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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 18:57:08 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 18:57:08 -0700 |
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diff --git a/44773-h/44773-h.htm b/44773-h/44773-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..105456d --- /dev/null +++ b/44773-h/44773-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14291 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en"> + +<head> + +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> + +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> + +<title> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of A Likely Story, by William De Morgan +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +body { color: black; + background: white; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +p {text-indent: 4% } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +h1 { text-align: center } +h2 { text-align: center } +h3 { text-align: center } +h4 { text-align: center } +h5 { text-align: center } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +p.contents {text-indent: -3%; + margin-left: 5% } + +p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; + letter-spacing: 4em ; + text-align: center } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.intro {font-size: 80% ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.capcenter { margin-left: 0; + margin-right: 0 ; + margin-bottom: .5% ; + margin-top: 0; + font-weight: bold; + float: none ; + clear: both ; + text-indent: 0%; + text-align: center } + +img.imgcenter { margin-left: auto; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-top: 1%; + margin-right: auto; } + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44773 ***</div> + +<h1> +<br /><br /><br /> + A LIKELY STORY<br /> +</h1> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> + BY<br /> +</p> + +<p class="t2"> + WILLIAM DE MORGAN<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> + LONDON<br /> + WILLIAM HEINEMANN<br /> + 1911<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t4"> +<i>All rights reserved</i> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> + DEDICATED TO<br /> + THE SCIENTIFIC ENQUIRER<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t2"> +CONTENTS +</p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap01"> +CHAPTER I +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +A good deal about a box of matches. Concerning a married +couple, whom anyone would have thought quarrelsome, to +listen to them. Of the difficulty with which the lady +housekept, and how her husband was no help at all. But +they went to the Old Water Colour. How Sairah only +just wiped gently over a tacky picture, and Mr. Aiken said +God and Devil. Of the plural number. Of a very pretty +girl, but dressy, and her soldier lover, and how Mrs. Aiken +was proper. Of her mystical utterance about the young +lady. How Mr. Aiken sought for an explanation from +Sairah, and created a situation. How his wife went to her +Aunt Priscilla, at Athabasca Villa, and cried herself to +sleep +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap02"> +CHAPTER II +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +How a little old gentleman was left alone in a Library, in front +of the picture Sairah had only just wiped gently. How he +woke up from a dream, which went on. The loquacity of +a picture, and how he pointed out to it its unreality. The +Artist's name. There was plenty of time to hear more. +The exact date of Antiquity. The Rational way of +accounting for it +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap03"> +CHAPTER III +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +The Picture's tale. It was so well painted—that was why it +could hear four hundred years ago. How its painter +hungered and thirsted for its original, and <i>vice versa</i>. How +old January hid in a spy-hole, to watch May, and saw it +all. Of Pope Innocent's penetration. Of certain bells, +unwelcome ones. How two <i>innamorati</i> tried to part without +a kiss, and failed. Nevertheless assassins stopped it when +it had only just begun. But Giacinto got at January's +throat. How the picture was framed, and hung where May +could only see it by twisting. Of the dungeon below her, +where Giacinto might be. How January dug at May with +a walking-staff. How the picture was in abeyance, but +loved a firefly; then was interred in furniture, and three +centuries slipped by. How it sold for six fifty, and was +sent to London to a picture-restorer, which is how it comes +into the tale. How Mr. Pelly woke up +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap04"> +CHAPTER IV +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +A Retrospective Chapter. How Fortune's Toy and the Sport of +Circumstances fell in love with one of his Nurses. Prose +composition. Lady Upwell's majesty, and the Queen's. +No engagement. The African War, and Justifiable +Fratricide. Cain. Madeline's big dog Cæsar. Cats. Ormuzd +and Ahriman. A handy little Veldt. Madeline's Japanese +kimono. A discussion of the nature of Dreams. Never +mind Athenæus. Look at the Prophet Daniel. Sir +Stopleigh's great-aunt Dorothea's twins. The Circulating +Library and the potted shrimps. How Madeline read the +manuscript in bed, and took care not to set fire to the +curtains +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap05"> +CHAPTER V +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +Mr. Aiken's sequel. Pimlico Studios. Mr. Hughes's Idea. +Aspects of Nature. Mr. Hughes's foot. What had +Mr. Aiken been at. <i>Not</i> Fanny Smith. It was Sairah!! +Who misunderstood and turned vermilion? Her malice. +The Regent's Canal. Mr. Aiken's advice from his friends. +Woman and her sex. How Mr. Hughes visited Mr. Aiken +one evening, and the Post came, with something too big +for the box, while Mrs. Parples slept. Mr. Aiken's very +sincerely Madeline Upwell. Her transparency. How the +picture's photo stood on the table. Interesting lucubrations +of Mr. Hughes. What was that? But it was nothing—only +an effect of something. The Vernacular Mind. Negative +Juries. How Mr. Aiken stopped an echo, so it was +Mr. Hughes's fancy +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap06"> +CHAPTER VI +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +Follows Mrs. Euphemia Aiken to Coombe and Maiden. Proper +pride. You cannot go back on a railway ticket, however +small its price. One's Aunts. How Miss Priscilla Bax +was not surprised when she heard it was Reginald. Of the +Upas Tree of reputations—the Pure Mind. How Aunt +Prissy worked her niece up. Of the late Prince Regent, and +Tiberius. Never write a letter, if you want the wind to lull. +Ellen Jane Dudbury and her mamma. Of Ju-jutsu as an +antidote to tattle. Of the relative advantages of +Immorality to the two Sexes. Of good souls and busy bodies, +and of the Groobs. How that odious little Dolly was the +Modern Zurbaran. But he had never so much as called. +Colossians three-eighteen. Miss Jessie Bax and her puppy. +Miss Volumnia Bax. The delicacy of the female character. +Of the Radio-Activity of Space and how Mr. Adolphus Groob +sat next to Mrs. Aiken. The Godfrey Pybuses. But they +have nothing to do with the story. How Time slipped by, +and how Mr. Aiken employed him till the year drew to an end +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap07"> +CHAPTER VII +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +The Upwell family in London. How Madeline promised not to +get mixed up. A nice suburban boy, with a Two-Power +Standard. No Jack now! The silver teapot. Miss +Priscilla's extraction. Imperialism. Horace Walpole and +John Bunyan. The Tapleys. How an item in the +<i>Telegraph</i> upset Madeline. How she failed in her mission, +but left a photograph behind her. The late Lady Betty +Duster's chin. How Mrs. Aiken stayed downstairs and +went to sleep in an arm-chair and of a curious experience +she had. How she related the same to her cousin Volumnia. +Of Icilia Ciaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi, and of The +Dust. The Psychomorphic Report. How Miss Volumnia +did not lose her train +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap08"> +CHAPTER VIII +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +How Mrs. Euphemia Aiken found Madeline at home, who +consequently did not go to a Bun-Worry. But she had met +Miss Bax. How these ladies each confessed to Bogyism, of +a sort, and Madeline said make it up. How Mr. Aiken took +Mr. Tick's advice about Diana, but could not find his +Transparent Oxide of Chromium. Man at his loneliest. +No Tea. And what a Juggins he had been! Of Mrs. +Gapp's dipsomania. The Boys. How Mr. Aiken lit the +gas, and heard a cab. How he nearly kissed Madeline, +who had brought his wife home, but it was only a mistake, +glory be! <i>Was</i> there soap in the house? +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap09"> +CHAPTER IX +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +Madeline's report, next morning. Charles Mathews and Madame +Vestris. How well Madeline held her tongue to keep her +promise. An anticipation of post-story time. How a +Deputation waited on Mrs. Aiken from the Psychomorphic. +Mr. MacAnimus and Mr. Vacaw. Gevartius much more +correct for Miss Jessie to listen to than the Laughing +Cavalier. Of Self-hypnosis and Ghosts, their respective +categories. The mad cat's nose outside the blanket. Singular +Autophrenetic experience of Mr. Aiken. Stenography. +A case in point. Not a Phenomenon at all. How Miss +Volumnia's penetration penetrated, and got at something. +Suggestion traced home. Enough to explain any +Phenomenon +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap10"> +CHAPTER X +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +How Mr. Pelly, subject to interruption, read aloud a translation +from Italian. Who was the Old Devil? Who was the +Duchessa? Of the narrator's incarceration. Of his +incredible escape. Whose horse was that in the Avenue? +How Mr. Pelly read faster. Was Uguccio killed? Sir +Stopleigh scandalised. But then it was the Middle +Ages—one of them, anyhow! How only Duchesses know if Dukes +are asleep. Of the bone Mr. Pelly picked with Madeline. +But what becomes of Unconscious Cerebration? Ambrose +Paré. Marta's little knife. Love was not unknown in the +Middle Ages. The end of the manuscript. But Sir Stopleigh +went out to see a visitor, in the middle. How Madeline +turned white, and went suddenly to bed. What was it all +about? Seventy-seven could wait +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +<a href="#chap11"> +CHAPTER XI +</a> +</p> + +<p class="intro"> +How the picture spoke again. Abstract metaphysical questions, +and no answers. How the Picture's memory was sharpened, +and how Mr. Pelly woke up. Mr. Stebbings and Mrs. Buckmaster. +The actule fax. Jack's resurrection, without an +arm. Full particulars. All fair in love. How Mr. Pelly +knew the picture could see all, and how Madeline had not +gone to bed. Captain Maclagan's family. Fuller +particulars. General Fordyce and the Bart. not wanted. +What the picture must have seen and may have thought. +Good-bye to the story. Mere postscript +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER I +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +A good deal about a box of matches. Concerning a married +couple, whom anyone would have thought quarrelsome, to +listen to them. Of the difficulty with which the lady +housekept, and how her husband was no help at all. But +they went to the Old Water Colour. How Sairah only +just wiped gently over a tacky picture, and Mr. Aiken said +God and Devil. Of the plural number. Of a very pretty +girl, but dressy, and her soldier lover, and how Mrs. Aiken +was proper. Of her mystical utterance about the young +lady. How Mr. Aiken sought for an explanation from +Sairah, and created a situation. How his wife went to her +Aunt Priscilla, at Athabasca Villa, and cried herself to +sleep. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"You'll have to light the gas, Sairah!" said an +Artist in a fog, one morning in Chelsea. For +although summer was on the horizon, it was cold +and damp; and, as we all know, till fires come to an +end, London is not fogless—if, indeed, it ever is so. +This was a very black fog, of the sort that is sure to +go off presently, because it is only due to +atmospheric conditions. Meanwhile, it was just as well +to light the gas, and not go on pretending you could +see and putting your eyes out. +</p> + +<p> +This Artist, after putting his eyes out, called out, +from a dark corner in his Studio, to something in a +dark corner outside. And that something shuffled +into the room and scratched something else several +times at intervals on something gritty. It was +Sairah, evidently, and Sairah appeared impatient. +</p> + +<p> +"They're damp, Sairah," said the Artist feebly. +"Why do you get that sort? Why can't you get +Bryant and May?" +</p> + +<p> +"These are Bryant and May, Mr. Aching. You +can light 'em yourself if it sootes you better. I know +my place. Only they're Safety, and fly in your +eye. Puttin' of 'em down to dry improves. I'd +screw up a spell, only there's no gettin' inside of the +stove. Nor yet any fire, in the manner of speaking." +</p> + +<p> +The scratching continued. So did Sairah's +impatience. Then the supply of the something +stopped, for Sairah said: "There ain't any more. +That's the hend of the box. And exceptin' I go all +the way to the King's Road there ain't another in +the house—not Bryant and May." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh dear, oh dear!" said the Artist, in the lowest +spirits. But he brightened up. "Perhaps there's +a Vesta," said he. +</p> + +<p> +Sairah threw the thing nearest to her against +the thing nearest to it to indicate her readiness to +search. +</p> + +<p> +"Look in the pocket of my plaid overcoat, +Sairah," he continued. "It was a new box +Tuesday." +</p> + +<p> +Sairah shuffled into another room, and was heard +to turn over garments. The Artist seemed to know +which was which, by the sound. For he called +out: "None of those! On the hook." Sairah +appeared to turn up the soil in a new claim, and +presently announced: "Nothing in neither pocket. +Only coppers and a thrip'ny!" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh dear—I'm certain there was! Are you +sure you've looked? Just look again, Sairah." He +seemed distressed that there should be no Vesta +in his overcoat pocket. +</p> + +<p> +"You can see for yourself—by lookin'," says +Sairah. "And then there won't be any turnin' +round and blamin' me!" Whereupon she appears, +bearing a garment. The reason she shuffles is that +she has to hold the heels of her shoes down on the +floor with her feet. +</p> + +<p> +The owner of the overcoat dived deep into the +pockets, but found nothing. He appeared +dumbfoundered. "Well, now!" he continued. +"Whatever can have become of my Vestas?" And +thereon, as one in panic on emergency, he put down +the sponge and brush he was using and searched +rapidly through all his other pockets. He slapped +himself in such places as might still contain +forgotten pockets; and then stood in thought, as one +to whom a light of memory will come if he thinks +hard enough, but with a certain glare and distortion +of visage to say, in place of speech, how truly active +is his effort of thought. And then of a sudden he +is illuminated, and says of course!—<i>he</i> knows! +But he doesn't know, for, after leaving the room to +seek for his Vestas, and banging some doors, he +comes back, saying he thought they were there +and they aren't. Wherefore, Sairah must run out +and get some more; and look sharp, because they +must have the gas! But Sairah, who has not been +exerting herself, awakes suddenly from something +equivalent to sleep which she can indulge in upright, +without support, and says, nodding towards a thing +she speaks of, "Ain't that them on the stove?" And +the Artist says, "No, it isn't; it's an empty +box. Cut along and look sharp!" Sairah made no +response; and time was lost in conversation, as +follows: +</p> + +<p> +"That ain't an empty box!" +</p> + +<p> +"It <i>is</i> an empty box! Do cut along and look sharp!" +</p> + +<p> +"It ain't my idear of an empty box. But, of +course, it ain't for <i>me</i> to say nothin'!" +</p> + +<p> +"I tell you I'm quite <i>sure</i> it's empty. Perfectly +certain!" +</p> + +<p> +"Well! It ain't for me to say anything. But +if you had a asted me, I should have said there +wouldn't any harm have come of looking inside of +it, to see. Of course I can <i>go</i>, if you come to +that! Only there's tandstickers in the kitchen, +and for the matter of that, the fire ain't let +out; nor likely when it's not the sweep till Wednesday." +</p> + +<p> +"Get 'em out of the kitchen, then! Get the +tandstickers or get anything. Anywhere; only +look alive!" He seemed roused to impatience. +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I <i>can</i> get them out of the kitchen. +Or there's missus's bedroom candlestick stood on +the landin', with one in, and guttered." Sairah +enumerated two or three other resources +unexhausted, and left the room. +</p> + +<p> +When she had vanished, the Artist went and +stood with his back to the stove, for it was too dark +to work. Being there, he picked up the empty box +and seemed to examine it. Having done so, he +left the room, and called over the stair-rail, to a +lower region. +</p> + +<p> +"Sair-ah!" +</p> + +<p> +"Did you call, Sir?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—you needn't go! There's some here." +</p> + +<p> +"'Arf a minute till I put these back." +</p> + +<p> +And then from underground came the voice of +the young woman saying something enigmatical +about always wishing to give satisfaction, and there +was never any knowing. But she remained below, +because her master said: "You needn't come up +again now. I'll light it myself." In an instant, +however, he called out again that she must bring +the matches, after all, because the Vestas were all +stuck to, through being on the stove. +</p> + +<p> +When she reappeared, after a good deal of shuffling +about below, he asked her why on earth she couldn't +come at once. She explained, with some indignation, +that she had been doing a little dusting in +the parlour; and, of course, the tandstickers, she +put 'em back in the kitchen, not bein' wanted, as +you might say. But all obstacles to lighting the +gas were now removed. +</p> + +<p> +Illumination presented itself first as an +incombustible hiss; but shortly became a flame, and was +bright enough to work by. The Artist did not seem +very contented with it, and said that the pressure +was weak, and it was off at the main, and there +was water in the pipes, and the gas was bad and +very dear. But he worked for half-an-hour or so, +and then a young woman came in, of whom he took +no notice; so she must have been his wife. Of +whom anyone might have thought that she was +stopping away from a funeral against her will, and +resented the restraint. For she bit her lips and +tapped with her feet as she sat in the arm-chair +she dropped into when she entered the room. She +made no remark, but maintained an aggressive +silence. Presently the young man moaned. +</p> + +<p> +"What <i>is</i> the rumpus?" said he plaintively. +"What <i>is</i> the everlasting rumpus?" +</p> + +<p> +"It's very easy for you. Men can! But if you +were a woman, you would feel it like I do. Thank +God, Reginald, you are not a woman!" +</p> + +<p> +"Good job I ain't! We might quarrel, if I was. +You've got something to be thankful for, you see, +Mrs. Hay." This way of addressing her, as Mrs. Hay, +was due to the substitution of the initial for +the whole name, which was Aiken. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, you <i>are</i> unfeeling," said she reproachfully. +"You know perfectly well what I meant!" +</p> + +<p> +"Meant that you thanked God I wasn't a woman." But +this made the lady evince despair. "Well!—what +<i>did</i> you mean, then? Spit it out." +</p> + +<p> +"You are tired of me, Reginald, and I shall go for +my walk alone. Of course, what I meant was plain +enough, to any but a downright fool. I meant <i>you</i> +were to thank God, Reginald—on your knees!—that +<i>you</i> were a man and not a woman. The idea +of my saying anything so silly! Wait till you are +a woman, and <i>then</i> see! But if you're not coming, +I shall go. I don't know why you want the gas. +It all mounts up in the bills. And then <i>I</i> shall be +found fault with, I suppose." +</p> + +<p> +"I want the gas because I can't see without it." +</p> + +<p> +After a phase of despair, followed by resignation, +the lady said, speaking in the effect of the latter: +"I think, Reginald, if you had any regard for the +bills, you would just look out of the window, once in +an hour or so, and not consume all those cubic feet +of gas at three-and-ninepence. The fog's gone! +There's the sun. I knew it would be, and it was +perfectly ridiculous to put off going to the Old +Water Colour." +</p> + +<p> +"Suppose we go, then? Hay, Mrs. Hay? Get +your hat, and we'll go." He turned the gas out. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no! It's no use going now—it's too late. +And it's all so depressing. And you know it is! +And I shall have to get rid of this new girl, Sairah." +</p> + +<p> +"I thought she looked honest." This was +spoken feebly. +</p> + +<p> +She answered irritably: "You always think they +look honest when they're ugly. This one's no better +than they all are. It's not the honesty, though. +It's she won't do anything." +</p> + +<p> +"Why didn't you have that rather pleasin'-looking +gyairl with a bird's wing on her hat?" +</p> + +<p> +"That conscious minx! I really do sometimes +quite wonder at you, Reginald! Besides, she wanted +a parlourmaid's place, and wouldn't go where there +wasn't a manservant kept. You men are such +fools! And you don't give any help." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken, observing a disposition to weep in these +last words, seemed embarrassed for a moment; but +after reflection became conciliatory. "Sairah does +seem lazy. But she says she's not been accustomed." +</p> + +<p> +"And then you give way! You might put that +magnifying-glass down just for one moment, and +pay attention! Of course, she says she's not been +accustomed to anything and everything. They all +do! But what can one expect when their master +blacks his own boots?" +</p> + +<p> +"What can <i>I</i> do, when she says she hopes she +knows her place, and she ain't a general, where a +boy comes in to do the rough work?" +</p> + +<p> +"What can you <i>do</i>? Why, of course <i>not</i> carry +your dirty boots down into the kitchen and black +them yourself, and have her say, when you ask for +the blacking, do you know where it's kept? I've no +patience! But some men will put up with +anything, except their wives; and then one's head's +snapped off! '<i>Do you know where it's kept!</i>' The +idea! ... Well, are you coming, or are you not? +Because, <i>if</i> you're coming, I must put on my grey +tweed. If you're <i>not</i> coming, say so!" +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Aiken did not say so. So, after a good +deal of time needlessly spent in preparation, the two +asked each other several times if they were ready, +shouting about the house to that effect. And then, +when they reappeared in the Studio, having +succeeded very indifferently in improving their +appearance, the lady asked the gentleman more than once +whether she looked right, and he said in a +debilitated way, Yes!—he thought so. Whereon she +took exception to his want of interest in her +appearance, and he said she needn't catch him up so short. +However, they did get away in the end, and Sairah +came in to do a little tidin' up—not often getting +the opportunity in the Studio—in pursuance of a +programme arranged between herself and her +mistress, in an aside out of hearing of her master, +in order that the latter should not interpose, as he +always did, and he knew it, to prevent anything the +least like cleanness or order. How he could go on +so was a wonder to his wife. +</p> + +<p> +As for Sairah, the image of herself which she +nourished in her own mind was apparently that of +one determined to struggle single-handed to +re-establish system in the midst of a world given over +to Chaos. Whatever state the place would get +into if it wasn't for her, she couldn't tell! The +other inhabitants of the planet would never do a +hand's turn; anyone could see that! In fact, the +greater part of them devoted themselves to leavin' +things about for her to clear up. The remainder, +to gettin' in the way. When you were that werrited, +you might very easy let something drop, and no +great wonder! And things didn't show, not when +riveted, if only done careful enough. Or a little +diamond cement hotted up and the edges brought +to. There was a man they knew his address at +Pibses Dairy, over a hivory-turner's he lived, done +their ornamential pail beautiful, and you never see +a crack! +</p> + +<p> +But Sairah's alacrity, when she found herself +alone in the Studio, fell short of her implied forecast +of it. Instead of taking opportunity by the +forelock, and doing the little bit of tidying up that she +stood pledged to, she gave herself up to the +contemplation of the Fine Arts. +</p> + +<p> +Now, there were two Fine Arts to which this +master, Mr. Reginald Aiken, devoted himself. One, +the production of original compositions; which did +not pay, owing to their date. Some of these days +they would be worth a pot of money—you see if +they wouldn't! The other Fine Art was that of +the picture-restorer, and did pay. At any rate, it +paid enough to keep Mr. Aiken and his wife—and at +this particular moment Sairah—in provisions cooked +and quarrelled over at the street-door by the latter; +leaving Mrs. Aiken's hundred a year, which her +Aunt Priscilla allowed her, to pay the rent and so +on, with a good margin for cabs and such-like. +Anyhow, as the lady of the house helped <i>with</i> the +house, the Aikens managed, somehow. Or perhaps +it should be said that, somehow, the Aikens managed +anyhow. Mrs. Verity, their landlady, had her +opinions about this. +</p> + +<p> +This, however, is by the way; but, arising as it +does from this Artist's twofold mission in life, it +connects itself with a regrettable occurrence which +came about in consequence of Sairah's not +confining herself to tidying up, and getting things a bit +straight, but seizing the opportunity to do a little +dusting also. +</p> + +<p> +Those on whom the guardianship of a picture +recently varnished has fallen know the assiduous +devotion with which it must be watched to protect +it from insect-life and flue. Even the larger +lepidoptera may fail to detach themselves from a fat, +slow-drying varnish, without assistance; and who +does not know how terribly the delicate organization +of beetles' legs may suffer if complicated with +treacle or other glutinous material. But beetles' +legs may be removed with care from varnish, and +leave no trace of their presence, provided the +varnish is not too dry. Flue, on the other hand, +at any stage of desiccation, spells ruin, and is that +nasty and messy there's no doing anything with it; +and you may just worrit yourself mad, and sticky +yourself all over, and only make matters worse than +you began. So you may just as well let be, and not +be took off your work no longer; nursing, however, +an intention of saying well now!—you declare, who +ever could have done that, and not a livin' soul come +anigh the place, you having been close to the whole +time, and never hardly took your eyes off? +</p> + +<p> +That sketches the line of defence Sairah was +constrained to adopt, after what certainly was at least +a culpable error of judgment. She should not have +wiped over any picture at all, not even with the +cleanest of dusters. And though the one she used +was the one she kep' for the Studio, nothing +warranted its application to the Italian half-length that +had been entrusted to Mr. Aiken by Sir Stopleigh +Upwell, to clean and varnish carefully, and touch +up the frame, without destroying the antique feeling +of the latter. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken was certainly to blame for not locking +the door and taking away the key. So he had no +excuse for using what is called strong language +when he and his wife came back from the Old Water +Colour. She had not been in <i>ten minutes</i>—a period +she laid great stress on—when she heard him +shouting inside the Studio. And then he came out +in the passage and shouted down the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +"Good God, Euphemia! where are you? Where +the Devil are you? Do come up here! I'm <i>ruined</i>, +I tell you! ... that brute of a girl!..." And he +went stamping about in his uncontrollable temper. +</p> + +<p> +His wife was alarmed, but not to the extent of +forgetting to enter her protest against the strong +language. "Reginald!" she said with dignity, +"have I not often told you that if you say God +and Devil I shall go away and spend the rest of the +day with my Aunt Priscilla, at Coombe? Before +the girl and all!" +</p> + +<p> +But her husband was seriously upset at something. +"Don't go on talking like an idiot," he said +irritably. Then his manner softened, as though +he was himself a little penitent for the strong +language, and he subsided into "Do come up and +see what that confounded girl has done." Those +conversant with the niceties of strong language will +see there was concession in this. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken went upstairs, and saw what the +confounded girl had done. But she did not seem +impressed. "It wants a rub," she said. Then her +husband said, "That's just like you, Euphemia. +You're a fool." Whereupon the lady said in a +dignified manner, "Perhaps if I am a fool, I'd +better go." And was, as it were, under compulsion +to do so, seeing that no objection was raised. +</p> + +<p> +But she must have gone slowly, inasmuch as she +presently called back from the landing, "What's +that you said?" not without severity. +</p> + +<p> +"I said 'Call the girl.'" +</p> + +<p> +"You said nothing of the sort. What was it you +said before that?" +</p> + +<p> +Now, what her husband had said was, "The idea +of a <i>rub</i>! Idiotic barbarian!" He was unable to +qualify this speech effectually, and his wife went +some more stairs up. Not to disappear finally; a +compromise was possible. +</p> + +<p> +"Did you say 'idiotic barbarian,' or 'idiotic +barbarians'? Because it makes all the difference." +</p> + +<p> +"Barbarians. Plural. Don't be a fool, and +come down." +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon the lady came back as far as the door, +but seemed to waver in concession, for she made +reservations. +</p> + +<p> +"I am not coming down because of anything," +she said, "but only to remind you that that Miss +Upwell was to come some time to see the picture, +and I think that's her." +</p> + +<p> +"What's her? I don't hear anyone at the door." +</p> + +<p> +"It's no use gaping out of the front-window. +You know quite well what I mean. That's her in +the carriage, gone to the Macnivensons' by mistake +for us, as people always do and always will, Reginald, +until Mrs. Verity gets the Borough Council to change +the numbers. 'Thirty-seven A' is a mere mockery." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken came out of the Studio, and went up +to the side-window on the landing, commanding a +view of the street in which thirty-seven A stood, his +own tenancy being in the upper half of a corner +house. "That's her," said he. "And a young +swell. Sweetheart, p'raps! Smart set, they look. +But, I say, Mrs. Hay..." +</p> + +<p> +"Do come away from the window. They'll see +you, and it looks so bad. <i>What</i> do you say?" +</p> + +<p> +"What the Devil am I to do? I can't let her see +the picture in that state." +</p> + +<p> +"Nonsense! Just wipe the mess off. You are +such a fidget, Reginald." +</p> + +<p> +But the Artist could not have his work treated +thus lightly. The girl must say he had been called +away on important business. It was absolutely +impossible to let that picture be seen in its present +state. And it would take over an hour to make it +fit to be seen.... Well, of course, it was difficult, +Mr. Aiken admitted, to think what to say, all in a +hurry! He thought very hard, and twice said, +"I've an idea. Look here!" And his wife said, +"Well?" But nothing came of it. Then he said, +"Anyhow, she mustn't come into the Studio. +That's flat!..." But when, in answer to inquiry +as to how the difficulty of the position should be +met, he riposted brusquely, "Who's to see her? +Why, <i>you</i>!"—Mrs. Aiken said, in the most +uncompromising way, No—that she wouldn't; the idea! +If there were to be any fibs told, her husband must +tell them himself, and not put them off on her. It +was unmanly cowardice. Let him tell his own fibs. +</p> + +<p> +But the colloquy, which threatened to become +heated, was interrupted by a knock at the door. +Warmth of feeling had to give way before necessity +for action. Broadly speaking, this took the form +of affectation, on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Aiken, of +a remoteness from the Studio not favoured by the +resources of their premises, and, on the part of Sairah, +of a dramatic effort to which she proved altogether +unequal. She was instructed to say that she didn't +know if her master was at home, but would see, if +the lady and gentleman would walk into the Studio. +She was then to convey an impression of passing +through perspectives of corridors, and opening doors +respectfully, and meeting with many failures, but +succeeding in the end in running her quarry down +in some boudoir or private chapel. She failed, and +was audible to the visitors in the Studio, within a +few feet of its door, which didn't 'asp, unless pulled +to sharp. She had not pulled it to sharp. And +her words were not well chosen:—"I said to 'em to +set down till you come, and you wouldn't be a +minute." No more they were; but there are more +ways than one of not being a minute, and they chose +the one most illustrative—to Mrs. Aiken's mind—of +the frequency of unexpected visits from the <i>élite</i>. +"Don't go rushing in, as if no one ever came!" said +she to her husband. +</p> + +<p> +The young lady and gentleman did not sit down, +but walked about the room, the former examining +its contents. The gentleman, who was palpably an +officer in a cavalry regiment, neglected the Fine +Arts, in favour of the lady, whom he may be said +to have gloated over at a respectful distance. But +he expressed himself to the effect that this was an +awful lark, straining metaphor severely. The young +lady, whose beauty had made Sairah's head reel, +said, "Yes—it's fun," more temperately. But +both looked blooming and optimistic, and ready to +recognise awful larks and fun in almost any +combination of circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +The first instinct of visitors to a Studio is to find +some way of avoiding looking at the pictures. A +good method towards success in this object is to +lean back and peep over all the canvases with their +faces to the wall, and examine all the sketch-books, +in search of what really interests you so much more +than finished work; to wit, the first ideas of the +Artist, fresh from his brain—incomplete, of course, +but full of an indefinable something. They are +<i>himself</i>, you see! But they spoil your new gloves, +and perhaps you are going on to Hurlingham. +These young people were; and that, no doubt, was +why the young lady went no further in her +researches than to discover the rich grimy quality of +the dirt they compelled her to wallow in. It +repulsed her, and she had to fall back on the easels +and their burdens. +</p> + +<p> +They glanced at "Diana and Actæon," unfinished, +the Artist's <i>capo d'opera</i> at this date, and appeared +embarrassed for a moment, but conscious that +something is still due to High Art. +</p> + +<p> +"Why don't you say the drawing's fine, or the +tone, or something? You're not doing your duty, +Jack." Thus spoke the young lady, who presently, +to the relief of both, found an enthusiasm. "She's +perfectly lovely! But is <i>she</i> Mr. Malkin's work? +She isn't—<i>she's our picture</i>! She's Early Italian." +She clapped her hands and laughed with delight. +Oh dear!—how pretty she looked, transfixed, as it +were, with her lips apart opposite to the picture +Sairah had been attending to! +</p> + +<p> +The young man took his eyes off her to glance at +the picture, then put them back again. "I don't +dislike 'em Early Italian," he said. But he wasn't +paying proper attention; and, besides, Sairah's little +essay towards picture-restoration had caught his +passing glance. "What's all that woolly mess?" said he. +</p> + +<p> +"Picture-cleaning, of course," said the lady. +"Mr. Malthus knows what he's about—at least, I +suppose so.... Oh, here he is!" Now, this young +lady ought to have made herself mistress of the +Artist's real name before visiting his Studio. Not +having done so, his sudden appearance—he had +taken the bit in his teeth and rushed in as though +at most very few people ever came—was a little +embarrassing to her, especially as he said +correctively, "Aiken." Thereon the young lady said she +meant Aiken, which may have been true, or not. +However, she got the conversation on a sound +footing by a little bit of truthfulness. "I was just +saying to Captain Calverley that the 'woolly mess,' +as he is pleased to call it, is what you are doing to +the picture. Isn't it, now?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken satisfied his conscience cleverly. He +smiled in a superior way—as a master smiles at one +that is not of his school—and said merely, "Something +of the kind." +</p> + +<p> +This young lady, Madeline Upwell, had never been +in a real picture-restorer's Studio before, and could +not presume to be questioning anything, or taking +exceptions. So she accepted Sairah's handiwork +as technical skill of a high order. And Mr. Aiken, +his conscience at ease at having avoided fibs, which +so often lead to embarrassments, felt quite in high +spirits, and could give himself airs about his +knowledge of Early Italian Art. +</p> + +<p> +"A fine picture!" said he. "But not a Bronzino." +</p> + +<p> +Miss Upwell looked dejected, and said, "Oh +dear!—isn't it? Ought it to be?" Captain +Calverley said, "P'raps it's by somebody else." But +he was evidently only making conversation. +And Miss Upwell said to him, "Jack, you don't +know anything about it. Be quiet!" Whereupon +Captain Calverley was quiet. He was very good +and docile, and no wonder; for the fact is, his inner +soul purred like a cat whenever this young lady +addressed him by name. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken went on to declare his own belief about +the authorship in question. His opinion was of +less than no value, but he gave it for what it was +worth. The picture was palpably the work of +Mozzo Vecchio, or his son Cippo—probably the +latter, who was really the finer artist of the two, in +spite of Jupp. As to the identity of the portrait, +he did not agree with any of the theories about it. +He then, receiving well-bred encouragement to +proceed from his hearers, threw himself into a +complete exposition of his views—although he +frequently dwelt upon their insignificance and his +own—with such enthusiasm that it was with a wrench +to his treatment of the subject that he became aware +that his wife had come into the room and was +expecting to be taken notice of, venomously. At the +same time it dawned on him that his visitors had +assumed the appearance of awaiting formal +introduction. The method of indicating this is not +exactly like endeavouring to detect a smell of gas, +nor giving up a conundrum and waiting for the +answer, nor standing quite still to try on, nor any +particular passage in fielding at cricket; but there +may be a little of each in it. Only, you mustn't +speak on any account—mind that! You may say +"er"—if that indicates the smallest speakable +section of a syllable—as a friendly lead to the +introducer. And it is well to indicate, if you can, how +sweet your disposition will be towards the other +party when the introducer has taken action, like +the Treasury. But the magic words must be spoken. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Upwell was beginning to feel a spirit of +Chauvinism rising in her heart, that might in time +have become "Is <i>this</i> Mrs. Aiken?" with a certain +gush of provisional joy, when the gentleman +perceived his neglect, and said, "Ah—oh!—my wife, +of course! Beg pardon!" On which Mrs. Aiken +said, "You must forgive my husband," with an +air of spacious condescension, and the incident +ended curiously by a kind of alliance between the +two ladies against the social blunders of male mankind. +</p> + +<p> +But the Artist's wife declined to fall in with +current opinion about the picture. "I suppose it's +very beautiful, and all that," said she. "Only +don't ask <i>me</i> to admire it! I never <i>have</i> liked +that sort of thing, and I never <i>shall</i> like it." She +went on to say the same thing more frequently +than public interest in her decisions appeared to +warrant. +</p> + +<p> +The young lady said, in a rather plaintive, +disappointed tone, "But <i>is</i> it that sort of thing?" She +had evidently fallen in love with the picture, +and while not prepared to deny that sorts of things +existed which half-length portraits oughtn't to be, +was very reluctant to have a new-found idol +pitchforked into their category. +</p> + +<p> +The Artist said, "What the dooce you mean, +Euphemia, I'm blest if <i>I</i> know!" He looked like +an Artist who wished his wife hadn't come into his +room when visitors were there. +</p> + +<p> +The Captain said, "What sort of thing? I don't +see that she's any sort at all. Thundering pretty +sort, anyhow!" +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon the Artist's wife said, "I suppose +I'm not to speak," and showed symptoms of a +dangerous and threatening self-subordination. The +lady visitor, perceiving danger ahead, with great +tact exclaimed: "Oh, but I do know so <i>exactly</i> +what Mrs. Aiken means." She didn't know, the +least in the world. But what did that matter? +She went on to dwell on the beauty of the portrait, +saying that she should persuade Pupsey to have it +over the library chimneypiece and take away that +dreary old Kneller woman. It was the best light +in the whole place. +</p> + +<p> +But her sweetly meant effort to soothe away the +paroxysm of propriety which seemed to have seized +upon the lady of the house was destined to fail, for +the husband of the latter must needs put his word in, +saying, "I don't see any ground for it. Never +shall." This occasioned an intensification of his +wife's attitude, shown by a particular form of silence, +and an underspeech to Miss Upwell, as to one who +would understand, "No ground?—with those arms +and shoulders! And look at her open throat—oh, +the whole thing!" which elicited a sympathetic +sound, meant to mean anything. But the young +lady was only being civil. Because she had really +no sympathy whatever with this Mrs. What's-her-name, +and spoke with severity of her afterwards, +under that designation. At the moment, however, +she made no protest beyond an expression of +rapturous admiration for the portrait, saying it was +the most fascinating head she had ever seen in a +picture. And as for the arms and open throat, they +were simply ducky. The Artist's wife could find +nothing to contradict flatly in this, and had to +content herself with, "Oh yes, the <i>beauty's</i> undeniable. +But that was how they did it." +</p> + +<p> +The young officer appeared to want to say something, +but to be diffident. A nod of encouragement +from Miss Upwell produced, "Why, I was going to +say—wasn't it awfully jolly of 'em to do it that +way?" The speaker coloured slightly, but when +the young lady said, "Bravo, Jack! I'm on your +side," he looked happy and reinstated. +</p> + +<p> +But when could the picture be finished and be +sent to Surley Stakes? The young lady would never +be happy till it was safe there, now she had seen it. +Would Mr. Aiken get it done in a week? ... No?—then +in a fortnight? The Artist smiled in a superior +way, from within the panoply of his mystery, and +intimated that at least a month would be required; +and, indeed, to do justice to so important a job, +he would much rather have said six weeks. He +hoped, however, that Miss Upwell would be content +with his assurance that he would do his best. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Upwell would not be at all content. Still, +she would accept the inevitable. How could she +do otherwise, with Captain Calverley's sisters +waiting for them at Hurlingham? +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"Quite up to date!" was the verdict of the +Artist's wife, as soon as her guest was out of +hearing. +</p> + +<p> +"Who?" said the Artist. Then, as one who +steps down from conversation to communication, +he added in business tones: "I say, Euphemia, I +shall have to run this all down with turps before +the copal hardens, and I really must give my mind +to it. You had better hook it." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm going directly. But it's easy to say 'who?'" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I say, <i>do</i> hook it! I can't attend to you +and this at the same time." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm going. But it <i>is</i> easy to say 'who?' And +you know it's easy." +</p> + +<p> +The Artist, who was coquetting with one of those +nice little corkscrews that bloom on Artists' bottles, +became impatient. "Wha-a-<i>awt</i> is it you're going +on about?" he exclaimed, exasperated. "Can't you +leave the girl alone, and hook it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I can leave the room," said his wife temperately, +"and am doing so. But you see you knew +perfectly well who, all along!" Even so the Japanese +wrestler, who has got a certainty, is temperance +itself towards his victim, who writhes in vain. +</p> + +<p> +Why on earth could not the gentleman leave the +lady to go her own way, and attend to his work? +He couldn't; and must needs fan the fires of an +incipient wrangle that would have burned down, +left to itself. "Don't be a fool, Euphemia," said +he. "Can't you answer my question? What do +you mean by 'quite up to date'?" +</p> + +<p> +Now, Mrs. Aiken had a much better memory than +her husband. "Because," she replied, dexterously +seizing on his weak point, "you never asked any such +question, Reginald. If you had asked me to tell +you what I meant by 'quite up to date,' I should +have told you what I meant by 'quite up to date.' But +I shall not tell you now, Reginald, because it +is worse than ridiculous for you to pretend you do +not know the meaning of 'quite up to date,' when +it is not only transparently on the surface, but +obvious. Ask anyone. Ask my Aunt Priscilla. +Ask Mrs. Verity." The lady had much better have +stopped here. But she wished to class her +landlady amongst the lower intelligences, so she must +needs add, somewhat in the rear of her enumeration, +in a quick <i>sotto voce</i>, "Ask the girl Sairah, for that +matter!" +</p> + +<p> +"What's that?" said her husband curtly. +</p> + +<p> +"You heard what I said." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes, I heard what you <i>said</i>. Well—suppose +I ask the girl Sairah!" +</p> + +<p> +"Reginald! If you are determined to make +yourself and your wife ridiculous, I shall go. I do +think that, even if you have no common sense, you +might have a little good-feeling. The girl Sairah! +The idea!" She collected herself a little more—some +wandering scraps were out of bounds—and +went almost away, just listening back on the +staircase landing. +</p> + +<p> +Now, although an impish intention may have +flickered in the mind of Mr. Reginald Aiken, he +certainty had no definite idea of catechising the girl +Sairah about the phrase under discussion when he +rang the bell for her and summoned her to the +Studio. But his wife having taken him <i>au serieux</i> +instead of laughing at his absurdity, the impish +intention flared up, and had not time to die down +before Sairah answered the bell. Would it have +done so if he had not been conscious that his wife +was still standing at pause on the staircase to keep +an eye on the outcome? +</p> + +<p> +So, when Sairah lurched into his sanctum, asking +whether he rang—not without suggestion that +offence would be given by an affirmative answer—his +real intention in summoning the damsel wavered +at the instigation of the spirit of mischief that had +momentary possession of him; and instead of +blowing her up roundly for damaging his picture, he +actually must needs ask her the very question his +wife had said "The idea!" about. He spoke loud, +that his speech should reach that lady's listening ears. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes Sairah: I rang for <i>you</i>. What is the +meaning of...?" He paused a moment, to overhear, +if possible, some result of his words in the +passage. +</p> + +<p> +"It's nothin' along o' me. <i>I</i> ain't done nothin'." A +brief sketch of a blameless life, implied in these +words, seemed to Sairah the safest policy. She +thought she was going to be indicted for the ruin +of the picture. +</p> + +<p> +"Shut up, Sairah!" said the Artist, and listened. +Of course, he was doing this, you see, to plague his +wife. But he heard nothing, being nevertheless +mysteriously aware that Mrs. Aiken was still on the +landing above, taking mental notes of what she +overheard. So he pursued his inquiry, regarding +Sairah as a mere lay-figure of use in practical joking. +"I expect you know the meaning of 'up to date,' +Sairah," said he, and listened. But no sign came +from without. If the ears this pleasantry was +intended to reach were still there, their owner was +storing up retribution for its author in silence. +</p> + +<p> +It was but natural that this young woman Sairah, +having no information on any topic whatever—for +this condition soon asserts itself in young women of +her class after their Board-School erudition has had +time to die a natural death—should be apt to +ascribe sinister meanings to things she did not +understand. And in this case none the less for the air +and aspect of the speaker, which, while it really was +open to the misinterpretation that it was intended +to convey insinuating waggery to the person +addressed, had only reference to the enjoyment +Mr. Aiken had, or was proposing to himself, from a mild +joke perpetrated at his wife's expense. However, +the young woman was not going to fly out—an +action akin to the showing of a proper spirit—without +an absolute certainty of the point to be flown +out about. Therefore Sairah said briefly, "Ask +your parding!" Briefly, but with a slight asperity. +</p> + +<p> +The Artist, though he was in some doubt whether +his jest was worth proceeding with, was too far +committed to retreat. With his wife listening on the +stairs, was he not bound to pursue his inquiry? +Obviously he must do so, or run the risk of being +twitted with his indecision by that lady later on. +So he said, with effrontery, "Your mistress says +you can tell me the meaning of the expression 'up +to date,' Sairah." +</p> + +<p> +Sairah turned purple. "Well, I never!" said she. +"Mrs. Aching to say that of a respectable girl!" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken became uncomfortable, as Sairah turned +purple. He began to perceive that his jest was a +very stupid one. As Sairah turned purpler, he +became more uncomfortable still. A panic-stricken +review of possible ways out of the difficulty started +in his mind, but soon stopped for want of materials. +Explanation—cajolery—severe transition to another +topic—he thought of all three. The first was simply +impossible to reasoning faculties like Sairah's. The +second was out of Mr. Aiken's line. If the girl had +been a <i>model</i> now! ... And who can say that +then it might not have been ticklish work—yes!—even +with the strong personal vanity of that +inscrutable class to appeal to? There was nothing +for it but the third, and Mr. Aiken's confidence in +it was very weak. Something had to be done, +though, with Sairah's colour <i>crescendo</i>, and probably +Mrs. Hay outside the door; that was the image his +mind supplied. He felt like an ill-furnished +storming-party, a forlorn hope in want of a ladder, as he +said, "There—never mind that now! You've been +meddling with this picture. You know you have. +Look here!" Had he been a good tactician, he +would have affected sudden detection of the injury +to the picture. But he lost the opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +Sairah held the strong position of an Injured +Woman. If she was to have the sack, she much +preferred to have it "on her own"—to wrest it, as +it were, from a grasp unwilling to surrender +it—rather than to have it forced upon her unwilling +acceptance, with a month's notice and a character +for Vandalism. So she repeated, as one still rigid +with amazement, "Mrs. Aching to say that of a +respectable girl!" and remained paralysed, in dumb show. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken perceived with chagrin that he might +have saved the situation by, "What's this horrible +mess on the picture? <i>You've</i> been touching this!" +and a drowning storm of indignation to follow. It +was too late now. He had to accept his task as +Destiny set it, and he cut a very poor figure over +it—was quite outclassed by Sairah. He could +actually manage nothing better than, "Do let that +alone, girl! I tell you it was foolery.... I tell +you it was a joke. Look here at this picture—the +mischief you've done it. You <i>know</i> you did it!" +</p> + +<p> +To which Sairah thus:—"Ho, it's easy gettin' +out of it that way, Mr. Aching. Not but what I +have always known you for the gentleman—I will +say that. But <i>such</i> a thing to say! If I'd a been +Missis, I should have shrank!" +</p> + +<p> +The Artist felt that there was nothing for it but +to grapple with the situation. He shouted at the +indignant young woman, "Don't be such a +confounded idiot, girl! I mean, don't be such an +insufferable goose. I tell you, you're under a +complete misconception. Nobody's ever said anything +against you. Nobody's said a word against your +confounded character, and be hanged to it! Do +have a little common sense! A young woman +of your age ought to be ashamed to be such a fool." +</p> + +<p> +But Sairah's entrenchments were strengthened, +if anything. "It's easy calling fool," said she. +"And as for saying against, who's using expressions, +and passing off remarks now?" Controversial +opponents incapable of understanding anything +whatever are harder to refute than the shrewdest +intellects. Mr. Aiken felt that Sairah was oak and +triple brass against logical conviction. Explanation +only made matters worse. +</p> + +<p> +A vague desperate idea of summoning his wife +and accusing Sairah of intoxication, as a sort of +universal solvent, crossed his mind; and he actually +went so far as to look out into the passage for her, +but only to find that she had vanished for the +moment. Coning back, he assumed a sudden +decisive tone, saying, "There—that'll do, Sairah! +Now go." But Sairah wasn't going to give in, +evidently, and he added, "I mean, that's enough!" +</p> + +<p> +Whether it was or wasn't, Sairah showed no signs +of concession. <i>She</i> was going, no fear! She was +going—ho yes!—she was going. She said she was +going so often that Mr. Aiken said at last, "Well, +go!" But when the young woman began to +go—vengefully, as it were, even as a quadruped +suddenly stung by an ill-deserved whip—he +inconsequently exclaimed, "Stop!" For a fell purpose +had been visible in her manner. What, he asked, +was she going to do? +</p> + +<p> +What was she going to do? Oh yes!—it was +easy asking questions. But the answer would reach +Mr. Aiken in due course. Nevertheless, if he wanted +to know, she would be generous, and tell him. She +wasn't an underhand girl, like the majority of her +sex at her age. Mean concealments were foreign to +her nature. She was going straight to Mrs. Aching +to give a month's warning, and you might summing +in the police to search her box. All should be +aboveboard, as had been the case in her family for +generations past, and she never had experienced such +treatment all the places she'd been in, nor yet +expected to it. +</p> + +<p> +It was then that this Artist made a serious error +of judgment. He would have done much more +wisely to allow this stupid maid-of-all-work to go +away and attend to some of it in the kitchen, while +he looked after his own. Instead of doing so, he, +being seriously alarmed at the possible domestic +consequences of his very imperfectly thought out +joke—for he knew his wife accounted the finding of +a new handmaid life's greatest calamity—must needs +make an ill-advised attempt to calm the troubled +waters on the same line that he would have adopted, +at any rate in his Bohemian days, with Miss de +Lancey or Miss Montmorency—these names are +chosen at random—whose professional beauty as +models did not prevent their suffering, now and +again, from tantrums. And cajolery, of the class +otherwise known as blarney, might have smoothed +over the incident, and the whole thing have been +forgotten, if bad luck had not, just at this moment, +brought back to the Studio the mistress of the +house, who had only been attracted by a noise in +the street to look out at a front-window. She, +coming unheard within hearing, not only was aware +of interchanges of unusual amiability between +Reginald and that horrible girl Sairah, but was just +in time to hear the latter say, "You keep your +'ands off of me now, Mr. Aching!" without any +apparent intention of being taken at her word. +And, further, that the odious minx brazened it out, +leaving the room as if nothing had happened, before +the gentleman's offended wife could find words to +express her indignation. At least, so this lady told +her Aunt Priscilla that evening, in an interview +from which we have just borrowed some telling +phrases. +</p> + +<p> +As for her profligate husband, it came out in the +same interview that he looked "sheepish to a +degree, and well he might." He had tried to cook +up a sort of explanation—"oh yes! a <i>sort</i>,"—which +was no doubt an attempt on the misguided man's +part to tell the truth. But we have seen that he +was the last person to succeed in such an enterprise; +and, indeed, self-exculpation is tough work, even +for the guiltless. Fancy the fingers of reproachful +virtue directed at you from all points of the +compass. And suppose, to make matters worse, you +had committed something—not a crime, you would +never do that; but something or other of a +committable nature—what on earth could you do but +look sheepish to some degree or other? Unless, +indeed, you were a minx, and could brazen it out, +like that gurl. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Such a ridiculous and vulgar incident would not +be worth so much description, but that, like other +things of the same sort, it led to serious +consequences. A storm occurred in what had hitherto +been a haven of domestic peace, and the Artist's +wife carried out her threat, this time, of a visit to +her Aunt Priscilla. That good lady, being a spinster +of very limited experience, but anxious to make it +seem a wide one, dwelt upon her knowledge of +mankind and its evil ways, and the hopelessness of +undivided possession thereof by womankind. She had +told her niece "what it was going to be," when she +first learned that Mr. Aiken was an Artist. She +repeated what she had said before, that Artists' +wives had no idea what was going on under their +eyes. If they had, Artists would very soon be +unprovided with the raw material of proper infidelity. +They would have no wives, and would go on like in +Paris. This tale is absolutely irresponsible for Miss +Priscilla's informants; it only reports her words. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Mrs. Euphemia Aiken, in spite of a severe +ruction with her husband, had really not consciously +imputed to him any transgression of a serious nature +when—as that gentleman worded it—she "flounced +away" to her Aunt Priscilla with an angry report +of how Reginald had insulted her. She had much +too high an opinion of him to form, on her own +account, a mental version of his conduct, such as +the one her excellent Aunt jumped at, in pursuance +of the establishment of a vile moral character for +Artists and nephews-in-law generally, with a +concrete foundation in the case of an Artist-nephew—a +Centaur-like combination with a doubt which half +was which. But nothing is easier than to convince +any human creature that any other is twice, thrice, +four times as human as itself, in respect of what is +graceless or disgraceful—spot-stroke barred, of +course; meaning felony. So that after a long +interview with Aunt Priscilla, this foolish woman cried +herself to sleep, having accepted the good lady's +offered hospitality, and was next morning so +vigorously urged to do scriptural things in the way of +forgiveness and submission to her husband—so +Miltonic, in fact, did the prevailing atmosphere +become—that she naturally sat down and wrote a healthily +furious letter to him. The tale may surmise that +she offered him Sairah as a consolation for what it +knows she proposed—her own withdrawal to a +voluntary grass-widowhood. For she flatly refused +to return to her deserted hearth. And, indeed, the +poor lady may have felt that her home had been +soiled and desecrated. But it was not only her +Aunt's impudent claim to superior knowledge—she +was still Miss Priscilla Bax, and of irreproachable +character—that had influenced her, but the +recollection of Sairah. It would not have been half as +bad if it had been a distinguished young lady with +a swoop, like in a shiny journal she subscribed for +quarterly. But Sairah! That gurl! Visions of +Sairah's <i>coiffure</i>; of the way Sairah appeared to be +coming through, locally, owing to previousness on +the part of hooks which would not wait for their +own affinities, but annexed the very first eye that +appealed to them; of intolerable stockings she +overlooked large holes in, however careful she see +to 'em when they come from the Wash; of her +chronic pocket-handkerchief—all these kept floating +before her eyes and exasperating her sense of insult +and degradation past endurance. Perhaps the +worst and most irritating thought was the extent to +which she had stooped to supplement this maid's +all-work by efforts of her own, without which their +small household could scarcely have lived within +its limited means. No!—let Reginald grill his own +chops now, or find another Sairah! +</p> + +<p> +It was illustrative of the unreality of this ruction +that the lady took it as a matter of course that +Sairah would accept the sack in the spirit in which +it was given; for official banishment of the culprit +was her last act on leaving the house. No idea +entered her head that her husband had the slightest +personal wish to retain Sairah. +</p> + +<p> +As for him, he judged it best to pay the girl her +month's wages and send her packing. He removed +her deposit of flue from the picture-varnish, and in +due time completed the job and sent it off to its +destination. He fell back provisionally on his old +bachelor ways, making his own bed and slipping +slowly down into Chaos at home, but getting well +fed either by his friends or at an Italian restaurant +near by—others being beyond his means or fraught +with garbage—and writing frequent appeals to his +wife not to be an Ass, but to come back and be jolly. +She opened his letters and read them, and more +than once all but started to return to him—would +have done so, in fact, if her excellent Aunt had not +pointed out, each time, that it was the Woman's +duty to forgive. Which she might have gone the +length of accepting, but for its exasperating sequel, +"and submit herself to her husband." +</p> + +<p> +But neither he nor either of the other actors in +this drama had the slightest idea that it had been +witnessed by any eyes but their own. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER II +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +How a little old gentleman was left alone in a Library, in front +of the picture Sairah had only just wiped gently. How he +woke up from a dream, which went on. The loquacity of +a picture, and how he pointed out to it its unreality. The +Artist's name. There was plenty of time to hear more. +The exact date of Antiquity. The Rational way of +accounting for it. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Old Mr. Pelly is the little grey-headed wrinkled man +with gold spectacles whom you have seen in London +bookshops and curio-stores in late August and early +September, when all the world has been away; the +little old man who has seemed to you to have walked +out of the last century but one. You may not have +observed him closely enough at the moment to have +a clear recollection of details, but you will have +retained an image of knee-breeches and silk +stockings; of something peculiar in the way of a +low-crowned hat; of a watch and real seals; of a gold +snuff-box you would have liked to sell for your own +benefit; and of an ebony walking-stick with a silver +head and a little silk tassel. On thinking this old +gentleman over you will probably feel sorry you did +not ask him a question about Mazarine Bibles or +Aldus Manutius, so certain were you he would not +have been rude. +</p> + +<p> +But you did not do so, and very likely he went +back to Grewceham, in Worcestershire, where he +lives by himself, and you lost your opportunity that +time. However that may be, it is old Mr. Pelly our +story has to do with now, and he is sitting before a +wood-fire out of all proportion to the little dry old +thing it was lighted to warm, and listening to the +roaring of the wind in the big chimney of the library +he sits in. +</p> + +<p> +But it is not his own library. That is at Grewceham, +two miles off. This library is the fine old +library at Surley Stakes, the country-seat of Sir +Stopleigh Upwell, M.P., whose father was at school +with Mr. Pelly, over sixty years ago. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly is stopping at "The Stakes," as it is +called, to avoid the noise and fuss of the little +market-town during an election. And for that same reason +has not accompanied Sir Stopleigh and his wife and +daughter to a festivity consequent on the return of +that very old Bart, for the County. They will be +late back; so Mr. Pelly can do no better than sit in +the firelight, rejecting lamps and candles, and +thinking over the translation of an Italian manuscript, in +fragments, that his friend Professor Schrudengesser +has sent him from Florence. It has been supposed +to have some connection with the cinque-cento +portrait by an unknown Italian artist that hangs above +the fire-blaze. And this portrait is the one the story +saw, a little over six months since, in the atelier +of that picture-cleaner, Mr. Reginald Aiken, who +managed to brew a quarrel with his wife by his +own silliness and bad taste. +</p> + +<p> +It is only dimly visible in the half-light, but +Mr. Pelly knows it is there; knows, too, that its eyes +can see him, if a picture's eyes can see, and that its +laugh is there on the parted lips, and that its +jewelled hand is wound into the great tress of gold +that falls on its bosom. For it is a portrait of a +young and beautiful woman, such as Galuppi +Baldassare wrote music about—you know, of course! +And Mr. Pelly, as he thinks what it will look like +when Stebbings, the butler, or his myrmidons, bring +in lights, feels chilly and grown old. +</p> + +<p> +But Stebbings' instructions were distinctly not to +bring in lights till Mr. Pelly rang, and Mr. Pelly +didn't ring. He drank the cup of coffee Stebbings +had provided, without putting any cognac in it, and +then fell into a doze. When he awoke, with a start +and a sudden conviction that he indignantly fought +against that he had been asleep, it was to find that +the log-flare had worn itself out, and the log it fed +on was in its decrepitude. Just a wavering irresolute +flame on its saw-cut end, and a red glow, and +that was all it had left behind. +</p> + +<p> +"Who spoke?" It was Mr. Pelly who asked the +question. But no one had spoken, apparently. +Yet he would have sworn that he heard a woman's +voice speaking in Italian. How funny that the +associations of an Italian manuscript should creep +into his dream!—that was all Mr. Pelly thought +about it. For the manuscript was almost entirely +English rendering, and no one in it, so far as he +could recollect, had said as this voice did, +"Good-evening, Signore!" It was a dream! He polished +his spectacles and watched the glowing log that +bridged an incandescent valley, and wondered what +the sudden births of little intense white light could +be that came and lived on nothing and vanished, +unaccounted for. He knew Science knew, and +would ask her, next time they met. But, for now, +he would be content to sit still, and keep watch +on that log. It must break across the middle +soon, and collapse into the valley in a blaze of +sparks. +</p> + +<p> +Watching a fire, without other light in the room, +is fraught with sleep to one who has lately dined, +even if he has a pipe or cigar in his mouth to burn +him awake when he drops it. Much more so to a +secure non-smoker, like Mr. Pelly. Probably he did +go to sleep again—but who can say? He really +believed himself wide-awake, though, when the same +voice came again; not loud, to be sure, but +unmistakable. And the way it startled him helped to +convince him he was awake. Because one is never +surprised at anything in a dream. When one finds +oneself at Church in a stocking, and nothing more, +one is vexed and embarrassed, certainly, but not +surprised. It dawns on one gradually. If this was +a dream, it was a very solid one, to survive +Mr. Pelly's start of amazement. It brought him out of +his chair, and set him looking about in the +half-lighted room for a speaker, somewhere. +</p> + +<p> +"Who are you, and <i>where</i> are you?" said he. +For there was no one to be seen. The firelight +flickered on the portraits of Sir Stephen Upwell, the +Cavalier, who was killed at Naseby, and Marjory, +his wife, who was a Parliamentarian fanatic; and a +phenomenal trout in a glass case, with a picture +behind it showing the late Baronet in the distance +striving to catch it; but the door was shut, and +Mr. Pelly was alone in the library. He was rather +frightened at his own voice in the stillness; it +sounded like delirium. So it made him happier +that an answer should come, and justify it. +</p> + +<p> +"I am here, before you. Look at me! I am +La Risvegliata—that is what you call me, at +least." This was spoken in Italian, but it must be +translated in the story. Very likely you understand +Italian, but remember how many English do not. +Mr. Pelly spoke Italian fluently—he spoke many +languages—but <i>he</i> must be turned into English, +too, for the same reason. +</p> + +<p> +"But <i>you</i> are a picture," said he. "You cannot +speak." For he understood then that his +hallucination—as he thought it, believing himself +awake—was that the picture-woman over the mantelpiece +had spoken to him. He felt indignant with himself +for so easily falling a victim to a delusion; and +transferred his indignation, naturally, to the +blameless phantom of his own creation. Of course, he +had <i>imagined</i> that the picture had spoken to him. +For "La Risvegliata"—the awakened one—was the +name that had been written on the frame at the +wish of the Baronet's daughter, when a few months +back he brought this picture, by an unknown Artist, +from Italy. +</p> + +<p> +"I can speak"—so it replied to Mr. Pelly—"and +you can hear me, as I have heard you all speaking +about me, ever since I came to this strange +land. Any picture can hear that is well enough +painted." +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Why</i> have you never spoken before?" Mr. Pelly +was dumbfounded at the unreasonableness of +the position. A speaking picture was bad enough; +but, at least, it might be rational. He fell in his +own good opinion, at this inconsistency of his +distempered fancy. +</p> + +<p> +"Why have you never listened? I have spoken +many a time. How do I know why you have not +heard?" Mr. Pelly could not answer, and the voice +continued, "Oh, how I have longed and waited for +one of you to catch my voice! How I have cried +out to the wooden <i>Marchese</i> whose <i>Marchesa</i> will +not allow him to speak, and to that beautiful Signora +herself, and to that sweet daughter most of all. +Oh, why—why—have they not heard me?" But +still Mr. Pelly was slow to answer. He found +something to say, though, in the end. +</p> + +<p> +"I can entertain no reasonable doubt that your +voice is a fiction of my imagination. But you will +confer a substantial favour on me if you will take +advantage of it, while my hallucination lasts, to tell +me the name of your author—of the artist who +painted you." +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Lo Spazzolone</i> painted me." +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Lo</i> ... who?" +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Lo Spazzolone</i>. Surely, all men have heard of +him. But it is his nickname—the big brush—from +his great bush of black hair. Ah me!—how +beautiful it was!" +</p> + +<p> +"Could you give me his real name, and tell me +something about him?" Mr. Pelly took from his +pocket a notebook and pencil. +</p> + +<p> +"Giacinto Boldrini, of course!" +</p> + +<p> +"Ought I to know him? I have never heard his name." +</p> + +<p> +"How strange! And it is but the other day that +he was murdered—oh, so foully murdered! But +no!—I am wrong, and I forget. It is near four +hundred years ago." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly was deeply interested. The question +of whether this was a dream, a hallucination, or a +vision, or the result of exceeding by two ounces his +usual allowance of glasses of Madeira, he could not +answer offhand. Besides, there would be plenty of +time for that after. His present object should be +to let nothing slip, however much he felt convinced +of its illusory character. It could be sifted later. +He would be passive, and not allow an ill-timed +incredulity to mar a good delusion in the middle. +He switched off scepticism for the time being, and +spoke sympathetically. +</p> + +<p> +"Is it possible? Did you know him? But of +course you must have known him, or he could +scarcely have painted you. Dear me!" Mr. Pelly +checked a disposition to gasp; that would never +do—he might wake himself up, and spoil all. The +sweet voice of the picture—it was like a voice, mind +you, not like a gramophone—was prompt with its +reply: +</p> + +<p> +"I knew him well. But, oh, so long ago! One +gets to doubt everything—all that was most real +once, that made the very core of our lives. +Sometimes I think it was a dream—a sweet dream with +terror at the end—a nectar-cup a basilisk was +watching, all the while. Four hundred years! +Can I be sure it was true? Yet I remember it +all—could tell it now and miss nothing." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly was silent a moment before answering. +He reflected that if his reply led to a +circumstantial narrative of events four hundred years old, +it would be a bitter disappointment to be waked +by the return of the family, and to have it all +spoiled. However, it was only ten o'clock, and +they might be three hours yet. Besides, it was +well known that dreams have no real duration—are +in fact compressed into a second or so of waking. +He would risk it. +</p> + +<p> +"I have a keen interest, Signora," said he, "in +the forgotten traditions of antiquity. It would +indeed be a source of satisfaction to me if you would +consider me worthy of your confidence, and entrust +to me some portion at least of your family history, +and that of your painter. I can assure you that +no portion of what you tell me shall be published +without your express permission. No one can +detest more keenly than myself the modern +American practice of intrusion into private life...." He +stopped. Surely that sound was a sigh, if not +a sob. In a moment the voice of the picture came +again, but with even more of sadness in it than +before: +</p> + +<p> +"Was it Antiquity, then, in those days? We +did not know it then. We woke to the day that +was to come—that had not been, before—even as +you do now; and the voices of yesterday were not +forgotten in our ears. We flung aside the thing of +the hour; as you do now, with little thought of +what we lost, and lived alone for hope, and the +things that were to be. I cannot tell you how +young we were then. And remember! I am +twenty now; as I was then, and have been, ever +since. +</p> + +<p> +"I see," said Mr. Pelly. "Your original was +twenty when you were painted. And you naturally +remained twenty." He felt rather prosaic and dry, +and to soften matters added, "Tell me of your +first painting, and what is earliest in your +recollection." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you will not interrupt me?" Mr. Pelly +gave a promise the voice seemed to wait for, and +then it continued, and, as it seemed to the listener, +told the tale that follows, which is printed as +continuous. The only omissions are a few interruptions +of Mr. Pelly's, which, so far as they were +inquiries or points he had not understood, are made +up for by very slight variations in the text, which +he himself has sanctioned, as useful and explanatory. +</p> + +<p> +Whether he was awake or dreaming, he never +rightly knew. But his extraordinary memory—he +is quite a celebrity on this score—enabled him +to write the whole down in the course of the next day +or two, noting his own interruptions, now omitted. +</p> + +<p> +The most rational way of accounting for the +occurrence undoubtedly is that the old gentleman +had a very vivid dream, suggested by his having +read several pages—this he admits—of the manuscript +translation, in which a too ready credulity has +detected a sequel to the story itself. None knows +better than the student of alleged supernatural +phenomena how frequent is this confusion of cause +and effect. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER III +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +The Picture's tale. It was so well painted—that was why it +could hear four hundred years ago. How its painter +hungered and thirsted for its original, and <i>vice versa</i>. How +old January hid in a spy-hole, to watch May, and saw it +all. Of Pope Innocent's penetration. Of certain bells, +unwelcome ones. How two <i>innamorati</i> tried to part +without a kiss, and failed. Nevertheless assassins stopped it +when it had only just begun. But Giacinto got at January's +throat. How the picture was framed, and hung where May +could only see it by twisting. Of the dungeon below her, +where Giacinto might be. How January dug at May with +a walking-staff. How the picture was in abeyance, but +loved a firefly; then was interred in furniture, and three +centuries slipped by. How it sold for six fifty, and was +sent to London, to a picture-restorer, which is how it comes +into the tale. How Mr. Pelly woke up. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +You ask me to tell you what is earliest in my +recollection. I will do so, and will also endeavour +to narrate as much as I can remember of the life of +the lady I was painted from; whose memory, were +she now living, would be identical with my own. +</p> + +<p> +The very first image I can recall is that of my +artist, at work. He is the first human being I ever +saw, as well as the first visible object I can call to +mind. He is at work—as I am guided to understand +by what I have learned since—upon my right +eye. It is a very dim image indeed at the outset, +but as he works it becomes clearer, and at last I see +him quite plainly. +</p> + +<p> +He is a dark young man, with hair of one thickness +all over, like a black door-mat, and a beautiful +olive skin. As he turns round I think to myself +how beautiful his neck is at the back under the hair, +and that I should like to kiss it. But that is +impossible. I can recall my pleasure at his fixed +gaze, and constant resolute endeavour. Naturally +I want him to paint my other eye. Then I shall see +him still better. +</p> + +<p> +I am not surprised at his saying nothing—for +remember!—I did not know what speech was then. +He had painted my mouth, only, of course, I did +not know what to do with it. Needless also to say +that I had not heard a word, for I had no ear at all. +I have only one now, but it has heard all that has +been spoken near it for four hundred years. I +heard nothing then—nothing at all! I only gazed +fixedly at the fascinating creature before me who +was trying his best to make me beautiful too—to +make me as beautiful as something that I could not +see—something his eyes turned round to at intervals, +something to my right and his left. What I recall +most vividly now is my curiosity to know what this +thing or person was that took his eyes off me at +odd moments; to which he made, now and again, +slight deprecatory signs and corrective movements +with his left hand; from which he received some +response I could not guess at, which he acknowledged +by a full-spread smile of grateful recognition. +But always in perfect silence, though I saw, when +his brush was not in front of my incomplete eye, +that his lips moved, showing his beautiful white +teeth; and that he paused and listened—a thing +I have learned about since—with a certain air of +deference, as towards a social superior. Oh, how I +longed to see this unseen being, or thing! But I +was not to do so, yet awhile. +</p> + +<p> +My recollection goes no farther than the fact of +this young artist, working on in a strange, systematic +way, quite unlike what I have since understood to +be the correct method for persons of genius, until at +the end of some period I cannot measure, he paints +my other eye, and I rejoice in a clearer image of +himself; of the huge bare room he works in; of +the small window, high up, with its cage of grating +against the sky; of the recess below it, in which, +at the top of two steps, an old woman sits plaiting +straws, and beside her a black dog, close shaved, +except his head, all over. But I get no light upon +the strange attraction that takes my creator's +attention off me, until after a second experience, +as strange as my first new-found phenomenon of +sight—to wit, my hearing of sound. As he painted +my ear, it came. +</p> + +<p> +At first, a musical, broken murmur—then another, +that mixes with it. As one rises, the other falls; +then both together, or as the threads of a cascade +cross and intersect in mid-air. Then a third sound, +a sound with a musical ring that makes my heart +leap with joy—a sound that comes back to me now, +when in the early mornings of summer, I hear, +through the window of this room opened outwards +to let in the morning air, the voice of the little brown +bird that springs high into the blue heaven, and +unpacks its tiny heart in a flood of song. And +then I think to myself that <i>that</i> is the language in +which I too should have laughed, had laughter been +possible to me. +</p> + +<p> +For what I heard then from behind the easel I +stood on as the young artist painted me was the +laughter of Maddalena Raimondi, from whom he +was working; whom I may describe myself as being. +For ought not the name written on the frame below +me to be hers also, with the date of her birth and +death? Are not my eyes that I see with now hers? +Is not the nostril with the lambent curve—that is +what a celebrated Art-Critic has called it—hers, +and the little sea-shell ear hers that heard you say, +but now, that my original cannot have been more +than twenty?... +</p> + +<p> +More than twenty! No, indeed!—for in those +days a girl of twenty was a woman. And the girl +that one day a little later came round at a signal +from behind the panel, to see the portrait that I now +knew had received its last touch from its maker, +was one who at eighteen had been threatened, +driven, goaded into harness with an old Devil of +high rank, to whom she had been affianced in her +babyhood; and who is now, we may hope, in his +proper Hell, as God has appointed. Yet it may +well be he is among the Saints; for his wealth was +great, and he gave freely to Holy Church. But to +Maddalena, that was myself—for was I not +she?—he was a Devil incarnate. +</p> + +<p> +For mark you this: that all she had known I too +knew, in my degree, so soon as ever I was completed. +Else had I been a bad portrait. It all came to my +memory at once. I remembered my happy girlhood, +the strange indifference of my utter innocence +when I was first told I was destined to marry the +great Duke, whose vassal my father was, and how +my marriage would somehow—I am, maybe, less +clear about details than my original would have +been—release my father from some debt or +obligation to the Raimondi which otherwise would have +involved the forfeiture of our old home. So +ignorant was I that I rejoiced to think that I should +be the means of preserving for my family the long +stretches of vine-clad hills and the old Castello in the +Apennines that had borne our name since the first +stone was laid, centuries ago. So ignorant, innocent, +indifferent—call it what you will!—that the moment +I was told my destiny I went straight to Giacinto, +the page, with whom I had grown from infancy, to +tell him the good news, that he might rejoice too. +But he would not rejoice at my bidding, and he +was moody and reserved, and I wondered. I was +but twelve and he thirteen. Although a girl may +be older than a boy, even at those years, her eyes are +not so wide open to see some things, and it may be +he saw plainer than I. I know not. +</p> + +<p> +This, then, was what had happened to the beautiful +creature that came round into my sight on that day +when I first saw and heard and knew her for myself, +and hoped I was well done, and very like. And +thus, also, it all came back to me, so soon as I was +finished and was really Maddalena Raimondi, how +the great Venetian artist, Angelo Allori, whom +they called <i>Il Bronzino</i>, came to the Castello to +paint my mother, and how he took a fancy to +Giacinto, and would have him away to his studio, +and taught him how to use brushes and colours, and +how to grind and prepare these last, and to make +canvas ready for the painter. And it ended by his +taking him as an apprentice, at his own wish and +Giacinto's. And they went away together to +Venice, and I could recall now that Maddalena had +not seen Giacinto after that for six years. +</p> + +<p> +That is to say: she had not seen him till he came +to the Villa Raimondi in the first year of her +unhappy marriage, an unhappy bride with all the +deadly revelation of the realities of life that an +accursed wedlock must needs bring. The girl was +no longer a girl; she knew what she had lost. And +I knew it too, and all that she had known up to the +moment of that last brush-touch, when Giacinto +said, "Now, <i>carissima Signora</i>, you may come round +and see!" +</p> + +<p> +And the ringing laugh came round, and <i>she</i> came +round, that had been me. Then I too saw what I +had been—what I was still. And after that, I will +tell you what I saw and heard—but presently! +</p> + +<p> +For I want you first to know what Maddalena +was when her old owner told her that he had +commanded a young Venetian artist, of rising fame, to +come at once, under penalty of his displeasure, to +paint her portrait in a dress of yellow satin brocade +well broidered in gold thread, and a <i>gorgiera</i> of fine +linen turned back over it, that had belonged to his +first wife, Vittoria Fanfani, who was much of the +size and shape of la Maddalena, as who could +tell better than he? And for this portrait she was +to sit or stand, as the painter should arrange, in +front of the tapestry showing Solomon's Judgment +in the <i>Stanza delle Quattro Corone</i>; which is, as you +would say, The Room of the Four Crowns, so called +because it was said four Kings had met there in old +days, three of whom had slain the fourth, which +was accounted of great fame to the Castello +Raimondi. And the time for this painting was to be +each day after the sun had passed the meridian; +for the room looked south-east, and one must study +the sun. And Marta Zan would always be in +attendance, as a serious person who would keep a +check on any pranks such young people might +choose to play. For as I too now knew and could +well remember, it was a wicked touch of this old +<i>birbante's</i> character that he was never tired of a +wearisome pretence that this young Maddalena, +whose heart was truly broken if ever girl's heart +was, was still full of joyousness and youth and +kittenish tricks. And he would rally her waggishly +before his retinue for pranks she had never played, +and pretended youthful escapades she could have +had no heart for. For in truth she was filled up +with sorrow, and shame of herself and her kind, and +intense loathing of the old man her master; but +she was forced to reply to his unwelcome <i>badinage</i> +by such pretence as might be of gaiety in return. +And this, although she knew well all the while that +there was not a scullion among them all but could +say how little she loved this eighty-year-old lord +of hers; though none could guess, not even the +women, what good cause she had to hate him. +</p> + +<p> +But the sly old fox knew well enough; and when +he made his edict that Marta Zan—an old crone, +who had been, some said, his mistress in his +youth—should keep watch and ward over his young wife's +demeanour with this new painting fellow, he knew +too that in the thick wall of the <i>Stanza delle Quattro +Corone</i> was a little, narrow entry, where one might +lie hid at any time, approaching from without, and +see all that passed in the chamber below. And so +he would see and know for himself; for he knew +Marta Zan too well to place much faith in her. +</p> + +<p> +You may guess, then, that Maddalena, when <i>il +Duca</i> first informed her of his gracious pleasure +about the portrait, was little inclined to take an +interest in that, or any other scheme of his +Highness; but to avoid incurring his resentment, she +was bound to affect an interest she did not feel, and +in this she succeeded, so far as was necessary. But +my lord Duke was growing suspicious of her; only +he was far too wily an old fox to show his mistrust +openly. Be sure that when, after Maddalena's +first sitting with my young artist, he noticed that +the roses had returned to her cheeks, and that her +step was light again upon the ground, he said never +a word to show his thought, and only resolved in +his wicked old heart to spy upon the two young +people from his eyrie in the wall. +</p> + +<p> +It was little to be wondered at that Maddalena +should show pleasure when she saw who after all +was the young Venetian painter; who, still almost +a boy, had climbed so high in fame that it was +already held an honour to be painted by him. For +he was her old friend Giacinto, and she in her languid +lack of interest in all about her, had never asked +what was the actual name of <i>lo Spazzolone</i>. For +by this nickname only had he been spoken of in her +presence, and it may easily be he was known by no +other to the old <i>Duca</i> himself, so universal is the +practice of nicknaming among the artists of Italy. +But he was Giacinto himself, sure enough!—only +grown so tall and handsome. And you may fancy +how gladly the poor Maddalena would have flung +her arms round the boy she had known from her +cradle, and kissed her welcome into his soul—only +there! was she not a wife, and the wife too of the +thing men called the Duke? What manner of +thing was he, that God should have made him, there +in the light of day? +</p> + +<p> +But if it was difficult for Maddalena to keep her +embrace of welcome in check, you may fancy how +strong a constraint my young painter had to put +on himself when he saw who the great lady was +whom he was come to paint. For none had told +him, and till she came suddenly upon him in all the +beauty of her full and perfect womanhood, he had no +idea that she would be la Maddalena—<i>la sua sorellaccia</i> +(that is, his ugly sister), as he would call her in +jest in those early days—because there was no doubt +of her beauty, and the joke was a safe one. Only +mind you!—this would be when they were alone, +as might be, in the court of the old Castello, looking +down into the deep well and dropping stones to +hear them splash long after, or gathering the green +figs in the <i>poderi</i> when the great heat was gone from +August, and they could ramble out in the early +mornings. When her sisters or brothers were there, +she was <i>la Signorina</i> Maddalena. <i>I</i> can remember +it all now! One does not lightly forget these +hours—the hours before the ugly dawn of the real World. +Nor the little joys one takes as a right, without a +rapture or a thought of gratitude; nor the little +pangs one thinks so hard to bear, and so soon +forgets. +</p> + +<p> +If you should ask me how it came about that the +two of them should have so completely parted +during all those six years, that La Maddalena should +not even have known the nickname of the young +painter, nor his fame, I must beg that you will +remember that these were not the days of daily +posts, of telegraphs, and railways; nor of any of +the strange new things I hear of now, and find so +hard to understand. Moreover, my own opinion is +that the parents of Maddalena judged shrewdly that +this young stripling was no friend to be encouraged +for a little daughter that was to be the salvation of +their property. The less risk, the less danger! +The fewer boys about, the fewer fancies of a chit. +They managed it all, be sure of that! It was for +the girl's own best interest. +</p> + +<p> +But—dear me![#]—if you know anything of life +in youth, and of the golden thread of Love that is +shot though it in the weft, and starts out +somewhere always, here or there, whatever light you +hold it in—if you know this, there is no more to +be said of why, when they met again, in the <i>Stanza +delle Quattro Corone</i>, each heart should leap out to +meet the other, and then shrink back chilled, at +the thought of what they were now that they were +not once, and of what perforce they had to be +hereafter. But the moment was their own, and +none pauses in the middle of a draught of nectar +because, forsooth, the cup will soon be empty. La +Maddalena became, in one magic instant, a Maddalena +whose laugh rang out like the song of the little +brown bird I told you of but now, and filled the +wicked old room with its music. And as for our +poor Giacinto—well!—are you a man, and were +you ever young? He could promise the withered +old <i>Duca</i> that he would make a merry picture of <i>la +Duchessa</i>; none of your sinister death's-head +portraits, but with the smile of <i>sua Altezza</i>. For +all Maddalena's heart was in her face, and that face +wore again the smile of the old, old days, the days +long before her bridal. And you see that face before +you now. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="footnote"> +[#] Probably the words Mr. Pelly heard were "<i>Dio mio!</i>" which +some consider the original of the English "Dear me!" Many +of the expressions are evidently literal translations.—EDITOR. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Now, if only this old shrunken mummy will +begone! If he will only go away to count over his +gold, to rack his tenantry for more than his share +of the oil-crop, to get absolution for his sins, or, +better still, to go to expiate them in the proper +place! If he will only take his venerable presence +and his cold firm eye away—if it be but for an +hour!... +</p> + +<p> +He went—sooner than we had hoped. And then +when he was quite, quite gone, and the coast was +clear, then the laughter broke out. And Marta +Zan wondered was this really the new <i>Duchessa</i>?—she +who had brought from her bridal no smile +but a sad one, no glance unhaunted by the memory +or the forecast of a tear, no word of speech but had +its own resonance of a broken heart. The beldam +chuckled to herself, and saw money to come of it, +if she winked skilfully enough, and at the right time. +But in this she was wrong, for she judged these +young people by her bad old self; and indeed they +thought no harm, of her sort. Neither could she +see their souls, nor they hers. But the laughter +and the voices filled the place, and each felt a +child again, and back in the old Castello in the +hills. +</p> + +<p> +"And was it really you, Giacinto? You, your +very self—the little Giacintino grown so great a +man! <i>Dio mio</i>, how great a man you have grown!" +</p> + +<p> +"And was the <i>Duchessa</i> then <i>la nostra Maddalena</i>, +grown to be a great Signora! Was it all true?" +</p> + +<p> +And then old Marta scowled from the steps below +the window, for was not this saucy young painter +bold enough to kiss the little hand her mistress let +him hold so long; and most likely she was ready +enough to guess that the poor boy had much ado +to be off kissing the lips that smiled on him as well. +But then, when the Maddalena saw through his +heart, and saw all this as plain as I tell it you now, +she flinched off with a little sigh, and a chill came. +For now, she said, they were grown-up people, +responsible and serious, and must behave! And +Marta Zan would not be cross; for look you, Marta +<i>cara</i>, was not this Giacinto, her foster-brother, and +had they not been rocked to sleep in the same +cradle? And had they not eaten the grapes of a +dozen vintages at her father's little castle in the +hills, and heard the dogs bark all across the plain +below in the summer nights? +</p> + +<p> +So Marta, though she looked mighty glum over +it, kept her thoughts for her own use, with due +consideration how she might get most profit from +what she foresaw, and yet keep her footing firm +with her great Duke. She was a cunning old black +spot, was Marta, and quick to scheme her own +advantage, for all she was near seventy. But she +saw no reason for meddling to check her young +<i>Duchessa's</i> free flow of spirits, and she invented a +good apology for letting her alone. <i>She</i> was not +going to mar the portrait by making the sitter cry +and look sulky: red eyes and swelled cheeks were +no man's joy. So she told her employer. And +she thought to herself, see how content the old man +is, and how clever am I to hoodwink him so! +</p> + +<p> +Be sure, though, that she did not know how he +was passing his time, more and more, in that little +chapel of knavery in the wall, but a few yards from +the two happy young folk, as they laughed and +talked over their old days. Only, in this you may +believe me, that never a word passed between +them—for all that so many came to the lips of both and +were disallowed—that might not have been spoken, +almost, in the presence of the gracious Duke +himself—nay, quite!—if he had not been so corrupt +and tainted an old curmudgeon that he would have +found a scutch on the leaf of a lily new-blown, and +read dishonour into innocence itself. So there he +sits in his evil eyrie, day by day, hatching false +interpretation of every word and movement, but +all silence and caution, for come what may he will +not spoil the portrait. It will be time enough +when it is quite done. Time enough for what? +We shall see. Meanwhile, as well to keep his eye +on them! Small trust to be placed in Marta Zan! +</p> + +<p> +So, all this while, I grew and grew. And the +laugh that you see on my lips is Maddalena's as she +sat looking down on her young painter, and the joy +and content of my eyes are her joy and content; +and the loose lock of hair that ripples, a stream of +golden red, over the red-gold of the brocaded +gilliflower on the bosom of my bodice, is the lock of +hair Maddalena had almost told Giacinto he might +cut away and take, to keep for her sake. But she +dared not, because of that dried old fig, old Marta, +and the grim eye of her owner. Yet she might +never see Giacinto again! She suspected, in her +heart, that he would be schemed away from her once +more, as before. +</p> + +<p> +But I grew and grew. And now the hour is near +when no pretence can prolong the sittings that have +been the happiness—the more than happiness—of +six whole Autumn weeks. How quick they had +run away! Could it be six weeks? Yes, it was. +And there was an ugly, threatening look in the +Duke's old eye; but he said little enough. No +doubt <i>Messer il Pittore</i> knew best how long was +needed to paint a portrait; but he had said three +weeks, at the outset. So it must needs be. And +this, to-day, was the last sitting; and the +picture—that was I—would be complete, and have a +frame, and hang on the wall in the great room of +state, where already were hanging the two portraits +of the former wives of his Excellency; whereof the +last one died three years before, and left the old +miscreant free to affiance himself to the little +Maddalena, who was then too young to marry, being but +fourteen years old. So at least said her mother, +and his Excellency was gracious enough to defer +his nuptials, in spite of his years. And our most +Holy Father Pope Alexander was truly convinced +by this that the charge of the Duke's enemies made +against him of having poisoned his second wife was +groundless. For with so young a bride in view, +would not any man have deferred poisoning a lady +who was still young and comely, at least until the +object of his new passion was old enough to take +her place? So said his Holiness, and for my part +I think he showed in this his penetration and his +wide insight and understanding of his fellow-men. +For Man is, as saith Scripture, created in the Image +of God, and it is but seemly and reasonable that +His Vicar on Earth should know the inner secrets +of the human heart; albeit he may have small +experience himself of Love, as is the manner of +Ecclesiastics. +</p> + +<p> +I will now tell you all I saw on that day of the +last sitting, being now as it were full-grown and able +to see and note all; besides being, as I have tried +to show, able to feel all the lady Maddalena had +felt and to follow her inmost thought. +</p> + +<p> +When they were come to the end of the work I +could see that both were heavy at heart for the +parting that was to come; and I knew of myself +that Maddalena had slept little, and I knew, too, that +this was not because <i>sua Eccellenza</i> the Duke snored +heavily all night, for had that been so, poor +Maddalena would have been ill off for sleep at the +best of times. No!—she had lain awake thinking +of Giacinto; and he of her, it may be. But what +do I know? I could see he was not happy: could +you expect it? And his hand shook, and he did +no good to me. And he would not touch my +face and hands with the colour, and I well knew why. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore, when he had tried for a little and could +not work to any purpose, my lady <i>la Duchessa</i> says, +as one who takes courage—for neither had yet +spoken of how they must part—"Come, my Giacinto, +let us be of better cheer, and not be so downcast. +For who knows but the good God may let +us meet again one happy day when His will is? +Let us be grateful for the little hour of our felicity, +and make no complaint now that it was not longer. +But you cannot work, my Giacinto, and are doing +no good to the beautiful picture. Leave it and come +and sit here by me, and we will talk of the old days, +the dear old time. And as for the old Marta, she is +sound asleep and snoring; only not so loud as my +old pig of a husband all last night!" Indeed, it was +true of old Marta, but for my own part I think she +was only pretending to be asleep, for my Maddalena +had talked to her of how this would be the last time, +and softened her, and given her ten Venetian ducats +and a cap of lace. But, for the snoring of the old +Duke, it had done some service; for the little joke +about it had made Maddalena speak more cheerfully, +and Giacinto could find a laugh for it, though he +had little heart to laugh out roundly at anything. +La Maddalena went near to make him, though! +For she talked of how thirteen little puppies all +came at once of three mothers, and she christened +them all after the Blessed Apostles and Judas +Iscariot, and every one was drowned or given away +except Judas Iscariot; and how she would hold +up Judas for Giacinto to kiss, saying he was a safe +Judas this time, as how could he be else with that +little fat stomach, and not a month old. +</p> + +<p> +So I was finished, and Giacinto would have put +his signature in one corner had he not thought it +best to wait until <i>sua Eccellenza</i> the Duke had seen +it, for who could say he would not have it altered? +Messer Angelo Allori had finished a portrait of <i>la +Principessa</i> Gonzaga, and just as he was thinking +to sign it, what does her ladyship do but say she +would rather have been painted in her <i>camorra di +seta verde</i>; and thereat he had to paint out the old +dress and paint in the new, for none might say nay +to <i>la Principessa</i>. So that is how it comes that +this picture—that I am—is unsigned; and that +the Art Critics, for once, are not unanimous about +who was the author. +</p> + +<p> +But <i>I</i> know who that author was, and I can see +him still as he sits at the feet of his lady, <i>la Duchessa</i> +Maddalena, and his thick, black hair that had got +him the nickname of <i>Spazzolone</i>; which is, or +would be as speech goes now, the scrubbing-brush. +And I can see his beautiful olive-tinted throat, +more fair than tawny, like ivory, and his great black +eyes, like an antelope's. I can see her, la Maddalena, +seated above him—for he is on the ground—her +two white hands encircling her knees, with many +rings on them, one a great opal, the one you see on +my finger now; and her face, with the red-gold hair, +you see on my head, but somewhat fallen about it, +for it had shaken down; and the face it hedged in +was white—so white! It was not as you see me +now; rather, indeed, the face of the sad Maddalena +before ever she saw <i>lo Spazzolone</i>, than mine as I +have it before you. Look awhile upon my face, +and then figure it to yourself as it would be if the +lips wanted to tremble, and the eyes to weep, +but neither would do so, from sheer courage and +strength of heart against an evil cloud. Then you +will see la Maddalena as she sat there with eyes +fixed on Giacinto, knowing each minute nearer the +end; but all the more taking each minute at the +most, as one condemned to die delays over his last +meal on earth. The gaoler will come, and the +prison-guard, and he knows it. +</p> + +<p> +How long, do you ask me, did the pair sit thus, +the eyes of each devouring the face of the other; +the lips of each replying to the other in a murmured +undertone I could not have heard from where I +stood on my easel, had it not been that I too, myself, +was la Maddalena, and spoke her words and heard +his voice? I can only tell you the time seemed too +short—though it was none so short a time, neither! +But I do not know. I do know this, though—and +I wish you too to know it, that you may think no +thought of blame of my Maddalena—that never a +word passed her lips that any young wife might not +fairly and honestly speak to her husband's friend. +And scarce a word of his in return that might not +have been fairly and honestly spoken back; and +for such a slight forgetfulness, as it seemed to me, +of what was safe for both—will you not forgive the +poor boy? Remember, he was but a boy at best, +for all his marvellous skill. And was not his skill +marvellous? For look at my lips, and see how +they are drawn! Look at my eyes and say, have +they moved or not—or will they not move, in an +instant? Look at the little bright threads of gold +in my cloud of hair! And then say, was he not a +wondrous boy? +</p> + +<p> +But a boy for all that! And to my thinking it +was <i>because</i> he was a boy, or was only just a man +having his manhood forced painfully upon him by +sorrow, that he gave the rein for one moment to his +tongue. And it was such a little moment, after all! +Listen, and I will tell you, if you will not blame +him. Promise me! +</p> + +<p> +They had talked, the two of them—or of us, as +you choose to have it—over and over of the old +days at the Castello, of the old Cappellano who +winked at all their misdeeds, and stood between +them and the anger of her parents, many a time. +How they had frightened him half to death by +making believe they had the Venetian plague upon +them, by dropping melted wax on their skins with +little strawberries in the middle. And how Giacinto +undeceived him by eating the strawberries. And +what nasty little monkeys they were in those days, +to be sure! That made them laugh, and they were +quite merry for a while. But then they got sad +again when la Maddalena told how Fra Poco—that +was what they called <i>il padre</i> Buti the Cappellano, +for he was a little man—was the only one of +them all that had had a word to say against her +marriage, and how he had denounced her father one +day as for a crime, and invoked the vengeance of +God upon the old Duke's head for using his power +to defraud a young virgin of her life, and saying let +him have the lands and enjoy them as he would, +and rather go out and beg on the highways for alms +than sacrifice his own flesh and blood. And how +she had overheard all this speech of Fra Poco, and +had said to herself that, come what might, she would +save the old domain for her father and her brother. +And how that very day her brother, who was but +young, had beaten her with her own fan, and then +run away with it; and little he knew what she was +to suffer for him! But in truth <i>she</i> knew little +enough herself, for what does a girl-chit know! +</p> + +<p> +And it may have been <i>her</i> fault, too, or mine, for +talking thus of her marriage, and none of the boy's +own, that my Giacinto should have, as I say, half +forgotten himself. For it was but just after she +had spoken thus, and they had sat sad and silent +for a space, that the big bells of San Felice hard by +must needs clang out suddenly in the evening air, +and then they knew their parting had come, too +soon, and that then they might never meet again. +And on that my Giacinto cried out as one whose +heaviness of heart is too sore to be borne, "<i>O +sorellaccia mia</i>! <i>Mia carina—mio tesoro</i>! Oh if it +might but be all a dream, and we might wake and +find it so, at the old Castello in the hills, and hear +the croaking of the frogs and the singing of the +nightingales when the sun had gone to bed, and be +punished for staying out too late to listen to them! +Oh, Maddalena <i>mia</i>!—the happy days when there +were no old Dukes!..." But la Maddalena stopped +him in his speech, saying, but as one says words +that choke in his throat, "Enough—enough, Signore +Giacinto! Remember what we are now—remember +what I am!—what you are!" For this, said she, +was not how <i>sua Eccellenza</i> the Duke should be +spoken of in his own house. And then the great +bells, that were so near they went nigh to deafen +you, stopped jangling; but the biggest had +something to say still, a loud word at a time, and far +apart. And what he said was, that now the hour +had come, and they should meet no more. And +then he paused, and they thought he was silent. +But he came back suddenly once again, to cry out +"Never!" and was still. +</p> + +<p> +Then comes the old Marta from her corner, rubbing +her eyes, for she had been very sound asleep. And +her mistress, as one who will not be contradicted, +points her on in front, and she passes out, and her +black dog. Then says my Maddalena to the painter, +"And now, farewell, my friend," and holds out her +hand for him to kiss, for is she not the Duchess? +And he kisses it without speech, but with a sort of +sob, and she gathers up her train, and turns to go. +But as she reaches the door, she hears behind her +the voice that tries to speak, but cannot. +</p> + +<p> +Then she turns, and her despair is white in her +face. And Giacinto's eyes are in his hands—he +dares not look up. But she goes back and he hears +her, and his name as she speaks it. And then he +looks up, and see!—they are locked in each other's +arms, as though never to part. And then Maddalena +knows, and I know with her, what Love is, and +what Life might have been. To think now, at such +a moment, of the abhorred caresses that must be +endured, later! no, my Maddalena, nothing to be +thought of now, nothing said, nothing seen nor +heard, just for those few moments that will never +come again! +</p> + +<p> +That was so, and therefore neither of these +imprudent young people heard the gasp or snarl of +anger that came through the little slot in the wall +above. Down comes my Lord, unheard; reaches +the room, unheard. But not alone! For there are +behind him two of his retinue, rough troopers, +buff-jerkined and morion-capped with steel, ready for +any crime at their master's noble bidding. So +silently have they come that the first sound that +rouses the young artist and his <i>sorellaccia</i> from their +little moment of rapture—for which I for one see +little reason to blame them—and brings them back +to conscious life and the knowledge of their lot, is +the slight ring of the short sword-dagger one of +them draws from the scabbard. Their eyes are +opened now, and <i>lo Spazzolone</i> sees his executioners; +while Maddalena and I see a cold, hard old +face to which all pleading for mercy—if there had +been a crime—would have been vain; and which +would make a crime, inexorably, of what was none, +from inborn cruelty and jealous rage. It is all over! +</p> + +<p> +All over! Yes, for any chance of life for Giacinto, +for any chance of happiness for la Maddalena for +the rest of her term of life. But it may give pleasure +to you to know—as it gives me pleasure—however +little!—that our young painter, who was strong and +active as a wild cat, got at the old man's wicked +throat and wellnigh choked him before his assassins +could cover the three or four steps between them; +and before the one whom Maddalena did not stop—for +she flung herself bodily on the man with the +sword—could strike with a mace he had. And the +blow fell on the olive-tinted neck I had loved so +well, and the poor Giacinto fell with a thud and +lay, killed or senseless. But the old Devil had felt +his grip with a vengeance, and the two men-at-arms +looked pleased, and lifted up and bore away the +seeming dead Giacinto with admiration. The old +man choked awhile, and la Maddalena remained +marble-white as a new cut block at Massa Carrara, +and as motionless, until her old owner had drunk +some wine and done his choking; and then he +pinched her tender white wrist savagely—I could +show you where he made his mark, but I cannot +move—and drew her away, saying, "You come +with me, young mistress!" But first he goes and +stands opposite the picture, still gripping her wrist. +Then says he, "<i>Non c'e male</i>"—not bad—and leads +her away, dumb. And they leave me alone in the +<i>Stanza delle Quattro Corone</i>, and I hear the door +locked from the outside. And the night comes, and +I hear the voices of the frogs in the flat land, and +think of the boy and girl that heard them together +in that other old Castello I remember so well, but +have never seen. And the sun comes again and +shines upon some blood upon the floor. It is not +Giacinto's—it is Maddalena's, where she cut herself +on the man with the sword. +</p> + +<p> +After that I remember no more till two men came +to measure for the frame I now have on. They +came next day, accompanied by the old Marta, who +unlocked the door. But her little dog came with +them, too, and no sooner had he run once all round +the room, to see for cats or what might be else, than +he goes straightway to the blood-mark on the floor. +And so shrewd is he to guess what it is—remember, +he had gone away with Marta when all the riot came +about—that he looks round from one to the other +for explanation, and tries hard to speak, as a dog +does. Whereat each of the three also looks to the +other two, and makes believe the dog is gone mad, +to be making little compassionate whines and cries, +and then, going to each one in turn to tell of it, +touching them with his fore-paws, and then back +again to the blood. But none would give him a +good word, and as for la Marta, she must needs +slap him, to the best of her withered power, on his +clean-shaved body; which very like hurt but little, +but the poor dog cried out upon the injustice! For +he knew well this that he smelt was blood. As I +believe, so did the three of them; however, in that +household each knew that blood, anywhere, was best +not seen by whoever wished to keep his own in his +veins. So they took the measure for my frame, +and went their way. And presently, when they +have gone back, comes the old woman, but no dog, +and brings with her burnt wood-ash, such as the +fire leaves in the open grate, quite white and dry. +And she makes a heap on the blood-stain with it, +and water added, and goes away again and locks +the door without, as before. After which the sun +goes many times across the brick floor, stopping +always to look well upon the blood-spot; and the +night comes back, and I see a little sharp edge of +silver in the sky, beyond the window-grating, and I +remember that it was the new moon, in the days of +the old Castello; and I say to myself, now I shall +see it grow again, as it grew in those old days when +Giacinto watched it with me. And it grows to +be a half-moon before la Marta comes again and +gathers up the ashes, and leaves the floor clean. +But then I know they will soon come with the +frame. So it happens; and then I am in my frame +and am carried away to the great old Castle in the +Apennines, and hanged upon the wall in the State +banqueting-room; and after a while, I know not +how long, the old Duke comes to see, and is pleased +to approve. And my Maddalena comes, or rather +he leads her, stark dumb, and white as the ashes +that dried up the drops of her blood upon the floor. +</p> + +<p> +And then day follows day, and each day my lord +leads a thinner and a whiter Maddalena to the head +of his board, and each day she answers him less +when he speaks to her, which he does with an evil +discourtesy when none other is there to check it; +and a courtesy, even worse to bear, when they are +in the presence of the household, or of noble guests +on a visit. He sees, as I see, that her eyes are +always fixed on me, as I hang behind his chair, for +well he knows she would not be giving him her +eyes—not she! So he tells the <i>primo maggiordomo</i>, who +is subservient, but dropsical, and goes on a stick, +to see that I am moved to a place in a bay to the +left of his mistress; the old Devil having indeed +chosen this place cleverly so that la Maddalena +might not easily see me by turning her eyes only; +but when she gives a little side turn to her head as +well, then she may see me plainly. And, of course, +it fell out as the cunning fox had foreseen, and the +poor Maddalena's eyes wandered more and more to +her picture, and then, as they came back, they +would be caught in the cold gaze that came at her +from the other table-end, and would fall down to +look on the food she was fain to send away +untasted. This goes on awhile, and then my Duke +speaks out when they are alone. <i>He</i> knows, he +says, what all these sly glances mean—all this +furtive peeping round the corner—we are hankering +after that old lover of ours, are we not? And there +are things it is not easy to forget—ho, ho! And +he laughs out at the poor girl and her sorrow. But +she is outspoken, as one in despair may well be, and +says to her old tormentor that if he means by the +word "lover" that she has in any way whatever +made light of her wifely duty to his lordship, it is +false, and he knows it; for the boy was no more +to her than any foster-brother might have been, +brought up with her from the cradle. Only, let him +not suppose, for all that, that she held him, husband +as he was, and all his lands and hoarded wealth, +and titles from his Holiness the Pope, one tithe as +dear as the shoelace or the button on the coat of +the boy he had murdered. On that his <i>Eccellenza</i> +sniggered and was amused. "I should have thought +so much," says he, "from the good round buss you +gave him at parting. But who has told you your +so precious treasure is dead? None has said so to +me, so far. When last I heard of him, he was down +below, beneath your feet, '<i>con rispetto parlando</i>,'" +which is a phrase folk use in Tuscany, not to be +too plain-spoken for delicacy about feet and the like. +</p> + +<p> +But now I must tell you something the old +miscreant meant when he said this, and pointed down +below the great table, which else might be hard to +understand. For this great table stood over a trap +or well-hole in the floor, and this well-hole went +straight down to the dungeons under the Castle, +where, if all tales told were true, there was still +living a very old man who was first incarcerated +forty years since, and had lived on, God knows how! +And others as well, though little was known of them +by those above in the daylight. But this old man +had made some talk, seeing that he was first +confined there in the days of the old Duke, our Duke's +father, a just man and well-beloved, for a crime +committed near by, on the evidence of his wife and +his brother. Of whom, having lived some while <i>par +amours</i>, the brother having died by poison, and the +woman having died in sanctity as Mother Superior +of the nuns of Monte Druscolo in Umbria, it was +known that the latter made confession on her +death-bed that her paramour was truly, but unknown to +her, the author of the crime for which his brother +was condemned. Now, this came to her knowledge +by a chance, later. On which she, learning with +resentment the concealment of this from herself; and +seeing that the victim of this crime had been a +young girl under her care and charge, had compassed +the death of the real culprit for justice' sake, +but had not thought it well to proclaim the truth +about her husband's innocence, for she might have +found it hard to look him in the face. So he was +left where he was, the more that it was thought he +might die if brought out into the sun; and, indeed, +he was very old, and the Holy Abbess in extreme +old age when she made her confession. But he is +not in my tale, nor she, and I speak of him only +because of the chance by which he made known to +me the existence of this same well-hole beneath my +lord's dining-table. For it was the telling of this +story at the banquet that caused it to be spoken of, +and also how in old days its use was to be opened +after the meal, that the guests might of their +<i>gentilezza</i> throw what they had not cared to eat +themselves to the prisoners below. And the Prince +Cosmo dei Medici, who was graciously present, was +pleased to say it would have been a pretty tale for +Boccaccio—or perhaps even the great Lodovico +Ariosto might not scorn to try his hand upon it? +</p> + +<p> +But now you may see, plain enough, what the +wicked old man meant when he pointed down in +that way. He thought to make his young wife +believe that her lover—as he would call him; +though he knew the word, as he used it, was a lie—was +still living, and that, too, underground, where a +ray of light might hardly penetrate, at high-noon; +and almost surely, too, the victim of starvation and +tortures she shuddered to think of; even for +witches or Jews—aye, even for heretics! She +could see the whole tale in the cruelty of her princely +husband's eyes; except, indeed, his victim was +really dead, slain by the cruel blow she herself had +seen; and seeing it, what wonder was it that she +longed only to know that he was dead; for then +she could die too? But to slip away and leave +Giacinto still alive!—in a damp vault with the old +bones of those who had died and been buried there, +so that none should know of them; and neither +day nor the coming of night, but only one long +darkness, and not one word from her, and ignorance +of whether she herself still lived or died. Surely, +if she were to die and leave him thus in ignorance, +her ghost would rise from the grave to be beside +him in the darkness of his dungeon; and then how +her heart would break to speak with him, and be—as +might chance—half-heard, and serve only to +add a new terror to his loneliness. +</p> + +<p> +Such things I could guess she felt in her heart. I +could not feel them now myself, not being la Maddalena +as she was at this moment. I am still, as I was +then, the Maddalena as she laughed back, from the +daïs she sat on, her delight in response to the +pleasure in her young painter's eye; and all she +became after is—to me—like a tale she might have +heard, or some sad pretty ballad one gives a tear +to and forgets. But I can fancy, and maybe you +can too, how her whole young soul was wrenched +as she flung herself at her old tormentor's feet, and +besought him in words that I would myself have +wept for gladly—had God not made me as I am—to +tell her truly, only to tell her, was he living or +dead? She would ask no more than just that much +of his clemency. What wrong had she done +him?—what had Giacinto?—that he should make her +think the sun itself a nightmare; for it would shine +on her, but never reach the black pit below them, +where, for all she knew, Giacinto might be now, at +this very moment? Oh, would he not tell her? +It was so little to ask! +</p> + +<p> +But the old miscreant had not paid her yet for +that kiss, and he would have his account discharged +in full. So he takes her face in his two old hands, +and pats her on the cheek, and tells her, smiling, to +be of good cheer, for she will never know any more +of the young <i>maestro</i>, nor whether he be alive or dead. +But if she wishes to throw down some dainty +titbits from the dinner-leavings, on the chance they +shall reach the lips she kissed, why it is but telling +Raouf and Stefano to lift the trap. It may be a +bit rusty, but if it were oiled on the hinges this time, +the less trouble the next! At this <i>la Duchessa</i> gave +a long shriek, holding her head tight on, on either +side, and then fell backward on the floor, and lay so, +stark motionless. And then my great Duke seats +himself on the nearest chair; and he has in his +hand his crutched stick, to lean on against the gout +in his foot. He takes it in his left hand, and just +digs with it at the girl's body on the ground, either +to rouse her or see if she be dead. But she does not +move, and he has her carried away to bed; and his +face is contented, as is that of a man who has +worked well and deserved his fee. +</p> + +<p> +I wish I could remember more of this old tale of +four hundred years ago, but I had no chance to do +so; for, after the scene I have just described, the +noble Duke, hobbling a short space about the hall, +brings up short just facing the bay where I have +been hanged by his orders to spite la Maddalena; +and then, after choking a little—as indeed he often +did since that fierce grip of my young <i>maestro, lo +Spazzolone</i>—he calls out to his fat <i>maggiordomo</i>, +and bids him to see that I am removed to his own +private room and hanged under the picture of +Ganymede. But now he must only take it down +and remove it to the old stone chamber, where the +figs are put to dry on trays; and so leave it, to be +hanged in his room when he is away at Rome, as +will be shortly. So he hobbles away and I hear +him getting slowly up the little stair that goes to +his private room, and his attendants following him. +The dropsical <i>maggiordomo</i> stays to see that another +man should come, with a ladder and a boy, to help, +and they get me down from my hooks, and carry +me off; and I can smell the dried figs, and the <i>stoia</i> +that is rolled up in a stack, and the empty +wine-flasks. But I can see nothing, for they place me +with my face against the wall, and cover me over +with a sacking; and I can hear little more; and +then the great door clangs to and is locked, and I +am alone in the dark, without feeling or measurement +of time, and only catching faint sounds from +far-off. +</p> + +<p> +I could guess, rather than hear, the sound of a +footstep when one came, rarely enough, in the long +corridor without. I could feel its rhythm in the +shaken floor, but I could be scarcely said to hear it. +I was aware of a kind of scratching close to me, that +may have been some kind of beetle or scorpion, but +of course it was quite invisible. There was one sort +of <i>scaraflaggio</i> that would come, even between me +and the wall one time, and make a noise like a +thousand whirlwinds, and beat against me with his +wings, and I should have liked to be able to ask him +to come often. But he seemed not to care about +me; and I could just hear him boom away in the +darkness, joyous at heart and happy in his freedom. +Oh, if he could have known how different was my +lot! I thought of how he would float out into the +sunlight, whirring all the while like the wheels of the +great <i>orologio</i> at the old Castello when Fra Poco let +it run down at noon so that he might reset it fair +from the sundial on the wall in the Cortile where +the well was—<i>our</i> well! +</p> + +<p> +It may have been days, or it may have been +weeks or months, before a change came, and I +again heard human voices. But it would not be +longer than two or three months at most; seeing +that it was immediately, as far as I could judge, on +the top of a little chance that is dear to my memory +now, after—so I gather—some four hundred years. +For a sweet firefly came, by the blessing of God, +between me and the dry wall, and paused and hung +a moment in the air that I might get a sight of his +beauty. You have seen them in the corn, how they +stop to think, and then shoot on ahead, each to seek +his love, or hers: so it is taught by those who say +they know, and may be truly. This one also must +needs go on, though I would have prayed him to +stay, that <i>I</i> might be his love. Yet this could not +be, for neither did I know his tongue, nor was aught +else fitting. So he went away and left me +sad-hearted. He was a spot of light between a gloom +behind and a gloom before, even as the Star of +Bethlehem. +</p> + +<p> +But about this that I was telling of. I had a +sense of half-heard turmoil without. Then the lock +in the door, and the imprecations of a man that +could not turn the key. He swore roundly at him +who made it, and at all locksmiths soever, as persons +who from malevolence scheme to exclude all folk +from everywhere; and I wished to rebuke him for +his injustice, for how can a locksmith do less than +make a key? And it was for him to choose the right +key, not to keep on twisting at the wrong one, and +swearing, which is what he was doing. But he was +a noisy, blustering person, for when he did get in, +being helped to the right key by a clever young boy +who saw his error, he was much enraged with that +boy for telling him; and he was ill-satisfied with +such a place as this to stow away the furniture, but +he supposed they must make it do. +</p> + +<p> +Then came much moving in of goods. And I +could gather this, but no more, from the conversation +of those who brought it in—that it was the +furniture of someone who was little loved, and only +spoken of as "he" or "<i>il Vecchiostro</i>"—that he +was gone on a journey, and much they cared how +soon he arrived at the end of it. The boy, who was +young and inquisitive, then asking whither this was +that he had gone, they told him with a laugh that +it was to his oldest friend, another like himself; to +whom he had given his whole soul, and who would +not care to part with him in a hurry. They hoped +he would have a cool bed to sleep in. And when the +boy hoped this too, they were very merry. But they +worked hard, and brought in a great mass of +furniture, which they stacked against the wall where I +was, so that I was quite hidden away. There +would be new fittings all through the castle now, +they said. But one said no—no! it would only be +in the <i>Vecchiostro's</i> own private rooms. "'Tis done +that he should be soonest forgotten," said one of +them. But it was only just when they had brought +in the last of it that this same one said that if ever +he—this <i>Vecchiostro</i>—came back from Hell there +would be all his gear ready for him. And then I +saw this was some dead man's property that his +successor would have put out of his sight. +</p> + +<p> +Then says my young boy to his father, who was +the man who had sworn at the key, why did they +not take the Signora's portrait down instead of +leaving it there, because everyone loved her; and +for his part, she kissed him once, and said he was +<i>carino</i>. Then says his father, what portrait? +And he answers, "In there—behind." For he had +peeped in round my frame thinking he knew me +again; being in fact the same that had helped to +get me down in the banqueting-hall, how long since +I could not say. But his father calls him a young +fool not to say so before it was too late; and as for +him, it was time for his supper and bed, and whoever +else liked the job might move all the chairs and +tables again to fish her ladyship out. And as all +were of one mind they laughed over this and went +noisily away. And the door was locked and I +heard no more. And the darkness was darker still +and the silence deeper. And I longed for the +<i>scaraffaggio</i> to come and whirr once more, and for +the sweet light of the <i>lucciola</i>. But there was none +such for me. And my Maddalena must be surely +dead, I thought, else that young boy would tell her +I was here, and she would come to find the +picture Giacinto painted of her in that merry time. +But I waited for her voice in vain, and had nothing +for myself but the darkness and the silence. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Just as the diver holds his breath and longs for +the sudden air that he must surely meet—in a +moment—in another moment!—so I held as it +were the breath of expectation, and believed in the +coming of those who could not but seek me; for at +first I felt certain they would come. They would +never leave me here, to decay! But there came no +voice, no glimmer of light, and I fell into a stupor +in which all memory grew dim, even that of my +Maddalena. +</p> + +<p> +What I suffered through that long period of +silence and darkness I cannot tell, nor could you +understand. The prisoner in his solitude is grateful +for each thing that enables him to note the flight of +time; and the fewer such things are the drearier is +the sameness of his lot. Can you imagine it if they +were all removed—a condition of simple existence +in black space, with no means of marking time at +all? Would you become, on that account, +unconscious altogether of weariness from the long +unalleviated hours? No, indeed! Take my word +for it. Rather, you would find it, as I found it, a +state of bondage such as one would long and pray +might be the lot of such as had been, in this life, +devils against the harmless; but going on through +all eternity, no nearer the end now than when it +started countless ages ago, an absolute monotone +of dulled sense without insensibility—even pain +itself almost an alleviation. +</p> + +<p> +That is what my life, if you can call it life, was +to me through all that term; but, as thought is +dumb, though I know the time goes on, how long +it goes on I know not. When I next hear human +speech, the voices are new and the words strange +and barbarous. Also, when I am taken from the +wall and turned round to the light, I can see +nothing, and I know not why. Perhaps it is all +dark here at all times, and they have brought no +light. I shall see, though, well enough when I am +hanged up under Ganymede, and see my bad old +Duke again, and even my other self, my Maddalena. +I have a longing on me to see her once more, and to +see her more like me, if it may be. It seems so +long! So much longer than the time when I was +left alone in the <i>Stanza delle Quattro Corone</i>. But +what you may find hard to understand is this, that +though I could not know how long this dreadful +waking sleep had been, neither could I be sure it +had not been a few hours only. I now know, for I +have learned since, that it was over three hundred +years. Yet when the end came it found me not +without a hope of Maddalena; or if not Maddalena, +at least the Duke. +</p> + +<p> +But I do not see them, either of them. Nor old +Marta Zan and her little dog. Nor the dropsical +old <i>maggiordomo</i>. That there is no Giacinto is little +wonder to me. For I believe him dead, killed by +that fell blow on the olive neck I loved so well, +just behind the ear. I wonder, though, that +I see none of the others. But indeed I have +much ado to see anything. All is in a mist of +darkness. +</p> + +<p> +Also, I am presently stunned by the clash of many +voices. I can catch from the words of those who +speak Maddalena's language, the tongue that I can +follow, that there is a great wranglement over me +and my sale price. For I am to be sold, and the +foreigners who wish to buy me are loud in their +dispraise of me; so much so that I do not +understand why they should wish to possess me at all. +In fact, they do actually go away after much heated +discussion, speaking most scornfully of pictures as +things no man in his senses would ever buy, and of +pictures with frames like mine as the most valueless +examples. I gather all this from repetitions made +by others, in Maddalena's tongue, nearly but not +exactly. +</p> + +<p> +Presently back comes one of them to say he will +go to six hundred pounds, but not a penny more. +Then says a woman's voice, "Ah, Signore! Six +hundred and fifty!" Then he, six hundred and +twenty-five. And then some price between the +two. And so we are agreed at last. And I am to +be put in a box and sent to a place whose name I +have never heard, that sounds like L'Ombra, a +name that frightens me, for it sounds like the +Inferno of the great poet, Dante. +</p> + +<p> +But I should tell you that, before this riot, and +noise, and disputation over me and my price, I had +heard the unpacking and removal of the great stack +of furniture that hid me. Only, as the persons who +removed it have no interest for us, and did not seem +from their conversation to be especially cultivated +or intelligent, but rather the reverse, I have not +said anything of them, nor of their valuations in +<i>lire</i> of each article as it was brought to light. Their +voices were the very first that I heard; but though +their words sounded strange to me, they only made +me think that maybe they were from Milan or +Genoa or some other place in Italy. I should not +have guessed them Tuscans; that is all. Indeed, +I hardly distinguished much of what they said until +they had removed the last of the furniture and I +was turned round to the light. Then I saw things +in a cloud, and heard indistinctly. I made out, +however, that I was thick with dust, and must be +brought out and cleaned before anyone could see +what I was like. Then I was carried away down +some stairs, and in the end I was aware, but dimly, +as in a dream, that I was again in the great chamber +where I last saw la Maddalena lying on the ground +insensible, while the old Duke prodded at her with +a stick. I could see there were many people in the +room, talking volubly. But I could not catch their +words well until a Signora, who seemed to take the +lead, wiped my face over with a wet sponge; and +then I heard more. Her voice was clearest, and +what she said was "<i>Ecco, Signori</i>! Now you can +see the ear quite plain. <i>Ma com'e bella</i>! <i>Bella +bella</i>!"—And then it was I came to hear all the +clamour of voices of a sudden. +</p> + +<p> +Then follows all the bargaining I told you of. +The Signora's husband would not sell an old +picture—not he!—for a thousand pounds in gold; not till +all the dirt was off and he could see it fairly. All +applauded this, and said in chorus neither would +they! Who could tell what might not be, under +the dirt? However, they knew so little about it +that they would not mind buying this one, on the +chance. But for a decently reasonable price—say +five thousand Italian lire. On which the owner +said, "<i>Come mai</i>! <i>E pochissimo</i>!" Then the +<i>Signori Inglesi</i> took another tone, and would have +none of the picture, nor any picture, at any price! +They would not know where to hang it. They did +not like pictures on their walls. All the walls were +covered with pictures already, all favourites, that +must not be moved. But why need I tell you all +this? You have heard folk make bargains, and the +lies they tell. +</p> + +<p> +The English Signori departed, having bought me +for near six hundred and fifty English pounds. And +then my lady and gentleman are mightily delighted, +and dance about the room with joy. Now they will +go to Monte Carlo and win back all they lost last +year. Then I hear them talking in an undertone, +thus:— +</p> + +<p> +(He) "I hope they never suspected it was none +of ours——" +</p> + +<p> +(She) "Ah, <i>Dio mio</i>! And I had told them we +were only <i>inquilini</i>"—that is, tenants. +</p> + +<p> +(He) "<i>Non ti confondi</i>? Don't fret about that. +They don't know what <i>inquilini</i> means. They can +only say '<i>mangia bene, quanto costa</i>!'" +</p> + +<p> +(She) "<i>Speriamo</i>! But what a fine lot of old +furniture! Couldn't we sell some of it, too?" And +this young Signora, who was very pretty and +impudent, and what I have since heard called +svelte, danced about the room in high glee. But +the good gentleman stopped her. +</p> + +<p> +(He) "<i>Troppo pericolo</i>! The fat old Marchesa +would find out. No, no! The picture is quite +another thing——" +</p> + +<p> +(She) "<i>Perche?</i>" +</p> + +<p> +(He) "Can't you see, thickhead? If the old +<i>strega</i>"—the old witch, that is—"had known the +picture was there, do you suppose she wouldn't have +had it out, long ago? And that other picture in +front of it, with the eagle.... Don't dance, but +listen!" +</p> + +<p> +(She) "... Picture in front of it, with the eagle +... yes, go on!" But she won't quite stop dancing, +and makes little quick tiptoe movements, not to +seem over-subservient and docile. +</p> + +<p> +(He) "I would have sold that, too, only it's too big +for safety. This one will go in a small case. The +<i>famiglia</i> will have to be well paid. What was it +la Filomena told you first of all about the room and +the furniture? Do stop that dancing!" +</p> + +<p> +(She) "There, see now, I've stopped! But you +<i>have</i> been told, once!" +</p> + +<p> +(He) "Then tell again!" +</p> + +<p> +(She) "It wasn't la Filomena. It was that old, +old Prisca who knows all about the Castello—more +than the Marchesa herself. She told me there was +an old room in the great tower that had not been +open for hundreds of years, as no one dared to go +near it for fear of the wicked old Duke's ghost. I +told her we were <i>liberi pensatori</i>"—that is to say, +free-thinkers—"and he would not hurt us, and +where was the key? We would not touch +anything—only look in!" +</p> + +<p> +(He) "Won't she tell about it all?" +</p> + +<p> +(She) "Not till we go! Besides, she doesn't +know. La Filomena won't tell her; she knows I +know all about her and Ugo Pistrucci. And she's +the only person that goes near the old Prisca, who +hasn't been off her bed for months. Oh no! +<i>She's</i> all right. As for the man, I told them +la Prisca said the <i>mobiglia</i> was to be taken out +and dusted and placed in the passage. <i>Stia +tranquillo, mio caro</i>!" +</p> + +<p> +(He) "What a happy chance these pig-headed +rich milords happened to come in just as we got it. +They might have gone before we found it! Only +to think of it! <i>Seicento e cinquante lire</i>...!" +</p> + +<p> +And so they went on rejoicing, and thinking of +new schemes, and how they would get me packed +off the very next day, and not a soul in the Castle +would ever know I had ever been there. They were +certainly very bad, unprincipled adventurers. You +should have heard them talk of what fun they would +have telling the old Marchesa about the great +discovery of treasures they had made, and the care +they had taken nothing should be lost. And then +who knows but she might trust them to get a sale +for all her old rubbish in England, and what a lot +of money they might make, with a little discretion. +If I had remained there I should have been longing +always for a chance of telling the old <i>strega</i>, as they +called her, what a nice couple she had let her Castle +to for the summer months. For I am convinced, +not only that they were thieves, but that they were +not even lawfully married. However it may have +been, I saw no more of them. For next day the +same man that had done the removal of the +furniture came with a box, and I was carefully packed, +and saw nothing more, and distinguished little +sound, for weeks it may have been, even months. +As the solidity of the box absorbed all sight and +hearing, and I knew nothing till I found myself on +an easel in a sort of Studio in a town that I at once +perceived to be L'Ombra. For what else could it +have been? +</p> + +<p> +At this point Mr. Pelly, who had been listening +intently, interrupted the speaker. "I think you +have got the name of the place wrong," he said. "I +imagine it must have been London—<i>Londra</i>—the +English Metropolis—not L'Ombra. The sounds +are very similar, and easy to mistake." +</p> + +<p> +"Possibly I was misled by the darkness. It made +the name seem so appropriate. But it was not +exactly night. There was a window near me, and +I could see there was a kind of yellow smoke over +everything. But there was music in the street, +and children appeared to be running and shouting. +Other things gave me the impression the time had +been intended for morning, but that something had +come in the way. It was a terrible place, much +like to that dark third circle in Hell, where Dante +and Virgilio saw the uncouth monster Cerberus. +</p> + +<p> +"But let us forget it! Why should such a place +be remembered or spoken of? I was there for no +great length of time: long enough only for the +picture-cleaner, in whose workshop I was, to remove +the obscurations of four hundred years, and safeguard +me with a glass from new deposits. For I understood +him to say that I should be just as bad as +ever in a very short space of time, in this beastly +sooty hole, but for such protection. +</p> + +<p> +"And yet this place was not entirely bad, nor in +darkness at all times, for at intervals a phenomenon +would occur which I supposed to be a peculiarity of +the climate, causing the lady of the house to say, +'There—the sun's coming out. I shall get my +Things on. Are you going to stay for ever in the +house, and get fustier and fustier, or are you going +to have a turn on the Embankment? You might +answer me, instead of smoking, Reginald!' But I +noticed that this phenomenon, whatever its cause, +never seemed to attain fruition, the lady always +saying she knew how it would be—they had lost +all the daylight. I only repeat her words. I +observed another thing worthy of remark, that it +very seldom held up. I am again repeating a +phrase that was to me only a sound. I have no +idea what 'it' was, nor what it held up, nor why. +I am only certain that the performance was a rare +one, however frequently it was promised. But the +gentleman who restored me seemed to have confidence +in its occurrence, conditionally on his taking +his umbrella. Otherwise, he said, it was cocksure +to come down cats and dogs, and they would be in +for a cab, and he only had half a crown. +</p> + +<p> +"These persons were of no interest in themselves, +and I should never remember or think of them at all +but for having been the unwilling witness of a +conjugal misunderstanding, which may quite +possibly have led to a permanent breach between them. +It is painful to think that the whole difference might +have been made in the lady's jealous misinterpretation +of her husband's behaviour towards a maiden +named <i>La Sera</i>—who, as I understood, came in +by the week at nine shillings, and always had her +Sunday afternoons, whatever those phrases mean; +no doubt you will know—if I had been able to add +my testimony to her husband's disclaimer of amorous +intent. For it was most clear that the whole thing +was but an innocent joke throughout, however +ill-judged and stupid. I saw the whole from my place +on the easel, and heard all that passed. I cannot +tell you how I longed to say a word on his behalf, +when, some days later, two friends paid him a visit, +who had evidently been taken into his confidence, +but who seemed to think that he had withheld +something from them, not treating them so frankly +as old friends deserved. Whereupon he warmly +protested that his wife had no solid ground of +complaint against him, having gone off, unreasonably, +in what he called "a huff"; but that he had just +paid <i>La Sera</i> her wages and sent her packing, so +that now he had to make his own bed and black +his own shoes. +</p> + +<p> +"I am sorry to say that these two friends showed +only an equivocal sympathy, winking at each other, +and each digging the other in the ribs with strange +humorous sounds, as of a sort of fowl. Also, they +shook their heads at their friend, though not, as +I think, reproaching him seriously, yet implying +thus, as by other things said, that he was of a gay +and sportive disposition that might easily be misled +by the fascinations of beauty, which they were +pleased to ascribe to <i>La Sera</i>. This was, however, +scarcely spoken with an earnest intent, since this +maiden, despite the beauty of her name—for one +might conceive it to ascribe to her the tender +radiance and sad loveliness of the sunset—was +wanting in charm of form and colour, and had not +successfully cultivated such other fascinations as +sometimes make good their deficiency; as sweetness +and fluency of speech, or a quick wit, or even the +artificial seductions of well-ordered dress. I derived, +too, a most unfavourable impression from a comment +of her employer—to the effect that if, when she +cleaned herself of a Sunday morning, she couldn't +do it without making the whole place smell of yellow +soap, she might as well chuck it and stop dirty. +</p> + +<p> +"But I should grieve to think that this Signore's +wife should have left him permanently for so foolish +a quarrel. For, though their lives seemed filled +with a silly sort of bickering, I believed from what +I saw that there was really no lack of love between +them, and I cannot conceive that they will be any +happier apart. Indeed, had she been indifferent to +her husband, could she have felt a trivial +inconstancy, implying no grievous wrong, of such +importance? But, indeed, it is absurd to use the +word <i>inconstancy</i> at all in such a case, though we +may condemn the ill-taste of all vulgar trifling with +the solemn obligations of conjugal duty. I wish I +might have spoken, to laugh in their faces and make +a jest of the whole affair. But silence was my lot. +</p> + +<p> +"I have hung here, as I suppose, for six months +past, and have often striven to speak, but none has +heard me till now. Think, dear Signore, how I +have suffered! Think how I have longed to speak +and be heard, when my Madeline, my darling—who +loves me, and says she loves me—has talked to her +great dog of her lover that was killed in the war...." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly interrupted. "Are you referring to +young Captain Calverley?" he said. "Because, if +so, it is not certain that he <i>is</i> dead. Besides, I +suppose you know that Miss Upwell and the Captain +were not engaged?" And then the old gentleman +fancied he heard a musical laugh come from the +picture. +</p> + +<p> +"How funny and cold you English are!" said the +voice. "Was <i>I</i> engaged to my darling, my love, +that only time he pressed me to his bosom; that only +time I felt his lips on mine? Was I not the bond-slave +for life to the evil heart and evil will of that +old monument of Sin, soaked deep in every stain of +Hell? Was I not called his <i>wife</i>? Yet my heart +and my soul went out to my love in that kiss, and +laughed in their freedom in mockery of the laws +that could put the casket that held them in bond, +and yet must perforce leave them free. And when +that young soldier tore himself away from my +Madeline—I saw them here myself; there by the +shiny fish, in the glass case—was their parting kiss +less real than ours was, that hour when I saw him +last, my own love of those years gone by?" +</p> + +<p> +"A—it isn't a subject I profess to understand +much about," said Mr. Pelly. He blew his nose and +wiped his spectacles, and was silent a moment. Then +he said, "But whatever the sentiment of the young +lady herself may be, there can be no doubt about +her mother's. In fact, she has herself told me that +she is most anxious that it should not be supposed +that there was any engagement. So I trust—if +you ever do have the opportunity of speaking to +anyone on the subject—that you will be careful not +to give the impression that such was the case. I do +not, perhaps, fully realise the motives that influence +Lady Upwell—a—and Sir Stopleigh,—of course it's +the same thing...." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly stopped with a jerk. He found himself +talking uncomfortably and inexplicably to space, +beside the embers of a dying fire, and in the distance +he could hear the carriage bringing the absentees +back through the wintry night, and the ringing +tread of the horses on the hard ground. +</p> + +<p> +"Poor Uncle Christopher all by himself, and the +fire out!" said the first comer into the Library. It +was the young lady who came to see the Italian +picture at the restorer's Studio in Chelsea, a little +over six months past. She had changed for the older +since then, out of measure with the lapse of time. +But her face was beautiful—none the less that it +was sad and pale—in the glow as she brought the +embers together to make life worth living to one or +two more faggots, just for a little blaze before we +went to bed. +</p> + +<p> +"I was asleep and dreaming," said the old gentleman. +"Such a queer dream!" +</p> + +<p> +"You must tell it us to-morrow, Uncle Christopher. +I like queer dreams." This young lady, +Madeline Upwell, always made use of this mode of +address, although the old gentleman was no uncle of +hers, but only a very old friend of the family who +knew her father before she was born, and called him +George, which was his Christian Christian-name, so +to speak, "Stopleigh" being outside family +recognitions—a mere Bartitude! +</p> + +<p> +But the picture, which might reasonably have +protested against Mr. Pelly's statement, remained +silent. So, when his waking judgment set the whole +down as a dream, it was probably right. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER IV +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +A Retrospective Chapter. How Fortune's Toy and the Sport of +Circumstances fell in love with one of his Nurses. Prose +composition. Lady Upwell's majesty, and the Queen's. +No engagement. The African War, and Justifiable +Fratricide. Cain. Madeline's big dog Cæsar. Cats. Ormuzd +and Ahriman. A handy little Veldt. Madeline's Japanese +kimono. A discussion of the nature of Dreams. Never +mind Athenæus. Look at the Prophet Daniel. Sir +Stopleigh's great-aunt Dorothea's twins. The Circulating +Library and the potted shrimps. How Madeline read the +manuscript in bed, and took care not to set fire to the +curtains. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +The story of Madeline, the young lady who is going +one day to inherit the picture Mr. Pelly thought +he was talking to last night, along with the Surley +Stakes property—for there is no male heir—is an +easy story to tell, and soon told. There were a +many stories of the sort, just as the clock of last +century struck its hundred. +</p> + +<p> +Whether the young Captain Calverley, whom the +picture alluded to, was a hero because, when, one +day in the hunting-field, our young heiress and her +quadruped came to grief over a fence, he made his +horse swerve suddenly to avoid disastrous complications, +and thereby came to greater grief himself, +Mr. Pelly, at any rate, could form no judgment. It +was out of his line, he said. So, according to him, +was the sequel, in which the sadly mauled mortal +portion of the young soldier, with a doubt if the +immortal portion was still in residence, was carried +to Surley Stakes and qualified—though rather +slowly—to resume active service, by the skill of the +best of surgeons and the assiduity of an army of +nurses. But, hero or not, he was credited with +heroism by the young lady, with all the natural +consequences. And no doubt his convalescence +was all the more rapid that he found himself, when +he recovered his senses forty-eight hours after his +head struck the corner of a stone wall in his +involuntary dismount, in such very delightful +company, with such opportunities of improving his +relations with it. In fact, the scheme for his +removal must have developed very soon, to give him +a text for a sermon to the effect that he was +Fortune's Toy and the Sport of Circumstances, that he +accounted concussion of the brain and a fractured +thigh-bone the only real blessings his lot had ever +vouchsafed to him, and that happiness would +become a Thing of the Past as soon as he rejoined +his regiment. He would, however, devote the +remainder of his life to treasuring the memories of this +little hour of unalloyed bliss, and hoping that his +cherished recollections would at almost the rarest +possible intervals find an echo somehow and +somewhere that his adoration—badly in love as he +was—failed in finding a description for, as the climax of +a long sentence. And perhaps it was just as well +that his resources in prose composition gave out +when they did, as nothing was left then but to +become natural, and say, "You'll forget all about +me, Miss Upwell, you know you will. That's what +I meant"—the last with a consciousness that when +we are doing prose composition we are apt to say +one thing and mean another. +</p> + +<p> +Madeline wasn't prepared to be artificial, with +this young dragoon or anyone else. She gave him +the full benefit of her large blue eyes—because, you +see, she had got him down, as it were, and he couldn't +possibly become demonstrative with a half-healed +fracture of the thigh—and said, "I hope I <i>shan't</i>. +I shall try not to, anyhow." But this seemed not +to give entire satisfaction, as the patient said, rather +ruefully, "<i>You could</i>, if you tried, Miss Upwell!" To +which the young lady, who was not without a +mischievous side to her character, answered, "Of +course I could!" but immediately repented, and +added. "One can do anything one likes, if one tries +hard enough, you know!" +</p> + +<p> +It would only be the retelling of a very old +story, the retreading of very old ground, to follow +these young people through the remainder of their +interview, which was interrupted by the appearance +of Madeline's mamma; who, to say the truth, had +been getting apprehensive that so many <i>têtes-à-tête</i> +with this handsome patient might end seriously. +And though his family was good, he was only a +younger son; and she didn't want her daughter to +marry a soldier. Fancy "Mad" being carried off +to India! For in the bosom of her family this +most uncomfortable of namelets had caught on +naturally, without imputation of Hanwell or Colney +Hatch. +</p> + +<p> +However, her ladyship was too late, this time. No +clinical practice of any Hospital includes kissing or +being kissed by the patient, and "Mad" and her +lover were fairly caught. Nothing was left for it +but confession at high tension, and throwing +ourselves on the mercy of the Court. But always with +the distinct reservation that neither of us could +ever love another. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Upwell, a very beautiful woman in her day, +was indulging in a beautiful sunset, and meant to +remain fine till midnight. There was a gleam of +the yellow silver of a big harvest moon in the hair +that had been gold. She was good, but very +majestic; in fact, <i>her</i> majesty, when she presented +her daughter to her Queen, competed with that of +the latter, which has passed into the language. To +do her justice, she let it lapse on hearing the full +disclosure of these two culprits, and had the presence +of mind to ask them if they had no suspicion that +they might be a couple of young fools, to fancy they +could know their own minds on so short an acquaintance, +etc. For this was barely seven weeks after +the hunting-field accident. "You silly geese!" she +said. "Go your own way—but you'll quarrel in +a fortnight. See if you don't!" <i>She</i> knew all +about this sort of thing, though Mr. Pelly didn't. +</p> + +<p> +The latter was right, however, and prudent, when +in his dream he laid stress on the wish of Madeline's +parents that there should be "no engagement." This +stipulation seemed to be accounted by both +of them—but especially by the Baronet—as a sort +of panacea for all parental responsibilities. It could +not be reiterated too often. The consequence was +that there were two concurrent determinations of +the relative positions of Madeline and the Captain; +one an esoteric one—a sort of sacramental +service of perpetual vows of fidelity; the other the +exoteric proclamations of a kind of many-headed +town-crier, who went about ringing his bell and +shouting that it was "distinctly understood that +there was no engagement." Mr. Pelly's repetition +of this in his dream may have had an intransitive +character; but he was good and prudent, just the +same. How we behave in dreams shows whether +the high qualities we pride ourselves on are more +than skin-deep. +</p> + +<p> +But all the efforts of the exoteric town-crier were +of no avail against the esoteric sacramental services. +The most unsettling condition lovers can have +imposed upon them—that of being left entirely to their +own devices, and never stimulated by so much as a +hint of a <i>chaperon</i>—failed to bring about a coolness. +And when within a year after his accident Jack +Calverley was ordered away with his Company to +South Africa, where war had all but broken out, +the sacramental service the picture—or someone—had +witnessed, just by the glass case with the big +fish in it, was the farewell of a couple of +heartbreaks, kept under by the upspring of Hope in +youth, that clings to the creed that the stricken +classes, the mourning classes, are Other People, and +that to them pity shall be given from within our +pale of well-fenced security. It was a wrench to +part, certainly, but Jack would come back, and be +a great soldier and wear medals. And the Other +People would die for their country. +</p> + +<p> +And then came the war, and the many unpleasant +discoveries that always come with a war, +the most unpleasant of all being the discovery of +the strength of the enemy. The usual recognitions +of the obvious, too late; and the usual denunciations +of everybody else for not having foreseen it all the +time. The usual rush to the money-chest of +unexhausted Credit, to make good with pounds +deficiencies shillings spent in time would have +supplied; the usual storms of indignation against +the incompetence in high places that never spent, +in time, the shillings we refused to provide. The +usual war-whoops from sheltered corners, safe out +of gunshot; and the usual deaths by scores of men +on both sides who never felt a pang of ill-feeling to +each other, or knew the cause of quarrel—yes, a +many of whom, had they known a quarrel was +pending, would have given their lives to avert it! +The usual bearing, on both sides, of the brunt of the +whirlwind by those who never sowed a wind-seed, +and the usual reaping of a golden harvest by the +Judicious Investor, he who buys and sells, but +makes and meddles not with what he sells or buys, +measuring its value alone by what he can get and +must give for it. And a very respectable person +he is, too. +</p> + +<p> +The history of Madeline's next few months made +up for her a tale of anxious waitings for many mails; +of pangs of unendurable tension over journals that, +surrendered by the postman, would not open; that, +opened at last, seemed nothing but advertisements; +that, run to earth and convicted of telegrams, only +yielded new food for anxiety. A tale of three +periods of expectation of letters from Jack, by every +mail. The first of expectation fulfilled; of letters full +of hope and confidence, of forecast of victories easily +won and a triumphant quick return. The second +of expectation damped and thwarted; of victories +revised; of Hope's rebukes to Confidence, the +coward who fails us at our need; of the slow dawn +of the true horrors of war—mere death on the +battlefield the least of them—that will one day change +the reckless young soldier to an old grave man that +has learned his lesson, and knows that the curse of +Cain is on him who stirs to War, and that half the +great names of History have been borne by Devils +incarnate. And then the third—a weary time of +waiting for a letter that came not, for only one little +word of news to say <i>yes</i> or <i>no</i> to the question we +hardly dare to ask:—"Is he dead?" For our poor +young friend, after distinguishing himself brilliantly, +and yet coming almost scathless out of more than +one action, was <i>missing</i>. When the roll was called +after a memorable action from which the two +opponent armies retreated simultaneously, able to +bear the slaughter by unseen guns no longer, no +answer came to the name—called formally—of +Captain Calverley. The survivors who still had +breath to answer to their names already knew that +he was missing—knew that he was last seen apparently +carried away by his horse, having lost control +over it—probably wounded, said report. That was +all—soon told! And then followed terrible hours +that should have brought more news and did not. +And the hearts of those who watched for it went +sick with the fear that no news would ever come, +that none would ever know the end of that ride +and the vanished rider. But each heart hid away +its sickness from its neighbour, and would not tell. +</p> + +<p> +And so the days passed, and each day's end was +the grafting of a fresh despair in the tree nourished +in the soil of buried hopes; and each morning +Madeline would try to reason it away and discover +some new calendar rule, bringing miscalculation to +book—always cutting short the tale of days, never +lengthening them. She talked very little to +anyone about it, for fear her houses of cards should be +shaken down by stern common sense; or, worse +still, that she should be chilled by the hesitating +sympathy of half-hearted Hope. But her speech +was free to her great dog Cæsar, when they were +alone together. +</p> + +<p> +Cæsar was about the size of a small cart-horse, +and when he had a mind—and he often had—to lie +on the hearthrug, and think with his eyes shut, he +was difficult to move. Not that he had an opposive +or lazy disposition, but that it was not easy to make +him understand. The moment he knew what was +wanted of him he was only too anxious to comply. +As, for instance, if he could be convinced of Cats, +he would rise and leave the room abruptly, knocking +several persons down, and leaving behind him the +trail of an earthquake. But his heart was good and +pure, and he impressed his admirers somehow that +he was always on the side of Ormuzd against +Ahriman: he always took part with the Right. +</p> + +<p> +So Madeline, when she found herself alone with +Cæsar, in those days, would cry into his fur as he +lay on the rug, and would put sentiments of +sympathy and commiseration into his mouth, which +may have been warranted by the facts, only really +there was nothing to show it. In these passages +she alleged kinship with Cæsar, claiming him as her +son. +</p> + +<p> +"Was he," she would say, "his own mamma's +precious Angel? And the only person in the house +that had any real feeling! All the other nasty +people keep on being sorry for her, and he says he +knows Jack's coming back, and nobody need be +sorry at all. And when Jack comes home safe and +well, his mamma's own Heavenly Angel shall run +with the horses all over Household Common—he +shall! And he shall catch a swallow at last, he +shall, and bring it to his own mamma. Bless him! +Only he mustn't scratch his darling head too +suddenly; at least, not till his mamma can get her own +out of the way, because she's not a bull or an +elephant, and able to stand anything.... That's +right, my pet! Now he shall try and get a little +sleep, he shall." This was acknowledgment of a +deep sigh, as of one who had at last deservedly +found rest. But it called for a recognition of its +unselfish nature, too. "And he never so much as +thought of going to sleep till he'd consoled his poor +mamma—the darling!" And really her interviews +with Cæsar grew to be almost Madeline's only speech +about her lost lover; for her father and mother, +though they talked to each other, scarcely dared +to say a word to her, lest their own disbelief +in the possibility of Jack's return should show itself. +</p> + +<p> +And so the hours passed and passed, and the days +grew to weeks, and the weeks to months; and now, at +the time of the cold January night when Mr. Pelly +dreamed the picture talked, the flame of Hope was +dying down in the girl's tired heart like the embers +he sat by, and none came bringing fuel and a new +lease of life. +</p> + +<p> +But the way she nursed the flame that flickered +still was brave. She kept up her spirits entirely +on the knowledge that there was no direct proof of +Jack's death. She fostered a conception in her +mind of a perfectly imaginary Veldt, about the size +of Hyde Park, and carefully patrolled day and +night. They would have been certain to find +him if he were dead—was her thought. What +a handy little Veldt that was!—and, oh, the +intolerable leagues of the reality! But it did +help towards keeping her spirits up, somehow or +other. +</p> + +<p> +Her father and mother ascribed more than a fair +share of these kept-up spirits to their great panacea. +They laid to their souls the flattering unction that +if there <i>had</i> been a regular engagement their daughter +would have given way altogether. Think what a +difference it would have made if she had had to go +into mourning! Lady Upwell took exception to +the behaviour of Jack's family at Calverley Court, +who had rushed into mourning six weeks after his +disappearance, and advertised their belief in his +death, really before there was any need for it. Her +daughter, on the contrary, rather made a parade of +being out of mourning. Perhaps it seemed to her +to emphasize and consolidate her own hopes, as +well as to rebuke dispositions towards premature +despair in others. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore, when this young lady came upon old +Mr. Pelly, just aroused from his dream, she was +certainly not clad in sackcloth and ashes. She had +on her rose colour <i>voile de soie</i>; only, of course, +Mr. Pelly didn't see it until she took off her seal-colour +musquash wrap, which was quite necessary because +of the cold. And the third evening after that, +which was to be a quiet one at home for Mr. Pelly +to read them the memoranda of his dream in the +Library, she put on her Jap kimono with the +embroidered storks, which was really nearly as smart +as the <i>voile de soie</i>; and, of course, there was no need +to fig up, when it was only Mr. Pelly. And +whatever tale her looks might tell, no one could have +guessed from her manner she had such a sorrow at +heart, so successfully did she affect, from fear of +it, a cheerfulness she was far from feeling; knowing +perfectly well that if she made any concession, she +must needs break down altogether. +</p> + +<p> +"Fancy your being able to remember it all, and +write it out like that!" said she to Mr. Pelly when +they adjourned into the Library after dinner. +</p> + +<p> +"We must bear in mind," he replied, "that the +story is a figment of my own mind, and therefore +easier to recall than a communication from another +person. Athenæus refers to an instance of..." +</p> + +<p> +"Never mind Athenæus! How do you know it +is a figment of your imagination?" +</p> + +<p> +"What else can it be?" +</p> + +<p> +"Lots of things. Besides, it doesn't matter. +Look here, now, you say it was a dream, don't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"I certainly think so." +</p> + +<p> +"Well!—and aren't dreams the hardest things to +recollect there are? Look at the Prophet Daniel, +and Nebuchadnezzar." Mr. Pelly thought to +himself that he would much sooner look at the speaker. +But he only said, "Suppose we do!" To which +the reply was, "Well, then—of course!..." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course what?" +</p> + +<p> +"Why—of course when you can recollect things +that proves they're not dreams." +</p> + +<p> +"Then, when Daniel recollected—or, I should +rather say, recalled his dream to Nebuchadnezzar—did +that prove that it wasn't a dream?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly not, because he was a Prophet. The +Chaldeans <i>couldn't</i> recollect, and that proved that +it was." +</p> + +<p> +The Baronet and his Lady remained superiorly +silent, smiling over the heads of the discussion. +The attitude of Debrett towards human weaknesses—such +as Philosophical Speculation, or the Use of +the Globes—was indicated. +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Pelly had finished reading his account +of the dream—on which our relation of it, already +given, was founded—discussion ensued. It +embodied, intelligently enough, all the things that it +is dutiful to say when we are disconcerted at the +inscrutable. +</p> + +<p> +The Baronet said we must guard ourselves +carefully against being carried away by two or three +things; superstition was one of them. It did not +require a Scientific Eye to see that there was nothing +in this narrative which might not be easily ascribed +to the subconscious action of Mr. Pelly's brain. +It was quite otherwise in such a case as that of his +great-aunt, Dorothea, whose wraith undoubtedly +appeared and took refreshment at Knaresborough +Copping at the very time that she was confined of +twins here in this house. The testimony to the +truth of this had never been challenged. But when +people came and told him stories of substantial +tables floating in the air and accordions being +played, he always asked this one question, "Was +it in the dark?" That question always proved a +poser, etc., etc.—and so forth. From which it +will be seen that Sir Stopleigh belonged to that +numerous class of persons which, when its attention +turns towards wondermongering of any sort, loses +its heads promptly, and runs through the nearest +available gamut of accepted phrases. +</p> + +<p> +Her ladyship said she was not the least surprised +at anything happening in a dream. She herself +dreamed only the other night that Lady Pirbright +had gone up in a balloon shaped like a gridiron, and +the very next day came the news that old Canon +Pirbright, at Trenchards Plaistowe, had had a +paralytic stroke. It was impossible to account for +these things. The only wonder to her was that +Mr. Pelly should have recollected the whole so plainly, +and been able to write it down. She would give +anything to recollect that dream about the +Circulating Library and the potted shrimps. Her +ladyship discoursed for some time about her own +dreams. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly entirely concurred in the view that the +whole thing was a dream. In fact, it would be +absurd to suppose it anything else. When he got +an opportunity to read Professor Schrudengesser's +translation of the Italian MS. to his friends, they +would readily see the source of most of the events +his mind had automatically woven into a +continuous narrative for the picture-woman to tell. +He would rather read it to them himself than leave +them the MS. to read, as there were points that +would require explanation. He could not offer to +do so till he came back from his great-grandniece +Constance's wedding at Cowcester. A little delay +would not matter. They would not have forgotten +the dream-story in a fortnight. To this, assent was +given in chorus. +</p> + +<p> +But Madeline was not going to have the story +pooh-poohed and made light of. "I believe it was +a <i>ghost</i>, Uncle Christopher," said she. "The ghost +of the woman in the picture. And you christened +her after me by subconscious thingummy. <i>Maddalena's</i> +Italian for Madeline. But they never give +their names right. Ask anyone that has +phenomena." Then she lit candles for all parties to +go to bed, and kissed them all, including her alleged +uncle, who laid stress on his claim for this grace in +duplicate, as he had no one to kiss him at home. +"Poor Uncle Christopher," said she, "he's been shut +up in the dark with a ghost.... Oh yes!—I'm in +earnest, and you're all a parcel of sillies." Then +she borrowed his written account of the dream to +re-read in bed, and take care the lamp didn't set +fire to the curtains. She said she particularly +wanted to look at that last sentence or two, about +when the picture was in Chelsea. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER V +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +Mr. Aiken's sequel. Pimlico Studios. Mr. Hughes's Idea. +Aspects of Nature. Mr. Hughes's foot. What had +Mr. Aiken been at? <i>Not</i> Fanny Smith. It was Sairah!! +Who misunderstood and turned vermilion? Her malice. +The Regent's Canal. Mr. Aiken's advice from his friends. +Woman and her sex. How Mr. Hughes visited Mr. Aiken +one evening, and the Post came, with something too big +for the box, while Mrs. Parples slept. Mr. Aiken's very +sincerely Madeline Upwell. Her transparency. How the +picture's photo stood on the table. Interesting lucubrations +of Mr. Hughes. What was that? But it was nothing—only +an effect of something. The Vernacular Mind. Negative +Juries. How Mr. Aiken stopped an echo, so it was +Mr. Hughes's fancy. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +The story's brief reference to Mr. Aiken's life after +his good lady forsook him, may be sufficient for +its purposes, but the author is in a certain sense +bound to communicate to the reader any details +that have come to his knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken's first step was to take an intimate +friend or two into his confidence. But his intimate +friend or two had a quality in common with the +Pickwickian bottle or two. An intimate friend or +six would be nearer the mark—or even twelve. +He did not tell his story separately to each; there +was no need. If the mention of a private affair +within the hearing of cat or mouse leads to its +being shouted at once from the top of the +house—and that was the experience of Maud's young man +who went to the Crimea—how much more public +will your confidences become if you make them to +a tenant of a Studio that is one of a congeries. +</p> + +<p> +Pimlico Studios was a congeries, built to +accommodate the Artists of a great age of Art, now +pending, as though to meet the needs of locusts. For +there can be no doubt that such an age is at hand, +if we are to judge by the workshop accommodation +that appears to be anticipating it. +</p> + +<p> +An ingenious friend of the author—you must have +noticed how many authors have ingenious friends?—has +been able to determine by a system of averages +of a most convincing nature, that the cubic area +of the Studios in Chelsea and Kensington alone +exceeds that of the Lunatic Asylums of the Metropolis +by nearly seven and a quarter per cent. This +gentleman's researches on the subject are +consequent upon his singular conviction that the output +of the Fine Arts, broadly speaking, is small in +proportion to the amount of energy and capital +devoted to them. We have reasoned with him in +vain on the subject, pointing out that the Fine Arts +have nothing in common with the economics of +Manufacture, least of all in any proportions between +the labour expended and the results attained. +Were it otherwise, the estimation of a painter's +merit would rise or fall with his colourman's bill +and the rent of his studio. This gentleman—although +he is a friend of the author—has no Soul. +If he had, the spectacle of the life-struggle which +is often the lot of Genius would appeal to him, and +cause him to suspend his opinion. It is always, +we understand, desirable to suspend one's opinion. +</p> + +<p> +He would do so, for instance, in the case of an +Artist, a common acquaintance of ours, whom at +present he condemns freely, calling him names. +This Artist has five Studios, each of them full of +easels and thrones. The number of his half-used +colour tubes that won't squeeze out is as the sands +of the sea, while his bundles of brushes that only +want washing to be as good as new, may be likened +to corn-sheaves, in so far as their stems go—a mere +affair of numeration. But their business ends are +another pair of shoes altogether; for the hairs of the +brushes have become a coagulum as hard as agate, +calling aloud for Benzine Collas to disintegrate +them—to the tune, this Artist admits, of threepence +each—whereas the ear of corn yields to less drastic +treatment. Contrivances of a specious nature in +japanned tin and celluloid abound, somewhat as +spray abounds on oceans during equinoxes, and +each of these has at one time fondly imagined it +was destined to become that Artist's great resource +and stand-by, the balustrade his genius would not +scorn to be indebted to. But he has never drawn +a profile with the copying-machine that has legs, +nor availed himself of the powers of the +graphoscope—if that is its name—that does perspective, +nor done anything with the countless wooden +figures except dislocate their universal joints; nor, +we fear, for a long time paid anything on account +of the quarterly statements that flutter about, with +palette-knives full of colour wiped off on them, that +are not safe to sit down upon for months. But no +impartial person could glance at any of the +inaugurations of pictures on the thousand canvases +in these five Studios without at once exclaiming, +"This is Genius!" The Power of the Man is everywhere +visible, and no true lover of Art ever regrets +that so few of them have been carried into that +doubtful second stage where one spoils all the +moddlin' and the colour won't hold up, and somehow +you lose the first spirit of the Idear and don't +get any forwarder. It never occurs to any mature +Critic to question the value of this Artist's results, +even of his least elaborated ones. And, indeed, an +opinion is current among his friends that restriction +of materials and of the area of his Studios might +have cramped and limited the free development of +a great mind. They are all unanimous that a +feller like Tomkins must have room to turn round, +or where are you! And, if, as we must all hope, the +growth of genius such as his is to be fostered as it +deserves, no one should look with an ungenerous +eye upon such agglomerations of Art-workshops as +the Pimlico Studios, or sneer at them as uncalled +for, merely because a Philistine Plutocracy refuses +to buy their produce, and has no walls to hang it on +if it did. We for our part can only note with +regret that any Studios should be so badly adapted +to their purpose, and constructed with so little +consideration for the comfort of their occupants, as +these same Pimlico Studios. +</p> + +<p> +We have, however, been tempted away from our +subject, which at present is the community of +Artists that occupied them; and must return to it +to say that these very drawbacks were not altogether +without their compensations. For though these +Studios were, like the arguments of Dissent, +unsound—being constructed to admit rainwater and +retain products of combustion, each of its own +stove and the Studio beneath it—these structural +shortcomings were really advantages, in so far as +they promoted interchange of social amenities +between the resident victims of the speculative +builder who ran up the congeries. Sympathy +against their common enemy, the landlord, brought +all the occupants of Pimlico Studios into a hotchpot +of brotherly affection, and if the choruses of +execration in which they found comfort have reached the +ears for which they were intended, that builder will +catch it hot, one of these odd-come-shortlies. This +expression is not our own. +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Reginald Aiken, with his domestic +perplexity burning his tongue's end and crying +aloud for utterance, called upon the Artist from +whom we have borrowed it, that gentleman, Mr. Hughes, +one of his most intimate friends, was +thinking. He had been thinking since breakfast—thinking +about some new Aspects of Nature, which +had been the subject of discussion with some friends +the evening before. They were those new Aspects +of Nature which have been presented so forcibly by +Van Schronk and Le Neutre; and of which, in this +Artist's opinion, more than a hint is to be found +in Hawkins. He was thinking deeply when Mr. Aiken +came in, and not one stroke of work had he +done, would that gentleman believe him, since he +set out his palette. Mr. Aiken's credulity was not +overtaxed. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes wanted to talk about himself, and +said absently, "You all right, Crocky?" addressing +Mr. Aiken by a familiar name in use among his +intimate friends. He was not well disposed towards +a negative answer when Mr. Aiken gave one; an +equivocal one certainly, but not one to whose +meaning it was possible to affect blindness. The +words were "Middlin'—considerin'!" But Mr. Hughes +was not going to be too coming. +</p> + +<p> +"Wife well?" said he remotely. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken sprang at his inattentive throat, and +nailed him. "Ah, that's it," said he. "That's +the point." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes was forced to inquire further, and +stand his Idea over, for later discussion. But he +might just as well have let it alone—better, if you +come to that. He really was a stupid feller, Hughes, +don't you know? "I say," said he, "don't you +run away and say I didn't tell you what would +happen." For he had interpreted his friend's +agitated demeanour and equivocal speech as the +result of a recent insight into futurity, showing him +in the position of a detected and convicted parent, +without the means of providing for an increasing +family. For they do that, families do. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't be an ass, Stumpy," said he, using a +familiar name no fact in real life warranted. "It's +not that sort of thing, thank God! No—I'll tell +you what it is, only you mustn't on any account +mention it." +</p> + +<p> +"All right, Crocky! I never mention things. +Honest Injun! Go ahead easy." Mr. Hughes was +greatly relieved that his surmise had been wrong. +Good job for Mr. Aiken, as also for his wife! +Mr. Hughes desired his congratulations to this lady, but +withdrew them on second thoughts. Because, you +see, her escape from the anxieties of maternity was +entirely constructive. Mr. Hughes felt that he had +put his foot in it, and that his wisest course would +be to take it out. He did so. But Mr. Aiken had +something to say about his wife, and made it a +corollary to her disappearance from the conversation. +</p> + +<p> +"She's bolted!" said he lugubriously. "Went +away Thursday, and wrote to say she wasn't coming +back, Friday. It's a fact." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes put back his foot in it. "Who's she +bolted with? Who's the feller?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken flushed up quite red, like any +turkey-cock. "Damn it, Stump!" said he, "you really +ought to take care what you're saying. I should +like to see any fellow presume to run away with +Euphemia. Draw it mild!" He became calmer, +and it is to be hoped was ashamed of his irritability. +But really it was Mr. Hughes's fault—talking just +like as if it was in a novel, and Euphemia a character. +</p> + +<p> +"I beg your pardon," said that offender humbly. +"It was the way you put it. Besides, they are +generally supposed to." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken responded, correctively and loftily: +"Yes, my dear fellow, on the stage and in novels." He +added, with something of insular pride, "Chiefly +French and American." +</p> + +<p> +"What's her little game, then?" asked Mr. Hughes. +"If it's not some other beggar, <i>what</i> is +it she's run away with?" +</p> + +<p> +"She has not run away with anybody," said +Mr. Aiken with dignity. "Nor anything. Perhaps +I should explain myself better by saying that she +has refused to return from her Aunt's." +</p> + +<p> +"Any reason?" said Mr. Hughes, who wanted to +get back to his Idea. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sorry to say it was my fault, Stumpy," +came very penitently from the catechumen. +</p> + +<p> +Interest was roused. "I say, young man," said +Mr. Hughes, with a tendency of one eye to close, +"what have you been at?" +</p> + +<p> +"Absolutely nothing whatever!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, of course! But along of who? Who's +the young woman you <i>haven't</i> been making love to? +Tell up and have done with it." +</p> + +<p> +"You are under a complete misconception, +Stump. Really <i>nobody</i>!" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes thought a moment, as though he +were at work on a conundrum. Then he pointed +suddenly. "Fanny Smith!" said he convictingly. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken quite lost his temper, and got +demonstrative. "Fanny Smith—Fanny grandmother!" +he exclaimed meaninglessly! "How can you talk +such infernal rot, Stumpy. Do be reasonable!" +</p> + +<p> +"Then it was <i>somebody</i>," said his tormentor, and +Mr. Aiken felt very awkward and humiliated. +</p> + +<p> +However, he saw inevitable confession ahead, and +braced himself to the task. "Really, Stump," +said he, "it would make you cry with laughing to +know who it was that was at the bottom of it. I +said 'Fanny grandmother,' just now, but at any +rate Fanny Smith's a tailor's wife with no legs to +speak of, who sits on the counter, and a very nice +girl if you know her. I mean there's no +fundamental absurdity in Fanny Smith. This +was." Which wasn't good speechwork, but, oh dear, how +little use accuracy is! +</p> + +<p> +"Who was it then?" Mr. Hughes left one eye +shut, under an implied contract to reopen it as soon +as the answer came to his question. +</p> + +<p> +"Well!" said Mr. Aiken reluctantly. "If you +<i>must</i> have it, it was Sairah!" He was really +relieved when his friend looked honestly puzzled, +repeating after him "Sairah! What!—the gurl!" +in genuine astonishment. It was now evident that +the Idea would have to stand over. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes said farewell to it, almost audibly; +then said "Stop a minute!" and lit a pipe; then +settled down in a rocking chair to listen, saying, +"Now, my boy!—off you go." He was a long and +loose-limbed person who picked his knees up +alternately with both hands, as though to hold his +legs on. Whenever he did this, the slipper in that +connexion came off, with the effect of bringing its +owner's sock into what is called keeping with the +rest of the Studio, one which many persons would +have considered untidy. +</p> + +<p> +After which Mr. Aiken went off, or on—whichever +you prefer. "Of course I don't expect you +fellers to do anything but chaff, you know. But +it's jolly unpleasant, for all that. It was like this, +don't you see? A young female swell had brought +her sweetheart—I suppose, unless he was her cousin—to +see a picture I'm cleaning for her parent, who's +a Bart. In Worcestershire. Know him? Sir +Stopleigh Upwell." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes didn't, that he could call to mind, +after a mental search which seemed to imply great +resources in Barts. +</p> + +<p> +"Well—she was an awfully jolly girl, but quite +that sort." Mr. Aiken tried to indicate by gesture, +a fashionably dressed young lady with a stylish +figure, and failed. But Mr. Hughes, an Impressionist +Artist, could understand, and nodded prompt +appreciation. So Mr. Aiken continued: +</p> + +<p> +"When they cleared out, Euphemia said the +young woman was 'up-to-date.' And I suppose +she was...." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh certainly—quite up to date—not a doubt of it!" +</p> + +<p> +"Well—I made believe not to know the meaning +of the expression, just to take a rise out of Euphemia. +And you know she has just <i>one</i> fault—she's so +matter-of-fact! She said everyone knew the +meaning of 'up-to-date,' that knew anything. Ask +anybody! Ask her Aunt Priscilla—and I certainly +wasn't going to run the risk—like bearding +a tigress in her den with impertinent questions!—or +Mrs. Verity the landlady. Or, for that matter, +ask the gurl, Sairah! That's where <i>she</i> came in, +Stump." Mr. Aiken seemed to hang fire. +</p> + +<p> +"But," said Mr. Hughes, "she only comes in as +an abstraction, so far. I can't see her carcass in +it." From which we may learn that Mr. Hughes +thought that abstract meant incorporeal; or, at +least, imponderable. It is a common error. "What +did <i>you</i> say?" he asked. +</p> + +<p> +"I said 'Suppose I ask Sairah!' and rang for +her, for a lark. Euphemia was in an awful rage +and pretended to go, but stopped outside to listen." The +speaker's hesitation appeared to increase. +</p> + +<p> +"Well—and when she came?..." +</p> + +<p> +"Why, the stupid idiot altogether misunderstood +me. Damn fool! What the dooce she thought +I meant, I don't know...." +</p> + +<p> +"What did you say? Out with it, old chap!" Mr. Hughes +seemed to be holding intense amusement +back, with a knowledge that it would get the +bit in its teeth in the end. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken, seeing this, intensified and enlarged +his manner. "I <i>merely</i> said—no, really it's the +simple honest truth, every word—I <i>merely</i> said, +'Your mistress says you know the meaning of +"up-to-date," Sairah.' And what does the beast +of a girl do but turn vermilion and stand staring +like a stuck pig!" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes began shaking his head slowly from +side to side. But he did not get to the direction +<i>accelerando</i>, for he stopped short, and said abruptly, +"Well—what next?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken assumed a responsible and mature +manner, rather like that of a paterfamilias on his +beat. "I reasoned with the girl. Pointed out that +her mistress wouldn't say things to turn vermilion +about. I tried to soothe her suspicions...." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes interrupted, saying dubiously: "I +see. No tong-dresses, of course?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken explained that that was just where the +misapprehension had come in. If his wife had +been inside the room instead of on the <i>stairs</i>, she +would have seen that there was absolutely <i>nothing</i>. +Mr. Hughes looked incredulous. +</p> + +<p> +"There must have been somethin', old chap, to +set your missis off. Don't tell me!" +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Aiken <i>would</i> tell Mr. Hughes—would +insist on doing so. "It was the horrible, shameless +brute's diabolical malice!" he shouted. "Nothing +more nor less! What does she do but say out loud +just as my wife was coming into the room, 'You +keep your 'ands off of me, Mr. Aching!' and of +course, when Euphemia came in, she thought I had +just jumped half a mile off. And it was rough on +me, Stump, because really my motive was to save +my wife having to get another house-and-parlourmaid." +</p> + +<p> +"Motive for what?" said Mr. Hughes shrewdly. +He had touched the weak point of the story. "Did +you, or did you not, young man, take this young +person round the waist or chuck her under the +chin?" +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Hughes," said Mr. Aiken, with +undisguised impatience, "I wouldn't chuck that +odious girl under the chin with the end of a +barge-pole. Nor," he added after reflection, "take her +round the waist with one of the drags in readiness +at the Lodge." The barge-pole had conducted his +imagination to the Regent's Canal, and left it there. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken had had no intention when he called +on his friend Hughes to take the whole of Pimlico +Studios into his confidence. But what was he to +do when another Artist dropped in and Mr. Hughes +said, "You won't mind Triggs? The most +discreet beggar <i>I</i> ever came across!" What could +he say that would arrest the entry of Mr. Triggs +into the discussion of his family jar that would not +appear to imply that that gentleman was an +indiscreet beggar? And what course was open to +him when Mr. Hughes told yet another artist, whose +name was Dolly, that he might come in, but he +wasn't to listen? And yet another, whose name +was Doddles? +</p> + +<p> +Even if there had been no other chance visitors +to the Studio during the conclave on Mr. Aiken's +private affairs, there would have been every +likelihood of complete publicity for them in the course of +a day or two at most. For nothing stimulates +Rumour like affidavits of secrecy. It's such fun +telling what is on no account to go any farther. But +as a matter of fact more than one gentleman who +would have resented being called a <i>flâneur</i>, looked +in at Mr. Hughes's Studio casually that morning +to talk over that gentleman's Idea, mooted yesterday +at The Club, and found himself outside a circle +whose voices subsided down to inaudible exchanges +of postscripts to finish up. As each newcomer acted +upon this in the sweet and candid manner of this +community, saying unaffectedly, "What's the fun?" +and some friend of his within the circle usually said +to him, "Shut up! Tell you after!" and as moreover +it was invariably felt that a single exclusion +only embarrassed counsel, no opportunity was +really lost of making Europe acquainted with the +disruption of Mr. Aiken's household. And it was +a pity, because so much gossip doesn't do any good. +Besides, the time might have been profitably +employed ventilating Mr. Hughes's Idea, and getting +a sort of provisional insight into the best means of +carrying it out. As it was, when, some time after +midday, someone said, "I say, Stump, my boy, +how about that Idea of yours we were talking about +at The Club yesterday?" everyone else looked at +his watch, and said it was too late to get on to that +now; we must have lunch, and have a real serious +talk about it another time. Then we went to lunch +at Machiavelli's, and it was plenty early enough if +we were back by three. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken received a good deal of very sound +advice from his friends as to how he might best deal +with his emergency. He turned this over in his +mind as he turned himself over on his couch when +he got home about three in the morning, and was +rather at a loss to select from it any samples from +different Mentors which agreed upon a course. In +fact, the only one thing they had in common was +the claim made by their respective promulgators +to a wider and deeper knowledge of that mysterious +creature Woman than Mr. Aiken's inexperience +could boast. One said to him—speaking as from +long observation of a Sex you couldn't make head +or tail of—that, depend upon it, she would come +round, you see if she didn't. They always did. +Another, that this said Sex was obstinacy itself, +and you might depend upon it she would stick out. +They always did. Another, that a lot the best +thing for a husband in like case to do was to go +and cosset the offended lady over with appropriate +caresses, before which she would be sure to soften. +They always did. Another, that if you could +convince her by some subtle machinations that +you didn't care a twopenny damn how long she +stayed away, back she would come on the nail. +They always did. In the multitude of counsellors +there is Wisdom, no doubt, but when the multitude +is large enough to advise every possible course, it is +just as easy to run through all the courses open to +adoption by oneself, and choose one on the strength +of its visible recommendations. More particularly +because so many advisers insist on your taking their +advice, and go on giving it, cataballatively, if you +don't. Mr. Aiken felt, when he retired for the +night, like the sheet Aunt Sally hangs up behind +her when she folds it up at the end of a busy day +on Epsom Downs. +</p> + +<p> +It was a great pity that Mr. Aiken's domestic +upset did not occur a few days later, because then +Mr. Hughes's Idea would have had such a much +clearer stage for its <i>début</i>. As it was, what with one +thing and what with another, the mature discussion +of this subject was delayed a full week. Next day +Triggs had to go to Paris, and of course it was +nonsense to attempt anything without him—for +look at the clearness of that man's head! Then, +when Triggs came back, a day later than expected, +his aunt must needs invite her nephew down to +Suddington Park, which is her place in Shropshire, +which had earned for Mr. Triggs the name of The +Pobble—you remember Aunt Jopiska's Park, if +you read your Lear in youth—and which was an +expectation of his, if he kept in favour with the old +lady. Of course, the Idea didn't depend on Triggs, +or any one man. No, thank you! But Triggs +had a good business head on his shoulders, and was +particularly sound on the subject of Premises. It +is a singular and noticeable thing that whenever +any great motive or scheme germinates in the +human brain, that brain, before it has formulated +the conditions thereof, or fully defined its objects, +will begin to look at Premises, and while it is +examining some very much beyond its means—in +Piccadilly, for instance, or Old Bond Street—will feel +that the project is assuming form, and that now +we shall get on to really <i>doing</i> something, and come +to the end of this everlasting talk, talk, talk, that +leads to nothing, and only sets people against us. +So really very little could be done till The Pobble +came back from Aunt Jopiska. When he did come +back there was some other delay, but it's always +well to be beforehand. The enthusiasts of this +Idea could look at Premises; and did so. +</p> + +<p> +All this has little or nothing to do with the story. +But it serves to individualize Mr. Hughes, who, but +for it, would be merely a long artist with a goatee +beard, who not infrequently looked in to smoke a +pipe on the split wild boar whose head endangered +the safety of self-warmers on Mr. Aiken's floor in +the Studio near the stove where he found the Vestas +that were all stuck together. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes was standing there, a good many +weeks after our last date, chatting with Mr. Aiken, +who was becoming quite slovenly and dirty with +nobody to look after him—because, of course, +Mrs. Parples, who came in by the day, hadn't the sense to +see to anything; and, moreover, he was that snappy +at every turn, there wasn't, according to +Mrs. Parples, many would abear him. +</p> + +<p> +He had been hoping that the first of his advisers +whom we cited was right, and that if he waited a +reasonable time he would see if his wife wouldn't +come round. If they always did, she would. But +he was beginning to be afraid they sometimes +didn't. He had even impatiently expressed a +view equivalent to that which identified her with +obstinacy itself, the quality. But this was only +temper, though no doubt she might stick out. +They might sometimes, those curious examples of +a perfectly unique Sex. He really wanted to go +to her with persuasive arts and procure a +reconciliation. But he was too proud. +</p> + +<p> +Besides, if that was possible now, it would be +equally so three months hence. As to the fourth +alternative, that of showing he didn't care, that +would be capital on the stage, but he wasn't going +to burn his fingers with it in real life. So he passed +his days working, in his own conceit; and smoking +in a chair opposite to his work, in Mrs. Parples'. +Perhaps neither conception was quite correct. His +evenings he mostly passed seeing bad plays well +acted, or good plays ill acted—these are the only +sorts you can get free paper for. It was ridiculous +for him, knowing such a lot of actors, to pay at the +door. Now and again, however, he stayed at +home, and a friend came in for a quiet smoke. +Even so Mr. Hughes, this evening. +</p> + +<p> +"Things improvin' at all, Crocky?" said he, not +exactly as if he thought he wasn't inquisitive. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken kept an answer, which was coming, +back for consideration. He appeared to reject it, +going off at a tangent by preference. He had made +up his mind, he said, not to fret his kidneys any +more over his wife's absence. She would come +round before long, and eat humble-pie for having +made such a fool of herself. He preferred the +expression "damn fool," but chivalry limited its +utterance to a semi-<i>sotto voce</i>. "I might get a +letter from her any minute," said he. "Why, +when the post came just now, I fully expected it +was a letter from her." He appeared to confuse +between expectation's maximum and its realization. +"There he is again. I shouldn't be the +least surprised if this one <i>was</i>." +</p> + +<p> +He left the room with a transparent parade of +deliberation. But before he had reached the +staircase the postman knocked again, and Mr. Aiken +came back saying: "It isn't her. It's something +that won't go in the box." This was slack language +and slack reasoning—confusion confounded. But +Mr. Aiken retired on it with dignity, saying: +"Mrs. Parples attends to the door." +</p> + +<p> +The something continued to refuse, audibly, to +go in the box, and Mrs. Parples didn't attend to the +door. The postman put all his soul into a final +knock, which seemed to say, "I am leaving, +half-out, what may be only an advertisement, or may +be vital to your hereafter, or somebody's;" and +then washed his hands of it and took up Next +Door's case. Mr. Aiken listened for Mrs. Parples, +who remained in abeyance, and then went out again +and returned with a very ill-made-up consignment +indeed, and a normal square envelope with a +bespoken "M" embossed on its flap, directed in +an upright hand, partly robust, partly æsthetic, +an expression applied nowadays to anything +with a charm about it. This handwriting had one. +</p> + +<p> +"Parples is sleeping peacefully," said Mr. Aiken. +"It would be a shame to disturb Parples. I know +who this is." He opened the envelope with +difficulty, but looked stroked and gratified. The +latter was from his very sincerely Madeline Upwell. +Just you notice any male friend of yours next time +you have a chance of seeing one open a letter from +youth and beauty which remains—however +theoretically—his very sincerely, and see if he doesn't +look stroked and gratified. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes picked up the delivery that had given +the letter-box so much trouble, and looked through +it at each end. Mr. Aiken was busy reading his +letter over and over; so he could only throw out +a sideways carte-blanche to Mr. Hughes to unpack +the inner secret of the roll. This was what he was +reading: +</p> + +<p><br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +"DEAR MR. AIKEN, +</p> + +<p> +"I think you may like a copy of the photo +Captain Calverley (who perhaps you will remember +came with me to your Studio) made of this beautiful +picture, which I am never tired of looking at. I +think it so good. Please accept it from us if you +care to have it. Believe me, dear Mr. Aiken, with +kind regards to yourself and Mrs. Aiken, in which +my mother joins, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +"Yours very sincerely,<br /> + "MADELINE UPWELL.<br /> +</p> + +<p> +"P.S.—I know you will be sorry to hear that +Captain Calverley's regiment is ordered out to +South Africa. Of course, it makes us very anxious." +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"Transparent sort of gurl!" said Mr. Hughes, +when Mr. Aiken read the letter aloud to him. "Of +course, Captain Carmichael's her sweetheart. +Anybody can see that with half an eye." +</p> + +<p> +"Calverley," said Mr. Aiken. "Yes—they get +like that when it's like that." And both pondered +a little, smoking, over the peculiarities of humanity, +especially that inexplicable female half of it. +"Chuck it over here and let's have a look at it," he +added, and Mr. Hughes chucked him over the +photograph. He contemplated it for a moment in +silence; then said: "I expect she wasn't far out, +after all. Euphemia, I mean." +</p> + +<p> +"Chuck it back again and let's have another +look," said Mr. Hughes. Mr. Aiken did so, and let +him have the other look. "Yes," said he. "They +went it in Italy about that time, don't you know! +Fifteenth or sixteenth century. That sort of +thing!" For Mr. Hughes knew a lot about Italy, +and could quote Browning. He uncrickled a result +of the shape of that letter-box, or tried to, and then +stood the photograph so that they could both see +it, while they talked of something else, against the +gres-de-Flandres straight-up pot that was so handy +to stand brushes in, like umbrellas. +</p> + +<p> +They had plenty to talk about, because at this +time the Idea of Mr. Hughes that was destined to +fill so important an horizon in the History of Modern +Art, and was also pregnant with incalculable +consequences to several things or persons, besides +having an indirect bearing on several others, and +challenging the bedrock of Modern Art Criticism—for +it had the courage of its convictions, and stuck +at nothing—this Idea was taking form slowly but +surely, and was already making itself felt in more +ways than one. It was easy to laugh at it—this +was indisputable—but he who lived longest would +see most. It had a future before it, and if you +would only just wait twenty years, you would see +if it hadn't. You mark the words of its disciple, +whoever he was you were talking to—that was all +he said—and see if he wasn't right! He was a +little indignant—some samples of him—with +audiences who decided to wait, his own enthusiasm +believing that the results might be safely anticipated. +However, the Idea prospered, there is no doubt of +that, and the circle of enthusiasts who had leagued +themselves together to foster it and promote a true +understanding of it had already taken premises, +and their telephone number was 692,423 Western. +</p> + +<p> +"It's true," said Mr. Hughes, "that the light in +the galleries is bad, and the hot-air system of +warming will destroy any ordinary oil-picture in +a month. But altering all that is the merest +question of money—comes off the guarantee fund, +in fact. And one thing nobody but a fool can help +seein', at the first go off, is that the Galleries are +rum. Rumness is half the battle." This expressed +so deep and indisputable a truth that Mr. Aiken +could not assent strongly enough in mere words. +He nodded rapidly and most expressively, without +speech. However, when he had reached the natural +limits of a nod's assenting power, he added, "Right +you are, Stumpy, my boy. Gee up!" and Mr. Hughes +resumed: +</p> + +<p> +"I ain't sayin', mind you, Crocky, that any +sort of hocus-pocus is justifiable in any case. When +I use the expression 'rum,' I am keepin' in view the +absolute necessity for a receptive attitude of mind +in the visitor to the Galleries. Tell me such an +attitude of mind is possible without a measure of +rumness as a stimulant, and I say 'Humbug!'" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken said again, "Right you are, Stumpy." But +he did not rise to enthusiasm—seemed low and +depressed. +</p> + +<p> +"It all connects with the fundamental root of +the Idea," Mr. Hughes continued. "No one would +be more repugnant than myself to any ramification +in the direction of Wardour Street ... you +understand me?..." +</p> + +<p> +"Rather!" said Mr. Aiken. And he seemed to +do so. It is not necessary for the purposes of this +story to prove that either of these gentlemen +understood what they were talking about, or +anything else, but their conversation has a bearing on +their respective characters and their preoccupations +at this moment, which are part of it. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes had mounted a rhetorical hobby, and +wished to have his ride. He rigged up three fingers +of his left hand, holding them in front of him to +check off three heads on, as soon as he should come +to that inevitable stage. He did not know what +they would be, but his instinctive faith made +nothing of that. They would be needed, all in +good time. +</p> + +<p> +"I am not saying," he pursued, "that Wardour +Street, in its widest sense, has nothing to +recommend it. I am not saying that it makes no appeal. +I am not disputing its historical and ethical +standpoints ... you see what I mean?" +</p> + +<p> +This was a concession to the difficulties that +await the orator who expects to round up his +sentences. Mr. Aiken interjected, to help this one +out of an embarrassment: "Couldn't be better put! +Let it go at that;" and knocked some ashes out of +his pipe. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes was grateful, because he had had no +idea what to say next. His indebtedness, however, +had to be ignored; else, what became of Dignity? +An enlarged manner accepted a laurel or two due +to lucidity, as he continued: "But I do say this, +that, considered as a basis—perhaps I should say +a fulcrum—or shall I say as a working hypothesis of +the substratum or framework of the Idea?..." The +speaker hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +"That's the safest way to put it," said Mr. Aiken, +but rather gloomily. He was re-lighting +his pipe. +</p> + +<p> +"I think so," said Mr. Hughes judicially. +"Considered as ... what I said just now ... Wardour +Street is, to my thinkin', played out. Quite +distinctly played out.... What's that?" +</p> + +<p> +"What's what?" The questions seemed to +refer to something heard and unheard, by each +speaker respectively. Mr. Aiken did not press for +an answer, but went to the door, persuading his +pipe to draw by the way. "Want anything, +Mrs. Parples?" said he, looking out. But no answer +came. "Mrs. P. is sleeping happily in the kitchen," +said he, returning. "It wasn't her. It was an +effect of something." +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose it was. Thought I heard it, too!" +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps, if you ever chanced to hear a conversation +about nobody could exactly say what, you +noticed that nobody did say anything very exactly, +and everybody talked like these two gentlemen, +who certainly had heard something, but who +decided that they hadn't, because they couldn't +find out what it was. It was too slight to discuss. +</p> + +<p> +They each said "Rum!" and settled down to +chat again, after turning down the gas, which made +a beastly glare. Mr. Hughes had forgotten about +the three heads, though, and taken his fingers down. +He did, however, pursue the topic which claimed +his attention, having embarked upon it, and feeling +bound to conduct it to a close. He said something +to this effect, and we hope our report is fairly +accurate. He certainly appeared to say that +something, which could hardly have been anything, +grammatically, but the close to which he conducted +the topic, embodied the point which underlay the +whole of the extensive area which the Idea opened up +for development, and turned upon the indisputable +truth that the Highest Art—sculpture, music, +painting, poetry—is never intelligible to the +Vernacular Mind. How could any inference be more +incontestable than that no Art could rise above +mediocrity until a quorum of commonplace persons +should be found honestly incapable of attaching +any meaning to it? By making unintelligibility to +the banal mind a criterion of superiority in Art, we +established a Standard of Criticism, and eliminated +from consideration a wilderness of insipidity which +Mr. Hughes did not hesitate to call a nightmare. +For his part, he was so confident that the system +of Negative Juries, as they had been called, was +sounder than any appeal to popular applause that +he was quite willing that his own work should stand +or fall by the decision of the Commonplace +Intelligence as to which side up the picture should be +looked at. He would go that length, and take the +consequences. Let the Selection Committee of +their proposed Annual Exhibition consist entirely +of such Intelligences, and let the Hanging +Committee hang all the pictures they were unable to +make head or tail of, and such a galaxy of +productions of Genius would be accumulated every +year on their walls as the World had never before seen. +</p> + +<p> +"Not work in practice?" said Mr. Hughes, +replying to a morose doubt of Mr. Aiken's. "Just +you redooce it to practice. Take the case that +your Jury guesses the subject of a picture. Out +it goes! Did you ever know that class able to +make head or tail of the subject of a work of Genius? +Gradual and infallible elimination, my boy—that's +the ticket!" The speaker, who, though perhaps +rather an idiot—only, mind you, he was subject +now and then to something almost like Inspiration—threw +himself back in his chair as though he had +exhausted the subject, and might rest. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't b'lieve it would work," said Mr. Aiken, +sucking at his pipe. But he was evidently in a +temper this evening, and Mr. Hughes paid no +attention to his nonsense. However, it was no use +talking about the Idea to him until he was more +sympathetic. He would come right presently. +</p> + +<p> +To cajole him into a better frame of mind, +Mr. Hughes began talking of something else. "Queer +sort of Studio, this of yours, Crocky," said he. +</p> + +<p> +"What do you make out's queer about it, +Stumpy?" said Mr. Aiken. +</p> + +<p> +"Such peculiar echoes!" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't hear any echoes." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, when you went to the door—you heard that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, that wasn't an echo: that was somebody +spoke outside." +</p> + +<p> +"Somebody spoke outside? What did she say? +What was it you heard?" +</p> + +<p> +"Couldn't say. What did you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, what I heard sounded like a sort of bastard +Italian." Mr. Hughes said this to sound grand. +"You shut up and listen a minute." Mr. Aiken +shut up, and the two sat listening in the half-dark. +</p> + +<p> +Now, whenever sounds are listened for, they show +a most obliging spirit, becoming audible where +you thought silence was going on peacefully alone. +The first sound that made Mr. Hughes say "There +now!—what's that?" turned out to be the gas, +which, at a carefully chosen point, rippled. The +next proved to be an intermittent spring fizzing on +the hot stove from a water-jar placed upon it. +The third was a spontaneous insect unknown to +Entomology, which had faced the difficulties of +self-making, behind the skirting, and evidently was +not going to remain a mere cipher. The fourth +was something or other that squeaked on the table, +and if one changed the places of things, noises like +that always stopped. So Mr. Aiken shifted the +things about, and said Mr. Hughes would see that +would stop it. He faced the responsibilities of the +Investigator by quenching the phenomenon, a +time-honoured method. He wrapped up the photograph, +and put it away in a drawer to show to +Euphemia. It would be interestin' to see if she +recognized it.... Oh yes! she would be back in +the next few days—sure to! +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Hughes saw that the shifting about of +the things on the table <i>had</i> stopped the noise he +called an echo, and what more could he or anybody +want? So he sat down again and had some toddy, +and talked about the Idea. And towards one in +the morning he got the opportunity of checking off +three heads on his three fingers, and feeling that +he ought to have been in Parliament. He had felt +previously rather like a Seneschal with three spears +vacant over his portcullis, longing for a healthy +decapitation to give them employment. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +The foregoing chapter, apart from the way in +which it emphasizes Mr. Aiken's loneliness and +discontent as a bachelor, would be just as well left +out of the story, but for the seemingly insignificant +incident of the echo, or whatever it was, which +might have been unintelligible if referred to +hereafter, without its surroundings. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VI +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +Follows Mrs. Euphemia Aiken to Coombe and Maiden. Proper +pride. You cannot go back on a railway ticket, however +small its price. One's Aunts. How Miss Priscilla Bax +was not surprised when she heard it was Reginald. Of the +Upas Tree of reputations—the Pure Mind. How Aunt +Prissy worked her niece up. Of the late Prince Regent, and +Tiberius. Never write a letter, if you want the wind to lull. +Ellen Jane Dudbury and her mamma. Of Ju-jutsu as an +antidote to tattle. Of the relative advantages of +Immorality to the two Sexes. Of good souls and busy bodies, +and of the Groobs. How that odious little Dolly was the +Modern Zurbaran. But he had never so much as called. +Colossians three-eighteen. Miss Jessie Bax and her puppy. +Miss Volumnia Bax. The delicacy of the female character. +Of the Radio-Activity of Space and how Mr. Adolphus Groob +sat next to Mrs. Aiken. The Godfrey Pybuses. But they +have nothing to do with the story. How Time slipped by, +and how Mr. Aiken employed him till the year drew to an end. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Euphemia Aiken, be it understood, had not brought +definition to bear on her motives for running away +to her Aunt Priscilla at Coombe. It seemed the +nearest handy way of expressing her indignation at +her profligate husband's conduct—that was all. +</p> + +<p> +By the time she had got to Clapham Junction her +indignation had begun to cool. But no ruction +would hold out for five minutes if it depended on +legitimate indignation. Unfortunately, when that +emotion gets up, it always awakens pride, with +whom—or which—it has been sleeping. And pride, once +roused—and she or it is not a sound sleeper—won't +go to bed again on any terms, not even when +indignation is quite tired out, and ready for another +snooze. So when Euphemia got to Clapham +Junction, it was not her drowsy indignation that made +up its mind she should take a third-class single +ticket, but her proper pride, which said +peremptorily that even a weekly return would be absurd. +Besides, there weren't any weekly returns. +Besides, it was only threepence difference. Anyhow, +she wasn't going to come back till she had given +Reginald a severe lesson. Her condition of mind +was no doubt the one her husband described by +an expression obscure in itself, but too widely +accepted to be refused a place in the language. He +said that her monkey was up. +</p> + +<p> +There is a sense of the irrevocable about the +taking of a railway ticket. Even when it is only +ninepence-halfpenny—the sum Euphemia paid to go +third to Coombe and Maiden—one's soul says, as +the punch bites a piece viciously out of it, that the +die is cast. If you were to hear suddenly that +bubonic plague had broken out at, for instance, +Pegwell Bay, you having booked to Ramsgate, +would not you feel committed to your visit, plague +or no? Would not your wife say, "But we have +taken our tickets"? Ours would. Was it any +wonder that, with Pride at her elbow and her ticket +inside her glove. Mrs. Reginald Aiken resisted a +faint temptation to get out at Wimbledon and go +back by the next up-train that would promise to +stop at Clapham Junction? The story cannot +pretend it is sorry she did not, because it would have +lost much interest for the general reader by her +doing so. +</p> + +<p> +We ourselves believe that if it had not been for +Miss Priscilla Bax, she might have returned to her +husband next day. The human race has, however, +to stand or fall by its Aunts, as it finds them, they +being almost always <i>faits accomplis</i> when its +component individuals are born. Miss Bax had been +one some forty years when her niece Euphemia came +on the scene, and one of the good lady's strong points +was the low opinion she had of persons who married +into her family. She was, however, a kind-hearted +old lady, in spite of her disapproval of her niece's +choice of a husband, and his choice of a profession; +and had not only countenanced the marriage, but +had allowed the couple, as above related, a hundred +a year. Being the only well-off member of her +family, she was expected to do this sort of thing. +Like the well-off members of other families, she +was only permitted to have property on condition +that she did not keep it for herself. +</p> + +<p> +When Euphemia's cab from the station drove her +up to Athabasca Villa, her aunt's residence, this +lady had got through her seven o'clock dinner, and +couldn't imagine who that could possibly be. It +was such a queer time for visitors. It must be a +mistake. She was so satisfied of this that she +inaugurated a doze, listening through its preamble +for something to explain the mistake. She was +betrayed by the doze, which might have had a +minute's patience, and was roused from what it +insidiously became by a voice saying groundedly: +"Oh dear, I'm afraid I waked you up!" +</p> + +<p> +"I was not asleep," said Miss Priscilla, with +dignity, kissing the owner of the voice. "I was +listening." However, it took time to wake quite +up, and until that happened the old lady did not +fully grasp the surprising character of so late a +visit; and indeed, until she became aware that a +box was being carried upstairs, had but dreamy +impressions of the event. In time reality dawned, +and she showed it by saying: "I suppose, Euphemia, +you will want your bed made up." +</p> + +<p> +As this was the case, and no human ingenuity +could soften the fact, Mrs. Aiken only said: "I +know it's very troublesome." +</p> + +<p> +To which Miss Priscilla replied: "Nothing is +troublesome, so long as you only say distinctly. +Now, do you want anything to eat? Because +dinner is taken away." Reviving decision, after +sleep, became emphatic. Self-respect called for +self-assertion. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken shuffled. She wasn't hungry, she said. +</p> + +<p> +"Have you <i>had</i> dinner? Because if you have +not had dinner, you must have dinner. Ring the +bell twice, and Pemphridge will come." +</p> + +<p> +Pemphridge came, and could warm the chicken. +Pemphridge did warm the chicken, and Mrs. Aiken +hardly touched it. After which she returned, looking +extremely miserable, to her aunt in the drawing-room, +who said majestically: "And now perhaps, +Euphemia, you will tell me what all this means." +</p> + +<p> +"It's Reginald," said Euphemia. +</p> + +<p> +"I am not surprised," said her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +"But you don't <i>know</i> yet." +</p> + +<p> +"I know nothing whatever. But I am not surprised. +Is it reasonable, Euphemia, to expect me to +be surprised? After what I have so frequently had +occasion to say. But I am quite prepared to hear +that I have said no such thing. Pray tell me +anything you like. I will not contradict you." Aunt +Priscilla assumed a rigid continuousness, as of one +who forms to receive aspersions. Truth will triumph +in the end; meanwhile there is no harm in portending +that triumph by an aggressive stony patience. +</p> + +<p> +"Only you don't know what it is, Aunt Prissy," +said her niece. No more she did, speaking academically. +She was, however, quite prepared for every +contingency. +</p> + +<p> +"I do not think <i>you</i> are the person to say that +to me, Euphemia, seeing that you have told me +nothing—absolutely nothing! But I can wait." She +waited. As she lay face upwards on the +sofa—the nearest approach to an Early Victorian +recumbent effigy that the Nature of Things permits—she +presented the appearance of a deserving person +floating on her back in a sea of exasperation. +Unless this image justifies itself, it must be +condemned. Nothing in literature can excuse it. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Euphemia was so used to her aunt, with +whom she had lived since the death of her parents +fifteen years since, that she knew she might never +get a better moment than this for telling the story +of her passage of arms with her husband. She +therefore embarked on a narrative of the events we +know, and contrived to get them told, in spite of +interruptions, the nature of which, after the +foregoing sample of Aunt Priscilla, we can surmise. +Neither need be repeated. +</p> + +<p> +Thereafter followed a long conversation, the +substance of which has already been given. Its effect +was to try Mrs. Euphemia's faith in her husband—which +still existed, mind you!—very severely. Have +you ever noticed—but of course you have—that +when Inexperience testifies to the sinfulness of the +human race <i>passim</i>, Average Experience hides her +diminished head, and does not venture on whatever +there is to be said on behalf of the culprit. A +shocking race, no doubt, but scarcely so bad as pure +minds paint it! Old single ladies have pure minds, +as often as not, and wield them with a fiendish +dexterity, polishing off Lancelot and Galahad, +Mordred and Arthur himself, all in a breath. Which +of us dares to try a fall with a pure-minded person, +in defence of his sex, or anyone else's? Miss +Priscilla, having a pure mind and getting the bit +in her teeth in connexion with her nephew-in-law's +shortcomings, bolted, and dragged her niece after +her through an imaginary Society compounded of +London in the days of the Regency and Rome in +the days of Tiberius, with a touch of impending +Divine vengeance in the bush, justifying reference +to Sodom and Gomorrah. She succeeded in making +the young woman thoroughly uncomfortable, and +causing the quarrel to assume proportions—which is +what things that get bigger are understood to do +nowadays—such as it never dreamed of at first. +For Mrs. Euphemia's scheme of life allowed for +everlasting bickerings, never-ending recriminations, last +words <i>ad libitum</i>, short tiffs, long tiffs, tempersomeness +and proper spirit—all, in fact, that makes life +drag in families—but always under chronic +conditions that precluded a crisis. If her worthy aunt's +suggestion that this incident of Sairah was the +merest spark from <i>ignes suppositos cineri</i>, and that +her husband had never been even as good as he +should be—if this indicated a true view of his +character, she for one wasn't going to put up with +such conduct. Corinthians or no! This <i>was</i> a +crisis, only it was one that never would have come +about but for Miss Priscilla. So, as we mentioned +some time since, Mrs. Euphemia cried herself to +sleep, and next day, galled by ill-considered moral +precepts about the whole duty of Woman, wrote an +infuriated letter to her dear Reginald—not her +dearest; she might have any number of dearer +Reginalds on draught—stating at a very high figure +the amount of penance she would make a necessary +condition of reconciliation, and even then it would +never be the same thing underlined. She was, +however, so completely the slave of a beautiful +disposition, that no course was open to her but +forgiveness, subject only to a reduction of some +ninety-per-cent. at the dictation of a rarely +sensitive consciousness of obligation to Duty, which she +gave him to understand was her ruling passion. +The letter demanded the assimilation of an amount +of humble-pie outside practical politics—so +Mr. Aiken said to a friend after reading it; the +phraseology is his. He hadn't done anything to deserve +the character imputed to him in language he could +identify by the style as Aunt Priscilla's, shorn of +much of its Scriptural character. It incensed him, +and caused him to write a letter which widened the +breach between them. Then she wrote back, and +the breach fairly yawned. There is nothing so +effective as correspondence to consolidate a quarrel. +</p> + +<p> +She had been at all times since her marriage a +frequent visitor enough at Athabasca Villa for the +inquisitiveness of her Aunt's circle of friends to +remain unexcited; for a week or so, at any rate. +But that good lady's unholy alacrity in disclaiming +all knowledge of her niece's domestic affairs +stimulated a premature curiosity. When the Peter +Dudburys called, Aunt Priscilla might quite easily +have said, in reply to Mrs. Peter Dudbury's "And +how is the Artist?" that she believed the said +Artist was enjoying good health. Instead of which +she was seized with a sort of paroxysm, exclaiming +very often: "Don't ask me! I know nothing +whatever about it. Nuth, thing-what, ever!" and +shaking her head with her eyes tight shut. +Whereupon Ellen Jane Dudbury said, "Shishmar!" and +stamped cruelly on her mother's foot. Now really +that amiable woman had only expanded into her +gushy inquiry after Mr. Aiken because she knew that +she and her three daughters had asked more than +once after everyone else. She felt hurt, and +resolved to have it out with Ellen Jane, and indeed +began to do so as soon as they were out of hearing. +</p> + +<p> +"Wellmar," said Ellen Jane, "what is one to do +when you won't take the slightest notice?" She +went on to explain that any person of normal +shrewdness would have seen, the moment Mrs. Aiken +made excuses and went upstairs, that there +was something. You could always see when there +was anything if you chose to use your eyes. It was +no use telling her—Ellen Jane, that is—that there +was nothing. She knew better. It was complimentary +to Ellen Jane's penetration that her mother +and sisters hoped aloud at the next house where +they called, and captured the tenants to inquire +after them, that there really was nothing between +young Mrs. Aiken and her husband, and most likely +it was all fancy, because there was nothing +whatever to go upon, and such absurd stories did get +about. +</p> + +<p> +To our thinking it is clear that the receptivity +of the Peter Dudburys was caused by that paroxysm +of Aunt Priscilla's. An adoption of a like attitude with +other visitors tended to enrich the gossip of Coombe +and Maiden at the expense of Mrs. Euphemia Aiken. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Priscilla did not have paroxysms of this class +in her niece's presence, so of course the latter had +the less chance of guessing that the cause of her +visit to Athabasca Villa had become common +property. She did, however, wake up to the fact that +Coombe and Maiden were commiserating her. The +impertinence of those neighbourhoods! She would +have liked to knock their heads together. The worst +of it was that no one put commiseration into a +concrete form, such as "How is dear Mr. Aiken's +infidelity going on?" or "We are so shocked to +think how your most sacred affections are being +lacerated." Then she might have flown at such +like sympathizers with a poker, or got them down +and cricked their joints by Ju-jutsu. This practice +of talking about everyone else's private affairs to +every-other else, never to their proprietor, is good +for our father the Devil, but bad for his sons and +daughters. Amen. +</p> + +<p> +The truth is that, for some unexplained reason, a +lady who runs away from her husband gets no sort +of credit or glory by doing so, but only puts herself +in an uncomfortable position; unless, indeed, she +takes up with some other male, preferably a +reprobate. Then an unhallowed splendour envelops her, +and protects her from the cards of respectability, +which has misgivings about her possible effect on +its sons and husbands. We wonder, is this what +is meant when one hears that some lady is living +under the protection of Duke Baily or Duke +Humphy? Are those—is one of them, we +mean—protecting her from Mrs. Peter Dudbury? Honour +to his Grace, whichever he is, if he acts up to his +description! +</p> + +<p> +With the nobler sex the reverse is the case. +Whether deserting or deserted, he is rather looked +up to by his more securely anchored male friends +as the subject of a wider and more illuminating +experience than their own. Of course, the +forsaken example does not shine with the radiance of +a self-supporting inconstancy. It may be that he +comes off best in the end, if he is a man of spirit, +and finds consolation elsewhere. For then he can +not only crow, farmyard-wise, but he has the +heartfelt satisfaction of being an ill-used man into +the bargain. If he cottons to someone else's +ill-used wife, he has nothing left to wish for. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing of all this has any application in this +story, unless it attaches to the fact that Mr. Aiken +found some consolation in the company of his +friends, while his wife found none in that of her +acquaintances. As both parties were perfectly +blameless in the ordinary sense of the word—geese +are most blameless birds—none of the numerous +advantages of wickedness were secured by either. +Their interests in Belial never vested. Mrs. Aiken +never meant not to go back in the end, as soon as +she had made her husband knuckle down, and +confess up. And he was consciously keeping his +home unsullied by anything too Bohemian, in order +that when Euphemia came back—as of course she +would—no memory of the interregnum should clash +with the Restoration. +</p> + +<p> +Euphemia had the worst of it; but then she was +the weaker party. If weaker parties take to +expecting the emoluments of stronger parties, what +shall we come to next? This feeling of the +unfairness of things in general and Destiny in +particular, tended towards exasperation and +intensification; and the South Cone—metaphors may be +fetched from any distance—remained up in the +districts of Coombe and Maiden. Time passed and +Mrs. Euphemia had perforce to endure the +commiseration of those districts. +</p> + +<p> +The neighbourhood of Athabasca Villa might be +classed as a congested district, and its population +as consisting, broadly speaking, of good souls and +busy bodies. Every resident was both, be it +understood. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes!" said Euphemia to her aunt, one +breakfast-time. "Of course the Groobs are goodness +itself. But why can't they mind their own +business?" For although it may appear incredible, a +family residing in the neighbourhood was actually +named Groob. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear," said Miss Priscilla, "do not be +unreasonable and violent. Mr. Latimer Groob is, I +understand, a wine-importer in quite a large way of +business, with more than one retail establishment; +and his son, Mr. Adolphus Groob, has, I am told, +talent. He has had several pictures on the line, +somewhere, and comes down to see his family on +Saturdays, and to stop till Monday." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then!" said Euphemia. "It wasn't the +Peter Dudburys this time. At least, it needn't have +been, for anything I can see." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not? ... Do take care of the tablecloth! +Anne has put one of the best out by mistake. I +must speak to her.... Why not the Peter Dudburys +this time?" +</p> + +<p> +"I am not cutting the cloth. The knife is miles +off. Why not the Peter Dudburys? Why, +because I know that odious little Dolly Groob. He's a +friend of Reginald's, and comes to the Studio. I +can <i>see</i>. I'm not a baby. Of course, Reginald has +been talking to him." Mrs. Euphemia bit her lips, +and was under the impression that her eyes flashed. +But they didn't really—eyes never do; it's a <i>façon +de parler</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Priscilla ignored this petulance. "You had +better let me pour you out some fresh coffee," she +said. "Yours is getting cold. I cannot say, my +dear, that I think 'that odious little Dolly Groob' +is at all the way to speak of an artist who has had +pictures on the line. And his father, now I think of +it, is in Paris also. Besides, I see he is distinguishing +himself by his connexion with something." +</p> + +<p> +"With what?" +</p> + +<p> +"It was in yesterday evening's paper. Perhaps +Anne hasn't burned it. Anyhow, I do not think the +expression 'odious little' well chosen.... Oh +yes—that's it! Give it to Miss Euphemia." That +is to say, Anne the parlourmaid, not having burned +yesterday's evening paper, had produced it as by +necromancy, in response. The way Aunt Priscilla +spoke of her niece was an accident, not a suggestion +that Mr. Aiken was cancelled. It caused "Miss +Euphemia," however, a slight twinge of an +indescribable discomfort. Possibly, if this is ever read +by any lady who has ever been in exactly the same +position, she will understand why. +</p> + +<p> +The story knows of it because, when Anne had +left the room, Mrs. Aiken looked up from the +newspaper, where she had found what she was looking +for, to say: "I think, Aunt Prissy, you might be +more careful before the servants." +</p> + +<p> +Her aunt replied with dignity: "What you are +referring to, my dear Euphemia, I cannot profess +to understand." Of course she <i>did</i>, perfectly well. +What she meant was, "I know you cannot get a +conviction, so I can tell a fib." Mankind, securely +entrenched, fibs freely. +</p> + +<p> +"Why—'Miss Euphemia,' of course!" said the +niece, quoting incisively. "But I know it's no use +my asking you to pay the slightest attention." She +became absorbed in her paper. +</p> + +<p> +"I think you are nonsensical, my dear," said the +aunt. She retired behind something morally +equivalent to the lines of Torres Vedras; but was still +audible outside, saying: "I think you might say +whether you have, or have not, found about +Mr. Adolphus Groob." +</p> + +<p> +The niece made no response for a moment, but +continued reading; then said, as one who, coming +up from diving, speaks without quite locating his +audience: "Oh yes—there's about Mr. Groob here. +I can't read it all, there's such a lot. Is there some +coffee left? ... Three-quarters of a cup, please!" +</p> + +<p> +Please observe that, although this aunt and niece +always conversed more or less as if each was straining +the patience of the other past endurance, no +sort of ill-will was thereby implied on either part. +It may be that it was only that they emphasized +the ordinary intercourse of British families. +Perhaps you know how much the average foreign family +nags, <i>en famille</i>. We do not. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken read the newspaper paragraph aloud, +skipping portions. What she read described the +formation of the New Modernism, the Artistic +Society about which so much was being said among +well-informed circles of the Art World, with the +reservation that nothing must be accepted as official. +The Editor was breaking confidence in telling so +much; but then he really was unable, with that +pitiful heart of his, to bear the yearning faces and +heartrending cries for information of his reading +public. The only course open to him was to put +aside all conscientious scruples, and divulge what +had reached him, as it were, under the seal of +confession. Such a thirst must be satiated, or worse +might come of it. The object of this Society was +to develope its promoters' ideas, and exhibit their +works in Bond Street. The underlying theory of +their new Gospel of Art appeared to be—only the +writer did not express it so coarsely—that success +in pictorial effort, in the future, must turn on the +artist never having learned to draw, and not +knowing how to paint. What was wanted was clearly +his unimpaired Self, unsoiled by the instruction of +the Schools. The near future was entitled to +liberation from the stilted traditions of the remote +past, not only in Painting, but in Sculpture, Music, +Poetry, the Drama—what not? Here was an +opportunity to make a beginning, seized by a +brilliant coterie of talented young men, whom a rare +chance had brought together under one roof. If +the writer was not much mistaken, Pimlico Studios +stood a fair chance of becoming the Mecca of the +Art World. +</p> + +<p> +"I can't read all this," said the niece. "I don't +see where Mr. Groob comes in. Oh yes—it's here! +'The Modern Zurbaran.'..." This gentleman +was, of course, the Artist familiarly spoken of as +"Dolly" at the Pimlico Studios. Mrs. Aiken went +on reading to herself, and then said suddenly: "I +do hope Reginald won't be a fool, and make himself +responsible for anything." +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Adolphus Groob would be able to tell us +all about it," said Miss Priscilla. "His sister +Arethusa is almost sure to call this afternoon, and +you can ask her to find out." +</p> + +<p> +"I shall do nothing of the sort, and I beg you +won't say anything to her. I particularly dislike +Mr. Groob, and just now nothing could be more +unpleasant to me. Please no Mr. Groob on any +account!" +</p> + +<p> +"You need not be so testy, Euphemia. Nothing +is easier than for me to make no reference to +Mr. Groob, who has never so much as called. His sister +Arethusa is, of course, not the same thing as he is +himself, but no doubt she may know something about +this Society." +</p> + +<p> +"I thought her an odious girl. Anyhow, I don't +want to know anything at all about the Society, and +it's no concern of mine. Reginald must go his own +way now, and put his name down for subscriptions +just as he likes.... Oh yes, I shall answer his +last letter, but only to say that, if he wants me +to read his next one, the <i>tone</i> must be very +different." +</p> + +<p> +Her aunt said, as one with whom patience is +habitual, and tolerance a foregone conclusion: "It +is perfectly useless for me to repeat, Euphemia, +what I believe to be your duty as a Christian towards +your lawful husband, which Reginald is and +continues to be, however disgracefully he may have +behaved; and you acted with your eyes open in +the face of warnings of his lawless Bohemian habits. +<i>He—is—your</i>—HUSBAND, and your obvious duty +is..." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, do shut up with Corinthians!" was the +rude, impatient, and indeed irreligious interruption. +"If you mean that a woman is bound to put up +with anything and everything, no matter what her +husband says or does ... What?" +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Euphemia, if I have told you once, I +have told you fifty times, that it is <i>not</i> Corinthians, +but Colossians—Colossians three eighteen. Besides, +I'm sure there was a ring at the bell." +</p> + +<p> +There was, and therefore the chronic guerilla +warfare—for this sort of thing always went on until +visitors stopped it—was suspended until the next +opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +The ring at the gate-bell was—or was caused +by—Miss Jessie Bax, another niece, who was shy and +seventeen. She began everything she said with +"Oh!" The first words she uttered were, "Oh, +I mustn't stop!" But she had previously said to +Anne, at the gate, "Oh, I mustn't come in!" and +when overcome on this point by Euphemia, who +came out and kissed her, not without satisfaction—because +she was that sort—she only just contrived +to say, "Oh, I only came to bring these from +Volumnia. It's to-morrow night at the Suburbiton +Athenæum, where the Psychomorphic meets till +the new rooms are ready, and she hopes you'll come." +</p> + +<p> +Miss Jessie explained that she was, strictly +speaking, an emanation from her sister Volumnia. That +young lady was thirteen years her senior, and was a +powerful individuality. She entered into inquiries, +and advocated causes. Miss Jessica, on the +contrary, flirted. +</p> + +<p> +Was it, this time, advocating causes, or entering +into inquiries? Mrs. Aiken, fearing the former, +was consoled when she found it was the latter. She +would look at the Syllabus tendered, whatever it +was, and wouldn't detain Miss Jessie, whose anxiety +not to come in need not have been laid so much +stress on. It presently appeared that this wish to +stop out was not unconnected with Charley +Somebody, who was playing with a puppy on the other +side of the road. A suggestion that Charley +Somebody should come in too was met with so earnest a +disclaimer of intention to disturb any fellow-creature +anywhere, at any time, that it would have been +sheer downright cruelty to press the point. So the +young lady and Master Charley, whoever he was, +escaped, and were heard whistling for the puppy, +who was getting quite good, and learning to follow +beautifully. +</p> + +<p> +"What is it?" said Aunt Priscilla. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, some reading papers and nonsense," said +her niece. "I never have any patience with that +sort of twaddle. It only irritates me." +</p> + +<p> +It suited Miss Priscilla to take up a tone of +superiority to such childish petulance, combined +with an enlightened attitude of open-mindedness, +and a suggestion of being better informed than most +people about what is doing. To this end she picked +up the prospectus her niece was ostentatiously +neglecting, and read it aloud in an atmosphere +above human prejudices, specially designed for her +own personal use. It related to a lecture "On the +Attitude of Investigation towards the Unknowable," +with magic-lantern slides, and a discussion to +follow. "It does not say," said Aunt Priscilla, +"who is the Medium." It is possible that the good +lady had in her own mind confused something with +something else. One does sometimes. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm not sure that I shan't go, if it isn't the +Suffrage," said Euphemia. She took the +prospectus, and seemed reassured on re-reading it. +Yes, she might go if there were pictures on a sheet. +But not if it was to be Women's Rights. +</p> + +<p> +"With your peculiar, new, advanced views, my +dear," said her aunt, "it certainly seems to me +that you ought to sympathize with your cousin." +</p> + +<p> +This, however, was because of Miss Priscilla's +exceptional way of looking at Social and Political +subjects. She divided all the world—the thoughtful +world, that is—into two classes, the one that +went in for Movements and things, and the one +that consisted of Sensible Persons. The latter stayed +at home and minded their own business, sometimes +going for a drive when it held up, and, of course, to +Church on Sundays, and having hot crossed buns +on Good Friday, and so on. She made no distinction +between Agitators on the score of the diversity +of their respective objects. Could she be expected +to differentiate between shades of opinion that +would now be indicated by the terms—then +uninvented—of Suffragettes and Anti-Suffragettes? +</p> + +<p> +Volumnia Bax would have belonged to the latter +denomination. Women, that young lady said, were +not intended by an All-wise Providence to mix in +public life. Their sphere was the Home. She +belonged to a League whose chief object was to prevent +women becoming unfeminine. If it was not Woman's +own duty to make a stand against these new-fangled +American notions, which could only end in +her being completely unsexed, whose was it? If +she did not exert herself to avert this calamity, +who would? So this League consisted entirely of +women, pledged to resist, by violence if necessary, +but in any case by speaking out at meetings, and +getting up petitions, and so on, these insidious +attempts to destroy the delicacy of the female +character, which from time immemorial had been +its principal charm. This was the point on which +Aunt Priscilla certainly failed in discrimination, for +she drew no distinction between the various shades +of political impulse. She objected to anyone leaving +the groove, even with the motive of pushing others +back into it. Her niece Euphemia shared her views +to a great extent, and when she used the expression +"Women's Rights," it was probably in a sense +much less circumscribed than its usual one. "But," +said she to Miss Priscilla, justifying her determination +to go on Saturday evening to this lecture, or +whatever it was, "it can't be minutes and resolutions +and jaw, jaw, jaw, if there's a magic-lantern. So +do come, Aunty dear!" +</p> + +<p> +Miss Priscilla gave way, and consented to +accompany her niece, but not without a misgiving that +she might be compelled to come away in the middle +of the entertainment. A re-perusal of the Syllabus +had engendered in her mind a doubt whether it +was quite. That is how she worded it. The story +only chronicles; it takes no responsibilities. +Euphemia assured her that it could not be +otherwise than quite, seeing that so respectable an +Athenæum as the Suburbiton would be sure to be +most careful. Besides, it was Metaphysical. +</p> + +<p> +So they had the fly from Dulgrove's—as it appears, +and we think we know what is meant—and +Dulgrove's representative touched one of its hats, +which was on his own head, and promised upon the +honour of both to return at half-past ten to +reimpatriate the two ladies at Athabasca Villa, which +is two miles from Coombe proper. +</p> + +<p> +Though Mr. Groob's sister Arethusa did not +happen to call, as Miss Priscilla anticipated, +Mrs. Reginald Aiken was destined to be brought in +contact with her odious brother, the Artist, who +was acquainted with her husband. It happened +that Miss Bax was desirous that another brother +of Arethusa's should come to the lecture. This +gentleman, Mr. Duodecimus Groob, had a clear +head, and a cool judgment, and belonged, moreover, +to a class which is frequently referred to, but +whose members cannot always be differentiated +with certainty, the class of persons who are not to +be sneezed at. Others may be, without offence or +injustice. +</p> + +<p> +Now, it chanced that Miss Jessica Bax had been +employed by her sister as a species of bait to induce +this gentleman to accompany his sister Arethusa—who, +of course, was coming to the lecture—by +sending her to be driven over in the Groob brougham, +she herself accepting a lift from the Peter Dudburys, +who had no room for more than one. Miss Volumnia, +you see, intended to speak at the discussion, and +was naturally anxious that Mr. Groob should bring +his clear head and cool judgment to hear and +appreciate the powerful analysis she intended to make of +the lecturer's first exposition of the subject. +</p> + +<p> +It is impossible in this story to enter at length +into the intricate and difficult questions touched +upon; but it may be noted that Miss Volumnia, +who had read the typed manuscript of this lecture, +was prepared to combat its main argument, to take +exception to its author's fundamental standpoint, +to scrutinise fearlessly his pretensions to Scientific +accuracy, and to lay bare its fallacies with a +merciless scalpel. She was naturally anxious that a +B.Sc., London—for Mr. Duodecimus Groob was so +designate—should hear her do it, being so close at +hand; and when she said to Jessica, "Tell Arethusa +I expect her to bring a brother," she did so with a +shrewd insight into the souls of brothers whose +sisters very pretty girls accompany to even the +humblest entertainments—penny readings and what +not. This Mr. Groob came, and what was more, +Mr. Adolphus, whom we saw <i>en passant</i> at Pimlico +Studios, accompanied him. Both had come to +stay till Monday at their father's residence—where +there were bronzes and Dresden china in the +drawing-room, and ruins by Panini all round the +dining-room, and a Wolf Hunt, Snyders, in the +entrance-hall. We repeat that <i>both</i> came, although +there was hardly room in the small brougham, and +Mr. Adolphus had to go on the box and wrap up. +And our belief is that if it had been an omnibus, +and there had been young men enough to fill it, +they would all have gone to that lecture. +</p> + +<p> +Insignificant as this visit to the Suburbiton +Athenæum may seem, it has its place in this story, +and that place is given to it by its most unimportant +details. As you can scarcely be expected to turn +back to it, please note now what it was that really +happened. +</p> + +<p> +In the lobby, when Mrs. Aiken and her Aunt +arrived, Miss Volumnia Bax was, as it were, +marshalling Europe. She was a leading mind, +overlooking gregariousness through a pince-nez. +Gregariousness was shedding its fleeces and taking +little cardboard tickets in exchange. +</p> + +<p> +"You know Mr. Adolphus Groob," said Miss +Volumnia to her cousin, sternly, almost reproachfully. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—you know my brother," said Miss Arethusa +Groob confirmatorily. And Miss Priscilla—oh +dear! one's unmanageable Aunts!—must needs, +as it were, go over to the enemy, saying in +honeyed tones, with a little powdered sugar over +them: +</p> + +<p> +"<i>You</i> know Mr. Adolphus Groob, Euphemia." +</p> + +<p> +It was quite the most dastardly desertion on +record. There was nothing for it before such an +accumulation of testimony but to plead guilty. What +can, anybody do with such treachery in the camp? +Euphemia admitted grudgingly that she knew +Mr. Adolphus, who had long hair and was like our idea +of a German Student. He, for his part, was horribly +frightened and got away. For, you see, he knew +all about the row between Aiken and his wife; and +although in the absence of that unearthly sex, the +female one, he was ready to lay claim to a deep and +subtle knowledge of its ways, he was an arrant +coward in the presence of a sample. +</p> + +<p> +"I say, Bob," said he aside to his brother +Duodecimus, using a convenient, if arbitrary, +abbreviation of that name. +</p> + +<p> +"What's the fun, Dolly?" said Bob, who was a +chap who always made game of everything. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, look here! When a customer you know +quarrels with his wife, and she does a bunk..." +</p> + +<p> +"She <i>what's</i>?" +</p> + +<p> +"Hooks it, don't you know! Well, when she +runs away, and you come across her, and you know +all the story about the shindy, being in the beggar's +confidence, don't you see?—and she knows you +know it, only, mind you, there's nothing exactly +to swear by, and you know she knows you know +it, and she knows you know she knows—up and +down and in and out—intersectitiously, don't you +see...?" But the heroic effort to express a +situation we have all had a try at and failed +over was too much for Mr. Adolphus, and +his sentence remained unfinished. Consider that +he had supplied an entirely new word, and be +lenient! +</p> + +<p> +"Want'n'er for yourself, Dolly?" said that +frivolous, superficial beast, Bob. "Don't you, that's +my advice! She's a head and shoulders taller than +you. You'll look such an ass!" Whereupon +Mr. Adolphus, not without dignity, checked his brother's +ill-timed humour, pointing out that he had done +nothing to deserve the imputation of personal +motives, and hinting that his well-known monastic +bias should have saved him from it. +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, then!—let her alone!" said Bob. +</p> + +<p> +"But it's very embarrassing, you must admit," +said Dolly. +</p> + +<p> +"H'm!—don't see why." +</p> + +<p> +"The position is a delicate one." +</p> + +<p> +"Can't see where the delicacy comes in. You +keep out of her way. <i>She</i> won't tackle <i>you</i>." +</p> + +<p> +This was just about the time when the disengagement +of their fleeces had enabled a congestion of +the flock to pass on towards the lecture-hall, leaving +access clear to Miss Priscilla, her niece, and others. +Euphemia's fleece was one that gave trouble; she +said it always got hooked. It certainly did so this +time, and Mr. Adolphus, passing on after his colloquy +with his brother, was able to render squire's service, +unhooking it as bold as brass. Whereupon the lady +and her aunt gushed gratefully, as in return for +life saved. Their rescuer passed on, feeling +internally gratified, and that he had shown presence +of mind at a crisis—was, in short, a Man of the World. +But he did not know that from thenceforward he +was entangled in a certain perverse enchantment—a +sort of spell that constantly impelled him to +dally with the delicate position he was so conscious +about. He must needs go and stick himself four +seats off Mrs. Aiken, in the two-shilling places, the +intervening three seats being vacant. +</p> + +<p> +Now, if only lean men, operating edgewise, had +attempted to pass into these seats, things might +have gone otherwise. Fate sent a lady over three +feet thick all the way down, and apparently quite +solid, to wedge her way into one or more of these +seats. Mr. Adolphus shrank, for all he was worth, +but it was a trying moment. The lady was just +that sort the Inquisition once employed so +successfully; one with spikes, that drew blood from +anyone that got agglutinated with her costume. She +might, however, have got through without accident—you +never can tell!—if the trial had been carried +out. It was suspended by a suggestion from +Mrs. Aiken that Mr. Adolphus Groob should come a little +farther along and make room; and when he complied, +to the extent of going one seat nearer to her, +a second suggestion that he should come nearer still, +to which he assented with trepidation. Resistance +was useless. A galaxy of daughters had already +filled in the whole row behind the stout lady, and +were forcing her on like the air-tight piece of potato +in a quill popgun, only larger. So in the end +Mr. Adolphus Groob found himself wedged securely +between the stout lady and Mrs. Euphemia Aiken, quite +unable to speak to the former, for though they had +certainly met—with a vengeance—they had never +been introduced. This really <i>was</i> a very delicate +position. Mrs. Aiken might at least have said, +"You know Mrs. Godfrey Pybus, I think?" That +was the stout lady's name. Then he could have +avoided talking with Mrs. Aiken, by becoming +absorbed in Mrs. Pybus, and shouting round her +to her nearest daughters beyond. As it was, he +was fairly forced to make careful remarks to his +other neighbour, scrupulously avoiding allusion to +husbands, wives, quarrels, Studios, Chelsea, London, +servant-girls, picture-cleaning ... this is only a +handful at random of the things it would never do +to mention in such delicate circumstances. He held +his tongue discreetly about every one of these in +turn, and talked of little but the weather. +</p> + +<p> +Do not run away with the idea that anything +interesting or exciting grew out of this chance +meeting, in the story. The introduction of it, at +such length, is only warranted by the fact that, +without its details, it would have absolutely no +relevance at all. Whatever it has will, we hope, +be made clear later. +</p> + +<p> +A little conversation passed between the two, but +it was of no more importance than the sample which +follows. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know what the lecture is about?" said +Mrs. Aiken. +</p> + +<p> +"Couldn't say," was the reply. "Never know +what lectures are about! I'm an Artist, don't you +know! My brother Bob could tell you. He's a +scientific chap—knows about Telephones and things +that go round and burst." +</p> + +<p> +"Is there anything that goes round and bursts +in the lecture, I wonder?" +</p> + +<p> +"Shouldn't be much surprised. Here's the +Syllabub—I mean Syllabus." Mr. Adolphus +handed his information to his neighbour. Caution +made him uncommunicative. Naturally, he was +of a more talkative disposition. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken studied the heads of the lecture. +"What is meant, I wonder, by the Radio-Activity +of Space?" said she. Now in asking this question +she was deferring to the widespread idea that Man +understands Science, and can tell Woman all about +it. He doesn't, and can't. +</p> + +<p> +Observe, please, that Mr. Groob was under a +mixed influence. He happened to have been rather +disgusted because Miss Jessica Bax, instead of +appreciating his self-sacrifice in riding outside and +wrapping up, had shown a marked preference for +a flirtation with his brother. Slightly miffed by +this, he had become the victim of a mysterious +spell or fascination connected with that +hook-and-eye accident, which had caused him—not to sit +down beside its victim; he never would have +presumed to do that—but to hover near her, and in +doing this to be remorselessly forced into her pocket +by the dead weight of Mrs. Godfrey Pybus. Things +being so, what could he do but rejoice at the +Radio-Activity of Space, as a topic surely removed from +any wives that had bolted from any husbands? +What could be safer as a resource against +embarrassing reference to the painful <i>status quo</i>? +</p> + +<p> +He accepted the position of instructor his sex +conferred on him. "It's got somethin' to do with +Four Dimensions," he said. "Can't say I've gone +much into the subject myself, but I've talked to a +very intelligent feller about it. Did you ever see +any Radium?" +</p> + +<p> +"Me? No. My husband saw some, though. +He looked through a hole." +</p> + +<p> +"That's it. It destroys your eyesight, I believe, +and loses decimal point something of its volume in +a hundred thousand years. There is no doubt we +are on the brink of great discoveries." +</p> + +<p> +"How very interesting! I wish the lecturer +would begin. Oh—here he is!" +</p> + +<p> +"Very bald feller! He ought to use petrol. +You have to rub it in and keep out of the way of +artificial light. This chap's first cousin lost the +use of both legs through investigatin'. It was +X-rays, I believe. You may depend on it we've +got a deal to learn." And so on. +</p> + +<p> +Upon the honour of the narrative this sample is +a fair one of what passed between this lady and +gentleman on this occasion. There was more, but +it was exactly the same sort. +</p> + +<p> +In due course the lecture was begun and ended; +then the discussion followed, and Mrs. Godfrey +Pybus and her six daughters didn't stop to hear +Miss Volumnia Bax's analysis and refutation, but +went away in the middle and made a noise on +purpose. It was just like them, and they were +perfectly odious people. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +It is most extraordinary how Time will slip away +when the catching hold of his forelock depends on +ourselves. Each morning may bring that forelock +again within reach, and each morning the same +apathy that made us yesterday too languid to stretch +out a hand and grip the old scamp and employ him +for our own advantage keeps us in the same stupid +abeyance, and we lose the chance for another +twenty-four hours. Every postponement makes +a new precedent, and every new precedent stiffens +the back of inaction. +</p> + +<p> +It was so with Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Aiken. +Not a morning passed without an unfulfilled +impulse on either part to cross the gulf between them, +and terminate their idiotic separation, bridged by +correspondence which really did more harm than +good. There is one precept which it is quite +impossible for the human race to observe too +closely—<i>Never write letters</i>! If only those words could +replace Little Liver Pills and so forth on those +atrocities that flank the railways and hide the +planet, its inhabitants would be the gainers. +Mr. Reginald had an extraordinary faculty for undoing +in a postscript any little concession he had made at +the outset, and Mrs. Euphemia, for her part, was +becoming quite a proficient in sarcasm—three-line +whips of scorpions describes her style, or the +style she aimed at. For a superficial literary +education did not help her up to its perfection. +</p> + +<p> +"Very good, Mrs. Hay!"—thus, on receipt of a +letter, would run her husband's commentary, +embodying transposed quotation in its text, "'Pray +go my own way'—that's it, is it?—'On no account +give the slightest consideration underlined to the +wishes of your underlined wife.' Oh, very well—I +won't. 'If my Conscience with a big C didn't +turn a deaf ear to the pleadings of my Better Self +with a big B and a big S'—what's all this? can't +read it—oh! I see—yes, at least I see what it comes +to!—I should come to my sences—spelt wrong—and +overcome the ridiculous false pride that stands +between me and something or other +underlined—h'm! h'm!—'consult my own dignity'—h'm, +h'm—something's something else I can't make out +in the truest sence of the word, underlined. I +dare say. I know what all this rot comes to in the +end. I'm to go and ask forgiveness and show +contrition, and I shouldn't wonder if I was expected to +beg Aunt Priscilla's pardon. And be taken to +Church, as like as not! I say, Stumpy, that would +be rather jolly, wouldn't it? Fancy the Wicked +Man turnething away from his Wickedness and +Aunt Priscilla taking care visibly not to look at +your humble servant, so as not to hurt his feelings!" +</p> + +<p> +"I tell you what, Crocky,"—thus Mr. Hughes, +on the occasion the above is chosen from, some time +in November—"I tell you what: if I was you, I +shouldn't be an Ass. Just you mozey off to +Athabasca Villa and make it up. I believe Mrs. Gapp's +right." +</p> + +<p> +"That old sot been talking? Parples was the +best of the two. I'll have Parples back." For +Mrs. Gapp had taken Mrs. Parples' place, under +pretence of greater accomplishments and better +training. +</p> + +<p> +"At my invitation, Mr. Aiken," said Mr. Hughes +with some show of dignity—"at my invitation, +observe!—Mrs. Gapp, who has buried three +husbands and really ought to know a good deal +about connubiosity—conjugosity—what the dooce +is the word?..." +</p> + +<p> +"Well—married life, anyhow! What did old +boozey say?" +</p> + +<p> +"She had great faith in a spirit of mutual +conciliation. That is not precisely the way she put it. +Her exact expression was 'A good 'ug's the thing, +Mr. Stumpy' .... Yes—that is what Mrs. Gapp +calls me, misled by your example.... I must say +I think the course she indicated has much to +recommend it." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken looked moody, and did not reply at +once. Then he said: "That's all very fine, Stump, +my boy. But—Sairah! Sairah's the point. Now, +mind you, I'm not suggestin' anythin'. But just +you look at it this way. There was a rather nice +lookin' gyairl, with a bird's wing in her hat, came for +the place, and Euphemia wouldn't hear of her, +don't you know! Suppose it had been her!—puts +the matter on a more human footin', shouldn't +you say?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes reflected, and spoke as one whose +reflections had borne fruit. "Not being a married +beggar myself, I can't say. Speaking as a single +cuss, my recommendation to you would be—speaking +broadly—not to make an Ass of yourself. +See what I'm driving at?" +</p> + +<p> +"That means," said Mr. Aiken, "that you +consider I ought to go and beg Euphemia's gracious +pardon, and take the blame of the whole +how-do-you-do on my own shoulders, and as like as not +have to go to Church with Aunt Priscilla. +Well—I won't, and there's an end of it!" +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Aiken didn't, and prolonged his uncomfortable +circumstances quite to the end of the year. +But it is only right to say that his wife contributed +all her share to their extension and consolidation. +In fact, if this story has achieved the wish of its +compiler, ourself, it should be clear to its reader +that Mr. Reginald and Mrs. Euphemia Aiken were +precisely six of the one and half a dozen of the +other. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VII +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +The Upwell family in London. How Madeline promised not to +get mixed up. A nice suburban boy, with a Two-Power +Standard. No Jack now! The silver teapot. Miss +Priscilla's extraction. Imperialism. Horace Walpole and +John Bunyan. The Tapleys. How an item in the <i>Telegraph</i> +upset Madeline. How she failed in her mission, +but left a photograph behind her. The late Lady Betty +Dusters's chin. How Mrs. Aiken stayed downstairs and +went to sleep in an arm-chair, and of a curious experience +she had. How she related the same to her cousin Volumnia. +Of Icilia Ciaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi, and of The +Dust. The Psychomorphic Report. How Miss Volumnia +did not lose her train. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"<i>Why</i> do you want the carriage, darling?" +</p> + +<p> +"To call on a lady somewhere near Richmond, or +Combe, I think it is." +</p> + +<p> +"Won't it do to-morrow?" +</p> + +<p> +"Not so well as to-day." +</p> + +<p> +"Then I suppose you <i>must</i> have it, darling." +</p> + +<p> +"Not if you want it, Mumsey!" The speaker +got the head of the person she addressed in Chancery, +to kiss it, using the chair-back of the latter as a +fulcrum. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Upwell, the victim of this manoeuvre, said, +"Take care, Mad dear; you'll spoil my <i>ruche</i> and +put your eyes out." So her daughter released her, +and sat at her feet. She had on her tussore in +saxe-blue, trimmed with guipure lace, and was as pretty +as ever, and as sad. +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Who</i> is it you want to go and see, darling?" +said her ladyship. +</p> + +<p> +"That Mrs. Aiken," said Madeline. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh," said her mother, "but isn't she rather?" But +Madeline shook her head, with her eyes very +wide open, and kept on shaking it all the while as +she replied, "Oh no, she's not rather at all. It was +all her husband." Whereupon her mother said, +"Oh—it was her husband, was it?" and put back +a loose lock of hair on her daughter's forehead that +was getting in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +This wasn't at Surley Stakes. The family had +come up to Eaton Place for a week or ten days. +And these ladies were sitting in a small jury +drawing-room that did duty on flying visits. The real +drawing-room was all packed up, and must have +been rather savage when the family came to town, +yet left it <i>in statu quo</i>. And very savage indeed +with Madeline, who was begging to be allowed to +stop in the country and not come to town this +season at all. Indeed, she would have had her way, +had not her father said that come she must, to see +the new pair of carriage-horses he was thinking of +purchasing, whose owner was willing to lend them +for a few days on trial, but only on condition that +they should not be taken away from London. So +the family coachman had accompanied the family, +in a certain sense clandestinely. It is needless to +tell anyone who knows, that of course these ladies +were themselves only theoretically in town, with +those shutters all up. +</p> + +<p> +Madeline helped to get the lock of hair back, +remarking, "It always does," without an antecedent. +It was a pity there was no one there—mothers +don't count—to see how pretty her wrist looked, +with the blue veins in it, as she did so. She +continued talking about that Mrs. Aiken, but +semi-apologetically, as if she felt abnormal in wanting +to see that Mrs. Aiken. +</p> + +<p> +Her mother attempted to rationalise and formulate +her daughter's position. "I <i>can't</i> understand, +dear child," she said. "You only saw this lady that +one time, and only for a few minutes then. What +makes you want to see her again? She doesn't +seem to have produced a—a favourable impression +exactly." +</p> + +<p> +"N-n-not very!" is the reply; the prolonged +initial conveying the speaker's hesitation to +condemn. "But it isn't that." +</p> + +<p> +"What isn't it, child?" +</p> + +<p> +"What she's like. It's because I went there with Jack." +</p> + +<p> +"I see, dear." But it isn't so very clear that her +ladyship does see. For she adds:—"I quite understand. +Of course. Yes!" in a tone which seems +to invite further explanation. +</p> + +<p> +Her daughter at least puts this interpretation on +it. "Don't you see, Mumsey dear?" she says. +"It's because I recollect me and Jack, and her +and her husband, all talking together in that muddle +of a Studio, and the lay-figure with its head on +backwards. They seem to come into it somehow." The +further particulars are slight, one would say, +but they carry conviction, for her mother says, "I +understand that, but can you do any good?" as if +the substratum of a debatable point might be +considered settled. Madeline goes on, encouraged to +confidence. "I think <i>perhaps</i>. Because those Baxes +we met..." +</p> + +<p> +"Those <i>whats</i>?" her ladyship interrupts; adding, +however, "Oh. I see—it's a name! Go on." +</p> + +<p> +"A grim big one and a little rather jolly one. +That evening at Lady Presteign's. The grim big +one talked about it to me in a corner, because her +sister's too young to know about such things—only +she's nearly my age, and I don't see why—and told +me she believed it was a perfectly ridiculous quarrel +about a horrible maidservant, who was quite out +of the question. And of course this Miss Bax +doesn't know what <i>we</i> know." +</p> + +<p> +"My darling Madeline!" A large amused maternal +smile irradiates the speaker. "<i>Know</i>! What +a funny child you are!" +</p> + +<p> +"Well. Mumsey, don't we know, or as good as +know? Do you really think Uncle Christopher +made all that up? <i>I</i> don't." +</p> + +<p> +"It was the action of his brain, my dear, not his +own doing at all! Let me see—what's it +called?—something ending in <i>ism</i>." +</p> + +<p> +"Hypnotism?" +</p> + +<p> +"No! Oh dear, I shall remember directly...." +</p> + +<p> +"Mesmerism?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, no!—do be quiet and let me think...." +</p> + +<p> +"Vegetarianism?" +</p> + +<p> +"You silly girl! I had just got it, and you put +it out of my head ... There! ... Stop! ... No! ... Yes—<i>I've</i> +got it. <i>Unconscious Cerebration</i>! How +on earth did I manage to forget that? Unconscious +Cerebration, of course!" +</p> + +<p> +"But it doesn't end in <i>ism</i>. It ends in <i>ation</i>." +</p> + +<p> +"Never mind, child! Anyhow, I <i>have</i> recollected +it, and it's a thing one ought to be able to say. +Don't let's forget it again." To Lady Upwell this +world was a theatre, and the name of the piece was +Society. She was always on the sweetest terms +with the Management, and her benevolence to the +worn-out and broken-down actors was heartfelt. +Still, one had to talk one's part, and dress it. +"Unconscious Cerebration" was useful gag. "But," +said she, returning to the main point, "I don't see +what you can <i>do</i>, child." +</p> + +<p> +"No more do I, Mumsey dear. But I may be +able to do something for all that. I should like to +try, anyhow. I'm sure the picture was right. +Besides, see what that Miss Bax said. You may +say what you like, but she <i>is</i> Mrs. Aiken's first +cousin, after all!" +</p> + +<p> +"No doubt she's right, dear! And no doubt the +picture's right." Her ladyship retires with the +dignity of one withdrawing herself from mundane +matters, Olympuswards. But one can never touch +pitch and not be defiled. Some has clung to her, +for she adds absently, "I wonder where Thyrza +Presteign picks up all these odd people." In the +end she forsakes speculation to say, "Of course +have the carriage, darling; I don't see that any harm +can come of it. Only don't get mixed up." +</p> + +<p> +"<i>I</i> won't get mixed up," says Miss Upwell +confidently, and kisses her mother on both sides, for +granting the carriage to go on such a crazy quest. +She for the tenth of a second associates the two +kisses with the beautiful pair of greys that draw it. +She loves horses very much, and gives them too +much sugar. If any tongue's tip is ready with a +denial of the possibility of such an impression as +this, it only shows that the tongue's owner has not +had a similar experience. The kisses were cash +down for each horse—does that make it clearer? +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Anyhow, the greys' eight hoofs rang sweetly next +day on a frosty road, going south-westwards, as +soon as they left the traffic—that road-spoiler—far +enough behind. The sun had taken a mean advantage +of its being such a glorious day, to get at +nice clean frozen corners and make a nasty mess. +But there were many havens of security still where +what was blown snow-dust in the early morning +might still have a little peace and quiet, and wait +with resignation for inevitable thaw. +</p> + +<p> +Such a one was—or had been—on a low window-sill +of the Cheshire Cheese, behind the horse-trough +which the steaming greys suggested they should +empty, but were only allowed to sample. <i>Had +been</i>, because of a boy. A boy is a reason for so +many things in this world. This one, a very nice +specimen, coming, well-informed, from a Gothic +school near by, was showing how indifferent +chubbiness can be to chilblains, by manipulating the snow +on this window-sill in the manufacture of two +snowballs, of which one was complete. His was a +Two Power Standard, evidently. +</p> + +<p> +"Ask that little boy where this place is," says +Miss Upwell, from inside furs; because the carriage-lid +is set back by request, and the rider is convinced +of cold, but won't give in on principle. "He's a +native, and ought to know. Ask him, James." +</p> + +<p> +"Where's Athabasca Villa, young un? ... Don't +believe he knows, Miss." +</p> + +<p> +"Where's Athabasca Villa, little man? ... Don't +you know? Well—where does Miss Priscilla Bax live?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh—I know <i>she</i>! Over yarnder." A +vigorous illumination speaks to the force of Miss +Priscilla Bax's identity. "Over yonder" is, however, +vague; and you may have eyes like sloes, and crisp +curly brown hair, and ruddy cheeks, and yet have +very small powers of indicating complex routes +past Daddy's—not otherwise described—and round +to the left, and along to the right, and by Farmer +Phipps's barn, and so on. But this is a young +gentleman of resource, and he has a suggestion +ready: "You let I royd up behind, and <i>I'll</i> poyunt +out where to drive." The lady accedes to this +proposal, though James is evidently uneasy lest a +precedent should be established. "Let him ride +behind—he won't do any harm—" says Madeline, +between whom and this youth a bond of sympathy +forges itself unexpectedly. It might have been +more judicious to deprive him of ammunition. +</p> + +<p> +For the Two Power Standard, in his case, seemed +to involve a Policy of Aggression. His first +snowball was aimed too low; and though it struck its +object, the Incumbent of the Parish, that gentleman +only laughed. The second landed neatly under the +back-hair of a stout lady, and probably went down +her back behind, as her indignation found voice +proportionate to such a result. Miss Upwell—to +her shame be it spoken—pretended not to see or +hear; refusing, Gallio-like, to listen—but in this +case to Gentiles—and saying to James, "Please +don't stop, James—go on quick." +</p> + +<p> +The infant was, however, as good as his undertaking, +conducting the carriage intelligently to +Athabasca Villa, and taking an unfair advantage +of permission to pull its bell; he was, in fact, +detached from it with some difficulty. He seemed +surprised and pleased at the receipt of a <i>douceur</i>, and +danced. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh dear!" said poor Madeline to herself, as she +heard him die away, with some friends he met, in +the distance. "How Jack would have liked that +boy!" There was to be no Jack, it seemed, now! +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken, at one of the bays that flanked the +doorway of Athabasca Villa, looked out upon the +top and bottom half of a sun up to his middle in a +chill purple mist, and waited for tea. Tea waited +to be made, like Eve when she was a rib. But with +a confidence based on precedent; for Tea was made +every day at the same time, which Eve wasn't. +Besides, Miss Priscilla Bax made tea, and wouldn't +let anyone else make it. Not that there appears to +be any suggestion in the story of Eve that there was +ever any talk of underletting the job. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Priscilla Bax had a cap out of last century, +about half-way, and the cap had ribbons which had +to be kept entirely out of the tea. These ribbons +had no function or practical object, though an +imaginative mind might have ascribed to them that, +being alike on both sides, they helped the sense of +equilibrium necessary to safe conduct of the +unmade tea from a casket on four gouty feet, whose +lid wouldn't keep up, to a black Rockingham +teapot, which did for when there was no one. +</p> + +<p> +Only, this time there <i>was</i> someone—some carriage +one—and his, her, or its approach caused +Mrs. Aiken to exclaim, "Good gracious, Aunty, I'm +afraid it's people!" +</p> + +<p> +Miss Priscilla was watching the tap of the urn +run—her phrase, not ours. "How many?" said she. +Then dialogue worked out as follows: +</p> + +<p> +"I think I see who it is." +</p> + +<p> +"How many?" +</p> + +<p> +"Only one. I fancy it's that Miss What's-her-name. +I wish it wasn't. It's too late to say not +at home. She's seen me at the window. But +you'll have to put in another heaped-up spoonful. +Whenever will they stop ringing that bell?" +</p> + +<p> +At this point presumably the mercenary was +strangled off it, and rewarded, for the lady added, +"Yes, it's her. She's talking to a boy. What on +earth has brought her here? I shall go." +</p> + +<p> +"You can't. You've been seen. Don't be a +fool. Who do you mean by 'her'?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh—<i>you</i> know! Miss Upsley Pupsley of Curly +something. That place in Worcestershire the +picture was to go to. <i>You</i> know! They've a house +in Eaton Square." +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Then</i> we must have the silver teapot, and I +shall have to make fresh tea." The house in Eaton +Square settled that. A hurried aside caused the +appearance of the silver teapot in all its glory, and +a new ebullition, over the lamp, of a fresh kettle of +water at par. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon Miss Upwell found herself within +reach—academically speaking—of talking with this +Mrs. Aiken of that lady's private domestic +dissensions. But, oh, the impossibility of it! Madeline +felt it now, too late. Even getting to speak of the +subject at all seemed hopeless. And in another +moment she became horribly aware that she was +inexplicable—couldn't account for her visit at all. +Still, she had too much grit in her to dream of giving +in. And then, look at the motive! Besides, she +had in her heart a strong suspicion that she was a +beauty, and that that was why people always gave +way to her. Her beauty was of no use, now that +Jack was gone. Nothing being of any use to her, +now, at least let it help her to do a good turn to a +fellow-woman in tribulation. If this picture-ghost—so +she said to herself—had told this Mrs. Aiken +where Jack was, would <i>she</i> not come and tell, on +the chance? Of course she would! Courage! +</p> + +<p> +The most terrifying obstacle in her path was +Aunt Priscilla. If this lady had been the +inoffensive tabby Madeline's wish had been father to +her thought of, she could have been treated as a +negligible factor. But what is to be done when +your Aunt, living under an impression that in early +life she mixed in circles, recognises your distinguished +young friend as having emerged from a circle. This +way of putting the case transfers the embarrassment +from Miss Upwell to Mrs. Aiken. Probably that +lady felt it, and wished Aunt Priscilla wouldn't go +on so. The fact is she was getting curious to know +the reason of her visitor's unexpected appearance. +There <i>must</i> be <i>some</i> reason. +</p> + +<p> +It lost its opportunity of being divulged at the +outset. The visitor's parade of the utter indefensibility +of her intrusion, and her fib—for a fib it was +in the spirit, however true in the letter—that she +"was in the neighbourhood" worked on the +imagination, and made the position plausible. +Mrs. Aiken dropped all attempts to look amiably +surprised, as one courteously awaiting a revelation, +and candidly admitted an extremely clear recollection +of Miss Upwell's visit to the Studio. Of course +she was delighted to see her, on any terms. But +the reason of her coming could get no chance of a +hearing, when the first flush of conversation had +once failed to give it an opening. Miss Priscilla's +extraction had to be reckoned with. +</p> + +<p> +If only that appalling old lady had not been there, +or would even have been content to play second +fiddle! But as soon as she heard the name of the +village of Grewceham in Worcestershire mentioned +as the nearest township to Surley Stakes, she +identified that county as the cradle of her race, +saying, "WE came from Sampford Plantagenet, I +believe," in a tone suggestive of remote epochs, and +considerable yeomen farmers, at least, vanishing +into the mists of antiquity. "But my mother's +family," she added, "were all Brocks, of Sampford +Pagnell." +</p> + +<p> +Madeline, anxious to oblige as she was, could go +no farther than to believe, as an abstract truth, +that there were still Brocks in Sampford Pagnell; +speaking of them rather as if they ran away when +seen, but might be heard occasionally, like bitterns. +She could not do any Baxes at Sampford Plantagenet. +However, her father would know the name +Bax, and his heraldic sympathies would be stirred +by it like the war-horse in Job at the sound of +battle. This anticipation was founded solely on +his daughter's desire to fill out the order for Baxes. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Priscilla always preferred to pour the tea +herself, not without a certain Imperial suggestion +in the preference. Vespasian would have insisted +on pouring out the tea, under like circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +But the tea, when poured, brought with it no +clue to the cause of Miss Upwell's visit. It had +furnished a certain amount of relief, during its +negotiation, by postponing discussion of the point, +and by the claim it made for a chapter to itself. +For a short chapter of your life-story begins when +you get your tea, and ends when you've done your +tea. When Madeline had ceased to be able to +pretend that this chapter had not ended, her +suspended sense of incomprehensibility cropped up +again, and she grew painfully aware that her +hostesses would soon begin waiting visibly for +enlightenment, which she was no nearer being able +to give than at first. How could she have guessed +it would be so difficult? She was even conscious +of gratitude to Miss Priscilla for her persistency +in Atavism, and at heart hoped that the good lady +would not stop just yet. +</p> + +<p> +No fear of that! The Brocks were not nearly +over, and they had to be disposed of before the +Baxes could be taken in hand. Their exponent +picked them up where she had dropped them. "My +Mother's family," she resumed, "were well known +during the Middle Ages. There were Brocks in +Sampford Pagnell as early as fourteen hundred and +four. They are even said to have been connected +with John of Gaunt. Unhappily all the family +documents, including an autograph letter of Alice +Piers to Edward the Black Prince, were destroyed +in the Great Fire of London." On lines like these, +as we all know, a topic may be pursued for a very +long time without the pursuer's hobby breaking +down. It went on long enough in this case for +Madeline to wish she could get a chance of utilising +some courage she had been slowly mustering during +the chase. This being hardly mature yet, she took +another cup of tea, thank you! and sat on, supplying +little notes of exclamation and pleased surprise +whenever the manner of the narrator seemed to +call for them. +</p> + +<p> +"It seems only the other day," Aunt Priscilla +continued, with her eyes half-closed to express +memory at work upon the past, "that I was taken +as a little girl of six, to see my great-grandmother, +then in her hundredth year. She was a friend of +Horace Walpole. <i>Her</i> mother could remember John +Bunyan." +</p> + +<p> +"Is it possible!" said Madeline, very shaky about +dates, but ready with any amount of wonderment. +She added idiotically, "Of <i>course</i> my father must +have known <i>all</i> your people, <i>quite</i> well." Which +did not follow from the apparent premisses. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken muttered in a warning voice, for her +visitor's ear only, "When Aunt gets on her +grandmother she never gets off. You'll see!" She took +advantage of the old lady's deafness to keep up a +running comment. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Priscilla then approached a subject which +required to be handled with the extremest delicacy. +"I think, Euphemia," she said, "that after so long a +time there can be no objection ... You know what +I am referring to?" +</p> + +<p> +"Objection?—why should there be? Oh yes, <i>I</i> +know. Horace Walpole and your great-grandmother. +No—none!" To Madeline Mrs. Aiken said +in an undertone, "I told you how it would be." That +young lady affected a lively interest in scandal +against Queen Elizabeth, which was what she +anticipated. +</p> + +<p> +"I myself," said Aunt Priscilla, in the leisurely +way of a lecturer who has secured an audience, +"have always held to the opinion that there was a +marriage, but what the motives may have been for +concealing it can only be conjectured...." +</p> + +<p> +This was too leisurely for her niece's patience. +It provoked a species of <i>sotto voce</i> abstract of her +Aunt's coming statement thus, "Oh yes—do get +on! You cannot otherwise understand how so +rigid an observer of moral law as your great-grandfather, +however lamentable his religious tenets may +have been, could have brought himself to marry +the widow. <i>Do</i> get <i>on</i>!" Which proved to be the +substance of the original, as soon as the latter was +published. But it certainly got over the ground +quicker, and made a spurt at the winning-post, +arriving almost before the other horse started. +</p> + +<p> +"This," resumed Aunt Priscilla, after a small +blank for the congregation to sniff and cough, if so +disposed, "was some considerable time before his +accession to the Earldom. The only clue that has +been suggested as a motive for concealment of the +marriage was his unaccountable aversion to the +title, which he could scarcely have indulged if +... There's a knock. Do see if it's the Tapleys, and +don't let them go." Mrs. Aiken rose and went out, +reciting rapidly another forecast, "He-never-took- +his-seat-in-the-House-of-Lords-and-signed-his- +letters-'the-Uncle-of-the-late-Earl-of-Orford.' She'll +have done that by the time I'm back," as she +left the room. Miss Upwell felt a little resentment +at this lady's treatment of her Aunt. After all, is +not man an Atavistic animal? Is not +ancestor-worship the oldest of religions? +</p> + +<p> +It <i>was</i> the Tapleys, if Madeline had not heard +the name wrong; who had already had tea with the +Outstrippingtons, subject to the same reservation. +But she may easily have got both names wrong. +She thought she saw a chance of speaking with the +niece by herself, and at any rate appointing a +counter-visit before she went back to the Stakes, if +she cut her own short before she became involved +with the Tapleys, as might happen; and that would +be fatal, she felt. So she suddenly perceived that +she must not keep the greys standing in the cold, +and got past the incoming Tapleys, who seemed to +be in mourning for the human race, as far as clothes +went; but not sorry at all, if you came to that. +She had failed, and must give up the object of her +visit, and acknowledge defeat. And, oh dear, how +late it was! +</p> + +<p> +She could, however, get a word or two with the +niece before departing, unless that young woman +consigned her to a servant and fled back to her +Tapleys, who were shouting about how late they +were, as if they had distinguished themselves. +However, Mrs. Aiken had evidently no such +intention, but, for some reason, very much the +contrary. +</p> + +<p> +The reason came out as soon as the door shut the +shouters in, leaving her and her visitor in the +passage, with a cap and a white apron hanging on +their outskirts, ready for prompt action. +</p> + +<p> +First Mrs. Aiken said, "I am afraid Aunt must +have bored you dreadfully, Miss Upwell. She and +her family! Oh dear!" +</p> + +<p> +Madeline answered rather stiffly: "It was very +interesting. I enjoyed listening." For she would +have been better pleased with this young person if +she had taken her Aunt's part. Her own mother +prosed, copiously, about ancestors; but she herself +never tried to silence her. +</p> + +<p> +However, her displeasure melted when Mrs. Aiken—having +told the cap it needn't wait; she would +call—coloured and hesitated, and wanted to say +something. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Madeline. +</p> + +<p> +"I was—was so grieved—to see about your +friend.... Oh dear!—perhaps I oughtn't to talk +about it...." +</p> + +<p> +Miss Upwell felt she had to be dignified. After +all she and Jack were <i>not</i> engaged. "You mean +Captain Calverley, Mrs. Aiken," said she. "We +are hoping now—I mean his family are hoping—to +hear from him every day. But, of course, they +are—we all are—<i>very</i> anxious." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken looked dubiously at her visitor's face, +seeming not to see the hand that was suggesting a +good-bye shake. Then she said, very hesitatingly, +"I—I didn't know—is there a hope? I only see +the <i>Telegraph</i>." Then, an instant after, she saw +her mistake. She might at least have had the sense +to say nothing about the <i>Telegraph</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Madeline felt her colour come and go, and her +heart getting restless. "A hope? Oh <i>dear</i>, +yes!" How bravely she said it! "You know there is no +proof whatever of his..." But she could not say +"death." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no—no proof, of course! ... I should be +so glad ... I suppose they only meant..." +</p> + +<p> +All Madeline's courage was in the voice that +succeeded in saying, "Dear Mrs. Aiken, do tell me +what was said. I dare say it was all nonsense. The +newspapers get all sorts of stories." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken would have given something to be +allowed to say no more about it. She stumbled a +good deal over an attempt to unsay her blunder. +She really couldn't be positive. Quite as likely as +not the paragraph might have referred to someone +else. She was far from sure, after all, that the +name wasn't Silverton. Yes, it certainly was, +Major Silverton—that was it! +</p> + +<p> +"You are only saying that," said Madeline, +gently but firmly, "to make my mind easy. It is +kind—but—but you had better tell me now. +Haven't you got the <i>Telegraph</i>? I can buy one, of +course, on my way home. But I would much rather +know now." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken saw no way of keeping it back. "It's +in here—the <i>Telegraph</i>" said she. That is, it was +in the parlour opposite to the one they had left. +There it was, sure enough, and there, in clear print, +was the statement of its correspondent at Something-fontein +or other, that all hopes were now given up +of the reappearance of Captain Calverley, who had +been missing since the action at Burghersdrift, as +some of his accoutrements had been found in the +river below Kroondorp, and it was now looked upon +as certain that he was drowned shortly after the +action. +</p> + +<p> +Madeline knew quite well that she had in herself +an ample store of fortitude if only she could get a +fair chance to exercise it. But a horrible sort of +ague-fit had possession of her, and got at her teeth +and spoiled her speech. It would go off directly, +and she would be able to know practically, as she +now did theoretically, that it was no use paying +attention to any newspaper correspondence. She +would soon get right in the air. If this Mrs. Aiken +would only have the sense to see that what she +wanted was to get away and have herself to herself +until at least her teeth stopped chattering! But +instead of that the tiresome young woman must +needs say, "Oh dear, you look so ill! Shan't I get +you something?" Which was silly, because what on +earth could she have got, except brandy, or some +such horror? +</p> + +<p> +Madeline made a bad shot at speech, wishing to +say that she would be all right directly, but really +saying, "I shall be reckly." Collapse into a +proffered chair enabled her to add, "Leave me alone—it's +nothing," and to sit still with her eyes shut. +Nervous upsets of this sort soon pass off; and by the +time Mrs. Aiken—who felt that some remedy <i>must</i> +be exhibited, for the honour of the house—had got +at one through an emissary, she was able to meet it +half-way. "Oh yes—eau-de-Cologne, please! It's +always delightful!" Whereat Mrs. Aiken felt proud +and successful, and Madeline mopped her forehead, +feeling better. +</p> + +<p> +But she must get away now as quick as possible. +Her card-castle had collapsed. And, indeed, she +felt too late the absurdity of it all from the beginning. +So far from being able to produce her ghost, or +whatever it could be called, in extenuation of this +young lady's reprobate husband, she had not seen +her way to mentioning him at all, even under a +pretext with which she had flattered her hopes, as a +last resource, that she knew nothing about his quarrel +with his wife and their separation. It might have +brought him on the tapis, with a successful result. +There was no chance now, even if she had felt at her +best. And here she was, morally crippled by a severe +shock! For though, of course, she was not going +to pay attention to newspaper stuff, it was a severe +shock all the same. +</p> + +<p> +So she gathered herself up to say good-bye, and +with profusest gratitude for the eau-de-Cologne +departed. And Mrs. Aiken, after watching the +brisk start of the greys, and thinking how bored +they must have been, went slowly back into the +house, to wonder what on earth could have brought +an up-to-date young lady out of the Smart Set to +such an unpretending mansion as Athabasca Villa. +</p> + +<p> +She wondered also whether those interminable +Tapleys were going to talk like that till seven +o'clock, and would Aunt P. go and ask them to +stay to supper? Very likely! And she would have +to be civil to them all the evening, she supposed. +</p> + +<p> +Reflecting thus, her eye rested on the corner of +the mahogany hall-bench, with a roll at each end; +to prevent very short people falling over sideways, +presumably. What she saw made her say, "What's +this, Anne?" +</p> + +<p> +"Which, Ma'am?" said Anne. "Perhaps the +Missis knows." +</p> + +<p> +This thing was inside brown paper, and rectangular. +The corners were hard, but the middle +clicketted. Probably a <i>passe-partout</i>. At least, it +could be nothing else. So if it wasn't a <i>passe-partout</i>, +it was non-suited, <i>quoad</i> existence. Mrs. Aiken +opened the drawing-room door, meeting a +gust of the Tapleys, both speaking at once. It didn't +matter. Aunt Priscilla heard all the plainer for a +noise. There certainly was one. +</p> + +<p> +Her niece said, through it, "Have you ordered a +photograph, Aunty?" No, no photograph had been +ordered. "Then I shall have to look at it, to see +what it is," said Mrs. Aiken. The Tapleys +sanctioned and encouraged this course, with loud +shouts. And it really is a capital step to take when +you want to find out what a thing is, to look at it +and see. +</p> + +<p> +It was a photograph, and was recognised at once +by Mrs. Aiken as a copy from the Surley Stakes +picture. It was a print of the photograph that +Madeline had sent a copy of to Mr. Aiken at the +Studio, a long time before. You remember how it +stood on the table while he talked with Mr. Hughes? +"I see," said Euphemia; "Miss Upwell must have +left it behind. We must get it back to her." And +she was proceeding to wrap it up again; not, +however, without seeing enough of it to be sure of +its identity. +</p> + +<p> +But she was reckoning without her guests, who +pounced simultaneously on the back of the photograph, +crying out, "Stop!—it's written on. Read +behind." Whereupon it was read behind that this +photograph was for Mrs. Reginald Aiken, Athabasca +Villa, Coombe. "I suppose she brought it for me," +said that lady, rather sulkily. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"Whatever she came for I can't make out," said +the niece to the Aunt after supper, and indeed after +the departure of the Tapleys. For Mrs. Aiken's +worst anticipations had been fulfilled, and they had +been invited to stay to supper and had done so +remorselessly. +</p> + +<p> +The Aunt could throw no light on this sudden +appearance of Miss Upwell. "She has great charm +of manner," she said. "She reminds me a little of +the late Lady Betty Dusters. It is in the turn of +the chin." But Miss Bax's chin, cited in action to +confirm this turn, was unconvincing. +</p> + +<p> +Her niece ignored the late Lady Betty. "I +think the girl was going lengths in coming at all," +she said. "After all, what did it amount to? +Just that she and this young soldier of hers came to +the Studio to see a picture. And supposing it did +happen on the day when Reginald behaved so +detestably with that horrible girl! Doesn't that +make it all the other way round?" She wished to +express that if Miss Upwell had come to know about +her quarrel with her husband, she should have kept +her distance the more on that account. But she +was not equal to the effort, and perhaps +acknowledged it when she said, "You know what I mean, +so it's no use drum-drum-drumming it all through, +like a cart-horse or a barrel-organ. Anyhow, Miss +Upsley Pupsley would have shown better taste to +keep away, to <i>my</i> thinking!" +</p> + +<p> +"I thought you seemed to like her, Euphemia," +said the Aunt meekly. +</p> + +<p> +"I didn't say I didn't," said the niece. +</p> + +<p> +"Then I won't speak." Which resolve of Miss +Priscilla's is inexplicable, unless due allowance is +made for the fact that familiar domestic chat turns +quite as much on the way it omits, as the way +it uses words. The younger lady's manner was +that of one in whom exasperation, produced by +unrighteous conspiracy, was being kept in check +by rare powers of self-control. That of the elder +indicated constitutional toleration of the waywardness +of near relations; who are, as we know, a +crotchety class. When one of these, in addition +to tapping with her foot and looking flushed and +ready to cry on small provocation, bites articles of +<i>virtu</i>, surely a certain amount of forbearance—an +irritating practice—is permissible. +</p> + +<p> +"You'll spoil the paper-knife," said Miss Priscilla. +"And it was a present from your great-uncle +John Bulstrode, when he came from India." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken put the paper-knife down irritably, +because she knew, as you and I do, that when those +little mosaic pieces once come out, it's no use trying +to stick them in again. But she said, "Bother the +paper-knife!" And for a few moments her soul +was content to find expression in foot-tapping and +lip-biting; while her Aunt forbore, and took up her +knitting. +</p> + +<p> +Then she got up and paced about the room restlessly. +The lamp was going out, or wanted seeing +to. She turned it up; but if lamps are going out +for want of oil, turning them up does no good, and +only burns the wick away. They have to be +properly seen to. It was too late to be worth +putting fresh oil in, this time. Candles would do, +or for that matter, why not do without? The +firelight was much nicer. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Reginald Aiken walked about the room +while Miss Priscilla Bax looked at the fire and +knitted. It was getting on for bedtime. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the walker stopped opposite the knitter. +"Aunty!" said she, but in a voice that almost +seemed to add, "Do talk to me and be sympathetic. +I'm quite reasonable now." +</p> + +<p> +Her aunt seemed to accept the concession, skipping +ratifications. "Certainly, my dear Euphemia," +she said, with dignity. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know how long I've been here?" +</p> + +<p> +Those who know how inconsequent daily familiarity +makes blood relations who live together, will +see nothing odd in Miss Priscilla's reply: "My +dear niece, listen to me, and do not interrupt. +What was the expression I used when you first +announced your engagement to Reginald? ... No—I +did not say it was a come-down...." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, you did." +</p> + +<p> +"Afterwards perhaps, but <i>at first</i>, Euphemia? +Be candid. Did I, or did I not, use the expression, +'Artists are all alike?' ... I did? Very well! +And I said too—and you cannot deny it—that any +woman who married them did it with her eyes open, +and had only herself to thank for it. They are all +alike, and Reginald is no exception to the rule." At +this point Miss Priscilla may have had misgivings +about sustaining the performance, for she +ended abruptly on the dominant, "And then you +ask me if I know how long you have been here!" +</p> + +<p> +"Because it's six months, Aunty—over six +months! Is it any wonder that I should ask? +Besides, when I first came I never <i>meant</i> to stay. +I was going back when Reginald wrote that letter. +Fancy his daring to say there was no—what was +that he called it?—you know—'casus belli!' An +odious girl like that! And then to say if I +really believed it I ought to go into Court and swear +to things! How <i>could</i> I, with that Sairah? Oh +dear—if it had only been a lady!—or even a decent +woman! Anything one could produce! But—Sairah!" +</p> + +<p> +This young lady—mind you!—was only trying +to express a very common feeling, which, if you +happen to be a young married woman you will +probably recognize and sympathize with. Suppose +you were obliged to seek legal ratification of your +case against a faithless spouse, think how much +more cheerfully you would appear in court if the +opposition charmer was a Countess! Think how +grateful you would be if the culprits had made +themselves indictable in terms you could use, and +still know which way to look; if, for instance, they +had had the decency to reside at fashionable hotels +and pass themselves off as the Spenser Smyths, or +the Poole Browns. These are only suggestions, to +help your imagination. The present writer knows +no such persons. In fact, he made these names +out of his own head. +</p> + +<p> +But—Sairah! Just fancy reading in the +<i>Telegraph</i> that the petitioner complained of her +husband's misconduct with ... Oh—it would be +too disgusting for words! After all, she, the +petitioner, had a right to be considered a—she +detested the expression, but what on earth were +you to say?—LADY! What had she done that she +should be dragged down and degraded like that? +</p> + +<p> +It had been Miss Priscilla's misfortune—as has +been hinted already—to contribute to the +prolongation of her niece's residence with her by the +lines on which she herself seemed to be seeking to +bring it to an end. Nothing irritated this injured +wife more than to be reminded of feminine +subordination to man as seen from an hierarchical +standpoint. So when her Aunt quoted St. Paul—under +the impression that extraordinary man's correspondence +so frequently produces, that she was +quoting His Master—her natural irritation at his +oriental views of the woman question only +confirmed her in her obduracy, and left her more +determined than ever in her resentment against a +husband who had read St. Paul very carelessly if +at all, and who took no interest in churches apart +from their Music and Architecture. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore, when Aunt Priscilla responded to her +niece's exclamation, which has been waiting so long +for an answer, with her usual homily, it produced +its usual result. "I can only urge you, my dear +Euphemia, to turn your thoughts to the Words of +One who is Wiser than ourselves. It is no use +your saying it's only Colossians. Besides, it's +Ephesians too. The place where it occurs is +absolutely unimportant. 'Wives, submit yourselves +to your husbands, as it is fit in the Lord.' Those +are The Words." Miss Priscilla handled her +capitals impressively. The music stopped on a +majestic chord, and her rebellious niece was cowed +for the moment. Not to disturb the effect, the old +lady, having lighted her own bedroom candle, +kissed her benedictionally, with a sense of doing it +in Jacobean English—or should we say Jacobean +silence?—corresponding thereto, and left her, +accepting as valid a promise to follow shortly. +</p> + +<p> +But there was a comfortable armchair still making, +before a substantial amount of fire, its mute appeal, +"Sit down in me." The fire added, "Do, and I'll +roast you for twenty minutes more at least." It +said nothing about chilblains, but it must have +known. Mrs. Aiken acted on its advice, and sat +looking at it, and listening to an intermittent volcano +in one of its corners. +</p> + +<p> +The volcano was flagging, subject to recrudescence—for +a certain latitude has to be given to Derby +Brights and Wombwell Main—before Mrs. Aiken +released her underlip, bitten as a counter-irritant to +Scripture precepts. Aunt Priscey <i>was</i> trying! But, +then, how good she was! Where on earth would +she, Euphemia Aiken, have gone to look for an +anchorage, if it hadn't been for Aunt Priscey? She +calmed down slowly, and Colossians died away in +the soothing ripple of the volcano. +</p> + +<p> +But the fire was hot still, and she wanted a screen. +She took the first thing her hand lighted on. It +was the photograph. It would do. But she hated +the sight of it when the volcano made a spurt, and +set the shadows dancing over the whole room. She +turned it away from her towards the fire, to see the +blank back only, and calm down in the stillness, +unexasperated. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, for some reason, it became irksome to +hold it up. But it must be kept between her face +and the fire. She let it fall forward on her face, still +half holding it, and listened to the volcano. She +could sit and think about things, and not go to +sleep. Of course she could. It would never do to +spoil her night's rest. +</p> + +<p> +Was it really six whole months since she quarrelled +with Reginald? She recited the months to make +herself believe them actual, and failed. It did not +really matter, though, how long it was. If Reginald +had been ill, she could have gone back any time, +and without any sacrifice of pride. Aunt Priscey +would have found out a text, proving it a Christian +duty more than ever. A little seductive drama +crept through her mind, in which Reginald, smitten +with some disorder of a good practicable sort for the +piece—not a dangerous or nasty one, you know!—had +put all his pride in his pocket, and written a +letter humbly begging her forgiveness; acknowledging +his weakness, his evil behaviour, and acquitting +her of the smallest trace of unreasonable punctilio. +It was signed, "Your lonely husband, Reginald +Hay," that being a form domestic pleasantry in the +past had sanctioned. Something choked in her +throat over this touching episode of her own creation. +</p> + +<p> +But it dispersed obsequiously when at a moment's +notice—in her dream, you understand; dreamt as in +the middle of dinner, to establish self-sacrifice as her +portion—she started and arrived in time to save +Reginald from a sinister nurse, whose elimination +made an important passage in the drama. She +got as far as the commencement of a letter to her +Aunt, describing this achievement. At this point +drowsiness got the better of her, presumably. For +her imaginary pen became tangible, and her paper +was beautiful, only it was stamped "At Aunt's," +which seemed absurd. And she could only write +the words "My pride," which seemed more so. +</p> + +<p> +Then she woke, or seemed to wake, with a start, +saying aloud, to no one, "This will never do; I +shall spoil my night's rest." But on the very edge +of her waking someone had said, in her dream, in +a sort of sharp whisper, "Perhaps it is." And it +was this voice that had waked her. She found it +hard to believe that an outside voice had not spoken +into her dream. But no one was there, and had the +room been full of folk, none of them could have read +the words on her dream-paper. And to her half-awake +mind it seemed that "Perhaps it is" could +only apply to what she had succeeded in writing. +However, there can be no doubt that, at this moment, +she believed herself fully awake. +</p> + +<p> +Later she had reason to doubt it. Or rather, she +became convinced of the contrary by the subsequent +course of events, which need not be anticipated now. +During what followed, one would say that she must +have had misgivings that she was dreaming. But +she seems not to have had many or strong ones; +although she may have made use of the expression, +"I could hardly believe I was awake," as a mere +phrase of wonderment—just as you or I have used +it before now. For when next day she described +this experience to her cousin Volumnia, who had +been much in her confidence during these last +months, who said to her, "Of course, you <i>were</i> asleep, +because that is the only way of accounting for it +reasonably," her reply was, "Then we shall have to +account for it <i>un</i>reasonably, because I <i>was</i> awake." +</p> + +<p> +"Well—go on, and tell," was the reply. This +cousin Volumnia, the elder sister of that little +monkey Jessie, was of course the grim big Miss Bax +Miss Upwell had met at Lady Presteign's; and, as +we have seen, she was a very determined person, +one who would stand no nonsense. "Start from +where the voice woke you, Cousin Euphemia," said +she. She shut her eyes, and frowned, so as to listen +judicially. +</p> + +<p> +"I <i>laid</i> the <i>pho</i>tograph <i>on</i> the <i>ta</i>ble," said Mrs. Aiken, +with circumflex accents over every other +syllable, which is how to tell things clearly. But +Miss Volumnia said, "You needn't pounce. I can +hear." So she became normal. "I was absolutely +certain there was no one else in the room. And +everything seemed as usual; not the least like a +dream. But for all that ... you won't believe me, +Volumnia..." +</p> + +<p> +"Very likely. Go on!" +</p> + +<p> +"For all that I heard a voice—the same voice +that waked me up...." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course! You were still asleep. <i>I</i> know. +Go on! What did the voice say?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I won't go on at all, Volumnia, if you're +going to be nasty." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes, do go on. I'm greatly interested. But +you must remember that we hear thousands of these +things every week at the Psychomorphic. We +had a very interesting case only the other day. +A man heard a dog barking.... However, go on." +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, only you mustn't interrupt. What +was I saying? ... Oh yes—the voice! I heard it +quite distinctly, only very small.... Nonsense!—you +know quite well what I mean.... What did it +say? What I <i>heard</i> was, 'Hold me up, and let me +look at you.' Now I know, my dear Volumnia, you +will say I am making it improbable on purpose...." +</p> + +<p> +"Not at all, my dear Euphemia! The case is +commoner than you suppose, even when the subject +is wide awake. Please tell it <i>exactly</i> as you recollect +it. Soften nothing." The implication was that +Psychomorphism would know how much to take, +and how much to reject. +</p> + +<p> +"I am telling it exactly as it happened. It said..." +</p> + +<p> +"What said?" +</p> + +<p> +"The picture said." +</p> + +<p> +"The picture! Oh, we hadn't come to that. +Now what does that mean? The picture said!" +</p> + +<p> +"Volumnia!—IF you interrupt I can't tell it at +all. Do let me go on my own way." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—perhaps that <i>will</i> be better. I can +analyse afterwards." +</p> + +<p> +"Well—the voice seemed to come from the +picture—the photo, I mean. It said quite unmistakably, +but in a tiny voice, 'Pick me up, and let +me look at you.'..." +</p> + +<p> +"You said 'hold' before. Now it's 'pick.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Really, Cousin Volumnia, I declare I won't go +on unless...." +</p> + +<p> +"All right—all right! I'll be good." A little +pause came here owing to Mrs. Aiken stipulating for +guarantees. A <i>modus vivendi</i> was found, and she +continued, +</p> + +<p> +"I did as the voice said, and held the picture up, +looking at it. I can't imagine how I came to take +it so coolly. But you know, Volumnia, how it is +when a perfect stranger speaks to you in an omnibus, +and evidently takes you for somebody else, how +civil you are? ... Well—of course, I mean a lady! +How can you be so absurd? I said to it that I had +never heard a photograph speak before. The voice +replied, 'That is because you never listen. +Mr. Perry hears me because he listens.' I asked who +this was, and the voice replied, 'The little old +gentleman who comes here.' I said, 'No little old +gentleman comes here. Do you know where you +are?' And do you know, Volumnia, the voice said, +'In the Library at Surley Stakes, over the stoofer.' What +could that mean?" +</p> + +<p> +"Can't imagine. But I'm not to speak, you know. +That's the bargain. Go on." +</p> + +<p> +"Well—I told the woman in the photograph +where she was, and the voice said, 'I suppose you +know,' and then asked if this was the place where +she saw me before. I said no—that was my husband's +Studio. 'But,' I said, 'you were not made.' She +seemed not to understand, and persisted that +she remembered seeing me there." +</p> + +<p> +"Do excuse my interrupting just this once," said +Miss Volumnia. "I won't do it again. I only wish +to point out how clearly this shows the +dream-character of the phenomenon. Is it credible that, +admitting for the sake of hypothesis an independent +intelligence, that intelligence would recollect +occurrences before it came into existence. It seems to +me that the picture-woman's claim to identity +carries its own condemnation. How could ideas +existing in the mind of the original picture reappear +in the mind of a photograph, however carefully made?" +</p> + +<p> +"It was the same woman, Volumnia," said +Mrs. Aiken, beginning to stand on the rights of her +Phenomenon, as people do. "I do think, dear, you +are only cavilling and making difficulties." +</p> + +<p> +"I think my objection holds good. When we +consider the nature of photography..." +</p> + +<p> +"Why is it more impossible than the original +picture seeing me and recollecting?" +</p> + +<p> +"The demand on my power of belief is greater in +the case of a copy, however accurate. And it would +become greater still in the case of a copy of a copy. +And so on." This was not original. A paper read +at her Society was responsible for most of it. +"However," she added, "we needn't discuss this now. +Go on." +</p> + +<p> +"Then don't prose. You really are straining at +gnats and swallowing camels, Volumnia. Well—where +was I? ... Oh yes, the Studio! The voice +went on—and now this <i>does</i> show that it didn't come +out of my own head—'I remember the Studio, and +I remember a misunderstanding between yourself +and your husband that might easily have led to +serious consequences.' Now you know, Volumnia, +that could <i>not</i> have come out of my own—my own +inner consciousness.... Is that right?—Now +<i>could</i> it?" +</p> + +<p> +Miss Volumnia shook an unbiassed head, on its +guard against rash conclusions. "The same is +true," she said, "of so many dream-impressions. +Did you make the photograph acquainted with the +actual position of things?" +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken seemed to hesitate a moment. "Was +I bound to take it into my confidence?" she said. +"Anyhow it seemed to me at the time most uncalled for." +</p> + +<p> +"What did you say?" +</p> + +<p> +"I said—because as it was only a photograph I +thought it didn't matter—I said that fortunately +no such result had come about. I then pressed it +to say more explicitly what it was referring to.... +What?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing—go on.... Well, I was only going to +say that in my opinion you were playing with edged +tools. The slightest departure from the principle +of speaking the Truth is fraught with danger to the +speaker.... Yes—and then?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well—<i>did</i> it matter? Anyhow, let me get on. +I asked what it meant—what misunderstanding it +referred to. And do you know, Volumnia, the voice +began and gave a <i>most accurate</i> account of Miss +What's-her-name—Pupsley Wupsley's—visit to the +Studio, and described that poor young Captain +Thingumbob <i>most accurately</i>. All I can say is that +it did not make a single mistake...." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course not!" +</p> + +<p> +"Why 'of course not'?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because it was merely your own Memory +unconsciously at work; doing the job on its own, as +my young nephew would say. It may have been +wrong, but would seem to you right." +</p> + +<p> +"Then why doesn't what followed after I left the +Studio seem to me right too?" +</p> + +<p> +Miss Volumnia said, as from the seat of Judgment, +"Let's hear it." Thereupon her friend gave, +with conscientious effort to report truly, the +photograph's version of what passed in the Studio between +her husband and the odious Sairah. It corresponded +closely with that already given in this story. +</p> + +<p> +As Miss Volumnia's interruptions became frequent +towards the close of this narrative, it may be best to +summarise it, as near as may be, in the words of the +photograph, which had said, or seemed to say: "I +did indeed tremble to think what misconstruction +might be put on half-heard words of this interview +of this young English maiden with your husband. +For I could remember well how at the little Castello +in the Apennines Icilia Ciaranfi, a girl of great spirit, +finding her new-made husband enacting some such +pleasantry as this—but quite blamelessly—with +Donnina Magliabecchi, stabbed both to death there +and then; and her great grief when Donnina's lover +Beppe made it clear to her that this was but a foolish +jest to which he himself was privy. And thinking +of this painful matter I rejoiced that you, Signora, +yourself should have been guided by counsels of +moderation, at most withdrawing for a term—so I +understood—to the house of a relation as to a haven, +when no doubt all asperity of feeling would soon +give place to forgiveness. I could see that in your +case, had you yielded to the mistaken impulse of +Icilia, no such consolation as she found could have +been yours. For I understood this—though I was +young at the time—that so deeply was Beppe +touched by Icilia's remorse for her rash action, and +she so ready to give her love in compensation for +what he had lost, that each flew as it were to the +embrace of the other, and the two of them fled +then and there, and thence Icilia escaped the +officers of Justice. Now this surely would have +been an impossible resource to yourself and the +lover of <i>la Sera</i>, who, unless I am mistaken in +thinking that those who 'keep company' are lovers in +your land, was the person I heard spoken of as +'The Dust.' Which is in our tongue '<i>La +Mondezza</i>.' But I understood that while he was a man, +and in that sense competent for Love, although +called by a name fitter for a woman, yet was he +socially on a level with those whom we others in +Italy call <i>spazzini</i>, and no fit mate for a Signora of +gentle birth and breeding. +</p> + +<p> +"So that although I heard afar that the Signore +and yourself came to high words on this subject, +and gathered that you had departed in wrath to seek +shelter with an aunt, I thought of this dissension +as one that would soon be forgotten, and a matter +of the past. The more so that your Signore's own +words to his friends reassured me; to whom he said +more than once that you would be the best woman +in the world but for a defect I did not understand +from his description, that when you flew into a +blooming rage you could not keep your hair on, but +that it wouldn't last and you would be back in a +week, because you knew he couldn't do without +you. He set my mind at rest by treating the idea +of any lasting breach between you as something +too absurd for speech. But I tell you this for +certain, that I saw all that passed between him and +<i>la Sera</i>, and that if you are keeping your resentment +alive with the thought that he was guilty of anything +but an ill-judged joke, you are doing grievous +injustice to him as well as yourself. Return to him, +Signora, forthwith; and beware henceforward of +foolish jealousy and needless quarrels!" +</p> + +<p> +The foregoing is a much more complete version +of what the photograph seemed to say than +Mrs. Aiken's fragmentary report to her cousin. She had +not Mr. Pelly's extraordinary memory, and, +moreover, she had to omit phrases and even sentences +that were given in Italian. Miss Volumnia Bax, +when not interrupting, checked off the narrative +with nods at intervals, each nod seeming to be +fraught with confirmed foresight of the preceding +instalment. When it ended, she launched at once, +without a moment's pause, into a well-considered +judgment, or rather abstract of a Report of the +Case, which her mind was already scheming, to +read at the next meeting of the Psychomorphic. +This Report, printed recently by the Society, +containing all that Miss Volumnia said to her cousin +on first hearing the tale, as well as many valuable +remarks, commences as follows: +</p> + +<p> +"Case 54103A. Dream or Pseudodream, reported +by Miss Volumnia Bax. The subject of this +experience, whom we will call Mrs. A., is reluctant +to admit that she was not awake when it happened, +however frequently the absurdity of this view is +pointed out to her. So strong is this impression +that if other members of her family had been +subject to hallucination or insanity, or even victims +of alcoholism, we should incline to place this case +in some corresponding class. As it is, we have +nothing but the word of the narrator to warrant +our assigning it a place outside ordinary Somnistic +Phenomena." +</p> + +<p> +This story is not answerable for the technical +phrases of what is, after all, merely a suburban +Research Society. The Report goes on to give, +very fairly, the incident as already narrated, and +concludes thus: +</p> + +<p> +"It will be observed that nothing that the +dreamer put into the mouth of the photographic +speaker was beyond her imaginative powers, +subconscious or superconscious. It may be urged +that the absurdly romantic Italian story implies a +knowledge of Italian matters which the dreamer +did not possess, or at least emphatically disclaims. +But nothing but the verification of the story can +prove that the names, for instance, were not due to +subconscious activity of the dreamer's brain. On +the other hand—and this shows how closely the +investigator of Psychic Phenomena has to follow +their intricacies—inquiry has elicited the fact that +Mrs. A.'s husband once spent a week in Florence at +a Pension in the Piazza Indipendenza and no doubt +became familiar with the habits of Italians. What +is more likely than that she should unconsciously +remember passages of her husband's Italian +experience, as narrated by himself? We are certainly +warranted in assuming this as a working hypothesis, +while admitting our obligation to sift Italian +History for some confirmation of the dramatic (but +not necessarily improbable) incident of Icilia +Ciaranfi and Donnina Magliabecchi—both, by the way, +suspiciously Florentine names! We repeat that, +failing further evidence, we are justified in placing +this story in section M103, as a Pseudo-real +Hyper-mnemonism." +</p> + +<p> +The Report, of course, said nothing of the advice +its writer had felt warranted in giving Mrs. A., as +a corollary to her summary of the views she +afterwards embodied in it. "If you want my opinion, +Cousin Euphemia," she said, "it is that the sooner +you make it up with your husband the better! It's +quite clear from the dream that you want to do so." +</p> + +<p> +"How do you make that out?" asked Mrs. Aiken. +</p> + +<p> +"Clearly! Your subconscious self constituted +this nonsensical photograph the exponent of its +automatically cryptic Idea, while you were in a +state of Self-Induced Hypnosis...." +</p> + +<p> +"Does that mean while I was asleep?" +</p> + +<p> +"By no means. It is a condition brought about +by fixing the attention. You had, by your own +admission, been looking at the fire." +</p> + +<p> +"No—I held up the photograph." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you had been looking at the photograph." +</p> + +<p> +"Only the back." +</p> + +<p> +"It's the same thing. I am distinctly of opinion +that it was Self-Induced Hypnosis. In this +condition the subconscious self may as it were take the +bit in its teeth, and energize whatever bias towards +common sense the subject may happen to possess. In +your case the photograph's speech and its grotesque +fictions were merely pegs, so to speak, on which to +hang an exposition of your own subconscious +cryptic Idea. Does not the fact that you are at +this moment prepared to deny the existence of this +Idea prove the truth of what I say?" +</p> + +<p> +"I dare say it's very clever and very wise. But I +can't understand a word of it, and you can't expect +me to. All I know is, that if it's to be submission +and Colossians and Ephesians and stuff, back to +Reginald I don't go. And as far as I can see, +Science only makes it ten times worse.... So there!" +</p> + +<p> +"Your attitude of mind, my dear Euphemia," +said Miss Volumnia, "furnishes the strongest +confirmation possible of the truth of my interpretation +of the Phenomenon. But I must go or I shall lose +my train." +</p> + +<p> +"How I do hate patronizing people!" said +Mrs. Aiken, going back into the drawing-room after +seeing her cousin off. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER VIII +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +How Mrs. Euphemia Aiken found Madeline at home, who +consequently did not go to a Bun-Worry. But she had met +Miss Bax. How these ladies each confessed to Bogyism, of +a sort, and Madeline said make it up. How Mr. Aiken took +Mr. Tick's advice about Diana, but could not find his +Transparent Oxide of Chromium. Man at his loneliest. +No Tea. And what a Juggins he had been! Of Mrs. Gapp's +dipsomania. The Boys. How Mr. Aiken lit the +gas, and heard a cab. How he nearly kissed Madeline, +who had brought his wife home, but it was only a mistake, +glory be! Was there soap in the house? +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Mrs. Aiken tortured her speculating powers for +awhile with endeavours to put this curious event on +an intelligible footing, and was before long in a +position to "dismiss it from her mind"; or, if not +quite that, to give it a month's notice. It certainly +seemed much less true on the second day after it +happened than on the first; and, at that rate, in a +twelvemonth it would never have happened at all. +But her passive acceptance of a thing intrinsically +impossible and ridiculous—because, of course, we +know, etc., etc.—was destined to undergo a rude +shock. After taking her Aunt's advice about the +duration of the usual pause—not to seem to have too +violent a "<i>Sehnsucht</i>" for your card-leavers—the +lady paid her visit to Miss Upwell at her parents' +stuck-up, pretentious abode in Eaton Square. We +do not give the number, as to do so would be to +bring down a storm of inquiries from investigators +of phenomena. +</p> + +<p> +She gave her card to the overfed menial, who +read it—and it was no business of his! He then +put it upside down—<i>his</i> upside down—on a salver, +for easy perusal by bloated oligarchs. The voice of +an oligarch rang out from the room he disappeared +into, quite deliciously, and filled the empty house. +</p> + +<p> +Madeline was delighted to see Mrs. Aiken; had been +going to a Bun-Worry. <i>Now</i> she should do nothing +of the sort; she would much rather have tea at +home, and a long talk with Mrs. Aiken. She +confirmed this by cancelling her out-of-door costume, +possibly to set the visitor at her ease. Anyhow, it +had that effect. In fact, if either showed a trace +of uneasiness, it was Madeline. She more than +once began to say something she did not finish, and +once said "Never mind," to excuse her deficit. Of +course Mrs. Aiken had not the slightest idea of what +was passing in her mind; or rather, imputed it to a +hesitation on the threshold of sympathetic speech +about her own domestic unhappiness. +</p> + +<p> +Now the portion of this conversation that the +story is concerned with came somewhere near the +middle of it, and was as follows: +</p> + +<p> +"I think you said you had met my cousin, +Volumnia Bax?" +</p> + +<p> +"At Lady Presteign's—yes, of course I did! +With a splendid head of auburn hair, and +a—strongly characteristic manner. We had a most +amusing talk." +</p> + +<p> +"She has a red head and freckles, and is +interested in Psychœopathy." An analogue of +homœopathy, which would have stuck in the +gizzard of the Clarendon Press, and even the Daily +This and the Evening That would have looked at a +dictionary about. +</p> + +<p> +"Oh," said Miss Upwell dubiously. "<i>I</i> thought +her a fine-looking woman—a—a Lifeguardswoman, +don't you know! And her nose carries her <i>pince-nez</i> +without her having to <i>pincer</i> her <i>nez</i>, which +makes all the difference. She talked about you." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, did she? I was going to ask if she did. +What did she say about me?" +</p> + +<p> +"You mustn't be angry with her, you know! It +was all very nice." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes, of course! It always is very nice. +But—a—what <i>was</i> it? You <i>will</i> tell me, won't you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly—every word! But I may have +mistaken what she said, because there was +music—Katchakoffsky, I think; and the <i>cello</i> only found +he'd got the wrong Op., half-way through." +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose she was telling you all about me and +Reginald. I wish she would mind her own ... well, +I wish she would Psychœopathize and leave +<i>me</i> alone." +</p> + +<p> +"Dear Mrs. Aiken!—you said you wouldn't be +angry. And it was only because <i>I</i> mentioned you +and talked of that delightful visit—of—of ours to +the Studio.... Oh no, no!—there's no more news. +Not a word!" This came in answer to a look. +Madeline went on quickly, glad to say no more of +her own grief. "It was not till I myself mentioned +you that she said, 'I suppose you know they've +split?'" +</p> + +<p> +"That was a nice way to put it. Split!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—it looked as if it was sea-anemones, and +each of you had split, making four." Miss Upwell +then gave a very truthful report of what Miss Bax +had told her, neither confounding the persons, nor +dividing the substance of her narrative. +</p> + +<p> +When she had finished, Mrs. Aiken began to say, +"I suppose——" and underwent a restless pause. +Then, as her hostess waited wistfully for more, she +went on, "I suppose she said I ought to go back +and be a dutiful wife. I'm quite sick and tired of +the way people talk." +</p> + +<p> +"She said"—thus Madeline, a little timidly—"that +she thought you had acted under a grievous +misapprehension. That was what she said—'A +grievous misapprehension.'" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes!—and I'm to go back and beg pardon. +<i>I</i> know.... But that reminds me...." She +reined up. +</p> + +<p> +"Reminds you...?" Madeline paused, for her to +start again. +</p> + +<p> +"Reminds me that I've never thanked you for +the photograph." +</p> + +<p> +"I thought you might like it. I can't tell you +how fond I am of the picture, myself. I wanted to +get you to be more lenient to the poor girl. It is +the loveliest face!" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, I dare say. But anyhow, it was most kind +of you to give it me. Let me see!—what <i>was</i> it +reminded me of the photograph? Oh, of +course,—Volumnia Bax." +</p> + +<p> +"I was wondering why you said 'reminded.'" +</p> + +<p> +Now Mrs. Aiken had two or three or four or five +faults, but secretiveness was not among them. In +fact she said of herself that she "always outed with +everything." This time, she outed with, or +externalised—but we much prefer the lady's own +expression—what proved of some importance in +the evolution of events. "Oh, of course, it +was because of the ... but it was such +nonsense!" So she spoke, and was silent. The cat +was still in the bag, but one paw was out, at least. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Upwell had her own share of inquisitiveness, +and a little of someone else's. "Never mind! Do +tell <i>me</i>," she said, open-eyed and receptive. The +slight accent on "me" was irresistible. +</p> + +<p> +"It was silliness—sheer silliness!" said +Mrs. Aiken. "An absurd dream I had, which made +Volumnia say it was evident I was only being +obstinate about Reginald, because of Science and +stuff. And so going back and begging pardon +reminded me. That was all." +</p> + +<p> +"But what had the picture to do with the dream? +That's what <i>I</i> want to know," said Madeline. +</p> + +<p> +"The picture was <i>in</i> the dream," said Mrs. Aiken. +"But it was such <i>frightful</i> nonsense." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, never <i>mind</i> what nonsense it was! Do—do +tell me all about it. I can't tell you what an +intense interest I take in dreams. I do indeed!" +</p> + +<p> +"If I do, you won't repeat it to anybody. +Now will you? Promise!" +</p> + +<p> +"Upon my word, I won't. Honour bright!" Thereon, +as Mrs. Aiken really wanted to tell, but +was dreadfully afraid of being thought credulous, +she told the whole story of the dream, with every +particular, just as she had told it to Miss Volumnia +Bax. +</p> + +<p> +Her hearer contrived to hold in, with a great +effort, until the story reached "Well—that's all! +At least, all I can tell you. Wasn't it absurd?" Then +her pent-up impatience found vent. "<i>Now</i> +listen to <i>my</i> story!" she cried, so loud that her +hearer gave a big start, exclaiming, "What—have +<i>you</i> got a story? Oh, do tell it! I've told you mine, +you know!" +</p> + +<p> +Then Madeline made no more ado, but told the +whole story of Mr. Pelly's dream, omitting all but +a bare sketch of the Italian narrative—just enough +to give local truth. +</p> + +<p> +"Then," said Mrs. Aiken, when she had finished, +"I suppose <i>you</i> mean that I ought to go back and +beg Reginald's pardon, too." +</p> + +<p> +"I <i>do</i>," said Madeline, with overwhelming +emphasis. "<i>Now</i>, directly!" +</p> + +<p> +"But you'll promise not to tell <i>anyone</i> about the +dream—my dream," said Mrs. Aiken. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +That same afternoon Mr. Reginald Aiken had been +giving careful consideration to Diana and Actæon, +unfinished; because, you see, he had a few days +before him of peace and quiet, and rest from beastly +restoration and picture-cleaning. One—himself, +for instance—couldn't be expected to slave at that +rot for ever. It was too sickening. But of course +you had to consider the dibs. There was no getting +over that. +</p> + +<p> +However, apart from cash-needs, there were +advantages about these interruptions. You came +with a fresh eye. Mr. Aiken had got Diana and +Actæon back from its retirement into the Studio's +picked light, to do justice to his fresh eye. Two +friends, one of whom we have not before seen in his +company, were with him, to confirm or contradict +its impressions. +</p> + +<p> +This friend, a sound judge you could always +rely upon, but—mind you!—a much better Critic +than an Artist, was seated before the picture with +a short briar-root in his mouth, and his thumbs in +the armholes of a waistcoat with two buttons off. +The other, with a calabash straining his facial +muscles, and his hands—thumbs and all—in his +trouser-pockets, was a bit of a duffer and a stoopid +feller, but not half a bad chap if you came to that. +Mr. Aiken called them respectively Tick and Dobbles. +And they called him Crocky. +</p> + +<p> +So there were five fresh eyes fixed upon the +picture, two in the heads of each of these gentlemen, +and the one Mr. Aiken himself had come with. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tick's verdict was being awaited, in considerate +silence. His sense of responsibility for its +soundness was gripping his visage to a scowl; and +a steadfast glare at the picture, helped by glasses, +spoke volumes about the thoroughness of its +source's qualifications as a Critic. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken became a little impatient. "Wonder +if you think the same as me, Tick?" said he. +</p> + +<p> +"Wonder if you think the same as 'im!" said Dobbles. +</p> + +<p> +But Criticism—of pictorial Art at least—isn't a +thing to hurry over, and Mr. Tick ignored these +attempts at stimulus. However, he spoke with +decision when the time seemed ripe. Only, he first +threw an outstretched palm towards the principal +figure, and turned his glare round to his companions, +fixing them. And they found time, before judgment +came, to murmur, respectively, "Wonder if he'll +say my idea!" and "Wonder if he'll say your idear?" +</p> + +<p> +"Wants puttin' down!" shouted Mr. Tick, leaving +his outstretched fingers between himself and Diana. +</p> + +<p> +And thereupon the Artist turned to Mr. Dobbles +and murmured, "What did I tell you?" And +Mr. Dobbles murmured back, "Ah!—what did you tell +me?" not as a question, but as a confirmation. +</p> + +<p> +"What I've been thinking all along!" said Mr. Aiken. +Then all three gave confirmatory nods, and +said that was it, you might rely on it. Diana was +too forward. Had Actæon been able to talk, he +might have protested against this. For see what a +difference the absence of the opposite characteristic +would have made to Actæon! +</p> + +<p> +Conversation then turned on the steps to be taken +to get this forward Goddess into her place again, +Mr. Tick, who appeared to be an authority, dwelt +almost passionately on the minuteness of the +change required. "When I talk of puttin' down," +said he, "you mustn't imagine I'm referrin' to any +<i>perceptible</i> alteration. You change the tone of that +flesh, and you'll ruin the picture!" +</p> + +<p> +His hearers chorused their approbation, in such +terms as "Right you are, Tick, my boy!"—"That's +the way to put it!"—"Bully for you, old cocky-wax!" +and so on. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tick seemed pleased, and elaborated his +position. "Strictly speakin'," said he, "what is +needed is an absolutely imperceptible lowerin' of +the tone. Don't you run away with the idea that +you can paint on a bit of work like that, to do it +any good. You try it on, and you'll come a cropper." This +was agreed to with acclamations, and a running +commentary of "Caution's the thing!"—"You +stick to Caution!"—and so on. The orator +proceeded, "Now, I never give advice, on principle. +But if I was to do so in this case, and you were to +do as I told you, you would just take the <i>smallest +possible</i> quantity—the least, <i>least</i>, LEAST touch—no +more!—of..." But Mr. Tick had all but curled +up over the intensity of his superlatives, and he +had to come uncurled. +</p> + +<p> +"What of?" said Mr. Aiken. And said Mr. Dobbles, +not to be quite out of it, "Ah!—what +of?" Because a good deal turned on that. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tick had a paroxysm of decision. He seized +Mr. Aiken's velveteen sleeve, and held him at +arm's length. "Look here, Crocky!" said he. +"Got any Transparent Oxide of Chromium?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—somewhere!" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, now—just you do as I tell you. Got a +clean number twelve sable? ... No?—well, number +eleven, then ... That'll do!—dip it in Benzine +Collas and give it a rinse out. See? Then you give +it a rub in your Transparent Oxide, and wipe it +clean with a rag. What's left will go all over Diana, +and a little to spare..." +</p> + +<p> +"Won't she look green?" Mr. Aiken seemed reluctant. +</p> + +<p> +"Rather! But you do as I say, young feller, and +ask no questions.... 'What are you to do next?'—why, +take an absoli-y<i>oo</i>tly white bit of old rag +and wipe her quite clean from head to foot." His +audience suggesting here that no change would be +visible, he added, "That's the idear. Don't you +change the colour on any account. But you'll +see! Diana—she'll have gone back!" +</p> + +<p> +"There's somethin' in what old Tick says," said +Mr. Dobbles, trying to come out of the cold. He +nodded mysteriously. Mr. Aiken said he'd think +about it. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tick said, "I ain't advisin'. I never advise. +But if I was to—there's the advice I should give!" Then +he and Mr. Dobbles went their ways, leaving +Mr. Aiken searching for his tube of Transparent +Oxide of Chromium. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Mr. Reginald Aiken always knew where +everything was in his Studio, and could lay his hand +on it at once. Provided always that you hadn't +meddled and shifted the things about! And he +knew this tube of colour was in his old japanned +tin box, with the folding palette with the hinge +broke. It might be difficult to get out by now, +because he knew a bottle of Siccatif had broken all +over it. But he was keen to make Diana go back, +and if he went out to get another tube he would +lose all the daylight. +</p> + +<p> +So he sat down to think where the dooce that box +had got put. He lit a cigarette to think with. One +has to do things methodically, or one soon gets into +confusion. +</p> + +<p> +He passed before his mind the epoch-making +<i>bouleversements</i> of the past few years; notably the +regular good clean-up when he married Euphemia +four years since, and took the second floor as well +as the Studio floor he had occupied as a bachelor. +</p> + +<p> +He finished that cigarette gloomily. Presently he +decided that what had happened on that occasion +had probably occurred again. History repeats +itself. That box had got shoved back into the +recess behind the <i>cassettone</i>. He would have up +Mrs. Gapp, who came in by the day, in the place of +Mrs. Parples, who had outstayed her welcome, to help +him to shift that great beastly useless piece of +lumber. Mrs. Gapp was, however, easier to call over the +stairs to than to have up. The number of times you +called for Mrs. Gapp was according; it varied with +your own tenacity of purpose and your readiness +to believe that she wasn't there. Mr. Aiken seemed +easily convinced that she was at the William the +Fourth, up the street. That was the substance of +his reason for not shouting himself hoarse; that +is to say, it worked out thus as soliloquy. He went +back and tried for the japanned tin colour-box, +single-handed. +</p> + +<p> +He had much better have gone out to buy a new +tube of this useful colour, as in five minutes he was +one mass of filth. Only getting the things off the +top of that box was enough!—why, you never see +anything to come near the state they was in. And +if he had only rang again, sharp, Mrs. Gapp would +have heard the wire; only, of course, no one could +say the bell wasn't broke, and maintain a reputation +for truthfulness. We are incorporating in our text +some verbal testimony of Mrs. Gapp's, given later. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Gapp could not have testified—for she +was but a recent char, at the best—to the desolation +of her unhappy employer's inner soul when, too +late for the waning light of a London day, he opened +with leverage of a screwdriver the lid of that +japanned tin-box, and excavated from a bed of +thickened resin which he knew could never be +detached from the human hand, or anything else it +touched, an abject half-tube of colour which he had +to treat with a lucifer-match before he could get +its cap off. And then only to find that it had gone +leathery, and wouldn't squeeze out. +</p> + +<p> +If we had to answer an Examination question, +"When is Man at his loneliest? Give instances," +we should reply—unless we had been otherwise +coached—"When he is striving, companionless, to +get some sort of order into things; working on a +basis of Chaos, feeling that he is the first that ever +burst into a dusty sea, choked with its metaphorical +equivalent of foam. Instance Mr. Reginald Aiken, +at the end of last century, in his Studio at +Chelsea." Anyhow, if this question had been then asked of +anyone and received this answer, and the Examiners +had referred back to Mr. Aiken, before giving a +decision, he would certainly have sanctioned full marks. +</p> + +<p> +But he gave himself unnecessary trouble. One +always does, in contact with disinterred lumber, in +which a special brood of spooks lies hid, tempting +him to the belief that this flower-stand only wants +a leg to be of some use, and that that fashionable +armchair only wants a serpentine segment of an +arm and new straps under the seat to be quite a +handsome piece of furniture. Yes, and new +American leather, of course! Mr. Aiken had not +to deal with these particular articles, but the +principle was the same. He foolishly tampered +with a sketching umbrella, to see if it would open: +it certainly did, under pressure, but it wouldn't keep +up nor come down, and could only be set right at +the shop, and a new one would be cheaper in the +end. Pending decision, a large black beetle, who +had hoped to end his days undisturbed, fell off the +underside as its owner opened it, and very nearly +succeeded in getting down his back. +</p> + +<p> +The things that came out of that cavern behind +the <i>cassettone</i>!—you never would have thought it! +A large can of genuine Amber Varnish that had had +its cork left out, and wouldn't pour; the Skeleton's +missing right scapula, only it wouldn't hold now; +and, besides, one never wanted the Skeleton; a +great lump of modelling-wax and apparently +infinite tools—no use to Mr. Aiken now, because he +never did any modelling, but they might be a +godsend to some art-student; folio volumes of +anatomical steel-plates, that the engravers had +hoped would last for ever—a hope the mice may +have shared, but they had done pretty well already; +Mr. Aiken's old ivory foot-rule, which was the only +accurate one in the British Empire, and what the +dooce had become of it he never could tell; plaster +heads without noses, and fingers without hands, +and discarded fig-foliage, like a pawnshop in Eden; +things, too, for which no assignable purpose appeared +on the closest examination—things that must have +been the lifework of insane artisans, skilful and +thorough outside the powers of language to express, +but stark mad beyond a doubt. And a Dutch +clock that must have been saying it was a quarter-past +twelve, unrebuked, for four years or so past. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken need not have tried to pour out the +Amber Varnish; where was the sense of standing +waiting, hoping against hope for liquidation? He +need not have hunted up a pair of pliers to raise +vain hopes in the scapula's breast—or its +equivalent—of a new lease of life. He need not have +tried to soften the heart of that wax. Nor have +turned over the plates to see if any were left perfect. +Nor need he have reconsidered the Inexplicables, to +find some plausible <i>raison d'être</i> for them, nor tried +to wind up the Dutch clock with sporadic keys, +found among marine stores in a nail-box. But he +was excusable for sitting and gloating over his ivory +foot-rule, his sole prize from a wrestling-match with +intolerable filth—or only tolerable by a Londoner. +He was weary, and the daylight had vanished. And +even if he had got a squeeze out of that tube, he +couldn't have used it. It was much too ticklish +a job to do in the dark. +</p> + +<p> +He sat and brooded over his loneliness in the +twilight. How in Heaven's name had this odious +quarrel come about? Nonsense about Sairah! +That absurd business <i>began</i> it, of course. Serious +quarrels grow out of the most contemptible nonsense, +sometimes. Oh no—there was something behind; +some underlying cause. But he sought in vain to +imagine one. They had always been such capital +friends, he and Euphemia! It was true they +wrangled a great deal, often enough. But come, I +say! If a man wasn't to be at liberty to wrangle +with his own wife, what <i>were</i> we coming to? +</p> + +<p> +He believed it was all the doing of that blessed +old Aunt of hers. If she hadn't had Athabasca Villa +to run away to,—why, she wouldn't have run away +at all! She would have snapped and grizzled at +him for a time, and then made it up. And then +they would have had an outing, to Folkestone or +Littlehampton, and it would all have been jolly. +</p> + +<p> +Instead of which, here they were, living apart +and writing each other letters at intervals—for they +kept to correspondence—and, so far as he could see, +letters only made matters worse. He knew that +the moment he took up his pen to write a regular +sit-down letter he put his foot in it. He had always +done that from a boy. +</p> + +<p> +Probably, throughout all the long summer that +had passed since his quarrel with his wife, he had +not once missed saying, as a morning resolution to +begin the day with, that he wouldn't stand this any +longer. He would go straight away, after breakfast, +to Athabasca Villa, and beard Aunt Priscilla +in her den, his mind seeming satisfied with the +resolution in this form. But every day he put it +off, his real underlying objection to going being that +he would have to confess to having made himself +such an unmitigated and unconscionable Juggins. +His Jugginshood clung to him like that Siccatif to +his fingers. It was too late to mitigate himself now. +And six months of discomfort had contrived to slip +away, of which every day was to be the last. And +here he was still! +</p> + +<p> +If he had understood self-examination—people +don't, mostly—he might have detected in himself +a corner of thought of a Juggins-mitigating +character. However angry he felt with his wife, he +could not, would not, admit the possibility that she +believed real ill of him. His loyalty to her went +further than Geraint's to Enid, for he imputed to +her acquittal of himself, from sheer ignorance of the +sort of thing anybody else's wife might impute to +anybody else's husband. Because, you see, he had +at heart such a very exalted view of her character. +Perhaps she would not have thanked him for fixing +such a standard for her to act up to. +</p> + +<p> +He sat on—on—in the falling darkness; the +little cheerfulness of his friends' visit had quite +vanished. The lumber he had wallowed in had +grimed his heart as well as his garments. He would +have liked Tea—a great stand-by when pain and +anguish wring the brow. But when you are too +proud to admit that your brow is being wrung, and +you know it is no use ringing the bell, because +Mrs. Gapp, or her equivalent, is at the William the +Fourth, why, then you probably collapse and submit +to Fate, as Mr. Reginald Aiken did. It didn't much +matter now if he had no Tea. No ministering Angel +was there to make it. +</p> + +<p> +He sat, collapsed, dirty and defeated, in the +Austrian bent-wood rocking-chair. What was that +irruption of evening newsboys shouting? Repulse +of some General, English or Dutch, at some berg or +drift; surrender of some other, Dutch or English, at +some drift or berg. He was even too collapsed +to go out and buy a halfpenny paper. He didn't +care about anything. Besides, it was the same +every evening. Damn the Boers! Damn Cecil Rhodes! +</p> + +<p> +The shouters had passed—a <i>prestissimo</i> movement +in the Street Symphony—selling rapidly, before he +had changed his mind, and wished he had bought a +<i>Star</i>. Never mind!—there would be another edition +out by the time he went to dinner at Machiavelli's. +He sat on meditating in the gloom, and wondering +how long it would be before it was all jolly again. +Of course it <i>would</i> be—but when? +</p> + +<p> +A sound like a nervous burglar making an attempt +on a Chubb lock caught his ear and interested him. +He appeared to identify it as Mrs. Gapp trying to +use a latchkey, but unsuccessfully. He seemed +maliciously amused, but not to have any intention +of helping. Presently the sound abdicated, in +favour of a subterranean bell of a furtive and +irresolute character. Said Mr. Aiken, then, to +Space, "Mrs. Verity won't hear that, you may bet +your Sunday garters," and then went by easy +stages to the front-door, to see—so further soliloquy +declared—how sober his housekeeper was after so +long an absence. A glance at the good woman +convinced him that her register of sobriety would stand +at zero on any maker's sobriometer. +</p> + +<p> +She said that a vaguely defined community, called +The Boys, had been tampering with the lock. Mr. Aiken, +from long experience of her class at this stage, +was able to infer this from what sounded like +"Boysh been 'tlocksh—keylocksh—inchfearunsh." This +pronounced exactly phonetically will be clear +to the student of Alcoholism; be so good as to read +it absolutely literally. +</p> + +<p> +"Lock's all right enough!" said Mr. Aiken, after +turning it freely both ways. "Nobody's been +interfering with it. You're drunk, Mrs. Gapp." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gapp stood steady, visibly. Now, you can't +stand steady, visibly, without a suspicion of a lurch +to show how splendidly you are maintaining your +balance. Without it your immobility might be +mere passionless inertia. Mrs. Gapp's eyes seemed +as little under her control as her voice, and each +had a strange, inherent power of convincing the +observer that the other was looking the wrong way. +</p> + +<p> +"Me?" said Mrs. Gapp. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—you!" said Mr. Aiken. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Gapp collected herself, which—if we include +in it her burden, consisting of some bundles of +firewood and one pound four ounces of beefsteak +wrapped in a serial—seemed in some danger of +redistributing itself when collected. She then spoke, +with a mien as indignant as if she were Boadicea +seeking counsel of her country's gods, and said, +"<i>Me</i> r-r-runk! <i>Shober!</i>"—the last word expressing +heartfelt conviction. Some remarks that followed, +scarcely articulate enough to warrant +transcribing, were interpreted by Mr. Aiken to the +effect that he was doing a cruel injustice to a +widow-woman who had had fourteen, and had lived a pure +and blameless life, and had buried three husbands. +Much stress was laid on her own habitual abstention +from stimulants, and the example she had striven +to set in her own humble circle. Her third had +never touched anything but water—a curlew's life, +as it were—owing to the force of this example. +Let persons who accused her of drunkenness look +at home, and first be sure of their own sobriety. +Her conscience acquitted her. For her part she +thought intoxication a beastly, degrading habit—that +is to say, if Mr. Aiken interpreted rightly something +that sounded, phonetically, like "Bishley grey +rabbit." At this point one of the wood-bundles +became undone, owing to the disgraceful quality of +the string now in use. Mrs. Gapp was dissuaded +with difficulty from returning to the shop to +exchange it, but in the end descended the +kitchen-stairs, lamenting commercial dishonesty, and +shedding sticks. +</p> + +<p> +The Artist seemed to regard this as normal +charing, nothing uncommon. He returned to the +Austrian bent-wood chair, and sat down to think +whether he should light the gas. He began to +suspect himself of going imbecile with disheartenment +and depression. He was at his lowest ebb. +"I tell you what," said he—it was Space he was +addressing—"I shall just go straight away +to-morrow after breakfast to Coombe, and tell +Mrs. Hay that if she doesn't come back I shall let the +Studio and go to Japan." +</p> + +<p> +But Space didn't seem interested. It had three +dimensions, and was content. +</p> + +<p> +He might as well light the gas as not; so he did it, +and it sang, and burned blue. Then it stopped +singing, and became <i>transigeant</i>, and you could +turn it down or up. Mr. Aiken turned it down, but +not too much, and listened to a cab coming down +the street. "That's not for here," said he. He +had no earthly reason for saying this. He was only +making conversation; or rather, soliloquy. But +he was wrong; at least so far as that the cab was +really stopping, here or next door. And in the +quadrupedations, door-slammings, backings, +reproofs to the horse, interchange of ideas between +the Captain and the passengers of a hansom cab of +spirit, a sound reached Mr. Aiken's ear which +arrested him as he stood, with his finger on the +gas-tap. "Hullo!" said he, and listened as a musical +Critic listens to a new performance. +</p> + +<p> +When towards the end of such a symphony, the +fare seeks the exact sum he is named after, and +weighs nice differences, some bars may elapse +before the conductor—or rather the driver, else we +get mixed with omnibuses—sanctions a start. But +a reckless spendthrift has generally discharged his +liability, and is knocking at the door or using his +latchkey, before his late driver has done pretending +to consider the justice of his award. It happened +so in this case, for before Mr. Aiken saw anything +to confirm or contradict the need for his close +attention, eight demisemiquavers, a pause, and a +concussion, made a good wind-up to the symphony +aforesaid, and the cab was free to begin the next +movement on its own account. +</p> + +<p> +He discarded the gas-tap abruptly, and pounced +upon his velveteen, nearly pulling over the screen +he had hung it on. "That drunken jade must <i>not</i> +go to the door," he gasped, as he bolted from the +room and down the stairs. He need not have been +uneasy. The jade was singing in the kitchen—either +the Grandfather's Clock or the Lost Chord—and +was keeping her accompanist waiting, with an +intense feeling of pathos. Mr. Aiken swung down +the stairs, got his collar right in the passage, and +nearly embraced the wrong lady on the doorstep, +so great was his hurry to get at the right one. +</p> + +<p> +"Never mind!" said Madeline; and her laugh +was like nightingales by the Arno in May. "Don't +apologize, Mr. Aiken. Look here!—I've brought +you your wife home. Now kiss <i>her</i>!" +</p> + +<p> +"You're not fit to kiss anybody, Reginald; but +I suppose there's soap in the house." So said +Mrs. Aiken. And then, after qualifying for a liberal use +of soap, she added, "What <i>is</i> that hideous noise in +the kitchen?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, that?" said her husband. "<i>That's</i> Mrs. Gapp." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER IX +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +Madeline's report, next morning. Charles Mathews and Madame +Vestria. How well Madeline held her tongue to keep her +promise. An anticipation of post-story time. How a +Deputation waited on Mrs. Aiken from the Psychomorphic. +Mr. MacAnimus and Mr. Vacaw. Gevartius much more +correct for Miss Jessie to listen to than the Laughing Cavalier. +Of Self-hypnosis and Ghosts, their respective categories. +The mad cat's nose outside the blanket. Singular +Autophrenetic experience of Mr. Aiken. Stenography. A case +in point. Not a Phenomenon at all. How Miss Volumnia's +penetration penetrated, and got at something. Suggestion +traced home. Enough to explain any Phenomenon. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"I'm afraid you <i>did</i> get mixed up, darling, this +time. But I dare say they're all right." This was +Lady Upwell's comment at breakfast next morning, +when her daughter had completed a narrative of +her previous evening's adventure, which had +assumed, between the close of last chapter and the +ensuing midnight, all the character of a reckless +escapade. Indeed, it had been long past that hour +when the young lady, who had wired early in the +evening that she was "dining with Aikens shall be +late," returned home in better spirits than she had +shown for months—so her mother said to sympathetic +friends afterwards—to find her Pupsey getting +uneasy about her, and fidgetting. Because that was +Pupsey's way. +</p> + +<p> +Madeline's parents at this time would probably +have welcomed any diversion or excitement for the +girl; anything to take her mind away from her +troubles. They were not at all sure about these +Aiken people; but there!—they would have +welcomed worse, to see this little daughter of theirs +in such spirits as hers last night. Touching the +cause of which they were a little puzzled, as she had +stuck loyally to her promise to tell nothing of +Mrs. Aiken's dream and the share the Italian picture +had in her reconciliation with her husband. All +she said was that she had persuaded Euphemia to +go back to Reginald; she having, as it were, +borrowed from each the name each called the +other—in a certain sense, quoting it. +</p> + +<p> +"Euphemia, I suppose, is Mrs. Aiken?" said her +ladyship temperately—with a touch of graciousness, +like Queens on the stage to their handmaidens +Cicely or Elspeth. +</p> + +<p> +"Euphemia 's Mrs. Aiken, but he calls her Mrs. Hay +as often as not." Perplexity of both parents +here required a short explanation of middle-class +jocularity turning on neglect or excess of aspirates. +After which Madeline said, "That's all!" and they +said, "We see," but with hesitation. Then she +continued her story. "It was such fun! <i>I</i> knocked +at the door, and Reginald came rushing out because +he heard Euphemia outside, and clasped me in his +arms ... Oh, well—it's quite true! You see, he +was in such a hurry he didn't stop to look, and he +took me for Euphemia." For the Baronet had laid +down his knife and fork and remained transfixed. +But a telegraphic lip-movement of her ladyship +reassured him. "This," it said, "is exaggeration. +Expect more of the same sort." However, his +daughter softened the statement. "It wasn't +exactly negotiated, you know. And I don't think +it would have been any satisfaction either, because +he was so horribly dirty, Reginald was." +</p> + +<p> +The Baronet completed a contract he had on +hand with some kippered salmon, and said, before +accepting a new one, "Well—<i>you're</i> a nice young +woman!" But he added forgivingly, "Go on—gee-up!" +</p> + +<p> +The nice young woman went on. "And do you +know, I don't believe that a more filthy condition +than that house was in—why, Mrs. Aiken had been +away ten months! And there was a drunken cook +singing in the kitchen all the while." +</p> + +<p> +"You are an inconsecutive puss," said the +Baronet, very happy about the puss nevertheless. +"You didn't finish your sentence. 'Filthy +condition that house was in'—go on!" +</p> + +<p> +"Bother my sentence! Finish it yourself, +Pupsey. Well—Reginald and Euphemia made it +up like a shot. Couple of idiots! Then the +question was—dinner. I said come home here, but +they said clothes. There was some truth in what +they had on, so I said hadn't we better all go and +dine where Mr. Aiken had been going. Because +I didn't call him Reginald to his face, you know!" +</p> + +<p> +"And you went, I suppose?" +</p> + +<p> +"I should think so. We dined at Mezzofanti's +in Great Compton Street, Soho—no, it wasn't; it +was Magliabecchi's—no!—Machiavelli's. And I +talked such good Italian to the waiter. It <i>was</i> fun! +And what do you think we did next? ... Give it +up?" Her father nodded. "Why—we went to the +Adelphi Theatre—there! And we saw 'Charley's +Aunt,' and we parted intimate bosom friends. Only +Euphemia is rather fussy and distant, compared to +Us, and I had to stick out to make her kiss me." A +slight illustration served to show how the speaker +had driven a coach-and-six through the +bosom-friend's shyness. +</p> + +<p> +"Well," said the Baronet. "All I can say is—I +wish I had been there with you. If I go to the +play now—there I am, dressed in toggery and +sittin' in the stalls! Lord, I remember when I was +a young fellow, there was Charles Mathews and +Madame Vestris ... you can't remember them...." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I can't. I was only born nineteen +years ago." The Baronet, however, added more +recent theatrical experiences, but only brought on +himself corrections from his liege lady. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear, you're quite at sea. Fancy the child +recollecting Lord Dundreary and Buckstone! Why, +she wasn't born or thought of!" +</p> + +<p> +But when this Baronet got on the subject of his +early plays and operas, he developed reminiscence +in its most aggravated form. He easily outclassed +Aunt Priscey on the subject of her ancestors. Her +ladyship abandoned him as incorrigible, without an +apology, but his daughter indulged him and sat and +listened. +</p> + +<p> +All things come to an end sooner or later, and +reminiscence did, later. Then poor Madeline ran +down in her spirits, and sat brooding over the war +news. It was only a temporary sprint. Reginald +and Euphemia vanished, and Jack came back. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Madeline kept all this story of the talking photograph +to herself. To talk of it she would have had +to tell her friend's dream, and that she had promised +not to do. +</p> + +<p> +She was so loyal that when a day or two later she +met the formidable Miss Charlotte Bax, she kept a +strict lock on her tongue, even when that lady +plunged into a resumé of the dream-story as she had +received it, and an abstract of her commentary on +it, still waiting delivery at the Psychomorphic. +</p> + +<p> +"I hoped we should meet at Mrs. Ludersdorff +Priestley's," said she, "because I wanted to talk +about it. Their teas are so stupid. Ethel +Ludersdorff Priestley said you were coming." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes—that was the Unfulfilled Bun-Worry. +Mrs. Aiken came in to see me, and I stayed." Then, +as an afterthought, "I suppose you know they've +made it up?" +</p> + +<p> +Admission that there was something unknown to +her did not form part of Miss Charlotte's scheme of +life. She left the question open, saying merely, +"In consequence of the advice I gave my cousin, no +doubt!" Madeline said nothing to contradict this—all +the more readily perhaps that she was not prepared +to supply the real reason. She, however, +could and did supply rough particulars of the +reconciliation, giving Miss Charlotte more than her due of +credit as its <i>vera causa</i>. +</p> + +<p> +That lady then proceeded to give details of her +scientific conclusions about the phenomenon. A +portion of this may be repeated, as it had a good +deal of effect in confirming her hearer's growing +faith in its genuineness. "What I rest my +argument on," said Miss Charlotte, touching one +forefinger with the other, like Sir Macklin in the "Bab +Ballads," "is the isolated character of this +phenomenon. Let the smallest confirmation of it be +produced by proof of the existence of analogous +phenomena elsewhere, and then, although that +argument may not fall to the ground, it may be +necessary to place it on an entirely new footing. I +would suggest that, in order to sift the matter to +the bottom, a sub-committee should be appointed, +charged with the duty of listening to authentic +portraits to determine, if possible, whether any +other picture possesses this really almost incredible +faculty of speech. The slightest whisper from +another picture, well authenticated by a scientific +authority, would change the whole venue of the +discussion. Pending such a confirmation, we are +forced to the conclusion that the subjectivity of the +phenomenon is indisputable." +</p> + +<p> +At this point, Miss Upwell, who was really getting +anxious about <i>secondly</i>—which she was certain the +speaker would forget, while it was impossible for her, +without loss of dignity, to draw one forefinger from +the other—was greatly relieved when the +withdrawal was made compulsory by the offer of a +sally-lunn, and the resumption of it became unnecessary, +and even difficult. For this entertainment was not +merely a bun-worry, but—choosing a name at +random—a sally-lunn sedative, or a tea-cake lullaby. +</p> + +<p> +It only enters for a moment into this story to show +how powerfully Miss Upwell's belief in the picture's +personality had been reinforced before the time came +for Mr. Pelly to read Professor Schrudengesser's +Florentine manuscript. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Perhaps if Miss Volumnia had then been in a +position to lay before her friend the results of a +subsequent interview with her cousin, in which she elicited +some most important facts, this belief might at +least have been suspended, and Miss Upwell's +attitude towards the pardonable scepticisms of her +father and Mr. Pelly might have been less +disrespectful. But as a matter of fact Miss Volumnia +only came to the knowledge of these facts months +later, when she called upon Mrs. Reginald Aiken +with the Secretary, Mr. MacAnimus, and Mr. Vacaw, +the Chairman of the Psychomorphic; the three +constituting a Deputation from the Society, which +was anxious for repetition and confirmation of the +story before appointing a sub-committee to listen +to well-painted pictures. This interview may be +given here, for the sake of those curious in Psychological +study, but its place in the succession of events +should be borne in mind. It is really a piece of +inartistic anticipation. +</p> + +<p> +"We shouldn't come pestering you like this, +Cousin Euphemia," said Miss Volumnia, after introducing +the Deputation, "if it had not been that we +have so much trouble in getting volunteers to +guarantee the amount of listening which we consider +has to be gone through before the negative +conclusion, that pictures cannot talk, is accepted as +practically established. My sister Jessie has +undertaken to listen to any picture at the National +Gallery the sub-committee may select, provided +that either Mr. Duodecimus Groob or Charley +Galsworthy accompanies her, and listens too. I can +see no objection to this, but I prefer that they +should listen to Gevartius. I think it perhaps +better that so young a girl should not hear what +the Laughing Cavalier, Franz Hals, is likely to say. +Or Charley Galsworthy either, for that matter. +Mr. Duodecimus Groob is a graduate of the +University of London...." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reginald Aiken, who was present at this +interview, looked up from his easel, at which he was +retouching a sketch of no importance, to say that +he knew this Mr. Groob, who was an awful ass; but +his brother Dolly was quite another pair of shoes, +of whom the World would soon hear more. The +interruption was rude and discourteous, and +Mrs. Aiken was obliged to explain to the Deputation +that it was quite unnecessary to pay any attention +to it. Her husband was always like that. His +manners were atrocious, but his heart was good. +As for Mr. Adolphus Groob, he was insufferable. +</p> + +<p> +"Shall we proceed to business?" said Mr. MacAnimus, +a piercing man, who let nobody off. +"I will, with your permission, run through +Mrs. Reginald Aiken's deposition...." +</p> + +<p> +"I never made any deposition," said that lady. +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Euphemia," said her cousin. "If +you wish to withdraw from the statement you made +to me..." +</p> + +<p> +"Rubbish, Volumnia! I certainly don't +withdraw from anything whatever. Still less have I +any intention of making any depositions. If we +are to be beset with depositions in everyday life, I +think we ought at least to be consulted in the +matter. Depositions, indeed!" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Vacaw interposed to make peace. "We +need not," he said, "quarrel about terms." He +for his part would be perfectly content that the +particulars so kindly furnished by Mrs. Aiken should +be referred to in whatever way was most +satisfactory to that lady herself. He appeared to +address Mr. MacAnimus with diffidence, almost +amounting to humility, approaching him with +somewhat of the caution which might be shown by +a person who had undertaken to encumber a mad +cat with a blanket so as to neutralise its powers of +tooth and claw. Mr. MacAnimus conceded the +point under protest; and Mrs. Aiken then, who +was not disobliging, consented to repeat her dream +experience, each point being checked off against +the formulated report of her first statement, +transmitted to the Society by Miss Volumnia. It is +creditable to that lady's accuracy that very few +corrections were necessary, especially as the first +narrator seemed in a certain sense handicapped by +doubts as to what the exact words used were, +though always sure of their meaning. Had Mrs. Aiken +understood any Italian, mixed speech on the +picture's part might have accounted for this. As +it was, an undeniable vagueness helped Miss +Volumnia's classification of the incident as a case +of Self-hypnosis. That the Deputation was +unanimous on this point was soon evident. +</p> + +<p> +It was then that an incident came to light that, +at least in the opinion of Miss Volumnia, went far +to establish this classification beyond a shadow of +doubt. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Reginald, who had been at no pains to conceal +his derision of the whole proceeding, allowed +this spirit of ridicule, so hostile to the prosecution +of Scientific Investigation, to master him so +completely that he quite forgot the respect he owed to +his visitors, and indeed to his wife, for she at least +deserved the credit which is due to sincerity, even +if mistaken. He shouted with laughter, saying +did anyone ever hear such glorious Rot? A +talking picture—only fancy! Why, you might as well +put down anything you heard in your ears to any +picture on the walls. One the same as another. +Of course everyone knew that Euphemia was as +full of fancies as an egg is full of meat. Just you +leave her alone for a few minutes in a dark room, +or a burying-ground, and see if she didn't see a ghost! +</p> + +<p> +"That's <i>quite</i> another thing," said Miss Volumnia +and Mr. MacAnimus simultaneously. And Mr. Vacaw +added, as pacific confirmation, "Surely—surely! +Ghosts belong to an entirely different +category." A feeling that Ghosts could not be +coped with so near lunch may have caused an +impulse towards peroration. It was not, however, +to fructify yet, for Mr. MacAnimus appealed for a +moment's hearing. +</p> + +<p> +"With your leave, sir," said he, addressing +Mr. Vacaw as if he was The Speaker, "I should like to +put a question to this gentleman," meaning +Mr. Aiken. Mr. Vacaw may be considered to have +allowed the mad cat's nose outside the blanket, on +sufferance. +</p> + +<p> +Then Mr. MacAnimus, producing a memorandum-book +to take down the witness's words, asked this +question: "What did Mr. Aiken mean by the +expression, 'anything heard in your ears'?" +</p> + +<p> +But the witness was one of those people who +become diffuse the moment they are expected to +answer a question. His testimony ran as follows, +tumbling down and picking itself up again as it +did so. "Oh, don't you know the sort of thing I +mean; a sort of tickle—nothing you can exactly +lay hold of—not what you think you hear +when it's there—comes out after—p'r'aps +your sort don't—it goes with the party—there's +parties and parties—if you don't make it out +without a description, it's not in your line—you're +not in the swim." +</p> + +<p> +The members of the Deputation looked at each +other inquiringly, and each shook a negative head, +as disclaiming knowledge of this peculiar +phenomenon. They were not in the swim, but could all +say, and did, that this was very interesting. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. MacAnimus struck in with perspicuity and +decision: "Allow me. Will Mr. Aiken favour us +with a case in point? Such a case would enable +the Society to ascertain whether this phenomenon +is known to any of its members." He concentrated +his faculties to shorthand point, holding a +fountain-pen in readiness to pounce on a clean +memorandum page, virgin but for +<img src="images/img-256.jpg" alt="shorthand characters" />, or +something like it, which meant, "Singular +autophrenetic experience of Mr. Reginald Aiken +communicated direct to Society at his +residence." Stenography is a wonderful science. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken complied readily. "Any number of +cases in point! Why, only the other day there +was Stumpy Hughes, sitting on that very chair +you're in now, heard a voice say something in +Italian, or French. What's more, I heard it too, +and thought it was Mrs. Gapp in liquor—in more +liquor than usual. I told you all about that, +Mrs. Hay." Mrs. Gapp, when the mistress of the house +returned, had followed in the footsteps of Sairah +and Mrs. Parples. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Euphemia suddenly assumed an air of +mystery. "Oh yes," said she. "You told me all +about <i>that</i>. <i>I</i> understood." +</p> + +<p> +"Didn't I tell you?" said her husband, appealing +to the company. "Didn't I tell you females might +be relied on to cook up somethin' out of nothin' at +all?" He had done nothing of the sort, and merely +chose this form of speech to fill out his share in the +conversation. +</p> + +<p> +His wife was indignant. "I don't know," she +said, "what nonsensical imputations you may have +been casting on women, who, at any rate, are +usually every bit as clever as you and your friends. +But I do know this, because you told me, that when +that happened you were both close to the <i>exact +duplicate</i> of the very photograph you are now +accusing me of credulity with, and it's ridiculous—simply +ridiculous. And it's off the selfsame negative. +You know it is." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Vacaw deprecated impatience. A new avenue +of inquiry might be opened up as a consequence +of this experience of Mr. Aiken's, provided always +that we did not lose our heads, and allow ourselves +to be misled by an <i>ignis fatuus</i> of controversy into +a wilderness of recrimination. Mr. Vacaw's style +drew freely on the vast resources of metaphor in +which the English language abounds. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken followed his example so far as to say +that he couldn't see any use in flaring up, and that +if hair and teeth were flying all over the shop, a +chap couldn't hear himself speak. As for the +identity of the photographs, he wouldn't have +mentioned Stumpy's little joke about where the +voice came from if he had thought his wife was +going to turn it into a Spirit Manifestation and +Davenport Brothers. He saw no use in such rot. +This was only an idea, and had nothing +supernatural about it. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hughes's little joke, whatever it was, did not +reach the ears of the story at the time of writing—you +can turn back and see—but Mr. Aiken heard +and remembered it, and had evidently repeated it +to his wife, who had been comparing notes upon it. +Her indignation increased, and she would certainly +have taken her husband severely to task for his +levity and unreason, if it had not been for the +sudden animation with which Miss Volumnia cried +out, "Aha!" as though illuminated by a new idea. +She also pointed an extended finger at Mr. Aiken, +as it were transfixing him. At the same moment +Mr. MacAnimus exclaimed resolutely: +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—stop it at that! 'Identity of the +photographs.' Now, Miss Bax, if you please!" +</p> + +<p> +Miss Volumnia accepted what may be called the +Office of Chief Catechist, and proceeded on the +assumption usual in Investigation, that she was +examining an unwilling witness with a strong +inherent love of falsehood for its own sake. +</p> + +<p> +"You admit then, cousin Reginald, that on this +occasion a suggestion was made that the voice came +from this photograph?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. MacAnimus nodded rapidly, and said, "Yes—keep +him to that!" and conferred a moment +apart with Mr. Vacaw, who murmured: +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, yes—I see your point. Quite correct!" +</p> + +<p> +"It was Stumpy's little joke!" said Mr. Aiken. +"Not a Phenomenon at all! You'll make anythin' +out of anythin'. I shall tell Stumpy, and he'll +split his sides laughin' at you." +</p> + +<p> +"Pray do, cousin Reginald. Only let me ask +you this one question—what was the exact date of +this occurrence?" Miss Volumnia had abated the +pointed finger, but not quite suppressed it. Her +colleagues nodded knowingly to each other and each +said, "You'll see we shall see." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken's answer was vague. "A tidy long +while ago," said he. "Couldn't say how long. After +Stumpy came back from Aunt Jopiska's, anyhow." +</p> + +<p> +"When was that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Three or four months ago. More! No—less! +Stop a bit. I know what'll fix it. That +receipt. Where the dooce is it?" Mr. Aiken had +a paroxysm of turning miscellanea over. +</p> + +<p> +"What is it you are looking for, Reginald?" +paid his wife forbearingly. "If you would tell me +what it is. I could find it for you, without throwing +everything into confusion. Why can you not be +patient and methodical? What is it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Receipt for Rates and Taxes—oh, here it is—seventh +of November—that fixes the time. It was +the day before that." And then Mr. Aiken, in the +pride of his heart at the subtlety of his identification +of this date, dwelt upon the subject more than +was absolutely necessary. It was because he had +talked—didn't you see?—to a feller who had +sketched a plan of the new rooms in Bond Street +on the back of this very identical receipt—didn't +you know?—telling him of Stumpy and the hearing +the voice, the day before—didn't you see?—so +that fixed the date to a nicety. And the feller was +a very sensible clever penetratin' sort of +feller—didn't you see?—and had made some very shrewd +remarks about starts of this sort. +</p> + +<p> +"And who was this intelligent gentleman?" +asked Mrs. Aiken, not entirely without superiority, +but still with forbearance. +</p> + +<p> +"Not a man you know much of. Remarkable +sort of chap, though!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes—but who <i>was</i> he? That's what <i>I</i> want +to know." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't see that it matters.... Well—Dolly +Groob, then." +</p> + +<p> +"Mis-ter Adolphus Groob...." Mrs. Aiken was +beginning, and was going to follow up what her +intonation made a half-expression of contempt, by +a comment which would have expressed a whole +one. Was it Mr. Adolphus Groob all the fuss was +about? +</p> + +<p> +But she came short of her intention, being +interrupted by Miss Volumnia, whose "Aha!" threw +her previous delivery of the same interjection into +the shade. "<i>Now</i> we are getting at something!" +cried that young lady triumphantly. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, what does that mean?" said Mrs. Euphemia +scornfully. "Getting at something! +Getting at what?" +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Euphemia," said her cousin, with +temperate self-command—she was always irritating, +and meant to be—"I ask you, can you +conscientiously deny that Mr. Adolphus Groob sat next +you at Mr. Entwistle Parkins's lecture, at the +Suburbiton Athenæum, on the Radio-Activity of Space?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, and what if he did?" +</p> + +<p> +"We will come to that directly, when you have +answered my questions. Can you deny that +Mr. Entwistle Parkins's lecture on the Radio-Activity +of Space was delivered at least a week after your +husband had communicated to Mr. Adolphus +Groob the very curious experience he has just +related?" +</p> + +<p> +"And what if he did....?" +</p> + +<p> +"One moment—excuse me.... Or that your +own very singular—I admit the +singularity—Pseudo-dream or self-induced Hypnotism was +<i>subsequent</i> to this lecture?" +</p> + +<p> +"It was in January. What if it was?" +</p> + +<p> +Miss Volumnia turned with an air of subdued +triumph to the other members of the Deputation. +"I appeal to you, Mr. Vacaw—to you, Mr. MacAnimus. +Is, or is not, the conclusion warranted +that this Pseudo-dream, as I must call it, had its +origin by Suggestion from the analogous experience +of Mr. Aiken, who had by his own showing narrated +it to Mr. Adolphus Groob?" +</p> + +<p> +"But Mr. Adolphus Groob never said a single +word to me about it. So <i>there</i>!" Thus Mrs. Aiken +with emphasis so distributed as to make her +speech almost truculent. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Volumnia's reply was cold and firm. "You +admit, cousin Euphemia, that Mr. Adolphus Groob +sat next to you throughout that lecture?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly. What of that?" +</p> + +<p> +"Are you prepared to make oath that no part +of your conversation turned on Psychic subjects?" +</p> + +<p> +"He talked a great deal of nonsense, if that's +what you mean, and said we were on the brink of +great discoveries. But I won't talk to you if you +go on about being prepared to make oath, like a +witness-box." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Aiken, perhaps with a mistaken idea of +averting heated controversy, interposed saying: +"Cert'nly Dolly Groob did say he'd met the missus +at a beastly place that stunk of gas out Coombe +way, and that she conversed very intelligibly—no, +intelligently—on subjects...." +</p> + +<p> +Miss Volumnia interrupted, although the speaker +had to all seeming scarcely finished his sentence. +"That is tantamount," she said, "to an admission +that they had been talking on subjects. What +subjects?" +</p> + +<p> +"Sort of subjects they were talkin' on, I s'pose," +said he evasively. +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, Reginald," said his wife indignantly. +"If you are going over to their side, I give up, and +I shan't talk at all." And she held to this resolution, +which tended to put an end to the conversation, +until the Deputation took its leave, shaking +its heads and making dubious sounds within its +closed lips. We were on very insecure ground, and +things had very doubtful complexions, and all that +sort of thing. +</p> + +<p> +"What a parcel of fools they were," said the +lady when they had departed, "not to ask about +what the old gentleman dreamed at Madeline's!" That +was first hand from the original picture. "I +really do think one cannot depend on photographs." +</p> + +<p> +"Must make a difference, I should say. Don't +pretend to understand the subject." Thus the +Artist, absorbed again in retouching the sketch of +no importance. And do you know, he seemed +rather to make a parade of his indifference. In +which he was very like people one meets at +Manifestations, only scarcely so bad. For a many of +them, face to face with what they are pretending +to think their own <i>post mortem</i>, remain unimpressed, +and cut jokes. Then, of course, we have to remember +that it is usually a paid Medium—that may make +a difference. +</p> + +<p> +We think, however, it is safe to say that had Miss +Volumnia, when she conversed with Miss Upwell at +the second, or fulfilled, Bun-Worry, been in +possession of the facts elicited at this interview, she +might have detailed them so as to induce in that +young lady's mind a more lenient attitude towards +the incredulity of her father and Mr. Pelly about +the picture. As it was—and it is very necessary +to bear this in mind in reading what remains to be +told—this interview had not then taken place, and +did not in fact come about till nearly two months +later, when the compiling of the Society's Quarterly +Report made the adoption of a definite attitude +towards the Picture Story necessary. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER X +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +How Mr. Pelly, subject to interruption, read aloud a translation +from Italian. Who was the Old Devil? Who was the +Duchessa? Of the narrator's incarceration. Of his +incredible escape. Whose horse was that in the Avenue? +How Mr. Pelly read faster. Was Uguccio killed? Sir +Stopleigh scandalised. But then it was the Middle +Ages—one of them, anyhow! How only Duchesses know if Dukes +are asleep. Of the bone Mr. Polly picked with Madeline. +But what becomes of Unconscious Cerebration? Ambrose +Paré. Marta's little knife. Love was not unknown in the +Middle Ages. The end of the manuscript. But Sir Stopleigh +went out to see a visitor, in the middle. How Madeline +turned white, and went suddenly to bed. What was it all +about? Seventy-seven could wait. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Of course you recollect that Mr. Pelly, when he +came back from his great-grandniece's wedding at +Cowcester, was to read the manuscript Professor +Schrudengesser had sent him from Florence, which +had been the probable cause of all that fantastic +dream-story he wrote out so cleverly from memory? +Dear Uncle Christopher!—how lucky he should +recollect it all like that! Especially now that it had +all turned out real, because where was the use of +denying it after Mrs. Aiken had heard the +photograph speak, too? If a mere photograph could +make itself audible, of course a picture could—the +original! +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly's reading of Professor Schrudengesser's +translation of the Florentine manuscript was fixed +for the evening after Madeline's return to Surley +Stakes. Uncle Christopher dined alone with his +adopted niece and her parents, after which he was +to read the manuscript aloud in the library where +the picture was hanging. This was a <i>sine qua non</i> +to Madeline. The picture simply <i>must</i> hear that +story. But of course she said nothing of the reasons +of her increased curiosity on this point to anyone, +not even to Mr. Pelly himself. +</p> + +<p> +Behold, therefore, the family and the old +gentleman settling down to enjoy the manuscript before +the picture and the log-fire beneath it. The reader +preliminarises, of course; wavering, to do justice to +his impending start. +</p> + +<p> +"Now, Uncle Christopher dear, don't talk, but +begin reading, and let's hear the picture-story." So +spoke Miss Madeline when she thought Mr. Pelly +had hesitated long enough. +</p> + +<p> +But this did not accelerate matters, for the old +gentleman, perceiving that her perusal of his +dream-narrative had landed her somehow in the conclusion +that the picture and the manuscript must be +connected, felt bound to enter his protest against any +such rash assumption. "We must bear in mind," he +said, "that there is absolutely nothing to connect this +manuscript with that picture over the chimneypiece +except the name Raimondi. And although the picture +was certainly purchased from a castle owned by +a family of that name, there is no reason whatever to +suppose it to be a portrait of a member of that family. +And the fact that a portrait of a lady is spoken of—as +we shall see directly—in this manuscript, no +more connects the story with this picture than with +any other picture. My friend Professor Schrudengesser, +although it would be difficult to do justice +to his erudition, and impossible to quarrel with most +of his conclusions, is impulsive in the highest degree, +and no one is more liable to be misled by a false clue. +In this case, however, he admits that it is the merest +surmise, and that at least we are on very doubtful +ground." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly felt contented, as with a satisfactory +peroration, and was going to dive straight into the +manuscript, which he had really folded to his liking, +this time. But the Baronet, to claim a share in +erudition for the landed gentry, must needs look weighty +with tightly closed lips, and then open them to say, +"Very doubtful—very doubtful—ve-ry doubtful!" And +this, of course, provoked his daughter to a +renewed attitude of <i>parti pris</i>, merely from +contradiction, for really she knew no more about the +matter than this story has shown, so far. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't go on shaking your head backwards and +forwards like that, Pupsey dear," said this disrespectful +girl. "You'll shake it off. Besides, as to +her not being a member of the Raimondi family, isn't +it logical to assume that everybody is a member of +any family till the contrary is proved? At least, +<i>you'd</i> say it on your side, you know, if you wanted +it, and I should be frightened to contradict you." +</p> + +<p> +This provoked incredulity and even derision. +After which, a remark about the clock caused +Mr. Pelly actually to begin reading, with a word of +apology about the probable imperfection of the +translation. Even then he stopped to say that he +hoped he had clearly stated the Herr Professor's +opinion that the date of the manuscript would be +about 1559, as it speaks to the "Duchessa Isabella," +to whom it is written, of "your recent nuptials." He +added that no doubt this lady was Isabella dei +Medici, daughter of Cosmo, the second of the name, +who in 1558 married Orsini, Duke of Bracciano. +</p> + +<p> +"Never mind them," said Madeline, interrupting, +"unless he poisoned her or there was something +exciting and mediæval." +</p> + +<p> +"Well," said Mr. Pelly, rather apologetically, +"he certainly <i>did</i> poison her, strictly speaking. +That is, if Webster's tragedy of Victoria Corombona +is historically correct. If you get a conjurer to +poison your portrait's lips, with a full knowledge +that your wife makes a point of kissing them every +night before she goes to bed...." +</p> + +<p> +"That's the sort of thing <i>I</i> like. Go on!" +</p> + +<p> +"Why ... of course you place yourself in a very +equivocal position." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," said Madeline, "and what's more, it +shows what pictures can do if they try. Of course +he murdered her. What are you looking so +sagacious for, Pupsey?" For the Bart's head was +shaking slowly. He showed some symptoms of a +wish to circumscribe the Middle Ages—to stint +them of colour and romance. +</p> + +<p> +"It might be a case to go to a Jury," said he +grudgingly. Whereupon Mr. Pelly began to read +in earnest. +</p> + +<p> +"'To the most illustrious Duchessa Isabella, +most beautiful among the beautiful daughters of +her princely father, queen of all poesy, matchless +among musicians, mistress of many languages, to +whose improvisations accompanied on the lute the +stars of heaven stop to listen....' This goes on +for some time," said Mr. Pelly. +</p> + +<p> +"Skip it, Uncle Christopher. I dare say she was +a stupid little dowdy." +</p> + +<p> +"Very likely! H'm—h'm—h'm! Yes—suppose +I go on here: 'In obedience to your highness's +august commands I have set down here the full +story of my marvellous escape from prison in the +Castello of Montestrapazzo, where I passed a +<i>semestre sottoterraneo</i>'—six months underground—the +Professor seems to have left some characteristic +phrases in Italian. I won't stop to translate them +unless you ask—shouldn't like to appear patronising!—'over +twenty-five years since, being then quite +a young man—in truth, younger than my son +Gherardo, who is the bearer of this, whom you may +well recognise at once by his marvellous likeness to +his mother, whose affectionate greetings he will +convey to you more readily than I can write them. +For when I look upon his face it seems to me I +almost see again the face as I painted it years ago, +the <i>sognovegliante</i> look'—the Professor fancies the +writer invented this word—<i>dream-waking</i>, that sort +of thing—'the <i>sognovegliante</i> look of the eyes, the +happy laughter of the mouth. And, indeed, as you +know her now, she is not unlike the boy, and she +changes but little with the years. For even the +beautiful golden hair keeps its colour of those +days....'" +</p> + +<p> +At this point Madeline interrupted: "But that's +the picture-girl down to the ground. How can +anybody doubt it? Why, look at her!" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly was dubious. "I don't know. I +couldn't say. There's hardly enough to go upon." +</p> + +<p> +"That's exactly like a scholarly old gentleman! +But, Uncle Christopher dear, do just get up a +minute and come here and <i>look</i>!" Mr. Pelly complied. +</p> + +<p> +Generally speaking, we thought it might be rash +to allow ourselves to be influenced by a description; +it was always safest to suspend judgment until +after something else, or something still later than +something else. We had very little to go upon, +independently of the fact that the name Raimondi +connected itself with both the portrait and the +manuscript. +</p> + +<p> +"Then go independently! However, let's come +back and get on with the story." The speaker went +back to her place at her mother's feet, and Mr. Pelly +resumed. +</p> + +<p> +"Where were we? Oh—'colour of those days'—oh +yes!—'and the curvature of the line of his +nostril that is all his mother's....'" +</p> + +<p> +Madeline inserted a <i>sotto voce</i>: "Of course, it's the +picture-girl!" The reader took no notice. +</p> + +<p> +"... That he will prove himself of service to +his Excellency the Duke I cannot doubt, for the +boy is ready with his pen as with his sword, though, +indeed, as I myself was in old days, a thought too +quick with the latter, and hot-headed on occasion +shown. But him you will come to know. I, for +my part, will now comply as best I may with your +wish, and tell you the story of my imprisonment +and escape. +</p> + +<p> +"I was then in my twenty-first year; but, +young as I was, I already had some renown as a +painter. And I think, had God willed that I should +continue in the practice of the art that I loved, my +name might still be spoken with praise among the +best. Yet I will not repine at the fate that has +made of me little better than a <i>poderista</i>, a farmer, +for see now how great has been the happiness of my +lot! Figure it to yourself in contrast with that of +a man—such a one have I seen, of whom I shall tell +you—full of life and health, all energy and purpose, +cast into a prison for the crime of another, and +unable to die for the little poisonous hopes that +would come, day by day, of a release that never +was to come itself. His lot might have been mine +too, but for the courage and decision of the woman +who has been my good throughout—who has been +the one great treasure and happiness of my life. +Yet one thing I do take ill in my heart—that the +picture I painted of her, the last I ever touched, +should have been so cruelly destroyed.'" Mr. Pelly +paused in his reading. +</p> + +<p> +"The Herr Professor and myself," said he, "are +divided in opinion about some points in connexion +with this—but perhaps I had better read on, and +we can talk about it after." +</p> + +<p> +"'For it was surely the best work I had ever +painted. And none other can paint her now as I +did then. But I must not indulge this useless +regret. Let me get to my story. +</p> + +<p> +"'Know, then, that, being in my twenty-first +year, and in love with no woman, in part, as I +think, owing to a memory of my boyhood I treasured +in my heart—a memory I did not know as Love, +but one that had a strange power of swaying my +life—that I, being thus famous enough to be sought +out by those who loved the art, whether for its own +sake, or to add to their fame, was sent for to paint +the young bride of a great noble, the Duke Raimondi, +at his villa that stands out in the plain of the Arno, +nearer to Pistoia than to Firenze. Thither, then, I +go with all speed, for the Raimondi was a noble of +great weight, and not to be lightly gainsaid. But +of this young bride of his I knew nothing, neither of +her parentage, nor even of her nationality; indeed, +I had been told, by some mistake of my informant, +that she was by birth a <i>Francese</i>. You may well +believe, then, that I was utterly astounded when I +found she was...'" +</p> + +<p> +Here Mr. Pelly paused in his reading, and wiped +his spectacles. "I am sorry to say," said he, "that +we come to a gap in the manuscript here—a <i>hiatus +valde deflendus</i>—and we cannot tell how much is +missing. There is, of course, no numbering of the +pages to guide us. Italians, it seems, are in the +habit of remaining stupefied—a phrase I have just +translated was '<i>Son rimasto stupefatto</i>'—on the +smallest provocation, and the expression might only +mean that this bride of the Raimondi was an <i>Inglese</i>, +and plain." +</p> + +<p> +"We are plain, sometimes," Madeline admitted. +"But what geese antiquarians are! You should +always have a girl at your elbow, to tell things. +Why, of course, this young person was the Memory +he had treasured in his heart!" +</p> + +<p> +"I should think it very likely," said Mr. Pelly, +"from what follows later. Only, nothing proves it, +so far. I should like the arrangement you suggest, +my dear Madeline; however, we must get along +now, if that clock's right." He nodded at one on +the chimneypiece, with Time, made in gold, as a +mower of hay; then continued reading: +</p> + +<p> +"'Oh, with what joy my fingers closed on that +accursed throat! One moment more, and I had +sent my old monster whither go the accursed, who +shall trouble us no further, yet shall bear for ever +the burden of their sins, a debt whereof the capital +shall never be repaid, even to the end of all eternity, +Amen! But alas!—that one moment was not for +me, for the knave who bore the mace, though he +missed my head, struck me well and full, half-way +betwixt the shoulder and the ear; and though it +was a blow that might not easily kill a young man +such as I, yet was I stunned by the shock of it, and +knew no more till I found myself...'" +</p> + +<p> +"What on earth is all this about?" said Madeline. +"Surely the wrong page, Uncle Christopher." +</p> + +<p> +"Very wrong indeed! But it can't be helped. +We must lump it. It may be one folded page +missing or it may be half a dozen; we have no clue. +We must accept the text as it is." And Mr. Pelly +went on reading: +</p> + +<p> +"'... Found myself on the back of a horse, going +at an easy amble up a hilly road in mountains. I +was bound fast behind a strong rider, of whom I +could see nothing at first but his steel cap or +morion—and I thought I knew him by it, the basnet +thereof being dinted, as the man whose sword my +beloved had shed her blood to stop, that else had +ended my days for me then and there. For in those +days, <i>Eccellenza</i>, I had such eyes to note all things +about me as even youth has rarely. On either side +of us rode another man-at-arms, one of whom I +could recognise as him who had struck at me with +his mace, also missing of slaying me, by the great +mercy of God. +</p> + +<p> +"'I had little heart to speak to either of them, +as you may think, and, indeed, was a mere wreck +of myself of two hours ago; for I judged of how +time had gone by the last smouldering red of the +sundown above the dark, flat, purple of the hills. +My thirst was hard to bear, and the great pain of +my head and shoulder, shaken as both were by the +movement of the horse. But I knew I might ask +in vain, though I saw where a wine-flask swung on +the saddle-bow of him of the mace. It is wondrous, +<i>Eccellenza</i>, what youth, and great strength, and pride +can endure, rather than ask a <i>gentilezza</i> of an enemy! +</p> + +<p> +"'Thus, then, we travelled on together, my +guards taking little heed of each other, and none of +me in my agony; seeming, indeed, to have no care +if I lived or died. They rode as fellows on a journey +so often do when they have said their most on +such matters as they have in common, and are +thinking rather of the good dinner and the bed that +awaits them at their journey's end than of what +they pass on the road, or of what they have left +behind. One of them, the knave that had struck +me down, who seemed the most light-hearted of the +three, would at such odd times as pleased him break +into a short length of song, which might for all I +know have been of his own making, so far as the +words went; while as for the tune, it was a cadence +such as the vine-setter sings at his work in Tuscany, +having neither end nor beginning, and suited to +any words the singer may choose to fit to it. Taking +note that he did this the more as the third man, +whom I had not recognised, rode on a short distance +ahead as he did at intervals, I judged this last one +to be his superior in command; and that, if I could +find voice for speech at all, my best chance of an +answer would be from himself and not from this +superior, who would most likely only bid me be +silent at the best, even if he gave no worse response. +So I caught at the moment when he had ended a +rather longer cadence than usual, judging therefrom +that my speech would reach at most him and the +man behind whom I myself was riding. Where was +I being taken so fast, I asked, and for what? And +he answers me thus: +</p> + +<p> +"'"To a good meal and a long rest, <i>mio figlio</i>. +To the Castello del bel Riposo. They sleep a long +night at that <i>albergo</i>—those who ride there as you +ride. I have ridden more than once with a guest +of his Excellency. But there has always been a +good meal for each, <i>pasta</i>, and meat, and a flask of +<i>vino buono puro</i>, before he went to rest." Whereon +he laughed, but there was no joy for me in that +laugh of his. I speak again. +</p> + +<p> +"'"I see what you mean, accursed one! That +flask of wine will be my last on this earth." +</p> + +<p> +"'"You speak truly, <i>caro mio figlio</i>. It will be +your last flask of wine. You will enjoy it all the +more." +</p> + +<p> +"'"You are a good swordsman——?" +</p> + +<p> +"'"I am accounted so. But this good Taddeo, +whom you are permitting to ride in front of +you—ho! ho!—he also is a good swordsman. But we +may neither of us grant what I know well you were +going to ask. You will never hold a sword-hilt +again, my son, nor rejoice in face of an enemy. I +could have wished otherwise, for you are a brave +boy; and I would gladly have been the butcher to +so fine a young calf." +</p> + +<p> +"'"You are quick to grip my meaning. But I +could have outmatched you both on fair ground. +Now listen! You have a good-will towards me—so +I judge from your words. Tell me, then, this:—how +will they kill me?" +</p> + +<p> +"'"I have never said they would kill you, my +son. I have said only this—that you will have a +rare good supper of <i>pasta</i> and meat, and a rare good +flask of red wine, before you go to rest. And let +me give you this word of advice. Before you go +to rest at the Castello del bel Riposo, take a good +look at the sunlight if it be day, at the stars of +heaven if it be night, for you will never see them +again, for all your eyes will remain in your head, +even as now." +</p> + +<p> +"'Sometimes, <i>O Illustrissima</i>, when I wake in +the night, it comes back to me, that moment. And +there below me is the musical tramp of the horses' +feet on the bare road, and I hear the voice of my +friend sing again a little phrase of song—<i>che ognuno +tirasse l' acqua al suo mulino</i>—and I heed him very +little, though I can read in his words a wicked belief +about my most guiltless and beloved treasure. I +see the sweet light where the sun was, through the +leaves of the olive-trees that make a <i>reticella</i> +(network) against the sky; and the great still star they +never hide for long, rustle how they may! But I +can but half enjoy the light that is dying, and the +star that burns the more the more it dies; for the +pain is great in my shoulder where the blow struck, +and in my head and eyes, and my body is sore at +its bonds and stiff from being held in one position. +And yet I may never see that star again—the star +we called our own, my Maddalena and I, and made +believe God made for us, saying "this star I make +for Giacinto <i>e la sua sorellaccia</i>"—neither that star, +nor its bath of light, nor the sun that will make all +Heaven glad to-morrow, unseen by me. For I can +guess the meaning of what my friend has said....'" +</p> + +<p> +Here a little was quite illegible. But no conversation +ensued on that account, both reader and listeners +wanting to hear what followed. Mr. Pelly +read on:— +</p> + +<p> +"'Now I call this man my friend, and, <i>Eccellenza</i>, +you will see, as I tell my tale, that this is no derisive +speech. I think that what showed me he was not +all hostility to me in his heart was that he would—I +felt sure—if left to himself, have granted the boon +I would have asked of him, and fought fairly with +me to the death of one or other. So there was love +between us of a soldierly sort. And I, too, could +see how it had grown. For I had half suspected +him of not showing all the alacrity he might have +done with his mace when I had my grip on the Old +Devil's throat....'" +</p> + +<p> +Madeline interrupted: "It's perfectly maddening! +What wouldn't I give to know what it's all about?" +</p> + +<p> +"I'll tell you presently the Herr Professor's +conjectural history," said Mr. Pelly. But this did not +satisfy the young lady. +</p> + +<p> +"Tell us now! I'm the sort that can't wait," +said she. +</p> + +<p> +The benignity of Mr. Pelly's face as he replied to +her was a sight to be seen. +</p> + +<p> +"The Herr Professor thinks it is quite clear that +this young man, on his arrival at the Palace of the +great noble whose wife he was to paint, fell in love +with some girl of her retinue, possibly having +recognised some friend of early childhood; and that the +Duchess fell in love with <i>him</i>. Naturally—because +we must bear in mind this was in the Middle Ages, +or nearly—jealousy would prompt assassination of +one or both of the young lovers...." +</p> + +<p> +"But who was the Old Devil? That's what I +want to know." +</p> + +<p> +"Evidently the wicked Duchess herself." +</p> + +<p> +"What did she want to have her portrait painted +for if she was old?" +</p> + +<p> +"The Herr Professor conjectures that the reason +our young painter remained stupefied when he first +saw the Duchess was that she turned out not to be +young at all, but old and repulsive." Madeline +looked doubtful. "Then the idea was that the +Duchess personally conducted the examination of +the girl—caught the two young people spooneying, +and had her murdered on the spot. And that the +young man thereon went straight for her throat. +After which she naturally felt that it would be +difficult to get on a tender footing with him, as she +had wished to do, and had him consigned to a +dungeon for life." +</p> + +<p> +Madeline disagreed. "No," said she, "I don't +think the Professor's at all a good theory. Mine's +better. Go on reading. I'll tell you mine presently." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly refound his place and went on reading. +</p> + +<p> +"'... Had my grip on the Old Devil's throat. +And also I had felt his approval in his hands as he +helped to bear me away from the <i>Stanza delle +Quattro Corone</i>, though my senses failed too fast +for me to understand what he said to his comrade. +Yet I thought, too, it sounded like "<i>Un bel giovane +per Bacco!</i>" So when at last I was unbound, and +stood in the forecourt of a great castle in the middle +of a group of men, some of whom had torches—for +it was then well on into the night—and dogs that I +had heard barking through the last short half-hour +of our approach up the steep and stony ascent to +the great gates that had now clanged to, as I judged +then, for my last passage through them either +way—I, though stiff and in pain, and in a kind of dumb +stupor as I stood there, could still resolve a little in +my mind what might even now be done to help me +in my plight. +</p> + +<p> +"'I caught the words of the third horseman—he +who had ridden on in front—to a huge bloated +man who seemed to be the seneschal or steward in +charge of the place, who went hobbling on a stick, +seeming dropsical and short of breath. +</p> + +<p> +"'We have brought another guest, <i>Sir Ferretti</i>, +for your hospitality. <i>Sua Eccellenza</i> hopes you have +room; good accommodation—a clean straw bed or +some fresh-gathered heather. <i>Sua Eccellenza</i> would +not have needless discomfort for your guests at the +Castello. A long life to them is the <i>brindisi</i> of <i>sua +Eccellenza—sempre sempre</i>." That is to say, for +all time. +</p> + +<p> +"'And then the fat man answered wheezily, "It +shall be done, <i>Ser Capitano</i>. And he shall sup well +and choose his company; it is an old usage and shall +be observed." He then turned to me and said, +with a mock reverence, "Whom does the Signore +choose to sup with before he retires to rest?" +</p> + +<p> +"'I turned to the man I had spoken with as we +rode, and laid my hand on his shoulder. "<i>Sicuro</i>," +I said, "with none other than <i>Messer Nanerottolo</i> +here." This was my pleasantry, for he was a +monstrous big man, but not ill-favoured. I went +on, "I owe you a supper, my friend, for that <i>piccolo +vezzeggiamento</i> you have given me——" +</p> + +<p> +"What does that mean?" Thus his hearers, in concert. +</p> + +<p> +"A little caress. I don't know why the Professor +has left some of the Italian words. <i>Nanerottolo</i> +means a very little dwarf indeed, and he could +hardly have translated. But he might have said +caress just as well." He resumed reading: +</p> + +<p> +"'"I can feel it in my shoulder still." At this he +laughed, but said again I was a <i>bel giovane</i>, and +<i>molto bravo</i>. "And it is to you," I said, "that I +owe my supper here to-night." But his <i>Capitano</i> +gave a laugh, and said, "<i>Piuttosto a quel piccolo +vezzeggiamento che tu desti alia Duchessa</i>——" +</p> + +<p> +Here the reader paused to interpret the Italian +again, which was hardly needed; then said, "There +is another gap in the manuscript here, and it is a pity. +The Professor thinks a few more words from what +followed would have made his theory a certainty." +</p> + +<p> +"Why?" asked Madeline. +</p> + +<p> +"Because 'the caress you gave the Duchess' +could only mean that he owed his supper to having +half strangled the old <i>Duchessa</i>. They couldn't +mean anything else in the context." +</p> + +<p> +"Couldn't they? Never mind, Uncle Christopher! +Go on now. I'll tell you presently." Uncle +Christopher obeyed, recommencing as before +after the gap in the middle of a sentence: +</p> + +<p> +"'... Prison for life accords ill with life and +hope and youth and the blood that courses in its +veins. Whereas despair in an exhausted frame, +and pain and hunger, breed a longing for the worst, +and if it may be, for an early death. Hence, +<i>Illustrissima</i>, my good supper, which was given +ungrudgingly, while it made me another man, and +better able to endure the pain left from the blow of +my friend who sat at meat with me, gave me also +strength to revolt against the terrible doom that +awaited me. Also, hope and purpose revived in +my heart, and I knew my last word with the world +of living men must be spoken before midnight; for +this was told me by the dropsical Castellan, with an +accursed smile. So I watch for the moment when +my friend, whose name was Attilio, is at his topmost +geniality with the good wine, and then I speak, +none being there to hear, but only he. I speak as +to a friend: +</p> + +<p> +"'"You love the good red wine, Messer Attilio, +and you love the good red gold. Is it not true? +Which do you love the most?" And to this he +answered me, "Surely the good red gold, <i>Ser Pittore</i>. +For wine will not purchase <i>all</i> one asks. There is +nothing gold will not purchase—enough of it!" +</p> + +<p> +"'"Listen! Where are they going to hide me +away? Do you know the Castello?" +</p> + +<p> +"'"I was born here. I can tell you all. There is +good accommodation in the <i>sotterraneo</i>. It is +extended, but it is not lofty. You will have company, +but the living is poor, meagre. I have said that you +would not see the sun again, but you may! For +in one place is a slot, cut slantwise in the stone, that +the guests of the Duke who come to stay may not +want air. Through the slot, one day in the year +only, and then but for a very little space, comes a ray +from the sun in heaven. In the old days of the +Warrior Duke, when there would be many prisoners +of war, they would count the days until the hour of +its coming, and then fight for a good place to see +the gleam when it came. But the few you will find +there will have little heart for that, or anything else." +</p> + +<p> +"'"Is that the only outlet?" +</p> + +<p> +"'"No! There is the door you go in by. One +stoops, as one stoops to enter the little prisons of +Venezia, deep below the water. And there is the +<i>Buco della Fame</i>...." "That is to say," interjected +Mr. Pelly, "The Hunger Hole, or Hunger Pit." +</p> + +<p> +"'"What is that?" I then asked. +</p> + +<p> +"'"What they were used to throw bones down, +when they had made merry and sucked them dry, +to the prisoners below. And there is a drain." +</p> + +<p> +"'"How large is it?" +</p> + +<p> +"'"Large enough for the rats to pass up—no +larger. I used to watch them run in at the outlet, +when I was a youngster. But the <i>Buco</i>—that is +large enough for a man to pass up and down—a +sort of well-hole. Not the <i>Ser Ferretti</i> there; he +would stick in it. I have seen it all, for my father +was the gaoler in old days." +</p> + +<p> +"'"Listen now, <i>Ser Attilio</i>! You want the good +red gold, in plenty. And you shall have it if you +do my bidding. When you leave this—are you +marking what I say?—go straight to <i>la Marta</i>, she +who attends always on the <i>Duchessa</i>, and say to +her simply this—that on the day I regain my +liberty, there will be five hundred crowns for her. +Tell her where I am. And for this service to me +you shall receive...."'" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly stopped reading again. There was +another gap; a portion of the manuscript was +missing as before. He remarked upon the loss to the +reader, apparently, of the whole account of the +young man's first introduction to the dungeon, in +which he seemed to have passed a considerable time—the +best part of six months as far as could be made +out—before we are able to follow his narrative. +</p> + +<p> +He then read on, without comment: "'Little +wonder we should find day and night alike for their +complete monotony, though, indeed, we could +distinguish between them by the light through the +air-slot, the only ventilation through all this extent of +vaulted crypt. But for incident and change, from +day's end to day's end, there was none beyond the +daily visit I have spoken of, of Uguccione the gaoler, +carrying always his little lamp of brass and a basket +of coarse black bread, and a pitcher of water. Is it +not strange, <i>Illustrissima</i>, that a man should live, +should go on living, even when the stupefaction of +despair comes to his aid, without light or movement +or the breath of Heaven on his face. None the less +these others that I told you of had done so, some +more, some less; and the very old man who was but +as an idiot, and could tell nought of his name and +his past, had been there already many years when +Uguccione first took the prisoners into his charge. +</p> + +<p> +He was a merry, chatty fellow, this Uguccione, and +talked freely with me at first, and told me many +things. But he said I should not talk for long, for +none did. See now, he said, he would speak to the +old Alberico, and never an answer would he get. +And thereon flashed his lamp across the old man's +face, and asked him some ribald question about <i>la +Giustina</i>. But the old man only shrank from the +light, and answered nothing. Who was <i>la Giustina</i>? I +asked. Nay, he knew not a whit! But he knew +that the former gaoler, old Attilio, from whom he +took the keys, had told him that if he would enrage +old Alberico, he had but to speak to him of <i>la +Giustina</i>. And thereon he flashed his light again +in the old eyes, to see them flinch again; and gave +me black bread and water, and went his way. +</p> + +<p> +"'But this man told me many things, before +I, too, began to settle into the speechless gloom of +unvarying captivity. He told me that, even now, +the great Duke, after banqueting in the hall above, +would sometimes for his mere diversion have the +trap opened at the top of the <i>Buco della Fame</i>, and +throw down what might be left on table, except it +were such as might serve for the cook again, or to +be eaten at the lower table. And he warned me to +be ready and at hand if I should hear any sound +from above, as then I might get for myself the best +pick of the bones or bread-crusts that might come +down in a shower. And I laid this to heart. +</p> + +<p> +"'And now, as I must not weary your Excellency's +illustrious eyes to read needless details +of my sufferings in my imprisonment, I will leave +its horrors to your imagination, saying only this, +that whatever you may picture to yourself, there +may easily have been something still worse. I +will pass on to the moving of the trap-door above me. +</p> + +<p> +"'Of a sudden, in what I thought was night, but +which must have been midday, I hear a sound as +of hinges that creak and strain. It comes from +the <i>Buco della Fame</i>; and I can hear, too, but +dimly, what I take to be the murmur of voices in +the room it leads to. I rise from the straw I lie on, +and move as best I may, for I am free to move about +only slowly, because my right hand is manacled to +my left foot, and from stiffness and weakness, +towards the opening of the hole in the low arch +above me. I can touch its edge with my hand. +I look up through the long round tube, and can see +its length now by the size of the opening at the top. +It may be, as I reckon it, at least twenty <i>bracchie</i> +from the ground I stand on. +</p> + +<p> +"'As I gaze, a little dazzled by the light, I hear +plainly the voices above me of those who are merry +with the banquet. And then a face looks down +and darkens the opening for a moment; but it is +only like a dark spot, and my eyes are thwarted by +the change from dark to light, so that I cannot +guess if it be man or woman. Then I hear a laugh +from above that I compare in my heart to the +laugh a Saint in Heaven might give as he looks +down a narrow shaft that leads to Hell, and rejoices +in his freedom and the great Justice of God. But I +myself am nowise better off than the sinners, +heretics and Jews that are consumed in fires +below, yet die not. Then, as I think of this, down +comes a shower of what seems to me good kitchen +stuff. Whereof I secure a piece of turkey for +myself, and of capon for the very old man; but he +shall have his choice, if, indeed, he can eat either. +Then come other prisoners for their share, from afar +off in the crypt, one of whom I had never seen, so +dark was his corner. But I had heard him moan +and mutter. Only, before he comes with the others +I have time to choose somewhat else from the mess, +always sharing as I think fairly. And as I do this +I am taken aback by a sheet of written paper that +has fluttered down the shaft. And I have caught +it, and the trap above closes with a clang, and the +voices die above, and the darkness has come again, +and the silence. +</p> + +<p> +"'Know, <i>Illustrissima</i>, that the eyesight that +lives long in darkness may grow to be so keen that +not only the outline of the prisoner's hand that he +holds before him may be seen by him, but even the +seams and lines thereon, by which may be known +the story of his life and the length of his days. +But I had not yet come to that perfection of vision, +and could read nought of the paper in my own place; +for all that the crypt was then at its brightest, +it being late midday, and the gleam from the slot +at the far end strong enough for me to see dimly the +face of the old man as I held out to him in turn the +turkey and the capon. But he would none of either, +and hardly noted what I did, as one in a maze. +So in the end I leave him and go nearer the light, to +read what I may. +</p> + +<p> +"'It is all like a strange dream now. But, +<i>Illustrissima</i>, as I look back to that moment, what +I remember is a huge beating of a heart that will +not be still. It is there, and a gleam of light +through a narrow wall-slot in the masonry is there; +but should you ask me how I read, until I knew by +rote, what was written on that paper, I could not +tell you. Yet I can repeat every word now: +</p> + +<p> +"'"This is to be destroyed, should it reach you, +before the next round of l'Uguccione. +</p> + +<p> +"'"I can get speech of you through the slot. +Watch there always in the early night. It must be +when the old wretch, my master, is in his deepest +sleep. +</p> + +<p> +"'"Your word came to me through la Marta, +months ago, from l'Attilio. They are keen for +their reward. Take heart, oh my dearest one, and +watch for me. +</p> + +<p> +"'"I have sat at the board of my tyrant, and each +day he has taunted me, and pointed down to the +cruel prison of my darling. Oh, if, after all, it is +a lie that you still live! Pray God Attilio is right, +and that this may reach you! +</p> + +<p> +"'"Oh, my beloved, if no better may be, at least +I may compass that you shall receive a tiny flask +of poison; whereof I too may take a fatal draught, +and each may know of the other that trouble is at +an end." +</p> + +<p> +"'She had signed no name, but none was needed. +Hope waked in my heart, for I knew that +Attilio...'" +</p> + +<p> +Here Mr. Pelly stopped reading. Another hiatus! +"The loss of this passage," said he, "is especially +irritating, as it might have supplied a clue to the +identity of the writer of this letter. The remainder +of the story, as I recollect it, leaves us quite in the +dark as to who she was, though I am inclined to +surmise, from the use of the expression 'my master,' +that she was a young person attached to the household +of the Duchess." But for all that, Mr. Pelly's +dream about the picture disturbed his memory. +How could his inner consciousness have concocted +it, consistently with this interpretation of the +manuscript? Still, he was bound to "dismiss it +from his mind," and give his support, provisionally, +to the theory of the Herr Professor. How could +he cite a mere dream in refutation of it? So he +"dismissed it from his mind," and when Madeline +said, "Never mind that now, Uncle Christopher! +Do go on and see if it doesn't all come right in the +end. We'll talk about who she was, after," he was +rather glad to resume, without further comment: +</p> + +<p> +"'... I am hanging in mid-air. Below me is an +awful precipice. If Attilio were to fail me, or the +rope break, what should I do? But I care not; I +care only to succour my darling love, in his dungeon +underground. Do not speak again, dear love, lest +you be overheard within. Attilio says that if I +whisper to you through the little opening no other +prisoner need hear.... I will tell you all. Attilio +knew from his boyhood that the <i>sfiatatoio</i>...'" +</p> + +<p> +The reader stopped to explain that this appeared +to be a word equivalent to "blow-hole" in English, +used by founders for the opening left for escape of +air when the metal is poured in. +</p> + +<p> +"'... The <i>sfiatatoio</i> opened under the South +Tower in the wall that is flush with the precipice, +that one may see the sun blaze on all day summer +and winter. None can approach it from below; but +Ser Attilio is strong—oh, the strength of his +arms!—and he can let me down from the great high tower +like a child, and then I hang some little space from +the window-ledge. But I swing a little, and then I +hold by the stonework, and I am safe and can speak. +It is bright in the moonlight and still, and I am +speaking to my darling. Stretch out your hand, +my love, without speech, and seek not I charge +you to hold my living hand, however great the joy +thereof, but take from it the file I have made shift +to steal from the armourer's boy, who will be +beaten for its loss, but whom I will kiss once and +more for his reward. <i>Pazienza, carissimo mio</i>....'" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly put the manuscript on his knee, and +opened his hands out with a deprecating action. +</p> + +<p> +"I'm <i>very</i> sorry, Madeline. I really <i>am</i>! But I +can't help it. It is, as you say, most aggravating. +Just as we were getting to the interesting bit! But +you understand what happened?" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh yes! I see it all as plain as a pikestaff. +And, what's more, I saw the very place itself—the +great precipice and the Castle wall that shoots +straight up from it. An <i>awful</i> place! But <i>what</i> +a plucky little Duchess!" +</p> + +<p> +"Duchess? I don't quite follow——" +</p> + +<p> +"That's because you are so <i>stupid</i>, Uncle Christopher." +</p> + +<p> +"My dear Mad! Really——!" This was the +Bart, and her Ladyship. Because Mr. Pelly wasn't +offended. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it's true I said I would tell Mr. Pelly all +about it, and then I didn't." She went across to +Mr. Pelly, and leant over him, which he liked, to +get at the manuscript. "Look here! Where is it? +Oh—the old Devil! Yes—that wasn't the Duchess +at all! That was her horrible old husband, the +Duke. And she was the Memory of his boyhood, +don't you see? Oh, it's all quite plain. And my +picture-girl's her. And it's no use your talking +about evidence, because I know I'm right, and +evidence is nonsense." +</p> + +<p> +"It certainly is true," Sir Stopleigh said, "that +the Castle wall is exactly as Madeline describes it, +for I have seen it myself, and can confirm her +statement." He seemed to consider that almost +anything would be confirmed by so very old a Baronet +seeing such a very large wall. +</p> + +<p> +"Suppose we accept Madeline's theory as a working +hypothesis, and see how we get on. If we quite +understand the last bit, and I think we do, what +follows is not unintelligible." And Mr. Pelly +continued reading: +</p> + +<p> +"'... Working thus patiently in long and dreary +hours, and keeping the link of my manacle well in +the straw to drown the grating noise, I come to +know, on the third day of my labour, that but a very +little more is wanted and the ring will be cut through; +and then I know the chance is it will spring asunder +and leave the two links free. But I do not seek to +complete the cut until near the day appointed, for +does not Uguccione now and again examine all those +fetters, sometimes striking them with a small +hammer to make sure they have not been tampered with? +So I keep the ring hidden as best I may, and the +cut I have made I fill in with kneaded bread. And +one time Uguccione does come and strike the irons, +and I tremble. But by great good luck he strikes +so that they ring, and I am at my ease again. +</p> + +<p> +"'Then comes what was my hardest task: the +making of footholes in the shaft that I might climb +and reach the underside of the trap. But first I +must tell you why I need do this. For you will say, +Why could not Attilio let down a cord and pull +me up through the trap? So he could, in truth, +were it possible to open the trap from overhead. +But it was closed with a key from above that came +through a great length to the lock below. Only I +could well understand from the description that this +lock would be no such great matter to prize back +from underneath could I once make shift to reach +it. Therein lay the great difficulty, shackled as I +was, although the links should be parted, to climb +up this long shaft and work at the opening of this +lock, standing on what poor foothold I could +contrive in total darkness. +</p> + +<p> +"'Nevertheless, <i>Illustrissima</i>, be assured that I +go to my work with a good-will, though with little +hope. And on the first night I succeed in loosing +three bricks from their place in the wall, at such +intervals that each gives a foothold I may reach to +from the one below it on the other side. And the +next night again three more. And so on for six +nights, working patiently. And now I can touch +the lock that is above me. But understand that I +did not remove these bricks, else had I been at a +great loss where to hide them from Uguccione. I +left them loose in their places, so that I could twist +them out sideways, and thus make a kind of step. +For you know how strong our Tuscan bricks are. +Yet I had much ado to hide away the loose mortar +that came from between the joints. And had it +not been that the fetter on my wrist, now free, served +to prize out the bricks when the mortar was clear +from the ends, and loosened above and below, I had +been sore put to it to detach them, so firm were +they in their places. And all this work, <i>Illustrissima</i>, +had to be done in black darkness, by guidance of +feeling only! +</p> + +<p> +"'And now, please you, image to yourself that I +have made my topmost step, and only await a word +of signal through the <i>sfiatatoio</i>. And this was, +believe me, my worst time of all. For I knew that +the most precious thing to me in all this world, the +life of my Maddalena, must be risked again to give +me that signal! Nay! I did not know, could not +know, that she had not already tried to give it, and, +so attempting it, been precipitated to the awful +rocks below, where whoso fell might readily lie +unheeded, and not be found for years. +</p> + +<p> +"'But I hold to my purpose in a silent despair. +I watch through hours of the still mornings. But +nothing moves again in front of the little stars that +come and go, for many days. I do not let myself +count the days nor the hours, and always strive to +think of them at their fewest. Then one night a +meteor shoots across the span of sky that I can see, +blinding out the little stars, and leaving sparks of +fire to die down as they may. And my heart lifts, +for I count it a harbinger of good. And so it +proves, for I next hear—because, understand me, +this meteor shot across Heaven's vault with a strong +hissing sound, like <i>fuochi artificiati</i>—the slack of +the rope that lets my darling down to me with her +message of...'" +</p> + +<p> +Another hitch in the narrative. Mr. Pelly stopped +with a humble apologetic expression, having +reference rather to the young lady than to her parents. +</p> + +<p> +"Really, my dear," said he, "I feel quite guilty—as +if I was to blame—when these abominable +blanks come." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes! And you know I always think it's your +fault; and I do get so angry. Poor Uncle +Christopher! What a shame! What's that, Mumsey?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing, dear. Only I thought I heard the step +of a horse in the Avenue." +</p> + +<p> +"So did I. Only it can't be anything at this +time of night." +</p> + +<p> +The knowledge that a guest was pending shortly—one +of the sort that comes and goes at will—caused +the Baronet to say: "It might be General +Fordyce—only he said he wouldn't come till +Tuesday." To whom his wife and daughter replied +conjointly: +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no! The General!—not at midnight—well!—at +half-past eleven! Look at the clock. +Anyhow, his room's all ready," etc., etc. After +which Madeline spoke alone: +</p> + +<p> +"Now, Mr. Pelly, go on again. I do so hope it's a +plummy bit." Then, illogically, "Besides, it wasn't +a carriage." She silenced a disposition of her parents +to interpose on Mr. Pelly's behalf by saying: "Oh +no, we shan't tire Uncle Christopher to death. +Shall we, Uncle Christopher?" +</p> + +<p> +"God bless me, no! The idea! Besides, there's +really not so very much more to read. Unless I'm +keeping you up?" +</p> + +<p> +"Pupsey and Mumsey can go to bed, and leave +us to finish." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no! We want to hear the end of it." Pupsey +and Mumsey were unanimous. +</p> + +<p> +"Very well, then! I can fill up Uncle's glass +and Pupsey's, and we can go on and finish +comfortably. Now, fire away!" And Mr. Pelly read on: +</p> + +<p> +"'... I can hear them in the room above me. +The voice of my darling herself. But oh—this +black darkness! One little gleam of light, and I +know I can manage this accursed lock. But I can +see nothing; and who knows but by trying and +trying stupidly, in the dark, I may not make matters +worse. But I will try, again and again, rather than +fail now.... Oh, she is so near me—so near, I can +hear her voice.... +</p> + +<p> +"'All suddenly, a gleam of light from below. A +miracle, but what care I? I can see the lock now, +plain! Ah, the stupidity of me! I was forcing it +the wrong way all the time. Now for a sharp, sharp +strain, with all the strength I have left! And back +goes the lock with a snap! I can hear its sound +welcomed above, and another strain on the trap, +and the first creak of its hinge. It will shriek; and +they stop, as I think, to make it silent with a little +oil. +</p> + +<p> +"'Then my glance goes down the shaft to ask +what was my light, that came to save me in such +good time. It was surely the Holy Mary herself, +or a blessed Saint from Heaven, that took pity on +me.... +</p> + +<p> +"'No! It is Uguccione the gaoler, with his little +lamp of brass. +</p> + +<p> +"'"Aha—ha—ha!—my friend. Come you down—come +you down! Or shall I get a little fire and +smoke, to tickle you and make you come? It is +useless, <i>caro mio</i>! The wise player gives up the +lost game. Come you down! It is not thus folk +say farewell to the <i>Castello del bel Riposo</i>. Come +you down, my friend! Or shall I wait a little? I +can wait! No hurry, look you!" +</p> + +<p> +"'I am sad at heart to have to do it, but there +is no other way. Whether he lived or died I know +not, but I should grieve to think he died. For I +had no hatred for Uguccio, who, after all, did +but his duty. But there is no other way. I am +standing on two bricks that I have placed over +against each other, for firmer foothold and better +purchase on the lock. One of them I loosen out, +standing only on the other and leaning shoulder-wise +against the wall. And then I send it down the +shaft, with a blessing for Uguccio. I can see his +face, turning up to me in the light of his little +broken lamp. +</p> + +<p> +"'The brick strikes him full on the temple, but +it also strikes out his light. I hear him fall. I hear +a groan or gasp. But I see only black darkness +below, and the red wick-spark of the lamp, that +grows less and less, and will die. Then only +darkness. +</p> + +<p> +"'Then my last senses fail me. But I know the +trap opens, and a strong arm comes down and grips +my wrist from above. And then I find myself +lying on the floor of a great hall in a dim light. +And into my eyes, as I lie there, little better than a +corpse, if the truth be told, are looking the sweetest +eyes surely God ever made....'" +</p> + +<p> +Here Madeline exclaimed, interrupting, "Oh, +how jolly! Now they're there! But do go on; I +mustn't interrupt. Go on, Uncle Kit." The reader +continued, "'... And her two hands stroke my face +and hold me by my own....'" +</p> + +<p> +At this point Sir Stopleigh interposed respectably. +"A—really," said he, "we must hope that this +young lady, whoever she was, was not the Duke's +wife. You will excuse me, my dear Madeline, but +that is certainly what I understood you to suppose." +</p> + +<p> +His daughter interjected disreputably. "Oh, +bother! Never mind Pupsey—go on." +</p> + +<p> +Then Mr. Pelly said apologetically, "It <i>was</i> the +Middle Ages, you know. Let's see, where were we? +Oh—'hold me by my own'"—and went on reading: +</p> + +<p> +"'... And her dear voice is in my ears, and if I +die now, at least I shall have lived. So said I to +myself, as Attilio worked hard with a file to free +my limbs. And they moisten bread with wine, and +put it in my mouth. For, indeed, what I say is true, +and the last of my strength went in sending that +little <i>ambusciata</i> to the poor Uguccio. Still, revival +is in me, though it comes slowly. But I can only +utter the one word "Love," and can only move to +kiss the hand I hold and the pale face that comes +to mine. Then I hear the beloved voice I had never +hoped to hear again: +</p> + +<p> +"'"Can we trust that wicked old Marta, Attilio? +If she betrays us we are lost." +</p> + +<p> +"'"<i>Che che</i>! She owes him an old grudge, and +will pay him—now or later! And a thousand +crowns, <i>per Bacco</i>! No, no—trust her!" +</p> + +<p> +"'"But I hear a footstep coming down his stair; +if it is she, it is to say he is waked. If it is he, she +has betrayed us." +</p> + +<p> +"'"Neither the one nor the other, I wager. See, +the Signore is getting the blood in his face. He will +eat soon, and all will be well." +</p> + +<p> +"'Then I feel in my neck a dog's nose, that +smells, and the touch of his tongue; that licks. But +what he would say we know not, though he tries +to speak, too, dog wise. I know him for the +<i>cagnoletto</i> of la Marta, the old woman—for had I not seen +him in the days when I painted my Maddalena in +the <i>Stanza delle Quattro Corone</i>?...'" +</p> + +<p> +Madeline interrupted again. "<i>Now</i> I hope you're +convinced. He was sent for to paint the Duchess. +And he painted Maddalena. Of course, Maddalena +<i>was</i> the Duchess!" +</p> + +<p> +"The Herr Professor's theory is that he painted +two ladies, one of whom was Maddalena, some +beautiful attendant with whom he was in love, the +other the Duchess. He may have, you know!" +</p> + +<p> +"He may have done anything, Uncle Christopher! +But he didn't. What's the use of being +so roundabout? Besides, if she wasn't the Duchess, +how did she know the Duke was asleep?" +</p> + +<p> +Her parents may have been anxious to avoid +critical discussions, and suggested that perhaps the +reading had better go on. It is just possible, also, +that Mr. Pelly, who was a typical little old bachelor, +saw rocks ahead in a discussion of the Duke and +Duchess's domestic arrangements, for he introduced +a point of which the Baronet and his Lady did not +see the importance. +</p> + +<p> +"Stop a bit, Miss Mad!" said the old gentleman, +laying down the manuscript. "I've a bone to pick +with you." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't be too long. I want to know what that +old woman had been at. It's only some Scientific +nonsense, I expect. Go on." +</p> + +<p> +"It's not Scientific this time. It's the other way +round." Miss Upwell pricked up her ears. "I +want to know, if there was a Duchess named Maddalena, +what becomes of the theory that I christened +the picture-ghost after you by subconscious cerebration?" +</p> + +<p> +"I see. Of course. I didn't see that." It had +produced a visible impression. Madeline appeared to +cogitate over it in an animated way, and then to +mellow to a conclusion suddenly. "Well—but that +proves it wasn't a dream at all, but a genuine +phenomenon, and all sorts of things. I'm right, and +you're wrong, and the picture was telling the truth +all through. I knew she was." Her three hearers +smiled from within the entrenchments of their +maturity at the youthful enthusiasm of the speaker, +and then said very correct things about this +coincidence and that being really remarkable, and how +we must not allow our judgments to be swayed by +considerations, and must weigh everything deliberately, +and accept everything else with caution, and +hesitate about this, and pause before that, all with +a view to avoiding heterodox conclusions. After +which Mr. Pelly resumed: +</p> + +<p> +"'Then, as Attilio holds his hand a moment from +filing, as one who awaits some issue before he may +begin his labours afresh; and as my darling, whom +alone I see—for I see nothing else—awaits it, too, +I hear a step that halts, and then a door is pushed +from without, and the step halts into the room, as +some clocks tick. And it is then I begin to know +of a great pain in my right hand. +</p> + +<p> +"'And here I may say to you, <i>Illustrissima</i>, that +had this chanced but a few years later, this hand +of mine that was my joy to use, the source and very +life of all my skill, might even have been saved, +and I might many times again have painted the +dear face of my Maddalena. For what is there that +is not possible to the skill of the great Francese +Ambrogio?'" +</p> + +<p> +"This would be Ambrose Paré," said the reader, +"who would have been about the same age as +Cosimo dei Medici, the father of the lady to whom +this is written..." But he resumed abruptly, in +obedience to a shade of impatience in Madeline: +</p> + +<p> +"'Yet have I not been altogether disabled. For +do I not write this with my left hand? I am, +however, but an <i>egoista</i>—a selfish person—to dwell on +this; though I know your Excellency will pardon +this fault in an old man. +</p> + +<p> +"'I hear, then, the halting step approach. And +both await the words that will follow it in silence. +It is the old Marta Zan. +</p> + +<p> +"'<i>Sta tranquillo—sta tranquillo per bene</i>!' He is +quiet—he is quiet for good! Her voice has a little +laugh in it. It is not a sweet laugh to hear. +</p> + +<p> +"'"Does he still sleep—will he sleep?" It is +my Maddalena who asks. And la Marta replies, +"<i>Non c'e pericolo</i>! No fear!" But I see across +the shoulder of my darling, as she stoops over me +again and tries to clear my brow of tangled hair—but, +you may well think, to little purpose—I see +that the old woman holds somewhat up, hanging +from betwixt her finger and old thumb, to show to +Attilio. And he laughs to see the little knife and +its sharp point, but below his breath, as guilt laughs +to guilt. But this my beloved heeds not; she is +busy with my hair. +</p> + +<p> +"'I can tell but little now from what I saw with +my own eyes of what happened in the sequel, till I +found myself here again in the little old Castello in +the hills where I passed all the early years of my +boyhood, in the family of my wife's father, now +dead; though her mother still lived, and for many +years after that. What I do remember comes to +me as the speech of those about him reaches the +sleeper who half wakes, to sleep and dream again. +</p> + +<p> +"'I can recollect riding, behind Attilio this time, +down the stony road I had come up in such pain +behind his comrade. I can just recollect the +barking of the great dogs in the Castle court when we +came away; whereon my Maddalena spoke earnestly +to one of them, Leone, and he went and carried her +speech to the others, and they were silent, though +some made protest under their full utterance. And +though I saw the janitors and porters at the great +gate in deep sleep, I did not then know of the cunning +work of the old Marta, who, indeed, was learned in +the use of drugs, and could as easily have poisoned +them all as made them sleep. Indeed, it was said +by many that the clever Duchess of Ferrara, the +sister of Cesare Borgia, had learned somewhat of the +art of poisoning in her youth from this same Marta +Zan. But of this I can say nothing with certainty. +</p> + +<p> +"'But this I do know, that this Marta, who was +then near on eighty years of age, having received +the reward she had earned of five hundred crowns, +and another five hundred for a <i>buona mano</i>, did not +accompany us, on the score of her age, being unable +to mount a horse. But, as you may guess, +Eccellenza, it was she who had occasioned the old Duke's +death, and none of my doing, as was said by some, +though the certainty that the knife used was the +girdle-dagger of the fat Castellan Ferretti was held +a sure proof of his guilt, and led to his being +<i>giustiziato</i> some months later. And she chose this way +of sending her old betrayer to Hell rather than that +of poison, seeing that her skill in this last was so +well known to all that there was none other in the +household on whom suspicion could have fallen. On +which account, as I have since understood, she +returned again to his bedside to see her work secure, +and replaced the knife in the wound, whereby the +guilt of his death was fixed on the fat Ferretti. I +can in nowise guess why la Marta so long deferred +her revenge against the Duke, except it was...'" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly stopped despairingly. "Half a page +gone! We must remain unenlightened—as well as +on a good many other points. There is not very +much more. I may as well finish:— +</p> + +<p> +"'How great my happiness has been with my +Maddalena you, <i>Illustrissima</i>, may know from your +most illustrious father, who has known of me +throughout. Life is made up of good and ill, and +what right has one so truly blessed as I have been +to complain of the cruelty of Fate in depriving him +of his right hand and its power of work? Think +of what his lot is to him to whom night and day +alike give the sun in heaven to his soul! Contrast +it with that of the sated blow-fly, of the +world-compelling tyrant, at whose pleasure are all the +contents, at choice, of all the world's treasure-houses, +except Love. That is the one thing wealth +cannot buy, that the behests of kings command in +vain! And that has been mine, in all its fulness; +a fruit whose sweetness has no compeer, a jewel +whose light mirrors back the glow that shines for +ever in the eyes of God....' The reader paused, +for there was an interruption from without. +</p> + +<p> +"What on earth <i>can</i> it be, at this time of night? +I'm sure it's a carriage this time! Do look out and +see—oh no! go on and let's have the rest. It can +only be the General—he changed his mind, and his +train was late. We shall see in a minute—let's +have the last page...." This was collective speech, +which ended when Mr. Pelly said, "There isn't very +much." He went on reading rapidly, subject to a +sense of advent elsewhere in the house: +</p> + +<p> +"'One only thing, as I have said, is to me a +constant thorn of regret—the destruction of the +picture I painted in those early days, of my +Maddalena. It was all my heart and strength could do, +and would have served to tell of all I might have +done had God but spared me my right hand. But +<i>fiat voluntas tua, Domine</i>! None knows for certain +how it was destroyed, nor by whom. For the +statement of the Old Devil to my Maddalena, that it was +burned, for that it was judged worthless by men of +great knowledge in Art, and condemned as rubbish, +is of little weight. In those last days what could +have been the motive of such a statement but to +add to my darling's pain? It was averred by the +Ferretti, even to the day that he went to the gibbet, +that it was removed to a place of safety by order +of the Duke; but either he did not choose to say to +what place, or possibly did not know. And when +all the contents of the rooms the Duke had lived in +were removed, and the late Duke, his son, came +and took possession of the castle, so deep was his +hatred of his father's memory—as, indeed, he +believed his mother had been poisoned by his +orders—that he had all the furniture removed, and +all the pictures that might bring back the wicked +old man's memory to his mind. And there was no +such picture among them, as I saw myself; for by +invitation of Duke Giulio, with whom I have always +been on friendly terms, I inspected every picture +as it was removed from the Ducal apartments, the +walls of which, as you know, were so worthily +decorated afterwards by Francesco Primaticcio, to +whom I would so proudly have shown that one +little work by mine own hand. But, alas! there is, +I fear, no doubt that for once only the old Duke +spoke without lying, and that in truth he had had +it burned, for a <i>dispetto</i> to me, and to give a little +more pain to my darling....'" +</p> + +<p> +At this point Mr. Pelly, being close to the end, +read quicker and quicker, to make a finish before +the outcome of the carriage, whatever it was, should +be made manifest and break up the <i>séance</i>. But +the time was too short, as Mr. Stebbings the butler +appeared, charged, as it seemed, with some +communication, but hesitating about the choice of +language in which to make it. +</p> + +<p> +"General Fordyce, your ladyship. The General +desired me to say, Sir Stopleigh, would you be so +good as speak to him a half a minute?" But Sir +S. was slow of apprehension, perhaps sleepy, and said +hay what! Both ladies spoke together. "It <i>is</i> the +General! Don't you understand? He wants you +to go out and speak to him." +</p> + +<p> +"Me go out and speak to him—what for?" +</p> + +<p> +"You'll find that out by going. Look alive, Pupsey!" +</p> + +<p> +"I'm coming, Stebbings! What on earth can +the General want to say to me?" +</p> + +<p> +"Do go and see him, and find out." This was +in chorus, from both ladies, as before. Exit Pupsey. +</p> + +<p> +"I wonder what it can be! However, we shall +hear directly. Is there any more to read, Uncle +Christopher?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly read in a slighting, conclusive sort of +way:— +</p> + +<p> +"'So now I cannot show you, <i>Illustrissima</i>, as I +so gladly should have done, how little change has +come in the golden hair of my Maddalena, in all +these thirty years! Nor the painting of that one +well-remembered lock that fell all in ripples on the +sunflower brocade upon her bosom——'" +</p> + +<p> +Madeline got suddenly up and stood again facing +the picture. +</p> + +<p> +"Now," she said, "come here and see and be +convinced, Mr. Incredulous." And Mr. Pelly came, +and stood beside her. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, my dear child," said he. "That certainly +<i>does</i> look——" +</p> + +<p> +"Very like indeed! Doesn't it? But you'll see +Pupsey will want to have his own way. He always +does!" +</p> + +<p> +"Whatever can your father be talking—talking—talking +to the General about? Why can't they +come in? What on earth can it be?" This is +from her ladyship—a semi-aside. She is listening +to the talking at a distance. Then Madeline said, +"I hope you are convinced, Mr. Pelly," and after +one more long look at the picture turned and went +to the door, opened it, and listened through it. Her +mother said maternally, "Madeline—my dear!" But +for all that she stood and listened, as though +she heard something. And Mr. Pelly, following her +mother's eyes, turned and watched her as she stood. +It seemed to him that something like a gasp took +her, as though her breath caught with a sudden +thrill, visible in her shoulders as her dress was cut, +and that her white left arm, that was farthest from +the door, caught up tight, and as it were grasped +her heart. Her ladyship, looking at her over her +shoulder, began, "Why—child—!" and immediately +got up and crossed the room to her, saying, +"Is anything wrong?" Then, as the girl closed the +door and turned round. Mr. Pelly saw that she had +gone ashy white, near as white as the clean +art-paint on the door she stood by. But she only said, +"I shall be all right in a minute." Her mother said, +"Come and sit down, darling," which she did; but +sat quite still, looking white. "I wish Sir +Stopleigh would come," said her mother. Mr. Pelly +was frightened, but behaved well, for a little old +bachelor. +</p> + +<p> +Presently her colour came again, and she said, +"It must have been my fancy"; and her mother +said, "<i>What</i> must, dear? Do tell us!" But she +only said, "How on earth can I have been such a +fool?" Then her mother said again, "But what +was it, dear?" and she answered uneasily. "Nothing, +Mumsey." Her mother and Mr. Pelly looked at +one another, puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Stopleigh put his head in at the door, saying +to his wife would she come out for a minute and +speak to him? On which Madeline said suddenly, +"I shall go to bed. Good-night, Uncle +Christopher!—Good-night, Pupsey and Mumsey!" and +lit a candle and went away quickly upstairs. "How +very funny of Mad," her mother said, as she +followed her husband from the room. "Not at all +like her! I'll say good-night, Uncle Christopher, +but you do as you like." The momentary vision +of Sir Stopleigh—who said he would come back +directly—left Mr. Pelly with an impression that he +was very full of something to tell. And certainly +there came a great sudden exclamation of glad +surprise from her ladyship almost as soon as the door +closed behind her. +</p> + +<p> +"I shall hear all about it in good time," said +Mr. Pelly. "At least, I suppose so." He sat down +contentedly in the large armchair opposite the +picture, and looked at the fire. Seventy-seven can +wait. +</p> + +<p> +The murmur of a distant colloquy, heard through +doors and passages, and quenched by carpets, +assorts itself into its elements as the silence in the +library gets under weigh, and sharpens Mr. Pelly's +hearing. He is clear about the woman's voice: his +hostess's, of course—no other. But is that George's, +or the General's, the unexplained outsider's? Surely +that was a third voice, just now? Never mind, +Mr. Pelly can wait! +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> + +<h3> +CHAPTER XI +</h3> + +<p class="intro"> +How the picture spoke again. Abstract metaphysical questions, +and no answers. How the Picture's memory was sharpened, +and how Mr. Pelly woke up. Mr. Stebbings and Mrs. Buckmaster. +The actule fax. Jack's resurrection, without an +arm. Full particulars. All fair in love. How Mr. Pelly +knew the picture could see all, and how Madeline had not +gone to bed. Captain Maclagan's family. Fuller +particulars. General Fordyce and the Bart, not wanted. +What the picture must have seen and may have thought. +Good-bye to the story. Mere postscript. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +It is scarcely fair play to make a merit of +patience—isn't cricket, as folk say nowadays—when you +are in a comfortable armchair before a warm fire, +and are feeling drowsy. But, then, Mr. Pelly was +under an entirely wrong impression on this point, +and had scheduled himself as wakeful, but content +to bide his time. Yet he might reasonably have +suspected himself of drowsiness when James, the +young man, coming to wind up the contents of the +room, and revise the shutters, retreated with +apologies. For had he been really awake, he would +certainly have said, "All right, James! Come in. +Never mind me!" As it was, he deferred doing so +a fraction of a second, and the consequences were +fatal. He remained wide awake, no doubt—people +always do. But he had not the slightest idea that +James had gone, closing the door gently, when the +picture said to him from the chimneypiece, in +exactly the voice he had heard before, "Is it all true?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly found that, mysteriously, he took it as +a matter of course that this should be so. "I +presume," he said, "that you are alluding to the +substance of the manuscript we have just read. I am +scarcely in a position to form an opinion." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not?" said the picture. At least, she +said "<i>perche</i>" and this translates "Why not?" in +English. +</p> + +<p> +"Because I am conscious of a strong bias towards +accepting it as true, occasioned by the details of +your own Italian experience, which you were so +kind as to give me—perhaps you will remember?—some +while since—let me see?—before I went away +to see that niece of mine married at Cowcester. +Now, this narrative of yours—so my Reason +tells me; and I may add that I have already +committed myself to this opinion when awake—can +only be regarded as a figment of my own imagination, +based on a partial perusal of the manuscript +you have just heard—that is to say, <i>would have</i> +just heard had you been objective. I am borrowing +a phrase from my friend, Professor Schrudengesser. +I do not see that any harm can come of my speaking +plainly, as if you happen to have an independent +existence you will appreciate the difficulties of the +position, and if you haven't, I don't see that it +matters." +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Pelly," said the picture impressively, "I +should like, if you will allow me, to say a serious word +to you on this subject. I refer to the reality of +our existence, a subject to which the most frivolous +amongst us cannot afford to be indifferent. Have +you never considered that the only person of whose +existence we have <i>absolute</i> certainty is <i>ourself</i>? +Outside and beyond it, are we not painfully +dependent on the evidence of our senses? What is our +dearest friend to us but a series of impressions on +our sight, touch, and hearing, <i>plus</i> the conclusion +we draw—possibly unsound—that what we touch +is also what we see, and that what we hear proceeds +from both? Have you attached due weight to...?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly interrupted the voice. "You will +excuse me," he said, "but in view of the fact that +I may wake at any moment, is it not rather a +tempting of Providence to discuss abstract metaphysical +questions? No one would be more interested than +myself in such discussions under circumstances of +guaranteed continuity. But..." Mr. Pelly paused, +and the voice laughed. The picture itself remained +unmoved. +</p> + +<p> +"Circumstances of guaranteed continuity," it +repeated mockingly. "When have you ever had +a guarantee of continuity, and from whom? If you +were suddenly to find yourself extinct, at any +moment, could you logically—could you +reasonably—express surprise?—you who had actually passed +through an infinity of nonentity before you, at +any rate, became a member of Society! Why +should not your nonentity come back again? What +has been, may be." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly's mind felt referred to sudden death, +but his reply was, "Guaranteed continuity of +communication was what I meant." Then he reflected +that perhaps sudden death might be only suspension +of communication—however, he had had no experience +of it himself, and could only guess. The +picture continued sadly: +</p> + +<p> +"That makes me think how hard it is that you +should wake to live in the great world I cannot join +in; to move about and be free, while I must needs +be speechless! Give me a thought sometimes, even +as the disembodied spirit, as some hold, may give +a thought to one he leaves behind. Yet even that +one is better off than I; for may not he or she +rejoin those that have gone before? While I must +grow fainter and fainter, and be at last unseen and +forgotten; or even worse, restored! Rather than +that, let me peel and be relined, or sold at Christie's +with several others as a job lot." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly endeavoured to console the speaker. +"You need not be apprehensive," he said. "You +are covered with glass, and in a warm and dry place. +Nothing is more improbable than change, in any +form, at Surley Stakes. Indeed, the first baronet, +over two hundred and fifty years ago, is said to have +accepted his new dignity with reluctance, on the +score of its novelty. This library is three hundred +years old." +</p> + +<p> +"And I," said the voice, "was over one hundred +years old when it was built. But tell me—tell +me—was it not all true, the story? You know it was!" +</p> + +<p> +"It rests on the intrinsic evidence of the +manuscript. There is nothing to confirm it. And, as +I have pointed out to you, your own narrative may +be a mere figment of <i>my</i> imagination—you must +at least admit the possibility——" +</p> + +<p> +"I will if you insist upon it; it is of small +importance to me what others think, so long as I may hang +here undisturbed, and dream over the happy days +I must have passed, in the person of my original, +four hundred years ago. But oh, to think of that +hateful time of bondage, with my darling hidden in +the darkness underground, sore with manacles and +starved for want of food! Think of my joy when +I could see and feel his own dear face, all clammy +though it was with the dungeon damps from below! +Think of my exultation at his returning life—life +to be lived for me! And believe me—for this I +can know, for I <i>was</i> Maddalena, and now it comes, +like a dim memory—that I shuddered when they +told me that the sodden old horror that had been +my owner was well started on his flight to Hell, +sent by the swift little knife-spike of my Marta. Oh +how often have I seen that little knife itself in the +long girth that could but just span the bloated carcass +of the Ferretti!—for <i>he</i> is a clear memory to me. +And to think that that knife—<i>that knife</i>—was +to..." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly felt constrained to interrupt. "Pardon +me," he said, "if I venture to recall to you that the +duty of Christians, of all denominations, is to +forgive; and besides, entirely apart from that, all this +occurred such a very long time ago." +</p> + +<p> +"How long is needed, think you"—and as the +voice said this, it almost grew cruel in its +earnestness—"how long, for a girl, to forgive the utmost +wrong God in His wisdom has put it in the power +of Man to inflict on Woman? Still, I did shudder—have +I not said it?—at what they told me; though +they showed me not the knife, and that was well. +I <i>did</i> shudder, it is true; but now, as you say, it +is best forgotten. Better for me to think of our days +that must have been, of the babes that were born to +us that I never saw, of how we watched them growing +in the happy passing hours, in the little old Castello +in the hills. Better for me to know, as I know now, +that I, while this thing that I am now—this thing +of paint and canvas—lay hid in a garret, even I +could be to him, my love, a slight half-solace for his +ruined hand. How slight, who can tell who does +not know what a lost right hand means to the artist +whose life is in his craft?..." +</p> + +<p> +It seemed then to Mr. Pelly that the voice +continued, though he heard it less distinctly, always +dwelling on the life of its prototype, as revealed to +it by the manuscript, in a manner that the +dream-machinery of his mind failed to account for. His +impression was that it continued thus for a very +long time—some hours—during the last half of +which it changed its character, becoming slowly +merged in that of another voice, familiar to Mr. Pelly, +which ended by saying with perfect distinctness, +"The Captain wished his arm to be broke gradual +to his family. 'Ence what I say!" And then +Mr. Pelly was suddenly aware that he had dropped +asleep for five minutes, and had been spoiling his +night's rest. Also that he was now quite awake, +and that Mr. Stebbings the butler had spoken the +last words to Mrs. Buckmaster the housekeeper; +and that both were unaware that he was on the other +side of the large armchair-back—and, indeed, it was +large enough to conceal something bigger than +Mr. Pelly. He abstained from making his presence +known, however; more, perhaps, because he thought +he was scarcely awake enough for words than to +hear what should come next. He fancied the +crushed hand incident of the dream had mixed itself +into Mr. Stebbings' last speech, and made nonsense +of it. But then, how about the sequel? +</p> + +<p> +"'His arm broke gradual,' Mr. Stebbings?" +Mrs. Buckmaster repeated. And her perception of +the oddity of the speech reassured Mr. Pelly, who +began to suspect he might be awake. But he waited +for the reply. +</p> + +<p> +"Quite so, Mrs. Buckmaster. Broke gradual. +From consideration for family feeling. And that, +if an amanuensis, suspicion would attach, and, in +consequence, divulge." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stebbings's style assumed that if he used the +right words, somewhere, it didn't matter what order +they came in. It didn't really matter; his +respectability seemed more than a makeweight for +slighted syntax. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Buckmaster was a venerable and sweet +institution of forty years standing, that spoke to +every member of the household as "my dear"; +and conveyed an impression, always, of having in +her hands a key with which she had just locked a +store-room, or was going to unlock one. Or, rather, +not so much a key, as a flavour of a key. +Mrs. Buckmaster was a sort of amateur mother of several +county families, whose components all but acknowledged +her, and paid her visits in her private apartments +when they came to call at the Stakes. Her +reply to Mr. Stebbings now was, "Merciful Heaven! +And the girl nursed him. And she a Dutch woman!" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pelly roused himself. His sensitive conscience +recoiled from further eavesdropping. "What's all +that, Stebbings? What's all that, Mrs. Buckmaster?" +he said, becoming manifest, and evoking +apologies. Mr. Stebbings had had no idear! +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Buckmaster said: "Well, now—to think of +that!" then, collecting herself, added, "Tell +Mr. Pelly, Thomas, what you know. Thomas will tell +you, sir, what he knows." +</p> + +<p> +Thomas perceived distinction ahead, and braced +himself for an effort. "Respecting the actule fax, +sir, they are soon told. After the lamentable +disaster to both armies at Stroomsdrift, accompanied +with unparalleled 'eroism on both sides, the Captain's +horse became restive, and ensued. No longer under +the Captain's control, having received a bullet +through the upper arm—unfortunately the right, +but, nevertheless, in the service of his country. +Wonderful to relate, he retained his presence of +mind"—Mr. Stebbings's pride in this passage was +indescribable—"and arrived without further +disaster, though unconscious...." It was perhaps as +well that the Baronet called Mr. Stebbings away at +this point, as Mrs. Buckmaster knew the whole +story. +</p> + +<p> +"Why on earth couldn't Stebbings begin at the +beginning?" said Mr. Pelly rather irritably. "Is +Captain Calverley alive or dead?—that's what <i>I</i> +want to know. And who's that outside, talking to +Sir Stopleigh and the General?" +</p> + +<p> +"It's the Captain himself, sir," said Mrs. Buckmaster. +"Looking that well—only no arm! His +right, too." And then she cleared matters up, by +telling how, after the battle, the young soldier, +badly wounded in more places than one, had, nevertheless, +contrived to keep his seat on a half-runaway +horse he could scarcely guide, which carried him +away in a semi-conscious state to a lonely farm on +the veldt, tenanted only by a Dutch mother and +daughter. These two, hating <i>roineks</i> in theory, +but softening to a young and handsome one in +practice, had kept the wounded man and nursed him +round, but could get no surgical help advanced +enough to save his arm, which he had been obliged +to leave in South Africa. The daughter had +evidently regarded the Captain as her property—a fair +prisoner of war—and had done her best to retain +him, writing letters to his friends for him at his +dictation, which were never despatched in spite of +promises made, and heading off search-parties +that appeared in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Buckmaster +condemned this conduct on principle, but +said: "Ah, poor girl—only think of it," in +practice. +</p> + +<p> +That was really the whole of the story, so far. +But like a continuous frieze, it would bear any +quantity of repetition, as the Captain's reappearance +always suggested his first departure, five months +ago, and led to a new recital. The frieze, however, +was not to remain unbroken; for Mrs. Buckmaster +was balked of her fourth <i>da capo</i> by the reappearance +of the Baronet, with General Fordyce, both of them +also knee-deep in recapitulations. Sir Stopleigh was +in a state of high bewilderment. +</p> + +<p> +"Just listen to this. Uncle Kit.... Oh, you +know—Mrs. Buckmaster's told you. Never mind, +General, tell us again how it happened—it has been +queer! Tell Mr. Pelly how you came to hear +of it." +</p> + +<p> +"It was like this," said the General, who was +collected. "A month ago I was knocked over by +receiving this telegram. Here it is." He produced +it from a pocket-book and read: "'Am alive and +well if news that am marrying Dutch girl contradict +otherwise keep silent till I come Jack.' Well, +George, I saw nothing for it but to bottle up, and +I assure you I was pretty well put to it to keep my +own counsel. However, I really hadn't any choice. +Very well, then! That goes on till ten days ago, +when another wire comes from Madeira, 'Passenger +by <i>Briton</i> in London this day week Jack.' And +sure enough my young friend bursts into my +chambers four days ago, with, 'Tell me about Madeline—is +she engaged?' 'Not that I know of, my dear +boy,' said I. 'And I think I should know if she +were.' Then says he, 'Oh, what a selfish beast I +am! But you'll forgive me, General, when you +know.' However, I didn't want to know, but forgave +him right off." +</p> + +<p> +"And then I suppose he told you all he's been +telling us downstairs—about the Dutch girl and the +farmhouse on the veldt?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, he seems to have known very little from +the moment he was struck until his senses came +back to him at the farm. I must say they seem to +have behaved wonderfully well to him...." +</p> + +<p> +"I can't say I think burning his letters and cutting +him off from all communications was exactly good +behaviour." Thus the Baronet. But the General +seemed doubtful. +</p> + +<p> +"We-e-ell!—I don't know. I shouldn't quite +say that. Remember it was only this poor girl that +did it, and one sees her motive. No—no! All's +fair in love, George. I'm sorry for her, with all my +heart." +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Buckmaster murmured under her breath: +"What was I saying to Mr. Christopher?" and +thereon Mr. Pelly felt in honour bound to testify +to her truthfulness. "Yes—Mrs. Buckmaster +thought so." Nobody was very definite. +</p> + +<p> +"But did he come here with you, General?" +asked Mr. Pelly, who was gradually toning down to +sane inquiry-point. Mixed replies said that the +Captain had not been long in the house. Lady +Upwell was interviewing him—they were, in fact, +audible in the distance. The General supplied +further information. +</p> + +<p> +"You see," he said, "Master Jack and I had just +arranged it all beautifully. I was to come here to +let it out gently and not frighten Miss Upwell, and +also to find how the land lay. Because, you see +after all, they were not engaged...." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no! They were not <i>engaged</i>." This was +a kind of chorus; after which the General continued: +</p> + +<p> +"Anyhow, Miss Upwell might have picked up +with some other young fellow. However, she +hasn't. Well!—I was to come here and take the +soundings, and his ship was to follow on; he +meanwhile going down to inflict a full dramatic surprise +on his own family at Granchester Towers. He said +their nerves were strong enough, and it would do +them good. He was to come on as soon as he could, +unless he heard to the contrary. And then, as he +was riding through Sampford Pagnell on his way +here, what must be come upon but a man of his own +company, who had been invalided home after +enteritis, who had been drinking and got into a row. +He stopped to see him out of his difficulties—had +to go bail for him—and then came on here. But +it made him late. And I should have been here +sooner myself, only something went wrong with the +trains. It made me so late that I almost made up +my mind, if Jack wasn't here, to go back to the inn +at Grewceham, so as not to frighten you all out of +your wits." +</p> + +<p> +"There's my wife coming up. I wonder what +they've settled." Thus the Baronet. +</p> + +<p> +Then her Ladyship came in, and following her, +in tiptoe silence, the young soldier himself. But +alas!—it was all true about the arm. There was the +loose right sleeve, looped up to his coat. But its +survivor was still in evidence, and Mr. Pelly, as +he took the hand that was left in his own, wondered +if he was not still dreaming, so full was his mind of +the story of that other hand, lost four hundred years +ago. He could not dismiss the picture from his +thoughts; and as he stood there talking with the +young soldier, in whom he could see the saddening +of his terrible experience through all the joy of his +return, he was always conscious of its presence, +conscious of its eyes fixed on all that passed before +it—conscious of its comparison between the lot of +its original, and Madeline's. And it made the old +gentleman feel quite eerie and uncomfortable. So +he resolved to say good-night, and did so as soon as +a pause came in an earnest conversation aside +between the Baronet and his Lady, who seemed +to be enforcing a view by argument. Mr. Pelly +heard the last words: +</p> + +<p> +"I have told this dear, silly fellow Mad must +speak for herself. I won't say anything.... +No—not to-morrow; she had better be told and come +down now." Here a subcolloquy. "Wouldn't she +have gone to bed? Oh no, Eliza said not. Besides, +she could slip something on." And then the +mainstream again. "You must give me a little time to +tell her, you know. One o'clock, isn't it? That +doesn't matter. Just think if it was a party! +You'll find I'm right, George." For when Lady +Upwell is pleased and excited she calls her husband +by his Christian name without the Sir. +</p> + +<p> +When she had departed the General went back +on a previous conversation. "But we can't make +out yet, Jack, how we came not to get any wire +about it—as soon as it was known you were alive. +It ought to have been in the papers a month ago." +</p> + +<p> +"Nobody knows out there yet, except Head +Quarters. Don't you see? As soon as I was fit +to get on a horse, I rode all night across the veldt, +and reported myself in the early morning. I begged +them to keep me dark for a bit, and old Pipeclay +said he could manage it...." +</p> + +<p> +"But why did you want it kept dark?" +</p> + +<p> +"I'll tell you directly. When I had settled that, +I made a rush for Port Elizabeth, and just caught +the <i>Briton</i>. Do you know, I was so anxious nobody +should know anything about it till I knew about +Madeline that I travelled as Captain Maclagan. +And when I got to Southampton there was a +Mrs. Maclagan and two grown-up daughters inquiring +for me! So really no one knew anything at all +about me till you did." +</p> + +<p> +Then the Baronet would know more of Jack's +two months of nursing at the Dutch farm. He +thought he could understand about the girl; and +he wouldn't ask any questions. But why had Jack +thought Madeline was engaged to Sir Doyley +Chauncey? <i>He</i> was engaged to another girl? Yes, +he was; but that was just it! It <i>was</i> another +girl, of the same name—another Madeline. Master +Jack coloured and was rather reserved. Then he +spoke: +</p> + +<p> +"I'll tell you if you like. I told the General." Who +nodded. "But you mustn't blame poor Chris. +Remember she was brought up a Boer, though she +had some English education. It was a newspaper +notice—Court and Fashionable game—'A marriage +is arranged between Sir Doyley Chauncey of Limp +Court, Gloucestershire, and Miss Madeline...' and +there the paper was carefully cut away between the +lines with scissors—one can always tell a scissor cut. +I was sure poor Chris had done it, for her own reasons. +I had told her all about Mad. There was no humbugging +at all." +</p> + +<p> +"But you silly boy," said the General, "don't +you see what I told you is true? If she had seen +the name Upwell, on the next line, she <i>wouldn't</i> +have cut it. Of course, she wouldn't leave the name +Farrant—it's Lina Farrant, George; old Farrant's +daughter at Kneversley—man thinks Bacon wrote +Shakespeare——" +</p> + +<p> +"Of course not! I see that all now. But one +isn't so cool as one might be sometimes. I got +quite upside down with never hearing, and, of course, +I couldn't write myself. I was quite dependent on +poor Chris. But I was going to tell why I wanted +to keep it dark that I was alive. You see, if Mad +<i>had</i> got engaged—to <i>anyone</i>—well, I don't exactly +see how to tell it...." He hesitated a good deal. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then..." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, then what?" +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know, I think I would almost soonest +not try to talk about it. But there was nothing +<i>wrong</i>, you know, anywhere." +</p> + +<p> +"Oh no! Nothing wrong. We quite understand." +</p> + +<p> +"Only when a girl has nursed you like that—even if..." +</p> + +<p> +"Even if you don't love her—is that it?" +</p> + +<p> +Jack was relieved. "Yes—that's about it! All +the same, if Madeline <i>had</i> been engaged, I <i>might</i> +have gone back and married her—to do the poor +girl a good turn." +</p> + +<p> +"In spite of her squelching your letters?" said +Sir Stopleigh. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, ye-es! Look at why she did it!" +</p> + +<p> +"There, they are coming down," said the General. +"Come along, George! We aren't wanted here. +Good-night, Jack!" +</p> + +<p> +And then off they go, leaving the young man +alone, pacing backwards and forwards between +the door and the picture. There is but one lamp +left burning, on a small table near, and it is going +out. He picks it up and holds it nearer to see +the picture. But his hand shakes; one can hear +it by the tinkle in its socket of the ring that +carries an opal globe that screens the light. And +he does not see much, for he can hear, a long way +off, Madeline's voice and her mother's—a mere +murmur. Then the murmur flashes up a little +louder for a moment, and the voices of the Baronet +and the old General are bidding each other good-night, +a long way off. Then a girl's footstep on +the stair. +</p> + +<p> +The tinkle of the lamp stops as the young soldier +puts it back on its table. That lamp will go out +very soon. But a log on the fire, that seemed dead, +breaks out in a blaze, and all the shadows it makes +on the walls leap and dance in its flicker. For the +lamp is making haste to die. +</p> + +<p> +That is a timid touch upon the handle of the door. +The young soldier's face of expectation is a sight to +see, a sight to remember. His one hand is bearing +on the table where he placed the lamp—almost as +though he were for the moment dizzy. Then, in the +wavering light he can see the loose, many-flowered +robe of Madeline, such a one as she wears for the +toilette, and her white face, and her cloud of beautiful +hair that is all undone. They are all there in the +leaping light of the fire, and he hears her voice that +says, "Oh Jack—-oh Jack—-oh Jack!" and can +say no more. And he, for his part, cannot speak, +but must needs grieve—oh, how bitterly!—for the +loss of the one strong arm that is gone. How he +would have drawn her to him! But he still has one, +and it is round her. And her two white arms are +round his neck as their lips meet, even as those arms +in the picture must have met round the neck of +<i>her</i> beloved, even as their lips must have met, when +the dungeon closed again on the dead gaoler and +its prisoners, in that castle in the Apennines, four +hundred years ago! +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +The picture still hangs over the chimney-shelf in +the library at Surley Stakes, and you may see it +any time if you are in the neighbourhood. +Mr. Stebbings will show it to you, and give you an +abstract of the <i>cinquecento</i> in Italy. But he +sometimes is a little obscure; so our recommendation to +you is, to ask for Mrs. Buckmaster, who can never +tire of talking about it, and who will strike you as +being the living image of Mrs. Rouncewell in "Bleak +House." Make her talk freely, and she will tell you +how whenever "our young lady," otherwise Lady +Calverley—for our friend Jack unexpectedly came +to the inheritance of Granchester Towers two years +since—visits the Stakes she always goes straight to +the picture and looks at it before anything else. +And how she tells little Madeline, her eldest girl, +who is old enough to understand, that pictures can +really see and hear; and, indeed, has told her the +story of the picture long ago. Of which the crown +and summit of delight to this little maid of four +seems to have been its richness in murder. Chiefest +of all, the impalement of the old Raimondi on +Marta's knife. You will gather that requests are +made for a recital of this part of the story at untimely +moments—coming home from church on Sunday, +and so on. She is going to tell it to Baby herself +as soon as he is old enough. But he isn't one yet; +he has to be reckoned in months. To think of the +joys there are before him! +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Buckmaster will tell you too—if you work +her up enough—of the Dutch girl, and the miles +of veldt Sir John bought and gave her as a wedding +present. But to get at all this you must first get +her out of the library, for while she is there she can +talk of little but the picture. +</p> + +<p> +"I always <i>do</i> have the thought," she will very +likely say, as she has said it to us, "that the picture +can as good as hear us speak, for all the world as if +it was a Christian, and not an inanimate object. +Because its eyes keep looking—looking. Like +reading into your mind, whatever Mr. Stebbings +may say! We must all think otherwise, now and +again, and Mr. Stebbings's qualifications as a butler +none can doubt." Mrs. Buckmaster will then tell +you of the three different Artists three separate +eminent critics have ascribed it to. But there can +be no doubt that the family incline to Boldrini, on +the strength of Mr. Pelly's dream. To be sure, +no such artist is known to have existed. But is +not the same true of the <i>nipote del fratello di latte +del Bronzino</i>, whom the Coryphæus of these Art +Critics invented to father it on? +</p> + +<p> +Anyhow, there hangs the picture, night and day. +If it sees, it sees its owners growing older, year by +year. It sees their new grandchildren appear +mysteriously, and each one behave as if it was the +first new child in human experience. It sees a +one-armed soldier keen on organization of territorial +forces, and a beautiful wife who thinks him +the greatest of mankind. And it sees, too, now +and again, a very old, old gentleman whom Death +seems to overlook because he is so small and dry; +whom you may see too, by-the-by, if you look out +sharp at Sotheby's, or Wilkinson's, or Puttick's, +or Simpson's, or Quaritch's, or the Museum Reading +Room. Some believe Mr. Pelly immortal. +</p> + +<p> +If it hears, it hears the few sounds the silent +north has to show against the music and the voices +of the south. It can listen to the endless torrent +of song from its little brown-bird outside above the +meadow, poised in the misty blue of a coming day, +or the scanty measure of the pleading of the +nightingale, heard from a thousand throats among the +Apennines in years gone by, welcome now as a +memory that brings them back. It can hear the +great wind roar in the chimney at its back through +the winter nights, and the avalanches in miniature +that come falling from the roof above when the +world awakes to fight against its shroud of snow. +But there is one thing it heard in our story it may +listen for in vain—the bark of the great dog Cæsar. +For Cæsar died of old age at eighteen, the age at +which many of us fancy we begin to live, and the +great bark shakes the Universe no more. Other +dogs eat small sweet biscuits now from the hand of +the mistress who loved him, with precisely the same +previous examination of them, with the identical +appearance of condescension in taking them at all. +But Cæsar lies—his mortal part—in a good-sized +grave behind the lawn, where it can be pointed out +from the library, and his <i>hospis comesque corporis</i> +may be among the shades, may have met for anything +we know the liberated soul of Marta's poodle, +and they may have considered each other +sententiously, and parted company on the worst of +terms. Cæsar never could have stood that poodle, +on this side. +</p> + +<p> +But the picture is there still, for those who are +curious to see it. Whether it would not hang more +fitly in the little Castello in the hills, if it could be +identified, is matter for discussion. If pictures could +really speak, what would this one say? +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="finis"> +THE END +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap12"></a></p> + +<h3> +AN APOLOGY IN CONFIDENCE +</h3> + +<p> +<i>The present writer has a weight upon his conscience. But he has no +desire to disburden himself at the expense of the future reader of his +works. This is addressed solely to those whom he has acquired the +right to apostrophize as "My readers"; and, indeed, properly +speaking, only to such of them as were misled by a too generous +appreciation of his first four novels, into purchasing his fifth. For +he cannot free himself from a haunting sense that he was guilty of +a gross neglect in not giving them fuller warning that the said fifth +volume was not Early Victorian, either in style or substance.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>It is well understood nowadays—and it is not for so humble an +individual as the P. W. aforesaid to call in question the judgments +of everybody else—that each living author, whether he be painter or +writer, shall produce at suitable intervals, preferably of twelve +months, a picture or volume on all fours with the work from his +hand which has first attracted public attention. And the +P. W. cannot conceal from himself that in publishing, without a solemn +warning addressed to possible purchasers, such a novel as his last +("An Affair of Dishonour": Heinemann), he has run the risk of +incurring the execration or forgiveness—the upshot is the same—of +many of his most tolerant and patient readers, to remain on good +terms with whom is, and always will be, his literary ambition.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>For the "Affair" is certainly not an Early Victorian story in +the ordinary sense of the words. A certain latitude has been +claimed by some critics in the choice of names for the periods treated +of in the other humble performances of its author; but so far no +commentator has called its epoch—that of Charles II.—"Early +Victorian." It has been spoken of freely as sixteenth and +eighteenth century; but that is immaterial. In fact, it is difficult to +resist the conviction that in what may be called sporting chronology—a +system which seems to have a certain vogue of its own—so long +as the writer says "century," one number does as well as another +to make the sentence ring. The expression "Early Victorian," +however, is embarrassingly circumscribed in its meaning. If +cannot be applied at random to any period whatever, without +danger of the Sciolist, or the Merest Tyro, going to the British +Museum and getting at Haydn's "Dictionary of Dates," and +catching you out. Still, it does not do to be too positive; seeing that +the P. W. has here—and can show it you in the house—what seems +a description of the Restoration as "Pre-Cromwellian." There +it is, before him, as he presently writes, on the shiniest paper that +ever made an old fogy wish he had been born fifty years earlier.</i>[#] +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="footnote"> +[#] <i>I will be just and generous to this writer simultaneously. The +Protector was born in 1599. Pre-Cromwellian days were the sixteenth +century, clearly. In the sixteenth century St. James's and Piccadilly +would not be includable in residential quarters, because the latter was +not born or thought of. If by Pre-Cromwellian this writer means +Pre-Commonwealth, the inclusion of Piccadilly in the description of a +country girl's conception of swell London, written a hundred years +later, when Piccadilly was "fait accompli," seems to me not unnatural. +I am bound to say, however, that when I first read the passage +(p. 181)—immediately after I had written it—I thought "those days" meant +the days of the story. Analysis of London topography would have been +out of place in treating of the cogitations of a country girl unfamiliar +with the metropolis.</i> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +<i>To fulfil the conditions which literary usage appears to dictate, +and to signalise his conformity with public opinion, there is no +doubt that the writer of "An Affair of Dishonour"—or, shall I +drop the thin veil adopted to avoid egotism, and say I myself—should +have made that work not only Early Victorian, but Suburban. +For, as I understand, I am expected to be Suburban. This is less +difficult, as suburbs do not depend on chroniclers, like periods, but +remain to speak for themselves. One knows when one is being +Suburban. Among epochs one treads gingerly, like the skater on +ice that scarcely bears him. I may take as an instance a book I +wrote, called "Somehow Good," whose cradle, as it were, was the +Twopenny Tube. The frequent reference to this story as an "Early +Victorian" tale has impressed me that Early Victorianism is an +abstract quality, which owes its fascination neither to its earliness, +nor to its epoch. I am stating the case broadly, but as this is +entirely between ourselves, very great niceties are hardly called for. +We may leave the Sciolist, and the Merest Tyro, to fight about +niceties. On the other hand, outside opinion, though a little vague +about Early Victorianism, has not been inconsistent about +Suburbanity. It has shrewdly identified, in my first four novels, the +Suburban character of Tooting, Balham, Hampstead, Putney, +Shepherd's Bush, and Wimbledon; and I now perceive that my +reader was entitled to expect Clapham Junction or Peckham Bye, +at least. Nothing would have pleased me better, when writing my +last book, than to supply the nearest practicable Carolean equivalent, +had I seen more clearly how the land lay. However, it's done now +and can't be helped.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Broadly speaking, then, non-Victorianity and defective Suburbanity +seem to be responsible for my slump in conformity. And, +though I have to go to America for distinct proofs of it, I am obliged +to recognise suggestions of the same critical decision nearer home. +The first three of the following American reviews appeared at +intervals in the same journal, showing how deeply the writer had +taken my delinquency to heart:</i> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"<i>Probably written years ago, and found in an old desk.</i>" +</p> + +<p> +"<i>A totally uncharacteristic and thoroughly disappointing 'historical +romance.</i>'" +</p> + +<p> +"'<i>A perfectly good cat,' that I have found in the literary ash-pan +.... differs from everything that has come +to us previously from the author's pen, +as lifeless clay differs from living spirit.</i>" +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Wherein lies the superiority of fiction that can give us nothing better +than this?</i>" +</p> + +<p> +"<i>It is not, in itself, worth reading ... being an unpleasant, unexciting, +and unoriginal experiment in historical romance ... leaving us disappointed +of what we hoped for, and unedified by what we get.</i>" +</p> + +<p> +"<i>The ghosts of 'David Copperfield' and 'Joseph Vance,' 'Alice-for-Short,' +and the 'Little Marchioness,' may together weep pale spirit tears, or nobly +repress them, in the hope that 'It Never can Happen Again.</i>'" +</p> + +<p> +"<i>We can but hope for a return from this invented matter and artificial +style to an unabashed Victorianism, from which it should appear the author +is trying to escape.</i>" +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +<i>There is something spirited in a selection of quotations which +begins and ends with such different conjectures as to the genesis of +their subject. There can be no doubt about the earnestness of the +hope expressed in the last one, for it is confirmed in the same words +by more than one American journal</i>.[#] +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="footnote"> +[#] <i>The force of the unanimity of two or three American papers grows +less when their reader perceives the verbal identity of the article +throughout—and that their writers are not only unanimous, but unicorporeal. +Numbers are impressive, but when they play fast and loose with plurality +in this way, all their edge is taken off.</i> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +<i>Another accusation against me is that I have given up nice +people, and only write about nasty ones. Is this true? I myself +thought Lucinda a nice enough girl, particularly when she was +fishing in the sea for the phosphorescence. All the same, the +following seemed to me quite a just comment, and very well worded: +"There must have been something of Phaedra in Lucinda for her +to act as she did, unless we are to revert to the belief in a baneful +Aphrodite no human will can resist." Something of Phaedra—but +still, I submit, not much, for Sir Oliver was passionately urgent; +while Hippolytus—to borrow a phrase from Mrs. Steptoe, a quarter +where I have unlimited credit—didn't want to any such a thing.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Every book has a right to an assumption intrinsically improbable, +to make the story go. What a flat tragedy Hamlet would have been +without its fundamental ghost! And my "quidlibet audendi" +is a small presumption compared with my giant namesake's. Of +course, I have no right to the comparison unless you grant like +rights to tittlebat and leviathan. "Semper fiat aequa potestas," +for both. Indeed, the dwarf needs artificial latitude more than the +giant.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>In my capacity of tittlebat in an estuary of Leviathan's great +sea—or, should I not rather say, a sandhopper on its coast?—I +have assumed that this baneful Aphrodite no human will can resist +had possession of Lucinda; who was, and continued to be, a very +nice girl for all that. Phaedra was not nice, because of the attitude +of Hippolytus, as sketched by Mrs. Steptoe; and even more because +of the fibs she told when she found the young man blind to the +attractions of his stepmother. Lucinda was not a bit the less nice +because she was swept away by, absorbed into, crushed under, a +passion of which she only knew that it was the reverse of hate, and +of which few of us know much more. Indeed, all male persuasions +get so very mixed, owing to the Nature of Things, that they are +almost a negligible factor in the solution of the problem. Now and +again, however, it is hinted at by thoughtful male persons—Shakespeare +and Browning, and the like. Read this, for instance:</i> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "<i>But, please you, wonder I would put<br /> + My cheek beneath that lady's foot;<br /> + Rather than trample under mine<br /> + The laurels of the Florentine,<br /> + And you shall see how the Devil spends<br /> + A fire God gave for other ends.</i><br /> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + "<i>I tell you, I stride up and down<br /> + This garret, crowned with Love's best crown,<br /> + And feasted with Love's perfect feast<br /> + To think I kill for her at least<br /> + Body and soul and peace and fame,<br /> + Alike youth's end and manhood's aim.</i>"<br /> +</p> + +<p class="thought"> +***** +<br /> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Perhaps you will say that no ladylike, well-brought-up girl, ever +feels so explosive. About a Man too—the idea! But for my part, +I don't see that Browning's chap need have been a nasty chap. +Nevertheless, my sense of the proprieties—which is keen—compels +me to admit that if I had a daughter, and she were to go on like that, +I should feel it my duty to point out to her that if she continued to +do so, she would run the risk of being taken for a suffragette, or +something. I might get no farther, because I word things badly.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Lucinda, you see, might have gone on like that about Oliver; +only no doubt the memory of old precepts hung about her, and acted +as I trust my remonstrance would have done in the case of my +hypothetical daughter. Anyhow, I do think that the time-honoured +usage which keeps girls as ignorant of life as possible, so that they +shall be docile when a judicious Hymen offers them a marriage +with a suitable parti, ought at least, as a set-off, to go +hand-in-hand with leniency towards this ignorance when it betrays its +possessor into an indiscretion she has no means of gauging the +dangers of. For my belief is that the wickedness of her action +seemed purely academical to Lucinda. And Oliver knew how to +manage cases of this sort, bless you!</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>As for him, I readily admit that he was not nice, but I take the +testimonials to his nastiness as complimentary. When an Italian +audience pelts Iago with rotten eggs, it is accepted by the actor as +heartfelt praise. And you must have Devils, as well as Fairies, +when it's in a Pantomime, as we all know. An unhappy author +whom lack of material for copy has nearly qualified for Earlswood +cannot go on for ever writing about good people. He must have a +villain, please, sooner or later!</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Nevertheless, some of my correspondents want to deprive me of +this innocent luxury. Such an appeal as the following makes me +feel that I may have to "leave the killing out, when all is done.</i>" +</p> + +<p><br /> +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Dear sir, can any 'success' that meets your latest story compensate +for the pain, and—so personal have you made our relations to you—the +humiliation so many of us feel?</i> +</p> + +<p> +"<i>Why leave the heights—the sunny hill-slopes—where we met you +as a wise, sweet older brother, and lingered long after your story was +over, with stilled and strengthened hearts?</i> +</p> + +<p> +"<i>I am sure none of us is happier, and none certainly is better for +breathing the sickening air into which you have led us....</i>" +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +<i>Now, if I had published this story after a manifesto warning, +cautioning, and earnestly entreating all readers who expected it to +be Victorian and Suburban to keep their money in their pockets, +I should not be feeling, as I do now, that the writer of the above +letter had been entrapped into reading it under false pretences. I +can only offer humble and heartfelt apology to the writers, English +as well as American, of the many letters I have received, practically +of the same tenor as the above</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>But I am left in a dilemma. I cannot consider myself bound +to make my next net volume exclusively Victorian, Suburban, +kindly, gossipy, button-holy—I rather like that word—in the face +of some very strong encouragements to have another go-in at Barts, +or their equivalents, of evil dispositions, or, perhaps I should say, +of Mediæval dispositions; for I am countenanced by many sporting +chronologists in attaching a meaning to this word at war with +my boyish understanding of it, which stopped the "moyen âge" at +the Reformation. However, it doesn't matter; this is all in +confidence. I cannot very well cite these encouragements. They form +part of a most liberal and intelligent series of reviews—not +unmixed praise by any means—which I am sticking at odd times in +a big book, to which I shall have to allude more particularly presently. +It is enough for us now that several of them speak of "An Affair +of Dishonour" as its author's best production, so far. After that +I must really be Mediæval, or Marry-come-up, or whatever one +ought to call it, a little more. There is no way out.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>A reviewer of an isolated and forcible genius also has a share in +inducing me to try the same line again. I want to be reviewed by +him, please, as often as possible. There is a healthy and bracing +tone in his lightest word. Listen:</i> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +"<i>A story-teller ought to be able to tell a story. There is a story in +'An Affair of Dishonour,' but I pity the reader who tries to excavate +it. He must tie a wet towel round his head, and clench his teeth, and +prepare to face hours of digging and scraping. And when he has +excavated the story from the heavy clay of the style, he will ask why +the author took so much trouble to bury it so deep in affectation... +Mr. De Morgan tries to copy the language of the seventeenth century, +but he copies it like a schoolboy.... To make the mess complete, the +last chapter is taken from a manuscript.</i> +</p> + +<p> +"<i>If Mr. De Morgan desired to imitate Esmond he ought to have +stuck to the Esmond method. If he wished to tell a melodramatic story +he ought to have told it plainly. The story is stale.... I suppose +the rake is meant to be a Lovelace, and Lucinda a Clarissa Harlowe. +The whole thing is artificial, there is no illusion, and the characters are +all sticks. The battle is bad, and the duels are bad, and the dialogue +is very bad. And how it bores one!</i>" +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +<i>Can you wonder that I look forward to being reviewed again by +this gentleman? I shall feel an eager anticipation as I search +among my press-cuttings, after the appearance of this present +volume, for the name of his halfpenny journal. I can fancy his +indignation at a picture that speaks—a completer mess even than +the dragging in of a manuscript at the end of Lucinda! This was +shocking—at least, it must have been, as otherwise this gentleman +would have been talking nonsense.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>But my button-holed readers must be expecting me to come to the +point. It is this. "A Likely Story" is an honest, if a humble, +attempt to satisfy all parties—except, indeed, the last party just +cited, whom I should be sorry to satisfy. It combines on one +canvas the story of a family incident that is purely Victorian—though, +alas, the era came to an end so shortly afterwards—with +another, of the Italian cinquecento, without making any further +demand on human powers of belief than that a picture is made to +talk. I have also introduced a very pretty suburb, Coombe, as the +residence of the earliest Victorian aunt, to my thinking, that my +pen is responsible for. I like this way of shifting the +responsibility off my own shoulders.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>However, it is fair to admit that the expedient of making the +photographic copy talk, as well as the original, may outrage the +sense of probability of some of my more matter-of-fact readers. I +shall be sorry, because modification in a second edition will be +difficult, if not impossible.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>If I do not succeed in pleasing both sections of my Public, I am +at least certain of the approval of a very large number of readers +who have found my previous productions too long. The foregoing +is even less than the 100,000 words which seem to recommend +themselves as the right length, per se, for a net volume. A slump +from a quarter to a twentieth of a million words marks a powerful +self-restraint on the part of my "cacoethes scribendi"—an essay +towards conformity which seems to me to deserve recognition. I +do not understand that anyone has, so far, propounded the doctrine +that a story cannot be too short. If that were so the author would +save himself a world of trouble by emulating the example of the +unknown author of the shortest work of its kind on record—the +biography of St. James the Less. But perhaps I am mistaken in +supposing that Jackaminory and the Apostle were one and the same +personage.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>I am personally more interested in the length of reviews than of +books, in connexion with the volume mentioned just now, in which +I am collecting my press-cuttings. The page of this volume is +fourteen inches by eight, and three reviews thirteen inches long +exactly cover it, leaving a little space for the name of the journal +and the date. It is too small to accommodate more than three +normal press columns in the width. So that a review thirteen +inches long is from my point of view the most suitable for my books. +Of course, twenty-six and thirty-nine inches are equally acceptable. +The difficulty only begins when accommodation of fractions becomes +necessary. I account that review ill-written which perplexes +me with the need for such accommodation.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>I am prepared to accept six shilling volumes of 100,000 words, +with reviews thirteen inches long, as the true and perfect image of +Literature indeed.</i> +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +<i>Man, male and female, is a reading animal: or, what is perhaps +more to the purpose, believes himself one. He may be divided into +two classes—the Studious Reader and the General Reader. The +former never skims books. If he dips into them at all he takes long +dips, and when he comes out, leaves a bookmark in to show where +he was or which was his machine. He goes steadily and earnestly +through the last, last, last word of Scientific thought—say, for +instance, "An Essay towards a fuller Analysis of the Correlation +between Force, Matter and Motion, with especial reference to their +relations in Polydimensional Space"—and wants to just finish +a marginal note upon it in pencil when the dinner-gong gets a +rumble. He knits his brows and jumps and snorts when he peruses +a powerful criticism, with antitheses and things. He very often +thinks he will buy that book, only he must just glance at it again +before he sends the order. Nevertheless, his relations with Fiction +lack cordiality. They do not go, on his part, beyond picking up +the last net volume from the drawing-room table, reading the title +aloud, and putting it down again. And he only does this because +it's there, and looks new. He wouldn't complain if no Fiction +came into the house at all.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Not so the General Reader. His theory of Literature is entirely +different. Broadly speaking, it is this: that books are meant to +be read, up to a certain point; but that, as soon as that point is +reached, it is desirable that they should be returned to Mudie's or +the "Times," and something else got, with a little less prosywozying +in it; and bounceable young women who ought to know better, but +don't; and detectives if possible, and motors and aeroplanes +anyhow. The exact definition of this point is difficult, but it lies +somewhere about the region in which the General Reader gets bored to +death, and can't stand this dam rot any longer. It does not matter +to him that he may be the loser by his abrupt decisions; if anything, +he takes an unnatural pleasure in straining the capacity of his +Circulating Library to the full extent of its contract. He has paid +his subscription, and may change whenever he likes. That's the +bargain, and no humbugging!</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>So he goes on slap-dashing about, shuttle-cocking back every +new delivery, saying "Pish!" over this and "Tush!" about that; +writing short comments on margins such as, "Vieux jeu!" or "No +Woman would"; only occasionally going carefully through a +book to find the chapter that reviewer-fellow said was quite unfit for +the girls to read, because one really ought to keep an eye on what +comes into the house nowadays. His decisions can, however, +scarcely be accepted as unfailing guides to a just discrimination +of literary merit, as those who know him are never tired of +insisting on his inattentive habits, his paroxysms of electric +suddenness in action, and, above all, his insatiable thirst for +something new. As for me, I am like Charles Lamb, when he was told +there was a gentleman in the room who admired "Paradise +Regained." I should like to feel his bumps.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>Nevertheless, he is a personage for whom Authors have a great +and natural respect. He is so numerous! And just think what +fun it would be if each of him bought a copy of each of one's +immortal works! Consequently, I wish to consult his liking, and am +prepared—within reason—to defer to his opinion of what length a +book ought to be. It is no doubt quite otherwise with those Authors +who may be said to belong to the school of Inspirationalism—really +one feels quite Modern, writing such a word—who claim for each of +their stories the position or character of a sneeze—an automatic +action which its victim, perpetrator, executant, interpreter, +proprietor, promoter, parent, mover, seconder—or whatever we choose +to call him—has absolutely no control over.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>But I am wandering away from the point of this apology, which +is really to say "peccavi," and, please, I won't do so any more. +So far, that is, as is practicable. If I drop into a prehistoric +problem-novel, by way of a change, or have a try at an autobiography +of Queen Nilocris—just possibilities at random—I will do +what I can to head off readers who want one sort only, and know +which it is.</i> +</p> + +<p> +<i>As for the foregoing story, it is just as Victorian as it is anything +else, though not, perhaps, Early enough to give entire satisfaction. +One can't expect everything, in this imperfect world. To my +thinking the shortness of the story should cover a multitude of sins.</i> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t4"> +BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS GUILDFORD +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44773 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + diff --git a/44773-h/images/img-256.jpg b/44773-h/images/img-256.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bfcad5f --- /dev/null +++ b/44773-h/images/img-256.jpg diff --git a/44773-h/images/img-cover.jpg b/44773-h/images/img-cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0744db5 --- /dev/null +++ b/44773-h/images/img-cover.jpg |
