--quite outside -the range of practical æsthetics. - -But that in the world of women they will not neglect this art, so -ripping in itself, in its result so wonderfully beneficent, I am sure -indeed. Much, I have said, is already done for its full renascence. The -spirit of the age has made straight the path of its professors. Fashion -has made Jezebel surrender her monopoly of the rouge-pot. As yet, the -great art of self-embellishment is for us but in its infancy. But if -Englishwomen can bring it to the flower of an excellence so supreme as -never yet has it known, then, though Old England may lose her martial -and commercial supremacy, we patriots will have the satisfaction of -knowing that she has been advanced at one bound to a place in the -councils of æsthetic Europe. And, in sooth, is this hoping too high of -my countrywomen? True that, as the art seems always to have appealed to -the ladies of Athens, and it was not until the waning time of the -Republic that Roman ladies learned to love the practice of it, so Paris, -Athenian in this as in all other things, has been noted hitherto as a -far more vivid centre of the art than London. But it was in Rome, under -the Emperors, that unguentaria reached its zenith, and shall it not be -in London, soon, that unguentaria shall outstrip its Roman perfection? -Surely there must be among us artists as cunning in the use of brush and -puff as any who lived at Versailles. Surely the splendid, impalpable -advance of good taste, as shown in dress and in the decoration of -houses, may justify my hope of the preëminence of Englishwomen in the -cosmetic art. By their innate delicacy of touch they will accomplish -much, and much, of course, by their swift feminine perception. Yet it -were well that they should know something also of the theoretical side -of the craft. Modern authorities upon the mysteries of the toilet are, -it is true, rather few; but among the ancients many a writer would seem -to have been fascinated by them. Archigenes, a man of science at the -Court of Cleopatra, and Criton at the Court of the Emperor Trajan, both -wrote treatises upon cosmetics--doubtless most scholarly treatises that -would have given many a precious hint. It is a pity they are not extant. -From Lucian or from Juvenal, with his bitter picture of a Roman _levée_, -much may be learnt; from the staid pages of Xenophon and Aristophanes' -dear farces. But best of all is that fine book of the Ars Amatoria that -Ovid has set aside for the consideration of dyes, perfumes and pomades. -Written by an artist who knew the allurements of the toilet and -understood its philosophy, it remains without rival as a treatise upon -Artifice. It is more than a poem, it is a manual; and if there be left -in England any lady who cannot read Latin in the original, she will do -well to procure a discreet translation. In the Bodleian Library there is -treasured the only known copy of a very poignant and delightful -rendering of this one book of Ovid's masterpiece. It was made by a -certain Wye Waltonstall, who lived in the days of Elizabeth, and, seeing -that he dedicated it to "the Vertuous Ladyes and Gentlewomen of Great -Britain," I am sure that the gallant writer, could he know of our great -renascence of cosmetics, would wish his little work to be placed once -more within their reach. "Inasmuch as to you, ladyes and gentlewomen," -so he writes in his queer little dedication, "my booke of pigments doth -first addresse itself, that it may kisse your hands and afterward have -the lines thereof in reading sweetened by the odour of your breath, -while the dead letters formed into words by your divided lips may -receive new life by your passionate expression, and the words marryed in -that Ruby coloured temple may thus happily united, multiply your -contentment." It is rather sad to think that, at this crisis in the -history of pigments, the Vertuous Ladyes and Gentlewomen cannot read the -libellus of Wye Waltonstall, who did so dearly love pigments. - -But since the days when these great critics wrote their treatises, with -what gifts innumerable has Artifice been loaded by Science! Many little -partitions must be added to the narthecium before it can comprehend all -the new cosmetics that have been quietly devised since classical days, -and will make the modern toilet chalks away more splendid in its -possibilities. A pity that no one has devoted himself to the compiling -of a new list; but doubtless all the newest devices are known to the -admirable unguentarians of Bond Street, who will impart them to their -clients. Our thanks, too, should be given to Science for ridding us of -the old danger that was latent in the use of cosmetics. Nowadays they -cannot, being purged of any poisonous element, do harm to the skin that -they make beautiful. There need be no more sowing the seeds of -destruction in the furrows of time, no martyrs to the cause like -Georgina Gunning, that fair dame but infelix, who died, so they relate, -from the effect of a poisonous rouge upon her lips. No, we need have no -fears now. Artifice will claim not another victim from among her -worshippers. - -Loveliness shall sit at the toilet, watching her oval face in the oval -mirror. Her smooth fingers shall flit among the paints and powder, to -tip and mingle them, catch up a pencil, clasp a phial, and what not and -what _not_, until the mask of vermeil tinct has been laid aptly, the -enamel quite hardened. And, heavens, how she will charm us and ensorcel -our eyes! Positively rouge will rob us for a time of all our reason; we -shall go mad over masks. Was it not at Capua that they had a whole -street where nothing was sold but dyes and unguents? We must have such a -street, and, to fill our new Seplasia, our Arcade of the Unguents, herbs -and minerals and live creatures shall give of their substance. The white -cliffs of Albion shall be ground to powder for loveliness, and perfumed -by the ghost of many a little violet. The fluffy eider-ducks, that are -swimming round the pond, shall lose their feathers, that the powder-puff -may be moonlike as it passes over loveliness's lovely face. Even the -camels shall become ministers of delight, giving their hair in many -tufts to be stained by the paints in her colour-box, and across her -cheek the swift hare's foot shall fly as of old. The sea shall offer her -the phucus, its scarlet weed. We shall spill the blood of mulberries at -her bidding. And, as in another period of great ecstasy, a dancing -wanton, la belle Aubrey, was crowned upon a church's lighted altar, so -Arsenic, that "green-tress'd goddess," ashamed at length of skulking -between the soup of the unpopular and the test-tubes of the Queen's -analyst, shall be exalted to a place of highest honour upon loveliness's -toilet-table. - -All these things shall come to pass. Times of jolliness and glad -indulgence! For Artifice, whom we drove forth, has returned among us, -and, though her eyes are red with crying, she is smiling forgiveness. -She is kind. Let us dance and be glad, and trip the cockawhoop! -Artifice, sweetest exile, is come into her kingdom. Let us dance her a -welcome! - - - - -Daimonizomenos - - By Arthur Christopher Benson - - - You were clear as a sandy spring - After a drought, when its waters run - Evenly, sparingly, filtering - Into the eye of the sun. - - Love you took with a placid smile, - Pain you bore with a hopeful sigh, - Never a thought of gain or guile - Slept in your wide blue eye. - - Suddenly, once, at a trivial word,-- - Side by side together we stept,-- - Rose a tempest that swayed and stirred; - Over your soul it swept. - - Dismal visitants, suddenly, - Pulled the doors in your house of clay; - Out of the windows there stared at me - Something horrible, grey. - - - - -The Old Oxford Music Hall - - By Walter Sickert - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: The Old Oxford Music Hall] - - - - -Irremediable - - By Ella D'Arcy - - -A young man strolled along a country road one August evening after a -long delicious day--a day of that blessed idleness the man of leisure -never knows: one must be a bank clerk forty-nine weeks out of the -fifty-two before one can really appreciate the exquisite enjoyment of -doing nothing for twelve hours at a stretch. Willoughby had spent the -morning lounging about a sunny rickyard; then, when the heat grew -unbearable, he had retreated to an orchard, where, lying on his back in -the long cool grass, he had traced the pattern of the apple-leaves -diapered above him upon the summer sky; now that the heat of the day was -over he had come to roam whither sweet fancy led him, to lean over -gates, view the prospect and meditate upon the pleasures of a well-spent -day. Five such days had already passed over his head, fifteen more -remained to him. Then farewell to freedom and clean country air! Back -again to London and another year's toil. - -He came to a gate on the right of the road. Behind it a foot-path -meandered up over a glassy slope. The sheep nibbling on its summit cast -long shadows down the hill almost to his feet. Road and field-path were -equally new to him, but the latter offered greener attractions; he -vaulted lightly over the gate and had so little idea he was taking thus -the first step towards ruin that he began to whistle "White Wings" from -pure joy of life. - -The sheep stopped feeding and raised their heads to stare at him from -pale-lashed eyes; first one and then another broke into a startled run, -until there was a sudden woolly stampede of the entire flock. When -Willoughby gained the ridge from which they had just scattered he came -in sight of a woman sitting on a stile at the further end of the field. -As he advanced towards her he saw that she was young and that she was -not what is called "a lady"--of which he was glad: an earlier episode in -his career having indissolubly associated in his mind ideas of feminine -refinement with those of feminine treachery. - -He thought it probable this girl would be willing to dispense with the -formalities of an introduction and that he might venture with her on -some pleasant foolish chat. - -As she made no movement to let him pass he stood still, and, looking at -her, began to smile. - -She returned his gaze from unabashed dark eyes and then laughed, showing -teeth white, sound, and smooth as split hazel-nuts. - -"Do you wanter get over?" she remarked familiarly. - -"I'm afraid I can't without disturbing you." - -"Dontcher think you're much better where you are?" said the girl, on -which Willoughby hazarded: - -"You mean to say looking at you? Well, perhaps I am!" - -The girl at this laughed again, but nevertheless dropped herself down -into the further field; then, leaning her arms upon the cross-bar, she -informed the young man: "No, I don't wanter spoil your walk. You were -goin' p'raps ter Beacon Point? It's very pretty that wye." - -"I was going nowhere in particular," he replied: "just exploring, so to -speak. I'm a stranger in these parts." - -"How funny! Imer stranger here too. I only come down larse Friday to -stye with a Naunter mine in Horton. Are you stying in Horton?" - -Willoughby told her he was not in Orton, but at Povey Cross Farm out in -the other direction. - -"Oh, Mrs. Payne's, ain't it? I've heard aunt speak ovver. She takes -summer boarders, don't chee? I egspec you come from London, heh?" - -"And I expect you come from London too?" said Willoughby, recognising -the familiar accent. - -"You're as sharp as a needle," cried the girl with her unrestrained -laugh; "so I do. I'm here for a hollerday 'cos I was so done up with the -work and the hot weather. I don't look as though I'd bin ill, do I? But -I was, though: for it was just stifflin' hot up in our workrooms all -larse month, an' tailorin's awful hard work at the bester times." - -Willoughby felt a sudden accession of interest in her. Like many -intelligent young men, he had dabbled a little in Socialism and at one -time had wandered among the dispossessed; but since then, had caught up -and held loosely the new doctrine--It is a good and fitting thing that -woman also should earn her bread by the sweat of her brow. Always in -reference to the woman who, fifteen months before, had treated him ill, -he had said to himself that even the breaking of stones in the road -should be considered a more feminine employment than the breaking of -hearts. - -He gave way therefore to a movement of friendliness for this working -daughter of the people, and joined her on the other side of the stile in -token of his approval. She, twisting round to face him, leaned now with -her back against the bar, and the sunset fires lent a fleeting glory to -her face. Perhaps she guessed how becoming the light was, for she took -off her hat and let it touch to gold the ends and fringes of her rough -abundant hair. Thus and at this moment she made an agreeable picture, to -which stood as background all the beautiful wooded Southshire view. - -"You don't really mean to say you are a tailoress?" said Willoughby with -a sort of eager compassion. - -"I do, though! An' I've bin one ever since I was fourteen. Look at my -fingers if you don't b'lieve me." - -She put out her right hand, and he took hold of it, as he was expected -to do. The finger-ends were frayed and blackened by needle-pricks, but -the hand itself was plump, moist, and not unshapely. She meanwhile -examined Willoughby's fingers enclosing hers. - -"It's easy ter see you've never done no work!" she said, half admiring, -half envious. "I s'pose you're a tip-top swell, ain't you?" - -"Oh, yes! I'm a tremendous swell indeed!" said Willoughby ironically. He -thought of his hundred and thirty pounds' salary; and he mentioned his -position in the British and Colonial Banking house, without shedding -much illumination on her mind; for she insisted: - -"Well, anyhow, you're a gentleman. I've often wished I was a lady. It -must be so nice ter wear fine clo'es an' never have ter do any work all -day long." - -Willoughby thought it innocent of the girl to say this; it reminded him -of his own notion as a child--that kings and queens put on their crowns -the first thing on rising in the morning. His cordiality rose another -degree. - -"If being a gentleman means having nothing to do," said he, smiling, "I -can certainly lay no claim to the title. Life isn't all beer and -skittles with me, any more than it is with you. Which is the better -reason for enjoying the present moment, don't you think? Suppose, now, -like a kind little girl, you were to show me the way to Beacon Point, -which you say is so pretty?" - -She required no further persuasion. As he walked beside her through the -upland fields where the dusk was beginning to fall, and the white -evening moths to emerge from their daytime hiding-places, she asked him -many personal questions, most of which he thought fit to parry. Taking -no offence thereat, she told him, instead, much concerning herself and -her family. Thus he learned her name was Esther Stables, that she and -her people lived Whitechapel way; that her father was seldom sober, and -her mother always ill; and that the aunt with whom she was staying kept -the post-office and general shop in Orton village. He learned, too, that -Esther was discontented with life in general; that, though she hated -being at home, she found the country dreadfully dull; and that, -consequently, she was extremely glad to have made his acquaintance. But -what he chiefly realised when they parted was that he had spent a couple -of pleasant hours talking nonsense with a girl who was natural, -simple-minded, and entirely free from that repellently protective -atmosphere with which a woman of the "classes" so carefully surrounds -herself. He and Esther had "made friends" with the ease and rapidity of -children before they have learned the dread meaning of "etiquette," and -they said good-night, not without some talk of meeting each other again. - -Obliged to breakfast at a quarter to eight in town, Willoughby was -always luxuriously late when in the country, where he took his meals -also in leisurely fashion, often reading from a book propped up on the -table before him. But the morning after his meeting with Esther Stables -found him less disposed to read than usual. Her image obtruded itself -upon the printed page, and at length grew so importunate he came to the -conclusion the only way to lay it was to confront it with the girl -herself. - -Wanting some tobacco, he saw a good reason for going into Orton. Esther -had told him he could get tobacco and everything else at her aunt's. He -found the post-office to be one of the first houses in the widely spaced -village-street. In front of the cottage was a small garden ablaze with -old-fashioned flowers; and in a larger garden at one side were -apple-trees, raspberry and currant bushes, and six thatched beehives on -a bench. The bowed windows of the little shop were partly screened by -sunblinds; nevertheless the lower panes still displayed a heterogeneous -collection of goods--lemons, hanks of yarn, white linen buttons upon -blue cards, sugar cones, churchwarden pipes, and tobacco jars. A -letter-box opened its narrow mouth low down in one wall, and over the -door swung the sign, "Stamps and money-order office," in black letters -on white enamelled iron. - -The interior of the shop was cool and dark. A second glass-door at the -back permitted Willoughby to see into a small sitting-room, and out -again through a low and square-paned window to the sunny landscape -beyond. Silhouetted against the light were the heads of two women: the -rough young head of yesterday's Esther, the lean outline and bugled cap -of Esther's aunt. - -It was the latter who at the jingling of the door-bell rose from her -work and came forward to serve the customer; but the girl, with much -mute meaning in her eyes and a finger laid upon her smiling mouth, -followed behind. Her aunt heard her footfall. "What do you want here, -Esther?" she said with thin disapproval; "get back to your sewing." - -Esther gave the young man a signal seen only by him and slipped out into -the side-garden, where he found her when his purchases were made. She -leaned over the privet-hedge to intercept him as he passed. - -"Aunt's an awful ole maid," she remarked apologetically; "I b'lieve -she'd never let me say a word to enny one if she could help it." - -"So you got home all right last night?" Willoughby inquired; "what did -your aunt say to you?" - -"Oh, she arst me where I'd been, and I tolder a lotter lies!" Then, with -woman's intuition, perceiving that this speech jarred, Esther made haste -to add, "She's so dreadful hard on me! I dursn't tell her I'd been with -a gentleman or she'd never have let me out alone again." - -"And at present I suppose you'll be found somewhere about that same -stile every evening?" said Willoughby foolishly, for he really did not -much care whether he met her again or not. Now he was actually in her -company he was surprised at himself for having given her a whole -morning's thought; yet the eagerness of her answer flattered him, too. - -"To-night I can't come, worse luck! It's Thursday, and the shops here -close of a Thursday at five. I'll havter keep aunt company. But -to-morrer?--I can be there to-morrer. You'll come, say?" - -"Esther!" cried a vexed voice, and the precise, right-minded aunt -emerged through the row of raspberry-bushes; "whatever are you thinking -about, delayin' the gentleman in this fashion?" She was full of rustic -and official civility for "the gentleman," but indignant with her niece. -"I don't want none of your London manners down here," Willoughby heard -her say as she marched the girl off. - -He himself was not sorry to be released from Esther's too friendly eyes, -and he spent an agreeable evening over a book, and this time managed to -forget her completely. - -Though he remembered her first thing next morning, it was to smile -wisely and determine he would not meet her again. Yet by dinner-time the -day seemed long; why, after all, should he not meet her? By tea-time -prudence triumphed anew--no, he would not go. Then he drank his tea -hastily and set off for the stile. - -Esther was waiting for him. Expectation had given an additional colour -to her cheeks, and her red-brown hair showed here and there a beautiful -glint of gold. He could not help admiring the vigorous way in which it -waved and twisted, or the little curls which grew at the nape of her -neck, tight and close as those of a young lamb's fleece. Her neck here -was admirable, too, in its smooth creaminess; and when her eyes lighted -up with such evident pleasure at his coming, how avoid the conviction -she was a good and nice girl after all? - -He proposed they should go down into the little copse on the right, -where they would be less disturbed by the occasional passerby. Here, -seated on a felled tree-trunk, Willoughby began that bantering silly -meaningless form of conversation known among the "classes" as flirting. -He had but the wish to make himself agreeable, and to while away the -time. Esther, however, misunderstood him. - -Willoughby's hand lay palm downwards on his knee, and she noticing a -ring which he wore on his little finger, took hold of it. - -"What a funny ring!" she said; "let's look?" - -To disembarrass himself of her touch he pulled the ring off and gave it -her to examine. - -"What's that ugly dark green stone?" she asked. - -"It's called a sardonyx." - -"What's it for?" she said, turning it about. - -"It's a signet ring, to seal letters with." - -"An' there's a sorter king's head scratched on it, an' some writin' too, -only I carn't make it out?" - -"It isn't the head of a king, although it wears a crown," Willoughby -explained, "but the head and bust of a Saracen against whom my ancestor -of many hundred years ago went to fight in the Holy Land. And the words -cut round it are the motto of our house, 'Vertue vaunceth,' which means -virtue prevails." - -Willoughby may have displayed some slight accession of dignity in giving -this bit of family history, for Esther fell into uncontrolled laughter, -at which he was much displeased. And when the girl made as though she -would put the ring on her own finger, asking, "Shall I keep it?" he -coloured up with sudden annoyance. - -"It was only my fun!" said Esther hastily, and gave him the ring back, -but his cordiality was gone. He felt no inclination to renew the -idle-word pastime, said it was time to go back, and, swinging his cane -vexedly, struck off the heads of the flowers and the weeds as he went. -Esther walked by his side in complete silence, a phenomenon of which he -presently became conscious. He felt rather ashamed of having shown -temper. - -"Well, here's your way home," said he with an effort at friendliness. -"Good-bye, we've had a nice evening anyhow. It was pleasant down there -in the woods, eh?" - -He was astonished to see her eyes soften with tears, and to hear the -real emotion in her voice as she answered, "It was just heaven down -there with you until you turned so funny-like. What had I done to make -you cross? Say you forgive me, do!" - -"Silly child!" said Willoughby, completely mollified, "I'm not the least -angry. There! good-bye!" and like a fool he kissed her. - -He anathematised his folly in the white light of next morning, and, -remembering the kiss he had given her, repented it very sincerely. He -had an uncomfortable suspicion she had not received it in the same -spirit in which it had been bestowed, but, attaching more serious -meaning to it, would build expectations thereon which must be left -unfulfilled. It were best indeed not to meet her again; for he -acknowledged to himself that, though he only half liked, and even -slightly feared, her, there was a certain attraction about her--was it -in her dark unflinching eyes or in her very red lips?--which might lead -him into greater follies still. - -Thus it came about that for two successive evenings Esther waited for -him in vain, and on the third evening he said to himself with a grudging -relief that by this time she had probably transferred her affections to -some one else. - -It was Saturday, the second Saturday since he left town. He spent the -day about the farm, contemplated the pigs, inspected the feeding of the -stock, and assisted at the afternoon milking. Then at evening, with a -refilled pipe, he went for a long lean over the west gate, while he -traced fantastic pictures and wove romances in the glories of the sunset -clouds. - -He watched the colours glow from gold to scarlet, change to crimson, -sink at last to sad purple reefs and isles, when the sudden -consciousness of some one being near him made him turn round. There -stood Esther, and her eyes were full of eagerness and anger. - -"Why have you never been to the stile again?" she asked him. "You -promised to come faithful, and you never came. Why have you not kep your -promise? Why?--why?" she persisted, stamping her foot because Willoughby -remained silent. - -What could he say! Tell her she had no business to follow him like this; -or own, what was, unfortunately, the truth, he was just a little glad to -see her? - -"P'raps you don't care to see me?" she said. "Well, why did you kiss me, -then?" - -Why, indeed! thought Willoughby, marvelling at his own idiotcy, and -yet--such is the inconsistency of man--not wholly without the desire to -kiss her again. And while he looked at her she suddenly flung herself -down on the hedge-bank at his feet and burst into tears. She did not -cover up her face, but simply pressed one cheek down upon the grass -while the water poured from her eyes with astonishing abundance. -Willoughby saw the dry earth turn dark and moist as it drank the tears -in. This, his first experience of Esther's powers of weeping, distressed -him horribly; never in his life before had he seen anyone weep like -that; he should not have believed such a thing possible, and he was -alarmed, too, lest she should be noticed from the house. He opened the -gate; "Esther!" he begged, "don't cry. Come out here, like a dear girl, -and let us talk sensibly." - -Because she stumbled, unable to see her way through wet eyes, he gave -her his hand, and they found themselves in a field of corn, walking -along the narrow grass-path that skirted it, in the shadow of the -hedgerow. - -"What is there to cry about because you have not seen me for two days?" -he began; "why, Esther, we are only strangers, after all. When we have -been at home a week or two we shall scarcely remember each other's -names." - -Esther sobbed at intervals, but her tears had ceased. "It's fine for you -to talk of home," she said to this. "You've got something that is a -home, I s'pose? But me! my home's like hell, with nothing but -quarrellin' and cursin', and father who beats us whether sober or drunk. -Yes!" she repeated shrewdly, seeing the lively disgust on Willoughby's -face, "he beat me, all ill as I was, jus' before I come away. I could -show you the bruises on my arms still. And now to go back there after -knowin' you! It'll be worse than ever. I can't endure it and I won't! -I'll put an end to it or myself somehow, I swear!" - -"But, my poor Esther, how can I help it, what can I do?" said -Willoughby. He was greatly moved, full of wrath with her father, with -all the world which makes women suffer. He had suffered himself at the -hands of a woman, and severely, but this, instead of hardening his -heart, had only rendered it the more supple. And yet he had a vivid -perception of the peril in which he stood. An interior voice urged him -to break away, to seek safety in flight even at the cost of appearing -cruel or ridiculous; so, coming to a point in the field where an -elm-bole jutted out across the path, he saw with relief he could now -withdraw his hand from the girl's, since they must walk singly to skirt -round it. - -Esther took a step in advance, stopped and suddenly turned to face him; -she held out her two hands and her face was very near his own. - -"Don't you care for me one little bit?" she said wistfully, and surely -sudden madness fell upon him. For he kissed her again, he kissed her -many times, and pushed all thoughts of the consequences far from him. - -But some of these consequences already called loudly to him as he and -Esther reached the last gate on the road to Orton. - -"You know I have only £130 a year?" he told her: "it's no very brilliant -prospect for you to marry me on that." - -For he had actually offered her marriage, although such conduct to the -mediocre man must appear incredible or at least uncalled for. But to -Willoughby it seemed the only course possible. How else justify his -kisses, rescue her from her father's brutality, or bring back the smiles -to her face? - -As for Esther, sudden exultation had leaped in her heart; then ere -fifty seconds were gone by, she was certain she would never have -consented to anything less. - -"O! I'me used to managin'," she told him confidently, and mentally -resolved to buy herself, so soon as she was married, a black feather -boa, such as she had coveted last winter. - -Willoughby spent the remaining days of his holiday in thinking out and -planning with Esther the details of his return to London and her own, -the secrecy to be observed, the necessary legal steps to be taken, and -the quiet suburb in which they would set up housekeeping. And, so -successfully did he carry out his arrangements, that within five weeks -from the day on which he had first met Esther Stables he and she came -out one morning from a church in Highbury husband and wife. It was a -mellow September day, the streets were filled with sunshine, and -Willoughby, in reckless high spirits, imagined he saw a reflection of -his own gaiety on the indifferent faces of the passers-by. There being -no one else to perform the office he congratulated himself very warmly, -and Esther's frequent laughter filled in the pauses of the day. - -Three months later Willoughby was dining with a friend, and the -hour-hand of the clock nearing ten the host no longer resisted the -guest's growing anxiety to be gone. He arose and exchanged with him good -wishes and good-byes. - -"Marriage is evidently a most successful institution," said he, half -jesting, half sincere; "you almost make me inclined to go and get -married myself. Confess now your thoughts have been at home the whole -evening?" - -Willoughby thus addressed turned red to the roots of his hair, but did -not deny the soft impeachment. - -The other laughed. "And very commendable they should be," he continued, -"since you are scarcely, so to speak, out of your honeymoon." - -With a social smile on his lips Willoughby calculated a moment before -replying, "I have been married exactly three months and three days;" -then, after a few words respecting their next meeting, the two shook -hands and parted, the young host to finish the evening with books and -pipe, the young husband to set out on a twenty minutes' walk to his -home. - -It was a cold clear December night following a day of rain. A touch of -frost in the air had dried the pavements, and Willoughby's footfall -ringing upon the stones re-echoed down the empty suburban street. Above -his head was a dark remote sky thickly powdered with stars, and as he -turned westward Alpherat hung for a moment "comme le point sur un _i_," -over the slender spire of St. John's. But he was insensible to the -worlds about him; he was absorbed in his own thoughts, and these, as his -friend had surmised, were entirely with his wife. For Esther's face was -always before his eyes, her voice was always in his ears, she filled the -universe for him; yet only four months ago he had never seen her, had -never heard her name. This was the curious part of it--here in December -he found himself the husband of a girl who was completely dependent upon -him not only for food, clothes, and lodging, but for her present -happiness, her whole future life; and last July he had been scarcely -more than a boy himself, with no greater care on his mind than the -pleasant difficulty of deciding where he should spend his annual three -weeks' holiday. - -But it is events, not months or years, which age. Willoughby, who was -only twenty-six, remembered his youth as a sometime companion -irrevocably lost to him; its vague, delightful hopes were now -crystallised into definite ties, and its happy irresponsibility -displaced by a sense of care inseparable perhaps from the most fortunate -of marriages. - -As he reached the street in which he lodged his pace involuntarily -slackened. While still some distance off his eye sought out and -distinguished the windows of the room in which Esther awaited him. -Through the broken slats of the Venetian blinds he could see the yellow -gaslight within. The parlour beneath was in darkness; his landlady had -evidently gone to bed, there being no light over the hall door either. -In some apprehension he consulted his watch under the last street-lamp -he passed, to find comfort in assuring himself it was only ten minutes -after ten. He let himself in with his latch-key, hung up his hat and -overcoat by the sense of touch, and, groping his way upstairs, opened -the door of the first floor sitting-room. - -At the table in the centre of the room sat his wife, leaning upon her -elbows, her two hands thrust up into her ruffled hair; spread out before -her was a crumpled yesterday's newspaper, and so interested was she to -all appearance in its contents that she neither spoke nor looked up as -Willoughby entered. Around her were the still uncleared tokens of her -last meal: tea-slops, bread-crumbs, and an eggshell crushed to fragments -upon a plate, which was one of those trifles that set Willoughby's teeth -on edge--whenever his wife ate an egg she persisted in turning the -egg-cup upside down upon the tablecloth, and pounding the shell to -pieces in her plate with her spoon. - -The room was repulsive in its disorder. The one lighted burner of the -gaselier, turned too high, hissed up into a long tongue of flame. The -fire smoked feebly under a newly administered shovelful of "slack," and -a heap of ashes and cinders littered the grate. A pair of walking boots, -caked in dry mud, lay on the hearthrug just where they had been thrown -off. On the mantelpiece, amidst a dozen other articles which had no -business there, was a bedroom-candlestick; and every single article of -furniture stood crookedly out of its place. - -Willoughby took in the whole intolerable picture, and yet spoke with -kindliness. "Well, Esther! I'm not so late, after all. I hope you did -not feel the time dull by yourself?" Then he explained the reason of his -absence. He had met a friend he had not seen for a couple of years, who -had insisted on taking him home to dine. - -His wife gave no sign of having heard him; she kept her eyes rivetted on -the paper before her. - -"You received my wire, of course," Willoughby went on, "and did not -wait?" - -Now she crushed the newspaper up with a passionate movement, and threw -it from her. She raised her head, showing cheeks blazing with anger, and -dark, sullen, unflinching eyes. - -"I did wyte then!" she cried. "I wyted till near eight before I got your -old telegraph! I s'pose that's what you call the manners of a -'gentleman,' to keep your wife mewed up here, while you go gallivantin' -off with your fine friends?" - -Whenever Esther was angry, which was often, she taunted Willoughby with -being a "gentleman," although this was the precise point about him which -at other times found most favour in her eyes. But to-night she was -envenomed by the idea he had been enjoying himself without her, stung by -fear lest he should have been in company with some other woman. - -Willoughby, hearing the taunt, resigned himself to the inevitable. -Nothing that he could do might now avert the breaking storm, all his -words would only be twisted into fresh griefs. But sad experience had -taught him that to take refuge in silence was more fatal still. When -Esther was in such a mood as this it was best to supply the fire with -fuel, that, through the very violence of the conflagration, it might the -sooner burn itself out. - -So he said what soothing things he could, and Esther caught them up, -disfigured them, and flung them back at him with scorn. She reproached -him with no longer caring for her; she vituperated the conduct of his -family in never taking the smallest notice of her marriage; and she -detailed the insolence of the landlady, who had told her that morning -she pitied "poor Mr. Willoughby," and had refused to go out and buy -herrings for Esther's early dinner. - -Every affront or grievance, real or imaginary, since the day she and -Willoughby had first met, she poured forth with a fluency due to -frequent repetition, for, with the exception of to-day's added injuries, -Willoughby had heard the whole litany many times before. - -While she raged and he looked at her, he remembered he had once thought -her pretty. He had seen beauty in her rough brown hair, her strong -colouring, her full red mouth. He fell into musing ... a woman may lack -beauty, he told himself, and yet be loved.... - -Meantime Esther reached white heats of passion, and the strain could no -longer be sustained. She broke into sobs and began to shed tears with -the facility peculiar to her. In a moment her face was all wet with the -big drops which rolled down her cheeks faster and faster and fell with -audible splashes on to the table, on to her lap, on to the floor. To -this tearful abundance, formerly a surprising spectacle, Willoughby was -now acclimatised; but the remnant of chivalrous feeling not yet -extinguished in his bosom forbade him to sit stolidly by while a woman -wept, without seeking to console her. As on previous occasions, his -peace-overtures were eventually accepted. Esther's tears gradually -ceased to flow, she began to exhibit a sort of compunction, she wished -to be forgiven, and, with the kiss of reconciliation, passed into a -phase of demonstrative affection perhaps more trying to Willoughby's -patience than all that had preceded it. "You don't love me?" she -questioned, "I'm sure you don't love me?" she reiterated; and he -asseverated that he loved her until he loathed himself. Then at last, -only half satisfied, but wearied out with vexation--possibly, too, with -a movement of pity at the sight of his haggard face--she consented to -leave him; only what was he going to do? she asked suspiciously: write -those rubbishing stories of his? Well, he must promise not to stay up -more than half an hour at the latest--only until he had smoked one pipe! - -Willoughby promised, as he would have promised anything on earth to -secure to himself a half-hour's peace and solitude. Esther groped for -her slippers, which were kicked off under the table; scratched four or -five matches along the box and threw them away before she succeeded in -lighting her candle; set it down again to contemplate her tear-swollen -reflection in the chimney-glass, and burst out laughing. - -"What a fright I do look, to be sure!" she remarked complacently, and -again thrust her two hands up through her disordered curls. Then, -holding the candle at such an angle that the grease ran over on to the -carpet, she gave Willoughby another vehement kiss and trailed out of the -room with an ineffectual attempt to close the door behind her. - -Willoughby got up to shut it himself, and wondered why it was that -Esther never did any one mortal thing efficiently or well. Good God! how -irritable he felt! It was impossible to write. He must find an outlet -for his impatience, rend or mend something. He began to straighten the -room, but a wave of disgust came over him before the task was fairly -commenced. What was the use? To-morrow all would be bad as ever. What -was the use of doing anything? He sat down by the table and leaned his -head upon his hands. - - * * * * * - -The past came back to him in pictures: his boyhood's past first of all. -He saw again the old home, every inch of which was familiar to him as -his own name; he reconstructed in his thought all the old well-known -furniture, and replaced it precisely as it had stood long ago. He passed -again a childish linger over the rough surface of the faded Utrecht -velvet chairs, and smelled again the strong fragrance of the white -lilac-tree, blowing in through the open parlour-window. He savoured anew -the pleasant mental atmosphere produced by the dainty neatness of -cultured women, the companionship of a few good pictures, of a few good -books. Yet this home had been broken up years ago, the dear familiar -things had been scattered far and wide, never to find themselves under -the same roof again; and from those near relatives who still remained to -him he lived now hopelessly estranged. - -Then came the past of his first love-dream, when he worshipped at the -feet of Nora Beresford, and, with the wholeheartedness of the true -fanatic, clothed his idol with every imaginable attribute of virtue and -tenderness. To this day there remained a secret shrine in his heart -wherein the Lady of his young ideal was still enthroned, although it was -long since he had come to perceive she had nothing whatever in common -with the Nora of reality. For the real Nora he had no longer any -sentiment: she had passed altogether out of his life and thoughts; and -yet, so permanent is all influence, whether good or evil, that the -effect she wrought upon his character remained. He recognised to-night -that her treatment of him in the past did not count for nothing among -the various factors which had determined his fate. - -Now the past of only last year returned, and, strangely enough, this -seemed farther removed from him than all the rest. He had been -particularly strong, well and happy this time last year. Nora was -dismissed from his mind, and he had thrown all his energies into his -work. His tastes were sane and simple, and his dingy, furnished rooms -had become through habit very pleasant to him. In being his own they -were invested with a greater charm than another man's castle. Here he -had smoked and studied, here he had made many a glorious voyage into the -land of books. Many a home-coming, too, rose up before him out of the -dark ungenial streets to a clean blazing fire, a neatly laid cloth, an -evening of ideal enjoyment; many a summer twilight when he mused at the -open window, plunging his gaze deep into the recesses of his neighbour's -lime-tree, where the unseen sparrows chattered with such unflagging -gaiety. - -He had always been given to much day-dreaming, and it was in the silence -of his rooms of an evening that he turned his phantasmal adventures into -stories for the magazines; here had come to him many an editorial -refusal, but, here, too, he had received the news of his first -unexpected success. All his happiest memories were embalmed in those -shabby, badly furnished rooms. - -Now all was changed. Now might there be no longer any soft indulgence of -the hour's mood. His rooms and everything he owned belonged now to -Esther, too. She had objected to most of his photographs, and had -removed them. She hated books, and were he ever so ill-advised as to -open one in her presence, she immediately began to talk, no matter how -silent or how sullen her previous mood had been. If he read aloud to her -she either yawned despairingly, or was tickled into laughter where there -was no reasonable cause. At first, Willoughby had tried to educate her -and had gone hopefully to the task. It is so natural to think you may -make what you will of the woman who loves you. But Esther had no wish to -improve. She evinced all the self-satisfaction of an illiterate mind. To -her husband's gentle admonitions she replied with brevity that she -thought her way quite as good as his; or, if he didn't approve of her -pronunciation, he might do the other thing, she was too old to go to -school again. He gave up the attempt, and, with humiliation at his -previous fatuity, perceived that it was folly to expect a few weeks of -his companionship could alter or pull up the impressions of years, or -rather of generations. - -Yet here he paused to admit a curious thing: it was not only Esther's -bad habits which vexed him, but habits quite unblameworthy in -themselves, and which he never would have noticed in another, irritated -him in her. He disliked her manner of standing, of walking, of sitting -in a chair, of folding her hands. Like a lover he was conscious of her -proximity without seeing her. Like a lover, too, his eyes followed her -every movement, his ear noted every change in her voice. But, then, -instead of being charmed by everything as the lover is, everything -jarred upon him. - -What was the meaning of this? To-night the anomaly pressed upon him: he -reviewed his position. Here was he quite a young man, just twenty-six -years of age, married to Esther, and bound to live with her so long as -life should last--twenty, forty, perhaps fifty years more. Every day of -those years to be spent in her society; he and she face to face, soul to -soul; they two alone amid all the whirling, busy, indifferent world. So -near together in semblance, in truth so far apart as regards all that -makes life dear. - -Willoughby groaned. From the woman he did not love, whom he had never -loved, he might not again go free; so much he recognised. The feeling he -had once entertained for Esther, strange compound of mistaken chivalry -and flattered vanity, was long since extinct; but what, then, was the -sentiment with which she inspired him? For he was not indifferent to -her--no, never for one instant could he persuade himself he was -indifferent, never for one instant could he banish her from his -thoughts. His mind's eye followed her during his hours of absence as -pertinaciously as his bodily eye dwelt upon her actual presence. She was -the principal object of the universe to him, the centre around which his -wheel of life revolved with an appalling fidelity. - -What did it mean? What could it mean? he asked himself with anguish. - -And the sweat broke out upon his forehead and his hands grew cold, for -on a sudden the truth lay there like a written word upon the tablecloth -before him. This woman, whom he had taken to himself for better for -worse, inspired him with a passion--intense indeed, all-masterful, -soul-subduing as Love itself--.... But when he understood the terror of -his Hatred, he laid his head upon his arms and wept, not facile tears -like Esther's, but tears wrung out from his agonising, unavailing -regret. - - - - -Portrait of a Gentleman - - By Will Rothenstein - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: Portrait of a Gentleman] - - - - -Two Sonnets - - By William Watson - - - I--The Frontier - - At the hushed brink of twilight,--when, as though - Some solemn journeying phantom paused to lay - An ominous finger on the awestruck day, - Earth holds her breath till that great presence go,-- - A moment comes of visionary glow, - Pendulous 'twixt the gold hour and the grey, - Lovelier than these, more eloquent than they - Of memory, foresight, and life's ebb and flow. - - So have I known, in some fair woman's face, - While viewless yet was Time's more gross imprint, - The first, faint, hesitant, elusive hint - Of that invasion of the vandal years - Seem deeper beauty than youth's cloudless grace, - Wake subtler dreams, and touch me nigh to tears. - - - II--Night on Curbar Edge, Derbyshire - - No echo of man's life pursues my ears; - Nothing disputes this Desolation's reign; - Change comes not, this dread temple to profane, - Where time by æons reckons, not by years. - Its patient form one crag, sole-stranded, rears, - Type of whate'er is destined to remain - While yon still host encamped on Night's waste plain - Keeps armèd watch, a million quivering spears. - - Hushed are the wild and wing'd lives of the moor; - The sleeping sheep nestle 'neath ruined wall, - Or unhewn stones in random concourse hurled: - Solitude, sleepless, listens at Fate's door; - And there is built and 'stablisht over all - Tremendous Silence, older than the world. - - - - -The Reflected Faun - - By Laurence Housman - -_Reproduced by Messrs. Carl Hentschel & Co._ - -[Illustration: The Reflected Faun] - - - - -A Sentimental Cellar - - By George Saintsbury - - - [It would appear from the reference to a "Queen" that the following - piece was written in or with a view to the reign of Queen Anne, - though an anachronism or two (such as a reference to the '45 and a - quotation from Adam Smith) may be noted. On the other hand, an - occasional mixture of "you" and "thou" seems to argue a date before - Johnson. It must at any rate have been composed for, or in - imitation of the style of, one or other of the eighteenth-century - collections of Essays.] - -It chanced the other day that I had a mind to visit my old friend -Falernianus. The maid who opened the door to me showed me into his -study, and apologised for her master's absence by saying that he was in -the cellar. He soon appeared, and I rallied him a little on the gravity -of his occupation. Falernianus, I must tell you, is neither a drunkard -nor a man of fortune. But he has a pretty taste in wine, indulges it -rather in collection than in consumption, and arranges his cellar (or, -as he sometimes calls it, "cellaret") himself, having no butler or other -man-servant. He took my pleasantry very good-humouredly; and when I -asked him further if I might behold this temple of his devotions he -complied at once. "'Tis rather a chantry than a temple, Eugenius," said -he, "but you are very welcome to see it if you please; and if you are -minded to hear a sermon, perhaps I can preach one different from what -you may expect at an Oracle of the Bottle." - -We soon reached the cavern, which, indeed, was much less magnificent -than that over which Bacbuc presided; and I perused, not without -interest (for I had often tasted the contents), the various bins in -which bottles of different shapes and sizes were stowed away with a -modest neatness. Falernianus amused himself, and did not go so far as to -weary me, with some tales of luck or disappointment in his purchases, of -the singular improvement of this vintage, and the mortifying conduct of -that. For these wine-lovers are curious in their phrase; and it is not -disgusting to hear them say regretfully that the claret of such and such -a year "has not spoken yet"; or that another was long "under the curse -of the seventies." This last phrase, indeed, had a grandiloquent and -romantic turn which half surprised me from my friend, a humourist with a -special horror of fine speech or writing, and turning sharply I saw a -smile on his lips. - -"But," said I, "my Falernianus, your sermon? For I scarce think that -this wine-chat would be dignified by you with such a name." - -"You are right, Eugenius," answered he, "but I do not quite know whether -I am wise to disclose even to you the ruling fancy under which I have -formed this little liquid museum, or Baccheum if you prefer it." - -"I think you may," said I, "for in the first place we are old enough -friends for such confidences, and in the second I know you to be too -much given to laugh at your own foibles to be greatly afraid of -another's ridicule." - -"You say well," he said, "so mark! For if my sermon inflicts what our -toasts call ennui upon you, remember that in the words of their -favourite Molière, 'You have willed it.' - -"I do not, Eugenius, pretend to be indifferent to good wine in itself. -But when I called this little cellar of mine just now a museum I did no -dishonour to the daughters of Mnemosyne. For you will observe that wine, -by the fact of its keeping powers and by the other fact of its date -being known, is a sort of calendar made to the hand of whoso would -commemorate, with a festive solemnity, the things that are, as Mr. -Dryden says, - - 'Hid in the sacred treasure of the past.' - -If not the mere juice of the grape (for the merit of the strongest wine -after fifty or sixty years is mostly but itself a memory), strong waters -brewed on the day of a man's birth will keep their fire and gain ever -fresh mellowness though he were to outlive the longest lifetime; and in -these little flasks here, my Eugenius, you will find a cup of Nantz that -was born with me, and that will keep its virtues long after thou and I -have gone to solve the great enigma. Again, thou seest those pints of -red port which nestle together? Within a few days, Eugenius, of the time -when that must was foaming round the Douro peasants, I made mine -entrance at the University. You can imagine with what a mixture of -tender and humorous feelings I quaff them now and then. When their juice -was tunned, what amiable visions, what boyish hopes floated before my -eyes! I was to carry off all that Cam or Isis had of honours or profit, -all that either could give of learning. I was to have my choice of -learned retirement on the one hand, or of ardent struggle at the hoarse -bar on the other, with the prizes of the senate beyond. They were scarce -throwing down their crust when that dream faded; they had scarce become -drinkable by a hasty toper before I saw clearly that metaphysical aid -was wanting, and that a very different fate must be mine. I make no moan -over it, Eugenius, and I puff away like a worse than prostitute as she -is, the demon Envy when she whispers in my ear the names of Titius or -Seius, and adds, 'Had they better parts, or only better stars than you?' -But as they fable that the wine itself throbs with the early movement of -the sap in the vines, so, Eugenius, when I sip that cordial (and truth -'tis a noble vintage) the old hopes, the old follies, the old dreams -waken in me, and I am once more eighteen. - -"Look yonder again at those cobwebbed vessels of various shapes that lie -side by side, although of different vineyards, in the peaceful bins. -They all date from a year in which the wheel of fortune brought honest -men to the top in England; and if only for a brief space, as, I am told, -they sing in North Britain, 'the de'il went hame wi' a' the Whigs before -him' (I must tell you, Mr. ----, that Falernianus, though a loyal -subject to our good Queen, is a most malignant Tory, and indeed I have -heard him impeached of Jacobitism by ill-willers). But no more of -politics." He paused a moment and then went on: "I think I see you smile -again, Eugenius, and say to yourself, 'These are but dry-lipped subjects -for so flowing a calendar.' And to tell the truth, my friend, the main -part of my ephemerides of this kind has been filled by the aid of the -goddess who was ever nearest and kindest to Bacchus. In yonder bin lie -phials of the mightiest port that Lusitanian summers ever blackened, and -flasks of sack from the more southern parts of that peninsula, which our -Ben or his son Herrick would have loved. In the same year which saw the -pressing of these generous juices the earth was made more fair by the -birth of Bellamira and Candiope. The blackest purple of the Lusitanian -grape is not so black as the tresses of Candiope's hair, nor doth the -golden glow of the sherris approach in flame the locks of Bellamira; but -if I let the sunlight play through both, Love, with fantastic triumph, -shows me, as the bright motes flicker and flee through the sack, the -tawny eyes of Candiope, and the stain, no longer black or purple, but -rosy red, that floats from the Oportian juice on the white napery, -recalls the velvet blush of Bellamira's cheek." - -"And this?" I said, pointing to a bin of Bordeaux near me. "Thou shalt -try it this very day," said Falernianus with a laugh, which I thought -carried off some feelings a little overstrained; "'tis a right pleasant -wine, and they made it in the year when I first saw the lips of Damaris. -The flavour is not unlike theirs, and if it should fluster thine head a -little, and cause thee what men call heartburn, I will not say that the -effects are wholly dissimilar." It is not like Falernianus even to jest -at women, and I turned to another. His face cleared. "Many a year has -passed," he said, "since the grape that bore that juice was gathered, -and even as it was ripening it chanced that I met Lalage and won her. -The wine was always good and the love likewise; but in neither in their -early years was there half the pleasure that there is now. But I weary -you, Eugenius, and perhaps the philosopher speaks truly in saying that -these things are not matters of sympathy, or, as the Scripture saith, a -stranger is not partaker of them. Suffice it to say that these -imprisoned rubies and topazes, amethysts and jacinths, never flash in -the glass, nor collect their deeper body of colour in the flagon, -without bringing a memory with them, that my lips seldom kiss them -without recalling other kisses, my eye never beholds them without seeing -other colours and other forms in 'the sessions of sweet silent thought.' -At the refining of this elixir I assumed the virile gown; when that -nectar was fit for drinking I made my first appearance in the field of -letters; and this again recalls the death of dear friends and the -waning of idle hopes. When I am dead, or if any reverse of fortune makes -me part with this cabinet of quintessence, it will pass to heirs or -purchasers as so much good wine and nothing more. To me it is that and -much more--a casket of magic liquors, a museum, as I have called it, of -glasses like that of Dr. Dee, in which I see again the smile of beauty -and the hope of youth, in which once more I win, lose, possess, conquer, -am defeated; in which I live over again in the recesses of fantasy the -vanished life of the past. - -"But it is not often that I preach in this fashion. Let us take a turn -in the garden while they get dinner ready, that you may taste," and he -smiled, "that you may taste--if you dare--the wine that I have likened -to the lips of Damaris." - - - - -Night Piece - - By Aubrey Beardsley - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: Night Piece] - - - - -Stella Maris - - by Arthur Symons - - - Why is it I remember yet - You, of all women one has met - In random wayfare, as one meets - The chance romances of the streets, - The Juliet of a night? I know - Your heart holds many a Romeo. - And I, who call to mind your face - In so serene a pausing-place, - Where the bright pure expanse of sea, - The shadowy shore's austerity, - Seems a reproach to you and me, - I too have sought on many a breast - The ecstasy of love's unrest, - I too have had my dreams, and met - (Ah me!) how many a Juliet. - Why is it, then, that I recall - You, neither first nor last of all? - For, surely as I see to-night - The glancing of the lighthouse light, - Against the sky, across the bay, - As turn by turn it falls my way, - So surely do I see your eyes - Out of the empty night arise, - Child, you arise and smile to me - Out of the night, out of the sea, - The Nereid of a moment there, - And is it seaweed in your hair? - - O lost and wrecked, how long ago, - Out of the drownèd past, I know, - You come to call me, come to claim - My share of your delicious shame. - Child, I remember, and can tell - One night we loved each other well; - And one night's love, at least or most, - Is not so small a thing to boast. - You were adorable, and I - Adored you to infinity, - That nuptial night too briefly borne - To the oblivion of morn. - Oh, no oblivion! for I feel - Your lips deliriously steal - Along my neck, and fasten there; - I feel the perfume of your hair, - And your soft breast that heaves and dips, - Desiring my desirous lips, - And that ineffable delight - When souls turn bodies, and unite - In the intolerable, the whole - Rapture of the embodied soul. - - That joy was ours, we passed it by; - You have forgotten me, and I - Remember you thus strangely, won - An instant from oblivion. - And I, remembering, would declare - That joy, not shame, is ours to share, - Joy that we had the will and power, - In spite of fate, to snatch one hour, - Out of vague nights, and days at strife, - So infinitely full of life. - And 'tis for this I see you rise, - A wraith, with starlight in your eyes, - Here, where the drowsy-minded mood - Is one with Nature's solitude; - For this, for this, you come to me - Out of the night, out of the sea. - - - - -A Study - - By Sir Frederic Leighton, P.R.A. - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: A Study] - - - - -Two Sketches - - By Henry Harland - - - I--Mercedes - -When I was a child some one gave me a family of white mice. I don't -remember how old I was, I think about ten or eleven; but I remember very -clearly the day I received them. It must have been a Thursday, a -half-holiday, for I had come home from school rather early in the -afternoon. Alexandre, dear old ruddy round-faced Alexandre, who opened -the door for me, smiled in a way that seemed to announce, "There's a -surprise in store for you, sir." Then my mother smiled too, a smile, I -thought, of peculiar promise and interest. After I had kissed her she -said, "Come into the dining-room. There's something you will like." -Perhaps I concluded it would be something to eat. Anyhow, all agog with -curiosity, I followed her into the dining-room--and Alexandre followed -_me_, anxious to take part in the rejoicing. In the window stood a big -cage, enclosing the family of white mice. - -I remember it as a very big cage indeed; no doubt I should find it -shrunken to quite moderate dimensions if I could see it again. There -were three generations of mice in it: a fat old couple, the founders of -the race, dozing phlegmatically on their laurels in a corner; then a -dozen medium-sized, slender mice, trim and youthful-looking, rushing -irrelevantly hither and thither, with funny inquisitive little faces; -and then a squirming mass of pink things, like caterpillars, that were -really infant mice, newborn. They didn't remain infants long, though. In -a few days they had put on virile togas of white fur, and were -scrambling about the cage and nibbling their food as independently as -their elders. The rapidity with which my mice multiplied and grew to -maturity was a constant source of astonishment to me. It seemed as if -every morning I found a new litter of young mice in the cage--though how -they had effected an entrance through the wire gauze that lined it was a -hopeless puzzle--and these would have become responsible, -self-supporting mice in no time. - -My mother told me that somebody had sent me this soul-stirring present -from the country, and I dare say I was made to sit down and write a -letter of thanks. But I'm ashamed to own I can't remember who the giver -was. I have a vague notion that it was a lady, an elderly -maiden-lady--Mademoiselle ... something that began with P--who lived -near Tours, and who used to come to Paris once or twice a year, and -always brought me a box of prunes. - -Alexandre carried the cage into my play-room, and set it up against the -wall. I stationed myself in front of it, and remained there all the rest -of the afternoon, gazing in, entranced. To watch their antics, their -comings and goings, their labours and amusements, to study their shrewd, -alert physiognomies, to wonder about their feelings, thoughts, -intentions, to try to divine the meaning of their busy twittering -language--it was such keen, deep delight. Of course I was an -anthropomorphist, and read a great deal of human nature into them; -otherwise it wouldn't have been such fun. I dragged myself reluctantly -away when I was called to dinner. It was hard that evening to apply -myself to my school-books. Before I went to bed I paid them a parting -visit; they were huddled together in their nest of cotton-wool, sleeping -soundly. And I was up at an unheard-of hour next morning, to have a bout -with them before going to school. I found Alexandre, in his nightcap and -long white apron, occupied with the _soins de propreté_, as he said. He -cleaned out the cage, put in fresh food and water, and then, pointing to -the fat old couple, the grandparents, who stopped lazily abed, sitting -up and rubbing their noses together, whilst their juniors scampered -merrily about their affairs, "Tiens! On dirait Monsieur et Madame -Denis," he cried. I felt the appositeness of his allusion; and the old -couple were forthwith officially denominated Monsieur and Madame Denis, -for their resemblance to the hero and heroine of the song--though which -was Monsieur, and which Madame, I'm not sure that I ever clearly knew. - -It was a little after this that I was taken for the first time in my -life to the play. I fancy the theatre must have been the Porte St. -Martin; at any rate, it was a theatre in the Boulevard, and towards the -East, for I remember the long drive we had to reach it. And the piece -was _The Count of Monte Cristo_. In my memory the adventure shines, of -course, as a vague blur of light and joy; a child's first visit to the -play, and that play _The Count of Monte Cristo_! It was all the -breath-taking pleasantness of romance made visible, audible, actual. A -vague blur of light and joy, from which only two details separate -themselves. First, the prison scene, and an aged man, with a long white -beard, moving a great stone from the wall; then--the figure of Mercedes. -I went home terribly in love with Mercedes. Surely there are no such -_grandes passions_ in maturer life as those helpless, inarticulate ones -we burn in secret with before our teens; surely we never love again so -violently, desperately, consumedly. Anyhow, I went home terribly in love -with Mercedes. And--do all children lack humour?--I picked out the -prettiest young ladyish-looking mouse in my collection, cut off her -moustaches, adopted her as my especial pet, and called her by the name -of my _dea certè_. - -All of my mice by this time had become quite tame. They had plenty to -eat and drink, and a comfortable home, and not a care in the world; and -familiarity with their master had bred assurance; and so they had become -quite tame and shamefully, abominably lazy. Luxury, we are taught, was -ever the mother of sloth. I could put my hand in amongst them, and not -one would bestir himself the littlest bit to escape me. Mercedes and I -were inseparable. I used to take her to school with me every day; she -could be more conveniently and privately transported than a lamb. Each -_lycéen_ had a desk in front of his form, and she would spend the -school-hours in mine, I leaving the lid raised a little, that she might -have light and air. One day, the usher having left the room for a -moment, I put her down on the floor, thereby creating a great excitement -amongst my fellow-pupils, who got up from their places and formed an -eager circle round her. Then suddenly the usher came back, and we all -hurried to our seats, while he, catching sight of Mercedes, cried out, -"A mouse! A white mouse! Who dares to bring a white mouse to the class?" -And he made a dash for her. But she was too quick, too 'cute, for "the -likes of" Monsieur le Pion. She gave a jump, and in the twinkling of an -eye had disappeared up my leg, under my trousers. The usher searched -high and low for her, but she prudently remained in her hiding-place; -and thus her life was saved, for when he had abandoned his ineffectual -chase, he announced, "I should have wrung her neck." I turned pale to -imagine the doom she had escaped as by a hair's breadth. "It is useless -to ask which of you brought her here," he continued. "But mark my -words: if ever I find a mouse again in the class _I will wring her -neck_!" And yet, in private life, this bloodthirsty _pion_ was a quite -gentle, kindly, underfed, underpaid, shabby, struggling fellow, with -literary aspirations, who would not have hurt a fly. - -The secrets of a schoolboy's pocket! I once saw a boy surreptitiously -angling in Kensington Gardens, with a string and a bent pin. Presently -he landed a fish, a fish no bigger than your thumb, perhaps, but still a -fish. Alive and wet and flopping as it was, he slipped it into his -pocket. I used to carry Mercedes about in mine. One evening, when I put -in my hand to take her out, I discovered to my bewilderment that she was -not alone. There were four little pink mites of infant mice clinging to -her. - -I had enjoyed my visit to the theatre so much that at the _jour de l'an_ -my father included a toy-theatre among my presents. It had a real -curtain of green baize, that would roll up and down, and beautiful -coloured scenery that you could shift, and footlights, and a trap-door -in the middle of the stage; and indeed it would have been altogether -perfect, except for the Company. I have since learned that this is not -infrequently the case with theatres. My company consisted of pasteboard -men and women who, as artists, struck me as eminently unsatisfactory. -They couldn't move their arms or legs, and they had such stolid, -uninteresting faces. I don't know how it first occurred to me to turn -them all off, and fill their places with my mice. Mercedes, of course, -was leading lady; Monsieur and Madame Denis were the heavy parents; and -a gentlemanlike young mouse named Leander was _jeune premier_. Then, in -my leisure, they used to act the most tremendous plays. I was -stage-manager, prompter, playwright, chorus, and audience, placing the -theatre before a looking-glass, so that, though my duties kept me -behind, I could peer round the edge, and watch the spectacle as from -the front. I would invent the lines and deliver them, but, that my -illusion might be the more complete, I would change my voice for each -personage. The lines tried hard to be verses; no doubt they were _vers -libres_. At any rate, they were mouth-filling and sonorous. The first -play we attempted, I need hardly say, was _Le Comte de Monte Cristo_, -such version of it as I could reconstruct from memory. That had rather a -long run. Then I dramatised _Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp_, _Paul et -Virginie_, _Quentin Durward_, and _La Dame de Monsoreau_. Mercedes made -a charming Diane, Leander a brilliant and dashing Bussy; Monsieur Denis -was cast for the rôle of Frère Gorenflot; and a long, thin, -cadaverous-looking mouse, Don Quichotte by name, somewhat inadequately -represented Chicot. We began, as you see, with melodrama; presently we -descended to light comedy, playing _Les Mémoires d'un Ane_, _Jean qui -rit_, and other works of the immortal Madame de Ségur. And then at last -we turned a new leaf, and became naturalistic. We had never heard of the -naturalist school, though Monsieur Zola had already published some -volumes of the _Rougon-Macquart_; but ideas are in the air; and we, for -ourselves, discovered the possibilities of naturalism simultaneously, as -it were, with the acknowledged apostle of that form of art. We would -impersonate the characters of our own world--our schoolfellows and -masters, our parents, servants, friends--and carry them through -experiences and situations derived from our impressions of real life. -Perhaps we rather led them a dance; and I dare say those we didn't like -came in for a good deal of retributive justice. It was a little -universe, of which we were the arch-arbiters, our will the final law. - -I don't know whether all children lack humour; but I'm sure no grown-up -author-manager can take his business more seriously than I took mine. -Oh, I enjoyed it hugely; the hours I spent at it were enraptured hours; -but it was grim, grim earnest. After a while I began to long for a less -subjective public, a more various audience. I would summon the servants, -range them in chairs at one end of the room, conceal myself behind the -theatre, and spout the play with fervid solemnity. And they would -giggle, and make flippant commentaries, and at my most impassioned -climaxes burst into guffaws. My mice, as has been said, were overfed and -lazy, and I used to have to poke them through their parts with sticks -from the wings; but this was a detail which a superior imagination -should have accepted as one of the conventions of the art. It made the -servants laugh, however; and when I would step to the front in person, -and, with tears in my eyes, beseech them to be sober, they would but -laugh the louder. "Bless you, sir, they're only mice--_ce ne sont que -des souris_," the cook called out on one such occasion. She meant it as -an apology and a consolation, but it was the unkindest cut of all. Only -mice, indeed! To me they had been a young gentleman and lady lost in the -Desert of Sahara, near to die for the want of water, and about to be -attacked, captured, and sold into slavery, by a band of Bedouin Arabs. -Ah, well, the artist must steel himself to meet with indifference or -derision from the public, to be ignored, misunderstood, or jeered at; -and to rely for his real, his legitimate, reward on the pleasure he -finds in his work. - -And now there befell a great change in my life. Our home in Paris was -broken up, and we moved to St. Petersburg. It was impossible to take my -mice with us; their cage would have hopelessly complicated our -impedimenta. So we gave them to the children of our concierge. Mercedes, -however, I was resolved I would not part with, and I carried her all the -way to the Russian capital by hand. In my heart I was looking to her to -found another family--she had so frequently become a mother in the -past. But month succeeded month, and she forever disappointed me, and at -last I abandoned hope. In solitude and exile Mercedes degenerated sadly; -got monstrously fat; too indolent to gnaw, let her teeth grow to a -preposterous length; and in the end died of a surfeit of _smetana_. - -When I returned to Paris, at the age of twenty, to _faire mon droit_ in -the Latin Quarter, I paid a visit to our old house, and discovered the -same old concierge in the _loge_. I asked her about the mice, and she -told me her children had found the care of them such a bother that at -first they had neglected them, and at last allowed them to escape. "They -took to the walls, and for a long time afterwards, Monsieur, the mice of -this neighbourhood were pied. To this day they are of a paler hue than -elsewhere." - - - II--A Broken Looking-Glass - -He climbed the three flights of stone stairs, and put his key into the -lock; but before he turned it, he stopped--to rest, to take breath. On -the door his name was painted in big white letters, Mr. Richard Dane. It -is always silent in the Temple at midnight; to-night the silence was -dense, like a fog. It was Sunday night; and on Sunday night, even within -the hushed precincts of the Temple, one is conscious of a deeper hush. - -When he had lighted the lamp in his sitting-room, he let himself drop -into an arm-chair before the empty fireplace. He was tired, he was -exhausted. Yet nothing had happened to tire him. He had dined, as he -always dined on Sundays, with the Rodericks, in Cheyne Walk; he had -driven home in a hansom. There was no reason why he should be tired. -But he was tired. A deadly lassitude penetrated his body and his spirit, -like a fluid. He was too tired to go to bed. - -"I suppose I am getting old," he thought. - -To a second person the matter would have appeared one not of supposition -but of certainty, not of progression but of accomplishment. Getting old -indeed? But he _was_ old. It was an old man, grey and wrinkled and -wasted, who sat there, limp, sunken upon himself, in his easy-chair. In -years, to be sure, he was under sixty; but he looked like a man of -seventy-five. - -"I am getting old, I suppose I am getting old." - -And vaguely, dully, he contemplated his life, spread out behind him like -a misty landscape, and thought what a failure it had been. What had it -come to? What had it brought him? What had he done or won? Nothing, -nothing. It had brought him nothing but old age, solitude, -disappointment, and, to-night especially, a sense of fatigue and apathy -that weighed upon him like a suffocating blanket. On a table, a yard or -two away, stood a decanter of whisky, with some soda-water bottles and -tumblers; he looked at it with heavy eyes, and he knew that there was -what he needed. A little whisky would strengthen him, revive him, and -make it possible for him to bestir himself and undress and go to bed. -But when he thought of rising and moving to pour the whisky out, he -shrunk from that effort as from an Herculean labour; no--he was too -tired. Then his mind went back to the friends he had left in Chelsea -half an hour ago; it seemed an indefinably long time ago, years and -years ago; they were like blurred phantoms, dimly remembered from a -remote past. - -Yes, his life had been a failure; total, miserable, abject. It had come -to nothing; its harvest was a harvest of ashes. If it had been a useful -life, he could have accepted its unhappiness; if it had been a happy -life, he could have forgotten its uselessness; but it had been both -useless and unhappy. He had done nothing for others, he had won nothing -for himself. Oh, but he had tried, he had tried. When he had left Oxford -people expected great things of him; he had expected great things of -himself. He was admitted to be clever, to be gifted; he was ambitious, -he was in earnest. He wished to make a name, he wished to justify his -existence by fruitful work. And he had worked hard. He had put all his -knowledge, all his talent, all his energy, into his work; he had not -spared himself; he had passed laborious days and studious nights. And -what remained to show for it? Three or four volumes upon Political -Economy, that had been read in their day a little, discussed a little, -and then quite forgotten--superseded by the books of newer men. "Pulped, -pulped," he reflected bitterly. Except for a stray dozen of copies -scattered here and there--in the British Museum, in his College library, -on his own bookshelves--his published writings had by this time (he -could not doubt) met with the common fate of unsuccessful literature, -and been "pulped." - -"Pulped--pulped; pulped--pulped." The hateful word beat rhythmically -again and again in his tired brain; and for a little while that was all -he was conscious of. - -So much for the work of his life. And for the rest? The play? The -living? Oh, he had nothing to recall but failure. It had sufficed that -he should desire a thing, for him to miss it; that he should set his -heart upon a thing, for it to be removed beyond the sphere of his -possible acquisition. It had been so from the beginning; it had been so -always. He sat motionless as a stone, and allowed his thoughts to drift -listlessly hither and thither in the current of memory. Everywhere they -encountered wreckage, derelicts: defeated aspirations, broken hopes. -Languidly he envisaged these. He was too tired to resent, to rebel. He -even found a certain sluggish satisfaction in recognising with what -unvarying harshness destiny had treated him, in resigning himself to the -unmerited. - -He caught sight of his hand, lying flat and inert upon the brown leather -arm of his chair. His eyes rested on it, and for the moment he forgot -everything else in a sort of torpid study of it. How white it was, how -thin, how withered; the nails were parched into minute corrugations; the -veins stood out like dark wires; the skin hung loosely on it, and had a -dry lustre: an old man's hand. He gazed at it fixedly, till his eyes -closed and his head fell forward. But he was not sleepy, he was only -tired and weak. - -He raised his head with a start, and changed his position. He felt cold; -but to endure the cold was easier than to get up, and put something on, -or go to bed. - -How silent the world was; how empty his room. An immense feeling of -solitude, of isolation, fell upon him. He was quite cut off from the -rest of humanity here. If anything should happen to him, if he should -need help of any sort, what could he do? Call out? But who would hear? -At nine in the morning the porter's wife would come with his tea. But if -anything should happen to him in the meantime? There would be nothing -for it but to wait till nine o'clock. - -Ah, if he had married, if he had had children, a wife, a home of his -own, instead of these desolate bachelor chambers! - -If he had married, indeed! It was his sorrow's crown of sorrow that he -had not married, that he had not been able to marry, that the girl he -had wished to marry wouldn't have him. Failure? Success? He could have -accounted failure in other things a trifle, he could have laughed at -what the world calls failure, if Elinor Lynd had been his wife. But -that was the heart of his misfortune, she wouldn't have him. - -He had met her for the first time when he was a lad of twenty, and she a -girl of eighteen. He could see her palpable before him now: her slender -girlish figure, her bright eyes, her laughing mouth, her warm brown hair -curling round her forehead. Oh, how he had loved her. For twelve years -he had waited upon her, wooed her, hoped to win her. But she had always -said, "No--I don't love you. I am very fond of you; I love you as a -friend; we all love you that way--my mother, my father, my sisters. But -I can't marry you." However, she married no one else, she loved no one -else; and for twelve years he was an ever-welcome guest in her father's -house; and she would talk with him, play to him, pity him; and he could -hope. Then she died. He called one day, and they said she was ill. After -that there came a blank in his memory--a gulf, full of blackness and -redness, anguish and confusion; and then a sort of dreadful sudden calm, -when they told him she was dead. - -He remembered standing in her room, after the funeral, with her father, -her mother, her sister Elizabeth. He remembered the pale daylight that -filled it, and how orderly and cold and forsaken it all looked. And -there was her bed, the bed she had died in; and there her -dressing-table, with her combs and brushes; and there her writing-desk, -her bookcase. He remembered a row of medicine bottles on the -mantelpiece; he remembered the fierce anger, the hatred of them, as if -they were animate, that had welled up in his heart as he looked at them, -because they had failed to do their work. - -"You will wish to have something that was hers, Richard," her mother -said. "What would you like?" - -On her dressing-table there was a small looking-glass in an ivory -frame. He asked if he might have that, and carried it away with him. She -had looked into it a thousand times, no doubt; she had done her hair in -it; it had reflected her, enclosed her, contained her. He could almost -persuade himself that something of her must remain in it. To own it was -like owning something of herself. He carried it home with him, hugging -it to his side with a kind of passion. - -He had prized it, he prized it still, as his dearest treasure; the -looking-glass in which her face had been reflected a thousand times; the -glass that had contained her, known her; in which something of herself, -he felt, must linger. To handle it, look at it, into it, behind it, was -like holding a mystic communion with her; it gave him an emotion that -was infinitely sweet and bitter, a pain that was dissolved in joy. - -The glass lay now, folded in its ivory case, on the chimney-shelf in -front of him. That was its place; he always kept it on his -chimney-shelf; so that he could see it whenever he glanced round his -room. He leaned back in his chair, and looked at it; for a long time his -eyes remained fixed upon it. "If she had married me, she wouldn't have -died. My love, my care, would have healed her. She could not have died." -Monotonously, automatically, the phrase repeated itself over and over -again in his mind, while his eyes remained fixed on the ivory case into -which her looking-glass was folded. It was an effect of his fatigue, no -doubt, that his eyes, once directed upon an object, were slow to leave -it for another; that a phrase once pronounced in his thought had this -tendency to repeat itself over and over again. - -But at last he roused himself a little, and leaning forward, put his -hand out and up, to take the glass from the shelf. He wished to hold it, -to touch it and look into it. As he lifted it towards him, it fell open, -the mirror proper being fastened to a leather back, which was glued to -the ivory, and formed a hinge. It fell open; and his grasp had been -insecure; and the jerk as it opened was enough. It slipped from his -fingers, and dropped with a crash upon the hearthstone. - -The sound went through him like a physical pain. He sank back into his -chair, and closed his eyes. His heart was beating as after a mighty -physical exertion. He knew vaguely that a calamity had befallen him; he -could vaguely imagine the splinters of shattered glass at his feet. But -his physical prostration was so great as to obliterate, to neutralise, -emotion. He felt very cold. He felt that he was being hurried along with -terrible speed through darkness and cold air. There was the continuous -roar of rapid motion in his ears, a faint, dizzy bewilderment in his -head. He felt that he was trying to catch hold of things, to stop his -progress, but his hands closed upon emptiness; that he was trying to -call out for help, but he could make no sound. On--on--on, he was being -whirled through some immeasurable abyss of space. - - * * * * * - -"Ah, yes, he's dead, quite dead," the doctor said. "He has been dead -some hours. He must have passed away peacefully sitting here in his -chair." - -"Poor gentleman," said the porter's wife. "And a broken looking-glass -beside him. Oh, it's a sure sign, a broken looking-glass." - - - - -Portrait of a Lady - - By Will Rothenstein - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: Portrait of a Lady] - - - - -Two Poems - - By Edmund Gosse - - - I--Alere Flammam - - To A. C. B. - - In ancient Rome, the secret fire,-- - An intimate and holy thing,-- - Was guarded by a tender choir - Of kindred maidens in a ring; - Deep, deep within the house it lay, - No stranger ever gazed thereon, - But, flickering still by night and day, - The beacon of the house, it shone; - Thro' birth and death, from age to age, - It passed, a quenchless heritage; - - And there were hymns of mystic tone - Sung round about the family flame, - Beyond the threshold all unknown, - Fast-welded to an ancient name; - There sacrificed the sire as priest, - Before that altar, none but he, - Alone he spread the solemn feast - For a most secret deity; - He knew the god had once been sire, - And served the same memorial fire. - - Ah! so, untouched by windy roar - Of public issues loud and long, - The Poet holds the sacred door, - And guards the glowing coal of song; - Not his to grasp at praise or blame, - Red gold, or crowns beneath the sun, - His only pride to tend the flame - That Homer and that Virgil won, - Retain the rite, preserve the act, - And pass the worship on intact. - - Before the shrine at last he falls; - The crowd rush in, a chattering band - But, ere he fades in death, he calls - Another priest to ward the brand; - He, with a gesture of disdain, - Flings back the ringing brazen gate, - Reproves, repressing, the profane, - And feeds the flame in primal state; - Content to toil and fade in turn, - If still the sacred embers burn. - - - II--A Dream of November - - Far, far away, I know not where, I know not how, - The skies are grey, the boughs are bare, bare boughs in flower: - Long lilac silk is softly drawn from bough to bough, - With flowers of milk and buds of fawn, a broidered shower. - - Beneath that tent an Empress sits, with slanted eyes, - And wafts of scent from censers flit, a lilac flood; - Around her throne bloom peach and plum in lacquered dyes, - And many a blown chrysanthemum, and many a bud. - - She sits and dreams, while bonzes twain strike some rich bell, - Whose music seems a metal rain of radiant dye; - In this strange birth of various blooms, I cannot tell - Which spring from earth, which slipped from looms, which sank from sky. - - Beneath her wings of lilac dim, in robes of blue, - The Empress sings a wordless hymn that thrills her bower; - My trance unweaves, and winds, and shreds, and forms anew - Dark bronze, bright leaves, pure silken threads, in triple flower. - - - - -Portrait of Mrs. Patrick Campbell - - By Aubrey Beardsley - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: Portrait of Mrs. Patrick Campbell] - - - - -The Dedication - - By Fred M. Simpson - - - PERSONS REPRESENTED - - Lucy Rimmerton. Harold Sekbourne - - - -Scene I--The period is 1863 - -_The sitting-room in_ Lucy Rimmerton's _lodgings. She is seated in front -of the fire making some toast._ - -_Lucy._ There! I think that will do, although it isn't anything very -great. [_Rises._] What a colour I must have! Harold says I always manage -to toast myself very much better than I do the bread. [_Lights the gas, -and begins arranging some flowers on the table._] His favourite flowers; -I know he will be pleased when he sees them. How strange it is that he -should really care for me!--I, who am so commonplace and ordinary, -hardly pretty either, although he says I am. I always tell him he might -have done so much better than propose to a poor governess without a -penny.--Oh, if only his book proves a success!--a really great -success!--how glorious it will be! Why doesn't the wretched publisher -make haste and bring it out? I believe he is keeping it back on purpose. -What dreadful creatures they are! At first--squabble, squabble, -squabble; squabble about terms, squabble about this, another squabble -about that, and then, when everything is finally arranged, delay, delay, -delay. "You must wait for the publishing season." As though a book were -a young lady whose future might be seriously jeopardised if it made its -_début_ at an unfashionable time. - - [_The door opens, and_ Harold _bursts into the room_.] - -_Harold._ It's out, it's out; out at last. - -_Lucy._ What, the book! Really! Where is it? Do show it to me. - -_Harold._ Do you think you deserve it! - -_Lucy._ Oh! don't tantalise me. Have you seen it? What is it like! - -_Harold._ It is printed, and very much like other books. - -_Lucy._ You are horrid. I believe you have it with you. Have you? - -_Harold._ And what if I say yes? - -_Lucy._ You have. Do let me see it. - -_Harold._ And will you be very good if I do! - -_Lucy._ I'll be angelic. - -_Harold._ Then on that condition only--There! take it gently. [Lucy -_snatches it, and cuts the string_.] I thought you never cut string? - -_Lucy._ There is never a never that hasn't an exception. - -_Harold._ Not a woman's, certainly. - -_Lucy._ Oh! how nice it looks! And to think that it is yours, really and -truly yours. "Grace: a Sketch. By Harold Sekbourne." It's delicious! -[_Holding the book, dances round the room._] - -_Harold._ I shall begin to be jealous. You will soon be more in love -with my book than you are with me. - -_Lucy._ And why shouldn't I be? Haven't you always said that a man's -work is the best part of him? - -_Harold._ If my silly sayings are to be brought up in evidence against -me like this, I shall---- - -_Lucy._ You shall what? - -_Harold._ Take the book back. - -_Lucy._ Oh, will you? I should like to see you do it. [_Holds it behind -her._] You have got to get it first. - -_Harold._ And what are you going to give me for it? - -_Lucy._ Isn't it a presentation copy? - -_Harold._ It is the very first to leave the printer's. - -_Lucy._ Then you ought not to want any payment. - -_Harold._ I do though, all the same. Come--no payment, no book. - -_Lucy._ There, there, there! - -_Harold._ And there. - -_Lucy._ Oh! don't! You'll stifle me. And is this for me; may I really -keep it? - -_Harold._ Of course you may; I brought it expressly for you. - -_Lucy._ How nice of you! And you'll write my name in it? - -_Harold._ I'll write the dedication. - -_Lucy._ What do you mean? - -_Harold._ You shall see. Pen and ink for the author! A new pen and -virgin ink! - -_Lucy._ Your Authorship has but to command to be obeyed. - -_Harold._ [_Sitting down, writes._] It is printed in all the other -copies, but this one I have had bound specially for you, with a blank -sheet where the dedication comes, so that in your copy, and yours alone, -I can write it myself. There. - -_Lucy._ [_Looks over his shoulder and reads._] "To my Lady Luce." Oh, -Harold, you have dedicated it to me! - -_Harold._ Who else could I dedicate it to? although 'tis-- - - "Not so much honouring thee, - As giving it a hope that now - It may immortal be." - -_Lucy._ It is good of you. - -_Harold._ [_Writes again._] "Harold Sekbourne"--what's to-day?--oh, yes, -"3rd November, 1863." - -_Lucy._ And will people know who the "Lady Luce" is? - -_Harold._ They will some day. The dedication in my next book shall be -"To my Lady Wife." - -_Lucy._ I wonder if I shall ever be that. It seems so long coming. - -_Harold._ I don't mind when it is--to-morrow, if you like. - -_Lucy._ Don't talk nonsense, although it is my fault for beginning it. -And now sit down--no, here in the arm-chair--and you shall have some -nice tea. - - [_She makes and pours out the tea as Harold talks._] - -_Harold._ You won't have to wait long if this proves a success: and it -will be one. I know it; I feel it. It isn't only that everybody who has -read it, likes it; it's something else that I can't describe, not even -to you; a feeling inside, that--call it conceit if you like, but it -isn't conceit; it isn't conceit to feel confidence in oneself. Why, look -at the trash, the arrant trash, that succeeds every day; you will say, -perhaps, that it succeeds because it is trash, that trash is what people -want--they certainly get it. But no book that ever had real stuff in it -has failed yet, and I feel that--Ha! ha! the same old feeling mentioned -above. Don't think me an awful prig, Luce. I don't talk to anybody else -as I do to you; and if you only knew what a relief it is to me to let -myself go a bit occasionally, you would excuse everything. - -_Lucy._ You have a right to be conceited. - -_Harold._ Not yet. I have done nothing yet; but I mean to. [_Takes up -the book._] I wonder what will become of you and your fellows; what will -be your future? Will you one day adorn the shelves of libraries, figure -in catalogues of "Rare books and first editions," and be contended for -by snuffy, long-clothed bibliomaniacs, who will bid one against the -other for the honour of possessing you? Or will you descend to the -tables of secondhand book-stalls marked at a great reduction; or lie in -a heap, with other lumber, outside the shop-front, all this lot sixpence -each, awaiting there, uncared for, unnoticed, and unknown, your ultimate -destination, the dust-hole? - -_Lucy._ You are horrid. What an idea! - -_Harold._ No, I don't think that will be your end. [_Puts down the -book._] You are not going to the dustbin, you are going to be a success. -No more hack work for me after this. Why, supposing only the first -edition is sold, I more than clear expenses, and if it runs to -two--ten--twenty editions, I shall receive--the amount fairly takes my -breath away. Twentieth thousand; doesn't it sound fine? We shall have -our mansion in Grosvenor Square yet, Luce; and that charming, little old -house we saw the other day up the river--we'll have that, too; so that -we can run down here from Saturday to Monday, to get away from London -fog and nastiness. Yes, I am going to be rich some day--rich--in ten -years' time, if this book gets a fair start and I have anything like -decent luck, I shall be the best known author in England. [_Rises._] The -son of the old bookseller who failed will be able then to repay those -who helped him when he wanted help, and, more delightful thought still, -pay back those with interest who did their best to keep him down, when -they could just as easily have helped him to rise. I am going to have a -success, I feel it. In a few weeks' time I'll bring you a batch of -criticisms that will astonish you. But what is the matter? why so silent -all of a sudden? has my long and conceited tirade disgusted you? - -_Lucy._ No, not at all. - -_Harold._ Then what is it? - -_Lucy._ I was only thinking that--[_hesitates_]. - -_Harold._ Thinking what? About me: - -_Lucy._ Yes, about you and--and also about myself. - -_Harold._ That is just as it should be, about us two together. - -_Lucy._ Yes, but I was afraid---- - -_Harold._ [_Smiling._] Afraid! what of? - -_Lucy._ Nothing, nothing really. I am ashamed that--let me give you some -more tea. - -_Harold._ No, thanks. Come, let me hear, make a clean breast of it. - -_Lucy._ I can't, really; you would only laugh at me. - -_Harold._ Then why deny me a pleasure, for you know I love to laugh? - -_Lucy._ Well, then--if you become famous--and rich---- - -_Harold._ If I do; well? - -_Lucy._ You won't--you won't forget me, will you? - -_Harold._ Forget you, what an idea! Why do I want to become famous? why -do I want to become rich? For my own sake? for the sake of the money? -Neither. I want it for your sake, so that you can be rich; so that you -can have everything you can possibly want. I don't mind roughing it a -bit myself, but---- - -_Lucy._ No more do I: I am sure we might be very happy living even here. - -_Harold._ No, thank you; no second pair fronts for me, or, rather, none -for my wife. I want you to forget all about this place, as though it had -never existed; I want you to only remember your giving lessons as a -nightmare which has passed and gone. I want you to take a position in -the world, to go into society---- - -_Lucy._ But, Harold---- - -_Harold._ To entertain, receive, lead---- - -_Lucy._ But I could never lead. I detest receiving. I hate -entertaining---- - -_Harold._ Except me. - -_Lucy._ I often wonder if I do. You are so clever and I---- - -_Harold._ Such a goose. Whatever put such ideas into your head? Why, you -are actually crying. - -_Lucy._ I am not. - -_Harold._ Then what is that? [_Puts his finger against her cheek._] What -is that little sparkling drop? - -_Lucy._ It must be a tear of joy, then. - -_Harold._ Which shall be used to christen the book! - -_Lucy._ Oh, don't--there, you have left a mark. - -_Harold._ It is your fault. My finger wouldn't have done it by itself. -Are you going to be silly any more? - -_Lucy._ No, I am not. - -_Harold._ And you are going to love me, believe in me, and trust me? - -_Lucy._ I do all three--implicitly. - -_Harold._ [_He kisses her._] The seal of the trinity. [_Looks at his -watch._] By jove, I must be going. - -_Lucy._ So soon? - -_Harold._ Rather; I have to dine in Berkeley Square at eight o'clock, at -Sir Humphrey Mockton's. You would like their house, it's a beauty, a -seventeenth or eighteenth century one, with such a gorgeous old -staircase. He's awfully rich, and just a little bit vulgar--"wool" I -think it was, or "cottons," or some other commodity; but his daughter is -charming--I should say daughters, as there are two of them, so you -needn't be jealous. - -_Lucy._ Jealous? of course I am not. Have you known them long? - -_Harold._ Oh! some little time. They are awfully keen to see my book. I -am going to take--send them a copy. You see I must be civil to these -people, they know such an awful lot of the right sort; and their -recommendation of a book will have more weight than fifty -advertisements. So good-bye. [_Takes his overcoat._] - -_Lucy._ Let me help you. But you are going without noticing my flowers. - -_Harold._ I have been admiring them all along, except when I was looking -at you. - -_Lucy._ Don't be silly. - -_Harold._ They are charming. Sir Humphrey has some orchids just the same -colours; you ought to see them; he has basketsful sent up every week -from his place in Surrey. - -_Lucy._ No wonder my poor little chrysanthemums didn't impress you. - -_Harold._ What nonsense! I would give more for one little flower from -you, than for the contents of all his conservatories. - -_Lucy._ Then you shall have that for nothing. - -_Harold._ Don't, it will destroy the bunch. - -_Lucy._ What does that matter? they are all yours. - -_Harold._ You do your best to spoil me. - -_Lucy._ [_Pins the flower into his button-hole._] Don't talk nonsense. -There! - -_Harold._ What a swell you have made me look! - -_Lucy._ Good-bye; when shall I see you again? - -_Harold._ Not until Sunday, I am afraid; I am so busy just now. But I'll -come round early, and, if fine, we'll go and lunch at Richmond, and have -a good walk across the Park afterwards. Would you like it? - -_Lucy._ Above all things, but--but don't spend all your money on me. - -_Harold._ Bother the money! I am going to be rich. Good-bye till Sunday. - -_Lucy._ _Au revoir_; and while you are dining in your grand house, with -lots of grand people, I am going to enjoy a delightful evening here, not -alone, as I shall have your book for company. Good-bye. - - -Six Months elapse between Scene I. and Scene II. - - - -Scene II--The Scene and Persons are the same - -Lucy _is dressed as before; she is seated_. Harold _is in evening dress, -with a flower in his button-hole; he stands by the fireplace_. - -_Harold._ Well, all I have to say is, I think you are most unreasonable. - -_Lucy._ You have no right to say that. - -_Harold._ I have if I think it. - -_Lucy._ Well, you have no right to think it. - -_Harold._ My thoughts are not my own, I suppose? - -_Lucy._ They are so different from what I should have expected you to -have that I almost doubt it. - -_Harold._ Better say I have changed at once. - -_Lucy._ And so you have. - -_Harold._ Who is saying things one has no right to say now? - -_Lucy._ I am only saying what I think. - -_Harold._ Then if you want to have the right to your own thoughts, -kindly let me have the right to mine. [_Walks to the window._] I can't -prevent people sending me invitations, can I? - -_Lucy._ You need not accept them. - -_Harold._ And make enemies right and left, I suppose? - -_Lucy._ I don't want you to do that, and I don't want either to prevent -your enjoying yourself; but--but, I do want to see you occasionally. - -_Harold._ And so you do. - -_Lucy._ Yes, very--perhaps I should say I want to see you often. - -_Harold._ And so do I you, but I can't be in two places at once. This is -what I mean when I say you are unreasonable. I must go out. If I am to -write, I must study people, character, scenes. I can't do that by -stopping at home: I can't do that by coming here; I know you and I know -your landlady, and there is nobody else in the house, except the slavey -and the cat; and although the slavey may be a very excellent servant and -the cat a most original quadruped, still, I don't want to make elaborate -studies of animals--either four-legged or two. One would imagine, from -the way you talk, that I did nothing except enjoy myself. I only go out -in the evenings. - -_Lucy._ Still you might spare a little time, now and then, to come and -see me, if only for half an hour. - -_Harold._ What am I doing now? I gave up a dinner-party to come here -to-night. - -_Lucy._ Do you know it is exactly a month yesterday since you were here -last? - -_Harold._ I can't be always dangling at your apron-strings. - -_Lucy._ Harold! - -_Harold._ If we are going to be married, we---- - -_Lucy._ If? - -_Harold._ Well, when, if you like it better; we shall see enough of one -another then. I have written to you, it isn't as though I hadn't done -that. - -_Lucy._ But that is not the same thing as seeing you; and your letters, -too, have been so scrappy. [Harold _throws himself into the arm-chair_.] -They used to be so different before your book came out. - -_Harold._ I had more time then. - -_Lucy._ I sometimes wish that it had never been published at all, that -you had never written it, or, at all events, that it had never been such -a success. - -_Harold._ That's kind, at all events--deuced kind and considerate! - -_Lucy._ It seems to have come between us as a barrier. When I think how -eagerly we looked forward to its appearance, what castles in the air we -built as to how happy we were going to be, and all the things we were -going to do, if it were a success, and now to think that---- - -_Harold._ [_Jumps up._] Look here, Lucy, I'm damned if--I can't stand -this much longer! Nag, nag, nag! I can't stand it. I am worked off my -head during the day, I am out half the night, and when I come here for a -little quiet, a little rest, its--[_Breaks off suddenly_]. - -_Lucy._ I am so sorry. If I had thought---- - -_Harold._ Can't you see that you are driving me mad? I have been here -half an hour, and the whole of the time it has been nothing but -reproaches. - -_Lucy._ I don't think they would have affected you so much if you hadn't -felt that you deserved them! - -_Harold._ There you go again! I deserve them--[_laughs harshly_]. It is -my fault, I suppose, that it is the season; it is my fault that people -give dinner-parties and balls; it is my fault, I suppose, that you don't -go out as much as I do? - -_Lucy._ Certainly not; although, as a matter of fact, I haven't been out -one single evening for the last three--nearly four--months. - -_Harold._ That's right; draw comparisons; say I'm a selfish brute. -You'll tell me next that I am tired of you, and---- - -_Lucy._ Harold! don't, don't--you--you hurt me! Of course I never -thought of such a--[_she rises_]--You are not, are you? I--I couldn't -bear it! - -_Harold._ Of course I am not. Don't be so silly. [_He sits._] - -_Lucy._ It was silly of me, I confess it. I know you better than that. -Why, it's rank high treason, I deserve to lose my head; and my only -excuse is that thinking such a thing proves I must have lost it already. -Will your majesty deign to pardon? - -_Harold._ [_Testily._] Yes, yes, that's all right! There, look out, -you'll crumple my tie. - -_Lucy._ I am so sorry! And now tell me all about your grand friends -and---- - -_Harold._ They are not grand to me. Simply because a person is rich or -has a title, I don't consider them any "grander" than I--by jove, no! -These people are useful to me, or else I shouldn't stand it. They -"patronise" me, put their hand on my shoulder and say, "My dear young -friend, we predict great things for you." The fools, as though a single -one of them was capable even of forming an opinion, much less of -prophesying. They make remarks about me before my face; they talk of, -and pet, me as though I were a poodle. I go through my tricks and they -applaud; and they lean over with an idiotic simper to the dear friend -next to them and say, "Isn't he clever?" as though they had taught me -themselves. Bah! They invite me to their houses, I dine with them once a -week; but if I were to tell them to-morrow that I wanted to marry one of -their daughters, they would kick me out of the room, and consider it a -greater insult than if the proposal had come from their own footman. - -_Lucy._ But that doesn't matter, because you don't want to marry one of -them, do you? Was that Miss Mockton with you in the Park last Sunday? - -_Harold._ How do you know I was in the Park at all? - -_Lucy._ Because I saw you there. - -_Harold._ You were spying, I suppose. - -_Lucy._ Spying? I don't know what you mean. I went there for a walk -after church. - -_Harold._ Alone? - -_Lucy._ Of course not, I was with Mrs. Glover. - -_Harold._ Your landlady? - -_Lucy._ Why not?--Oh! you need not be afraid. I shouldn't have brought -disgrace upon you by obliging you to acknowledge me before your grand -friends. I took good care to keep in the background. - -_Harold._ Do you mean to insinuate that I am a snob? - -_Lucy._ Be a little kind. - -_Harold._ Well, it is your own fault, you insinuate that---- - -_Lucy._ I was wrong. I apologise, but--but--[_begins to cry_]. - -_Harold._ There, don't make a scene--don't, there's a good girl. There, -rest your head here. I suppose I am nasty. I didn't mean it, really. You -must make allowances for me. I am worried and bothered. I can't work--at -least I can't do work that satisfies me--and altogether I am not quite -myself. Late hours are playing the very deuce with my nerves. There, let -me kiss away the tears--now give me your promise that you will never be -so foolish again. - -_Lucy._ I--I promise. It is silly of me--now I am all right. - -_Harold._ Giboulées d'Avril! The sun comes out once more, the shower is -quite over. - -_Lucy._ Yes, quite over; you always are so kind. It is my fault -entirely. I--I think my nerves must be a little upset, too. - -_Harold._ We shall make a nice couple, shan't we? if we are often going -to behave like this! Now, are you quite calm? - -_Lucy._ Yes, quite. - -_Harold._ That's right, because I want you to listen patiently for a few -minutes to what I am going to say; it is something I want to talk to you -about very seriously. You won't interrupt me until I have quite -finished, will you? - -_Lucy._ What is it? not that--no, I won't. - -_Harold._ You know we talked about--I mean it was arranged we should be -married the beginning of July--wasn't it? - -_Lucy._ Yes. - -_Harold._ Well, I want to know if you would mind very much putting it -off a little--quite a little--only till the autumn? I'll tell you why. -Of course if you _do_ mind very much, I sha'n't press it, but--it's like -this: the scene of my new book is, as you know, laid abroad. I have been -trying to write it, but can't get on with it one little bit. I want some -local colour. I thought I should be able to invent it, I find I can't. -It is hampering and keeping me back terribly. And so--and so I thought -if you didn't mind very much that--that if I were to go to France -for--for six months or so--alone, that--in fact it would be the making -of me. I have never had an opportunity before; it has always been grind, -grind, grind, and if I am prevented from going now, I may never have a -chance again. What do you say? - -_Lucy._ But why shouldn't we be married as arranged, and spend our -honeymoon over there? - -_Harold._ Because I want to work. - -_Lucy._ And would my being there prevent you? You used to say you always -worked so much better when I was---- - -_Harold._ But you don't understand. This is different. I want to work -_hard_, and no man could do that on his honeymoon--at least I know I -couldn't. - -_Lucy._ No, but--And--and till when did you want to put off our--our -marriage? Until your return? - -_Harold._ Well, that would depend on circumstances. You don't suppose I -would postpone it for a second, if I could help it; but--Until my -return? I hope sincerely that it can be managed then, but, you see, over -there I shall be spending money all the time, and not earning a sou, -and--and so we _might_ have to wait a little bit longer, just until I -could replenish the locker, until I had published and been paid for my -new book. - -_Lucy._ But I have given notice to leave at midsummer. - -_Harold._ Has Mrs. Duncan got another governess! - -_Lucy._ No, but---- - -_Harold._ Then you can stop on, can't you! They will surely be only too -delighted to keep you. - -_Lucy._ Yes--I can stop on. [_He tries to kiss her._] No, don't; not -now. - -_Harold._ And you don't really mind the postponement very much, do you? - -_Lucy._ Not if it will assist you. - -_Harold._ I thought you would say that, I knew you would. It will assist -me very much. I shouldn't otherwise suggest it. It does seem too bad -though, doesn't it? To have to postpone it after waiting all these -years, and just as it was so near, too. I have a good mind not to go, -after all--only, if I let this chance slip, I may never have another. -Besides, six months is not so very long, is it? And when they are over, -then we won't wait any longer. You will come and see me off, won't you? -It would never do for an engaged man to go away for even six months, -without his lady love coming to see him start. - -_Lucy._ Yes, I will come. When do you go? - -_Harold._ The end of next week, I expect; perhaps earlier if I can -manage it. But I shall see you before then. We'll go and have dinner -together at our favourite little restaurant. When shall it be! Let me -see, I am engaged on--I can't quite remember what my engagements are. - -_Lucy._ I have none. - -_Harold._ Then that's settled. Good-bye, Luce; you don't mind very much, -do you? The time will soon pass. You are a little brick to behave as you -have done. [_Going._] It will be Monday or Tuesday next for our dinner, -but I will let you know. Good-bye. - -_Lucy._ Good-bye. - - -Thirty Years elapse between Scene II. and Scene III. - - - -Scene III--Lucy Rimmerton, Agnes Rimmerton (her niece) - -_A well-furnished comfortable room in_ Lucy Rimmerton's _house. She is -seated in front of the fire, in an easy-chair, reading. The door opens, -without her noticing it, and_ Agnes _comes in, closes the door gently, -crosses the room, and bends over her_. - -_Agnes._ A happy New Year to you, Aunt Luce. - -_Lucy._ What! Agnes, is that you? I never heard you come in. I really -think I must be getting deaf. - -_Agnes._ What nonsense! I didn't intend you should hear me. I wanted to -wish you a happy New Year first. - -_Lucy._ So as to make your Aunt play second fiddle. The same to you, -dear. - -_Agnes._ Thank you. [_Warms her hands at the fire._] Oh, it _is_ cold; -not here I mean, but out of doors; the thermometer is down I don't know -how many degrees below freezing. - -_Lucy._ It seems to agree with you, at all events. You look as bright -and rosy as though you were the New Year itself come to visit me. - -_Agnes._ [_Laughs merrily._] So I ought to. I ran nearly all the way, -except when I slid, to the great horror of an old gentleman who was -busily engaged lecturing some little boys on the enormity of their sins -in making a beautifully long slide in the middle of the pavement. - -_Lucy._ And what brought you out so early? - -_Agnes._ To see you, of course. Besides, the morning is so lovely it -seemed a sin to remain indoors. I do hope the frost continues all the -holidays. - -_Lucy._ It is all very well for you, but it must be terribly trying for -many people--the poor, for instance. - -_Agnes._ Yes. [_A pause._] Auntie, you don't know anything, do you, -about how--how poor people live? - -_Lucy._ Not so much as I ought to. - -_Agnes._ I didn't mean _very_ poor people, not working people. I meant a -person poor like--like I am poor. - -_Lucy._ [_Smiling._] Don't you know how you live yourself? - -_Agnes._ Of course I do, but--I was thinking of--of a friend of mine, a -governess like myself, who has just got engaged; and I--I was wondering -on how much, or, rather, how little, they could live. But you don't know -of course. You are rich, and---- - -_Lucy._ But I wasn't always rich. Thirty years ago when I was your -age---- - -_Agnes._ When you were my age! I like that! why you are not fifty. - -_Lucy._ Little flatterer. Fifty-two last birthday. - -_Agnes._ Fifty-two! Well, you don't look it, at all events. - -_Lucy._ Gross flatterer. When I was your age I was poor and a governess -as you are. - -_Agnes._ But I thought that your Aunt Emily left you all her money. - -_Lucy._ So she did, or nearly all; but that was afterwards. It isn't -quite thirty years yet since she came back from India, a widow, just -after she had lost her husband and only child. I was very ill at the -time--I almost died; and she, good woman as she was, came and nursed me. - -_Agnes._ Of course, I know. I have heard father talk about it. And then -she was taken ill, wasn't she? - -_Lucy._ Yes, almost before I was well. It was very unfair that she -should leave everything to me; your father was her nephew, just as I was -her niece, but he wouldn't hear of my sharing it with---- - -_Agnes._ I should think not indeed! I should be very sorry to think that -my father would ever allow such a thing. Although, at the same time, it -is all very well for you to imagine that you don't share it, but you -_do_. Who pays for Lillie's and May's and George's schooling? Who sent -Alfred to Cambridge, and Frank to---- - -_Lucy._ Don't, please. What a huge family you are, to be sure. - -_Agnes._ And last, but not least, who gave me a chance of going to -Girton? Oh, we are not supposed to know anything about it, I know, but -you see we do. You thought you had arranged it all so beautifully, and -kept everyone of us entirely in the dark, but you haven't one little -bit. - -_Lucy._ Nonsense, Agnes, you---- - -_Agnes._ Oh, you are a huge big fraud, you know you are; I am quite -ashamed of you. [Lucy _is going to speak_.] You are not to be thanked, I -know; and you needn't be afraid, I am not going to do so; but if you -could only hear us when we are talking quietly together, you would find -that a certain person, who shall be nameless, is simply worship---- - -_Lucy._ Hush! you silly little girl. You don't know what you are saying. -You have nothing to thank me for whatsoever. - -_Agnes._ Haven't we just? I know better. - -_Lucy._ Young people always do. So you see I do know something of how -"the poor" live. - -_Agnes._ Yes, but you were never married. - -_Lucy._ No, dear. - -_Agnes._ That is what I want to----Why weren't you married? Oh, I know -I have no business to ask such a question: it is fearfully rude I know, -but I have wondered so often. You are lovely now, and you must have been -beautiful when you were a girl. - -_Lucy._ No, I wasn't--I was barely pretty. - -_Agnes._ I can't believe that. - -_Lucy._ And I am not going to accept your description of me now as a -true one; although I confess I am vain enough--even in my present old -age--to look in the glass occasionally, and say to myself: "You are -better-looking now than you ever were." - -_Agnes._ Well, at all events you were always an angel. - -_Lucy._ And men don't like angels; besides--I was poor. - -_Agnes._ You were not poor when you got Aunt Emily's money. - -_Lucy._ No, but then it was too----I mean I then had no wish to marry. - -_Agnes._ You mean you determined to sacrifice yourself for us, that is -what you mean. - -_Lucy._ I must have possessed a very prophetic soul then, or been gifted -with second sight, as none of you, except Reginald, were born. But to -come back to your friend, Agnes; has she no money? - -_Agnes._ No, none. - -_Lucy._ Nor he? - -_Agnes._ Not a penny. - -_Lucy._ And they want to get married? - -_Agnes._ Yes. - -_Lucy._ And are afraid they haven't enough. - -_Agnes._ They certainly haven't. - -_Lucy._ Then why don't they apply to some friend or relative who has -more than enough; say, to--an aunt, for instance. - -_Agnes._ Auntie! - -_Lucy._ And what is his name? - -_Agnes._ Geo----Mr. Reddell. - -_Lucy._ And hers is? - -_Agnes._ Oh, I never intended to tell you. I didn't mean to say a word. - -_Lucy._ When did it happen? - -_Agnes._ Three days ago. That is to say, he proposed to me then, but of -course it has been going on for a long time. I could see that he--at -least I thought I could see. But I can hardly realise it yet. It seems -all so strange. And I _did_ intend telling you, I felt I _must_ tell -somebody, although George doesn't want it known yet, because, as I told -you, he--and so I haven't said a word to father yet; but I must -soon--and you won't say anything, will you? and--and oh, I am silly. - -_Lucy._ There, have your cry out, it will do you good. Now tell me about -Mr. Reddell. What is he? - -_Agnes._ He is a writer--an author. Don't you remember I showed you a -story of his a little time ago? - -_Lucy._ I thought I knew the name. - -_Agnes._ And you said you liked it; I was so pleased. - -_Lucy._ Yes, I did. I thought it clever and---- - -_Agnes._ He _is_ clever; and I do so want you to know him. He wants to -know you, too. You will try to like him, won't you, for my sake? - -_Lucy._ I have no doubt I shall. - -_Agnes._ He is just bringing out a book. Some of the stories have been -published before; the one you read was one, and if that proves a success -then it will be all right; we shall be able to get married and---- - -_Lucy._ Wait a minute, Agnes. How long have you known him? - -_Agnes._ Over a year--nearly two years. - -_Lucy._ And do you really know him well? Are you quite certain you can -trust him? - -_Agnes._ What a question! How can you doubt it? You wouldn't for a -minute if you knew him. - -_Lucy._ I ought not to, knowing you, you mean. And supposing this book -is a success. May it not spoil him--make him conceited? - -_Agnes._ All the better if it does. He is not conceited enough, and so I -always tell him. - -_Lucy._ But may it not make him worldly? May he not, after a time, -regret his proposal to you if he sees a chance of making a more -advantageous---- - -_Agnes._ Impossible. What a dreadful opinion you must have of mankind. -You don't think it really, I know. I have never heard you say or hint -anything nasty about anybody before. - -_Lucy._ I only do it for your own good, my dear. I once knew a man--just -such another as you describe Mr. Reddell to be. He was an author, too, -and--and when I knew him his first book was also just about to appear. -He was engaged to be married to--to quite a nice girl too, although she -was never so pretty as you are. - -_Agnes._ Who is the flatterer now? - -_Lucy._ The book was published. It was a great success. He became quite -the lion of the season--it is many years ago now. The wedding-day was -definitely fixed. Two months before the date he suggested a -postponement--for six months. - -_Agnes._ How horrible! - -_Lucy._ And just about the time originally fixed upon for the wedding -she received a letter from him--he was abroad at the time--suggesting -that their engagement had better be broken off. - -_Agnes._ Oh, the brute! the big brute! But she didn't consent, did she? - -_Lucy._ Of course. The man she had loved was dead. The new person she -was indifferent to. - -_Agnes._ But how--but you don't suggest that Mr. Reddell could behave -like that? he couldn't. He wouldn't, I feel certain. But there must -surely have been something else; I can't believe that any man would -behave so utterly unfeelingly--so brutally. They say there are always -two sides to every story. Mayn't there have been some reason that you -knew nothing about? Mayn't she have done something? She must have been a -little bit to blame, too, and this side of the story you never heard. - -_Lucy._ Yes--it is possible. - -_Agnes._ I can't think that any man would deliberately behave so like a -cad as you say he did. - -_Lucy._ It may have been her fault. I used to think it might be--just a -little, as you say. - -_Agnes._ Well, it sha'n't be mine at all events. I won't give any -cause--besides even if I did----Oh, no, it is utterly impossible to -imagine such a thing! - -_Lucy._ I hope it is, for your sake. - -_Agnes._ Of course it is; of that I am quite certain. And you don't -think it is very wrong of me to--to---- - -_Lucy._ To say Yes to a man you love. No, my dear, that can never be -wrong, although it may be foolish. - -_Agnes._ From a worldly point of view, perhaps; but I should never have -thought that you---- - -_Lucy._ I didn't mean that. But love seems to grow so quickly when you -once allow it to do so, that it is sometimes wiser to----but never mind, -bring him to see me, and--and may you be happy. [_A long pause._] - -_Agnes._ You are crying now, Auntie! You have nothing---- - -_Lucy._ Haven't I? What, not at the chance of losing you? So this is -what brought you out so early this morning and occasioned your bright, -rosy cheeks? You didn't only come to see me. - -_Agnes._ To see you and talk to you, yes, that was all. No, by-the-by, -it wasn't all. Have you seen a paper this morning? No? I thought it -would interest you so I brought it round. It is bad news, not good news; -your favourite author is dead. - -_Lucy._ I am afraid my favourite authors have been dead very many years. - -_Agnes._ I should say the author of your favourite book. - -_Lucy._ You mean---- - -_Agnes._ Sir Harold Sekbourne. [Lucy _leans back in her chair_.] He died -last night. Here it is; here is the paragraph. [_Reads._] "We regret to -announce the death of Sir Harold Sekbourne, the well-known novelist, -which occurred at his town house, in Prince's Gate, late last evening." -Shall I read it to you? - -_Lucy._ No--no, give me the paper. And--and, Agnes, do you mind going -down to Franklin's room, and telling her that receipt you promised her? - -_Agnes._ For the Japanese custard? Of course I will; I quite forgot all -about it. There it is. [_Gives her the paper, indicating the paragraph -with her finger, then goes out._] - -_Lucy._ [_Sits staring at the paper for a few seconds, then reads -slowly._] "Sir Harold had been slightly indisposed for some weeks, but -no anxiety was felt until two days ago, when a change for the worse set -in, and despite all the care, attention, and skill of Drs. Thornton and -Douglas, who hardly left his bedside, he never rallied, and passed -peacefully away, at the early age of fifty-eight, at the time above -mentioned. It is now thirty years ago since the deceased baronet -published his first book, 'Grace: a Sketch,' which had such an immediate -and great success. This was followed nearly a year afterwards by 'Alain -Treven,' the scene of which is laid in Brittany; and from that time -until his death his pen was never idle. His last work, 'The Incoming -Tide,' has just been published in book form, it having appeared in the -pages of _The Illustrated Courier_ during the last year. Despite the -rare power of his later works, disclosing thoroughly, as they do, his -scholarly knowledge, his masterly construction, vivid imagination, and -his keen insight into character and details of every-day life, they none -of them can, for exquisite freshness and rare delicacy of execution, -compare with his first publication, 'Grace: a Sketch.' We have before -us, as we write, a first edition of this delightful story, with its -curiously sentimental dedication 'To my Lady Luce,' which in the -subsequent editions was omitted. A baronetcy was conferred on Sir Harold -by her Majesty two years ago, at the personal instigation, it is said, -of the Prime Minister, who is one of his greatest admirers, but the -title is now extinct, as Sir Harold leaves no son. He married in June, -1866, a daughter of the late Sir Humphrey Mockton, who survives him. His -two daughters are both married--one to Lord Duncan, eldest son of the -Earl of Andstar; the other to Sir Reginald de Laver. His loss will be -greatly felt, not only in the literary world, but wherever the English -tongue is spoken and read." - - [Lucy _goes to the bookcase, takes out a book, and opens it_. Agnes - _comes in_.] - -_Agnes._ Franklin is silly. I had to repeat the directions three times, -and even now I doubt if she understands them properly. [_Comes behind_ -Lucy _and looks over her shoulder_.] Why, I never knew you had a first -edition. [Lucy _starts and closes the book, then opens it again_.] May I -look at it? But this is written; the ink is quite faded. "To my Lady -Luce. Harold Sekbourne, 3rd November, 1863." What a strong handwriting -it is! Luce! how strange that the name should be the same as---- [_Looks -suddenly at_ Lucy.] Oh, Auntie, forgive me. I never dreamt----I am so -sorry. - - - - -The Head of Minos - - By J. T. Nettleship - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: The Head of Minos] - - - - -A Lost Masterpiece - -A City Mood, Aug. '93 - - By George Egerton - - -I regret it, but what am I to do? It was not my fault--I can only regret -it. It was thus it happened to me. - -I had come to town straight from a hillside cottage in a lonely -ploughland, with the smell of the turf in my nostrils, and the swish of -the scythes in my ears; the scythes that flashed in the meadows where -the upland hay, drought-parched, stretched thirstily up to the clouds -that mustered upon the mountain-tops, and marched mockingly away, and -held no rain. - -The desire to mix with the crowd, to lay my ear once more to the heart -of the world and listen to its life-throbs, had grown too strong for me; -and so I had come back--but the sights and sounds of my late life clung -to me--it is singular how the most opposite things often fill one with -associative memory. - -That _gamin_ of the bird-tribe, the Cockney sparrow, recalled the -swallows that built in the tumble-down shed; and I could almost see the -gleam of their white bellies, as they circled in ever narrowing sweeps -and clove the air with forked wings, uttering a shrill note, with a -querulous grace-note in front of it. - -The freshness of the country still lurked in me, unconsciously -influencing my attitude towards the city. - -One forenoon business drove me citywards, and following an inclination -that always impels me to water-ways rather than roadways, I elected to -go by river steamer. - -I left home in a glad mood, disposed to view the whole world with kindly -eyes. I was filled with a happy-go-lucky _insouciance_ that made walking -the pavements a loafing in Elysian fields. The coarser touches of -street-life, the oddities of accent, the idiosyncrasies of that most -eccentric of city-dwellers, the Londoner, did not jar as at other -times--rather added a zest to enjoyment; impressions crowded in too -quickly to admit of analysis, I was simply an interested spectator of a -varied panorama. - -I was conscious, too, of a peculiar dual action of brain and senses, -for, though keenly alive to every unimportant detail of the life about -me, I was yet able to follow a process by which delicate inner threads -were being spun into a fanciful web that had nothing to do with my outer -self. - -At Chelsea I boarded a river steamer bound for London Bridge. The river -was wrapped in a delicate grey haze with a golden subtone, like a -beautiful bright thought struggling for utterance through a mist of -obscure words. It glowed through the turbid waters under the arches, so -that I feared to see a face or a hand wave through its dull amber--for I -always think of drowned creatures washing wearily in its murky -depths--it lit up the great warehouses, and warmed the brickwork of the -monster chimneys in the background. No detail escaped my outer eyes--not -the hideous green of the velveteen in the sleeves of the woman on my -left, nor the supercilious giggle of the young ladies on my right, who -made audible remarks about my personal appearance. - -But what cared I? Was I not happy, absurdly happy?--because all the -while my inner eyes saw undercurrents of beauty and pathos, quaint -contrasts, whimsical details that tickled my sense of humour -deliciously. The elf that lurks in some inner cell was very busy, now -throwing out tender mimosa-like threads of creative fancy, now recording -fleeting impressions with delicate sure brushwork for future use; -touching a hundred vagrant things with the magic of imagination, making -a running comment on the scenes we passed. - -The warehouses told a tale of an up-to-date Soll und Haben, one of my -very own, one that would thrust old Freytag out of the book-mart. The -tall chimneys ceased to be giraffic throats belching soot and smoke over -the blackening city. They were obelisks rearing granite heads -heavenwards! Joints in the bricks, weather-stains? You are mistaken; -they were hieroglyphics, setting down for posterity a tragic epic of man -the conqueror, and fire his slave; and how they strangled beauty in the -grip of gain. A theme for a Whitman! - -And so it talks and I listen with my inner ear--and yet nothing outward -escapes me--the slackening of the boat--the stepping on and off of -folk--the lowering of the funnel--the name "Stanley" on the little tug, -with its self-sufficient puff-puff, fussing by with a line of grimy -barges in tow; freight-laden, for the water washes over them--and on the -last a woman sits suckling her baby, and a terrier with badly cropped -ears yaps at us as we pass.... - -And as this English river scene flashes by, lines of association form -angles in my brain; and the point of each is a dot of light that expands -into a background for forgotten canal scenes, with green-grey water, and -leaning balconies, and strange crafts--Canaletti and Guardi seen long -ago in picture galleries.... - -A delicate featured youth with gold-laced cap, scrapes a prelude on a -thin-toned violin, and his companion thrums an accompaniment on a harp. - -I don't know what they play, some tuneful thing with an undernote of -sadness and sentiment running through its commonplace--likely a -music-hall ditty; for a lad with a cheap silk hat, and the hateful -expression of knowingness that makes him a type of his kind, grins -appreciatively and hums the words. - -I turn from him to the harp. It is the wreck of a handsome instrument, -its gold is tarnished, its white is smirched, its stucco rose-wreaths -sadly battered. It has the air of an antique beauty in dirty ball -finery; and is it fancy, or does not a shamed wail lurk in the tone of -its strings? - -The whimsical idea occurs to me that it has once belonged to a lady with -drooping ringlets and an embroidered spencer; and that she touched its -chords to the words of a song by Thomas Haynes Baily, and that Miss La -Creevy transferred them both to ivory. - -The youth played mechanically, without a trace of emotion; whilst the -harpist, whose nose is a study in purples and whose bloodshot eyes have -the glassy brightness of drink, felt every touch of beauty in the poor -little tune, and drew it tenderly forth. - -They added the musical note to my joyous mood; the poetry of the city -dovetailed harmoniously with country scenes too recent to be treated as -memories--and I stepped off the boat with the melody vibrating through -the city sounds. - -I swung from place to place in happy, lightsome mood, glad as a fairy -prince in quest of adventures. The air of the city was exhilarating -ether--and all mankind my brethren--in fact I felt effusively -affectionate. - -I smiled at a pretty anaemic city girl, and only remembered that she was -a stranger when she flashed back an indignant look of affected affront. - -But what cared I? Not a jot! I could afford to say pityingly: "Go thy -way, little city maid, get thee to thy typing." - -And all the while that these outward insignificant things occupied me, I -knew that a precious little pearl of a thought was evolving slowly out -of the inner chaos. - -It was such an unique little gem, with the lustre of a tear, and the -light of moonlight and streamlight and love smiles reflected in its pure -sheen--and, best of all, it was all my own--a priceless possession, not -to be bartered for the Jagersfontein diamond--a city childling with the -prepotency of the country working in it--and I revelled in its fresh -charm and dainty strength; it seemed original, it was so frankly -natural. - -And as I dodged through the great waggons laden with wares from outer -continents, I listened and watched it forming inside, until my soul -became filled with the light of its brightness; and a wild elation -possessed me at the thought of this darling brain-child, this offspring -of my fancy, this rare little creation, perhaps embryo of genius that -was my very own. - -I smiled benevolently at the passers-by, with their harassed business -faces, and shiny black bags bulging with the weight of common every-day -documents, as I thought of the treat I would give them later on; the -delicate feast I held in store for them, when I would transfer this -dainty elusive birthling of my brain to paper for their benefit. - -It would make them dream of moonlit lanes and sweethearting; reveal to -them the golden threads in the sober city woof; creep in close and -whisper good cheer, and smooth out tired creases in heart and brain; a -draught from the fountain of Jouvence could work no greater miracle than -the tale I had to unfold. - -Aye, they might pass me by now, not even give me the inside of the -pavement, I would not blame them for it!--but later on, later on, they -would flock to thank me. They just didn't realise, poor money-grubbers! -How could they? But later on.... I grew perfectly radiant at the thought -of what I would do for poor humanity, and absurdly self-satisfied as the -conviction grew upon me that this would prove a work of genius--no mere -glimmer of the spiritual afflatus--but a solid chunk of genius. - -Meanwhile I took a 'bus and paid my penny. I leant back and chuckled to -myself as each fresh thought-atom added to the precious quality of my -pearl. Pearl? Not one any longer--a whole quarrelet of pearls, Oriental -pearls of the greatest price! Ah, how happy I was as I fondled my -conceit! - -It was near Chancery Lane that a foreign element cropped up and -disturbed the rich flow of my fancy. - -I happened to glance at the side-walk. A woman, a little woman, was -hurrying along in a most remarkable way. It annoyed me, for I could not -help wondering why she was in such a desperate hurry. Bother the jade! -what business had she to thrust herself on my observation like that, and -tangle the threads of a web of genius, undoubted genius? - -I closed my eyes to avoid seeing her; I could see her through the lids. -She had square shoulders and a high bust, and a white gauze tie, like a -snowy feather in the breast of a pouter pigeon. - -We stop--I look again--aye, there she is! Her black eyes stare boldly -through her kohol-tinted lids, her face has a violet tint. She grips her -gloves in one hand, her white-handled umbrella in the other, handle up, -like a knobkerrie. - -She has great feet, too, in pointed shoes, and the heels are under her -insteps; and as we outdistance her I fancy I can hear their decisive -tap-tap above the thousand sounds of the street. - -I breathe a sigh of relief as I return to my pearl--my pearl that is to -bring _me_ kudos and make countless thousands rejoice. It is dimmed a -little, I must nurse it tenderly. - -Jerk, jerk, jangle--stop.--Bother the bell! We pull up to drop some -passengers, the idiots! and, as I live, she overtakes us! How the men -and women cede her the middle of the pavement! How her figure dominates -it, and her great feet emphasise her ridiculous haste! Why should she -disturb me? My nerves are quivering pitifully; the sweet inner light is -waning, I am in mortal dread of losing my little masterpiece. Thank -heaven, we are off again.... - -"Charing Cross, Army and Navy, V'toria!"--Stop! - -Of course, naturally! Here she comes, elbows out, umbrella waving! How -the steel in her bonnet glistens! She recalls something, what is -it?--what is it? A-ah! I have it!--a strident voice, on the deck of a -steamer in the glorious bay of Rio, singing: - - "Je suis le vr-r-rai pompier, - Le seul pompier...." - -and _la mióla_ snaps her fingers gaily and trills her _r's_; and the -Corcovado is outlined clearly on the purple background as if bending to -listen; and the palms and the mosque-like buildings, and the fair islets -bathed in the witchery of moonlight, and the star-gems twinned in the -lap of the bay, intoxicate as a dream of the East. - - "Je suis le vr-r-rai pompier, - Le seul pompier...." - -What in the world is a _pompier_? What connection has the word with this -creature who is murdering, deliberately murdering, a delicate creation -of my brain, begotten by the fusion of country and town? - - "Je suis le vr-r-rai pompier,..." - -I am convinced _pompier_ expresses her in some subtle way--absurd word! -I look back at her, I criticise her, I anathematise her, I _hate_ her! - -What is she hurrying for? We can't escape her--always we stop and let -her overtake us with her elbowing gait, and tight skirt shortened to -show her great splay feet--ugh! - -My brain is void, all is dark within; the flowers are faded, the music -stilled; the lovely illusive little being has flown, and yet she pounds -along untiringly. - -Is she a feminine presentment of the wandering Jew, a living embodiment -of the ghoul-like spirit that haunts the city and murders fancy? - -What business had she, I ask, to come and thrust her white-handled -umbrella into the delicate network of my nerves and untune their -harmony? - -Does she realise what she has done? She has trampled a rare little -mind-being unto death, destroyed a precious literary gem. Aye, one that, -for aught I know, might have worked a revolution in modern thought; -added a new human document to the archives of man; been the keystone to -psychic investigations; solved problems that lurk in the depths of our -natures and tantalise us with elusive gleams of truth; heralded in, -perchance, the new era; when such simple problems as Home Rule, -Bimetallism, or the Woman Question will be mere themes for schoolboard -compositions--who can tell? - -Well, it was not my fault.--No one regrets it more, no one--but what -could I do? - -Blame her, woman of the great feet and dominating gait, and waving -umbrella-handle!--blame her! I can only regret it--regret it! - - - - -Portrait of a Lady - - By Charles W. Furse - -_Reproduced by the Swan Electric Engraving Company_ - -[Illustration: Portrait of a Lady] - - - - -Reticence in Literature - - By Arthur Waugh - - -_He never spoke out._ Upon these four words, gathered by chance from a -private letter, Matthew Arnold, with that super-subtle ingenuity which -loved to take the word and play upon it and make it of innumerable -colours, has constructed, as one may conjecture some antediluvian wonder -from its smallest fragment, a full, complete, and intimate picture of -the poet Thomas Gray. _He never spoke out._ Here, we are told, lies the -secret of Gray's limitation as much in life as in literature: so -sensitive was he in private life, so modest in public, that the thoughts -that arose in him never got full utterance, the possibilities of his -genius were never fulfilled; and we, in our turn, are left the poorer -for that nervous delicacy which has proved the bane of the poet, living -and dead alike. It is a singularly characteristic essay--this paper on -Gray, showing the writer's logical talent at once in its strongest and -its weakest capacities, and a complete study of Arnold's method might -well, I think, be founded upon its thirty pages. But in the present -instance I have recurred to that recurring phrase, _He never spoke out_, -not to discuss Matthew Arnold's estimate of Gray, nor, indeed, to -consider Gray's relation to his age; but merely to point out, what the -turn of Arnold's argument did not require him to consider, namely, the -extraordinarily un-English aspect of this reticence in Gray, a -reticence alien without doubt to the English character, but still more -alien to English literature. Reticence is not a national -characteristic--far otherwise. The phrase "national characteristic" is, -I know well, a cant phrase, and, as such, full of the dangers of abuse. -Historical and ethnographical criticism, proceeding on popular lines, -has tried from time to time to fix certain tendencies to certain races, -and to argue from individuals to generalities with a freedom that every -law of induction belies. And so we have come to endow the Frenchman, -universally and without exception, with politeness, the Indian, equally -universally, with cunning, the American with the commercial talent, the -German with the educational, and so forth. Generalisations of this kind -must, of course, be accepted with limitations. But it is not too much, -perhaps, to say that the Englishman has always prided himself upon his -frankness. He is always for speaking out; and it is this faculty of -outspokenness that he is anxious to attribute to those characters which -he sets up in the market-places of his religion and his literature, as -those whom he chiefly delights to honour. The demigods of our national -verse, the heroes of our national fiction, are brow-bound, above all -other laurels, with this glorious freedom of free speech and open -manners, and we have come to regard this broad, untrammelled virtue of -ours, as all individual virtues _will_ be regarded with the revolution -of the cycle of provinciality, as a guerdon above question or control. -We have become inclined to forget that every good thing has, as -Aristotle pointed out so long ago, its corresponding evil, and that the -corruption of the best is always worst of all. Frankness is so great a -boon, we say: we can forgive anything to the man who has the courage of -his convictions, the fearlessness of freedom--the man, in a word, who -speaks out. - -But we have to distinguish, I think, at the outset between a national -virtue in the rough and the artificial or acquired fashion in which we -put that virtue into use. It is obvious that, though many things are -possible to us, which are good in themselves, many things are -inexpedient, when considered relatively to our environment. Count -Tolstoi may preach his gospel of non-resistance till the beauty of his -holiness seems almost Christ-like; but every man who goes forth to his -work and to his labour knows that the habitual turning of the right -cheek to the smiter of the left, the universal gift of the cloak to the -beggar of our coat, is subversive of all political economy, and no -slight incentive to immorality as well. In the same way, it will be -clear, that this national virtue of ours, this wholesome, sincere -outspokenness, is only possible within certain limits, set by custom and -expediency, and it is probably a fact that there was never a truly wise -man yet but tempered his natural freedom of speech by an acquired habit -of reticence. The man who never speaks out may be morose; the man who is -always speaking out is a most undesirable acquaintance. - -Now, I suppose everyone is prepared to admit with Matthew Arnold that -the literature of an age (we are not now speaking of poetry alone, be it -understood, but of literature as a whole), that this literature must, in -so far as it is truly representative of, and therefore truly valuable -to, the time in which it is produced, reflect and criticise the manners, -tastes, development, the life, in fact, of the age for whose service it -was devised. We have, of course, critical literature probing the past: -we have philosophical literature prophesying the future; but the truly -representative literature of every age is the creative, which shows its -people its natural face in a glass, and leaves to posterity the record -of the manner of man it found. In one sense, indeed, creative literature -must inevitably be critical as well, critical in that it employs the -double methods of analysis and synthesis, dissecting motives and -tendencies first, and then from this examination building up a type, a -sample of the representative man and woman of its epoch. The truest -fiction of any given century, yes, and the truest poetry, too (though -the impressionist may deny it), must be a criticism of life, must -reflect its surroundings. Men pass, and fashions change; but in the -literature of their day their characters, their tendencies, remain -crystallised for all time: and what we know of the England of Chaucer -and Shakespeare, we know wholly and absolutely in the truly -representative, truly creative, because truly critical literature which -they have left to those that come after. - -It is, then, the privilege, it is more, it is the duty of the man of -letters to speak out, to be fearless, to be frank, to give no ear to the -puritans of his hour, to have no care for the objections of prudery; the -life that he lives is the life he must depict, if his work is to be of -any lasting value. He must be frank, but he must be something more. He -must remember--hourly and momently he must remember--that his virtue, -step by step, inch by inch, imperceptibly melts into the vice which -stands at its pole; and that (to employ Aristotelian phraseology for the -moment) there is a sort of middle point, a centre of equilibrium, to -pass which is to disturb and overset the entire fabric of his labours. -Midway between liberty and license, in literature as in morals, stands -the pivot of good taste, the centre-point of art. The natural -inclination of frankness, the inclination of the virtue in the rough, is -to blunder on resolutely with an indomitable and damning sincerity, till -all is said that can be said, and art is lost in photography. The -inclination of frankness, restrained by and tutored to the limitations -of art and beauty, is to speak so much as is in accordance with the -moral idea: and then, at the point where ideas melt into mere report, -mere journalistic detail, to feel intuitively the restraining, the -saving influence of reticence. In every age there has been some point -(its exact position has varied, it is true, but the point has always -been there) at which speech stopped short; and the literature which has -most faithfully reflected the manners of that age, the literature, in -fine, which has survived its little hour of popularity, and has lived -and is still living, has inevitably, invariably, and without exception -been the literature which stayed its hand and voice at the point at -which the taste of the age, the age's conception of art, set up its -statue of reticence, with her finger to her lips, and the inscription -about her feet: "So far shalt thou go, and no further." - -We have now, it seems, arrived at one consideration, which must always -limit the liberty of frankness, namely, the standard of contemporary -taste. The modesty that hesitates to align itself with that standard is -a shortcoming, the audacity that rushes beyond is a violence to the -unchanging law of literature. But the single consideration is -insufficient. If we are content with the criterion of contemporary taste -alone, our standard of judgment becomes purely historical: we are left, -so to speak, with a sliding scale which readjusts itself to every new -epoch: we have no permanent and universal test to apply to the -literature of different ages: in a word, comparative criticism is -impossible. We feel at once that we need, besides the shifting standard -of contemporary taste, some fixed unit of judgment that never varies, -some foot-rule that applies with equal infallibility to the literature -of early Greece and to the literature of later France; and such an unit, -such a foot-rule, can only be found in the final test of all art, the -necessity of the moral idea. We must, in distinguishing the thing that -may be said fairly and artistically from the thing whose utterance is -inadmissible, we must in such a decision control our judgment by two -standards--the one, the shifting standard of contemporary taste: the -other, the permanent standard of artistic justification, the presence of -the moral idea. With these two elements in action, we ought, I think, to -be able to estimate with tolerable fairness the amount of reticence in -any age which ceases to be a shortcoming, the amount of frankness which -begins to be a violence in the literature of the period. We ought, with -these two elements in motion, to be able to employ a scheme of -comparative criticism which will prevent us from encouraging that -retarding and dangerous doctrine that what was expedient and -justifiable, for instance, in the dramatists of the Restoration is -expedient and justifiable in the playwrights of our own Victorian era; -we ought, too, to be able to arrive instinctively at a sense of the -limits of art, and to appreciate the point at which frankness becomes a -violence, in that it has degenerated into mere brawling, animated -neither by purpose nor idea. Let us, then, consider these two standards -of taste and art separately: and first, let us give a brief attention to -the contemporary standard. - -We may, I think, take it as a rough working axiom that the point of -reticence in literature, judged by a contemporary standard, should be -settled by the point of reticence in the conversation of the taste and -culture of the age. Literature is, after all, simply the ordered, -careful exposition of the thought of its period, seeking the best matter -of the time, and setting it forth in the best possible manner; and it is -surely clear that what is written in excess of what is spoken (in excess -I mean on the side of license) is a violence to, a misrepresentation of, -the period to whose service the literature is devoted. The course of the -highest thought of the time should be the course of its literature, the -limit of the most delicate taste of the time the limit of literary -expression: whatever falls below that standard is a shortcoming, -whatever exceeds it a violence. Obviously the standard varies immensely -with the period. It would be tedious, nor is it necessary to our -purpose, to make a long historical research into the development of -taste; but a few striking examples may help us to appreciate its -variations. - -To begin with a very early stage of literature, we find among the -Heracleidae of Herodotus a stage of contemporary taste which is the -result of pure brutality. It is clear that literature adjusted to the -frankness of the uxorious pleasantries of Candaules and Gyges would -justifiably assume a degree of license which, reasonable enough in its -environment, would be absolutely impossible, directly the influences of -civilisation began to make themselves felt. The age is one of -unrestrained brutality, and the literature which represented it would, -without violence to the contemporary taste, be brutal too. To pass at a -bound to the Rome of Juvenal is again to be transported to an age of -national sensuality: the escapades of Messalina are the inevitable -outcome of a national taste that is swamped and left putrescent by -limitless self-indulgence; and the literature which represented this -taste would, without violence, be lascivious and polluted to its depth. -In continuing, with a still wider sweep, to the England of Shakespeare, -we find a new development of taste altogether. Brutality is softened, -licentiousness is restrained, immorality no longer stalks abroad -shouting its coarse phrases at every wayfarer who passes the Mermaid or -the Globe. But, even among types of purity, reticence is little known. -The innuendoes are whispered under the breath, but when once the voice -is lowered, it matters little what is said. Rosalind and Celia enjoy -their little _doubles entendres_ together. Hero's wedding morning is an -occasion for delicate hints of experiences to come. Hamlet plies the -coarsest suggestions upon Ophelia in the intervals of a theatrical -performance. The language reflects the taste: we feel no violence here. -To take but one more instance, let us end with Sheridan. By his time -speech had been refined by sentiment, and the most graceful compliments -glide, without effort, from the lips of the adept courtier. But even -still, in the drawing-rooms of fashion, delicate morsels of scandal are -discussed by his fine ladies with a freedom which is absolutely unknown -to the Mayfair of the last half-century, where innuendo might be -conveyed by the eye and suggested by the smile, but would never, so -reticent has taste become, find the frank emphatic utterance which -brought no blush to the cheek of Mrs. Candour and Lady Sneerwell. In the -passage of time reticence has become more and more pronounced; and -literature, moving, as it must, with the age, has assumed in its normal -and wholesome form the degree of silence which it finds about it. - -The standard of taste in literature, then, so far as it responds to -contemporary judgment, should be regulated by the normal taste of the -hale and cultured man of its age: it should steer a middle course -between the prudery of the manse, which is for hiding everything vital, -and the effrontery of the pot-house, which makes for ribaldry and -bawdry; and the more it approximates to the exact equilibrium of its -period, the more thoroughly does it become representative of the best -taste of its time, the more certain is it of permanent recognition. The -literature of shortcoming and the literature of violence have their -reward: - - "They have their day, and cease to be"; - -the literature which reflects the hale and wholesome frankness of its -age can be read, with pleasure and profit, long after its openness of -speech and outlook has ceased to reproduce the surrounding life. The -environment is ephemeral, but the literature is immortal. But why is the -literature immortal? Why is it that a play like _Pericles_, for -instance, full as it is of scenes which revolt the moral taste, has -lived and is a classic forever, while innumerable contemporary pieces of -no less genius (for _Pericles_ is no masterpiece) have passed into -oblivion? Why is it that the impurity of _Pericles_ strikes the reader -scarcely at all, while the memory dwells upon its beauties and forgets -its foulness in recollection of its refinement? The reason is not far to -seek. _Pericles_ is not only free of offence when judged by the taste of -its age, it is no less blameless when we subject it to the test by which -all literature is judged at last; it conforms to the standard of art; it -is permeated by the moral idea. The standard of art--the presence of the -idea--the two expressions are, I believe, synonymous. It is easy enough -to babble of the beauty of things considered apart from their meaning, -it is easy enough to dilate on the satisfaction of art in itself, but -all these phrases are merely collocations of terms, empty and -meaningless. A thing can only be artistic by virtue of the idea it -suggests to us; when the idea is coarse, ungainly, unspeakable, the -object that suggests it is coarse, ungainly, unspeakable; art and ethics -must always be allied in that the merit of the art is dependent on the -merit of the idea it prompts. - -Perhaps I shall show my meaning more clearly by an example from the more -tangible art of painting; and let me take as an instance an artist who -has produced pictures at once the most revolting and most moral of any -in the history of English art. I mean Hogarth. We are all familiar with -his coarsenesses; all these have we known from our youth up. But it is -only the schoolboy who searches the Bible for its indecent passages; -when we are become men, we put away such childish satisfactions. Then -we begin to appreciate the idea which underlies the subject: we feel -that Hogarth-- - - "Whose pictured morals charm the mind, - And through the eye correct the heart"-- - -was, even in his grossest moments, profoundly moral, entirely sane, -because he never dallied lasciviously with his subject, because he did -not put forth vice with the pleasing semblance of virtue, because, like -all hale and wholesome critics of life, he condemned excess, and -pictured it merely to portray the worthlessness, the weariness, the -dissatisfaction of lust and license. Art, we say, claims every subject -for her own; life is open to her ken; she may fairly gather her subjects -where she will. Most true. But there is all the difference in the world -between drawing life as we find it, sternly and relentlessly, surveying -it all the while from outside with the calm, unflinching gaze of -criticism, and, on the other hand, yielding ourselves to the warmth and -colour of its excesses, losing our judgment in the ecstasies of the joy -of life, becoming, in a word, effeminate. - -The man lives by ideas; the woman by sensations; and while the man -remains an artist so long as he holds true to his own view of life, the -woman becomes one as soon as she throws off the habit of her sex, and -learns to rely upon her judgment, and not upon her senses. It is only -when we regard life with the untrammelled view of the impartial -spectator, when we pierce below the substance for its animating idea, -that we approximate to the artistic temperament. It is unmanly, it is -effeminate, it is inartistic to gloat over pleasure, to revel in -immoderation, to become passion's slave; and literature demands as much -calmness of judgment, as much reticence, as life itself. The man who -loses reticence loses self-respect, and the man who has no respect for -himself will scarcely find others to venerate him. After all, the world -generally takes us at our own valuation. - -We have now, I trust, arrived (though, it may be, by a rather circuitous -journey) at something like a definite and reasonable law for the -exercise of reticence; it only remains to consider by what test we shall -most easily discover the presence or absence of the animating moral idea -which we have found indispensable to art. It seems to me that three -questions will generally suffice. Does the work, we should ask -ourselves, make for that standard of taste which is normal to -wholesomeness and sanity of judgment? Does it, or does it not, encourage -us to such a line of life as is recommended, all question of tenet and -creed apart, by the experience of the age, as the life best calculated -to promote individual and general good? And does it encourage to this -life in language and by example so chosen as not to offend the -susceptibilities of that ordinarily strong and unaffected taste which, -after all, varies very little with the changes of the period and -development? When creative literature satisfies these three -requirements--when it is sane, equable, and well spoken, then it is safe -to say it conforms to the moral idea, and is consonant with art. By its -sanity it eludes the risk of effeminate demonstration; by its choice of -language it avoids brutality; and between these two poles, it may be -affirmed without fear of question, true taste will and must be found to -lie. - -These general considerations, already too far prolonged, become of -immediate interest to us as soon as we attempt to apply them to the -literature of our own half-century, and I propose concluding what I -wished to say on the necessity of reticence by considering, briefly and -without mention of names, that realistic movement in English literature -which, under different titles, and protected by the ægis of various -schools, has proved, without doubt, the most interesting and suggestive -development in the poetry and fiction of our time. During the last -quarter of a century, more particularly, the English man-of-letters has -been indulging, with an entirely new freedom, his national birthright of -outspokenness, and during the last twelve months there have been no -uncertain indications that this freedom of speech is degenerating into -license which some of us cannot but view with regret and apprehension. -The writers and the critics of contemporary literature have, it would -seem, alike lost their heads; they have gone out into the byways and -hedges in search of the new thing, and have brought into the study and -subjected to the microscope mean objects of the roadside, whose analysis -may be of value to science but is absolutely foreign to art. The age of -brutality, pure and simple, is dead with us, it is true; but the age of -effeminacy appears, if one is to judge by recent evidence, to be growing -to its dawn. The day that follows will, if it fulfils the promise of its -morning, be very serious and very detrimental to our future literature. - -Every great productive period of literature has been the result of some -internal or external revulsion of feeling, some current of ideas. This -is a commonplace. The greatest periods of production have been those -when the national mind has been directed to some vast movement of -emancipation--the discovery of new countries, the defeat of old enemies, -the opening of fresh possibilities. Literature is best stimulated by -stirrings like these. Now, the last quarter of a century in English -history has been singularly sterile of important improvements. There has -been no very inspiring acquisition to territory or to knowledge: there -has been, in consequence, no marked influx of new ideas. The mind has -been thrown back upon itself; lacking stimulus without, it has sought -inspiration within, and the most characteristic literature of the time -has been introspective. Following one course, it has betaken itself to -that intimately analytical fiction which we associate primarily with -America; it has sifted motives and probed psychology, with the result -that it has proved an exceedingly clever, exact, and scientific, but -scarcely stimulating, or progressive school of literature. Following -another course, it has sought for subject-matter in the discussion of -passions and sensations, common, doubtless, to every age of mankind, -interesting and necessary, too, in their way, but passions and -sensations hitherto dissociated with literature, hitherto, perhaps, -scarcely realised to their depth and intensity. It is in this -development that the new school of realism has gone furthest; and it is -in this direction that the literature of the future seems likely to -follow. It is, therefore, not without value to consider for a moment -whither this new frankness is leading us, and how far its freedom is -reconciled to that standard of necessary reticence which I have tried to -indicate in these pages. - -This present tendency to literary frankness had its origin, I think, no -less than twenty-eight years ago. It was then that the dovecotes of -English taste were tremulously fluttered by the coming of a new poet, -whose naked outspokenness startled his readers into indignation. -Literature, which had retrograded into a melancholy sameness, found -itself convulsed by a sudden access of passion, which was probably -without parallel since the age of the silver poets of Rome. This new -singer scrupled not to revel in sensations which for years had remained -unmentioned upon the printed page; he even chose for his subjects -refinements of lust, which the commonly healthy Englishman believed to -have become extinct with the time of Juvenal. Here was an innovation -which was absolutely alien to the standard of contemporary taste--an -innovation, I believe, that was equally opposed to that final moderation -without which literature is lifeless. - -Let us listen for one moment: - - "By the ravenous teeth that have smitten - Through the kisses that blossom and bud, - By the lips intertwisted and bitten - Till the foam has a savour of blood, - By the pulse as it rises and falters, - By the hands as they slacken and strain, - I adjure thee, respond from thine altars, - Our Lady of Pain. - - As of old when the world's heart was lighter, - Through thy garments the grace of thee glows, - The white wealth of thy body made whiter - By the blushes of amorous blows, - And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers, - And branded by kisses that bruise; - When all shall be gone that now lingers, - Ah, what shall we lose? - - Thou wert fair in thy fearless old fashion, - And thy limbs are as melodies yet, - And move to the music of passion - With lithe and lascivious regret. - What ailed us, O gods, to desert you - For creeds that refuse and restrain? - Come down and redeem us from virtue, - Our Lady of Pain." - -This was twenty-eight years ago; and still the poetry lives. At first -sight it would seem as though the desirable reticence, upon which we -have been insisting, were as yet unnecessary to immortality. A quarter -of a century has passed, it might be argued, and the verse is as fresh -to-day and as widely recognised as it was in its morning: is not this a -proof that art asks for no moderation? I believe not. It is true that -the poetry lives, that we all recognise, at some period of our lives, -the grasp and tenacity of its influence; that, even when the days come -in which we say we have no pleasure in it, we still turn to it at times -for something we do not find elsewhere. But the thing we seek is not the -matter, but the manner. The poetry is living, not by reason of its -unrestrained frankness, but in spite of it, for the sake of something -else. That sweet singer who charmed and shocked the audiences of 1866, -charms us, if he shocks us not now, by virtue of the one new thing that -he imported into English poetry, the unique and as yet imperishable -faculty of musical possibilities hitherto unattained. There is no such -music in all the range of English verse, seek where you will, as there -is in him. But the perfection of the one talent, its care, its -elaboration, have resulted in a corresponding decay of those other -faculties by which alone, in the long run, poetry can live. Open him -where you will, there is in his poetry neither construction nor -proportion; no development, no sustained dramatic power. Open him where -you will, you acquire as much sense of his meaning and purpose from any -two isolated stanzas as from the study of a whole poem. There remains in -your ears, when you have ceased from reading, the echo only of a -beautiful voice, chanting, as it were, the melodies of some outland -tongue. - -Is this the sort of poetry that will survive the trouble of the ages? It -cannot survive. The time will come (it must) when some newer singer -discovers melodies as yet unknown, melodies which surpass in their -modulations and varieties those poems and ballads of twenty-eight years -ago; and, when we have found the new note, what will be left of the -earlier singer, to which we shall of necessity return? A message? No. -Philosophy? No. A new vision of life? No. A criticism of contemporary -existence? Assuredly not. There remains the melody alone; and this, when -once it is surpassed, will charm us little enough. We shall forget it -then. Art brings in her revenges, and this will be of them. - -But the new movement did not stop here. If, in the poet we have been -discussing, we have found the voice among us that corresponds to the -decadent voices of the failing Roman Republic, there has reached us from -France another utterance, which I should be inclined to liken to the -outspoken brutality of Restoration drama. Taste no longer fails on the -ground of a delicate, weakly dalliance, it begins to see its own -limitations, and springs to the opposite pole. It will now be virile, -full of the sap of life, strong, robust, and muscular. It will hurry us -out into the fields, will show us the coarser passions of the common -farm-hand; at any expense it will paint the life it finds around it; it -will at least be consonant with that standard of want of taste which it -falsely believes to be contemporary. We get a realistic fiction abroad, -and we begin to copy it at home. We will trace the life of the -travelling actor, follow him into the vulgar, sordid surroundings which -he chooses for the palace of his love, be it a pottery-shed or the -ill-furnished lodging-room with its black horsehair sofa--we will draw -them all, and be faithful to the lives we live. Is that the sort of -literature that will survive the trouble of the ages? It cannot survive. -We are no longer untrue to our time, perhaps, if we are to seek for the -heart of that time in the lowest and meanest of its representatives; but -we are untrue to art, untrue to the record of our literary past, when we -are content to turn for our own inspiration to anything but the best -line of thought, the highest school of life, through which we are -moving. This grosser realism is no more representative of its time than -were the elaborate pastiches of classical degradation; it is as though -one should repeople Eden with creatures imagined from a study of the -serpent's head. In the history of literature this movement, too, will -with the lapse of time pass unrecognised; it has mourned unceasingly to -an age which did not lack for innocent piping and dancing in its -market-places. - -The two developments of realism of which we have been speaking seem to -me to typify the two excesses into which frankness is inclined to fall; -on the one hand, the excess prompted by effeminacy--that is to say, by -the want of restraints which starts from enervated sensation; and on the -other, the excess which results from a certain brutal virility, which -proceeds from coarse familiarity with indulgence. The one whispers, the -other shouts; the one is the language of the courtesan, the other of the -bargee. What we miss in both alike is that true frankness which springs -from the artistic and moral temperament; the episodes are no part of a -whole in unity with itself; the impression they leave upon the reader is -not the impression of Hogarth's pictures; in one form they employ all -their art to render vice attractive, in the other, with absolutely no -art at all, they merely reproduce, with the fidelity of the kodak, -scenes and situations the existence of which we all acknowledge, while -taste prefers to forget them. - -But the latest development of literary frankness is, I think, the most -insidious and fraught with the greatest danger to art. A new school has -arisen which combines the characteristics of effeminacy and brutality. -In its effeminate aspect it plays with the subtler emotions of sensual -pleasure, on its brutal side it has developed into that class of fiction -which for want of a better word I must call chirurgical. In poetry it -deals with very much the same passions as those which we have traced in -the verse to which allusion has been made above; but, instead of leaving -these refinements of lust to the haunts to which they are fitted, it has -introdduced them into the domestic chamber, and permeated marriage with -the ardours of promiscuous intercourse. In fiction it infects its -heroines with acquired diseases of names unmentionable, and has debased -the beauty of maternity by analysis of the process of gestation. Surely -the inartistic temperament can scarcely abuse literature further. I own -I can conceive nothing less beautiful. - -It was said of a great poet by a little critic that he wheeled his -nuptial couch into the area; but these small poets and smaller novelists -bring out their sick into the thoroughfare, and stop the traffic while -they give us a clinical lecture upon their sufferings. We are told that -this is a part of the revolt of woman, and certainly our women-writers -are chiefly to blame. It is out of date, no doubt, to clamour for -modesty; but the woman who describes the sensations of childbirth does -so, it is to be presumed--not as the writer of advice to a wife--but as -an artist producing literature for art's sake. And so one may fairly ask -her: How is art served by all this? What has she told us that we did not -all know, or could not learn from medical manuals? and what impression -has she left us over and above the memory of her unpalatable details? -And our poets, who know no rhyme for "rest" but that "breast" whose -snowinesses and softnesses they are for ever describing with every -accent of indulgence, whose eyes are all for frills, if not for garters, -what have they sung that was not sung with far greater beauty and -sincerity in the days when frills and garters were alluded to with the -open frankness that cried shame on him who evil thought. The one -extremity, it seems to me, offends against the standard of contemporary -taste; ("people," as Hedda Gabler said, "do not say such things now"); -the other extremity rebels against that universal standard of good taste -that has from the days of Milo distinguished between the naked and the -nude. We are losing the distinction now; the cry for realism, naked and -unashamed, is borne in upon us from every side: - - "Rip your brother's vices open, strip your own foul passions bare; - Down with Reticence, down with Reverence--forward--naked--let them - stare." - -But there was an Emperor once (we know the story) who went forth among -his people naked. It was said that he wore fairy clothes, and that only -the unwise could fail to see them. At last a little child raised its -voice from the crowd! "Why, he has nothing on," it said. And so these -writers of ours go out from day to day, girded on, they would have us -believe, with the garments of art; and fashion has lacked the courage to -cry out with the little child: "They have nothing on." No robe of art, -no texture of skill, they whirl before us in a bacchanalian dance naked -and unashamed. But the time will come, it must, when the voices of the -multitude will take up the cry of the child, and the revellers will -hurry to their houses in dismay. Without dignity, without -self-restraint, without the morality of art, literature has never -survived; they are the few who rose superior to the baser levels of -their time, who stand unimpugned among the immortals now. And that -mortal who would put on immortality must first assume that habit of -reticence, that garb of humility by which true greatness is best known. -To endure restraint--_that_ is to be strong. - - - - -A Lady Reading - - By Walter Sickert - -_Reproduced by Messrs. Carl Hentschel & Co._ - -[Illustration: A Lady Reading] - - - - -Modern Melodrama - - By Hubert Crackanthorpe - - -The pink shade of a single lamp supplied an air of subdued mystery; the -fire burned red and still; in place of door and windows hung curtains, -obscure, formless; the furniture, dainty, but sparse, stood detached and -incoördinate like the furniture of a stage-scene; the atmosphere was -heavy with heat, and a scent of stale tobacco; some cut flowers, half -withered, tissue-paper still wrapping their stalks, lay on a gilt, -cane-bottomed chair. - -"Will you give me a sheet of paper, please?" - -He had crossed the room, to seat himself before the principal table. He -wore a fur-lined overcoat, and he was tall, and broad, and bald; a sleek -face, made grave by gold-rimmed spectacles. - -The other man was in evening dress; his back leaning against the -mantelpiece, his hands in his pockets: he was moodily scraping the -hearthrug with his toe. Clean-shaved; stolid and coarsely regular -features; black, shiny hair, flattened on to his head; under-sized eyes, -moist and glistening; the tint of his face uniform, the tint of -discoloured ivory; he looked a man who ate well and lived hard. - -"Certainly, sir, certainly," and he started to hurry about the room. - -"Daisy," he exclaimed roughly, a moment later, "where the deuce do you -keep the note-paper?" - -"I don't know if there is any, but the girl always has some." She spoke -in a slow tone--insolent and fatigued. - -A couple of bed-pillows were supporting her head, and a scarlet plush -cloak, trimmed with white down, was covering her feet, as she lay curled -on the sofa. The fire-light glinted on the metallic gold of her hair, -which clashed with the black of her eyebrows; and the full, blue eyes, -wide-set, contradicted the hard line of her vivid-red lips. She drummed -her fingers on the sofa-edge, nervously. - -"Never mind," said the bald man shortly, producing a notebook from his -breast-pocket, and tearing a leaf from it. - -He wrote, and the other two stayed silent; the man returned to the -hearthrug, lifting his coat-tails under his arms; the girl went on -drumming the sofa-edge. - -"There," sliding back his chair, and looking from the one to the other, -evidently uncertain which of the two he should address. "Here is the -prescription. Get it made up to-night, a table-spoonful at a time, in a -wine-glassful of water at lunch-time, at dinner-time and before going to -bed. Go on with the port wine twice a day, and (to the girl, -deliberately and distinctly) you _must_ keep quite quiet; avoid all sort -of excitement--that is extremely important. Of course you must on no -account go out at night. Go to bed early, take regular meals, and keep -always warm." - -"I say," broke in the girl, "tell us, it isn't bad--dangerous, I mean?" - -"Dangerous!--no, not if you do what I tell you." - -He glanced at his watch, and rose, buttoning his coat. - -"Good-evening," he said gravely. - -At first she paid no heed; she was vacantly staring before her: then, -suddenly conscious that he was waiting, she looked up at him. - -"Good-night, doctor." - -She held out her hand, and he took it. - -"I'll get all right, won't I?" she asked, still looking up at him. - -"All right--of course you will--of course. But remember you must do what -I tell you." - -The other man handed him his hat and umbrella, opened the door for him, -and it closed behind them. - - * * * * * - -The girl remained quiet, sharply blinking her eyes, her whole expression -eager, intense. - -A murmer of voices, a muffled tread of footsteps descending the -stairs--the gentle shutting of a door--stillness. - -She raised herself on her elbow, listening; the cloak slipped -noiselessly to the floor. Quickly her arm shot out to the bell-rope: she -pulled it violently; waited, expectant; and pulled again. - -A slatternly figure appeared--a woman of middle-age--her arms, bared to -the elbows, smeared with dirt; a grimy apron over her knees. - -"What's up?--I was smashin' coal," she explained. - -"Come here," hoarsely whispered the girl--"here--no--nearer--quite -close. Where's he gone?" - -"Gone? 'oo?" - -"That man that was here." - -"I s'ppose 'ee's in the downstairs room. I ain't 'eard the front door -slam." - -"And Dick, where's he?" - -"They're both in there together, I s'ppose." - -"I want you to go down--quietly--without making a noise--listen at the -door--come up, and tell me what they're saying." - -"What? down there?" jerking her thumb over her shoulder. - -"Yes, of course--at once," answered the girl, impatiently. - -"And if they catches me--a nice fool I looks. No, I'm jest blowed if I -do!" she concluded. "Whatever's up?" - -"You must," the girl broke out excitedly. "I tell you, you must." - -"Must--must--an' if I do, what am I goin' to git out of it?" She paused, -reflecting; then added: "Look 'ere--I tell yer what--I'll do it for half -a quid, there?" - -"Yes--yes--all right--only make haste." - -"An' 'ow d' I know as I'll git it?" she objected doggedly. "It's a jolly -risk, yer know." - -The girl sprang up, flushed and feverish. - -"Quick--or he'll be gone. I don't know where it is--but you shall have -it--I promise--quick--please go--quick." - -The other hesitated, her lips pressed together; turned, and went out. - -And the girl, catching at her breath, clutched a chair. - - * * * * * - -A flame flickered up in the fire, buzzing spasmodically. A creak -outside. She had come up. But the curtains did not move. Why didn't she -come in? She was going past. The girl hastened across the room, the -intensity of the impulse lending her strength. - -"Come--come in," she gasped. "Quick--I'm slipping." - -She struck at the wall; but with the flat of her hand, for there was no -grip. The woman bursting in, caught her, and led her back to the sofa. - -"There, there, dearie," tucking the cloak round her feet. "Lift up the -piller, my 'ands are that mucky. Will yer 'ave anythin'?" - -She shook her head. "It's gone," she muttered. "Now--tell me." - -"Tell yer?--tell yer what! Why--why--there ain't jest nothin' to tell -yer." - -"What were they saying? Quick." - -"I didn't 'ear nothin'. They was talking about some ballet-woman." - -The girl began to cry, feebly, helplessly, like a child in pain. - -"You might tell me, Liz. You might tell me. I've been a good sort to -you." - -"That yer 'ave. I knows yer 'ave, dearie. There, there, don't yer take -on like that. Yer'll only make yerself bad again." - -"Tell me--tell me," she wailed. "I've been a good sort to you, Liz." - -"Well, they wasn't talkin' of no ballet-woman--that's straight," the -woman blurted out savagely. - -"What did he say?--tell me." Her voice was weaker now. - -"I can't tell yer--don't yer ask me--for God's sake, don't yer ask me." - -With a low crooning the girl cried again. - -"Oh! for God's sake, don't yer take on like that--it's awful--I can't -stand it. There, dearie, stop that cryin' an' I'll tell yer--I will -indeed. It was jest this way--I slips my shoes off, an' I goes down as -careful--jest as careful as a cat--an' when I gets to the door I -crouches myself down, listenin' as 'ard as ever I could. The first -things as I 'ears was Mr. Dick speakin' thick-like--like as if 'ee'd bin -drinkin'--an t'other chap 'ee says somethin' about lungs, using some -long word--I missed that--there was a van or somethin' rackettin' on the -road. Then 'ee says 'gallopin', gallopin',' jest like as 'ee was talkin' -of a 'orse. An' Mr. Dick, 'ee says, 'ain't there no chance--no'ow?' and -'ee give a sort of a grunt. I was awful sorry for 'im, that I was, 'ee -must 'ave been crool bad, 'ee's mostly so quiet-like, ain't 'ee? An', in -a minute, ee sort o' groans out somethin', an' t'other chap 'es answer -'im quite cool-like, that 'ee don't properly know; but, anyways, it 'ud -be over afore the end of February. There I've done it. Oh! dearie, it's -awful, awful, that's jest what it is. An' I 'ad no intention to tell -yer--not a blessed word--that I didn't--may God strike me blind if I -did! Some'ow it all come out, seein' yer chokin' that 'ard an' feelin' -at the wall there. Yer 'ad no right to ask me to do it--'ow was I to -know 'ee was a doctor?" - -She put the two corners of her apron to her eyes, gurgling loudly. - -"Look 'ere, don't yer b'lieve a word of it--I don't--I tell yer they're -a 'umbuggin' lot, them doctors, all together. I know it. Yer take my -word for that--yer'll git all right again. Yer'll be as well as I am, -afore yer've done--Oh, Lord!--it's jest awful--I feel that upset--I'd -like to cut my tongue out, for 'avin' told yer--but I jest couldn't 'elp -myself." She was retreating towards the door, wiping her eyes, and -snorting out loud sobs--"An', don't you offer me that half quid--I -couldn't take it of yer--that I couldn't." - - * * * * * - -She shivered, sat up, and dragged the cloak tight round her shoulders. -In her desire to get warm she forgot what had happened. She extended the -palms of her hands towards the grate: the grate was delicious. A smoking -lump of coal clattered on to the fender: she lifted the tongs, but the -sickening remembrance arrested her. The things in the room were -receding, dancing round: the fire was growing taller and taller. The -woollen scarf chafed her skin: she wrenched it off. Then hope, keen and -bitter, shot up, hurting her. "How could he know? Of course he couldn't -know. She'd been a lot better this last fortnight--the other doctor said -so--she didn't believe it--she didn't care----Anyway, it would be over -before the end of February!" - -Suddenly the crooning wail started again: next, spasms of weeping, harsh -and gasping. - -By-and-by she understood that she was crying noisily, and that she was -alone in the room; like a light in a wind, the sobbing fit ceased. - -"Let me live--let me live--I'll be straight--I'll go to church--I'll do -anything! Take it away--it hurts--I can't bear it!" - -Once more the sound of her own voice in the empty room calmed her. But -the tension of emotion slackened, only to tighten again: immediately she -was jeering at herself. What was she wasting her breath for? What had -Jesus ever done for her? She'd had her fling, and it was no thanks to -Him. - -"'Dy-sy--Dy-sy----'" - -From the street below, boisterous and loud, the refrain came up. And, as -the footsteps tramped away, the words reached her once more, indistinct -in the distance: - -"'I'm jest cryzy, all for the love o' you.'" - -She felt frightened. It was like a thing in a play. It was as if some -one was there, in the room--hiding--watching her. - -Then a coughing fit started, racking her. In the middle, she struggled -to cry for help; she thought she was going to suffocate. - -Afterwards she sank back, limp, tired, and sleepy. - -The end of February--she was going to die--it was important, -exciting--what would it be like? Everybody else died. Midge had died in -the summer--but that was worry and going the pace. And they said that -Annie Evans was going off too. Damn it! she wasn't going to be -chicken-hearted. She'd face it. She'd had a jolly time. She'd be game -till the end. Hell-fire--that was all stuff and nonsense--she knew that. -It would be just nothing--like a sleep. Not even painful: she'd be just -shut down in a coffin, and she wouldn't know that they were doing it. -Ah! but they might do it before she was quite dead! It had happened -sometimes. And she wouldn't be able to get out. The lid would be nailed, -and there would be earth on the top. And if she called, no one would -hear. - -Ugh! what a fit of the blues she was getting! It was beastly, being -alone. Why the devil didn't Dick come back? - -That noise, what was that? - -Bah! only some one in the street. What a fool she was! - -She winced again as the fierce feeling of revolt swept through her, the -wild longing to fight. It was damned rough--four months! A year, six -months even, was a long time. The pain grew acute, different from -anything she had felt before. - -"Good Lord! what am I maundering on about? Four months--I'll go out with -a fizzle like a firework. Why the devil doesn't Dick come?--or Liz--or -somebody? What do they leave me alone like this for?" - -She dragged at the bell-rope. - - * * * * * - -He came in, white and blear-eyed. - -"Whatever have you been doing all this time?" she began angrily. - -"I've been chatting with the doctor." He was pretending to read a -newspaper: there was something funny about his voice. - -"It's ripping. He says you'll soon be fit again, as long as you don't -get colds, or that sort of thing. Yes, he says you'll soon be fit -again"--a quick, crackling noise--he had gripped the newspaper in his -fist. - -She looked at him, surprised, in spite of herself. She would never have -thought he'd have done it like that. He was a good sort, after all. -But--she didn't know why--she broke out furiously: - -"You infernal liar!--I know. I shall be done for by the end of -February--ha! ha!" - -Seizing a vase of flowers, she flung it into the grate. The crash and -the shrivelling of the leaves in the flames brought her an instant's -relief. Then she said quietly: - -"There--I've made an idiot of myself; but" (weakly) "I didn't know--I -didn't know--I thought it was different." - -He hesitated, embarrassed by his own emotion. Presently he went up to -her and put his hands round her cheeks. - -"No," she said, "that's no good, I don't want that. Get me something to -drink. I feel bad." - -He hurried to the cupboard and fumbled with the cork of a champagne -bottle. It flew out with a bang. She started violently. - -"You clumsy fool!" she exclaimed. - -She drank off the wine at a gulp. - -"Daisy," he began. - -She was staring stonily at the empty glass. - -"Daisy," he repeated. - -She tapped her toe against the fender-rail. - -At this sign, he went on: - -"How did you know?" - -"I sent Liz to listen," she answered mechanically. - -He looked about him, helpless. - -"I think I'll smoke," he said feebly. - -She made no answer. - -"Here, put the glass down," she said. - -He obeyed. - -He lit a cigarette over the lamp, sat down opposite her, puffing dense -clouds of smoke. - -And, for a long while, neither spoke. - -"Is that doctor a good man?" - -"I don't know. People say so," he answered. - - - - -Two Songs - - By John Davidson - - - I--London - - Athwart the sky a lowly sigh - From west to east the sweet wind carried; - The sun stood still on Primrose Hill; - His light in all the city tarried: - The clouds on viewless columns bloomed - Like smouldering lilies unconsumed. - - "Oh, sweetheart, see, how shadowy, - Of some occult magician's rearing, - Or swung in space of Heaven's grace, - Dissolving, dimly reappearing, - Afloat upon ethereal tides - St. Paul above the city rides!" - - A rumour broke through the thin smoke - Enwreathing Abbey, Tower, and Palace, - The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares, - The million-peopled lanes and alleys, - An ever-muttering prisoned storm, - The heart of London beating warm. - - - II-Down-a-down - - Foxes peeped from out their dens, - Day grew pale and olden; - Blackbirds, willow-warblers, wrens, - Staunched their voices golden. - - High, oh high, from the opal sky, - Shouting against the dark, - "Why, why, why must the day go by?" - Fell a passionate lark. - - But the cuckoos beat their brazen gongs, - Sounding, sounding so; - And the nightingales poured in starry songs - A galaxy below. - - Slowly tolling the vesper bell - Ushered the stately night. - Down-a-down in a hawthorn dell - A boy and a girl and love's delight. - - - - -The Love-Story of Luigi Tansillo - - By Richard Garnett - - - Now that my wings are spread to my desire, - The more vast height withdraws the dwindling land, - Wider to wind these pinions I expand, - And earth disdain, and higher mount and higher - Nor of the fate of Icarus inquire, - Or cautious droop, or sway to either hand; - Dead I shall fall, full well I understand; - But who lives gloriously as I expire? - Yet hear I my own heart that pleading cries, - Stay, madman! Whither art thou bound? Descend! - Ruin is ready Rashness to chastise. - But I, Fear not, though this indeed the end; - Cleave we the clouds, and praise our destinies, - If noble fall on noble flight attend. - -The above sonnet, one of the finest in Italian literature, is already -known to many English readers in another translation by the late Mr. J. -Addington Symonds, which originally appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_, -and is prefixed to his translation of the sonnets of Michael Angelo and -Campanella (London, 1878), under the title of "The Philosopher's -Flight." In his preface Mr. Symonds says: "The sonnet prefixed as a -proem to the whole book is generally attributed to Giordano Bruno, in -whose Dialogue in the 'Eroici Furori' it occurs. There seems, however, -good reason to suppose that it was really written by Tansillo, who -recites it in that dialogue. Whoever may have been its author, it -expresses in noble and impassioned verse the sense of danger, the -audacity, and the exultation of those pioneers of modern thought, for -whom philosophy was a voyage of discovery into untravelled regions." Mr. -Symonds's knowledge of Italian literature was so extensive that he must -have had ground for stating that the sonnet is generally attributed to -Giordano Bruno; as it certainly is by De Sanctis, though it is printed -as Tansillo's in all editions of his works, imperfect as these were -before the appearance of Signor Fiorentino's in 1882. It is, -nevertheless, remarkable that he should add: "_There seems good reason -to suppose_ that it was really written by Tansillo," as if there could -be a shadow of doubt on the matter. "Eroici Furori" is professedly a -series of dialogues between Luigi Tansillo the Neapolitan poet, who had -died about twenty years before their composition, and Cicero, but is in -reality little more than a monologue, for Tansillo does nearly all the -talking, and Cicero receives his instructions with singular docility. -The reason of Tansillo's selection for so great an honour was -undoubtedly that, although born at Venosa, he belonged by descent to -Nola, Bruno's own city. In making such free use of Tansillo's poetry as -he has done throughout these dialogues, Bruno was far from the least -idea of pillaging his distinguished countryman. In introducing the four -sonnets he has borrowed (for there are three besides that already -quoted) he is always careful to make Tansillo speak of them as his own -compositions, which he never does when Bruno's own verses are put into -his mouth. If a particle of doubt could remain, it would be dispelled by -the fact that this sonnet, with other poems by Tansillo, including the -three other sonnets introduced into Bruno's dialogue, is published under -his name in the "Rime di diversi illustri Signori Napoletani," edited by -Lodovico Dolce at Venice, in 1555, when Bruno was about seven years old! - -Mr. Symonds's interpretation of the sonnet also is erroneous--in so far, -at least, as that the meaning assigned by him never entered into the -head of the author. It is certainly fully susceptible of such an -exposition. But Tansillo, no philosopher, but a cavalier, the active -part of whose life was mainly spent in naval expeditions against the -Turks, no more thought with Mr. Symonds of "the pioneers of modern -philosophy," than he thought with Bruno of "arising and freeing himself -from the body and sensual cognition." On the contrary, the sonnet is a -love-sonnet, and depicts with extraordinary grandeur the elation of -spirit, combined with a sense of peril, consequent upon the poet having -conceived a passion for a lady greatly his superior in rank. The proof -of this is to be found in the fact that the sonnet is one of a series, -unequivocally celebrating an earthly passion; and especially in the -sonnet immediately preceding it in Dolce's collection, manifestly -written at the same time and referring to the same circumstance, in -which the poet ascribes his Icarian flight, not to the influence of -Philosophy, but of Love: - - Love fits me forth with wings, which so dilate, - Sped skyward at the call of daring thought, - I high and higher soar, with purpose fraught - Soon to lay smiting hand on Heaven's gate. - Yet altitude so vast might well abate - My confidence, if Love not succour brought, - Pledging my fame not jeopardised in aught, - And promising renown as ruin great. - If he whom like audacity inspired, - Falling gave name immortal to the flood, - As sunny flame his waxen pinion fired; - Then of thee too it shall be understood, - No meaner prize than Heaven thy soul required, - And firmer than thy life thy courage stood. - -The meaning of the two sonnets is fully recognised by Muratori, who -prints them together in his treatise, "Della perfetta poesia," and adds: -"_volea dire costui che s'era imbarcato in un'amor troppo alto, e -s'andava facendo coraggio_." - -This is surely one of the most remarkable instances possible to adduce -of the infinite significance of true poetry, and its capacity for -inspiring ideas and suggesting interpretations of which the poet never -dreamed, but which are nevertheless fairly deducible from his -expressions. - -It is now a matter of considerable interest to ascertain the identity of -this lady of rank, who could inspire a passion at once so exalted and so -perilous. The point has been investigated by Tansillo's editor, Signor -F. Fiorentino, who has done so much to rescue his unpublished -compositions from oblivion, and his view must be pronounced perfectly -satisfactory. She was Maria d'Aragona, Marchioness del Vasto, whose -husband, the Marquis del Vasto, a celebrated general of Spanish descent, -famous as Charles the Fifth's right hand in his successful expedition -against Tunis, and at one time governor of the Milanese, was as -remarkable for his jealousy as the lady, grand-daughter of a King of -Naples, was for her pride and haughtiness. Fiorentino proves his case by -showing how well all personal allusions in Tansillo's poems, so far as -they can be traced, agree with the circumstances of the Marchioness, and -in particular that the latter is represented as at one time residing on -the island of Ischia, where del Vasto was accustomed to deposit his -wife for security, when absent on his campaigns. He is apparently not -aware that the object of Tansillo's affection had already been -identified with a member of the house of Aragon by Faria e Sousa, the -Portuguese editor of Camoëns, who, in his commentary on Camoëns's -sixty-ninth sonnet, gives an interminable catalogue of ladies celebrated -by enamoured poets, and says, "Tansillo sang Donna Isabel de Aragon." -This lady, however, the niece of the Marchioness del Vasto, was a little -girl in Tansillo's time, and is only mentioned by him as inconsolable -for the death of a favourite dwarf. - -The sentiment, therefore, of the two sonnets of Tansillo which we have -quoted, is sufficiently justified by the exalted station of the lady who -had inspired his passion, and the risk he ran from the power and -jealousy of her husband. It seems certain, however, that the Marquis had -on his part no ground for apprehension. Maria d'Aragona does not seem to -have had much heart to bestow upon anyone, and would, in any case, have -disdained to bestow what heart she had upon a poor gentleman and -retainer of Don Garcia de Toledo, son of the Viceroy of Naples. She -would think that she honoured him beyond his deserts by accepting his -poetical homage. Tansillo, on his part, says in one of his sonnets that -his devotion is purely platonic; it might have been more ardent, he -hints, but he is dazzled by the splendour of the light he contemplates, -and intimidated by the richness of the band by which he is led. So it -may have been at first, but as time wore on the poet naturally craved -some proof that his lady was not entirely indifferent to him, and did -not tolerate him merely for the sake of his verses. This, in the nature -of things, could not be given; and the poet's raptures pass into doubt -and suspicion, thence into despairing resignation; thence into -resentment and open hostility, terminating in a cold reconciliation, -leaving him free to marry a much humbler but probably a more -affectionate person, to whom he addresses no impassioned sonnets, but -whom he instructs in a very elegant poem ("La Balia") how to bring up -her infant children. These varying affections are depicted with extreme -liveliness in a series of sonnets, of which we propose to offer some -translated specimens. The order will not be that of the editions of -Tansillo, where the pieces are distributed at random, but the probable -order of composition, as indicated by the nature of the feeling -expressed. It is, of course, impossible to give more than a few -examples, though most deserve to be reproduced. Tansillo had the -advantage over most Italian poets of his time of being in love with a -real woman; hence, though possibly inferior in style and diction to such -artists in rhyme as Bembo or Molza, he greatly surpasses them in all the -qualities that discriminate poetry from the accomplishment of verse. - -The first sonnet which we shall give is still all fire and rapture:-- - - I - - Lady, the heart that entered through your eyes - Returneth not. Well may he make delay, - For if the very windows that display - Your spirit, sparkle in such wondrous wise, - Of her enthroned within this Paradise - What shall be deemed? If heart for ever stay, - Small wonder, dazzled by more radiant day - Than gazers from without can recognise. - Glory of sun and moon and silver star - In firmament above, are these not sign - Of things within more excellent by far? - Rejoice then in thy kingdom, heart of mine, - While Love and Fortune favourable are, - Nor thou yet exiled for default of thine. - -Although, however, Tansillo's heart might well remain with its lady, -Tansillo's person was necessitated to join the frequent maritime -expeditions of the great nobleman to whom he was attached, Don Garcia de -Toledo, against the Turks. The constant free-booting of the Turkish and -Barbary rovers kept the Mediterranean in a state of commotion comparable -to that of the Spanish Main in the succeeding age, and these -expeditions, whose picturesque history remains to be written, were no -doubt very interesting; though from a philosophical point of view it is -impossible not to sympathise with the humane and generous poet when he -inquires:-- - - Che il Turco nasca turco, e 'l Moro moro, - È giusta causa questa, ond'altri ed io - Dobbiam incrudelir nel sangue loro? - -With such feelings it may well be believed that in his enforced absence -he was thinking at least as much of love as of war, and that the -following sonnet is as truthful as it is an animated picture of his -feelings:-- - - II - - No length of banishment did e'er remove - My heart from you, nor if by Fortune sped - I roam the azure waters, or the Red, - E'er with the body shall the spirit rove: - If by each drop of every wave we clove, - Or by Sun's light or Moon's encompassèd, - Another Venus were engenderèd, - And each were pregnant with another Love: - And thus new shapes of Love where'er we went - Started to life at every stroke of oar, - And each were cradled in an amorous thought; - Not more than now this spirit should adore; - That none the less doth constantly lament - It cannot worship as it would and ought. - -Before long, however, the pangs of separation overcome this elation of -spirit, while he is not yet afraid of being forgotten:-- - - III - - Like lightning shining forth from east to west, - Hurled are the happy hours from morn to night, - And leave the spirit steeped in undelight - In like proportion as themselves were blest. - Slow move sad hours, by thousand curbs opprest, - Wherewith the churlish Fates delay their flight; - Those, impulses of Mercury incite, - These lag at the Saturnian star's behest. - While thou wert near, ere separation's grief - Smote me, like steeds contending in the race, - My days and nights with equal speed did run: - Now broken either wheel, not swift the pace - Of summer's night though summer's moon be brief; - Or wintry days for brevity of sun. - - IV - - Now that the Sun hath borne with him the day, - And haled dark Night from prison subterrene, - Come forth, fair Moon, and, robed in light serene, - With thy own loveliness the world array. - Heaven's spheres, slow wheeled on their majestic way, - Invoke as they revolve thy orb unseen, - And all the pageant of the starry scene, - Wronged by thy absence, chides at thy delay. - Shades even as splendours, earth and heaven both - Smile at the apparition of thy face, - And my own gloom no longer seems so loth; - Yet, while my eye regards thee, thought doth trace - Another's image; if in vows be troth, - I am not yet estranged from Love's embrace. - -Continual separation, however, and the absence of any marked token that -he is borne in memory, necessarily prey more and more on the sensitive -spirit of the poet. During the first part, her husband's tenure of -office as Governor of the Milanese, the Marchioness, as already -mentioned, took up her residence in the island of Ischia, where she -received her adorer's eloquent aspirations for her welfare--heartfelt, -but so worded as to convey a reproach: - - V - - That this fair isle with all delight abound, - Clad be it ever in sky's smile serene, - No thundering billow boom from deeps marine, - And calm with Neptune and his folk be found. - Fast may all winds by Æolus be bound, - Save faintest breath of lispings Zephyrene; - And be the odorous earth with glowing green - Of gladsome herbs, bright flowers, quaint foliage crowned. - All ire, all tempest, all misfortune be - Heaped on my head, lest aught thy pleasure stain, - Nor this disturbed by any thought of me, - So scourged with ills' innumerable train, - New grief new tear begetteth not, as sea - Chafes not the more for deluge of the rain. - -The "quaint foliage" is in the original "Arab leaves," _arabe frondi_, -an interesting proof of the cultivation of exotic plants at the period. - -The lady rejoins her husband at Milan, and Tansillo, landing on the -Campanian coast, lately devastated by earthquakes and eruptions, finds -everywhere the image of his own bosom, and rejoices at the opportunity -which yawning rifts and chasms of earth afford for an appeal to the -infernal powers:-- - - VI - - Wild precipice and earthquake-riven wall; - Bare jagged lava naked to the sky; - Whence densely struggles up and slow floats by - Heaven's murky shroud of smoke funereal; - Horror whereby the silent groves enthral; - Black weedy pit and rifted cavity; - Bleak loneliness whose drear sterility - Doth prowling creatures of the wild appal: - Like one distraught who doth his woe deplore, - Bereft of sense by thousand miseries, - As passion prompts, companioned or alone; - Your desert so I rove; if as before - Heaven deaf continue, through these crevices, - My cry shall pierce to the Avernian throne. - -The poet's melancholy deepens, and he enters upon the stage of dismal -and hopeless resignation to the inevitable: - - VII - - As one who on uneasy couch bewails - Besetting sickness and Time's tardy course, - Proving if drug, or gem, or charm have force - To conquer the dire evil that assails: - But when at last no remedy prevails, - And bankrupt Art stands empty of resource, - Beholds Death in the face, and scorns recourse - To skill whose impotence in nought avails. - So I, who long have borne in trust unspent - That distance, indignation, reason, strife - With Fate would heal my malady, repent, - Frustrate all hopes wherewith my soul was rife, - And yield unto my destiny, content - To languish for the little left of life. - -A lower depth still has to be reached ere the period of salutary and -defiant reaction:-- - - VIII - - So mightily abound the hosts of Pain, - Whom sentries of my bosom Love hath made, - No space is left to enter or evade, - And inwardly expire sighs born in vain, - If any pleasure mingle with the train, - By the first glimpse of my poor heart dismayed, - Instant he dies, or else, in bondage stayed, - Pines languishing, or flies that drear domain. - Pale semblances of terror keep the keys, - Of frowning portals they for none displace - Save messengers of novel miseries: - All thoughts they scare that wear a gladsome face; - And, were they anything but Miseries, - Themselves would hasten from the gloomy place. - -Slighted love easily passes from rejection into rebellion, and we shall -see that such was the case with Tansillo. The following sonnet denotes -an intermediate stage, when resignation is almost renunciation, but has -not yet become revolt:-- - - IX - - Cease thy accustomed strain, my mournful lute; - New music find, fit for my lot forlorn; - Henceforth be Wrath and Grief resounded, torn - The strings that anciently did Love salute, - Not on my own weak wing irresolute - But on Love's plumes I trusted to be borne, - Chanting him far as that remotest bourne - Whence strength Herculean reft Hesperian fruit. - To such ambition was my spirit wrought - By gracious guerdon Love came offering - When free in air my thought was bold to range: - But otherwhere now dwells another's thought, - And Wrath has plucked Love's feather from my wing, - And hope, style, theme, I all alike must change. - -This, however, is not a point at which continuance is possible, the mind -must go either backward or forward. The lover for a time persuades -himself that he has broken his mistress's yoke, and that his infatuation -is entirely a thing of the past. But the poet, like the lady, protests -too much:-- - - X - - If Love was miser of my liberty, - Lo, Scorn is bounteous and benevolent, - Such scope permitting, that, my fetter rent, - Not lengthened by my hand, I wander free. - The eyes that yielded tears continually - Have now with Lethe's drops my fire besprent, - And more behold, Illusion's glamour spent, - Than fabled Argus with his century. - The tyrant of my spirit, left forlorn - As vassal thoughts forsake him, doth remove, - And back unto her throne is Reason borne, - And I my metamorphosis approve, - And, old strains tuning to new keys, of Scorn - Will sing as anciently I sang of Love. - -Several solutions of this situation are conceivable. Tansillo's is that -which was perhaps that most likely in the case of an emotional nature, -where the feelings are more powerful than the will. He simply surrenders -at discretion, retracts everything disparaging that he has said of the -lady (taking care, however, not to burn the peccant verses, which are -much too good to be lightly parted with), and professes himself her -humble slave upon her own terms:-- - - XI - - All bitter words I spoke of you while yet - My heart was sore, and every virgin scroll - Blackened with ire, now past from my control, - These would I now recall; for 'tis most fit - My style should change, now Reason doth reknit, - Ties Passion sundered, and again make whole; - Be then Oblivion's prey whate'er my soul - Hath wrongly of thee thought, spoke, sung, or writ. - Not, Lady, that impeachment of thy fame - With tongue or pen I ever did design; - But that, if unto these shall reach my name, - Ages to come may study in my line - How year by year more streamed and towered my flame, - And how I living was and dying thine. - -There is no reason to doubt the perfect sincerity of these lines at the -period of their composition; but Tansillo's mistress had apparently -resolved that his attachment should not henceforth have the diet even of -a chameleon; and it is small wonder to find him shortly afterwards a -tender husband and father, lamenting the death of an infant son in -strains of extreme pathos, and instructing his wife on certain details -of domestic economy in which she might have been supposed to be better -versed than himself. His marriage took place in 1550, and in one of his -sonnets he says that his unhappy attachment had endured sixteen years, -which, allowing for a decent interval between the Romeo and the -Benedict, would date its commencement at 1532 or 1533. - -Maria d'Aragona died on November 9, 1568, and Tansillo, whose services -had been rewarded by a judicial appointment in the kingdom of Naples, -followed her to the tomb on December 1. If her death is really the -subject of the two poems in terza rima which appear to deplore it, he -certainly lost no time in bewailing her, but the interval is so brief, -and the poems are so weak, that they may have been composed on some -other occasion. With respect to the latter consideration, however, it -must be remembered that he was himself, in all probability, suffering -from disabling sickness, having made his will on November 29. It is also -worthy of note that the first sonnets composed by Petrarch upon the -death of Laura are in general much inferior in depth of tenderness to -those written years after the event. "In Memoriam" is another proof that -the adequate poetical expression of grief, unlike that of life, requires -time and study. Tansillo, then, may not have been so completely -disillusioned as his editor thinks. If the poems do not relate to Maria -d'Aragona, we have no clue to the ultimate nature of his feelings -towards her. - -A generally fair estimate of Tansillo's rank as a poet is given in -Ginguéné's "History of Italian Literature," vol. ix., pp. 340-343. It -can scarcely be admitted that his boldness and fertility of imagination -transported him beyond the limits of lyric poetry--for this is hardly -possible--but it is true that they sometimes transcended the limits of -good taste, and that the germs may be found in him of the extravagance -which so disfigured Italian poetry in the seventeenth century. On the -other hand, he has the inestimable advantage over most Italian poets of -his day of writing of genuine passion from genuine experience. Hence a -truth and vigour preferable even to the exquisite elegance of his -countryman, Angelo di Costanzo, and much more so to the mere amatory -exercises of other contemporaries. After Michael Angelo he stands -farther aloof than any contemporary from Petrarch, a merit in an age -when the study of Petrarch had degenerated into slavish imitation. His -faults as a lyrist are absent from his didactic poems, which are models -of taste and elegance. His one unpardonable sin is want of patriotism; -he is the dependant and panegyrist of the foreign conqueror, and seems -equally unconscious of the past glories, the actual degradation, or the -prospective regeneration of Italy. Born a Spanish subject, his ideal of -loyalty was entirely misplaced, and he must not be severely censured for -what he could hardly avoid. But Italy lost a Tyrtæus in him. - - - - - A Book Plate for - J. L. Propert, Esq. - By Aubrey Beardsley - - - A Book Plate for - Major-General Gosset - By R. Anning Bell - - _Reproduced by Messrs. Carl Hentschel & Co._ - -[Illustration: Book Plate for J. L. Propert] - -[Illustration: Book Plate for Major-General Gosset] - - - - -The Fool's Hour - -The First Act of a Comedy - - By John Oliver Hobbes - and George Moore - - - CHARACTERS OF THE COMEDY - - Lord Doldrummond - Cyril, _his Son_ (Viscount Aprile) - Sir Digby Soame - Charles Mandeville, _a tenor_ - Mr. Banish, _a banker_ - The Hon. Arthur Featherleigh - Mr. Samuel Benjamin, _a money-lender_ - Lady Doldrummond - Julia, _an heiress_ - The Hon. Mrs. Howard de Trappe, _her mother, a widow_ - Sarah Sparrow, _an American prima donna_ - - - - - Act I - -Scene--_The Library in_ Lord Doldrummond's _house at Brighton. The scene -represents a richly-furnished but somewhat oppressive room. The chairs -and tables are all narrow, the lamp-shades stiff, the windows have -double glasses._ Lord Doldrummond, _a man of middle-age, handsome, but -with a dejected, browbeaten air, sits with a rug over his knees, reading -"The Church Times." The_ Butler _announces_ "Sir Digby Soame." Sir Digby -_is thin and elderly; has an easy smile and a sharp eye; dresses well; -has two manners--the abrupt with men, the suave with women; smiles into -his beard over his own witticisms._ - - -_Lord Dol._ Ah, Soame, so you are here at last? - -_Soame._ [_Looking at his watch._] I am pretty punctual, only a few -minutes late. - -_Lord Dol._ I am worried, anxious, irritable, and that has made the time -seem long. - -_Soame._ Worried, anxious? And what about? Are you not well? Have you -found that regularity of life ruins the constitution? - -_Lord Dol._ No, my dear Soame, no. But I am willing to own that the -existence which my wife enjoys, and which I have learnt to endure, would -not suit everyone. - -_Soame._ I am glad to find you more tolerant. You used to hold the very -harshest and most crude opinions. I remember when we were boys, I could -never persuade you to accept the admirable doctrine that a reformed rake -makes the best husband! - -_Lord Dol._ [_Timidly._] Repentance does not require so large an income -as folly! This may explain that paradox. You know, in my way, I, too, -am something of a philosopher! I married very young, whereas you entered -the Diplomatic Service and resolved to remain single: you wished to -study women. I have lived with one for five-and-twenty years. [_Sighs._] - -_Soame._ Oh, I admit at once that yours is the greater achievement and -was the more daring ambition. - -_Lord Dol._ I know all I wish to know about women, but men puzzle me -extremely. So I have sent for you. I want your advice. It is Cyril who -is the cause of my uneasiness. I am afraid that he is not happy. - -_Soame._ Cyril not happy? What is he unhappy about? You have never -refused him anything? - -_Lord Dol._ Never! No man has had a kinder father! When he is -unreasonable I merely say "You are a fool, but please yourself!" No man -has had a kinder father! - -_Soame._ Does he complain? - -_Lord Dol._ He has hinted that his home is uncongenial--yet we have an -excellent cook! Ah, thank heaven every night and morning, my dear Digby, -that you are a bachelor. Praying for sinners and breeding them would -seem the whole duty of man. I was no sooner born than my parents were -filled with uneasiness lest I should not live to marry and beget an heir -of my own. Now I have an heir, his mother will never know peace until -she has found him a wife! - -_Soame._ And will you permit Lady Doldrummond to use the same method -with Cyril which your mother adopted with such appalling results in your -own case? - -_Lord Dol._ It does not seem my place to interfere, and love-affairs are -not a fit subject of conversation between father and son! - -_Soame._ But what does Cyril say to the matrimonial prospect? - -_Lord Dol._ He seems melancholy and eats nothing but oranges. Yes, Cyril -is a source of great uneasiness. - -_Soame._ Does Lady Doldrummond share this uneasiness? - -_Lord Dol._ My wife would regard a second thought on any subject as a -most dangerous form of temptation. She insists that Cyril has everything -which a young man could desire, and when he complains that the house is -dull, she takes him for a drive! - -_Soame._ But _you_ understand him? - -_Lord Dol._ I think I do. If I were young again---- - -_Soame._ Ah, you regret! I always said you would regret it if you did -not take your fling! The pleasures we imagine are so much more alluring, -so much more dangerous, than those we experience. I suppose you -recognise in Cyril the rascal you might have been, and feel that you -have missed your vocation? - -_Lord Dol._ [_Meekly._] I was never unruly, my dear Soame. We all have -our moments, I own, yet--well, perhaps Cyril has inherited the tastes -which I possessed at his age, but lacked the courage to obey. - -_Soame._ And so you wish me to advise you how to deal with him! Is he in -love? I have constantly observed that when young men find their homes -unsympathetic, it is because some particular lady does not form a member -of the household. It is usually a lady, too, who would not be considered -a convenient addition to any mother's visiting-list! - -_Lord Dol._ Lady Doldrummond has taught him that women are the scourges -of creation. You, perhaps, do not share that view! - -_Soame._ Certainly not. I would teach him to regard them as the reward, -the compensation, the sole delight of this dreariest of all possible -worlds. - -_Lord Dol._ [_Uneasily._] Reward! Compensation! Delight! I beg you will -not go so far as that. What notion would be more upsetting? Pray do not -use such extreme terms! - -_Soame._ Ha! ha! But tell me, Doldrummond, is it true that your wife -insists on his retiring at eleven and rising at eight? I hear that she -allows him nothing stronger than ginger ale and lemon; that she selects -his friends, makes his engagements, and superintends his amusements? -Should he marry, I am told she will even undertake the office of best -man! - -_Lord Dol._ Poor soul! she means well; and if devotion could make the -boy a saint he would have been in heaven before he was out of his long -clothes. As it is, I fear that nothing can save him. - -_Soame._ Save him? You speak as though you suspected that he was not -such a saint as his mother thinks him. - -_Lord Dol._ I suspect nothing. I only know that my boy is unhappy. You -might speak to him, and draw him out if occasion should offer--but do -not say a word about this to Lady Doldrummond. - - [_Enter_ Lady Doldrummond.--_She is a tall, slight, but not angular - woman. Her hair is brown, and brushed back from her temples in the - simplest possible fashion. Self-satisfaction (of a gentle and ladylike - sort) and eminent contentment with her lot are the only writings on her - smooth, almost girlish countenance. She has a prim tenderness and charm - of manner which soften her rather cutting voice._] - -_Lady Dol._ What! Cyril not here? How do you do, Sir Digby? I am looking -for my tiresome boy. I promised to take him to pay some calls this -afternoon, and as he may have to talk I must tell him what to say. He -has no idea of making himself pleasant to women, and is the shyest -creature in the world! - -_Soame._ You have always been so careful to shield him from all -responsibility, Lady Doldrummond. Who knows what eloquence, what -decision, what energy he might display, if you did not possess these -gifts in so pre-eminent a degree as to make any exertion on his part -unnecessary, and perhaps disrespectful. - -_Lady Dol._ Ah! mothers are going out of fashion. Even Cyril -occasionally shows a certain impatience when I venture to correct him. -As if I would hurt anyone's feelings unless from a sense of duty! And -pray, where is the pleasure of having a son if you may not direct his -life? - -_Lord Dol._ Cyril might ask, where is the pleasure of having parents if -you may not disobey them. - -_Lady Dol._ [_To_ Soame.] When Herbert is alone with me he never makes -flippant remarks of this kind. [_To_ Lord Doldrummond.] I wonder that -you like to give your friends such a wrong impression of your character. -[_Turning to_ Sir Digby.] But I think I see your drift, Sir Digby. You -wish to remind me that Cyril is now at an age when I must naturally -desire to see him established in a home of his own. - -_Soame._ You have caught my meaning. As he is now two-and-twenty, I -think he should be allowed more freedom than may have been expedient -when he was--say, six months old. - -_Lady Dol._ I quite agree with you, and I trust you will convince -Herbert that women understand young men far better than their fathers -ever could. I have found the very wife for Cyril, and I hope I may soon -have the pleasure of welcoming her as a daughter. - -_Soame._ A wife! Good heavens! I was suggesting that the boy had more -liberty. Marriage is the prison of all emotions, and I should be very -sorry to ask any young girl to be a man's gaol-keeper. - -_Lord Dol._ Sir Digby is right. - -_Lady Dol._ The presence of a third person has the strangest effect on -Herbert's moral vision. As I have trained my son with a care and -tenderness rarely bestowed nowadays even on a girl, I think I may show -some resentment when I am asked to believe him a being with the -instincts of a ruffian and the philosophy of a middle-aged bachelor. No, -Sir Digby, Cyril is not _my_ child if he does not make his home and his -family the happiest in the world! - -_Soame._ Yes? - -_Lady Dol._ He has no taste for cards, horses, brandy, or actresses. We -read together, walk together, and drive together. In the evening, if he -is too tired to engage in conversation, I play the piano while he dozes. -Lately he has taken a particular interest in Mozart's classic light -opera. Any interest of that kind is so elevating, and I know of nothing -more agreeable than a musical husband. - -_Lord Dol._ You see she is resolved on his marriage, and she has had -Julia de Trappe on a visit with us for the last five weeks in the hope -of bringing matters to a crisis. - -_Lady Dol._ And why not? Our marriage was arranged for us, and what idle -fancies of our own could have led to such perfect contentment? - - [Lord Doldrummund _avoids her eyes_.] - -_Soame._ Julia de Trappe? She must be the daughter of that Mrs. Howard -de Trappe who gives large At Homes in a small house, and who spends her -time hunting for old lovers and new servants. - -_Lady Dol._ I own that dear Julia has been allowed to meet men and women -who are not fit companions for a young girl, no matter how interesting -they may be to the general public. Only yesterday she told me she was -well acquainted with Mr. Mandeville, the tenor. Mrs. de Trappe, it -seems, frequently invites him to dinner. Still, Julia herself is very -sensible, and the family is of extraordinary antiquity. - -_Soame._ But the mother? If she has not been in the divorce court, it is -through no fault of her own. - -_Lady Dol._ [_Biting her lip._] Mrs. de Trappe is vain and silly, I -admit; but as she has at last decided to marry Mr. Banish, the banker, I -am hoping she will live in his house at Hampstead, and think a little -more about her immortal soul. - -_Soame._ Does Cyril seem at all interested in Miss Julia? - -_Lady Dol._ Cyril has great elegance of mind, and is not very strong in -the expression of his feelings one way or the other. But I may say that -a deep attachment exists between them. - -_Soame._ A man must have sound wisdom before he can appreciate -innocence. But I have no desire to be discouraging, and I hope I may -soon have the pleasure of congratulating you all on the wedding. -Good-bye. - -_Lord Dol._ What! Must you go? - -_Soame._ Yes. But [_aside to_ Lord Dol.] I shall bear in mind what you -say. I will do my best. I have an engagement in town to-night. -[_Chuckles._] An amusing one. - -_Lord Dol._ [_With envy._] Where? - -_Soame._ At the Parnassus. - -_Lady Dol._ [_With a supercilious smile._] And what is the Parnassus? - -_Soame._ A theatre much favoured by young men who wish to be thought -wicked, and by young ladies who _are._ Good-bye, good-bye. [_Shakes -hands with_ Lord _and_ Lady Doldrummond _and goes out_.] - -_Lady Dol._ Thank goodness, he is gone! What a terrible example for -Cyril. I was on thorns every second lest he should come in. Soame has -just those meretricious attractions which appeal to youth and -inexperience. That you should encourage such an acquaintance, and even -discuss before him such an intimate matter as my hope with regard to -Julia, is, perhaps, more painful than astonishing. - -_Lord Dol._ They are both too young to marry. Let them enjoy life while -they may. - -_Lady Dol._ _Enjoy_ life? What a degrading suggestion! I have often -observed that there is a lurking taste for the vicious in every -Doldrummond. [_Picking up_ Cyril's _miniature from the table_.] Cyril is -pure Bedingfield: my second self! - - [_The Butler announces_ Mrs. De Trappe, Mr. Arthur Featherleigh, Mr. - Banish. Mrs. de Trappe _is a pretty woman with big eyes and a small - waist; she has a trick of biting her under-lip, and looking shocked, as - it were, at her own audacity. Her manner is a little effusive, but - always well-bred. She does not seem affected, and has something artless, - confiding, and pathetic._ Mr. Featherleigh _has a nervous laugh and a - gentlemanly appearance; otherwise inscrutable_. Mr. Banish _is old, - well-preserved, rather pompous, and evidently mistakes deportment for - dignity_.] - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ [_Kissing_ Lady Dol. _on each cheek_.] Dear Edith, I -knew we should surprise you. But Mr. Banish and I are house-hunting, and -I thought I must run in and see you and Julia, if only for a second. I -felt sure you would not mind my bringing Arthur [_indicating_ -Featherleigh.] He is so lonely at the prospect of my marriage that Mr. -Banish and I have promised to keep him always with us. We have known -each other so long. How should we spend our evenings without him? James -admits they would be tedious, don't you, James? [_Indicating_ Banish.] - -_Banish._ Certainly, my dear. - -_Lady Dol._ [_Stiffly._] I can well understand that you have learned to -regard Mr. Featherleigh as your own son. And as we advance in years, it -is so pleasant to have young people about us. - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ [_After a slight pause._] How odd that it should never -have struck me in that light before! I have always thought of Arthur as -the trustee, as it were, of my poor fatherless Julia [_To_ Banish.] Have -I not often said so, James? - -_Banish._ [_Dryly._] Often. In fact I have always thought that Julia -would never lack a father whilst Arthur was alive. But I admit that he -is a little young for the responsibility. - -_Feather._ [_Unmoved._] Do not forget, Violet, that our train leaves in -fifty-five minutes. - -_Lord Dol._ [_Catching a desperate glance from_ Lady Doldrummond.] Then -I shall have time to show you the Russian poodles which the Duke of -Camdem brought me from Japan. - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ [_Peevishly._] Yes, please take them away. [_Waving -her hand in the direction of_ Banish _and_ Featherleigh.] Edith and I -have many secrets to discuss. Of course she will tell you [_to_ Lord -Dol.] everything I have said when we are gone, and I shall tell Arthur -and James all she has said as we go home. But it is so amusing to think -ourselves mysterious for twenty minutes. [_As the men go out laughing, -she turns to_ Lady Doldrummond _with a sigh_.] Ah, Edith, when I pause -in all these gaieties and say to myself, Violet, you are about to marry -a second husband, I cannot feel sufficiently thankful that it is not the -third. - -_Lady Dol._ The third? - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ To face the possibility of a third honeymoon, a third -disappointment, and a third funeral would tax my courage to the utmost! -And I am not strong. - -_Lady Dol._ I am shocked to see you so despondent. Surely you anticipate -every happiness with Mr. Banish? - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ Oh, yes. He has money, and Arthur thinks him a very -worthy sort of person. He is a little dull, but then middle-class people -are always so gross in their air when they attempt to be lively or -amusing; so long as they are grave I can bear them well enough, but I -know of nothing so unpleasant as the sight of a banker laughing. As -Arthur says, City men and butlers should always be serious. - -_Lady Dol._ Do you think that the world will quite understand--Arthur? - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ What do you mean, Edith? A woman must have an adviser. -Arthur was my late husband's friend, and he is my future husband's -friend. Surely that should be enough to satisfy the most exacting. - -_Lady Dol._ But why marry at all? why not remain as you are? - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ How unreasonable you are, Edith! How often have you -urged me to marry Mr. Banish, and now that it is all arranged and Arthur -is satisfied, you begin to object. - -_Lady Dol._ I thought that you liked Mr. Banish better. - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ Better than Arthur? No, I am not so unkind as that, -nor would James wish it. I am marrying because I am poor. My husband, as -you know, left nearly all his money to Julia, and I feel the injustice -so acutely that the absurd settlement he made on me is spent upon -doctor's bills alone. If it were not for Arthur and one or two other -kind friends who send me game and other little things from time to time, -I could not exist at all. [_Draws off her gloves, displays a diamond -ring on each finger, and wipes her eyes with a point-lace -pocket-handkerchief._] And when I think of all that I endured with De -Trappe! How often have I been roused from a sound sleep to see the room -illuminated and De Trappe, rolled up in flannel, sitting by the fire -reading "Lead, kindly Light." What an existence! But now tell me about -Julia. I hope she does not give you much trouble. - -_Lady Dol._ I only hope that I may keep her always with me. - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ How she must have improved! When she is at home I find -her so depressing. And she does not appeal to men in the least. - -_Lady Dol._ I could wish that all young girls were as modest. - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ Oh, I daresay Julia has all the qualities we like to -see in some other woman's daughter. But if you were her mother and had -to find her a husband, you would regard her virtues in another light. -Fortunately she has eight thousand a year, so she may be able to find -somebody. Still, even money does not tempt men as it once did. A girl -must have an extraordinary charm. She is so jealous of me. I cannot keep -her out of the drawing-room when I have got callers, especially when Mr. -Mandeville is there. - -_Lady Dol._ I have heard of Mr. Mandeville. He is an actor, a singer. - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ A lovely tenor voice. All the women are in love with -him, except me. I would not listen to him. And now they say he is going -to marry Sarah Sparrow--a great mistake. I should like to know who would -care about him or his singing, once he is married. - -_Lady Dol._ And who is Sarah Sparrow? - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ Don't you know? She is the last great success. She has -two notes: B flat and the lower G--the orchestra plays the rest. You -must go to the Parnassus and hear her. To-night is the dress rehearsal -of the new piece. - -_Lady Dol._ And do you receive Miss Sparrow? - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ No, women take up too much time. They say, too, that -she is frantically jealous because Mandeville used to come and practise -in my boudoir. He says no one can accompany him as I do! - -_Lady Dol._ I hope Cyril does not meet Mr. Mandeville when he goes to -your house. - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ Let me see. I believe I introduced them. At any rate, -I know I saw them at luncheon together last week. - -_Lady Dol._ At luncheon together! Cyril and this person who sings? What -could my boy and Mr. Mandeville have in common? - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ They both appear to admire Sarah Sparrow very much. -And I cannot find what men see in her. She is not tall and her figure is -most innocent; you would say she was still in pinafores. As for her -prettiness, I admit she has fine eyes, but of course she blackens them. -I think the great attraction is her atrocious temper. One never knows -whom she will stab next. - -_Lady Dol._ [_Half to herself._] Last week Cyril came in after midnight. -He refused to answer my questions. - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ You seem absent-minded, my dear Edith. [_Pause._] I -must be going now. Where are Arthur and James? We have not a moment to -lose. We are going to choose wedding presents. James is going to choose -Arthur's and Arthur is going to choose James's, so there can be no -jealousy. It was I who thought of that way out of the difficulty. One -does one's best to be nice to them, and then something happens and -upsets all one's plans. Where is Cyril? - -_Lady Dol._ I am afraid Cyril is not at home. - -_Mrs. de Trappe._ Then I shall not see him. Tell him I am angry, and -give my love to Julia. I hope she does not disturb you when you are in -the drawing-room and have visitors. So difficult to keep a grown-up girl -out of the drawing-room. Where can those men be? [_Enter_ Lord -Doldrummond, Mr. Featherleigh, _and_ Mr. Banish.] Ah! here they are. -Now, come along; we haven't a moment to lose. Good-bye, Edith. - - [_Exeunt_ (_after wishing their adieux_) Mrs. de Trappe, Mr. - Featherleigh, _and_ Mr. Banish, Lord Doldrummond _following them_.] - -_Lady Dol._ [_Stands alone in the middle of the room, repeating._] Cyril -and--Sarah Sparrow! My son and Sarah Sparrow! And he has met her through -the one woman for whom I have been wrong enough to forget my prejudices. -What a punishment! - - [Julia _enters cautiously. She is so unusually beautiful that she barely - escapes the terrible charge of sublimity. But there is a certain - peevishness in her expression which adds a comfortable smack of human - nature to her classic features._] - -_Julia._ I thought mamma would never go. I have been hiding in your -boudoir ever since I heard she was here. - -_Lady Dol._ Was Cyril with you? - -_Julia._ Oh, no; he has gone out for a walk. - -_Lady Dol._ Tell me, dearest, have you and Cyril had any disagreement -lately? Is there any misunderstanding? - -_Julia._ Oh, no. [_Sighs._] - -_Lady Dol._ I remember quite well that before I married Herbert he often -suffered from the oddest moods of depression. Several times he entreated -me to break off the engagement. His affection was so reverential that he -feared he was not worthy of me. I assure you I had the greatest -difficulty in overcoming his scruples, and persuading him that whatever -his faults were I could help him to subdue them. - -_Julia._ But Cyril and I are not engaged. It is all so uncertain, so -humiliating. - -_Lady Dol._ Men take these things for granted. If the truth were known, -I daresay he already regards you as his wife. - -_Julia._ [_With an inspired air._] Perhaps that is why he treats me so -unkindly. I have often thought that if he were my husband he could not -be more disagreeable! He has not a word for me when I speak to him. He -does not hear. Oh, Lady Doldrummond, I know what is the matter. He is in -love, but I am not the one. You are all wrong. - -_Lady Dol._ No, no, no. He loves you; I am sure of it. Only be patient -with him and it will come all right. Hush! is that his step? Stay here, -darling, and I will go into my room and write letters. [_Exit, brushing -the tears from her eyes._] - - [Butler _ushers in_ Mr. Mandeville. _Neither of them perceive Julia, who - has gone to the window._] - -_Butler._ His Lordship will be down in half an hour, sir. He is now -having his hair brushed. - -_Julia._ [_In surprise as she looks round._] Mr. Mandeville! [_Pause._] -I hardly expected to meet you here. - -_Mandeville._ And why, may I ask? - -Julia. You know what Lady Doldrummond is. How did you overcome her -scruples? - -_Mandeville._ Is my reputation then so very bad? - -_Julia._ You--you are supposed to be rather dangerous. You sing on the -stage, and have a tenor voice. - -_Mandeville._ Is that enough to make a man dangerous? - -_Julia._ How can _I_ tell? But mamma said you were invincible. You -admire mamma, of course. [_Sighs._] - -_Mandeville._ A charming woman, Mrs. de Trappe. A very interesting -woman; so sympathetic. - -_Julia._ But she said she would not listen to you. - -_Mandeville._ Did she say that? [_A slight pause._] I hope you will not -be angry when I own that I do not especially _admire_ your mother. A -quarter of a century ago she may have had considerable attractions, -but--are you offended? - -_Julia._ Offended? Oh, no. Only it seems strange. I thought that all men -admired mamma. [_Pause._] You have not told me yet how you made Lady -Doldrummond's acquaintance. - -_Mandeville._ I am here at Lord Aprile's invitation. He has decided that -he feels no further need of Lady Doldrummond's apron-strings. - -_Julia._ Oh, Mr. Mandeville, are you teaching him to be wicked? - -_Mandeville._ But you will agree with me that a young man cannot make -his mother a kind of scribbling diary? - -_Julia._ Still, if he spends his time well, there does not seem to be -any reason why he should refuse to say where he dines when he is not at -home. - -_Mandeville._ Lady Doldrummond holds such peculiar ideas; she would find -immorality in a sofa-cushion. If she were to know that Cyril is coming -with me to the dress rehearsal of our new piece! - -_Julia._ It would break her heart. And Lord Doldrummond would be -indignant. Mamma says his own morals are so excellent! - -_Mandeville._ Is he an invalid? - -_Julia._ Certainly not. Why do you ask? - -_Mandeville._ Whenever I hear of a charming husband I always think that -he _must_ be an invalid. But as for morals, there can be no harm in -taking Cyril to a dress rehearsal. If you do not wish him to go, -however, I can easily say that the manager does not care to have -strangers present. [_Pause._] Afterwards there is to be a ball at Miss -Sparrow's. - -_Julia._ Is Cyril going there, too? - -_Mandeville._ I believe that he has an invitation, but I will persuade -him to refuse it, if you would prefer him to remain at home. - -_Julia._ You are very kind, Mr. Mandeville, but it is a matter of -indifference to me where Lord Aprile goes. - -_Mandeville._ Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned this to you? - -_Julia._ [_Annoyed._] It does not make the least difference. In fact, I -am delighted to think that you are taking Cyril out into the world. He -is wretched in this house. [_With heroism._] I am glad to think that he -knows anyone so interesting and clever and beautiful as Sarah Sparrow. I -suppose she would be considered beautiful? - -_Mandeville._ [_With a profound glance._] One can forget her--sometimes. - -_Julia._ [_Looking down._] Perhaps--when I am as old as she is--I shall -be prettier than I am at present. - -_Mandeville._ You always said you liked my voice. We never see anything -of each other now. I once thought that--well--that you might like me -better. Are you sure you are not angry with me because I am taking Cyril -to this rehearsal? - -_Julia._ Quite sure. Why should I care where Cyril goes? I only wish -that I, too, might go to the theatre to-night. What part do you play? -And what do you sing? A serenade? - -_Mandeville._ [_Astounded._] Yes. How on earth did you guess that? The -costume is, of course, picturesque, and that is the great thing in an -opera. A few men can sing--after a fashion--but to find the right -clothes to sing _in_--that shows the true artist. - -_Julia._ And Sarah; does she look _her_ part? - -_Mandeville._ Well, I do not like to say anything against her, but she -is not quite the person I should cast for la Marquise de la Perdrigonde. -Ah! if you were on the stage, Miss de Trappe! You have just the -exquisite charm, the grace, the majesty of bearing which, in the opinion -of those who have never been to Court, is the peculiar distinction of -women accustomed to the highest society. - -_Julia._ Oh, I should like to be an actress! - -_Mandeville._ No! no! I spoke selfishly--if you only acted with _me_, it -would be different; but--but I could not bear to see another man making -love to you--another man holding your hand and singing into your -eyes--and--and----Oh, this is madness. You must not listen to me. - -_Julia._ I am not--angry, but--you must never again say things which you -do not mean. If I thought you were untruthful it would make me so--so -miserable. Always tell me the truth. [_Holds out her hand._] - -_Mandeville._ You are very beautiful! - - [_She drops her eyes, smiles, and wanders unconsciously to the mirror._] - - [Lady Doldrummond _suddenly enters from the boudoir, and_ Cyril _from - the middle door_. Cyril _is handsome, but his features have that - delicacy and his expression that pensiveness which promise artistic - longings and domestic disappointment_.] - -_Cyril._ [_Cordially and in a state of suppressed excitement._] Oh, -mother, this is my friend Mandeville. You have heard me mention him? - -_Lady Dol._ I do not remember, but---- - -_Cyril._ When I promised to go out with you this afternoon, I forgot -that I had another engagement. Mandeville has been kind enough to call -for me. - -_Lady Dol._ Another engagement, Cyril? - - [Lord Doldrummond _enters and comes down, anxiously looking from one to - the other_.] - -_Cyril._ Father, this is my friend Mandeville. We have arranged to go up -to town this afternoon. - -_Lady Dol._ [_Calmly._] What time shall I send the carriage to the -station for you? The last train usually arrives about---- - -_Cyril._ I shall not return to-night. I intend to stay in town. -Mandeville will put me up. - -_Lord Dol._ And where are you going? - -_Mandeville._ He is coming to our dress rehearsal of the "Dandy and the -Dancer." - -_Cyril._ At the Parnassus. [Lord _and_ Lady Doldrummond _exchange -horrified glances_.] I daresay you have never heard of the place, but it -amuses me to go there, and I must learn life for myself. I am -two-and-twenty, and it is not extraordinary that I should wish to be my -own master. I intend to have chambers of my own in town. - -_Lady Dol._ Surely you have every liberty in this house? - -_Lord Dol._ If you leave us, you will leave the rooms in which your -mother has spent every hour of her life, since the day you were born, -planning and improving. Must all her care and thought go for nothing? -The silk hangings in your bedroom she worked with her own hands. There -is not so much as a pen-wiper in your quarter of the house which she did -not choose with the idea of giving you one more token of her affection. - -_Cyril._ I am not ungrateful, but I cannot see much of the world through -my mother's embroidery. As you say, I have every comfort here. I may -gorge at your expense and snore on your pillows and bully your servants. -I can do everything, in fact, but live. Dear mother, be reasonable. -[_Tries to kiss her. She remains quite frigid._] - - [Footman _enters_.] - -_Footman._ The dog-cart is at the door, my lord. - -_Cyril._ You think it well over and you will see that I am perfectly -right. Come on, Mandeville, we shall miss the train. Make haste: there -is no time to be polite. [_He goes out, dragging_ Mandeville _after him, -and ignoring_ Julia.] - -_Lord Dol._ Was that my son? I am ashamed of him! To desert us in this -rude, insolent, heartless manner. If I had whipped him more and loved -him less, he would not have been leaving me to lodge with a God knows -who. I disown him! The fool! - -_Lady Dol._ If you have anything to say, blame _me_! Cyril has the -noblest heart in the world; _I_ am the fool. - - - _Curtain._ - - - - - Transcriber's Notes: - -Words in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like this_. - -Greek words have been transliterated. - -Punctuation was standardized. Words in dialect, obsolete or alternative -spellings were not changed. The following were corrected: - - missing 'f' added to 'of' ... implications of his speech ... - 'allution' to 'allusion' ... without catching the allusion ... - 'needed' to 'heeded' ... I had not heeded this ... - 'undiscouragable' to 'undiscourageable' ... My undiscourageable search ... - 'snggest' to 'suggest' ... reason to suggest that ... - 'gasp' to 'grasp' ... his grasp had been insecure; ... - 'deing' to 'being' ... he was being whirled through ... - 'geos' to 'goes' ... then goes out._] ... - 'Gardi' to 'Guardi' ... Canaletti and Guardi seen long ago ... - 'waning' to 'waving' ... elbows out, umbrella waving,... - 'allign' to 'align' ... that hesitates to align itself ... - 'poem' to 'poet' ... upon the poet having conceived a passion ... - 'requiees' to 'requires' ... requires time and study.... - 'upsettting' to 'upsetting' ... would be more upsetting?... - missing 'l' added to 'small' ... in a small house ... - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Yellow Book, -edited by Henry Harland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YELLOW BOOK *** - -***** This file should be named 41875-8.txt or 41875-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/1/8/7/41875/ - -Produced by Charlene Taylor, Carol Brown, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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