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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/38893-8.txt b/38893-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7104e4f --- /dev/null +++ b/38893-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5764 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Spiritual Adventures, by Arthur Symons + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Spiritual Adventures + +Author: Arthur Symons + +Release Date: February 15, 2012 [EBook #38893] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIRITUAL ADVENTURES *** + + + + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Ross Cooling and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + + + + + + + + + CONSTABLE'S MISCELLANY + OF ORIGINAL & SELECTED + PUBLICATIONS IN LITERATURE + + SPIRITUAL + + ADVENTURES + + BY + + ARTHUR + + SYMONS + + + CONSTABLE·AND·CO·LIMITED·LONDON + + + + + _First Published_ 1905. + _Constable's Miscellany_ 1928. + + Printed in Great Britain by + Lowe & Brydone Printers Limited. Park Street, N.W.1. + + + + + TO + + THOMAS HARDY + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + A PRELUDE TO LIFE 3 + + ESTHER KAHN 57 + + CHRISTIAN TREVALGA 91 + + THE CHILDHOOD OF LUCY NEWCOME 125 + + THE DEATH OF PETER WAYDELIN 157 + + AN AUTUMN CITY 189 + + SEAWARD LACKLAND 213 + + EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF HENRY LUXULYAN 253 + + + + + A PRELUDE TO LIFE. + + + I + +I am afraid I must begin a good way back if I am to explain myself to +myself at all satisfactorily. I can see how the queer child I was laid +the foundation of the man I became, and yet I remember singularly little +of my childhood. My parents were never very long in one place, and I +have never known what it was to have a home, as most children know it; a +home that has been lived in so long that it has got into the ways, the +bodily creases, of its inhabitants, like an old, comfortable garment, +warmed through and through by the same flesh. I left the town where I +was born when I was one year old, and I have never seen it since. I do +not even remember in what part of England my eyes first became conscious +of the things about them. I remember the hammering of iron on wood, when +a great ship was launched in a harbour; the terrifying sound of cannons, +as they burst into smoke on a great plain near an ancient castle, while +the soldiers rode in long lines across the grass; the clop-clop of a +cripple with a wooden leg; with my intense terror at the toppling wagons +of hay, as I passed them in the road. I remember absolutely nothing else +out of my very early childhood; I have not even been told many things +about it, except that I once wakened my mother, as I lay in a little cot +at her side, to listen to the nightingales, and that Victor Hugo once +stopped the nurse to smile at me, as she walked with me in her arms at +Fermain Bay, in Guernsey. If I have been a vagabond, and have never been +able to root myself in any one place in the world, it is because I have +no early memories of any one sky or soil. It has freed me from many +prejudices in giving me its own unresting kind of freedom; but it has +cut me off from whatever is stable, of long growth in the world. + +I could not read until I was nine years old, and I could not read +because I resolutely refused to learn. I declared that it was +impossible; that I, at all events, never could do it; and I made the +most of a slight weakness in my eyes, saying that it hurt them, and +drawing tears out of my eyes at the sight of a book. I liked being read +to, and I used to sit on the bed while my sister, who often had to lie +down to rest, read out stories to me. I had a theory that a boy must +never show any emotion, and the pathetic parts of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' +tried me greatly. On one occasion I felt my sobs choking me, and the +passion of sorrow, mingled with the certainty that my emotion would +betray itself, sent me into a paroxysm of rage, in which I tore the book +from my sister's hands, and attacked her with my fists. + +I never learned to read properly until I went to school at the age of +nine. I had been for a little while to a dame's school, and learned +nothing. I could only read easy words, out of large print books, and I +was totally ignorant of everything in the world, when I suddenly found I +had to go to school. I was taken to see the schoolmaster, whom I hated, +because I had been told he had only one lung, and I heard them +explaining to him how backward I was, and how carefully I had to be +treated. When the day came I left the house as if I were going to the +scaffold, walked very slowly until I had nearly reached the door of the +school, and then, when I saw the other boys hurrying in with their +satchels, and realised that I was to be in their company, to sit on a +form side by side with strangers, who knew all the things I did not +know, I turned round and walked away much more quickly than I had come. +I took some time in getting home, and I had to admit that I had not been +to school. In the afternoon I was sent back, not alone. I have no +recollection of more than the obscure horror of that first day at +school. I went home in the evening with lessons that I knew had to be +learned. Life seemed suddenly to have become serious. Up to then I had +always fancied that the grave things people said to me had no particular +meaning for me; for other people, no doubt, but not for me. I had played +with other boys on the terrace facing the sea; I had seen them going off +to school, and I had not had to go with them. Now everything had +changed. There was no longer any sea; I had to live in a street; I had +lessons to learn, and other people were to be conscious how well I +learned them. + +It was that which taught me to read. What had seemed to me not worth +doing when I had only myself to please, for I could never realise that +my parents, so to speak, counted, became all at once a necessity, +because now there were others to reckon with. It was discovered that in +the midst of my unfathomable ignorance I had one natural talent; I could +spell, without ever being taught. I saw other boys poring over the +columns of their spelling-books, trying in vain to get the order of the +letters into their heads. I never even read them through; they came to +me by ear, instinctively. Finding myself able to do without trying +something that the others could not succeed in doing at all, I felt that +I could be hardly less intelligent than they, and I felt the little +triumph of outdoing others. I began to learn greedily. + +The second day I was at school I found the schoolroom door shut when I +came into the playground, and I was told that I could not come in. I +climbed the gymnasium ladder and looked through the window. Two boys +were having a furious fight, and the bigger boys of the school were +gravely watching it. I was completely fascinated; it was a new +sensation. That day a boy bigger than myself jeered at me. I struck him. +There was a rapid fight before all the school, and I knocked him down. I +never needed to fight again, nor did I. + +When I had once begun to learn, I learned certain things very quickly, +and others not at all. I never understood a single proposition of +Euclid; I never could learn geography, or draw a map. Arithmetic and +algebra I could do moderately, so long as I merely had to follow the +rules; the moment common sense was required I was helpless. History I +found entertaining, and I could even remember the dates, because they +had to do with facts which were like stories. French and Latin I picked +up easily, Greek with more difficulty. German I was never able to +master; I had an instinctive aversion to the mere sound of it, and I +could not remember the words; there were no pegs in my memory for them +to hang upon, as there were for the words of all the Romance languages. +When a thing did not interest me, nothing could make me learn it. I was +not obstinate, I was helpless. I have never been able to make out why +geography was so completely beyond my power. I have travelled since then +over most of Europe, and I have learned geography with the sight of my +eyes. But with all my passion for places I have never been able to find +my way in them until I have come to find it instinctively, and I suppose +that is why the names in the book or on the map said nothing to me. At +an examination when I was easily taking half the prizes, I have read +through my papers in geography and in Euclid, and taken them up to the +head-master's desk, and handed them back to him, calmly telling him that +I could not answer a single question. I was never able to go in for +matriculation, or any sort of general public examination, to the great +dissatisfaction of my masters, because, while I could have come out +easily at the top in most of the subjects, there were always one or two +in which I could do nothing. + +I was not popular, at any of my schools, either with the boys or with +the masters, but I was not disliked. I neither hated out-of-door games +nor particularly cared for them. I rather liked cricket, but never +played football. I was terribly afraid of making a mistake before other +people, and would never attempt anything unless I was sure that I could +do it. I did not make friends readily, and I was somewhat indifferent to +my friends. I cannot now recollect a single school-friend at all +definitely, except one strange little creature, with the look and the +intelligence of a grown man; and I remember him chiefly because he +seemed to care very much for me, not because I ever cared much for him. +He had a mathematical talent which I was told was a kind of genius, but, +even then, he was only just kept alive, and he died in boyhood. He +seemed to me different from any one else I knew, more like a girl than a +boy; some one to be pitied. I remember his saying good-bye to me when +they took him away to die. + +What the masters really thought of me I never quite knew. I looked upon +them as a kind of machine, not essentially different from the blackboard +on which they wrote figures in chalk. They sometimes made mistakes about +things which I knew, and this gave me a general distrust of them. I took +their praise coolly, as a thing which was my due, and I was quite +indifferent to their anger. I took no pains to conceal my critical +attitude towards them, and one classical master in particular was in +terror of me. He was not a sound scholar, and he knew that I knew it. +Every day he watched me out of the corner of his eye to see if I was +going to expose him, and he bribed me by lending me books which I wanted +to read. I loathed him, and left him alone. One day he carried his +deceit too far; there was an inquiry, and he disappeared. I have no +doubt my criticism was often unjust; I had the insolence of the parvenu +in learning. It had come to me too late for me to be able to take it +lightly. I corrected the dictation, put Maréchal for 'Marshal' because +the word was used in reference to Ney, who I knew was a Frenchman; and +was furious when my pedantry lost me a mark. + +During all this time I was living in the country, in small country towns +in the South of England, places to which Blackmore and Kingsley had +given a sort of minor fame. I remember long drives by night over +Dartmoor, and the sea at Westward Ho. Dartmoor had always a singular +fascination for me, partly because of its rocky loneliness, the abrupt +tors on which one could so easily be surprised in the mist, and partly +because there was a convict prison there, in a little town which we +often had occasion to visit. The most exquisite sensation of pleasure +which the drinking of water has ever given me was one hot day on +Dartmoor, when I drank the coldest water there ever was in the world out +of the hollow of my hand under a little Roman bridge that we had to +cross in driving to Princetown. The convict settlement was at +Princetown, and as we came near we could see gangs of convicts at work +on the road. Warders with loaded muskets walked up and down, and the +men, in their drab clothes marked in red with the broad-arrow, shovelled +and dug sullenly, like slaves. I thought every one of them had been a +murderer, and when one of them lifted his head from his work to look at +us as we passed I seemed to see some diabolical intention in his eyes. I +still remember one horrible grimace, done, I suppose, to frighten me. I +feared them, but I pitied them; I felt certain that some one was +plotting how to escape, and that he would suddenly drop his shovel and +begin to run, and that I should see the musket pointed at him and hear +the shot, and see the man fall. Once there was an alarm that two +convicts had escaped, and I expected at every moment to see them jump +out from behind a rock as we drove back at night. The warders had been +hurrying through the streets, I had seen the bloodhounds in leash; I +sickened at the thought of the poor devils who would be captured and +brought back between two muskets. Once I saw an escaped convict being +led back to prison; his arms were tied with cords, he had a bloody scar +on his forehead, his face was swollen with heat and helpless rage. + +But I have another association with Princetown besides the convicts. It +was in the house of one of the warders that I first saw 'Don Quixote.' +We had gone in to get some tea, and, as we waited in the parlour, and my +father talked with the man, a grave, powerful person dressed in +dark-blue clothes, I came upon a book and opened it, and began to read. +I thought it the most wonderful book I had ever seen; I could not put it +down, I refused to be separated from it, and the warder said he would +lend it to me, and I might take it back with me that night. There was a +thunderstorm as we drove back over the moor in the black darkness; I +remember the terror of the horse, my father's cautious driving, for the +road was narrow and there was a ditch on each side; the rain poured, and +the flashes of lightning lit up the solid darkness of the moor for an +instant, and then left us in the hollow of a deeper darkness. I clutched +the book tight under my overcoat; the majesty of the storm mingled in +my head with the heroic figure of which I had just caught a glimpse in +the book; I sat motionless, inexpressibly happy, and when we reached +home I had to waken myself out of a dream. + +The dream lasted until I had finished the book, and after. I cannot +remember how I felt, I only know that no book had ever meant so much to +me. It was 'Don Quixote' which wakened in me the passion for reading. +From that time I read incessantly, and I read everything. The first +verse I read was Scott, and from Scott I turned to Byron, at twelve or +thirteen, as to a kind of forbidden fruit, which must be delicious +because it is forbidden. I had been told that Byron was a very, very +great poet, and a very, very wicked man, an atheist, a writer whom it +was dangerous to read. At school I managed to get hold of a Byron, which +I read surreptitiously at the same moment that I was reading 'The +Headless Horseman.' I thought 'The Headless Horseman' very fine and +gory, but I was disappointed in the Byron, because I could not find +'Don Juan' in it. I knew, through reading a religious paper which +condemned wickedness in great detail, that 'Don Juan' was in some way +appallingly wicked. I wanted to see for myself, but I never, at that +time, succeeded in finding an edition immodest enough to contain it. + + + II. + +While all this, and much more that I have forgotten, was building up +about me the house of life that I was to live in, I was but imperfectly +conscious of more than a very few things in the external world, and but +half awake to more than a very few things in the world within me. I +lived in the country, or at all events with lanes and fields always +about me; I took long walks, and liked walking; but I never was able to +distinguish oats from barley, or an oak from a maple; I never cared for +flowers, except slightly for their colour, when I saw many of them +growing together; I could not distinguish a blackbird from a thrush; I +was never conscious in my blood of the difference between spring and +autumn. I always loved the winter wind and the sunlight, and to plunge +through crisp snow, and to watch the rain through leaves. But I would +walk for hours without looking about me, or caring much for what I saw; +I was never tired, and the mere physical delight of walking shut my +eyes and my ears. I was always thinking, but never to much purpose; I +hated to think, because thinking troubled me, and whenever I thought +long my thoughts were sure to come round to one of two things: the +uncertainty of life, and the uncertainty of what might be life after +death. I was terribly afraid of death; I did not know exactly what held +me to life, but I wanted it to last for ever. I had always been +delicate, but never with any definite sickness; I was uneasy about +myself because I saw that others were uneasy about me, and my voracious +appetite for life was partly a kind of haste to eat and drink my fill at +a feast from which I might at any time be called away. And then I was +still more uneasy about hell. + +My parents were deeply religious; we all went to church, a Nonconformist +church, twice on Sunday; I was not allowed to read any but pious books +or play anything but hymns or oratorios on Sunday; I was taught that +this life, which seemed so real and so permanent to me, was but an +episode in existence, a little finite part of eternity. We had grace +before and after meals; we had family prayers night and morning; we +seemed to live in continual communication with the other world. And yet, +for the most part, the other world meant nothing to me. I believed, but +could not interest myself in the matter. I read the Bible with keen +admiration, especially Ecclesiastes; the Old Testament seemed to me +wholly delightful, but I cared less for the New Testament; there was so +much doctrine in it, it was so explicit about duties, about the conduct +of life. I was taught to pray to God the Father, in the name of God the +Son, for the inspiration of God the Holy Ghost. I said my prayers +regularly; I was absolutely sincere in saying them; I begged hard for +whatever I wanted, and thought that if I begged hard enough my prayer +would be answered. But I found it very difficult to pray. It seemed to +me that prayer was useless unless it were uttered with an intimate +apprehension of God, unless an effort of will brought one mentally into +His presence. I tried hard to hypnotise myself into that condition, but +I rarely succeeded. Other thoughts drifted through my mind while my +lips were articulating words of supplication. I said, over and over +again, 'O Lord, for Jesus' sake!' and even while I was saying the words +with fervour I seemed to lose hold of their meaning. I was taught that +being clever mattered little, but that being good mattered infinitely. I +wanted to want to be good, but all I really wanted was to be clever. I +felt that this in itself was a wickedness. I could not help it, but I +believed that I should be punished for not being able to help it. I was +told that if I was very good I should go to heaven, but that if I was +wicked I should go to hell. I saw but one alternative. + +And so the thought of hell was often in my mind, for the most part very +much in the background, but always ready to come forward at any external +suggestion. Once or twice it came to me with such vividness that I +rolled over on the ground in a paroxysm of agony, trying to pray God +that I might not be sent to hell, but unable to fix my mind on the words +of the prayer. I felt the eternal flames taking hold on me, and some +foretaste of their endlessness seemed to enter into my being. I never +once had the least sensation of heaven, or any desire for it. Never at +any time did it seem to me probable that I should get there. + +I remember once in church, as I was looking earnestly at the face of a +child for whom I had a boyish admiration, that the thought suddenly shot +across my mind: 'Emma will die, Emma will go to heaven, and I shall +never see her again.' I shivered all through my body, I seemed to see +her vanishing away from me, and I turned my eyes aside, so that I could +not see her. But the thought gnawed at me so fiercely that a prayer +broke out of me, silently, like sweat: 'O God, let me be with her! O +God, let me be with her!' When I came out into the open air, and felt +the cold breeze on my forehead, the thought had begun to relax its hold +on me, and I never felt it again, with that certainty; but it was as if +a veil had been withdrawn for an instant, the veil which renders life +possible, and, for that instant, I had seen. + +When my mother talked to me about pious things, I felt that they were +extraordinarily real to her, and this impressed me the more because her +thirst for this life was even greater than mine, and her hold on +external things far stronger. My father was a dryly intellectual, +despondent person, whose whole view of life was coloured by the +dyspepsia which he was never without, and the sick headaches which laid +him up for a whole day, every week or every fortnight. He was quite +unimaginative, cautious in his affairs, a great reader of the newspaper; +but he never seemed to me to have had the same sense of life as my +mother and myself. I respected him, for his ability, his scholarship, +and his character; but we had nothing akin, he never interested me. He +was severely indulgent to me; I never knew him to be unkind, or even +unreasonable. But I took all such things for granted, I felt no +gratitude for them, and I was only conscious that my father bored me. I +had no dislike for him; an indifference, rather; perhaps a little more +than indifference, for if he came into the room, and I did not happen to +be absorbed in reading, I usually went out of it. We might sit together +for an hour, and it never occurred to either of us to speak. So when he +spoke to me of my soul, which he did seriously, sadly, with an undertone +of reproach, my whole nature rose up against him. If to be good was to +be like him, I did not wish to be good. + +With my mother, it was quite different. She had the joy of life, she was +sensitive to every aspect of the world; she felt the sunshine before it +came, and knew from what quarter the wind was blowing when she awoke in +the morning. I think she was never indifferent to any moment that ever +passed her by; I think no moment ever passed her by without being seized +in all the eagerness of acceptance. I never knew her when she was not +delicate, so delicate that she could rarely go out of doors in the +winter; but I never heard her complain, she was always happy, with a +natural gaiety which had only been strengthened into a kind of vivid +peace by the continual presence of a religion at once calm and +passionate. She was as sure of God as of my father; heaven was always as +real to her as the room in which she laughed and prayed. Sometimes, as +she read her Bible, her face quickened to an ecstasy. She was ready at +any moment to lay down the book and attend to the meanest household +duties; she never saw any gulf between meditation and action; her +meditations were all action. When a child, she had lain awake, longing +to see a ghost; she had never seen one, but if a ghost had entered the +room she would have talked with it as tranquilly as with a living +friend. To her the past, the present, and the future were but moments of +one existence; life was everything to her, and life was indestructible. +Her own personal life was so vivid that it never ceased, even in sleep. +She dreamed every night, precise, elaborate dreams, which she would tell +us in the morning with the same clearness as if she were telling us of +something that had really happened. She was never drowsy, she went to +sleep the moment her head was laid on the pillow, she awoke instantly +wide awake. There were things that she knew and things that she did not +know, but she was never vague. A duty was as clear to her as a fact; +infinitely tolerant to others, she expected from herself perfection, +the utmost perfection of which her nature was capable. It was because my +mother talked to me of the other world that I felt, in spite of myself, +that there was another world. Her certainty helped to make me the more +afraid. + +She did not often talk to me of the other world. She preferred that I +should see it reflected in her celestial temper and in a capability as +of the angels. She sorrowed at my indifference, but she was content to +wait; she was sure of me, she never doubted that, sooner or later, I +should be saved. This, too, troubled me. I did not want to be saved. It +is true that I did not want to go to hell, but the thought of what my +parents meant by salvation had no attraction for me. It seemed to be the +giving up of all that I cared for. There was a sort of humiliation in +it. Jesus Christ seemed to me a hard master. + +Sometimes there were revival services at the church, and I was never +quite at my ease until they were over. I was afraid of some appeal to my +emotions, which for the moment I should not be able to resist. I knew +that it would mean nothing, but I did not want to give in, even for a +moment. I felt that I might have to resist with more than my customary +indifference, and I did not like to admit to myself that any active +resistance could be necessary. I knelt, as a stormy prayer shook the +people about me into tears, rigid, forcing myself to think of something +else. I saw the preacher move about the church, speaking to one after +another, and I saw one after another get up and walk to the communion +rail, in sign of conversion. I wondered that they could do it, whatever +they felt; I wondered what they felt; I dreaded lest the preacher should +come up to me with some irresistible power, and beckon me up to that +rail. If he did come, I knelt motionless, with my face in my hands, not +answering his questions, not seeming to take the slightest notice of +him; but my heart was trembling, I did not know what was going to +happen; I felt nothing but that horrible uneasiness, but I feared it +might leave me helpless, at the man's mercy, or at God's perhaps. + +As we walked home afterwards, I could see the others looking at me, +wondering at my spiritual stubbornness, wondering if at last I had felt +something. To them, I knew, I was like a man who shut his eyes and +declared that he could not see. 'You have only to open your eyes,' they +said to the man. But the man said, 'I prefer being blind.' It was +inexplicable to them. But they were not less inexplicable to me. + + + III. + +From the time when 'Don Quixote' first opened my eyes to an imaginative +world outside myself, I had read hungrily; but another world was also +opened to me when I was about sixteen. I had been taught scales and +exercises on the piano; I had tried to learn music, with very little +success, when one day the head-master of the school asked me to go into +his drawing-room and copy out something for him. As I sat there copying, +the music-master, a German, came in and sat down at the piano. He played +something which I had never heard before, something which seemed to me +the most wonderful thing I had ever heard. I tried to go on copying, but +I did not know what I was writing down; I was caught into an ecstasy, +the sound seemed to envelop me like a storm, and then to trickle through +me like raindrops shaken from wet leaves, and then to wrap me again in a +tempest which was like a tempest of grief. When he had finished I said, +'Will you play that over again?' As he played it again I began to +distinguish it more clearly; I heard a slow, heavy trampling of feet, +marching in order, then what might have been the firing of cannon over a +grave, and the trampling again. When he told me that it was Chopin's +Funeral March, I understood why it was that the feet had moved so +slowly, and why the cannon had been fired; and I saw that the melody +which had soothed me was the timid, insinuating consolation which love +or hope sometimes brings to the mourner. I asked him if he would teach +me music and if he would teach me that piece. He promised to teach me +that piece, and I learned it. I learned no more scales and exercises; I +learned a few more pieces; but in a little while I could read at sight; +and when I was not reading a book I was reading a piece of music at the +piano. I never acquired the technique to play a single piece correctly, +but I learned to touch the piano as if one were caressing a living +being, and it answered me in an intimate and affectionate voice. + +Books and music, then, together with my solitary walks, were the only +means of escape which I was able to find from the tedium of things as +they were. I was passionately in love with life, but the life I lived +was not the life I wanted. I did not know quite what I wanted, but I +knew that what I wanted was something very different from what I +endured. We were very poor, and I hated the constraints of poverty. We +were surrounded by commonplace, middle-class people, and I hated +commonplace and the middle classes. Sometimes we were too poor even to +have a servant, and I was expected to clean my own boots. I could not +endure getting my hands or my shirt-cuffs dirty; the thought of having +to do it disgusted me every day. Sometimes my mother, without saying +anything to me, had cleaned my boots for me. I was scarcely conscious of +the sacrifices which she and the others were continually making. I made +none, of my own accord, and I felt aggrieved if I had to share the +smallest of their privations. + +From as early a time as I can remember, I had no very clear +consciousness of anything external to myself; I never realised that +others had the right to expect from me any return for the kindness which +they might show me or refuse to me, at their choice. I existed, others +also existed; but between us there was an impassable gulf, and I had +rarely any desire to cross it. I was very fond of my mother, but I felt +no affection towards any one else, nor any desire for the affection of +others. To be let alone, and to live my own life for ever, that was what +I wanted; and I raged because I could never entirely escape from the +contact of people who bored me and things which depressed me. If people +called, I went out of the room before they were shown in; if I had not +time to get away, I shook hands hurriedly, and slipped out as soon as I +could. I remember a cousin who used to come to tea every Sunday for two +or three years. My aversion to her was so great that I could hardly +answer her if she spoke to me, and I used to think of Shelley, and how +he too, like me, would 'lie back and languish into hate.' The woman was +quite inoffensive, but I am still unable to see her or hear her speak +without that sickness of aversion which used to make the painfulness of +Sunday more painful. + +People in general left me no more than indifferent; they could be +quietly avoided. They meant no more to me than the chairs on which they +sat; I was untouched by their fortunes; I was unconscious of my human +relationship to them. To my mother every person in the world became, for +the moment of contact, the only person in the world; if she merely +talked with any one for five minutes she was absorbed to the exclusion +of every other thought; she saw no one else, she heard nothing else. I +watched her, with astonishment, with admiration; I felt that she was in +the right and I in the wrong; that she gained a pleasure and conferred a +benefit, while I only wearied myself and offended others; but I could +not help it. I felt nothing, I saw nothing, outside myself. + +I always had a room upstairs, which I called my study, where I could sit +alone, reading or thinking. No one was allowed to enter the room; only, +in winter, as I always let the fire go out, my mother would now and then +steal in gently without speaking, and put more coals on the fire. I used +to look up from my books furiously, and ask why I could not be left +alone; my mother would smile, say nothing, and go out as quietly as she +had come in. I was only happy when I was in my study, but, when I had +shut the door behind me, I forgot all about the tedious people who were +calling downstairs, the covers of the book I was reading seemed to +broaden out into an enclosing rampart, and I was alone with myself. + +At my last school there was one master, a young man, who wrote for a +provincial newspaper, of which he afterwards became the editor, with +whom I made friends. He had read a great deal, and he knew a few +literary people; he was equally fond of literature and of music. Some +school composition of mine had interested him in me, and he began to +lend me books, and to encourage me in trying to express myself in +writing. I had already run through Scott and Byron, with a very little +Shelley, and had come to Browning, whom he detested. When I was laid up +with scarlatina he sent me over a packet of books to read; one of them +was Swinburne's 'Poems and Ballads,' which seemed to give voice to all +the fever that I felt just then in my blood. I read 'Wuthering Heights' +at the same time and Rabelais a little time afterwards. I read all the +bound volumes of the 'Cornhill Magazine' from the beginning right +through, stories, essays, and poems, and I remember my delight in 'Harry +Richmond,' at a time when I had never heard the name of George Meredith. +I read essays signed 'R. L. S.', from which I got my first taste of a +sort of gipsy element in literature which was to become a passion when, +later on, 'Lavengro' fell into my hands. The reading of 'Lavengro' did +many things for me. It absorbed me from the first page, with a curiously +personal appeal, as of some one akin to me, and when I came to the place +where Lavengro learns Welsh in a fortnight, I laid down the book with a +feeling of fierce emulation. I had often thought of learning Italian: I +immediately bought an Italian Bible, and a grammar; I worked all day +long, not taking up 'Lavengro' again, until, at the end of the fortnight +which I had given myself, I could read Italian. Then I finished +'Lavengro.' + +'Lavengro' took my thoughts into the open air, and gave me my first +conscious desire to wander. I learned a little Romany, and was always on +the lookout for gipsies. I realised that there were other people in the +world besides the conventional people I knew, who wore prim and shabby +clothes, and went to church twice on Sundays, and worked at business and +professions, and sat down to the meal of tea at five o'clock in the +afternoon. And I realised that there was another escape from these +people besides a solitary flight in books; that if a book could be so +like a man, there were men and women, after all, who had the interest of +a book as well as the warm advantage of being alive. Humanity began to +exist for me. + +But with this discovery of a possible interest in real people, there +came a deeper loathing of the people by whom I was surrounded. I had +for the most part been able to ignore them; now I wanted to get away, so +that I could live my own life, and choose my own companions. My vague +notions of sex became precise, became a torture. + +When I first read Rabelais and the 'Poems and Ballads,' I was ignorant +of my own body; I looked upon the relationship of man and woman as +something essentially wicked; my imagination took fire, but I was hardly +conscious of any physical reality connected with it. I was irrepressibly +timid in the presence of a woman; I hardly ever met young people of my +own age; and I had a feeling of the deepest reverence for women, from +which I endeavoured to banish the slightest consciousness of sex. I +thought it an inexcusable disrespect; and in my feeling towards the one +or two much older women who at one time or another had a certain +attraction for me, there was nothing, conscious at least, but a purely +romantic admiration. At the same time I had a guilty delight in reading +books which told me about the sensations of physical love, and I +trembled with ecstasy as I read them. Thoughts of them haunted me; I put +them out of my head by an effort, I called them back, they ended by +never leaving me. + +I think it was a little earlier than this that I began to walk in my +sleep, and to have nightmares; but it was just then that I suffered most +from those obscure terrors of the night. Once, when I was a child, I +remember waking up in my nightshirt on the drawing-room sofa, and being +wrapped up in a shawl and carried upstairs by my father, and put back +into bed. I had come down in my sleep, opened the door, and walked into +the room without seeing any one, and laid myself down on the sofa. I did +not often dream, but, whenever I dreamed, it was of infinite spirals, up +which I had to climb, or of ladders, whose rungs dropped away from me as +my feet left them, or of slimy stone stairways into cold pits of +darkness, or of the tightening of a snake's coils around me, or of +walking with bare feet across a floor curdling with snakes. I awoke, +stifling a scream, my hair damp with sweat, out of impossible tasks in +which time shrank and swelled in some deadly game with life; something +had to be done in a second, and all eternity passed, lingering, while +the second poised over me like a drop of water always about to drip: it +fell, and I was annihilated into depth under depth of blackness. + +Into these dreams of abstract horror there began to come a disturbing +element of sex. My books and my thoughts haunted me; I was restless and +ignorant, physically innocent, but with a sort of naïve corruption of +mind. All the interest which I had never been able to find in the soul, +I found in what I only vaguely apprehended of the body. To me it was +something remote, evil, mainly inexplicable; but nothing I had ever felt +had meant so much to me. I never realised that there was any honesty in +sex, that nature was after all natural. I reached stealthily after some +stealthy delight of the senses, which I valued the more because it was a +forbidden thing. Love I never associated with the senses, it was not +even passion that I wanted; it was a conscious, subtle, elaborate +sensuality, which I knew not how to procure. And there was an infinite +curiosity, which I hardly even dared dream of satisfying; a curiosity +which was like a fever. I was scarcely conscious of any external +temptations. The ideas in which I had been trained, little as they had +seemed consciously to affect me, had given me the equivalent of what I +may call virtue, in a form of good taste. I was ashamed of my desires, +of my sensations, though I made no serious effort to escape them; but I +knew that, even if the opportunity were offered, something, some scruple +of physical refinement, some timidity, some unattached sense of fitness, +would step in to prevent me from carrying them into practice. + + + IV. + +Every now and then my father used to talk to me seriously, saying that I +should have to choose some profession, and make my own living. I always +replied that there was nothing I could possibly do, that I hated every +profession, that I would rather starve than soil my hands with business, +and that so long as I could just go on living as I was then living, I +wanted nothing more. I did not want to be a rich man, I was never able +to realise money as a tangible thing, I wanted to have just enough to +live on, only not at home; in London. My father did not press the +matter; I could see that he dreaded my leaving home, and he knew that, +for the time, going to London was out of the question. + +One summer I went down to a remote part of England to stay with some of +my relations. I had seen none of them since I was a child, I knew +nothing about them, except that some were farmers, some business people; +there was an astronomer, an old sea-captain, and a mad uncle who lived +in a cottage by himself on a moor near the sea, and grew marvellous +flowers in a vast garden. I stayed with a maiden aunt, who was like a +very old and very gaunt little bird; she was deaf, wrinkled, and bent, +but her hair was still yellow, her voice a high piping treble, and she +ran about with the tireless vivacity of a young girl. She had been +pretty, and had all the little vanities of a coquette; she wore bright, +semi-fashionable clothes, and conspicuous hats. She had much of the +natural gaiety of my mother, who was her elder sister; and she was +infinitely considerate to me, turning out one of her little rooms that I +might have it for a study. She liked me to play to her, and would sit by +the side of the old piano listening eagerly. The mad uncle was her +brother, and he would come in sometimes from his cottage, bringing great +bundles of flowers. He was very kind and gentle, and he would sometimes +tell me of the letters he had been writing to the Prince of Wales on the +subject of sewage, and of how the Prince of Wales had acknowledged his +communications. He had many theories about sewage; I have heard that +some of them were plausible and ingenious; and he was convinced that his +theories would some day be accepted, and that he would become famous. I +believe his brain had been turned by an unlucky passion for a beautiful +girl; he was only in an asylum for a short time; and for the most part +lived happily in his cottage among his flowers, developing theories of +sewage, and taking sun-baths naked in the garden. + +The people of whom I saw most were some cousins: the father kept a shop, +and they all helped in the business. They were very kind, and did all +they could for me by feeding me plentifully and taking me for long +drives in the country, which was very hilly and wooded, and sometimes to +the sea, which was not too far off to reach by driving. We had not an +idea in common, and I always wondered how it was possible that my aunt, +who was my mother's eldest sister, could ever have married my uncle. He +was a kind man, and, in his way, intelligent; but he talked incessantly, +insistently, and with something unctuous in his voice and manner; he +came close to me while he spoke, and tapped my shoulder with his fingers +or my leg with his stick. I could not bear him to touch me; sometimes he +dropped his h's, and, as I heard them drop, I saw the old man looking +fixedly into my face with his large, keen, shifting eyes. + +One of the daughters had something inquiring in her mind, a touch of +rebellious refinement; she had enough instinct for another kind of life +to be at least discontented with her own; with her I could talk. But the +others fitted into their environment without a crease or a ruffle. They +went to the shop early in the morning, slaved there all day, taught in +the Sunday-School on Sundays, said the obvious things to one another all +day long, were perfectly content to be where they were, do what they +did, think what they thought, and say what they said. Their house +reflected them like a mirror. Everything was clean and new, there was +plenty of everything; and I used to sit in their drawing-room looking +round it in a vain attempt to find a single thing which I could have +lived with, in a house of my own. + +I went home from the visit gladly, glad to be at home again. We were +living then in the Midlands, and I used to spend whole days at +Kenilworth, at Warwick, at Coventry; I knew them from Scott's novels, +but I had never seen a ruined castle, a city with ancient buildings, and +I began to feel that there was something else to be seen in the world +besides the things I had dreamed of seeing. I took a boat at Leamington, +and rowed up the river as far as the chain underneath Warwick Castle. I +do not know why I have always remembered that moment, as if it marked a +date to me. It was with a full enjoyment of the contrast that I found +them busy preparing for a _fête_ when I got back to Leamington; +stringing up the Chinese lanterns to the branches of the trees, and +putting out little tables on the grass. At Coventry I loved going +through the narrow streets, looking up at the windows which leaned +together under their gabled roofs. I saw Lady Godiva borne through the +streets, more clothed than she appears in the pictures, in the midst of +a gay and solemn procession, tricked out in old-fashioned frippery. And +I spent a long day there, one of the days of the five-day fair, which +feasted me with sensations on which I lived for weeks. It was the first +time I had ever plunged boldly into what Baudelaire calls 'the bath of +multitude'; it intoxicated me, and seemed, for the first time in my +life, to carry me outside myself. I pushed my way through the crowds in +those old and narrow streets, in an ecstasy of delight at all that +movement, noise, colour, and confusion. I seemed suddenly to have become +free, in contact with life. I had no desire to touch it too closely, no +fear of being soiled at its contact; a vivid spirit of life seemed to +come to me, in my solitude, releasing me from thought, from daily +realities. + +Once I went as far as Chester. It was the Cup day, and there was an +excursion. I watched the race, feeling a momentary excitement as the +horses passed close to me, and the pellets of turf shot from their heels +into the air above my head; the crowd was more varied than any crowd I +had ever seen, and I discovered a blonde gipsy girl, in charge of a +cocoanut-shy, who let me talk a little Romany with her. I thought +Chester, with its arcades and its city-walls, the most wonderful old +place I had ever seen. As I walked round the wall, a woman leaned out of +a window and called to me: I thought of Rahab in the Bible, and went +home dreaming romantically about the harlot on the wall. + +One day, as I was walking along a country road, I was stopped by a +sailor, who asked me how far it was to some distant place. He was +carrying a small bundle, and was walking, he told me, until he came to a +certain sea-port. He did not beg, but accepted gladly enough what I gave +him. He had been on many voyages, and had picked up a good many words of +different languages, which he mispronounced in a scarcely intelligible +jargon of his own. He had been left behind by his ship in Russia, where +he had stayed on account of a woman: she could speak no English, and he +but little Russian; but it did not seem to have mattered. It was the +first time I had seemed to come so close to the remote parts of the +world; and as he went on his way, he turned back to urge me to go on +some voyage which he seemed to remember with more pleasure than any +other: to the West Indies, I think. I began to pore over maps, and plan +to what parts of the world I would go. + +Meanwhile, little by little, I was beginning to live my own life at +home; I played the piano on Sundays, to whatever tune I liked; I read +whatever I liked on Sundays; and, finally, I ceased to go to church. +Latterly I had come to put my boredom there to some purpose: I followed +the lessons word by word in Bibles and Testaments in many languages, +and, while the sermon was going on I kept my Bible quietly open on my +knees, and read on, chapter after chapter, while the preacher preached I +knew not what: I never heard a word of it, not even the text. I read, +not for the Bible's sake, but to learn the language in which I was +reading it. My parents knew this, but after all it was the Bible, and +they could hardly object to my reading the Bible. Sometimes I scribbled +down ideas that came into my head; sometimes I merely sat there, with a +stony inattention, showing, I fancy, in my face, all the fierce disgust +that I felt. During the sermon I always found it quite easy to abstract +my attention; during the hymns I amused myself by criticising the bad +rhymes and false metaphors; but during prayer-time, though I kept my +eyes wide open, and sat as upright as I dared, I could hardly help +hearing what was said. What was said, very often, made me ashamed, as if +I were unconsciously helping to repeat absurdities to God. + +When I told my parents that I could go to church no longer, I had no +definite reason to allege, except that the matter did not interest me. I +did not doubt the truth of the Christian religion; I neither affirmed +nor denied; it was something, to me, beside the question. I could argue +about dogma; I defended a liberal interpretation of doctrines; I +insisted that there were certain questions which we were bound to leave +open. But I was not alienated from Christianity by intellectual +difficulties; it had never taken hold of me, and I gave up nothing but a +pretence in giving up the sign of outward respect for it. My parents +were deeply grieved, but, then as always, they respected my liberty. + +The first time I remember going to London, for I had been there when a +child, was by an excursion, which brought me back the same night. Of the +day, or of what I did then, I can recall nothing; daylight never meant +so much to me as the first lighting of the lamps. I found my way back to +King's Cross, in some bewilderment, to find that one train had gone, and +that the next would leave me an hour or two more in London. I walked +among the lights, through hurrying crowds of people, in long, dingy +streets, not knowing where I was going, till I found myself outside a +great building which seemed to be a kind of music-hall. I went in; it +was the Agricultural Hall, and some show was being given there. There +were acrobats, gymnasts, equilibrists, performing beasts; there was a +vast din, concentrating all the noises of a fair within four walls; +people swarmed to and fro over the long floor, paying more heed to one +another than to the performance. I scrutinised the show and the people, +a little uneasily; it was very new to me, and I was not yet able to feel +at home in London. I found my way to the station like one who comes +home, half dizzy and half ashamed, after a debauch. + +The next time I went to London, I went for a week. I stayed in a +lodging-house near the British Museum, a mean, uncomfortable place, +where I had to be indoors by midnight. During the day I read in the +Museum; the atmosphere weighed upon me, and gave me a headache every +day; the same atmosphere weighed upon me in the streets around the +Museum; I was dull, depressed, anxious to get through with the task for +which I had come to London, anxious to get back again to the country. I +went back with a little book-learning, of the kind that I wanted to +acquire; I began to have books sent down to me from a Library in London; +I worked, more and more diligently, at reading and studying books; and +I began to think of devoting myself entirely to some sort of literary +work. It was not that I had anything to say, or that I felt the need of +expressing myself. I wanted to write books for the sake of writing +books; it was food for my ambition, and it gave me something to do when +I was alone, apart from other people. It helped to raise another barrier +between me and other people. + +I went up to London again for a longer visit, and I stayed in a +lodging-house in one of the streets leading from the Strand to the +Embankment, near the stage-door of one of the theatres. A little actress +and her mother were staying in the house, and I felt that I was getting +an intimate acquaintance with the stage, as I sat up with the little +actress, after her mother had gone to bed, and listened timidly to her +stories of parts and dresses and the other girls. She was quite young, +and still ingenuous enough to look forward to the day when she would +have her name on the placards in letters I forget how many inches high. +I had been to my first theatre, it was Irving in 'King Lear,' and now I +was hearing about the stage from one who lived on it. A little actress, +afterwards famous for her beauty, and then a child with masses of gold +hair about her ears, lived next door, at another lodging-house, which +her mother kept. I watched for her to pass the window, or for a chance +of meeting her in the street. When I went back again to the country, it +was with a fixed resolve to come and live in London, where, it seemed, I +could, if I liked, be something more than a spectator of the great, +amusing crowd. The intoxication of London had got hold of me; I felt at +home in it, and I felt that I had never yet found anywhere to be at home +in. + +I lived in London for five years, and I do not think there was a day +during those five years in which I did not find a conscious delight in +the mere fact of being in London. When I found myself alone, and in the +midst of a crowd, I began to be astonishingly happy. I needed so little +at the beginning of that time. I have never been able to stay long under +a roof without restlessness, and I used to go out into the streets, +many times a day, for the pleasure of finding myself in the open air and +in the streets. I had never cared greatly for the open air in the +country, the real open air, because everything in the country, except +the sea, bored me; but here, in the 'motley' Strand, among these +hurrying people, under the smoky sky, I could walk and yet watch. If +there ever was a religion of the eyes, I have devoutly practised that +religion. I noted every face that passed me on the pavement; I looked +into the omnibuses, the cabs, always with the same eager hope of seeing +some beautiful or interesting person, some gracious movement, a delicate +expression, which would be gone if I did not catch it as it went. This +search without an aim grew to be almost a torture to me; my eyes ached +with the effort, but I could not control them. At every moment, I knew, +some spectacle awaited them; I grasped at all these sights with the same +futile energy as a dog that I once saw standing in an Irish stream, and +snapping at the bubbles that ran continually past him on the water. +Life ran past me continually, and I tried to make all its bubbles my +own. + + + + + ESTHER KAHN. + + +Esther Kahn was born in one of those dark, evil-smelling streets with +strange corners which lie about the Docks. It was a quiet street, which +seemed to lead nowhere, but to stand aside, for some not quite honest +purpose of its own. The blinds of some of these houses were always +drawn; shutters were nailed over some of the windows. Few people passed; +there were never many children playing in the road; the women did not +stand talking at their open doors. The doors opened and shut quietly; +dark faces looked out from behind the windows; the Jews who lived there +seemed always to be at work, bending over their tables, sewing and +cutting, or else hurrying in and out with bundles of clothes under their +arms, going and coming from the tailors for whom they worked. The Kahns +all worked at tailoring: Esther's father and mother and grandmother, her +elder brother and her two elder sisters. One did seaming, another +button-holing, another sewed on buttons; and, on the poor pay they got +for that, seven had to live. + +As a child Esther had a strange terror of the street in which she lived. +She was never sure whether something dreadful had just happened there, +or whether it was just going to happen. But she was always in suspense. +She was tormented with the fear of knowing what went on behind those +nailed shutters. She made up stories about the houses, but the stories +never satisfied her. She imagined some great, vague gesture; not an +incident, but a gesture; and it hung in the air suspended like a shadow. +The gestures of people always meant more to her than their words; they +seemed to have a secret meaning of their own, which the words never +quite interpreted. She was always unconsciously on the watch for their +meaning. + +At night, after supper, the others used to sit around the table, talking +eagerly. Esther would get up and draw her chair into the corner by the +door, and for a time she would watch them, as if she were looking on at +something, something with which she had no concern, but which interested +her for its outline and movement. She saw her father's keen profile, the +great, hooked nose, the black, prominent, shifty eye, the tangled black +hair straggling over the shirt-collar; her mother, large, placid, with +masses of black, straight hair coiled low over her sallow cheeks; the +two sisters, sharp and voluble, never at rest for a moment; the brother, +with his air of insolent assurance, an immense self-satisfaction hooded +under his beautifully curved eyelids; the grandmother, with her bent and +mountainous shoulders, the vivid malice of her eyes, her hundreds of +wrinkles. All these people, who had so many interests in common, who +thought of the same things, cared for the same things, seemed so fond of +one another in an instinctive way, with so much hostility for other +people who were not belonging to them, sat there night after night, in +the same attitudes, always as eager for the events of to-day as they had +been for the events of yesterday. Everything mattered to them +immensely, and especially their part in things; and no one thing seemed +to matter more than any other thing. Esther cared only to look on; +nothing mattered to her; she had no interest in their interests; she was +not sure that she cared for them more than she would care for other +people; they were what she supposed real life was, and that was a thing +in which she had only a disinterested curiosity. + +Sometimes, when she had been watching them until they had all seemed to +fade away and form again in a kind of vision more precise than the +reality, she would lose sight of them altogether and sit gazing straight +before her, her eyes wide open, her lips parted. Her hand would make an +unconscious movement, as if she were accompanying some grave words with +an appropriate gesture; and Becky would generally see it, and burst into +a mocking laugh, and ask her whom she was mimicking. + +'Don't notice her,' the mother said once; 'she's not a human child, +she's a monkey; she's clutching out after a soul, as they do. They look +like little men, but they know they're not men, and they try to be; +that's why they mimic us.' + +Esther was very angry; she said to herself that she would be more +careful in future not to show anything that she was feeling. + +At thirteen Esther looked a woman. She was large-boned, with very small +hands and feet, and her body seemed to be generally asleep, in a kind of +brooding lethargy. She had her mother's hair, masses of it, but softer, +with a faint, natural wave in it. Her face was oval, smooth in outline, +with a nose just Jewish enough for the beauty of suave curves and +unemphatic outlines. The lips were thick, red, strung like a bow. The +whole face seemed to await, with an infinite patience, some moulding and +awakening force, which might have its way with it. It wanted nothing, +anticipated nothing; it waited. Only the eyes put life into the mask, +and the eyes were the eyes of the tribe; they had no personal meaning in +what seemed to be their mystery; they were ready to fascinate +innocently, to be intolerably ambiguous without intention; they were +fathomless with mere sleep, the unconscious dream which is in the eyes +of animals. + +Esther was neither clever nor stupid; she was inert. She did as little +in the house as she could, but when she had to take her share in the +stitching she stitched more neatly than any of the others, though very +slowly. She hated it, in her languid, smouldering way, partly because it +was work and partly because it made her prick her fingers, and the skin +grew hard and ragged where the point of the needle had scratched it. She +liked her skin to be quite smooth, but all the glycerine she rubbed into +it at night would not take out the mark of the needle. It seemed to her +like the badge of her slavery. + +She would rather not have been a Jewess; that, too, was a kind of badge, +marking her out from other people; she wanted to be let alone, to have +her own way without other people's help or hindrance. She had no +definite consciousness of what her own way was to be; she was only +conscious, as yet, of the ways that would certainly not be hers. + +She would not think only of making money, like her mother, nor of being +thought clever, like Becky, nor of being admired because she had good +looks and dressed smartly, like Mina. All these things required an +effort, and Esther was lazy. She wanted to be admired, and to have +money, of course, and she did not want people to think her stupid; but +all this was to come to her, she knew, because of some fortunate quality +in herself, as yet undiscovered. Then she would shake off everything +that now clung to her, like a worn-out garment that one keeps only until +one can replace it. She saw herself rolling away in a carriage towards +the west; she would never come back. And it would be like a revenge on +whatever it was that kept her stifling in this mean street; she wanted +to be cruelly revenged. + +As it was, her only very keen pleasure was in going to the theatre with +her brother or her sisters; she cared nothing for the music-halls, and +preferred staying at home to going with the others when they went to the +Pavilion or the Foresters. But when there was a melodrama at the +Standard, or at the Elephant and Castle, she would wait and struggle +outside the door and up the narrow, winding stairs, for a place as near +the front of the gallery as she could get. Once inside, she would never +speak, but she would sit staring at the people on the stage as if they +hypnotised her. She never criticised the play, as the others did; the +play did not seem to matter; she lived it without will or choice, merely +because it was there and her eyes were on it. + +But after it was over and they were at home again, she would become +suddenly voluble as she discussed the merits of the acting. She had no +hesitations, was certain that she was always in the right, and became +furious if any one contradicted her. She saw each part as a whole, and +she blamed the actors for not being consistent with themselves. She +could not understand how they could make a mistake. It was so simple, +there were no two ways of doing anything. To go wrong was as if you said +no when you meant yes; it must be wilful. + +'You ought to do it yourself, Esther,' said her sisters, when they were +tired of her criticisms. They meant to be satirical, but Esther said, +seriously enough: 'Yes, I could do it; but so could that woman if she +would let herself alone. Why did she try to be something else all the +time?' + +Time went slowly with Esther; but when she was seventeen she was still +sewing at home and still waiting. Nothing had come to her of all that +she had expected. Two of her cousins, and a neighbour or two, had wanted +to marry her; but she had refused them contemptuously. To her sluggish +instinct men seemed only good for making money, or, perhaps, children; +they had not come to have any definite personal meaning for her. A +little man called Joel, who had talked to her passionately about love, +and had cried when she refused him, seemed to her an unintelligible and +ridiculous kind of animal. When she dreamed of the future, there was +never any one of that sort making fine speeches to her. + +But, gradually, her own real purpose in life had become clear. She was +to be an actress. She said nothing about it at home, but she began to +go round to the managers of the small theatres in the neighbourhood, +asking for an engagement. After a long time the manager gave her a small +part. The piece was called 'The Wages of Sin,' and she was to be the +servant who opens the door in the first act to the man who is going to +be the murderer in the second act, and then identifies him in the fourth +act. + +Esther went home quietly and said nothing until supper-time. Then she +said to her mother: 'I am going on the stage.' + +'That's very likely,' said her mother, with a sarcastic smile; 'and when +do you go on, pray?' + +'On Monday night,' said Esther. + +'You don't mean it!' said her mother. + +'Indeed I mean it,' said Esther, 'and I've got my part. I'm to be the +servant in "The Wages of Sin."' + +Her brother laughed. 'I know,' he said, 'she speaks two words twice.' + +'You are right,' said Esther; 'will you come on Monday, and hear how I +say them?' + +When Esther had made up her mind to do anything, they all knew that she +always did it. Her father talked to her seriously. Her mother said: 'You +are much too lazy, Esther; you will never get on.' They told her that +she was taking the bread out of their mouths, and it was certain she +would never put it back again. 'If I get on,' said Esther, 'I will pay +you back exactly what I would have earned, as long as you keep me. Is +that a bargain? I know I shall get on, and you won't repent of it. You +had better let me do as I want. It will pay.' + +They shook their heads, looked at Esther, who sat there with her lips +tight shut, and a queer, hard look in her eyes, which were trying not to +seem exultant; they looked at one another, shook their heads again, and +consented. The old grandmother mumbled something fiercely, but as it +sounded like bad words, and they never knew what Old Testament language +she would use, they did not ask her what she was meaning. + +On Monday Esther made her first appearance on the stage. Her mother +said to her afterwards: 'I thought nothing of you, Esther; you were just +like any ordinary servant.' Becky asked her if she had felt nervous. She +shook her head; it had seemed quite natural to her, she said. She did +not tell them that a great wave of triumph had swept over her as she +felt the heat of the gas footlights come up into her eyes, and saw the +floating cluster of white faces rising out of a solid mass of +indistinguishable darkness. In that moment she drew into her nostrils +the breath of life. + +Esther had a small part to understudy, and before long she had the +chance of playing it. The manager said nothing to her, but soon +afterwards he told her to understudy a more important part. She never +had the chance to play it, but, when the next piece was put on at the +theatre, she was given a part of her own. She began to make a little +money, and, as she had promised, she paid so much a week to her parents +for keeping her. They gained by the bargain, so they did not ask her to +come back to the stitching. Mrs. Kahn sometimes spoke of her daughter to +the neighbours with a certain languid pride; Esther was making her way. + +Esther made her way rapidly. One day the manager of a West End theatre +came down to see her; he engaged her at once to play a small but +difficult part in an ambitious kind of melodrama that he was bringing +out. She did it well, satisfied the manager, was given a better part, +did that well, too, was engaged by another manager, and, in short, began +to be looked upon as a promising actress. The papers praised her with +moderation; some of the younger critics, who admired her type, praised +her more than she deserved. She was making money; she had come to live +in rooms of her own, off the Strand; at twenty-one she had done, in a +measure, what she wanted to do; but she was not satisfied with herself. +She had always known that she could act, but how well could she act? +Would she never be able to act any better than this? She had drifted +into the life of the stage as naturally as if she had never known +anything else; she was at home, comfortable, able to do what many others +could not do. But she wanted to be a great actress. + +An old actor, a Jew, Nathan Quellen, who had taken a kind of paternal +interest in her, and who helped her with all the good advice that he had +never taken to himself, was fond of saying that the remedy was in her +own hands. + +'My dear Esther,' he would tell her, smoothing his long grey hair down +over his forehead, 'you must take a lover; you must fall in love; +there's no other way. You think you can act, and you have never felt +anything worse than a cut finger. Why, it's an absurdity! Wait till you +know the only thing worth knowing; till then you're in short frocks and +a pinafore.' + +He cited examples, he condensed the biographies of the great actresses +for her benefit. He found one lesson in them all, and he was sincere in +his reading of history as he saw it. He talked, argued, protested; the +matter seriously troubled him. He felt he was giving Esther good advice; +he wanted her to be the thing she wanted to be. Esther knew it and +thanked him, without smiling; she sat brooding over his words; she never +argued against them. She believed much of what he said; but was the +remedy, as he said, in her own hands? It did not seem so. + +As yet no man had spoken to her blood. She had the sluggish blood of a +really profound animal nature. She saw men calmly, as calmly as when +little Joel had cried because she would not marry him. Joel still came +to see her sometimes, with the same entreaty in his eyes, not daring to +speak it. Other men, very different men, had made love to her in very +different ways. They had seemed to be trying to drive a hard bargain, to +get the better of her in a matter of business; and her native cunning +had kept her easily on the better side of the bargain. She was resolved +to be a business woman in the old trade of the affections; no one should +buy or sell of her except at her own price, and she set the price vastly +high. + +Yet Quellen's words set her thinking. Was there, after all, but one way +to study for the stage? All the examples pointed to it, and, what was +worse, she felt it might be true. She saw exactly where her acting +stopped short. + +She looked around her with practical eyes, not seeming to herself to be +doing anything unusual or unlikely to succeed in its purpose. She +thought deliberately over all the men she knew; but who was there whom +it would be possible to take seriously? She could think of only one man: +Philip Haygarth. + +Philip Haygarth was a man of five-and-thirty, who had been writing plays +and having them acted, with only a moderate success, for nearly ten +years. He was one of the accepted men, a man whose plays were treated +respectfully, and he had the reputation of being much cleverer than his +plays. He was short, dark, neat, very worldly-looking, with thin lips +and reflective, not quite honest eyes. His manner was cold, restrained, +with a mingling of insolence and diffidence. He was a hard worker and a +somewhat deliberately hard liver. He avoided society and preferred to +find his relaxation among people with whom one did not need to keep up +appearances, or talk sentiment, or pay afternoon calls. He admired +Esther Kahn as an actress, though with many reservations; and he admired +her as a woman, more than he had ever admired anybody else. She appealed +to all his tastes; she ended by absorbing almost the whole of those +interests and those hours which he set apart, in his carefully arranged +life, for such matters. + +He made love to Esther much more skilfully than any of her other lovers, +and, though she saw through his plans as clearly as he wished her to see +through them, she was grateful to him for a certain finesse in his +manner of approach. He never mentioned the word 'love,' except to jest +at it; he concealed even the extent to which he was really disturbed by +her presence; his words spoke only of friendship and of general topics. +And yet there could never be any doubt as to his meaning; his whole +attitude was a patient waiting. He interested her; frankly, he +interested her: here, then, was the man for her purpose. With his +admirable tact, he spared her the least difficulty in making her +meaning clear. He congratulated himself on a prize; she congratulated +herself on the accomplishment of a duty. + +Days and weeks passed, and Esther scrutinised herself with a distinct +sense of disappointment. She had no moral feeling in the matter; she was +her own property, it had always seemed to her, free to dispose of as she +pleased. The business element in her nature persisted. This bargain, +this infinitely important bargain, had been concluded, with open eyes, +with a full sense of responsibility, for a purpose, the purpose for +which she lived. What was the result? + +She could see no result. The world had in no sense changed for her, as +she had been supposing it would change; a new excitement had come into +her life, and that was all. She wondered what it was that a woman was +expected to feel under the circumstances, and why she had not felt it. +How different had been her feeling when she walked across the stage for +the first time! That had really been a new life, or the very beginning +of life. But this was no more than a delightful episode, hardly to be +disentangled from the visit to Paris which had accompanied it. She had, +so to speak, fallen into a new habit, which was so agreeable, and seemed +so natural, that she could not understand why she had not fallen into it +before; it was a habit she would certainly persist in, for its own sake. +The world remained just the same. + +And her art: she had learned nothing. No new thrill came into the words +she spoke; her eyes, as they looked across the footlights, remembered +nothing, had nothing new to tell. + +And so she turned, with all the more interest, an interest almost +impersonal, to Philip Haygarth when he talked to her about acting and +the drama, when he elaborated his theories which, she was aware, +occupied him more than she occupied him. He was one of those creative +critics who can do every man's work but their own. When he sat down to +write his own plays, something dry and hard came into the words, the +life ebbed out of those imaginary people who had been so real to him, +whom he had made so real to others as he talked. He constructed +admirably and was an unerring judge of the construction of plays. And he +had a sense of acting which was like the sense that a fine actor might +have, if he could be himself and also some one looking on at himself. He +not only knew what should be done, but exactly why it should be done. +Little suspecting that he had been chosen for the purpose, though in so +different a manner, he set himself to teach her art to Esther. + +He made her go through the great parts with him; she was Juliet, Lady +Macbeth, Cleopatra; he taught her how to speak verse and how to feel the +accent of speech in verse, another kind of speech than prose speech; he +trained her voice to take hold of the harmonies that lie in words +themselves; and she caught them, by ear, as one born to speak many +languages catches a foreign language. She went through Ibsen as she had +gone through Shakespeare; and Haygarth showed her how to take hold of +this very different subject-matter, so definite and so elusive. And +they studied good acting-plays together, worthless plays that gave the +actress opportunities to create something out of nothing. Together they +saw Duse and Sarah Bernhardt; and they had seen Réjane in Paris, in +crudely tragic parts; and they studied the English stage, to find out +why it maintained itself at so stiff a distance from nature. She went on +acting all the time, always acting with more certainty; and at last she +attempted more serious parts, which she learned with Haygarth at her +elbow. + +She had to be taught her part as a child is taught its lesson; word by +word, intonation by intonation. She read it over, not really knowing +what it was about; she learned it by heart mechanically, getting the +words into her memory first. Then the meaning had to be explained to +her, scene by scene, and she had to say the words over until she had +found the right accent. Once found, she never forgot it; she could +repeat it identically at any moment; there were no variations to allow +for. Until that moment she was reaching out blindly in the dark, feeling +about her with uncertain fingers. + +And, with her, the understanding came with the power of expression, +sometimes seeming really to proceed from the sound to the sense, from +the gesture inward. Show her how it should be done, and she knew why it +should be done; sound the right note in her ears, arrest her at the +moment when the note came right, and she understood, by a backward +process, why the note should sound thus. Her mind worked, but it worked +under suggestion, as the hypnotists say; the idea had to come to her +through the instinct, or it would never come. + +As Esther found herself, almost unconsciously, becoming what she had +dreamed of becoming, what she had longed to become, and, after all, +through Philip Haygarth, a more personal feeling began to grow up in her +heart toward this lover who had found his way to her, not through the +senses, but through the mind. A kind of domesticity had crept into their +relations, and this drew Esther nearer to him. She began to feel that he +belonged to her. He had never, she knew, been wholly absorbed in her, +and she had delighted him by showing no jealousy, no anxiety to keep +him. As long as she remained so, he felt that she had a sure hold on +him. But now she began to change, to concern herself more with his +doings, to assert her right to him, as she had never hitherto cared to +do. He chafed a little at what seemed an unnecessary devotion. + +Love, with Esther, had come slowly, taking his time on the journey; but +he came to take possession. To work at her art was to please Philip +Haygarth; she worked now with a double purpose. And she made surprising +advances as an actress. People began to speculate: had she genius, or +was this only an astonishingly developed talent, which could go so far +and no farther? + +For, in this finished method, which seemed so spontaneous and yet at the +same time so deliberate, there seemed still to be something, some +slight, essential thing, almost unaccountably lacking. What was it? Was +it a fundamental lack, that could never be supplied? Or would that +slight, essential thing, as her admirers prophesied, one day be +supplied? They waited. + +Esther was now really happy, for the first time in her life; and as she +looked back over those years, in the street by the Docks, when she had +lived alone in the midst of her family, and since then, when she had +lived alone, working, not finding the time long, nor wishing it to go +more slowly, she felt a kind of surprise at herself. How could she have +gone through it all? She had not even been bored. She had had a purpose, +and now that she was achieving that purpose, the thing itself seemed +hardly to matter. Her art kept pace with her life; she was giving up +nothing in return for happiness; but she had come to prize the +happiness, her love, beyond all things. + +She knew that Haygarth was proud of her, that he looked upon her talent, +genius, whatever it was, as partly the work of his hands. It pleased her +that this should be so; it seemed to bind him to her more tightly. + +In this she was mistaken, as most women are mistaken when they ask +themselves what it is in them that holds their lovers. The actress +interested Haygarth greatly, but the actress interested him as a +problem, as something quite apart from his feelings as a man, as a +lover. He had been attracted by the woman, by what was sombre and +unexplained in her eyes, by the sleepy grace of her movements, by the +magnetism that seemed to drowse in her. He had made love to her +precisely as he would have made love to an ignorant, beautiful creature +who walked on in some corner of a Drury Lane melodrama. On principle, he +did not like clever women. Esther, it is true, was not clever, in the +ordinary, tiresome sense; and her startling intuitions, in matters of +acting, had not repelled him, as an exhibition of the capabilities of a +woman, while they preoccupied him for a long time in that part of his +brain which worked critically upon any interesting material. But nothing +that she could do as an artist made the least difference to his feeling +about her as a woman; his pride in her was like his pride in a play +that he had written finely, and put aside; to be glanced at from time to +time, with cool satisfaction. He had his own very deliberate theory of +values, and one value was never allowed to interfere with another. A +devoted, discreet amateur of woman, he appreciated women really for +their own sakes, with an unflattering simplicity. And for a time Esther +absorbed him almost wholly. + +He had been quite content with their relations as they were before she +fell seriously in love with him, and this new, profound feeling, which +he had never even dreaded, somewhat disturbed him. She was adopting +almost the attitude of a wife, and he had no ambition to play the part +of a husband. The affections were always rather a strain upon him; he +liked something a little less serious and a little more exciting. + +Esther understood nothing that was going on in Philip Haygarth's mind, +and when he began to seem colder to her, when she saw less of him, and +then less, it seemed to her that she could still appeal to him by her +art and still touch him by her devotion. As her warmth seemed more and +more to threaten his liberty, the impulse to tug at his chain became +harder to resist. His continued, unvarying interest in her acting, his +patience in helping her, in working with her, kept her for some time +from realising how little was left now of the more personal feeling. It +was with sharp surprise, as well as with a blinding rage, that she +discovered one day, beyond possibility of mistake, that she had a rival, +and that Haygarth was only doling out to her the time left over from her +rival. + +It was an Italian, a young girl who had come over to London with an +organ-grinder, and who posed for sculptors, when she could get a +sitting. It was a girl who could barely read and write, an insignificant +creature, a peasant from the Campagna, who had nothing but her good +looks and the distinction of her attitudes. Esther was beside herself +with rage, jealousy, mortification; she loved, and she could not pardon. +There was a scene of unmeasured violence. Haygarth was cruel, almost +with intention; and they parted, Esther feeling as if her life had been +broken sharply in two. + +She was at the last rehearsals of a new play by Haygarth, a play in +which he had tried for once to be tragic in the bare, straightforward +way of the things that really happen. She went through the rehearsals +absent-mindedly, repeating her words, which he had taught her how to +say, but scarcely attending to their meaning. Another thought was at +work behind this mechanical speech, a continual throb of remembrance, +going on monotonously. Her mind was full of other words, which she heard +as if an inner voice were repeating them; her mind made up pictures, +which seemed to pass slowly before her eyes: Haygarth and the other +woman. At the last rehearsal Quellen came round to her, and, ironically +as she thought, complimented her on her performance. She meant, when the +night came, not to fail: that was all. + +When the night came, she said to herself that she was calm, that she +would be able to concentrate herself on her acting and act just as +usual. But, as she stood in the wings, waiting for her moment to +appear, her eyes went straight to the eyes of the other woman, the +Italian model, the organ-grinder's girl, who sat, smiling contentedly, +in the front of a box, turning her head sometimes to speak to some one +behind her, hidden by the curtain. She was dressed in black, with a rose +in her hair: you could have taken her for a lady; she was triumphantly +beautiful. Esther shuddered as if she had been struck; the blood rushed +into her forehead and swelled and beat against her eyes. Then, with an +immense effort, she cleared her mind of everything but the task before +her. Every nerve in her body lived with a separate life as she opened +the door at the back of the stage, and stood, waiting for the applause +to subside, motionless under the eyes of the audience. There was +something in the manner of her entrance that seemed to strike the fatal +note of the play. She had never been more restrained, more effortless; +she seemed scarcely to be acting; only, a magnetic current seemed to +have been set in motion between her and those who were watching her. +They held their breaths, as if they were assisting at a real tragedy; as +if, at any moment, this acting might give place to some horrible, naked +passion of mere nature. The curtain rose and rose again at the end of +the first act; and she stood there, bowing gravely, in what seemed a +deliberate continuation, into that interval, of the sentiment of the +piece. Her dresses were taken off her and put on her, for each act, as +if she had been a lay-figure. Once, in the second act, she looked up at +the box; the Italian woman was smiling emptily, but Haygarth, taking no +notice of her, was leaning forward with his eyes fixed on the stage. +After the third act he sent to Esther's dressing-room a fervent note, +begging to be allowed to see her. She had made his play, he said, and +she had made herself a great actress. She crumpled the note fiercely, +put it carefully into her jewel-box, and refused to see him. In the last +act she had to die, after the manner of the Lady of the Camellias, +waiting for the lover who, in this case, never came. The pathos of her +acting was almost unbearable, and, still, it seemed not like acting at +all. The curtain went down on a great actress. + +Esther went home stunned, only partly realising what she had done, or +how she had done it. She read over the note from Haygarth, +unforgivingly; and the long letter that came from him in the morning. As +reflection returned, through all the confused suffering and excitement, +to her deliberate, automatic nature, in which a great shock had brought +about a kind of release, she realised that all she had wanted, during +most of her life, had at last come about. The note had been struck, she +had responded to it, as she responded to every suggestion, faultlessly; +she knew that she could repeat the note, whenever she wished, now that +she had once found it. There would be no variation to allow for, the +actress was made at last. She might take back her lover, or never see +him again, it would make no difference. It would make no difference, she +repeated, over and over again, weeping uncontrollable tears. + + + + + CHRISTIAN TREVALGA. + + +He had never known what it was to feel the earth solid under his feet. +And now, while he waited for the doctor who was to decide whether he +might still keep his place in the world, and make what he could of all +that remained to him of his life, the past began to come back to him, +blurred a little in his memory, and with whole spaces blotted out of it, +but in a steady return upon himself, as the past, it is said, comes back +to a drowning man at the instant before death. There was that next step +to take, the step that frightened him; was it into another, more +painful, kind of oblivion? He was still an artist, his fingers were +still his own; but had the man all gone out of him, the power to live +for himself, when his fingers were no longer on the keyboard? That was +to be decided; and the past was trying to make its own comment on the +situation. + +Christian Trevalga was born in a little sea-coast village in Cornwall, +and the earliest thing he remembered was the sharp, creaking voice of +the sea-gulls, as they swept past him at the edge of the cliff, high up +over the sea. He was conscious of it, because it hurt him, sooner than +he was conscious of the many voices of the sea, which, all through his +childhood, sang out of the midst of all his dreams. Pain always meant +more to him than pleasure, though, indeed, he was not always sure if the +things that hurt him were not the things he cared for most. + +He was thirty-six now, and he had never gone back to the village since +he left it, at the age of sixteen, to come to London and try to win a +scholarship at the College. His father was a gentleman, who had come +down in the world; drink, gambling, and a low kind of debauchery brought +him down; and when he came back from Spain in a certain year, sobered, +something of a wreck, and married to a slow-witted Spanish woman whom he +had found no one knew where, he had only an old-fashioned, untidy, but +large and rambling, house on a cliff to live in, on the outskirts of a +village, most of which had once belonged to him. Debts and mortgages +left just enough to live on uncomfortably; he was not exacting now, and +the place was good for an idle, helpless man, who was tired of what he +called living, and had taken a late fancy to the open air, and, as soon +as the child was old enough, to the companionship of his child. His wife +sat indoors all day, crouching over the fire, except when the summer +heat was extreme, and then she lay on the grass, under an umbrella. When +they sat at table her fingers were always crumbling the bread into tiny +crumbs, and often, at tea-time especially, she would take a large slice +of bread and mould it into little figures, little nude figures +exquisitely proportioned, with all the modelling of the limbs and +shoulder-blades. Sometimes she would do more than a single figure, a +little well, for instance, and a woman kneeling at the brink, and +leaning over it, with her arms outstretched. She loved the little +figures, and talked about them very seriously, criticising their +defects, not content with the lines that she had got, seeing them with +subtler curves than any she had been able to get. She would like to have +kept some of them, but, though she soaked them in milk, they would +always crumble away as soon as the bread dried. Christian stared at her +when her fingers were busy; he was puzzled, not exactly happy; he +generally ran away and left her for his father, who was not so queer, +half-absorbed, and busy about nothing. + +His father had a great fondness for music, but he could not play any +instrument, only whistle. He whistled elaborate tunes, with really a +kind of skill. There was a good old Broadwood piano in the house, and, +from as long ago as he could remember, Christian had been put on the +music-stool, and told to play what his father whistled. The first time +he was put there he picked out every note correctly, with one finger. +The father caught him up in his exuberant way: 'You will be a great +musician, my boy!' he said. The mother nodded over the fire, and looked +down at her tiny fingers, which could pick out form as the child, it +seemed, could pick out sound. + +Christian lived at the piano, playing all the music that he could find +in the house, and making up a strange, formless music of his own when +there was nothing else to play. His ear, from the first, was faultless; +if a poker fell in the fireplace he could tell you the pitch of the note +which it sounded. He was always listening, and sounds, with him, often +became visible, or at least reflected themselves upon his brain in +contours and patterns. The wind at night, when it flapped at the windows +with the sound of a sail flapping, seemed to surround the house with +realisable forms of sound. The music which he played on the piano made +lines, whenever he thought of it; never pictures. His mother, who did +not seem to herself to know or care anything about music, sometimes +described a little scene which the music he had been playing called up +to her, but he could never see things in that way. When he played the +first ballad of Chopin, for instance, she saw two lovers, sheltering +under trees in a wood, out of the rain which was falling around them, +and she followed their emotions, as the music interpreted them to her. +But he did not understand music like that; what was mathematical in it +he saw as pattern, but the emotion came to him in an almost equally +abstract way, as musical emotion, beginning and ending in the music +itself, and not needing to have any of one's own feelings put into it. +It was the music itself that cried and wept, and tore one; the passions +of abstract sound. + +For, he knew from the beginning, the soul of music is something more +than the soul of humanity expressing itself in melody, and the life of +music something more than an audible dramatisation of human life. +Beethoven, let us say, is angry with the world, Schumann dreams about +the roots of a flower; and they sit down to make music under that +impulse. Well, the anger will be there, and the flower coming up out of +the earth, but the music itself will have forgotten both the dream and +the feeling, the moment it begins to speak articulately in sound. It +will have its own message, as well as its own language, and you will not +be able to write down that message in words, any more than your words +can be translated into that language. + +And so Christian, with his divination of what music really means, was +never able to attach any expressible meaning to the pieces he played, +and became tongue-tied if any one asked him questions about them. The +emotion of the music, the idea, the feeling there, that was what moved +him; and his own personal feelings, apart from some form of music which +might translate them into a region where he could recognise them with +interest, came to mean less and less to him, until he seemed hardly to +have any personal feelings at all. It was natural to him to be kind, +people liked him and often imagined that he responded to their liking; +but, at many periods of his life, accused him of gross unkindness, or +even treachery, and he had not been conscious of the affection or of its +betrayal. + +And outward things, too, as well as people, meant very little to him, +and meant less and less as time went on. What he saw, when he went for +long walks with his father, had vanished from his memory before he had +returned to the house; it was as if he had been walking through +underground passages, with only a little faint light on the roadway in +front of his feet. He knew all the sea-cries, but never seemed to notice +the movement, the colour, of the sea; the sunsets over the sea left him +indifferent; he looked, with the others, but said nothing, and seemed to +see nothing. + +When he had decided that he was going to be a great pianist, and this +was when he was about ten, he had settled down to the hard work which +that meant, with an enthusiasm so profound and tenacious that it looked +like stolidity. They gave him a room at the top of the house, where he +could practise without disturbing anybody, and he shut himself in there, +until he was dragged out unwillingly to his meals, grudging the time +when he had to sit quiet at the table. 'What are you always thinking +about?' they would ask him, as he frowned silently over his food; but +he was thinking about nothing, he wanted to get back to the bar in the +middle of which he had been interrupted. The cadence seemed to hang in +space, swinging like a spider, and unable to catch the cornice on the +other wall. + +He was sixteen when he went up to London for the first time, and it had +been arranged that he should take lodgings in Bloomsbury, and try to +hear some of the great pianists, and, if possible, get some help +privately, before he tried for the scholarship. He got a bedroom at the +top of a house in Coptic Street, and hired a piano, which took up most +of the space left over by the bed; and he began to go to the shilling +seats at concerts, especially when there was any piano music to be +heard. Just then several of the most famous pianists were in London; he +went to hear them, at first with a horrible apprehension, and then more +boldly, as he saw what could be learned from them, and yet seemed to +fancy that they, too, might have found something to learn from him. He +heard their thunders, and laughed: that was not his idea of the +instrument, a thing, in their hands, that could overtop an orchestra +playing fortissimo. He saw these athletes fight with the poor instrument +as if they fought with a dangerous wild beast. Some used it as an anvil +to hammer sparks out of it; the chords rang and rebounded as if iron had +struck iron; it was the new art of attack, and piano-makers were +strengthening their defences daily. Some displayed an incredible +agility, and invented all sorts of ugly difficulties, in order to +overcome them; they reminded him of the dancing girls he had read of, +who used, at Roman feasts, to leap head-foremost into the midst of a +circle of sword-blades, and dance there on their hands, and leap out +again. He knew that he could not do any of these things, as he heard +them done; but was that really the way to treat music, or the way to +treat the piano? + + * * * * * + +Christian Trevalga remembered all this as he sat waiting for the doctor +in his rooms in Piccadilly; and it came to him like the first act of a +play which he was still watching, without knowing how the curtain was to +come down. That year in London, the loneliness, poverty, labour of it; +the great day of the competition, when he played behind the curtain, and +Rubinstein, sitting among the professors, silenced every hesitation with +his strong approval; the three years of hard daily work, the painful +perfecting of everything that he had sketched out for himself; life, as +he had lived it, a queer, silent, sullen, not unattractive boy, among +the students in whom he took so little interest; all this passed before +him in a single flash of memory. He had gone abroad, at the expense of +the college; had travelled in Germany and Austria; had extorted the +admiration of Brahms, who had said, 'I hate what you play, and I hate +how you play it, but you play the piano!' Tschaikowsky was in Vienna; he +had taken a warm personal liking to the unresponsive young Englishman, +who seemed to be always frowning, and looking at you distrustfully from +under his dark, overhanging eyebrows. It was not to the musician that he +was unresponsive, as he was to the musician in Brahms, the German doctor +of music in spectacles, that peered out of those learned, intellectual +scores. He felt Tschaikowsky with his nerves, all that suffering music +without silences, never still and happy, like most other music, at all +events sometimes. But the man, when he walked arm in arm with him, +seemed excessive, a kind of uneasy responsibility. + +Then he had come back to London, lived and worked there, given concerts, +made his fame in the world, seen himself triumph, watching his own +career with an absolute certainty of being able to do what he wanted. +And all the time he had been, as he was that day at the college when he +won the scholarship, playing behind a curtain. He knew that on the other +side of the curtain was the world, with many things to do besides +listening to him, though he could arrest it when he liked, and make it +listen; then it went on its way again, and the other things continued to +occupy it. Well, for him, where were those other things? They hardly +existed. The great men who had given him their friendship, all the +people who came to him because they admired him, those who came to him +because his playing seemed to speak to them from somewhere inside their +own hearts, in the little voices of their blood, the women who, as it +seemed, loved him: why was it that he could not be as they were, respond +to them in their own language, which was that of humanity itself, +admire, like, love them back? + +He had tried to find himself, to become real, by falling in love. Women +had not found it difficult to fall in love with him; his reticence, his +enigmatical reluctance to speak out, the sympathetic sullenness of his +face, a certain painful sensibility which shot like distressed nerves +across his cheeks and forehead and tugged at the restless corners of his +eyelids, seemed to attract them as to something which they could perhaps +find out, and then soothe, and put to rest. He had no morals, and was +too indifferent to refuse much that was offered to him. When it was a +simple adventure of the flesh, he accepted it simply, and, without +knowing it, won the reputation of being both sensual and hard-hearted, a +sort of coldly passionate creature, that promised everything in the +sincerity of one moment, and broke every promise in the sincerity of the +next. He did not go out of his way to find a woman who did not seem to +suggest herself to him; and when he mistook what was, perhaps, real love +for something else, all he wanted, he was genuinely sorry, and, at least +once, almost fancied that he was going to answer in key at last. + +He had met Rana Vaughan at the college, where she was trying, +impossibly, to learn the piano. She had the artist's soul, and long, +white fingers, which seemed eager to touch the ivory and ebony of the +instrument; only, the soul and the fingers never could agree among +themselves, there was some stoppage of the electric current between +them. The piano never responded to her, but she knew, better than all +the professors, how it should respond; and Trevalga's playing was the +only playing she had ever liked. She adored him because he could do what +she wanted, above all things, to do; and it was with almost a vicarious +ecstasy that she listened to him. She admired, pitied, wanted to help +him; exulted in him, became his comrade, perhaps (he wondered?) loved +him, or would have loved him if he would have let her. He, who could +talk to no one else, could talk to her; and she brought him a warmth and +reality of life which he had never known. In her, for a time, he seemed +to touch real things; and, for a time, the experience quickened him. + +She cared intensely for the one thing he cared for, and not less +intensely (and here was the wonder to him) for all the other things that +existed outside his interests. For her, life was everything, and +everything was a part of life. She would have given everything she had +to become a great player; but, if you found your way down to the root of +things, her feeling for music was neither more nor less than her feeling +for every form of art, and her feeling for art, which was unerring, was +the same thing as her feeling for skating or dancing. She got as much +pleasure from bending a supple binding in her hand as from reading the +poems inside it. She made no selections in life, beyond picking out all +the beautiful and pleasant things, whatever they might be. Trevalga +studied her with amazement; he felt withered, shrivelled up, in body and +soul, beside her magnificent acceptance of the world; she vitalised him, +drew him away from himself; and he feared her. He feared women. + +To live with a woman, thought Christian, in the same house, the same +room with her, is as if the keeper were condemned to live by day and +sleep by night in the wild beast's cage. It is to be on one's guard at +every minute, to apprehend always the claws behind the caressing +softness of their padded coverings, to be continually ready to amuse +one's dangerous slave, with one's life for the forfeit. The strain of +it, the trial to the nerves, the temper! it was not to be thought of +calmly. He looked around him, and saw all the other keepers of these +ferocious, uncertain creatures, wearing out their lives in the exciting +companionship; and a dread of women took the place of his luxurious +indifference, as he imagined himself actually playing the part, too. + +It would be, he saw, a conflict of egoisms, and he could not afford to +risk his own. Woman, as he saw her, is the beast of prey: rapacious of +affection, time, money, all the flesh and all the soul, one's nerves, +one's attention, pleasure, duty, art itself! She is the rival of the +idea, and she never pardons. She requires the sacrifice of the whole +man; nothing less will satisfy her; and, to love a woman is, for an +artist, to change one's religion. + +Christian had tried honestly to explain himself to Rana, but the girl +would not understand him. She cared for his art as much as he did; she +would never come between him and his art; she would hate him if he +preferred her to his art. She said all that, sincerely; but he shook his +head obstinately, a little sadly, knowing that for him possible things +were impossible. The mere presence of any one he cared for, all the more +if he cared for her a great deal, disturbed him, upset his life. And he +must keep his life intact while he might. + +After all, he considered, what was he? Caged already, for another kind +of slavery, the prisoner of his own fingers, as they worked, +independently of himself, mechanically, doing their so many miles of +promenade a day over the piano. He was such another as the equilibrist +whirling around his fixed bar, or swinging from trapeze to trapeze in +the air; a specialist in a particular kind of muscular movement, which +in him communicated itself to the mechanism of an instrument of sound. +For ever on the trapeze of sound, his life, the life of his reputation, +risked whenever he went through his performance before the public; yes, +he was only a kind of acrobat, doing tricks with his fingers. + +As he looked fairly at all his imprisonments, dreading the worst, the no +longer solitary imprisonment, he realised that he had no outlook, that +he would never be able to look through the bars. 'I have only felt,' he +said to himself, 'I have never thought, and I have felt only one thing +very acutely, music.' He was almost frightened as he saw, in a flash, +within that narrow limits this one interest, this exercise of one +instinct, caged him. Other men were curious about many things; the +world existed for them, not only as substance, but as a matter for +thought; there were all the destinies of nations and of mankind to think +about, and he had never thought about them. He wondered what people +meant when they spoke about general interests. Were they a kind of +safety valve, for the lack of which he was bound, sooner or later, to +come to grief? + +Occupied more and more nervously with himself, shutting himself up for +days and nights, almost without food, in an agony of attack on some +difficulty hardly tangible enough to be put into words, he let Rana +Vaughan drift away from him, with an unavowed sense of failure, of +having lost something which he could not bring himself to take, and +which might yet have saved him. She parted from him, at the last, +angrily, her pity worn out, her admiration stained with contempt. He +remembered the look of her face, flushed, indignant, as, withdrawn now +wholly into herself, she said good-bye for the last time. With her went +his last hold on the world. + +Gradually sound began to take hold of him, like a slave who has overcome +his master. The sensation of sound presented itself to him continually, +not in the form of memory, nor as the suggestion of a composition, but +in a disquieting way, like some invisible companion, always at one's +side, whispering into one's ears. He was not always able to distinguish +between what he actually heard, a noise in the street, for instance, +which came to him for the most part with the suggestion of a cadence, +which his ear completed as if it had been the first note of a well-known +tune, and what he seemed to hear, through noise or silence, in some +region outside reality. 'So long as I can distinguish,' he said to +himself, 'between the one and the other, I am safe; the danger will be +when they become indistinguishable.' + +He had realised a certain danger, always. He felt that he was a piece of +mechanism which was not absolutely to be trusted. There had been +something wrong from the beginning; the works did not wear evenly; one +part or another was bound to use itself up before its time; and then, +well, not even a shock would be needed to set everything out of order: +it was only a question of time. + +He began to watch himself more closely, to watch for the enemy; and now +a kind of expectant uneasiness came of itself to suggest otherwise +imperceptible pains and troubles of sound. He was always listening, with +a frequent precipitation of pulses, to nothing, to something about to +come, to the fancy of music. The days dragged, and yet some feverish +idea seemed always to be hurrying him along; he was restless whenever +his fingers were not on the keys of the piano. + +One day, at a concert, while he was playing one of Chopin's studies, +something in the curve of the music, which he had always seen as a wavy +line, going on indefinitely in space, spreading itself out elastically, +but without ever forming a pattern, seemed to become almost externally +visible, just above the level of the strings on the open top of the +piano. It was like grey smoke, forming and unforming as if it boiled up +softly out of the pit where the wires were coiled up. It was so distinct +that he shut his eyes for a moment, to see if it would be there when he +opened them again. It was still there, getting darker in colour, and +more distinct. He looked out of the corner of his eyes, to see if the +people sitting near him had noticed anything; but the people sitting +near him had their eyes fixed on his fingers, from which he seemed, as +usual, to be quite detached; they evidently saw nothing. He smiled to +himself, half apologetically; the piece had come to an end, and he was +bowing to the applause; he walked boldly off the platform. + +When he came back to play again, he looked nervously at the top of the +piano, but there was nothing to be seen. He sat down, and bent over the +keyboard, and his hands began to run to and fro softly. When he looked +up he saw what he was playing as clearly as he could have seen the notes +if they had been there: but the wavy line was upright now, and drifted +upwards swiftly, vanishing at a certain point; it swayed to and fro like +a snake beating time to the music of the snake-charmer; and he looked at +it as if it understood him, and nodded his head to it, to show that he +understood. By this time it seemed to him quite natural, and he forgot +that there had ever been a time when he had not seen the music like +that. + +On his way home after the concert, it occurred to him that something +unusual had happened, but he could not remember what it was. He dined by +himself, and after dinner went out into the streets, and walked in the +midst of people, as he liked to do, that he might take hold of something +real. But he could not concentrate his mind, he seemed somehow to be +slipping away from himself, dissolving into an uneasy vacancy. The +people did not seem, very real that night: he stopped for a long time at +the corner of the pavement, near Piccadilly Circus, and tried to see +what was going on around him. It was quite useless. The confusing +lights, the crush and hurry of figures wrapped in dark clothes, the +noise of the horses' hoofs striking the stones, the shouts of +omnibus-conductors and newsboys, all the surge and struggle of horrible +exterior forces, seeming to be tightened up into an inextricable +disorder, but pushing out with a hundred arms this way and that, making +some sort of headway against the opposition of things, brought over him +a complete bewilderment. 'I can see no reason,' he said to himself, 'why +I am here rather than there, why these atoms which know one another so +little, or have lost some recognition of themselves, should coalesce in +this particular body, standing still where all is in movement.' He +looked at the horses pulled back roughly at a cross-current, and tossing +back their heads as the hind-legs grew convulsively rigid, and he felt +sorry for them, and wondered why the driver was driving them and why +they were not driving the driver. Some one ran violently against him, +and apologised. The shock did nothing to wake him up; he noticed it, +waited for the effect, and was surprised that no effect came. +'Decidedly,' he said to himself, 'I am losing my sense of material +things, for, slight as it always has been, I have always resented being +pushed into the mud.' + +He went home, and opened the piano; but he was afraid of it, and shut it +up, and went to bed. He slept well, but he dreamed that he was on the +island of Portland, among the convicts; there was a woman with him, who +seemed to be Rana, and they had tea at a farm, high up among trees; and +then he went away and forgot her, and found himself in a lonely place +where there were a number of cucumber-frames on the ground, and several +convicts were laid out asleep in each, half-naked, and packed together +head to heel. Then he remembered the woman, and went back to the farm +where he had left her; but she was no longer there, she had gone to look +for him, and he thought she must have lost her way among the convicts. +He was greatly distressed, but he found he was walking with her along +Piccadilly, and she told him that she had been waiting for him a long +time in an omnibus which had stopped at the corner of the Circus. + +When he awoke in the morning he was relieved to find that his brain +seemed to have become quite clear, surprisingly clear, as if the fog +that had been gathering about him had lifted; and he sat at the piano +playing for many hours, and when he had finished playing he heard still +more ravishing sounds in the air, a music which was like what Chopin +might have written in Paradise. Tears of delight came into his eyes; he +sat listening in an ecstasy. Now everything had come right; all the +trouble and confusion had gone out of the sounds; they no longer teased +him with their muttering, coming and going elusively; they were all +about him, they flooded the air, they were like pure joy, speaking at +last its own language. + +And for days after that he went about with a strange, secret smile on +his face, more than reconciled to his new companion, enamoured of him; +and at last he could keep the secret no longer, but had to tell every +one he met of this miracle that now went with him wherever he went. When +he stopped listening, and played the music that he had known before this +new music spoke to him, he seemed to play better than he had ever played +before. Only, when he had stopped playing, he sank back sleepily into +his ecstatic oblivion, not distinguishing between those he talked with +in his dream (the Chopin out of Paradise) and the few remaining friends, +who now came about him pityingly, and tried to do what they could for +him. Their coming awakened him a little; he awoke enough to realise that +they thought him mad; and it was with a very lucid fear that he waited +now for the doctor who was to decide finally whether he might still keep +his place in the world. + + * * * * * + +Five years later, when Christian Trevalga died in the asylum at ----, +some loose scraps of paper were found, on which he had jotted down a few +disconnected thoughts about music. They are, perhaps, worth giving, for +they are more explicit than he ever cared, or was able, to be when he +was quite sane; and, fragmentary as they are, may help to complete one's +picture of the man. + +'It has been revealed to me that there is but one art, but many +languages through which men speak it. When the angels talk among +themselves, their speech is art; for they do not talk as men do, to +discuss matters or to relate facts, but to express either love or +wisdom. It is partly the beauty of their voices which causes whatever +they say to assume a form of beauty. Music comes nearer than any other +of the human languages to the sound of these angelic voices. But +painting is also a language, and sculpture, and poetry; only these have +more of the atmosphere of the earth about them, and are not so clear. I +have heard pictures which spoke to me melodiously, and I have listened +to the faultless rhythm of statues; but it was as an Englishman who +knows French and Italian quite well follows a conversation in those +languages. He has to substitute one sound for another in his mind. + + * * * * * + +'When I am playing the piano I am always afraid of hurting a sound. I +believe that sounds are living beings, flying about us like motes in the +air, and that they suffer if we clutch them roughly. Have you ever tried +to catch a butterfly without brushing the dust off its wings? Every time +I press a note I feel as if I were doing that, and it is an agony to +me. I am certain that I have hurt fewer sounds than any other pianist. + + * * * * * + +'Chopin's music screams under its breath, like a patient they are +operating upon in the hospital. There are flowers on the pillow, great +sickly pungent flowers, and he draws in their perfume with the same +breath that is jarred down below by the scraping sound of the little +saw. + + * * * * * + +'Chopin always treats the piano like a gentleman. He never gives it a +note that it cannot sing, he is always scrupulous towards its whims, he +indulges it like a spoilt child. Schumann comes back cloudily out of a +dream, and sets down the notes as he heard them, upon paper; then he +leaves the piano to make the best of it. + + * * * * * + +'Most modern music is a beggar for pity. The musician tries to show us +how he has suffered, and how hopeless he is. He sets his toothache and +his heartache to music, putting those sufferings into the music, +without remembering that sounds have their own agonies, which alone they +can express in a perfect manner. He forgets also that joy is the natural +speech of music, and that when he comes to sound for the expression of +his joy he is asking it to sing out of its own heart. + + * * * * * + +'I remember I once heard a Siamese band playing on board the yacht of +the King of Siam. It played its own music, of which I could make +nothing; and also passages from our operas. How can the same ears hear +in two different ways? And how far behind these Eastern musicians are +we, who cannot even understand their music when it is played to us! Some +day some one will dig down to the roots, and turn up music as it is +before it is tamed to the scale. + + * * * * * + +'It is strange, I never used to think about music: I accepted it by an +act of faith; I was too near it to look all round it. But lately, I do +not know why, I have been forced to think out many of the things which +I used to know without thinking. It all comes to the same thing in the +end; one form or another of knowledge; and does it matter if I can +explain it to you or not?' + + + + + THE CHILDHOOD OF LUCY NEWCOME. + + +The house which Lucy Newcome remembered as her home, the only home she +ever had, was a small house, hardly more than a cottage, with a little, +neat garden in front of it, and a large, untidy garden at the back. +There was a low wooden palisade cutting it off from the road, which, in +that remote suburb of the great town, had almost the appearance of a +road in the country. The house had two windows, one on each side of the +door, and above that three more windows, and attics above that. The +windows on each side of the door were the windows of the two +sitting-rooms; the kitchen, with its stone floor, its shining rows of +brass things around the walls, its great dresser, was at the back. It +was through the kitchen that you found your way into the big garden, +where the grass was always long and weedy and ill-kept, and so all the +pleasanter for lying on; and where there were a few alder-trees, a +pear-tree on which the pears never seemed to thrive, for it was quite +close to Lucy's bedroom window, a flower-bed along the wall, and a +great, old sundial, which Lucy used to ponder over when the shadows came +and stretched out their long fingers across it. The garden, when she +thinks of it now, comes to her often as she saw it one warm Sunday +evening, walking to and fro there beside her mother, who was saying how +good it was to be well again, or better: this was not long before she +died; and Lucy had said to herself, What a dear little mother I have, +and how young, and small, and pretty she looks in that lilac bodice with +the bright belt round the waist! Lucy had been as tall as her mother +when she was ten, and at twelve she could look down on her quite +protectingly. + +Her father she but rarely saw; but it was her father whom she +worshipped, whom she was taught to worship. The whole house, she, her +mother, and Linda, the servant, who was more friend than servant (for +she took no wages, and when she wanted anything, asked for it), all +existed for the sake of that wonderful, impracticable father of hers; it +was for him they starved, it was to him they looked for the great future +which they believed in so implicitly, but scarcely knew in what shape to +look for. She knew that he had come of gentlefolk, in another county, +that he had been meant for the Church, and, after some vague misfortune +at Cambridge, had married her mother, who was but seventeen, and of a +class beneath him, against the will of his relations, who had cast him +off just as, at twenty-one, he had come into a meagre allowance from the +will of his grandfather. He had been the last of eleven children, born +when his mother was fifty years of age, and he had inherited the +listless temperament of a dwindling stock. He had never been able to do +anything seriously, or even to make up his mind quite what great thing +he was going to do. First he had found a small clerkship, then he had +dropped casually upon the post which he was to hold almost to the time +of his death, as secretary to some Assurance Society, whose money it was +his business to collect. He did the work mechanically; at first, +competently enough; but his heart was in other things. Lucy was never +sure whether it was the great picture he was engaged upon, or the great +book, that was to make all the difference in their fortunes. She never +doubted his power to do anything he liked; and it was one of her +privileges sometimes to be allowed to sit in his room (the sitting-room +on the left of the door, where it was always warmer and more comfortable +than anywhere else in the house), watching him at his paints or his +manuscripts, with great serious eyes that sometimes seemed to disquiet +him a little; and then she would be told to run away and not worry +mother. + +The little mother, too, she saw less of than children mostly see of +their mothers; for her mother was never quite well, and she would so +often be told: 'You must be quiet now, and not go into your mother's +room, for she has one of her headaches,' that she gradually accustomed +herself to do without anybody's company, and then she would sit all +alone, or with her doll, who was called Arabella, to whom she would +chatter for hours together, in a low and familiar voice, making all +manner of confidences to her, and telling her all manner of stories. +Sometimes she would talk to Linda instead, sitting on the corner of the +kitchen fender; but Linda was not so good a listener, and she had a way +of going into the scullery, and turning on a noisy stream of water, just +at what ought to have been the most absorbing moment of the narrative. + +Lucy was a curious child, one of those children of whom nurses are +accustomed to say that they will not make old bones. She was always a +little pale, and she would walk in her sleep; and would spend whole +hours almost without moving, looking vaguely and fixedly into the air: +children ought not to dream like that! She did not know, herself, very +often, what she was dreaming about; it seemed to her natural to sit for +hours doing nothing. + +Often, however, she knew quite well what she was dreaming about; and +first of all she was dreaming about herself. Really, she would explain +if you asked her, she did not belong to her parents at all; she belonged +to the fairies; she was a princess; there was another, a great mother, +who would come some day and claim her. And this consciousness of being +really a princess was one of the joys of her imagination. She had +composed all the circumstances of her state, many times over, indeed, +and always in a different way. It was the heightening she gave to what +her mother had taught her: that she was of a better stock than the other +children who lived in the other small houses all round, and must not +play with them, or accept them as equals. That was to be her consolation +if she had to do without many of the things she wanted, and to be +shabbily dressed (out of old things of her mother's, turned and cut and +pieced together), while perhaps some of those other children, who were +not her equals, had new dresses. + +And then she would make up stories about the people she knew, the ladies +to whom she paid a very shifting devotion, very sincere while it lasted. +One of her odd fancies was to go into the graveyard which surrounded the +church, and to play about in the grass there, or, more often, gather +flowers and leaves, and carry them to a low tomb, and sit there, weaving +them into garlands. These garlands she used to offer to the ladies whose +faces she liked, as they passed in and out of the church. The strange +little girl who sat among the graves, weaving garlands, and who would +run up to them so shyly, and with so serious a smile, offering them her +flowers, seemed to these ladies rather a disquieting little person, as +if she, like her flowers, had a churchyard air about her. + +Blonde, tall, slim, delicately-complexioned, with blue eyes and a +wavering, somewhat sensuous mouth, the child took after her father; and +he used to say of her sometimes, half whimsically, that she was bound to +be like him altogether, bound to go to the bad. The big, brilliant man, +who had made so winning a failure of life, so popular always, and the +centre of a little ring of intellectual people, used sometimes to let +her stay in the room of an evening, while he and his friends drank their +ale and smoked pipes and talked their atheistical philosophy. These +friends of her father used to pet her, because she was pretty; and it +was one of them who paid her the first compliment she ever had, +comparing her face to a face in a picture. She had never heard of the +picture, but she was immensely flattered; for she did not think a +painter would ever paint any one who was not very pretty. She listened +to their conversation, much of which she could not understand, as if she +understood every word of it; and she wondered very much at some of the +things they said. Her mother was a Catholic, and, though religion was +rarely referred to, had taught her some little prayers; and it puzzled +her that all this could be true, and yet that clever people should have +doubts of it. She had always learned that cleverness (book-learning, or +any disinterested journeying of the intellect) was the one important +thing in the world. Her father was clever: that was why everything must +bow to him. There must be something in it, then, if these clever people, +if her father himself, doubted of God, of heaven and hell, of the good +ordering of this world. And she announced one day to the pious servant, +who had told her that God sees everything, that when she was older she +meant to get the better of God, by building a room all walls and no +windows, within which she would be good or bad as she pleased, without +his seeing her. + +Lucy was never sent to school, like most children; that was partly +because they were very poor, but more because her father had always +intended to teach her himself, on a new and liberal scheme of education, +which seemed to him better than the education you get in schools. And +sometimes, for as much as a few weeks together, he would set her lessons +day by day, and be excessively severe with her, not permitting her to +make a single slip in anything he had given her to learn. He would even +punish her sometimes, if she still failed to learn some lesson +perfectly; and that seemed to her a mortal indignity; so that one day +she rushed out into the garden, and climbed up into a tree, and then +called out, tremulously but triumphantly: 'If you promise not to punish +me, I'll come down; but if you don't, I'll throw myself down!' + +She always disliked learning lessons, and those fits of scrupulousness +on his part were her great dread. They did not occur often; and between +whiles he was very lenient, ready to get out of the trouble of teaching +her on the slightest excuse; only too glad if she did not bother him by +coming to say her lessons. Both were quite happy then; she to be allowed +to sit in his room with her lesson-book on her knees, dreaming; he not +to be hindered in the new sketch he was making or the notes he was +preparing for that great book of the future, perhaps out of one of those +old, calf-covered books which he used to bring back from second-hand +shops in the town, and which Lucy used to admire for their ancient +raggedness, as they stood in shelves round the room, brown and +broken-backed. + +And then if she had not her geography to learn by heart (those lists of +capes and rivers and the population of countries, which she could indeed +learn by heart, but which represented nothing to her of the actual world +itself) she had of course all the more time for her own reading. When +she had outgrown that old fancy about the fairies, and about being a +princess, she cared nothing for stories of adventure; but little for the +material wonders of the 'Arabian Nights'; somewhat more for the +'Pilgrim's Progress,' in which she always lingered over that passage of +the good people through the bright follies of Vanity Fair; but most of +all for certain quiet stories of lovers, in which there was no +improbable incident, and no too fantastical extravagance of passion; but +a quiet probable fidelity, plenty of troubles, and of course a wedding +at the end. One book, 'The Story of Mrs. Jardine,' she was never tired +of reading; and she liked almost all the stories in the bound volumes of +the 'Argosy.' Then there was a little book of poetical selections; she +never could remember the name of it afterwards; and there were the songs +of Thomas Moore, and, above all, there was Mrs. Hemans. Those gentle and +lady-like poems 'of the affections,' with their nice sentiments, the +faded ribbons of their second-hand romance, seemed to the child like a +beautiful glimpse into the real, tender, not too passionate world, where +men and women loved magnanimously, and had heroic sufferings, and died, +perhaps, but for a great love, or a great cause, and always nobly. She +thought that the ways of the world blossomed naturally into Casabiancas +and Gertrudes and Imeldas, who were faithful to death, and came into +their inheritance of love or glory beyond the grave. She used to wonder +if she, too, like Costanza, had a 'pale Madonna brow'; and she wished +nothing more fervently than to be like those saintly and affectionate +creatures, always so beautiful, and so often (what did it matter?) +unfortunate, who took poison from the lips of their lovers, and served +God in prison, and came back afterwards, spirits, out of the angelical +rapture of heaven, to be as some rare music, or subtle perfume, in the +souls of those who had loved them. Many of these poems were about death, +and it seemed natural to her, at that time, to think much about death, +which she conceived as a quite peaceful thing, coming to you invisibly +out of the sky, and which she never associated with the pale faces and +more difficult breathing of those about her. She had never known her +mother to be quite well; and when, on her twelfth birthday, her mother +called her into her room, where she lay in bed now so often, and talked +to her more solemnly than she had ever talked before, saying that if she +became very ill, too ill to get up at all, Lucy was to look after her +father as carefully as she herself had looked after him, always to look +after him, and never let him want for anything; even then it did not +seem to the child that this meant more than a little more illness; and +it was so natural for people to be ill. + +And so, after all, the end came almost suddenly; and the first great +event of her childhood took her by surprise. The gentle, suffering +woman had been failing for many months, and when, one afternoon in early +March, the doctor told her to take to her bed at once, life seemed to +ebb out of her daily, with an almost visible haste to be gone. Whenever +she was allowed to come in, Lucy would curl herself up on the foot of +the bed, never taking her eyes off the face of the dying woman, who was +for the most part unconscious, muttering unintelligible words sometimes, +in a hoarse voice, broken by coughs, and breathing, all the time, in +great, heavy breaths, which made a rattle in her throat. When she was in +the next room, Lucy could hear this monotonous sound going on, almost as +plainly as in the room itself. It was that sound that frightened her, +more than anything; for, when she was sitting on the bed, watching the +face lying among the pillows (drawn, and glazed with a curious flush, as +it was), it seemed, after all, only as if her mother was very, very ill, +and as if she might get better, for the lips were still red, and sucked +in readily all the spoonsful of calvesfoot jelly, and brandy and water, +which were really just keeping her alive from hour to hour. On Friday +night, in the middle of the night, as Lucy was sleeping quietly, she +felt, in her dream, as it seemed to her, two lips touch her cheek, and, +starting awake, saw her father standing by the bedside. He told her to +get up, put on some of her things, and come quietly into the next room. +She crept in, huddled up in a shawl, very pale and trembling, and it +seemed to her that her mother must be a little better, for she drew her +breath more slowly and not quite so loudly. One arm was lying outside +the clothes, and every now and then this arm would raise itself up, and +the hand would reach out, blindly, until the nurse, or her father, took +it and laid it back gently in its place. They told her to kiss her +mother, and she kissed her, crying very much, but her mother did not +kiss her, or open her eyes; and as she touched her hair, which was +coming out from under her cap, she felt that it was all damp, but the +lips were quite dry and warm. Then they told her to go back to bed, but +she clung to the foot of the bed, and refused to go, and the nurse said, +'I think she may stay.' The tears were running down both her cheeks, +but she did not move, or take her eyes off the face on the pillow. It +was very white now, and once or twice the mouth opened with a slight +gasp; once the face twitched, and half turned on the pillow; she had to +wait before the next breath came; then it paused again; then, with an +effort, there was another breath; then a long pause, a very slow breath, +and no more. She was led round to kiss her mother again on the forehead, +which was quite warm; but she knew that her mother was dead, and she +sobbed wildly, inconsolably, as they led her back to her own room, +where, after they had left her, and she could hear them moving quietly +about the house, she lay in bed trying to think, trying not to think, +wondering what it was that had really happened, and if things would all +be different now. + +And with her mother's death it seemed as if her own dream-life had come +suddenly to an end, and a new, more desolate, more practical life had +begun, out of which she could not look any great distance. After the +black darkness of those first few days; the coming of the undertakers, +the hammering down of the coffin, the slow drive to the graveside, the +wreath of white flowers which she shed, white flower by white flower, +upon the shining case of wood lying at the bottom of a great pit, in +which her mother was to be covered up to stay there for ever; after +those first days of merely dull misery, broken by a few wild outbursts +of tears, she accepted this new life into which she had come, as she +accepted the black clothes which Linda the servant, now more a friend +than ever, had had made for her. Her father could no longer bear to +sleep in the room in which his wife had died, so Lucy gave up her own +room to him, and moved into the room that had been her mother's; and it +seemed to bring her closer to her mother to sleep there. She thought of +her mother very often, and very sadly, but the remembrance of those +almost last words to her, those solemn words on her twelfth birthday, +that she was to look after her father as her mother had looked after +him, and never let him want for anything, helped her to meet every day +bravely, because every day brought some definite thing for her to do. +She felt years and years older, and quietly ready for whatever was now +likely to happen. + +For a little while she saw more of her father, for they had their +mid-day meal together now, and she used to come and sit at the table +when he was having his nine o'clock meat supper, with which he had +always indulged himself, even when there was very little in the house +for the others. He still took it, and his claret with it, which the +doctor had ordered him to take; but he took it with scantier and +scantier appetite; talking less over his wine, and falling into a +strange and brooding listlessness. During his wife's illness he had let +his affairs drift; and the society of which he was the secretary had +overlooked it, as far as they could, on account of his trouble. But now +he attended to his duties less than ever; and he was reminded, a little +sharply, that things could not go on like this much longer. He took no +heed of the warning, though the duns were beginning to gather about +him. When there was a ring at the door, Lucy used to squeeze up against +the window to see who it was; and if it was one of those troublesome +people whom she soon got to know by sight, she would go to the door +herself, and tell them that they could not see her father, and explain +to them, in her grave, childish way, that it was no use coming to her +father for money, because he had no money just then but he would have +some at quarter-day, and they might call again then. Sometimes the men +tried to push past her into the hall, but she would never let them; her +father was not in, or he was very unwell, and no one could see him; and +she spoke so calmly and so decidedly that they always finished by going +away. If they swore at her, or said horrid things about her father, she +did not mind much. It did not surprise her that such dreadful people +used dreadful language. + +In telling the duns that her father was very unwell, she was not always +inventing. For a long time there had been something vaguely the matter +with him, and ever since her mother's death he had sickened visibly, +and nothing would rouse him from his pale and cheerless decrepitude. He +would lie in bed till four, and then come downstairs and sit by the +fireplace, smoking his pipe in silence, doing nothing, neither reading, +nor writing, nor sketching. All his interest in life seemed to have gone +out together; his very hopes had been taken from him, and without those +fantastic hopes he was but the shadow of himself. It scarcely roused him +when the directors of his society wrote to him that they would require +his services no longer. When they sent a man to unscrew the brass plate +on the door, on which there were the name of the society and the amount +of its capital, he went outside and stood in the garden while it was +being done. Then he gave the man a shilling for his trouble. + +Soon after that, he refused to eat or get up, and a great terror came +over Lucy lest he, too, should die; and now there was no money in the +house, and the duns still knocked at the door. She begged him to let her +write to his relations, but he refused flatly, saying that they would +not receive her mother, and he would never see them, or take a penny of +their money as long as he lived. One day a cab drove up to the door, and +a hard-featured woman got out of it. Lucy, looking out of the bedroom +window, recognised her aunt, Miss Marsden, her mother's eldest sister, +whom she had only seen at the funeral, and to whose grim face and rigid +figure she had already taken a dislike. It appeared that Linda, unknown +to them, had written to tell her into what desperate straits they had +fallen; and her severe sense of duty had brought her to their help. + +And the aunt was certainly good to them in her stern, unkindly way. The +first thing she did was to send for a doctor, who shook his head very +gravely when he had examined the patient; and spoke of foreign travel, +and other impossible, expensive remedies. That was the first time that +Lucy ever began to long for money, or to realise exactly what money +meant. It might mean life or death, she saw now. + +Her father now lay mostly in bed, very weak and quiet, and mostly in +silence; and whether his eyes were closed or open, he seemed to be +thinking, always thinking. He liked Lucy to come and sit by him; but if +she chattered much he would stop her, after a while, and say that he was +tired, and she must be quiet. And then sometimes he would talk to her, +in his vague, disconnected way, about her mother, and of how they had +met, and had found hard times together a great happiness; and he would +look at her with an almost impersonal scrutiny, and say: 'I think you +will live happily, not with the happiness that we had, for you will +never love as we loved, but you will find it easy to like people, and +many people will find it easy to like you; and if you have troubles they +will weigh on you lightly, for you will live always in the day, that is, +without too much memory of the day that was, or too much thought of the +day that will be to-morrow.' And once he said: 'I hardly know why it is +I feel so little anxiety about your future. I seem somehow to know that +you will always find people to look after you. I don't know why they +should, I don't know why they should.' And then he added, after a pause, +looking at her a little sadly, 'You will never love nor be loved +passionately, but you have a face that will seem to many, the first time +they see you, like the face of an old and dear friend.' + +Sometimes, when he felt a little better, the sick man would come +downstairs, and at times he would walk about in the garden, stooping +under his great-coat and leaning upon his stick. One very bright day in +early February he seemed better than he had been since his illness had +come upon him, and as he stood at the window looking at the white road +shining under the pale sun, he said suddenly: 'I feel quite well to-day, +I shall go for a little walk.' His eyes were bright, there was a slight +flush on his cheek, and he seemed to move a little more easily than +usual. 'Lucy,' he said, 'I think I should like some claret with my +supper to-night, like old times. You must go into the town and get me +some: I suppose there is none in the house.' Lucy took the money gladly, +for she thought: 'He is beginning to be better.' 'Get it from Allen's,' +he called after her, as she went to put on her hat and jacket; 'it won't +take so very much longer to go there and back, and it will be better +there.' When she came downstairs her aunt was helping him to put on his +coat. 'Don't wait for me,' he said, smiling, and tapping her cheek with +his thin, chilly fingers; 'I shall have to walk slowly.' She went out, +and turning, as she came to the bend in the road, saw him come out of +the gate, leaning on his stick, and begin to walk slowly along in the +middle of the road. He did not look up, and she hurried on. + +It was the last time she ever saw him. The house, when she returned to +it, after her journey into town, had an air of ominous quiet, and she +saw with surprise that her father's hat and coat were lying in a heap +across the chair in the hall, instead of hanging neatly upon the +hat-pegs. As she closed the door behind her, she heard the bedroom door +opened, and her aunt came quickly downstairs with a strange look on her +face. She began to tremble, she knew not why, and mechanically she put +the bottle of wine on the floor by the side of the chair; and her aunt, +though she would always have everything put in its proper place, did not +seem to notice it; but took her into the sitting-room, and said: 'There +has been an accident; no, you must not go upstairs'; and she said to +herself, seeming to hear her own words at the back of her brain, where +there was a dull ache that was like the coming-to of one who has been +stunned: 'He is dead, he is dead.' She felt that her aunt was shaking +her, and wondered why she shook her, and why everything looked so dim, +and her aunt's face seemed to be fading away from her, and she caught at +her; and then she heard her aunt say (she could hear her now), 'I +thought you were going to faint: I'll have no fainting, if you please; I +must go up to him again.' So he was not dead, after all; and she +listened, with a relief which was almost joy, while her aunt told her +rapidly what had happened: how the mail-cart had turned a corner at full +speed just as he was walking along the road, more tired than he had +thought, and he had not the strength to pull himself out of the way in +time, and had been knocked down, and the wheel had just missed him, but +he had been terribly shaken, and one of the horse's hoofs had struck him +on the face. They hoped it was nothing serious; he seemed to feel little +pain; but he had said: 'Don't let Lucy come in; she musn't see me like +this.' + +Lucy had been so used to obey her father, his commands had always been +so capricious, that she obeyed now without a murmur. She understood him; +the fastidiousness which was part of his affection, and which made him +refuse to be seen, by those he loved, under a disfigurement which time +would probably heal, was one of the things for which she loved him, for +it was part of her pride in him. + +The doctor had come and gone; he had been very serious, she had seen his +grave face, and had overheard one or two of his words to her aunt; she +had heard him say: 'Of course, it is a question of time.' Night came on, +and she sat in the unlighted room alone, and looking into the fire, in +which the last dreams of her childhood seemed to flicker in little +wavering tongues of flame, which throbbed, and went out, one after +another, in smoke or ashes. She cried a little, quietly, and did not +wipe away the tears; but sat on, looking into the fire, and thinking. +She was crying when her aunt came downstairs, and told her that she must +go to bed; he was resting quietly, and they hoped he would be better in +the morning. + +She slept heavily, without dreams; and the hour seemed to her late when +she awoke in the morning. It was Linda, not her aunt, who came into the +room, and took her in her arms, and cried over her, and did not need to +tell her that she had no father. He had died suddenly in his sleep, and +just before he turned over on his side for the last rest, he had said to +her (she thought drowsily): 'I am very tired; if anything happens, cover +my face.' When Lucy crept into the room, on tip-toe, his face was +covered. It was a white, shrouded thing that lay there, not her father. +The terror of the dead seized hold upon her, and she shrieked, and +Linda caught her up in her arms, and carried her back to her room, and +soothed her, as if she had been a little, wailing child. + +At the funeral she saw, for the first time, her father's relations, the +rich relations who had cast him off; and she hated them for being there, +for speaking to her kindly, for offering to look after her. She was rude +to them, and she wished to be rude. 'My father would never touch your +money,' she said, 'and I am sure he wouldn't like me to, and I don't +want it. I don't want to have anything to do with you.' She clung to the +severe aunt who had been good to her father; and she tried to smile on +her other uncle and aunt, and on her cousin, who was not many years +older than she was: he had seemed to her so kind, and so ready to be her +friend. 'I will go with my aunt,' she said. The rich relatives +acquiesced, not unwillingly. They did not linger in the desolate house, +where this unreasonable child, as they thought her, stood away from them +on the other side of the room. She seemed to herself to be doing the +right thing, and what her father would have wished; and she saw them go +out with relief, not giving a thought to the future, only knowing that +she had buried her childhood, on that day of the funeral, in the grave +with her father. + + + + + THE DEATH OF PETER WAYDELIN. + + +Peter Waydelin, the painter of those mysterious, brutal pictures, who +died last year at the age of twenty-four, spent a week with me at +Bognor, trying to get better, a little while before it was quite +certainly too late; and we had long talks of a very intimate kind as we +lay and lounged about the sand from Selsey to Blake's Felpham, along +that exquisite coast. To him, if he were to be believed, all that meant +very little; he hated nature, he was always assuring you; but at Bognor +nature deals with its material so much in the manner of art that he can +hardly have been sincere in not feeling the colour-sense of those +arrangements of sand, water, and sky which were perpetually changing +before him. One of our conversations that I remembered best, because he +seemed to put more of himself into it than usual, took place one +afternoon in June as we lay on the sand about half-way towards Selsey, +beyond the last of those troublesome groins, and I remember that as I +listened to him, and heard him defining so sincerely his own ideas of +art, I was conscious all the time of a magnificent silent refutation of +some of those ideas, as nature, quietly expressing herself before us, +transformed the whole earth gradually into a new and luminous world of +air. He did not seem to see the sunset; now and then he would pick up a +pebble and throw it vehemently, almost angrily, into the water. We were +talking of art. He began to explain to me what art meant to him, and +what it was he wanted to do with his own art. I remember almost the very +words he used, sometimes so serious, sometimes so petulant and boyish. I +was interested in his ideas, and the man too interested me; so young and +so experienced, so mature already and so enthusiastic under his +cynicism. He puzzled me: it was as if there were a clue wanting; I could +not get further with him than a certain point, frank, self-explanatory +even, as he seemed to be. Of himself he never spoke, only of his ideas. +I knew vaguely that he had been in Paris, and I supposed that he had +been living there for some time. I had met him in London, in the street, +quite casually, and he had looked so ill that I had asked him there and +then to come with me to Bognor, where I was going. He agreed willingly, +and was at the station with his bag the next day. I never ask people +about their private affairs, and his talk was entirely about pictures, +his own chiefly, and about ideas. As he talked I tried to piece together +the man and his words. What was it in this man, who was so much a +gentleman, that drew him instinctively, whenever he took up a brush or a +pencil, towards gross things, things that he painted as if he hated +them, but painted always? Was it a theory or an enslavement? and had he, +in order to interpret with so cruel a fidelity so much that was +factitious and dishonourable in life, sunk to the level of what he +painted? I could not tell. He was not obviously the man of his pictures, +nor was he obviously the reverse. I felt in those pictures, and I felt +equally, but differently, in the man, a fundamental sincerity; after +that came I know not how much of pose, perhaps merely the defiant pose +of youth. He was a problem to me, which I wanted to think out; and I +listened very attentively to everything that he said on that afternoon +when he was so much more communicative than usual. + +'All art, of course,' he said, 'is a way of seeing, and I have my way. I +did not get to it at once. Like everybody else, I began by seeing too +much. Gradually I gave up seeing things in shades, in subdivisions; I +saw them in masses, each single. It takes more choice than you think, +and more technical skill, to set one plain colour against another, +unshaded, like a great, raw morsel, or a solid lump of the earth. The +art of the painter, you observe, consists in seeing in a new, +summarising way, getting rid of everything but the essentials; in seeing +by patterns. You know how a child draws a house? Well, that is how the +average man thinks he sees it, even at a distance. You have to train +your eye not to see. Whistler sees nothing but the fine shades, which +unite into a picture in an almost bodiless way, as Verlaine writes songs +almost literally "without words." You can see, if you like, in just the +opposite way: leaving in only the hard outlines, leaving out everything +that lies between. To me that is the best way of summarising, the most +abbreviated way. You get rid of all that molle, sticky way of work which +squashes pictures into cakes and puddings, and of that stringy way of +work which draws them out into tapes and ribbons. It is a way of seeing +square, and painting like hits from the shoulder. + +'I wonder,' he went on, after a moment, 'how many people think that I +paint ugly pictures, as they call them, because I am unable to paint +pretty ones? Perhaps even you have never seen any of my quite early +work: Madonnas for Christmas cards and hallelujah angels for +stained-glass windows. They were the prettiest things imaginable, +immensely popular, and they brought me in several pounds. I take them +out and show them to people who complain that I have no sense of +beauty, and they always ask me pityingly why I have not gone on turning +out these confectionaries.' + +'I contend that I have never done anything which is without beauty, +because I have never done anything which is without life, and life is +the source and sap of beauty. I tell you that there is not one of those +grimacing masks, those horribly pale or horribly red faces, plastered +white or red, leering professionally across a gulf of footlights, or a +café-table, that does not live, live to the roots of the eyes, somewhere +in the soul, I think! And if beauty is not the visible spirit of all +that infamous flesh, when I have sabred it like that along my canvas, +with all my hatred and all my admiration of its foolish energy, I at +least am unable to conjecture where beauty has gone to live in the +world.' + +He looked at me almost indignantly, as if he took me for one of his +critics. I said nothing, and he went on: + +'I have done nothing, believe me, without being sure that I was doing a +beautiful thing. People don't see it, it seems. How should they, when +we do our best to train them up within the prison walls of a Raphael +æsthetics, when we send them to the Apollo Belvedere, instead of to the +marbles of Ægina? Our academies shut out nine parts of beauty and +imprison us with the poor tenth, which we have never even the space to +frequent casually and grow familiar with. How much of the world itself +do you think exists as a thing of beauty for the average man? Why, he +has to know if the most exquisite leaf in the world, the thing I came +upon just now in the lane, belongs to a flower or a weed before he can +tell whether he ought to commend it for existing. I hate nature, because +fools prostrate themselves before sunsets; as if there is not much +better drawing in that leaf than in all the Turners of the sky. You see, +one has to quote Turner to apologise for a sunset!' + +He laughed, really without malice, waving his hand towards the sky with +a youthful impertinence. For a little while he was silent, and then, in +a different tone, he said: + +'I wonder if it is possible to paint what one doesn't like, to take +one's models as models, and only know them for the hours during which +they sit to you in this attitude or that. I don't believe that it is. +Much of our bad painting comes from respectable people thinking that +they can soil their hands with paint and not let the dye sink into their +innermost selves. Do you know that you are the only man of my own world +that I ever see, or have seen for years now? People call me eccentric; I +am only logical. You can't paint the things I paint, and live in a +Hampstead villa. You must come and see me some day: will you take the +address? 3 Somervell Street, Islington. It's not much like a studio. +However, there's "Collins's" at hand, and I live there a good deal, you +know. I lived in the Hampstead Road for some time on account of the +"Bedford." But "Collins's" suits me and my models better.' + +He broke off with an ambiguous laugh, flung his last stone into the +water, and jumped up, as if to end the conversation. Something in the +way he spoke made me feel vaguely uneasy, but I was used to his +exaggerations, his way of inventing as he went along. Was I, after all, +any nearer to his secret, to himself as he really was? + +Waydelin went back to London and I to Russia, which I shall always +remember, after that terrible summer under the gold and green domes of +Moscow, as the hottest country in which I have ever been. When I came +back to London I thought of Waydelin, made plan after plan to visit him, +when one evening in November I received a brief note in his handwriting, +asking me if I would come and see him at once, as he was very ill, and +wanted to see me on a matter of business. I started immediately after +dinner and got to Islington a little after nine. The street was one of +those drab, hopeless streets to which a Russian observer has lately +attributed the 'spleen' from which all Englishmen are thought to suffer. +There was a row of houses on each side of the way, every house exactly +like every other house, each with its three steps leading to the door, +its bow window on one side, its strip of dingy earth in which there were +a few dusty stalks between the lowest step and the railing, the paint +for the most part peeling off the door, the bell-handle generally +hanging out from its hole in the wall. I rang at No. 3. I had to wait +for some time, and then the door was opened by an impudent-looking +servant girl in a very untidy dress. I asked for Waydelin. 'Mrs. +Waydelin, did you say?' said the girl, leering at me; then, calling over +my head to the driver of a four-wheeler which just then drew up at the +door, 'Wait five minutes, will you?' she turned to me again: 'Mr. +Waydelin? I don't know if you can see him.' I told her impatiently that +I had come by appointment, and she held the door open for me to come in. +She knocked at a room on the first floor. 'Come in,' said a shrill voice +that I did not know, and I went in. + +It was a bedroom; a woman, with her bodice off, was making-up in front +of the glass, and in a corner, with the clothes drawn up to his chin, a +man lay in bed. The cheeks were covered by a three days' beard; they +were ridged into deep hollows; large eyes, very wide open, looked out +under a mass of uncombed hair, and as the face turned round on the +pillow and looked at me without any change of expression I recognised +Peter Waydelin. The woman, seeing me in the glass, nodded at my +reflection, and said, as she drew a black pencil through her eyelashes: +'You'll excuse me, won't you? I have to be at the hall in ten minutes. +Don't stand on ceremony; there's Peter. He'll be glad to see you, poor +dear!' She spoke in a common and affected voice, and I thought her a +deplorable person, with her carefully curled yellow hair, her rouged and +powdered cheeks, her mouth glistening with lip salve, her big, empty +blue eyes with their blackened under-lids, her fat arms and shoulders, +the tawdry finery of her costume, half on and half off the body. I moved +towards the bed, and Waydelin looked up at me with a queer, mournful +smile. + +'It was good of you to come,' he said, stretching out a long, thin hand +to me; 'Clara has to go out, and we can have a talk. How do you like the +last thing I've done?' + +I lifted the drawing which was lying on the bed. It was a portrait of +the woman before the glass, just as she looked now, one of the most +powerful of his drawings, crueller even than usual in its insistence on +the brutality of facts: the crude contrasts of bone and fat, the vulgar +jaw, the brassy eyes, the reckless, conscious attitude. Every line +seemed to have been drawn with hatred. I looked at Mrs. Waydelin. She +had finished dressing, and she came up to the bedside to say good-bye to +Peter. 'Horrid thing,' she said, nodding her head at the drawing; 'not a +bit like me, is it? I assure you none of them like it at the hall. They +say it doesn't do me justice. I'm sure I hope not.' I bowed and murmured +something. 'Good-bye, Peter,' she said, smiling down at him in a kindly, +hurried way, 'I'll come back as soon as I can,' and with a nod to me she +was out of the room. + +Peter drew himself slowly up in the bed, pointed to a shawl, which I +wrapped round his shoulders, and then, looking at me a little defiantly, +said: 'My theory, do you remember? of living the life of my models! She +is a very nice woman and an excellent model, and they appreciate her +very much at "Collins's"; but it appears that I have no gift for +domesticity.' + +I scarcely knew what to say. While I hesitated he went on: 'Don't +suppose I have any illusions, or, indeed, ever had. I married that woman +because I couldn't help doing it, but I knew what I was doing all the +time. Have you ever been in Belgium? There is stuff they give you there +to drink called Advokat, which you begin by hating, but after a time you +can't get on without it. She is like Advokat.' + +'You are ill, Waydelin,' I said, 'and you speak bitterly. I don't like +to hear you speak like that about your wife.' + +Waydelin stared at me curiously. 'So you are going to defend her against +my brutality,' he said. 'I will give you every opportunity. Did you know +I was married?' + +I shook my head. + +'I have been married three years,' he said, 'and I never told even you. +I know you did not take me at my word when I talked about how one had to +live in order to paint as I painted, but I did not tell you half. I +have been living, if you like to call it so, systematically, not as a +stranger in a foreign country which he stares at over his Baedeker, but +as like a native as I could, and with no return ticket in my pocket. Why +shouldn't one be as thorough in one's life as in one's drawing? Is it +possible for one to be otherwise, if one is really in earnest in either? +And the odd thing is, as you will say, I didn't live in that way because +I wanted to do it for my art, but something deeper than my art, a +profound, low instinct, drew me to these people, to this life, without +my own will having anything to do with it. My work has been much more +sincere than any one suspected. It used to amuse me when the papers +classed me with the Decadents of a moment, and said that I was probably +living in a suburban villa, with a creeper on the front wall. I have +never cared for anything but London, or in London for anything but here, +or the Hampstead Road, or about the Docks. I never really chose the +music-halls or the public-houses; they chose me. I made the music-halls +my clubs; I lived in them, for the mere delight of the thing; I liked +the glitter, false, barbarous, intoxicating, the violent animality of +the whole spectacle, with its imbecile words, faces, gestures, the very +heat and odour, like some concentrated odour of the human crowd, the +irritant music, the audience! I went there, as I went to public-houses, +as I walked about the streets at night, as I kept company with +vagabonds, because there was a craving in me that I could not quiet. I +fitted in theories with my facts; and that is how I came to paint my +pictures.' + +As he spoke, with bitter ardour, I looked at him as if I were seeing him +for the first time. The room, the woman, that angry drawing on the bed, +and the dishevelled man dying there, just at the moment when he had +learnt everything that such experiences could teach him, fell of a +sudden into a revealing relation with each other. I did not know whether +to feel that the man had been heroic or a fool; there had been, it was +clear to me, some obscure martyrdom going on, not the less for art's +sake because it came out of the mere necessity of things. A great pity +came over me, and all I could say was, 'But, my dear friend, you have +been very unhappy!' + +'I never wanted to be happy,' said Waydelin; 'I wanted to live my own +life and do my own work; and if I die to-morrow (as likely enough I +may), I shall have done both things. My work satisfies me, and, because +of that, so does my life.' + +'Are you very ill?' I asked. + +'Dead, relatively speaking,' he said in his jaunty way, which death +itself could not check in him; 'I'm only waiting on some celestial order +of precedence in these matters, which, I confess, I don't understand. So +it was good of you to come; I would like to arrange with you about what +is to be done with my work, presently, when they will have to accept me. +I always said that I had only to die in order to be appreciated.' + +I had a long talk with him, and I promised to carry out his wishes. All +the money that his pictures brought in was to go to his wife, but, as he +said, she would not know what to do with them if they were left in her +own hands, not even how to turn them into money. He was quite certain +that they would sell; he knew exactly the value of what he had done, and +he knew how and when work finds its own level. + +I sat beside the bed, talking, for more than two hours. He could no +longer do much work, he said, and he hated being alone when he was not +working. But it amused him to talk, for a change. 'Clara talks when she +is here,' he said, with one of his queer smiles. I promised to come back +and see him again. 'Come soon,' he said, 'if you want to be sure of +finding me.' + +I went back two days afterwards, a little later in the evening so that I +need not meet Mrs. Waydelin, and he seemed better. He had shaved, his +hair was brushed and combed, and he was sitting up in bed, with the +shawl thrown lightly about his shoulders. + +'Would you like to know,' he began, almost at once, 'how I came to paint +in what we will call, if you please, my final manner? One day, at the +theatre, I saw Sada Yacco. She taught me art.' + +'What do you mean?' I said. + +'Look here,' he went on, 'they say everything has been done in art. But +no, there is at least one thing that remains for us. Have you ever seen +Sada Yacco? When I saw her for the first time I said to myself, "I have +found out the secret of Japanese art." I had never been able to +understand how it was that the Japanese, who can imitate natural things, +a bird, a flower, the rain, so perfectly, have chosen to give us, +instead of a woman's face, that blind oval, in which the eyes, nose, and +mouth seem to have been made to fit a pattern. When I saw Sada Yacco I +realised that the Japanese painters had followed nature as closely in +their woman's faces as in their birds and flowers, but that they had +studied them from the women of the Green Houses, the women who make up, +and that Japanese women, made up for the stage or for the factitious +life of the Green Houses, look exactly like these elegant, unnatural +images of the painters. What a new kind of reality that opened up to me, +as if a window had suddenly opened in a wall! Here, I said to myself, is +something that the painters of Europe have never done; it remains for +me to do it. I will study nature under the paint by which woman, after +all, makes herself more woman; the ensign of her trade, her flag as the +enemy. I will get at the nature of this artificial thing, at the skin +underneath it, and the soul under the skin. Watteau and the Court +painters have given us the dainty, exterior charm of the masquerade, +woman when she plays at being woman, among "lyres and flutes." Degas, of +course, has done something of what I want to do, but only a part, and +with other elements in his pure design, the drawing of Ingres, setting +itself new tasks, exercising its technique upon shapeless bodies in +tubs, and the strained muscles of the dancer's leg as she does +"side-practice." What I am going to do is to take all the ugliness, +gross artifice, crafty mechanism, of sex disguising itself for its own +ends: that new nature which vice and custom make out of the honest +curves and colours of natural things. + +'Well, I have tried to do that; in all my best work, my work of the last +two or three years, I have done it. I am sure that what I have done is +a new thing, and I think it is the one new thing left to us Western +painters.' + +'I am beginning to understand you,' I said, 'and I have not always found +it easy. When I admire you, it has so often seemed to me irrational. I +am gradually finding out your logic. Do you remember those talks we used +to have at Bognor, one in particular, when you told me about your way of +seeing?' + +'Yes, yes,' he said, 'I remember, but there was one thing I am almost +sure I did not tell you, and it is curious. I don't understand it +myself. Do you know what it is to be haunted by colours? There is +something like a temptation of the devil, to me, in the colour green. I +know it is the commonest colour in nature, it is a good, honest colour, +it is the grass, the trees, the leaves, very often the sea. But no, it +isn't like that that it comes to me. To me it is an aniline dye, +poisoning nature. I adore and hate it. I can never get away from it. If +I paint a group outside a café at Montmartre by gas-light or electric +light, I paint a green shadow on the faces, and I suppose the green +shadow isn't there; yet I paint it. Some tinge of green finds its way +invariably into my flesh-colour; I see something green in rouged cheeks, +in peroxide-of-hydrogen hair; green lays hold of this poor, unhappy +flesh that I paint, as if anticipating the colour-scheme of the grave. I +know it, and yet I can't help doing it; I can't explain to you how it is +that I at once see and don't see a thing; but so it is. + +'And it grew upon me too like an obsession. I always wanted to keep my +eyes perfectly clear, so that I could make my own arrangements of things +for myself, deliberately; but this, in some unpleasant way, seemed +horribly like "nature taking the pen out of one's hand and writing," as +somebody once said about a poet. I would rather do all the writing +myself; the more so, as I have to translate as I go.' + +He broke off suddenly, as if a wave of exhaustion had come over him. His +eyes, which had been very bright, had gone dull again, and he let his +head droop till the chin rested on his breast. + +'I have tired you,' I said, 'you must not talk any more. Try to go to +sleep now, and I will come back another day.' + +'To-morrow?' he said, looking at me sleepily. + +I promised. When I went back the next day he was weaker, but he insisted +on sitting up and talking. He spoke of his wife, without affection and +without bitterness; he spoke of death, with so little apprehension, or +even curiosity, that I was startled. His art was still a much more +realisable thing to him. + +'Do you believe in God, religion, and all that?' he said. 'To tell you +the honest truth, I have never been able to take a vital interest in +those or any other abstract matters: I am so well content with this +world, if it would only go on existing, and I don't in the least care +how it came into being, or what is going to happen to it after I have +moved on. I suppose one ought to feel some sort of reverence for +something, for an unknown power, at least, which has certainly worked to +good purpose. Well, I can't. I don't know what reverence is. If I were +quite healthy, I should be a pagan, and choose, well! Dionysus Zagreus, +a Bacchus who has been in hell, to worship after my fashion, in some +religious kind of "orgie on the mountains." That is how somebody +explains the origin of religion, or was it of religious hymns? I forget; +but, you see, having had this rickety sort of body to drag about with +me, I have never been able to follow any of my practical impulses of +that sort, and I have had to be no more than an unemployed atheist, +ready to gibe at the gods he doesn't understand. + +'I am afraid even in art,' he went on, as if leaving unimportant things +for the one thing important, 'I don't find it easy to look up to +anybody, at least in a way that anybody can be imagined as liking. I +have never gone very much to the National Gallery, not because I don't +think Venetian and Florentine pictures quite splendid, painted when they +were, but because I can get nothing out of them that is any good for me, +now in this all but twentieth century. You won't expect me, of all +people, to prate about progress, but, all the same, it's no use going to +Botticelli for hints about modern painting. We have different things to +look at, and see them differently. A man must be of his time, else why +try to put his time on the canvas? There are people, of course, who +don't, if you call them painters: Watts, Burne-Jones, Moreau, that sort +of hermit-crab. But I am talking about painting life and making it live. +If it comes to making pictures for churches and curiosity shops!' + +He spoke eagerly, but in a voice which grew more and more tired, and +with long pauses. I was going to try to get him to rest when the front +door opened noisily and I heard Mrs. Waydelin's voice in the hall. I +heard other voices, men's and women's, feet coming up the stairs. I +looked apprehensively at Waydelin. He showed no surprise. I heard a door +open on the landing; then, a moment after, it was shut, and Mrs. +Waydelin came into the bedroom, flushed and perspiring through the +paint, and ran up to the bed. 'I have brought a few friends in to +supper,' she said. 'They won't disturb you, you know, and I couldn't +very well get out of it.' + +She would have entered into explanations, but Waydelin cut her short. 'I +have not the least objection,' he said. 'I must only ask you to +apologise to them for my absence. I am hardly entertaining at present.' + +She stared at him, as if wondering what he meant; then she asked me if I +would join her at supper, and I declined; then went to the +dressing-table, took up a pot of vaseline and looked at her eyelashes in +the glass; then put it down again, came back to the bed, told Peter +Waydelin to cheer up, and bounced out of the room. + +I could see that Waydelin was now very tired and in need of sleep. I got +up to go. The partition between the two rooms must have been very thin, +for I could hear a champagne-cork drawn, the shrill laughter of women, +men talking loudly, and chairs being moved about the floor. 'I don't +mind,' he said, seeing what I was thinking, 'so long as they don't sing. +But they won't begin to sing for two hours yet, and I can get some +sleep. Good-night. Perhaps I shall not see you again.' + +'May I come again?' I said. + +'I always like seeing you,' he said, smiling, and thereupon turned over +on the pillow, just as he was, and fell asleep. + +I looked at his face as he lay there, with the shawl about his shoulders +and his hands outside the bedclothes. The jaw hung loose, the cheeks +were pinched with exhaustion, sweat stood out about the eyes. The sudden +collapse into sleep alarmed me. I could not leave him in such a state, +and with no one at hand but those people supping in the next room. I sat +down in a corner near the bed and waited. + +As I sat there listening to the exuberant voices, I wondered by what +casual or quixotic impulse Waydelin had been led to marry the woman, and +whether the woman was really heartless because she sat drinking +champagne with her friends of the music-hall while her husband, a man of +genius in his way, lay dying in the next room. I forced myself to +acknowledge that she had probably no suspicion of how near she was to +being a widow, that Waydelin would deceive her to the end in this +matter, and the last thing in the world he would desire would be to see +Mrs. Waydelin in tears at the foot of the bed. + +As time went on the supper-party got merrier, but Waydelin did not stir, +and I sat still in my corner. It was probably in about two hours, as he +had foreseen, that a chord was struck on the piano, and a man began to +sing a music-hall song in a rough, facile voice. At the sound Waydelin +shivered through his whole body and woke up. In a very weak voice he +asked me for water. I brought him a glass of water and held it to his +lips. He drank a little and then pushed it away and began shivering +again. 'Let me send for a doctor,' I said, but he seized my hand, and +said violently that he would see no doctor. In the next room the piano +rattled and all the voices joined in the chorus. I distinguished the +voice of Mrs. Waydelin. He seemed to be listening to it, and I said, +'Let me call her in.' 'Poor Clara may as well amuse herself,' he said, +with his odd smile. 'What is the use? I feel very much as if I am going +to die. Will it bother you: being here, I mean?' His voice seemed to +grow weaker as he spoke, and his eyes stared. I left him and went +hastily into the other room. The singer stopped abruptly, and the girl +at the piano turned round. I saw the remains of supper on the table, the +empty glasses and bottles, the chairs tilted back, the cigars, +tobacco-smoke, the flushed faces, rings, artificial curls; and then Mrs. +Waydelin came to me out of the midst of them, looking almost frightened, +and said, 'What's the matter?' 'Get rid of these people at once,' I said +in a low voice, 'and send for a doctor.' Her face sobered instantly, she +took one step to the bell, was about to ring it, then turned and said to +one of the men, 'Go for a doctor, Jim,' and to the others, 'You'll go, +all of you, quietly?' and then she came with me into the bedroom. + +Waydelin lay shivering and quaking on the bed; he seemed very conscious +and wholly preoccupied with himself. He never looked at the woman as she +flung herself on the floor by the bedside and began to cry out to him +and kiss his hand. The tears ran down over her cheeks, leaving ghastly +furrows in the wet powder, which clotted and caked under them. The curl +was beginning to come out of her too yellow hair, which straggled in +wisps about her ears. She sobbed in gulps, and entreated him to look at +her and forgive her. At that he looked, and as he looked life seemed to +revive in his eyes. He motioned to me to lift him up. I lifted him +against the pillows, and in a weak voice he asked me for drawing-paper +and a pencil. 'Don't move,' he said to his wife, who knelt there struck +into rigid astonishment, with terror and incomprehension in her eyes. +The pose, its grotesque horror, were finer than the finest of his +inventions. He made a few scrawls on the paper, trying to fix that last +and best pose of his model. But he could no longer guide the pencil, and +he let it drop out of his hand with a look of helplessness, almost of +despair, and sank down in the bed and shut his eyes. He did not open +them again. The doctor came, and tried all means to revive him, but +without success. Something in him seemed consciously to refuse to come +back to life. He lay for some time, dying slowly, with his eyes fast +shut, and it was only when the doctor had felt his heart and found no +movement that he knew he was dead. + + + + + AN AUTUMN CITY. + + +To Daniel Roserra life was a matter of careful cultivation. He respected +nature, for what might be cunningly extracted from nature; provided only +that one's aim was a quite personal thing, willingly subject to +surroundings on its way to the working out of itself. He tended his soul +as one might tend some rare plant; careful above most things of the +earth it was to take root in. And so he thought much of the influence of +places, of the image a place makes for itself in the consciousness, of +all that it might do in the formation of a beautiful or uncomely +disposition. Places had virtues of their own for him; he supposed that +he had the quality of divining their secrets; at all events, if they +were places to which he could possibly be sensitive. Much of his time +was spent in travelling, in a leisurely way, about Europe; not for the +sake of seeing anything in particular, for he had no interest in +historical associations or in the remains of ugly things that happened +to be old, or in visiting the bric-a-brac museums of the fine arts which +make some of the more tolerable countries tedious. He chose a city, a +village, or a seashore for its charm, its appeal to him personally; +nothing else mattered. + +When Roserra was forty he fell in love, quite suddenly, though he had +armed himself, as he imagined, against such disturbances of the æsthetic +life, and was invulnerable. He had always said that a woman was like a +liqueur: a delightful luxury, to be taken with discretion. He feared the +influence of a companion in his delicate satisfactions: he realised that +a woman might not even be a sympathetic companion. He had, it is true, +often wished to try the experiment, a risky one, of introducing a woman +to one of his friends among cities; it was a temptation, but he +remembered how rarely such introductions work well among people. Would +the cities be any more fortunate? + +When, however, he fell in love, all hesitation was taken out of his +hands by the mere force of things. Livia Dawlish was remarkably +handsome, some people thought her beautiful; she was tall and dark, and +had a sulky, enigmatical look that teased and attracted him. Some who +knew her very well said that it meant nothing, and was merely an +accident of colour and form, like the green eye of the cat or the golden +eye of the buffalo. Roserra tried to study her, but he could get no +point of view. He felt something that he had never felt before, and this +something was like a magnetic current flowing subtly from her to him; +perhaps, like the magnetic rocks in the 'Arabian Nights,' ready to draw +out all the nails and bolts of his ship, and drown him among the wrecked +splinters of his life. + +He was rich, not too old, of a good Cornish family; he could be the most +charming companion in the world; he knew so many things and so many +places and was never tedious about them: Livia thought him on the whole +the most suitable husband whom she was likely to meet. She was happy +when he asked her to marry him, and she married him without a misgiving. +She was not reflective. + +After the marriage they went straight to Paris, and Roserra was +surprised and delighted to find how childishly happy Livia could be +among new surroundings. She had always wanted to see Paris, because of +its gaiety, its bright wickedness, its names of pleasure and fashion. +Everything delighted her; she seemed even to admire a little +indiscriminatingly. She thought the Sainte-Chapelle the most beautiful +thing in Paris. + +They went back to London with more luggage than they had brought with +them, and for six months Livia was quite happy. She wore her Paris hats +and gowns, she was admired, she went to the theatre; she seemed to get +on with Roserra even better than she had expected. + +During all this time Roserra seemed to have found out very little about +his wife. It gave him more pleasure to do what she wanted than it had +ever given him to carry out his own wishes. So far, they had never had a +dispute; he seemed to have put his own individuality aside as if it no +longer meant anything to him. But he had not yet discovered her +individuality from among her crowds of little likes and dislikes, which +meant nothing. Nothing had come out yet from behind those enigmatical +eyes; but he was waiting; they would open, and there would be treasure +there. + +Gradually, while he was waiting, his old self began to come back to him. +He must do as he had always wanted to do: introduce the most intimate of +his cities to a woman. Autumn was beginning; he thought of Arles, which +was an autumn city, and the city which meant more to him than almost any +other. He must share Arles with Livia. + +Livia had heard of the Arlesiennes, she remembered Paris, and, though +she was a little reluctant to leave the new London into which she had +come since her marriage, she consented without apparent unwillingness. + +They went by sea to Marseilles, and Livia wished they were not going any +further. Roserra smiled a little satisfied smile; she was so pleased +with even slight, superficial things, she could get pleasure out of the +empty sunlight and obvious sea of Marseilles. When the deeper appeal of +Arles came to her, that new world in which one went clean through the +exteriorities of modern life, how she would respond to it! + +They reached Arles in the afternoon, and drove to the little +old-fashioned house which Roserra had taken in the square which goes +uphill from the Amphitheatre, with the church of Notre Dame la Major in +the corner. Livia looked about her vividly as the cab rattled round +twenty sharp angles, in the midst of narrow streets, on that perilous +journey. Here were the Arlesiennes, standing at doorways, walking along +the pavements, looking out of windows. She scarcely liked to admit to +herself that she had seen prettier faces elsewhere. The costume, +certainly, was as fine as its reputation; she would get one, she +thought, to wear, for amusement, in London. And the women were a noble +race; they walked nobly, they had beautiful black hair, sometimes +stately and impressive features. But she had expected so much more than +that; she had expected a race of goddesses, and she found no more than a +townful of fine-looking peasants. + +'Do not judge too quickly,' said Roserra to her; 'you must judge neither +the place nor the people until you have lived yourself into their midst. +The first time I came here I was disappointed. Gradually I began to see +why it was that even the guide-books tell you to come to this quiet, +out-of-the-way place, made up of hovels that were once palaces.' + +'I will wait,' said Livia contentedly. The queer little house, with its +homely furniture, the gentle, picturesque woman who met her at the door, +amused her. It was certainly an adventure. + +Next day, and the days following, they walked about the town, and +Roserra felt that his own luxuriating sensations could hardly fail to be +shared by Livia, though she said little and seemed at times +absent-minded. They strolled among the ruins of the theatre begun under +Augustus, and among the coulisses of the great amphitheatre; they sat +on the granite steps; they went up the hundred steps of the western +tower. From the cloisters of St. Trophime they went across to the museum +opposite, where a kindly little dwarf showed them the altar to Leda, the +statue of Mithras, and the sarcophagi with the Good Shepherd. He sold +them some photographs of Arlesian women: one was very beautiful. 'That +is my sister,' he said shyly. + +When the soul of Autumn made for itself a body, it made Arles. An autumn +city, hinting of every gentle, resigned, reflective way of fading out of +life, of effacing oneself in a world to which one no longer attaches any +value; always remembering itself, always looking into a mournfully +veiled mirror which reflects something at least of what it was, Arles +sits in the midst of its rocky plains, by the side of its river, among +the tombs. Everything there seems to grow out of death, and to be +returning thither. The town rises above its ruins, does not seem to be +even yet detached from them. The remains of the theatre look down on +the public garden; one comes suddenly on a Roman obelisk and the +fragments of Roman walls; a Roman column has been built into the wall of +one of the two hotels which stand in the Forum, now the Place du Forum; +and the modern, the comparatively modern houses, have an air which is +neither new nor old, but entirely sympathetic with what is old. They are +faded, just a little dilapidated, not caring to distinguish themselves +from the faint colours, the aged slumber, of the very ancient things +about them. + +Livia tried to realise what it was that charmed Roserra in all this. To +her there was no comfort in it; it depressed her; in the air itself +there was something of decay. There was a smell of dead leaves +everywhere, the moisture of stone, the sodden dampness of earth, water +forming into little pools on the ground, creeping out of the earth and +into the earth again. There was dust on everything; the trees that close +in almost the whole city as with a leafy wall were dust-grey even in +sunlight. The Aliscamps seemed to her drearier than even a modern +cemetery, and she wondered what it was that drew Roserra to them, with +a kind of fascination. On the way there, along the Avenue Victor Hugo, +there were some few signs of life; the cafés, the Zouaves going in and +out of their big barrack, the carts coming in from the country; and in +the evening the people walked there. But she hated the little melancholy +public garden at the side, with its paths curving upwards to the ruined +walls and arches of the Roman theatre, its low balustrades of crumbling +stone, its faint fountains, greenish grey. It was a place, she thought, +in which no one could ever be young or happy; and the road which went +past it did but lead to the tombs. Roserra told her that Dante, when he +was in hell, and saw the 'modo più amaro' in which the people there are +made into alleys of living tombs, remembered Arles: + + 'Si com' ad Arli ove 'l Rodano stagna.' + +She laughed uneasily, with a half shudder. The tombs are moved aside now +from the Aliscamps, into the little secluded Allée des Tombeaux, where +they line both sides of the way, empty stone trough after empty stone +trough, with here and there a more pompous sarcophagus. There is a quiet +path between them, which she did not even like to walk in, leading to +the canal and the bowling-green; and in the evening the old men creep +out and sit among the tombs. + +At first there was bright sunshine every day, but the sun scorched; and +then it set in to rain. One night a storm wakened her, and it seemed to +her that she had never heard such thunder, or seen such lightning, as +that which shook the old roof under which she lay, and blazed and +flickered at the window until it seemed to be licking up the earth with +liquid fire. The storm faded out in a morning of faint sunshine; only +the rain clung furtively about the streets all day. + +Day after day it rained, and Livia sat in the house, listlessly reading +the novels which she had brought with her, or staring with fierce +impatience out of the window. The rain came down steadily, ceaselessly, +drawing a wet grey curtain over the city. Roserra liked that softened +aspect which came over things in this uncomfortable weather; he walked +every day through the streets in which the water gathered in puddles +between the paving-stones, and ran in little streams down the gutters; +he found a kind of autumnal charm in the dripping trees and soaked paths +of the Aliscamps; a peaceful, and to him pathetic and pleasant, odour of +decay. Livia went out with him once, muffled in a long cloak, and +keeping her whole face carefully under the umbrella. She wanted to know +where he was taking her, and why; she shivered, sneezed, and gave one or +two little coughs. When she saw the ground of the Aliscamps, and the +first trees began to drip upon her umbrella with a faint tap-tapping on +the strained silk, she turned resolutely, and hurried Roserra straight +back to the house. + +After that she stayed indoors day after day, getting more irritable +every day. She took up one book after another, read a little, and then +laid it down. She walked to and fro in the narrow room, with nothing, as +she said, to think about, and nothing to see if she looked out of the +window. There was the square, every stone polished by the rain; the +other houses in the square, most of them shuttered; the little church in +the corner, with its monotonous bell, its few worshippers. She knew them +all; they were mostly women, plain, elderly women; not one of them had +any interest, or indeed existence, for her. She wondered vaguely why +they went backwards and forwards, between their houses and the church, +in such a regular way. Could it really amuse them? Could they really +believe certain things so firmly that it was worth while taking all that +trouble in order to be on the right side at last? She supposed so, and +ended her speculations. + +When Roserra was with her, he annoyed her by not seeming to mind the +weather. He would come in from a walk, and, if she seemed to be busy +reading, would sit down cheerfully by the stove, and really read the +book which he had in his hand. She looked at him over the pages of hers, +hating to see him occupied when she could not fix her mind on anything. +She felt imprisoned; not that she really wanted to go out: it was the +not being able to that fretted her. + +About the time when, if she had been in London, she would have had tea, +the uneasiness came over her most actively. She would go upstairs to her +room, and sit watching herself pityingly in the glass; or she would try +on hat after hat, hats which had come from Paris, and were meant for +Paris or London, hats which she could not possibly wear here, where her +smallest and simplest ones seemed out of place. Sometimes she brought +herself back into a good temper by the mere pleasurable feel of the +things; and she would run downstairs forgetting that she was in Arles. + +One afternoon, when she was in one of her easiest moods, Roserra +persuaded her to attend Benediction with him at the church of Notre Dame +la Major, in the corner of the square. The church was quite dark, and +she could only dimly see the high-altar, draped in white, and with +something white rising up from its midst, like a figure mysteriously +poised among the unlighted candles. Hooded figures passed, and knelt +with bowed heads; presently a light passed across the church, and a lamp +was let down by a chain, lighted, and drawn up again to its place. Then +a few candles were lighted, and only then did she see the priest +kneeling motionless before the altar. The chanting was very homely, like +that in a village church; there was even the village church's harmonium; +but the monotony of one air repeated over and over again brought even to +Livia some sense of a harmony between this half-drowsy service and the +slumbering city outside. They waited until the service was over, the +priests went out, the lamps and the candles were extinguished, and the +hooded figures, after a little silence, began to move again in the +dimness of the church. + +Sometimes she would go with Roserra to the cloisters of St. Trophime, +where Arles, as he said, seemed to withdraw into its most intimate self. +The oddness of the whole place amused her. Every side was built in a +different century: the north in the ninth, the east in the thirteenth, +the west in the fourteenth, and the south in the sixteenth; and the +builders, century by century, have gathered into this sadly battered +court a little of the curious piety of age after age, working here to +perpetuate, not only the legends of the Church, but the legends that +have their home about Arles. Again and again, among these naïve +sculptures, one sees the local dragon, the man-eating Tarasque who has +given its name to Tarascon. The place is full of monsters, and of +figures tortured into strange dislocations. Adam swings ape-like among +the branches of the apple-tree, biting at the leaves before he reaches +the apple. Flames break out among companies of the damned, and the devil +sits enthroned above his subjects. A gentle Doctor of the Church holding +a book, and bending his head meditatively sideways, was shown to Livia +as King Solomon; with, of course, in the slim saint on the other side of +the pillar, the Queen of Sheba. Broken escutcheons, carved in stone, +commemorate bishops on the walls. There is no order, or division of +time; one seems shut off equally from the present and from any +appreciable moment of the past; shut in with the same vague and +timeless Autumn that has moulded Arles into its own image. + +But it was just this, for which Roserra loved Arles above all other +places, that made Livia more and more acutely miserable. Wandering about +the streets which bring one back always to one's starting-point, or +along the boulevards which suggest the beginning of the country, but set +one no further into it, nothing seems to matter very much, for nothing +seems very much to exist. In Livia, as Roserra was gradually finding +out, there was none of that sympathetic submissiveness to things which +meant for him so much of the charm of life. She wanted something +definite to do, somewhere definite to go; her mind took no subtle colour +from things, nor was there any active world within her which could +transmute everything into its own image. She was dependent on an +exterior world, cut to a narrow pattern, and, outside that, nothing had +any meaning for her. He began to wonder if he had made the irremediable +mistake, and, in his preoccupation with that uneasy idea, everything +seemed changed; he, too, began to grow restless. + +Meanwhile Livia was deciding that she certainly had made a mistake, +unless she could, after all, succeed in getting her own way; and to do +that she would have to take things into her own hands, much more +positively than she had yet done. She would walk with him when it was +fine, because there was nothing else to do. Once they walked out to the +surprising remains of the abbey of Mont-Major, and it began to rain, and +they lingered uncomfortably about the ruins and in the subterranean +chapel. She walked back with him, nursing a fine hatred in silence. She +turned it over in her heart, and it grew and gathered, like a snowball +rolled over and over in the snow. It was comprehensive and unreasoning, +and it forgot the small grievance out of which it rose, in a sense of +the vast grievance into which it had swollen. To Roserra such moods, +which were now becoming frequent, were unintelligible, and he suffered +from them like one who has to find his way through a camp of his enemies +in the dark. + +When they got back to the house, Livia would silently take up a book and +sit motionless for hours, turning over the pages without raising her +eyes, or showing a consciousness of his presence. He pretended to do the +same, but his eyes wandered continually, and he had to read every page +twice over. He wanted to speak, but never knew what to say, when she was +in this prickly state of irritation. To her, his critical way of +waiting, and doing nothing, became an oppression. And his silence, and +what she supposed to be his indifference, grew upon her like a heavy +weight, until the silent woman, who sat there reading sullenly, felt the +impulse to rise and fling away the book, and shriek aloud. + +Livia did not say that she wished to go away from Arles, anywhere from +Arles, but the desire spoke in all her silences. She made no complaint, +but Roserra saw an unfriendliness growing up in her eyes which terrified +him. She held him, as she had held him since their first meeting, by a +kind of magnetism which he had come to realise was neither love nor +sympathy. He felt that he could hate her, and yet not free himself from +that influence. What was to be done? He would have to choose; his life +of the future could no longer be his life of the past. His introduction +of a woman to his best friend had been unfortunate, as such +introductions always are, in one way or another. He had tended his soul +for more than half a lifetime, waited upon it delicately, served it with +its favourite food; and now something stronger had come forward and +said: No more. What was it? He had no wish to speculate; it mattered +little whether it was what people called his higher nature, or what they +called his lower nature, which had brought him to this result. At least +he had some recompense. + +When he told Livia that he had decided to go back to Marseilles ('Arles +does not suit you,' he said; 'you have not been well since we came +here') Livia flung herself into his arms with an uncontrollable delight. +On the night before they left, he sat for a long time, alone, under the +Allée des Tombeaux. When he came back, Livia was watching for him from +the window. She ran to the door and opened it. + +It was midday when they reached Marseilles. The sun burned on the blue +water, which lay hot, motionless, and glittering. There was not a breath +of wind, and the dust shone on the roads like a thick white layer of +powder. The light beat downwards from the blue sky, and upwards from the +white dust of the roads. The heat was enveloping; it wrapped one from +head to foot like the caress of a hot furnace. Roserra pressed his hands +to his forehead, as he leaned with Livia over the terrace above the sea; +his head throbbed, it was an effort even to breathe. He remembered the +grey coolness of the Allée des Tombeaux, where the old men sat among the +tombs. A nausea, a suffocating nausea, rose up within him as he felt the +heat and glare of this vulgar, exuberant paradise of snobs and tourists. +He sickened with revolt before this over-fed nature, sweating the fat of +life. He looked at Livia; she stood there, perfectly cool under her +sunshade, turning to watch a carriage that came towards them in a cloud +of dust. She was once more in her element, she was quite happy; she had +plunged back into the warmth of life out of that penetential chillness +of Arles; and it was with real friendliness that she turned to Roserra, +as she saw his eyes fixed upon her. + + + + + SEAWARD LACKLAND. + + +Seaward Lackland was born on a day of storm, when his father was out at +sea in his fishing-boat; and the mother vowed that if her husband came +home alive the boy should be dedicated to the Lord. Isaac Lackland was +the only one of his mates who came home alive out of the storm; and the +boy got the queer name of Seaward because his mother had looked out to +sea, as soon as she had strength enough to be propped up in bed, praying +for her husband every minute of the time until he came back. She could +see the sea through the little leaded windows of the cottage which stood +right on the edge of the cliff above Carbis Bay. The child's earliest +recollection was of the shape and colour of the waves, between the +diamond leadings, as he was held up to the window in his mother's arms. +It was like looking at pictures in frames, he thought afterwards. + +The child was dedicated to the Lord. Isaac knelt down by the bedside and +prayed over him as Mary held him in her arms, and when he got up from +his knees he said: 'Mary, if the boy lives, please God, he shall have +his schooling; and I wouldn't say but he might make a fine preacher of +the Gospel.' + +'It was little schooling Peter ever had,' said his wife. + +'Peter was wanted in the boat; this youngster can wait.' + +'Oh, Isaac, do you think he'll go to America, when he's grown up, like +Peter?' + +'No, Mary, he'll not go farther than Land's End by land, or Mount's Bay +by sea, if what I feel is the truth. We've given him to the Lord, and I +say the Lord will lend him to us.' + +Mary said under her breath, 'Oh, please, Lord Jesus,' several times +over, with her eyes tight shut, as she did when she seemed to pray best. +Her first son had been drowned at sea, her second had run away from home +and gone to America; and she hardly dared think of what would happen to +this one. But they had done what they could. Would not God watch over +him, and would he not be kind to her because she had given up some of +her rights in the child? + +The child grew strong and gentle; he learned quickly what he was taught, +and when he had learned it he would set himself to think out what it +really meant, and why it meant that and not something else. He was +always good to his mother, and as soon as he had learned to read he +would read to her out of a few books which she cared for, the Bible +chiefly, and Bogatzky's 'Golden Treasury,' and the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' +Through reading it over and over to his mother, he got to know a good +part of the Bible by heart, and he was always asking what this and that +puzzling passage meant exactly, and, when he got no satisfying answer, +trying to puzzle out a meaning for himself. + +Every day he went in to the Wesleyan day-school at St. Ives, and as he +walked there and back along the cliff-path, generally alone, all sorts +of whimsical ideas turned over in his head, ideas that came to him out +of books, and out of what people said, and out of the queer world in +which he found himself, half land and half water. It was always changing +about him and yet always there, in the same place, with its regular and +yet unaccountable tides and harvests. Sometimes there was a storm at sea +and all the boats did not come back, and the people he had talked with +yesterday had gone, like the stone he kicked over the cliff in walking, +or he saw them carried up the beach with covered faces. Death is always +about the life of fishermen, and he saw it more visibly and a thing more +natural and expected than it must seem to most children. + +He had always loved the sea, and it was his greatest delight to be taken +out when the pilchards were in the bay, and to sit in the boat watching +the silver shoals as they crowded into the straining net. He waited for +the cry of 'Heva!' from the watchman on the hill, and often sat beside +him, or stared out to sea through his long telescope, longing to be the +first to catch the moving glitter of silver. He talked with the men +'like a grown-up chap' they said, and they talked with him as if he +were a man, telling him stories, not the stories they would have told +children, but things out of their own lives, and ideas that came into +their heads as they lay out at sea all night in the drift-boats. + +There was one old man with whom the boy liked best to talk, because he +had been a sailor in his youth and had gone through all the seas and +landed at many ports, and had been shipwrecked on a wild island and +lived for a year among savages, and he was not like the other men, who +had always been fishers, and thought Plymouth probably as good as +London. Old Minshull seemed to the boy a very clever as well as a +far-travelled person, and he discussed some of his difficulties with him +and got help, he thought, from the old man. + +His difficulties were chiefly religious ones. He knew much more about +the Bible than about the world, and his imagination was constantly at +work on those absorbing stories in Kings and Judges, and all sorts of +cloudy pictures which he made up for himself out of obscure hints in the +Prophets and the Apocalypse. The old Cornishman knew his Bible pretty +well, but not so well as the boy; and the boy would bring the book out +on the cliff and read over some of the confusing things; murders, with +God's approval, it seemed, and treacheries which set nations free, and +are called 'blessed,' and the sins of the saints; and then mysterious +curses and unintelligible idolatries, and the Scarlet Woman and Jonah's +whale. He liked best the Old Testament, and had formed a clear idea of +God the Father as a perfectly just but constantly avenging deity; it +pained him if he could not bring everything into agreement with this +idea; and in the New Testament he was often perplexed by what Jesus +seemed to do and undo in the divine affairs. The old sailor turned over +all these matters in his head; they were new to him, but he faced them, +and he was sometimes able to suggest just the common-sense way out of +the difficulty. + +When Mary Lackland thought the boy old enough to understand the full +meaning of it, she told him how, on the day of his birth, he had been +dedicated to God, and she told him that he was never to forget this, +but to think much of God's claims upon him, and to be certain of a +special divine guardianship. He listened gravely, and promised. From +that time he began to look on God, not with less awe, but with a more +intimate sense of his continual presence, and a kind of filial feeling +grew up in him quite simply, a love of God, which came as a great +reality into his life. He felt that he must never dishonour this divine +father, either by anything he did or by the way in which he thought of +him even. Did not God, in a sense, depend on him as a father depends on +his son, to keep his honour spotless, to be more jealous of that honour +than of his own? That, or something like it, only half-defined to +himself, was what he felt about God, to whom his whole life had been +dedicated. + +When he had finished his schooling, the boy joined his father in the +boats, first, only by day, in the pilchard fishery, and then in the +drift-boats that went far out, at night, in the herring season. His +father was a silent man and rarely spoke to him; the other men half +feared and half despised him, because he would not drink or play cards +with them, and seemed to be generally either reading or thinking. He +thought a great deal in those long nights, and when he was eighteen he +began to be seriously alarmed because, so far as he knew, he was not +converted. + +He knew that he tried to do what was right, that he kept all the +commandments, prayed night and morning, and that he had this instinctive +love of God; but, according to the Methodists, all that was not enough. +There must be a moment, they held, in every man's life when he becomes +actively conscious of salvation; for every man there is a road to +Damascus. Seaward Lackland had not yet come to that great crisis, and he +waited for it, wondering what it was and when he would come to it. + +He began to be troubled about his sins. The Bible said that every evil +thought was a sin, and he did not know how many evil thoughts had come +into his mind since he had become conscious of good and evil. A heavy +burden of guilt weighed upon him; he could not put it aside; the more +he thought of God, the more conscious did he become of that awful gulf +which lay between him and God. Conversion, he had heard, bridged that +gulf, or your sins fell off into it and were no more seen, even if, +somewhere out of sight, they still existed, and would exist through all +eternity. He would have despaired but for the hope of that miracle. And +if I die, he said to himself, before I am converted? + +He had always gone regularly to chapel on Sundays and as often as he +could on week-days, but now he began to stay to the prayer-meetings +after the service, and the minister at St. Ives noticed him, and often +prayed with him and talked with him, but to no avail. A year went by, +and he grew more despondent; even his love for God seemed to be +slackening. One winter evening he heard that a famous revivalist was +coming to Lelant. He thought he would go and hear him, then something +seemed to urge him not to go; and he walked half-way there, and then +back again, unable to make up his mind. Then, thinking that it was the +devil who was trying to keep him away, he turned and walked resolutely +to Lelant. + +When he reached the chapel the service had begun. They were singing +'Jesu, lover of my soul,' and the preacher was standing inside the +communion-rail (he liked to be nearer the people than he could be in the +pulpit), and, as Seaward had the first glimpse of his face, he was +singing as if every word of the hymn meant something wonderful to him. +His eyes were wide open and shining; he held the closed hymn-book in +both hands, rigid in front of him, and the people seemed already to have +begun to feel that magnetic influence which he rarely failed to +establish between himself and his hearers. After the hymn he stretched +out his hand with a sudden gesture, and the people stood motionless for +a moment and then gradually sank down on their knees as he began to pray +rapidly. He seemed to be talking with God as if God were there in the +midst of them, and as he passed from supplication into a kind of vivid +statement, meant for the people rather than for the ear of God, there +seemed to be a dialogue going on, as if the answers which he gave were +hardly his own answers. He ended abruptly, and, without the harmonium, +started an almost incoherent marching-song which was well known at all +revivals. 'Hallelujah, send the glory!' he sang, and the voices of the +people rose louder and louder and feet began to beat time to the heavy +swing of the tune. Then he read the lesson and, without a pause, gave +out the text, and began to speak. + +Seaward Lackland had stepped into a pew near the door, and in the +furthest corner of the chapel. Something in the preacher's voice had +thrilled him, and he could not take his eyes off the long lean face, +with its eyes like two burning coals, as it seemed to him, under a high +receding forehead, from which the longish hair was brushed straight +back. A huge moustache seemed to eat up the whole lower part of the +face; and, as the man spoke, you saw nothing but the eyes and the +quivering moustache. He began quietly, but, from the first, in the +manner of one who has some all-important, and perhaps fatal, secret to +tell. An uneasiness spread gradually through the chapel, which +increased as he went on, with more urgency. People shifted in their +seats, looked sideways at their neighbours, as if they feared to have +betrayed themselves. Seaward felt himself turning hot and cold, for no +reason that he could think of, and he took out his handkerchief and +wiped his forehead. Near him he saw a young woman begin to cry, quite +quietly, and a man not far off drew long breaths, that he could hear, +almost like groans. The preacher's voice sounded like pathetic music, +and he heard the tones rather than the words, tones which seemed to +plead with him like music, asking something of him, as music did; and he +wanted to respond; and he realised that it was his sin that was keeping +him back from somehow completing the harmony, and he heard the +preacher's voice talking with his soul, as if no one were there but they +two. And God? God, perhaps. + +By this time many people in the chapel were weeping, men groaned +heavily, some jumped up crying 'Hallelujah!' and when the preacher ended +and said, 'Now let us have silent prayer,' and came down into the +aisle, and moved from pew to pew, one after another, as he spoke to +them, got up, and went to the communion-rail, and knelt there, some of +them with looks of great happiness. As Seaward saw the preacher coming +near him, he felt a horrible fear, he did not know of what; and he rose +quietly and stepped out into the night. But there, as he stood listening +to some exultant voices which he still heard crying 'Hallelujah!' and as +he felt the comfort of the cool air about him, and looked up at the +stars and the thin white clouds which were rushing across the moon, a +sense of quiet and well-being came over him, and he felt as if some +bitter thing had been taken out of his soul, and he were free to love +God and life at the same time, and not, as he had done till then, with +alternate pangs of regret. 'If God so loved the world,' he found himself +repeating; and the whole mercy of the text enveloped him. He walked home +along the cliff like one in a dream: he only hoped not to waken out of +that happiness. + +From this time, year by year, Seaward Lackland grew more eager to do +some work for God. He had made few friends among the young men and women +of his own age; to the women he seemed at once too cold and too earnest, +and the men were not quite certain of the comradeship of one who had so +much book-learning, and who was so full of strange ideas. He did not +mean to be unfriendly, but he had not the qualities that go to the easy +making of friendships; and he found no one, neither man nor woman, with +whom he had anything in common. The men respected him, for he was a good +fisherman; but the women had for the most part a certain contempt for +this large-boned, dull-eyed, heavy-jawed young man, who was never at his +ease when he was with them, and who waited on no occasions for meeting +them when they might have liked his company. The minister at St. Ives +had noticed him and asked him sometimes to come and have a talk with him +in his study. One day Lackland, warmed out of his reserve, had been +talking so well that the minister said to him: 'I think we must have +you as a local preacher, Lackland. What do you say to it?' He said +quietly: 'I would like to try, sir.' + +A few weeks afterwards, when the quarterly 'plan' was handed in at the +Lacklands' cottage, and Mrs. Lackland had unfolded it eagerly, to see +who were appointed to take the services at Carbis, she came suddenly +upon a name which startled her so much, that the broad sheet of paper +fluttered off her knees to the floor. 'My boy,' she said, as Seaward +picked it up, and handed it back to her with a smile, 'I have been +praying for this ever since I dedicated you to the Lord. Now I hardly +know what there is left for me to pray for.' + +'Pray that I may be steadfast in the faith, mother,' said Seaward. + +'I will, my son; but I wouldn't mind trusting him for that.' + +Everybody in the village was in Carbis Chapel to hear Seaward Lackland's +first sermon. He was not afraid of them; he had something to say, and he +was to speak for God; he said quietly all that was in his mind to say. + +After the sermon, while he was walking across to the cottage with his +father and mother, both very happy, and saying nothing at all, one or +two of the older people stayed behind to discuss the sermon. 'Do you +think he is quite orthodox?' said one of them, dubiously. 'I don't +know,' said another; 'there were some ideas, sure enough, I never heard +before; but I wouldn't say for that they weren't orthodox.' 'We must be +careful,' said a third; 'these young people think too much.' 'A great +deal too much,' said the first, 'once you begin to think for yourself, +what's to stop you?' + + * * * * * + +From the time of his first sermon Seaward Lackland looked upon his +dedication to God as not only complete, but, in a sense, accepted. He +had offered himself as an interpreter of the will of God to men, and +power was put into his hand. Now, he said to himself, if I should prove +a backslider, that would be a calamity for God also. The thought of his +sins, which he believed God to have pardoned, came back to him again and +again; he saw them still existing, like atoms which refused to go out +into nothingness; even if pardoned, not literally extinct. What if his +soul were one day to reinherit them, to slip back into their midst, +having let go of the hand of God, which needed at all times to hold him +up out of that deadly gulf? And now that he, who needed help so much, +had taken it upon him to try to help others, could he be sure that he +was rightly helping them? Could he, in all obedience, be sure that he +was interpreting the divine will aright? + +He had never found help in any book but the Bible. Once or twice he had +borrowed a commentary from the minister at St. Ives, but he could not +read these dry and barren discourses, which seemed to tell you so many +unnecessary things, but never the things that you wanted to know. He put +them aside, and the conviction came to him that with prayer and thought +everything would explain itself to him. Did not the Holy Ghost still +descend into men's minds, illuminating that patient darkness? He waited +more and more expectantly on that divine light, and it seemed to come +to him with a more punctual answer. At night, on the water, while the +other men lay across the seats, smoking their pipes in silence, he would +withdraw into his own mind until visible things no longer existed, and +he was alone in a darkness which began to glow with soft light. Only +then did he seem to see quite clearly, and what he saw was not always +what he had reasoned out for himself; but it was a solution, and it came +irresistibly. + +Once, when he had fallen asleep, he dreamed a dream from which he awoke +with a cry of terror. In his dream he had seen an evil spirit (it had +the appearance of a man, but he knew it to be an evil spirit because of +the infinitely evil joy which shone through the melancholy of its eyes), +and he was sitting talking with the evil spirit on the edge of a tall +cliff above the sea; and it said to him: Do you know that Seaward +Lackland is damned? and he said No, and it said: He is damned because he +has sinned the sin against the Holy Ghost; and the evil joy began to +grow and grow in its eyes, and it was watching him as if to discover +whether he knew that he himself was Seaward Lackland, and he tried to +say No again, more loudly, and as he drew back, the cliff began to +crumble away, but very slowly, so that a hundred years might have passed +while he felt himself slipping down into the gulf of the sea; and his +own cry awakened him. + +He knew that he had been dreaming, but the dream might have been a +message. He knew the text in the Bible, and he had often wondered what +it meant. Had not Jesus said: 'All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be +forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be +forgiven unto men'? It was the most terrible saying in the Bible. What +was the sin which even God could not forgive? He remembered that +reiteration in Matthew: 'And whosoever speaketh a word against the Son +of Man, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the +Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, nor in +the world to come.' Might it not be possible for a man to sin that sin +in ignorance? Would his ignorance avail him, if he had actually sinned +it? These thoughts troubled him strangely, and he tried to put them away +from him. + +They came back to him again, and more searchingly. Since his conversion +he had been as much troubled by the thought of his past sins as he had +been before that change occurred. They were put away; yes, but was it +not a kind of putting off the payment of a debt which might be still +accumulating? And now, if there was one sin which could never be atoned +for, and if he had committed that one sin? It was possible, and the +thought filled him with horror. + +One July night, when the boats were away in the North Sea, he set +himself to think the whole matter out; he would get at the truth, and +not endure this doubt and trouble any longer. He was sitting in the +stern of the boat, the other men were talking in low voices, but he was +used not to hear them. He put his elbows on his knees, and bowed his +head over till his hands met above it. He shut his eyes and stared hard +into the darkness under his eyelids. The boat rocked gently: he wanted +to keep quite still, so that he might think, and he put his feet against +the sides of the boat, steadying himself. + +As he sat there, annihilating thought that he might think the more +deeply, it seemed to him after a time as if all his past life came back +to him under a new aspect, as something which had been wrong from the +beginning. Had he not, as a child, been angry, greedy, loving only his +own pleasure, ungrateful to those who had refused him any of his desires +for his own good? Had he not been heedless and self-willed as a young +man, had he not even made a boast of his own righteousness after he had +found Christ? Was there a day since he had come to a knowledge of good +and evil when he had not sinned at least in thought? He imagined God +adding up all those sins, from the animal sins of childhood to the sins +of the mature mind. 'The Lamb's book of life': he remembered the words, +and they became terrible to him, for he saw all the pages in which his +account was written. For him it would be the book of eternal death. + +He lifted his head and looked up. God was up there, beyond that roof +which was his pavement. He was afraid of the great loneliness which lay +between him and God. + +He looked around. The drift-net lay out for a mile along the water, its +brown corks heaving gently, at regular intervals. Other boats lay +alongside, with their nets adrift; some of the boats were silent, the +men all asleep; from others he heard voices, a sudden laugh, and then +silence. The water was all about him, and the water was friendly, a +great breathing thing, that had him in its arms. He only felt at home +when he was on the water, because the water was so living, and the land +lay like a dead thing, always the same, but for the change of its +coverings. There was in the Bible one of those hard sayings: that in +heaven 'there shall be no more sea.' It was too difficult for him to +understand. + +The sea comforted him a little, but he said to himself: 'I do not want +to be dandled to sleep like a child; I want to see the truth.' Had he, +or had he not, among the numberless sins, which he had seen God adding +up in his book, committed the one sin which should never be pardoned? He +did not know what that sin was, but, he argued, my ignorance makes no +difference. If I pick toad-stools for mushrooms, and eat them, I shall +pay the penalty, just the same as if I had eaten them on purpose. The +Bible, it was true, did not tell you, as far as he could discover; but +there must be people who knew. There was the minister, who had a +reference Bible, and knew Hebrew. He would certainly know. + +'When we get back to St. Ives,' said Lackland to himself, 'I will go and +see Mr. Curnock; meanwhile the less I think about this the better.' But +there was one thought that he could not put out of his mind. Suppose he +had not sinned the unpardonable sin, had he not sinned so often, and so +deeply, that God ought not to pardon him, if he were really a just +judge, and not swayed, as men are, by a pity which is only one form of +partiality? He had always conceived sternly of God; the Jehovah of the +Old Testament was always before him, a mighty avenger, a God of battles +and judgments, inexorably just. If God was also love, God might forgive +him; he would want to forgive him; but would it be right to accept +mercy, if that mercy lowered his creator in his own eyes? The thought +stung him, raced through him like poison; he could not escape from it. +His old sense of honour towards God came back on him with redoubled +force. If God were just, God would not forgive him. Did he not love God +so much that he would suffer eternal misery, gladly, in order that God +might be just? + +When the boats went home with their fish, Lackland had only one thought: +to go and see Mr. Curnock at St. Ives. He walked in from Carbis that +evening, and found the minister alone in his study. Mr. Curnock +respected him; he had gone steadily on, year after year, preaching +whenever he was wanted, and though one or two people had complained that +his sermons were not strictly orthodox, most of the people spoke well of +him; many said that he had helped them. On that night he was very +serious, and he seemed to be hesitating to say all that he had to say. +At last he admitted that it was the text in the Bible which was +troubling him. + +Mr. Curnock went up to his shelves and looked along them. 'I know,' he +said, 'that many people have been needlessly disturbed about that +saying. And, as the Bible does not tell us, we cannot be quite certain +what that sin is. But if I can find one or two passages that recur to +me, in some of the people who have written about the Gospels, I think +they will throw some light on the matter.' He took down a big black +book, and turned over the pages. 'Here, for instance: "Not a particular +_act_ of sin but a _state_ of wilful, determined opposition to the Holy +Spirit, is meant." That is very much what I should imagine to be the +truth. But it is a little vague, perhaps?' + +'I don't thoroughly see it,' said Lackland. 'The Bible says "blasphemy +against the Holy Ghost."' + +'Well now,' said the minister, taking down another book, 'here is a +translation from a Spaniard of the sixteenth century, who has been +called "a Quaker before his time." He puts things quaintly, but I like +him better than the formal people. Let me see: "Whence, considering that +..." No, that doesn't concern us; here it is: "do I come to understand +that a man then sins against the Holy Spirit, when, with mental +malignity he persuades men that the works of the Holy Spirit are the +works of the devil, he being soul-convinced of the contrary." Is that +clear?' + +'That's clearer,' said Lackland. + +'He goes on, on the next page,' said Mr. Curnock, '"And I understand +that sin against the Holy Ghost that worked in Christ was inexcusable, +for it could not spring save from the most depraved minds, obstinate in +depravity."' Mr. Curnock shut the book, and put it back in its place. +'Now, do you see,' he said, sitting down by the table, 'this awful sin, +such as it is, could not be sinned unconsciously; its very essence is +that it is a deliberate rejection of what we know to be truth. I might +almost say that to sin it, a man must make up his mind that he will do +so.' + +'I think I see,' said Lackland, staring before him; 'and I was wrong +there, for certain: I never committed that sin. But, all the same, I +don't feel quite clear yet.' + +'Why is that?' said the minister. + +'Have you never thought, sir,' said Lackland, 'that the only return we +can make to God for his love to us, is to love him more than we love +ourselves?' + +'But certainly,' said Mr. Curnock. + +'Well,' said Lackland, 'do you see it might be that a good Christian +would think most of saving his own soul.' + +'That is his duty,' said Mr. Curnock. + +'But are they both true?' said Lackland. + +'Both things you have said are perfectly true,' said Mr. Curnock; 'only, +I see no contradiction between them.' + +'Thank you, sir,' said Lackland, getting to his feet; 'I'll go and think +it all over; I'm not very ready at thinking, I have to set my mind to +things slowly; and you've given me a good lot to think over. Good-night, +Mr. Curnock.' + +'And now, my dear Lackland,' said the minister, as he opened the door of +the house, 'above all, don't worry over a text which none of us are very +sure about. Be certain of one thing, that God's mercy is infinite, and +that he'll bring you through.' + +Lackland walked slowly away from the door, along the terrace above the +sea, and then more rapidly, as he came out on the rough path along the +cliff. The wind blew sharply against him; the moon glittered in the sky, +among a multitude of glittering stars; and he heard the sea screaming +and tearing at the pebbles, as he sat down on the edge of the cliff, +just before getting to Carbis Bay, and looked along the uneasy water, +which quivered all over with little waves, hunching themselves up, one +after another, and leaping forward, all in a white froth, as they struck +upon the beach. 'They are like the lives of men,' thought Lackland; 'all +that effort, a struggling onward, a getting to the journey's end: see, +that wave is making for just that old tin can, and it has hit it, and +the can rolls over and remains, and the wave is gone.' He drew his +breath in sharply, drawing up the salt smell of the sea into his +nostrils, and sat there for a long time thinking. + +No, he had not committed the sin against the Holy Ghost: God could still +pardon him. But was it right, was it just, that God should pardon him? +One after another of the hard sayings of the Old Testament came into his +mind: it was clearly impossible to fulfil every one of those +obligations; he could but strive towards them, and fail, and fall back +on the mercy of God. At that thought something rose up in him like a +pride on behalf of God, and he said to himself: 'I will never ask God to +stoop in order that I may rise.' As he said the words he looked round +him; the aspect of the place, which he had known all his life, seemed to +change, to become dim, to become mysteriously distinct, and he saw that +he was sitting where he had sat with the evil spirit in his dream. He +got up hastily and went indoors. + +Night after night Seaward Lackland went out with the fishing-boats; he +did his share of the work just as usual, took his share of the profits, +slept by day, and sat awake by night; and, to all about him, he was the +same man as before. But an ecstasy was growing up within him which kept +his own ears shut to everything but one interior voice; he was +meditating a great sacrifice; and a great happiness began to inhabit his +soul. 'If God so loved the world,' he repeated, as he had repeated it on +the night of his conversion, 'that he gave his only begotten Son ...' He +brooded over the words, wondering if a mere man could imitate that +supreme surrender. He was only a poor fisherman; the disciples had been +that, and Jesus had called them to leave their fathers and their nets +and follow him. Both his father and mother were dead; no one in the +world depended on him; he was free to give up the world, if he chose, +for God. The thought intoxicated him; he saw nothing but the thought, +like a light beckoning to him in the darkness: perhaps calling him to +destruction. The pride of a vast magnanimity thrilled through him: he +would sin the one sin that God could not pardon, in order that God +should deal with him according to his justice, and not according to his +mercy. He would, as he had dreamed when a child, prefer God's honour to +his own; he would give up heaven in order that God might be worthy of +his own idea of him. I will sin, he said to himself, the sin against the +Holy Ghost, and I will do it for the love of God. + +When he had made up his mind, and was full of an exultant inner peace +because of it, he still waited and pondered, not knowing quite how he +would do the thing he had decided to do. It must be done publicly, and +he must suffer for it here, as he was to suffer for it hereafter. It +must be done in Carbis Chapel, when his turn came to preach there. + +It was some time before his turn came, and he waited with a feverish +impatience. He tried to think out what he should say, but he could not +imagine anything that seemed to him sufficiently 'obstinate in +depravity.' He remembered the phrase, 'when, with mental malignity, he +persuades men that the works of the Holy Spirit are the works of the +devil'; and he tried to work out an argument, at which he shuddered, +which would seem to show Jesus as one working miracles with the help of +Satan. At first he could not put two words together, but gradually the +task became easier; strange arguments came into his head, which seemed +almost plausible to himself; he wondered if it was actually the devil, +for his own ends, helping him. He did not write down a word, though he +was accustomed to write every word of his sermons; every word, as he +thought it, stamped itself in his mind, like a seal pressed into burning +wax. + +The night before the Sunday on which he was to preach his last sermon, +he lay in bed trying to sleep, but unable to close his eyes on the +darkness that seemed to palpitate about him. He got out of bed, threw +open the window, and leaned out. The night was quite black, he could see +nothing, but he could hear the waves splashing upon the sand down below +in the bay. A chill wind bit at his face, and made his body shiver. He +shut the window, and lay down in bed again, staring for the dawn. He +felt cold right through to the heart, and he felt horribly alone. By +to-morrow night he would have cut himself adrift; he would be like that +seaweed which the sea was tossing upon the sand, and dragging away from +the sand. For God's sake he would have cast off God, and he had no other +friend. To-morrow he would have none. His resolution never wavered, but +he no longer wished the dawn to come quickly; he would have liked, when +he saw the first light on the window-panes, to have held back the dawn. + +He was to preach in the evening, and in the morning he sat in the chapel +and heard the minister from St. Ives telling of the mercy of God. His +text was: 'I say unto you that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one +sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons which +need no repentance.' He spoke of salvation for all; not a word was said +about that one exception. Lackland felt a bitter smile twitching at the +corners of his lips. + +At night he made his own tea as usual, and walked up and down the room, +often looking at the clock, until it was time to go across to the +chapel. He saw the people passing his window on their way; some of them +looked in, saw him, and nodded in a friendly manner. He looked again at +the clock; now it was time for him to go, and he went into a corner of +the room, knelt down, and prayed to God for strength to deny him. Then +he walked rapidly across to the chapel. + +The chapel was very full, it seemed to him oppressively hot, and he felt +the blood flushing his forehead. Many of the people remembered +afterwards that they had noticed something strange in his manner from +the moment in which he set foot on the steps of the pulpit. They were +quick to recognise the outward signs of a flame lighted within; and they +anticipated a fine sermon. His first prayer was very short, but it was +like a last confession. Each word seemed to live with a sharp, painful +life of its own; the words cried out, and called down heaven for an +answer. The text was a verse out of the twenty-fourth chapter of St. +Matthew: 'Then if any man shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or +there; believe it not.' It was not the first time he had chosen a +strange text. He began slowly, and with an unusual solemnity. It seemed +to him that they were not understanding him aright. As he went on, his +voice, which had at first been low, grew louder; he spoke as if he were +hurrying through some message which had been laid upon him to deliver; +yet with the calmness of one who has mastered his own fever. He was +speaking the most terrible words they had ever heard, and they were at +first too bewildered even to think. As he went on, they began to look at +one another, wondering if he were mad or they; one or two women near the +door got up quietly and went out; men stirred in their seats; a great +shudder went through the whole congregation. Blasphemies such as they +had never dreamed of filled their ears, dazed their senses; and Seaward +Lackland stood there calmly, like a martyr, one of them said afterwards; +the sweat stood out on his forehead, but he spoke in an even voice: was +it Seaward Lackland or was it the devil who stood there denying God, +denying the Holy Spirit? There were those who looked up at the ceiling +above them, thinking that the roof would fall in and bury them with the +blasphemer. But as heaven did not stir in its own defence, it was for +them to assume the defence of heaven. An old class leader stood up in +his pew, near the communion-rail, and turning his back on the preacher, +said in a loud voice: 'I entreat you all to listen to this man no +longer, but to go instantly home, and pray God Almighty to forgive you +for what you have heard this day.' Lackland stood silent, and every one +in the chapel got up and went quickly out, the old class-leader the +last; and Lackland was left alone in the chapel, standing before the +open Bible in the pulpit. He fell on his knees and covered his face with +his hands: 'O God, forgive me,' he prayed, 'for what I have done for +thee to-day.' + + * * * * * + +From that day Seaward Lackland was an outcast in the village. The mates +with whom he shared the boat and the nets refused to go to sea in his +company, lest they should share a judgment reserved for him, and all be +drowned together. He accepted his fate without protest, and, as one +thing after another slipped out of his hands, made no complaint. When +there was nothing else for him to do, he drove a cart which used to +carry the fish from the boats to the salting-cellars, and afterwards +from the cellars to the railway station, where they were sent in barrels +to the nearest port for Genoa and Leghorn. He was too poor now to live +in his cottage, and housed with some others as poor as himself, in a +half-fallen shanty on the way to Lelant. Even his housemates mocked him, +and held themselves more decent folks than he. It was thought that his +brain had weakened, for he became more and more eccentric in his ways, +and got to talk with himself, for hours together, in a low voice, but +with the gestures of one explaining something to an unseen disputant. +One day as he was racing up the hill by the side of his cart, urging on +the horses, his foot slipped, and he fell under the near wheel, which +had crushed into his breast-bone before the horses could be stopped. He +was carried back, and laid on his ragged bed; and was just able to ask +those about him to fetch the minister from St. Ives. He was not quite +dead when the minister came, and he said 'Amen,' simply, to the prayer +which the minister offered up for him. Then, as he seemed anxious to say +something, the minister stooped down, and, to help him, said: 'Perhaps +you want to tell us why you sinned against God ...' he was going to add, +'and that you repent of it, and hope for salvation,' but the dying man, +in a very faint but ecstatic voice, said: 'Because I loved God more than +I loved myself'; and so died, with a great joy on his face. But the +minister shook his head sorrowfully, not understanding what he meant. + + + + + EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF HENRY LUXULYAN. + + +When Henry Luxulyan died in Venice, a few years ago, he left a written +request that all his papers should be sent to me under seal. He was a +townsman of mine, and that, I think, had been almost the only link +between us, though I had known him from childhood, and we used to meet, +more or less accidentally, and at long intervals, all through his life. +As a boy he had few friends; he did not seek them; and I was never sure +that he looked upon me as in any real sense a friend. It was always +vaguely supposed that he was very clever, and as he took part in no +boyish games, and did not ride, or swim, or even walk much, but seemed +to brood, and linger, and be thinking, it was supposed that he had +interests of his own, and would one day be or do something remarkable. +He was never communicative about anything, but once or twice in later +years, he spoke to me of his historical studies, and I gathered that he +was making researches (for a book, I supposed) into the life of Attila: +a subject remote and gloomy enough, I thought, to be naturally +attractive to him. For some years I lost sight of him altogether, and +then, to my surprise, met him at the house of a German Baron and his +wife, who were settled in London, where they entertained lavishly. It +was the last house at which I had ever expected to meet him; though +indeed the Baroness was a woman of considerable learning, and very +intelligent and sympathetic. I found that he had become her librarian, +and was living in the house. He looked ill and restless. Whenever I +dined at the house, he was always there. I noticed that the Baroness +treated him more like a friend than a librarian; appealing to him on +every occasion as if he had the management of the whole household. I +never had much private talk with him, but he seemed glad to see me, and +referred sometimes, but never very definitely, to his work, which I +encouraged him to persevere with. He seemed almost pathetically alone; +but I remembered that he had never cared to be otherwise. The nervous +restlessness which I had observed in him was more marked every time that +I saw him; and it was with no surprise that I heard he had broken down, +and was in Venice, trying to recover. But it was in Venice that he took +the fever of which he died. + +I never knew why he left that strange request that his papers should be +sent to me; nor was there any message among them, or the least +indication of what he wanted me to do with them. Most of them were +concerned with the life of Attila, but there were not three properly +finished chapters; and the mass of fragments, quotations, references, +tentative notes, mutually destructive and unresolved conjectures, +baffled my utmost endeavours, and remained for me, and I fear must +always remain, so much lost labour, like an enigma of which the key is +missing. But in the midst of these papers, thrust as if hurriedly into +one of the bundles, so that the string had cut into the outer leaves of +loose manuscripts, there was a thin book bound in parchment, almost +filled with Luxulyan's close, uneasy writing. It was a journal, many +times begun and relinquished, ending with a date not many days before +his death. Between the pages were two letters, in a woman's handwriting. +I burnt the letters without reading them; then I read the journal. + +What I print here is printed with but few omissions; only I have changed +the names, and not left any allusion, as far as I know, to circumstances +which it is likely that any one could easily identify. For the omissions +I make myself wholly responsible; as, indeed, for the printing of the +journal at all. It seems to me a genuine document; odd, disconcerting, +like the man who wrote it; profoundly disconcerting to me, on reading +it, as I discovered the real subterranean being whom I had known, during +his lifetime, only by a few, scarcely perceptible outlines on the +surface. Such as it is, I give it here, reserving till afterwards +something more which I shall have to say by way of comment or epilogue. + + * * * * * + +April 5.--I have been talking with the doctor to-day, and he tells me +that my nerves are seriously out of order. There, of course, he is quite +right, and he tells me nothing I did not know already. Only, why tell +me? That is just what it does me no good to think about. If I am to keep +in even so shaky an equilibrium as this, which at least might be worse, +it is essential for me to forget there is any danger. What folly, to be +a doctor and honest! + +For my part, I was quite frank with him. I told him it was terrible, to +be alone and to think about death every day of one's life. He put out a +soothing hand professionally, and began to say something about 'with +care' and 'I see no reason why,' and so forth; 'no reason why, with +care, you should not live, well----' 'How long,' I interrupted him, as +he hesitated. 'Thirty years, forty years,' he said confidently, 'why +not? I tell you there is no reason why you should not die an old man.' +And he thought he was comforting me! I only said, 'It is horrible.' 'In +heaven's name,' he said, with real amazement, 'what is horrible?' I told +him: this dwindling away, this continual losing of all the forces that +hold one to life, this inevitable encroachment of the other thing, the +darkness; and the uncertainty of it all, except the ending. 'Come now,' +he said, as if he were arguing with a child, 'be reasonable; you don't +expect to live for ever?' 'That is just it,' I said; and then I put it +to him: 'don't you find it horrible to think of?' 'I never think of it,' +he said. 'I have to see to it every day. One accustoms oneself to the +things one sees every day. You brood over it because it is hidden away +from you.' + +He said that as if he was saying something fine, courageous, even +intelligent. + +I shivered as he spoke so lightly of seeing people die every day, and I +said, 'You think nothing of it!' 'To me,' he said, more seriously, 'it +is the one quite natural thing in the world. One is tired, one lies +down, one sleeps. And even if one isn't conscious of being tired, there +is nothing so good as sleep.' It struck me that he was quoting from +Marcus Aurelius, in a sort of roundabout way, and I let him go on +talking; but when he looked at me and said: 'I have never met any one +before who worried over the thought that he would have to die when he +was seventy, eighty, ninety: how do you know you won't live to be +ninety?' the simplicity of the man struck me as being laughable; a child +could have reasoned better, and I said: 'If I live to be ninety I shall +never have passed a day without thinking about death, and I know that I +am logically right in never losing sight of the only thing in the world +which is of infinite importance. You call it morbid, but what if only I +am wide awake, after all, and you others are walking straight into a pit +with your eyes shut?' It was then that he repeated that my nerves were +seriously out of order. He told me that I must find distraction. In +other words, I must shut my eyes from time to time. Well, there is no +doubt about it. That is what I must try to do. But how? + + * * * * * + +April 6.--I suppose it is only because I am nervous, and because the +doctor told me I must not live so much by myself, but I am beginning to +think again about Clare, and I had not thought of her for a long time. +When one has lived with a woman, in the same house with her, every day +and every night for three years: think, there are one thousand and +ninety-five days in three years! well, something remains, in the very +look and touch of the furniture, in the treacherous blank of the +mirrors, which forget nothing, and hide so much, something that will +never wholly go; and I must not expect to release my senses, as I have +released my mind and my will, from the power of that woman. + +Only, the less I think about her the better; and there is no danger of +my wanting her back again. That would be singularly inconvenient, if, as +I can but suppose, she is perfectly happy with that ordinary person whom +she had the curious taste to prefer to me. One must guard against being +ridiculous, even when one is alone with oneself, and I am content to +seem no hero to this serviceable valet, my journal; but it is partly +the incapacity of good taste in them that makes women so intolerable. +There are men of whom I have said to myself: Now, if Clare fell in love +with this man, or that man, it would seem to me so natural, so +legitimate; I could almost despise her for not submitting to a +fascination which is insensitive not to feel. But a poseur, a fop, a +cad; one of those men whom every man sees through at the first +hand-shake; a sleek flatterer, whose compliments are vulgarities; the +shopman air of 'inquire within upon everything'; yes, that is the man +who takes his choice of women. Is vulgarity a curable thing? and will +the vulgarity of women ever be cultured out of them? + +I once tried to believe that there are women and women; but I have never +found that the 'and' meant anything essential. + + * * * * * + +April 7.--I dined out at night, with my Jew friends, the Kahns, whom I +have not cared to see for so long; and the distraction has done me good. +They were charming, sympathetic, not obtrusively anxious about me; they +welcomed me as if I were really a friend; and there were some pleasant +people at the dinner-table. Only, I do not understand how they could ask +to dinner a certain Baroness von Eckenstein who was there. One should +preserve a certain decency in intercourse; there are things one should +be spared! I sat opposite to her, and she talked to me a good deal +across the table; she seemed intelligent; she might be all that is +admirable. Her figure was firm, ample, almost majestic, and the face had +once been not less finely designed, but over the whole left side, from +the forehead to the neck, there was a great white scar, shapeless, +horribly white, and scored as with deep cuts, which had formed +cicatrices of a yet more ghastly white. The bloodless and livid skin, +ploughed and wrinkled with these raised cicatrices, was drawn tightly +over the cheek-bone. The eyelid, strangely misshapen, was alone the +natural colour of flesh, but this eyelid looked as if it were +artificially attached to the underpart of the eyebrow, and on the +forehead above the eye there was a white scar, as if the flesh had been +cut away to form the eyelid. I dared not look at her, and yet, in spite +of myself, my eyes kept seeking her face. A death's head would be a more +agreeable companion at table. They tell me she is newly come to London, +very rich, very hospitable; Mrs. Kahn, with her intolerable indulgence, +means to make a friend of her; if I go there again I am sure to meet +her, and only the thought of that disgrace of nature makes me shiver. +Must I cut myself off again from just what had promised to be a real +distraction? I will stay at home, work, not think, bury myself in my +books. + + * * * * * + +April 8.--I realise, on thinking it over in a perfectly calm mood, +without any sort of nervous excitement, that I have always been afraid +of women; and that is one reason, the chief perhaps, why I have always +been so lonely, both when Clare was with me, and before and after it. +Just as I cannot get out of my head that there is some concealed +conspiracy against me, in earthly things, so there seems to be, in the +other sex, a kind of hidden anger or treachery, which makes me uneasy. I +was never really happy when a woman sat on the other side of the table, +at the other corner of the fireplace. Vigny was right: + + 'Toujours ce compagnon dont le coeur n'est pas sûr.' + +I will quote no more: the verse becomes Biblical; and indeed it is of +Samson and Delilah. Just what attracts me in a woman revolts me: the +'love strong as death,' which is no more than 'la candeur de l'antique +animal,' raised to the power of self-expression. It bewilders, distracts +yes, terrifies me. That women are better and worse than we think them, I +am certain; and no doubt nature was wise in setting us on our knees +before the enigma. To be so mysterious and so contemptible! Merely for +us to think that, shuts us away from them, our possible friends, as by a +great wall, outside which there can be only enemies. We capitulate, +perhaps, but it is the enemy who has conquered. + + * * * * * + +April 9.--I have been working hard, going nowhere, and I suppose staying +indoors too much. I begin to be restless again. The Kahns have written +asking me to dine with them on Sunday: will that woman be there? Hans +Greger is coming with his old music, and I should like to hear the viols +and harpsichord again. I think I must go. + +Meanwhile some rumours of war which I read on the newspaper placards +have set me puzzling over one of my favourite enigmas. Is it not +incredible that there should be people in the world who will kill one +another, and even themselves, for any one of a multitude of foolish +reasons? As if life was not short enough at the longest, and one's +bodily pains troublesome enough without even the added risk of +accidents; and yet we must do our best to aid the enemy of us all; we +must make ourselves lieutenants of death; and for what? The thing begins +in our fantasies of honour, precedence, patriotism, or by whatever name, +big or small, we choose to christen the tiny germ of unreason. War +reduces to an absurdity, with its pompous mortal emphasis, the whole +argument. I have been thinking out a theory of this disease of humanity, +to which scientific people should have given a name. It might be +studied, in cellars, as they study bacilli. + + * * * * * + +April 10.--To-day has been one of those days in which London becomes +intolerable. The dust-carts in the street, the reek of chop-houses, the +unwashed bodies in frowsy clothes, stink on the air, and the air is too +heavy to drain off this odious foulness, and one breathes it, and seems +to sicken. I am sure some loathsome gas is rising up out of the canal +under my windows; my head turns if I lean out and look over; and now it +is between two lights, almost too dark to see by daylight and not dark +enough to draw the curtains and turn on the electric light. It is the +time of day that I hate most; it is the only time of the day when I +actively want to be doing something, and when I am acutely miserable +because I have nothing to do. + +The last half-hour, since I wrote these words, has been as miserable a +half-hour as I remember spending in my life. And yet there is nothing to +account for it, except this absurd sensitiveness which is growing upon +me. Why is it that one clings to life when it bores one in this manner? +I am not sure that I have ever felt what people call the joy of living: +life has always seemed to me a more or less ridiculous compromise; and +yet there is nothing I dread so much as any sort of truth, the truth +which might put an end, once and for all, to this compromise. Was there +ever any one so illogical? I hate life, and yet I want to go on living +for ever. Sometimes, coming back at night, after a concert in which some +great music has struck one into a profound seriousness, a strange and +terrifying sensation takes hold of me as the cab turns suddenly, out of +a tangle of streets, into a broad road between trees and houses: one +enters into it as into a long dimly lighted alley, and at the end of the +road is the sky, with one star hung like a lantern upon the darkness; +and it seems as if the sky is at the end of the road, that if one drove +right on one would plunge over the edge of the world. All that is solid +on the earth seems to melt about one; it is as if one's eyes had been +suddenly opened, and one saw for the first time. And the great dread +comes over me: the dread of what may be on the other side of reality. +And it seems as if all the years of the longest life, measured out into +days and hours, would not be long enough to hold me back from the horror +of that plunge. + + * * * * * + +April 11.--She deceived me: all women deceive. I have no right to +condemn her any more than I condemn my doctor for deceiving me when I am +ill. He tells me: You will be better to-morrow; knowing that the only +way to make me better is to make me think I am going to be so. It would +be worse for us if women did not deceive us. + +She was vain, selfish, sensual: should I have cared for her if she had +not been all three? To almost everybody she seemed gentle and modest: +was it really that I knew her better, or did everybody else know +something about her which I had never discovered? That is the odd thing +which I am beginning to wonder. She lived with me for three years, and +then left me. Whose fault was it that she left me after three years? In +this wholly unusual state of humility in which I find myself at +present, I cannot say that the fault was not partly mine, and partly +that she was a woman. What a thing it is to be a woman, and how +perplexing are even their virtues! They are not made, as we are, all of +a piece; they are not made to be consistent; they think so little of +what we think so much of; even sex is a light, simple, and natural thing +to them, to which they attach none of our morbid valuations. It is for +all this that, when I am not in this particular mood, I hate and fear +them; but to-day it all seems so natural, and women themselves seem so +pardonable. Think of the daily habits of their life: how many times a +day they dress and undress themselves, and all it means. With each new +gown a woman puts on a new self, made to match it. All day long they are +playing the comedian, while we do but sit in the stalls, listen, watch +and applaud. At least the play is for our entertainment; we pay them to +act it: let us be indulgent if the acting is not always to our taste. + + * * * * * + +April 13.--I have just come from the Kahns'. Certainly there is no music +like this old, tinkling, unwearied music of Greger's for giving one a +sort of phantom or ghostly peace, as if the present faded into the +distance, and life became a memory, half sad and half happy, and above +all not too poignant. I can no longer allow myself to hear Wagner, much +less Tschaikowsky: music made to make people suffer. + +Of course the Baroness was there. She sat by me at dinner, but on my +left, and I could only see the unspoilt half of her face. Every now and +then I thought of the other half, and a kind of sickness came over me. +Once I turned to my other neighbour, in the middle of a sentence. But, +for the most part, I forgot, and then it seemed to me that I was talking +with the most accomplished woman I had ever met. She has travelled, +knows many languages, many people; she has the feeling, and, I think, +some of the knowledge of an artist; we spoke of music, painting, the art +of living; and, oddly enough, she has a passion for just my own +subject; history is her favourite reading, and when I spoke of one of +my own hobbies, of Attila, she quoted Jornandes, and a passage, I +remembered, that Thierry has not translated: she must have read it in +Latin. How has she found time to do all this? To me she does not seem +very young, but I suppose she is very little over forty. She spoke of +everything with great frankness; only, never of herself. I have hardly +spoken to the husband, to whom I have never seen her speak. He is very +tall, very dark, very thin, with an air of politeness so excessive that +it seems a kind of irony. She has asked me to come and see her; she +promises me the use of her library. Can I, I wonder, ever get the better +of that repugnance which rises in me when I see the ragged mask, the +mended eyelid? + + * * * * * + +April 14.--I have been filling these pages with rumours and +apprehensions, and now, just when I least expected it, something +definite has happened, which seems to make them all very trivial and +secondary. The Argonaut Building Society, into which I had put nearly +all the little money I had, has failed; there has been swindling; I am +ruined. What am I to do? I shall have to earn my living, heaven knows +how; I shall have to give up my work, sell my books, find some cheaper +rooms. This is the one thing I never thought would happen. I have been +afraid of most things but poverty, and now it is poverty which has come +upon me. Perhaps something will be saved out of the wreck of this false +Argonaut. I must wait until I know for certain that there is nothing. + + * * * * * + +April 15.--I called on the Baroness von Eckenstein. I did not expect to +see such a library. It was made by three generations of savants, and +continued by herself. There are folios not in the British Museum; one +that I had come to think had never existed. If she will really let me +sometimes use her library, I can sell my books cheerfully. She has a +remarkable intelligence. But for that scar she would have been +singularly handsome. What can have caused it, I wonder? It is like the +scar which I once saw on the face of a woman over whom her rival had +thrown vitriol. I am far from supposing any such vulgar tragedy in the +household of the Eckensteins! + + * * * * * + +April 16.--No further news yet from the Argonaut. I can only anticipate +the worst. Nothing but rain without, and this intolerable suspense in +one's mind. I can neither work nor think. + + * * * * * + +April 17.--To-day the weather has changed, and see how this barometer of +my nerves registers the change! I have been walking in Regent's Park, +the nearest country, and I feel singularly good, wise, and happy. That +uninteresting park, uninteresting in itself, has a gift of refreshment, +as one turns into it out of the streets. I find myself leaning against +the railing to watch a little dark creature with red legs and a red +bill, that swims between the swans, and clambers up on the grass, and +runs about there stealthily with a shy grace. There is an island, to +which all the water-birds go, and it is grown over with trees and +bushes and green weeds, down to the edge of the water, and they go there +when they want to be alone, as one goes into a deep wood, out of the +streets in which people stare. To-day I was perfectly happy, merely +walking about the park. I sat under a tree for half an hour, and it was +only when I realised that a queer sound which had come to me at +intervals, a mournful and deep cry, which I had heard in a kind of +dream, was the crying of the wild beasts, over yonder, inside their +bars, that I got up and came away. + +I have gone back to my journal at three o'clock in the morning, because +I cannot sleep, and one of my old horrors has taken hold of me again. I +am writing in order to give myself almost a sense of companionship: this +talking to oneself on paper is so different from the loud emptiness of +the night, when one is awake, and one's thoughts cry out. I woke up +suddenly, and felt the darkness about me, like a horrible oppression. I +felt as I have sometimes felt when the train has been carrying me +through a long tunnel. All the blood went to my head, as if I were +stifling, and I had a need of daylight. I turned on the electric light, +but it made no difference; it was no more than the light in the +railway-carriage while the darkness is thundering about one's ears, I +had the sensation of a world in which the daylight had been blotted out, +and men stumbled in a perpetual night, which the lamps did but make +visible. I felt that I should not be able to go on breathing unless I +thrust the thought out of my mind, and I got up and turned on all the +lights and walked to and fro in the rooms, and then came in here to +quiet myself in the way I have found so good, by writing down all these +fears and scruples of mine, as coldly as I can, as if they belonged to +somebody else, in whose psychology I am interested. Already the +uneasiness has almost left me. And yet who knows if I am only wrapping +the blanket round my head once more, in order that I may run through +fire and not see it? + + * * * * * + +April 18.--I have had one of my old headaches to-day, partly because I +slept so little last night and partly because there has been thunder, +at intervals, all day long; and now at night, when it is quite cool +again, after the rain which washed off the suffocating heat of the day, +the sky still gives a nervous twitch now and again, like a face which +has lost control of its muscles. Yesterday it seemed as if Spring had +come, but to-day a premature Summer leapt out on the world, in one of +those distressing paroxysms of the elements in which I get more than my +share of the general discomfort. It is only for the last few hours that +I have recognised myself, and already I find it difficult to remember +that other self, which lay on the sofa with half-shut eyes and a +forehead eaten away by the little sharp teeth of the nerves. How we +measure ourselves by time, and time by ourselves! Then, it seemed +incredible that I should ever be my usual self again; my focus had been +suddenly altered, and nothing was the same. I think we ought to be more +grateful for such occasions than we are; for this sort of readjustment +is certainly useful. All habits, and not only what we call bad habits, +are hurtful; and life is one long habit, which it is good to vary +sometimes. + +I suppose that my headache is not quite gone yet, and that it is this +which makes me write down these obvious reflections. I must stop writing +for to-night. + + * * * * * + +April 20.--I have had a strange, generous, almost incredible letter from +the Baroness. She has heard from the Kahns that I have lost all my +money, and she offers me the post of librarian; I can live in the house, +and I am to have a salary which is much more than I had before the +Argonaut went to pieces. I have only to say yes, and I am saved. + +Can I accept this charity? It is nothing less. What can I give in +return? Nothing. What can have induced her to offer me this immediate +kindness? That she is generous I do not doubt; but to this point? I must +revise my opinions about women. + +There is charity, certainly, and I shall soon be penniless, and not well +able to refuse it. She prizes her library; she wishes it to be put in +order, catalogued, kept in order, added to; she saw my interest, she +knew that I am perfectly capable to do what she wants to have done. Is +there anything unnatural after all in what must after all remain her +immense kindness? + +One thing remains. Can I accustom myself to see her every day, to sit at +table with her, to be constantly at her call? At first it will not be +easy, and then afterwards, who knows? but that would be the worst of +all, I may come to find a sort of perverse pleasure in looking at her, +the pleasure which is part horror, and which comes from affronting and +half encouraging disgust. + + * * * * * + +April 28.--I have written nothing in my journal for the last week; too +many things have happened, and I have seemed to go through them almost +mechanically. I am already in my new quarters; I have my rooms, near the +library in which I work, in the vast house at Queen's Gate; and I am +already more than half regretting my old flat over Regent's Canal, where +I could be alone from morning to night. + +There was no serious question of refusing this most fortunate +opportunity; I had no choice: it was this or nothing, for if I recover +£100 out of the Argonaut, it will be the utmost I have to hope for. The +Baroness is a woman of action; she insisted, she arranged everything, +and I found myself here without having done more than consent to let +things be done for me. Certainly that is a form of arrangement which +suits me, and life here seems to go not less smoothly; I have but to +accept it, not without a certain satisfaction. The Baron must be +enormously rich; there is something almost ostentatious in the display +of gold, silver, and silk. Nothing is simple; the cost of these +expensive things seems as if ticketed upon them; and there are coronets +everywhere. But I, who never seriously thought about money until the +little I had melted away, have never realised what an efficacious oil +can be distilled out of gold for making all the wheels of life go +smoothly. I am treated as one of the family; I profit hardly less than +they from all that I care for in the possession of riches. + +And yet, there is something here which weighs upon me; a sort of moral +atmosphere which renders me uneasy. I see clearly, what I had guessed +before, that there is no affection, that there is even a certain degree +of alienation, between the Baron and Baroness. Nothing can be more +polite, but with a sort of enigmatical politeness, which hides I know +not what, than the Baron's manner towards his wife. He is scrupulously, +exaggeratedly, polite towards every one; and his excessive ceremony with +me puts a certain restraint upon me. I imagine that he detests me, +merely from the extreme care with which he tries to convince me of his +amiability. The whole man seems to me false; or, it may be, he has acted +a part so long that the part has fastened itself upon him. His eyes and +his mouth seem never to say the same thing; both guard, as at two +doorways, the thoughts which are at work in his brain. + +The attitude of the Baroness towards her husband has a different +inflexion of meaning; it is frigidly polite, but with a more evident +shade of aversion. If he puts forward an opinion, she contradicts it; +while he assents, outwardly, to all her opinions, but with an ironical +air which seems itself a negation. He is a great sportsman, and I have +never seen him with a book in his hands; she cares passionately for +reading, and hates every form of sport. But it is not merely a +difference of temperament; there is, I am convinced, something very +definite which sets a barrier between them. What is it? Here is a +problem, for once outside the eternal, wearing, for the most part +inevitable, problem of myself, which I shall do well to study. How +gladly I welcome anything which can distract me from my own sensations, +in which I have so long lived isolated, alone with myself! + + * * * * * + +May 5.--The library is even finer than I thought. The labour of +cataloguing it will be an amusement. For the present I do none of my own +work; I am absorbed in this new occupation. How strange, how fortunate, +to be at the same time taken outside myself in my thoughts, and away +from what becomes monotonous in my studies! I have found, it would +seem, precisely the distraction which the doctor ordered me. Only, the +old solitary life seems a thing to regret, now I have left it behind me; +and ought I not to regret the self which I left with it? + +It is certain that I shall never accustom myself to look at the Baroness +without repugnance. From my childhood I have never been able to endure +the sight of any human disfigurement. I used to faint at the sight of +blood, and I have always looked away when I have seen people crowding +about a man or a horse fallen in the street. It is not pity, it is a +very sensitive egoism: before an accident I imagine the thing happening +to me, or I imagine myself obliged to touch the wound or the broken +limb. I never look at the Baroness without a mental shiver at the +thought of what that dead, furrowed, and discoloured skin must be like +to the touch. + + * * * * * + +May 9.--I have got no further in my study of these two enigmatical +people, who seem to have not one thought, not one feeling, in common, +and yet who seem to live so calmly side by side, in this vast house +where they need never meet except at meals, or when the presence of +strangers isolates them. I am wholly unable to talk with the Baron, who +ignores me with the most punctilious deference. He never enters the +library, and, in the drawing-room, is never without a newspaper, of +which he rarely turns the pages. With the Baroness I can always talk; I +can even, what is rare with me, listen. For a woman, her ideas are +surprisingly well informed: quotations, of course, but arranged with a +personal sense of decoration. She can discuss general questions broadly, +with a rare frankness, a kind of eager sincerity. What does the Baron +think, I wonder, behind that screen of the newspaper, if, as he sits +motionless, he is listening, as I cannot but believe, to every word that +is said? I often look at the newspaper, hoping to see it at least +quiver, if not drop to the floor, and the man leap out of his ambush. +The Baroness interests me a little more every day, and this interest is +oddly balanced by my equal difficulty in looking or in not looking at +her. When she is talking with me she invariably arranges herself so as +to be on my left; often she leans her head on her left hand, as if to +shield even what remains unseen. How horribly she must suffer from this +living mask, under which she is condemned to exist! How long, I wonder, +has she worn it, and shall I ever know the cause? Is she always +conscious of its presence, of the eyes that seek to avoid it, and +return, despite themselves, stealthily? I can conceive no more exquisite +torture. Or yes, there is one. Suppose this woman, in whom I can +distinguish a quite unusual force and energy of emotion, were to fall in +love again: she is at the age of lasting passions, and what could be +more natural in her? That would be a tragedy which I hardly like to +think of; the more so, as I can easily conceive how powerful must have +been her attraction before the time of this accident. There is something +almost magnetic in her nature, and I can see that the Kahns, for +instance, are attracted by her to the point of hardly seeing her as she +is, of forgetting to look at her with their own eyes. + + * * * * * + +May 15.--The dinner-parties which women in society condemn themselves to +the task of giving become less and less intelligible to me as I see them +from so close a point of view. How little pleasure they seem to give to +any except very young or very old people! It is a kind of slavery: penal +servitude with hard labour. I am sure neither of the Eckensteins gets +the slightest personal pleasure out of these big dinners which they are +so constantly giving. I am equally sure that the people who accept their +invitations would generally rather not come; that they accept them +largely because it is difficult to write and say I will not come; partly +out of a vague hope, almost invariably deceived, that they will meet +some delightful new person; partly out of the mere social necessity of +killing time. I have never seen so much before of a London season, and I +shall be glad when it is over. + + * * * * * + +August 10.--They have taken a house for the summer down here in this +remote part of my own county, Cornwall; there is fishing for the Baron, +and golf not far off, and boating, I suppose. The heat in London was +becoming intolerable; my old headaches began to come back; and I was +only too glad to say yes when the Baroness asked me, almost +hesitatingly, if I would come with them. Here I have nothing to do; we +walk on the cliffs, drive across Cornwall and back again, sit under the +trees on this lawn, from which one can hear the sea, not quite knowing +if it is the sound of the sea or of the trees. In short, one is idle, +and in the open air. I am well again already; only, inexpressibly lazy. + +The Baroness and I are thrown together so much, by the mere loneliness +of the place, and the determined absence of the Baron, that we are +getting to know one another better. In driving and walking she +invariably keeps on my left; for which I am grateful to her. She is a +good walker, and cares for the sea, I think, as much as I do. + +Is it chiefly the influence of the place, the weather, the homeliness +and familiarity of the old manor-house, where we sit and walk in the +garden, as in a grassy opening in the midst of a wood? That, and the +stillness and unconfined space on the cliffs, where one can sit silent +for so long, until only intimate words come; all that, I am sure, has +had its influence on both of us, certainly on me. The Baroness has begun +to question me about myself, and I, who hate confidences, find myself +telling her what I have told no one. + +I have told her about Clare, about my thoughts, my ideas, my sensations, +all that I have up to now only confessed to my journal. How is it that +she draws my secrets out of me, and how is it that I feel a pleasure in +telling them to her? + + * * * * * + +August 15.--To-day we drove to the Lizard, and sat for an hour on that +high peak of rocks which goes down into the sea at this last southerly +edge of England. The sea was steel-blue, almost motionless except where +it made a little circle of foam around each rock, and it seemed to +stretch endlessly, as if it flowed over all the rest of the world. Ships +were going by, with sails and black smoke, with a great haste to be +somewhere. We sat silent for a time, and then she began to tell me about +herself; little confidences of no moment, only they seemed to be +hesitating on the verge of some fuller confidence. At first I thought +she was going to tell me all; but the wind began to get chill, and the +sun faded out behind clouds, and her mood changed, and she got up, and +we went back to the carriage. + + * * * * * + +August 20.--At last I know the whole story, or as much of it as I am +likely to know. Last night, after dinner, we were sitting alone in the +garden, in a corner where the trees darken the grass; she sat with her +hand half covering her face, in that attitude which is habitual with +her, though only the right side of her face was visible, and the long +silence became more and more intimate until at last she spoke. She began +to tell me of herself, and first of her childhood among the Bohemian +woods, her escapes from the army of governesses and tutors, her dreams +in the depths of the forest, the 'Buch der Lieder' read by moonlight and +thrust under the pillow as she fell asleep: in short, a very pretty, +very German, sentimental education. Then the young English tutor, with +his tragic beauty, his Byronic sighs; she pities, admires, falls in love +with him; their meetings, declarations; they plot a romantic elopement, +but the coachman turns traitor; the Byronic gentleman is dismissed, and +the girl sent to her cousins in Vienna, where she begins to see the +world, and to dream more worldly dreams. The Baron presents himself, +with his title, his money, his serious reputation; the parents implore +her to accept him, and she accepts him, in order that she may accomplish +a social duty. By this time she has made innumerable friends, Vienna is +the world to her, she cannot exist without people, excitement, +admiration; and when the Baron, who hunts during half the year, takes +her away to his castle, and leaves her there, from morning to night, day +after day for months together, she lives the life of a prisoner, alone +with her books and her more and more discontented thoughts. Time passes, +and the husband whom she has never loved becomes a polite stranger, then +an unwelcome guest. He sees indifference passing into aversion, and +makes no attempt to arrest the course of things. It is enough if she is +submissive, and his pride does not so much as dream of a revolt. + +Meanwhile there are neighbours, hunting friends who come to the castle, +and among them is a young Frenchman. She told me simply, quietly, as if +she were telling me the story of some one else, how this man had +gradually attracted her, how delicately and perseveringly he had made +love to her, and how his presence rendered the tedium of her life less +insupportable. She loved him, she believed that he loved her, and a new +happiness came into her life. One day the husband, who had appeared to +suspect nothing, came back unexpectedly. She had been playing the piano, +her lover was seated just behind her, and as she rose from the piano and +flung herself passionately into his arms, she saw, over his shoulder, +the reflection of her husband's face in the mirror. He had opened the +door while she was playing, and stood motionless, holding the door half +open, with his eyes fixed upon them. Before she could make a movement +the door had closed silently. It did not open again. The lover left the +castle hastily, meeting no one on the way. Hours passed, and she sat +watching the door, quiet with terror. At last she could bear it no +longer, and she went straight to her husband's apartments. The painters +had been at work, and their tools, paints, brushes, and bottles were +still lying about. Her husband was seated at his writing-table. As she +entered the room he put down the pen, turned to her calmly and said: 'I +am writing to ask Xavier to dinner, but you will have to fix the date. I +have a little surprise for him.' He rose, took three steps towards her, +with a look of inexpressibly sarcastic malignity, and, stooping rapidly, +picked up a bottle from the floor, and flung the contents in her face. +She shrieked in agony as the vitriol burnt into her like liquid fire, +and she rolled over at his feet, shrieking. + +When, after months of suffering, the bandages were at last taken off, +and she could resume her place at the table, she found, on coming +downstairs to dinner, one guest awaiting her with her husband. It was +her lover. She had not seen him, no word from him had reached her, since +the accident. During dinner the Baron was cheerful, almost gay; he +related amusing stories, turning from one to the other with an air of +cordiality, and affecting not to notice that neither spoke more than a +few words. Soon after dinner, the guest excused himself. A few days +afterwards it was reported that he had left the neighbourhood. + + * * * * * + +August 21.--I lay awake last night for several hours, unable to get this +horrible story out of my head. I thought these were things that no +longer happened, or only in Russia, perhaps; I thought we were at least +so far civilised. It is the meanness of the revenge that horrifies me +most in its atrocity. And that these two people, after that moment's +revelation of the one to the other, should have gone on living together, +under the same roof: it is incredible. There, I suppose, is +civilisation, the hypocrisy of our conventions, which, if they cannot +suppress the brute in the human animal, are prompt to cloak the thing +once done, to pretend that it never was done, never could have been +done. + +Now, when I sit at table between that man and woman, I scarcely know +whether I am judge, witness, or accuser. What had been instinctive in my +distrust of the man has become a mental revulsion not less intense than +the physical revulsion which I must always feel towards the woman. Only, +towards her, I have a new feeling, a kind of sympathetic confidence, +mingled with pity; and it pleases me that she has confidence in me. It +would give me pleasure if I could aid her, in some way that I cannot +even conjecture, to avenge herself on that diabolical tyrant, her +husband. + + * * * * * + +September 25.--As I look back over these pages it seems to me that I +have lost the habit of writing down my thoughts about general questions, +which my once wholly personal preoccupations brought constantly before +me. How a journal changes with one's life, if it is really, as mine is, +the confidant of one's moods, the secret witness of one's growth or +decay! I suppose it is that, as I accustom myself to look for my +interest outside the circle of my own brain, I become less personal, +less sick with myself. My old terrors, my old preoccupations, have +loosened their hold on me, I think; my brain is getting more quiescent, +more conventional. If only the nerves do not break out again, as I find +it so easy to realise their doing; if I can avoid excitement, that is, +keep myself as I am now, an interested spectator of other people's +lives, with no too eager interests of my own: that will at last set me +wholly to rights. And, certainly, this divine Cornish air, half salt, +half honey, will have done something for me, in helping to cure me of a +too narrow, London philosophy. + + * * * * * + +August 3.--It is almost exactly a year since I have written anything in +my journal, which I find where I left it, forgotten in the corner of a +drawer in the Cornish manor-house, to which we have gone back again this +summer. I am glad to be here again, but, all the same, it is not quite +as it was last year. The Baroness and I are better friends than ever. I +am more accustomed to her, she is kindness itself. Ah yes, that is it. +Her kindness begins to become fatiguing; I would prefer a little +liberty. Why is it that good people forge chains with their kindness, +adding link to link with the best intentions in the world, until one is +tripped up and weighed down and held by the fetters of innumerable +favours? To break so much as a link is held to be ingratitude. But one's +liberty, then, is there anything comparable in the price one pays, and +in the utmost one can receive in place of it? + +Is it that a woman is unable to conceive of the fatigue of kindness? How +incomprehensible to them must be that marvellous sentence in 'Adolphe': +'Je me reposais, pour ainsi dire, dans l'indifférence des autres, de la +fatigue de son amour.' And, even if it is not love, the heaviest of all +burdens when it comes unasked, there is still a fatiguing weight in that +affectionate vigilance which is one long appeal for gratitude, in that +sleepless solicitude which 'prevents,' in both senses of the word, all +one's goings. I am beginning to find this with the Baroness, who would +replace Providence for me, but with a more continual intervention. + + * * * * * + +August 18.--O this intolerable demand on one's gratitude, this assumed +right of all the world to receive back favour for favour, to be paid for +giving! Must there be a market for kindness, and balances to weigh +charity by the pound weight? I am not sure that the conventional +estimation of gratitude as one of the main virtues, of gratitude in all +circumstances and for all favours received, has not a profoundly +bourgeois origin. I have never been able clearly to recognise the +necessity, or even the possibility, of gratitude towards any one for +whom I have not a feeling of personal affection, quite apart from any +exchange of benefits. The conferring of what is called a favour, +materially, and the prompt return of a delicate sentiment, gratitude, +seems to me a kind of commercialism of the mind, a mere business +transaction, in which an honest exchange is not always either possible +or needful. The demand for gratitude in return for a gift comes largely +from the respect which most people have for money; from the idea that +money is the most 'serious' thing in the world, the symbol of a physical +necessity, but a thing having no real existence in itself, no real +importance to the mind which refuses to realise its existence. Only the +miser really possesses it in itself, in any significant way; for the +miser is an idealist, the poet of gold. To all others it is a kind of +mathematics, and a synonym for being 'respected.' You may say it is +necessary, almost as necessary as breathing, and I will not deny it. +Only I will deny that any one can be actively grateful for the power of +breathing. He cannot conceive of himself without that power. To +conceive of oneself without money, that is to say, without the means of +going on living, is at once to conceive of the right, the mere human +right, to assistance. And when, instead of money, it is some unasked, +necessary or unnecessary, gift which is laid before us, to be taken +whether we choose or not, what more have we to do than to take it, +silently, without thanks, without complaint, as we would pick up an +apple that has dropped to us over an orchard hedge? I say all that to +myself, and believe it, and yet some irrational obligation weighs upon +me, whenever I think of breaking away from this woman and her affection. + + * * * * * + +October 25.--Can it be possible, or am I falling into the most absurd of +misapprehensions? What has happened, that I should seem to-day to be +conscious of what I had not even dreamt of yesterday? Nothing has +happened; she, her husband, and I have sat in our usual places at the +table and in the garden; not a word different from our usual words has +passed between us; and yet ... Why is it that no man can ever be +friends with any woman? It is the woman, usually, who puts the question. +And she, I am certain that she never wanted to be anything but my +friend. Then she wanted to be my only friend; she wanted to make my mind +her possession. I see it step by step, now that I think back. Then what +we call nature came in to trouble the balance. She is a healthy, normal +woman; she has all the natural affections. Why is it that tenderness in +women must always take the fever? For there is no doubt about it, none. +Once you have seen a certain look in a woman's eyes, once a certain +thrill has come into her fingers, there is no mistaking. I have seen +that look in her eyes, I can still feel the thrill of her fingers, as +her hand touched mine, and seemed to forget to let go. + + * * * * * + +October 26.--I awoke this morning in a cold sweat. I had been dreaming +of Clare, I heard her footstep coming along the corridor, the door +opened, I knew it was she, but she was veiled, and when she called my +name her voice sounded far away, as if the veil muffled it; and I put +up my hand to lift her veil, and she prayed me not to lift it, but I +would not listen to her, and when I saw her face it was Clare, but with +the cheek and eyelid of the Baroness. One of us shrieked, and I awoke +trembling. + +It is still early morning, but I have no mind to sleep again, and +perhaps dream. I must try to put these ugly thoughts out of my head, and +here is a morning which should help me, if anything in nature could. Is +it that some sense, which other people have is lacking in me? I have +never found that peace in nature of which I have heard so often, and +which, on such a morning as this, when the light begins to glow softly +over the world, and the wind comes in salt from the sea, and the leaves +rustle as if at an imperceptible caress, should come to me as simple as +to trees. There is a physical delight in it, certainly; but it goes no +deeper than the skin of my forehead. + +I remember, when I first met the Baroness, thinking how cruel, how +ironical, it would be, if she were to fall in love again. I remember +also, when I first knew her story, wishing that I could help her: yes, +here it is written down, last August: 'if I could aid her, in some way +that I cannot even conjecture, to avenge herself on that diabolical +tyrant, her husband.' I certainly saw no connection between the two +things, nor any relation of myself to either of them. And yet, see how +both have come together, and how strangely I stand between them, +touching both. + +The notion seems to me, at present, incredible; and yet, why? Yet more +improbable things have happened, and who am I, or who is she, after all, +that, in the malice of nature, no such idea should enter into a woman's +head? + +I wrote here, not so long ago, 'I am more accustomed to her.' Shall I +ever be able to say more than that? And it is terrible to be able to say +no more than that. + +I suppose, if I loved her, I should notice nothing. Is it that pity +would come in to take up all the room? But I have never had any gift for +pity; and then, all conjecture is idle, for I certainly do not love +her. + + * * * * * + +October 28.--Is it possible that I could have been mistaken, or is she +conscious that she has betrayed her secret, and now hides it away again? +To-day she has seemed really, not affectedly indifferent. Do I +altogether wish that it were so? Have I not got used to being looked +after not quite as a stranger, to a kindness on which it has seemed to +me that I could always rely? Is there not something I should find myself +missing, if it were taken away from me? + + * * * * * + +October 29.--We are to go back to London in a day or two. It rains every +day, and almost all day long. Every one stays indoors, and we seem +always to find ourselves in different rooms. After dinner the Baron +looks up sometimes from his newspaper; the talk is quite formal, because +he joins in it. Can she have shown him some sign of encouragement, or is +it he? And is she keeping back something, or am I wrong in all that I +have conjectured? Nothing is as it was. I shall be glad when we are back +in London. + + * * * * * + +November 2.--We are back in London. I hardly see her now. For nearly a +week she has avoided me, and I am astonished to find myself, I can +hardly say piqued, and yet there is a little pique in it too. It is so +evident to me that she is playing a part, but the part is well played, +and I feel oddly disquieted. I hate change, uncertainty, that kind of +uneasiness which women used to cause me, but which I have so long given +up feeling. I miss the old freedom of her talk, her confidences to me, +her faculty for taking an interest in one's ideas, one's personal +sensations. How odd that this should have come to mean so much more to +me than I knew! And there is something else that I miss, in her new +reserve, now that it comes suddenly up between us as a barrier. I used +to wish for just such a barrier. And now it annoys me to find it there. +It is only restlessness on my part, I know, but it surprises me to find +that I am capable of so near an approach to, after all, some kind of +feeling. I thought I had buried all that quite securely, years ago. + + * * * * * + +November 5.--To-day I have heard news of Clare for the first time during +all these years since she went away. And it is not as I fancied; she is +not happy, not even well off; she has been seen in poor lodgings at the +seaside, and alone. Has the man, the turgid fop and brute, whom I +criticised her and all her sex for caring about, left her, then? It +looks like it. Could one imagine, on his part, anything else? I knew him +so much better than she did! But I am horribly sorry; I do not want to +see her again, but I should like, if I could, to help her. I wonder if +she will write to me. I shall take it as a compliment if she writes. + + * * * * * + +November 7.--She has written, and the letter has reached me here, after +a little delay. She must think I am not going to write. She wants to see +me, and it will perhaps be better for me to see her. She is in London; +it would be kinder if I called; and heaven knows there is no danger. Her +letter is full of dignity; she knows me and there are no tears in it; +the regrets are duly temperate; she does not even ask to be forgiven. 'I +am in trouble: you once cared for me: I have not forgotten that you can +be kind: will you help me?' That is the substance of her letter. I will +write to her to-night, and say that I will come and see her. + +1 A.M.--Shall I never understand women? will nothing ever teach me +wisdom? I was foolish enough to think that the Baroness would help me, +that I could be open with her, as I have been till now. I had no secrets +from her in regard to Clare, and she knows how much all that is in the +past. I showed her the letter. She read it in silence, with her hand +over her eyes. Then, not raising her head, she said, in a voice that +seemed her ordinary voice: 'You will go and see her?' 'I think it would +be best,' I said. She lifted her head suddenly, clenched the paper in +her hand, and flung it on the carpet at my feet. For a moment I was too +startled even to move. Her face was convulsed with rage; her face was +terrible, more terrible than I have ever seen it. The scar seemed to +whiten, the blood rushed to her other cheek and made her forehead +purple; her eyes glowed. I stooped to pick up the letter, and began to +smooth it out on my knee. I fixed my eyes on it, so as not to see her; +and she knew why I did not look at her. She seemed to make a great +effort to recover her self-control, and I saw her fingers clutch a fold +of her skirt and clench tightly upon it. 'You want to see her?' she +said, still in a low voice; and I said, what was quite the truth: 'No, I +do not want to see her, I only want to help her, and I think it would be +kinder, as well as more satisfactory, to go than to write.' 'I +understand,' she said coldly; 'you want to see her again. I understand +your feeling.' I was annoyed at her misinterpretation, and said nothing. +'You still care for her,' she said, 'I can see it, it is useless for you +to deny it; you want to go back to her. Well, she is free now: go back +to her.' I was going to protest, but she rose, and held up her hand to +silence me. Tears were in her eyes, the anger was gone, she could hardly +speak. 'Yes,' she said, 'go and see her; I will not keep you from her; +if you still love her, there is nothing else to be done. I understand, I +understand.' And she sank back in the chair again, with her hands over +her face, weeping big tears. + +When I saw her suffering, I was sorry, and I knelt down beside her and +took away one of her hands from before her face, and kissed the hand +still wet with tears. I assured her that Clare was nothing to me now, +and I convinced her of my sincerity. She dried her eyes, smiled sadly, +and said, 'Then you promise me you will not go and see her.' 'But no, I +said, 'I have told you that it is best to go and see her; but you know +the whole reason why I mean to do so.' She turned rigid in an instant, +and I should have had to go through the whole scene over again, if I had +not had the cowardice to say, 'I promise that I will not see her.' She +begged me to show her the letter that I wrote. Why should I refuse? + +After to-day there can be no further disguise between us. On her side +everything has been said, and on mine everything has been understood. By +what I have done to-day I have put myself into her hands, I have given +her the right to arrange my life as she pleases; I have shown her my +weakness, I have let her see her own strength. Does it matter how one +gives way, or how a woman overcomes? To-day I honestly wanted to do the +right thing, to be kind to a woman I had once cared for, and I am +powerless to do it. These agitations, these restrictions, this +sentimental ceremony, are too much for me. How is it that I did not +sooner realise the way things were tending, and set a barrier, not only +against this passionate foe without, but against this weakness, this +kindness, that turn traitors within, and run so readily to the closed +gates to open them? + + * * * * * + +November 8.--The letter I wrote was cold; it was as if one were giving +charity. Clare replies gratefully, as if to a benevolent stranger. I +have spoilt the idea which she still had of me. I am sorry for it; the +more so as I have no desire to see her; but I should like to have +behaved at least instinctively. It is for another woman, always, that +one is unjust to a woman. And why is it? Is it because I pity this woman +so much, that I have been unjust to the other? I did not know till +yesterday how much she cared for me. What is going to happen? I ask +myself, not liking, or not daring, to wait for an answer. How one evades +coming to a conclusion, precisely when too much depends on that +conclusion! I have never understood myself, and just now the brain in me +seems to sit aside and reserve judgment, while all manner of feelings, +instincts, sensations, chatter among themselves. No, I will confess +nothing to these pages, and chiefly because it would take a casuist to +prepare my confession. + + * * * * * + +November 9.--She loves me cruelly, with a dull passion that does not +come till after youth and the years one calls the years of love are long +past. I have had a terrible scene with her; terrible because, for the +first time, a woman's love seems to me a wholly serious thing, and one's +own feeling to matter less. My own feeling: what is it here? Shall I +understand one woman, at last, when the desire to do so is over? +Passions, then, are real things in women, and, if no one is responsible, +at least one cannot always hold aloof from them, or go by on the other +side. She loves me, and she can conceal it no longer; and she is ashamed +that I should see her as she is, and she exults in her shame, and is +reckless and timorous, and is at my mercy, and does not know that it is +just this that holds me, and that I cannot, if I would, turn away from +one now helpless, and a beggar. Something in her helplessness takes hold +of me like a great force, breaks down my indifference; because, I think, +it convinces me, to the roots of my mind, as no woman ever before +convinced me, that what one calls love may be life itself, carrying away +all the props of the world in its overflow. I am afraid of this horrible +reality; but I cannot escape it. + + * * * * * + +November 10.--I try to persuade myself that I have become her lover +wholly out of pity; but the more intimate self which listens is not to +be persuaded. Certainly I do not love her, but is it only because she +loves me, and because she is the most unfortunate of women, that ... No, +there is something else, some animal attraction, which comes to me in +spite of my repugnance; a gross, unmistakable desire, which I would not +admit even to myself if the consciousness of it were not forced upon me. +What I should not have believed in another, I experience, beyond denial, +in myself. + +Shall a man never know what it is in him that responds, without love, to +a woman's gesture? Is it a kind of animal vanity? Is it that love +creates, not love, but a flattered readiness to be loved? Did I not +think how terrible it would be if she fell in love again, and did I not +mean, for the main part, because she could expect no return? And I was +wrong. Something has taken hold of me, an appeal, a partly honest and +partly perverse attraction; and I say to myself that it is pity, but +though pity is part of it, it is not all pity; and I find myself, as I +have always found myself, doing the exact opposite of what seems most +natural and desirable. Why? + + * * * * * + +November 20.--I have made a mistake, but it was inevitable. I have put +back my shoulders under the yoke, and all the peace is over. I have had +just time enough to rest, and to get ready for the old labour, and now I +am troubled with all a woman's ingenuity of trouble: her nerves, her +cares, her affections, her solicitudes, her whole minute and +never-ceasing possession. How am I to explain myself? There was no +choice; it is useless to regret what could but have been accepted. She +has a calm will to love, she is like some force of nature against which +it is useless to struggle. + + * * * * * + +November 22.--I do not know why it is, but all my old nervous uneasiness +is coming back on me again, against all sense or reason. I have that +curious feeling that something is going to happen; I find myself +listening to noises, unable to sit quiet, watching my own brain. All +the restlessness has come back, and some of the fear. I am afraid of +this woman's love. I could not leave her, but I am afraid of what will +happen to me. + + * * * * * + +December 3.--No, I shall never get accustomed to it; the same physical +horror will always be there; it has been there when the attraction was +strongest; it has never been out of my mind, or away from the eyes of my +senses. She is aware of it, and suffers; and I am helpless before her +suffering. And it is this, nothing but this, which turns my thoughts +morbid, whenever I think over a situation which might otherwise have had +nothing unusual in it. The husband studies me with a kind of curious and +mocking interest, which he allows to remain on his face when he sees us +together. Does he suspect, know, approve, or disapprove? Do I seem to +him ... But in any case all that is beside the question: I once thought +that it would be a generous revenge to make him suffer; now I am +conscious how idle the thought was. Is it not all idle, is not +everything more or less beside the question? + +I am tired of writing in my journal, always the same things. I will shut +the book, and perhaps not open it again. + + * * * * * + +January 5.--I have not written anything in my journal for years (how +many years is it?), and I do not know what impulse or what accident has +led me to open it again, and to turn over some of the pages on which the +dust has settled, and to begin to write there as I am doing, half +mechanically. What is it that seems strange as I read what I have +written here? I suppose that I should have considered, discussed, +questioned the very things which are now as if they had always been. I +do not dream of changing them, any more than I dream of changing the +course of life itself, on its inevitable way. But a rage in me never +quite dies out: against this woman who has taken me from myself, and +against life that is wasting me daily. I have no happiness if I look +either forward or backward. I have always succumbed to what I have most +dreaded, and every reluctance has turned in me to an irresistible force +of attraction. And now I am softly, stealthily entangled, held by loving +hands, imprisoned in comfort; I do some good at last, for certainly I +help to make a wronged and pitiable woman happy; I have no will to break +any bond, and yet I am more desolately alone than I have ever been, more +fretted by the old self, by apprehensions and memories, by the passing +of time and the lack of hope or desire. I would welcome any change, +though it brought worse things, if I could but end this monotony in +which there is no rest; end it somehow, and rest a little, and be alone. + + * * * * * + +October 12.--I have been ill, I am better, I am in Venice. Surely one +gets well of every trouble in Venice, where, if anywhere in the world, +there should be peace, the oblivion of water, of silence, the unreal +life of sails? I have come to an old house on the Giudecca, where one is +islanded even from the island life of Venice: I look across and see +land, the square white Dogana, the Salute, like a mosque, the whole +Riva, with the Doges' Palace. There lies all that is most beautiful in +the world, and I have only to look out of my windows to see it. Palladio +built the house, and the rooms are vast; the beams overhead are so high +that I feel shrunk as I look at them, as if lost in all this space; +which, however, delights my humour. + + * * * * * + +October 14.--The art in life is to sit still, and to let things come +towards you, not to go after them, or even to think that they are in +flight. How often I have chased some divine shadow, through a whole day +till evening, when, going home tired, I have found the visitor just +turning away from my closed door. + +To sit still, in Venice, is to be at home to every delight. I love St. +Mark's, the Piazza, the marble benches under the colonnade of the Doges' +Palace, the end of land beyond the Dogana, the steps of the Redentore; +above all, my own windows. Sitting at any one of these stations one +gathers as many floating strays of life as a post in the sea gathers +weeds. And it is all a sort of immense rest, literally a dream, for +there is sleep all over Venice. I have been sitting for a long time in +St. Mark's, thinking of nothing. The voices of the priests chanting +hummed and buzzed like echoes in an iron bell. They troubled me a +little, but without breaking the enchantment, as importunate insects +trouble a summer afternoon. Very old men in purple sat sunk into the +stalls of the choir, loth to move, almost overcome with sleep; waiting, +with an accustomed patience, till the task was over. + +Here (infinite relief!) I can think of nothing. She writes to me, and I +put aside the letters, and I forget quite easily that some day she will +come for me, and the old life must begin over again. I do not dread it, +because I do not remember it. I am still weak, and I must not excite +myself; I must sink into this delicious Venice, where forgetfulness is +easier than anywhere in the world. The autumn is like a gentler summer; +no such autumn has been known, even in Venice, for many years; and I am +to be happy here, I think. + + * * * * * + +October 25.--I have been roaming about the strange house, upstairs, in +these vast garrets paved with stone, with old carved chimneys, into +which they have put modern stoves, and beams, the actual roof-trees +overhead; nearly all unoccupied space, out of which a room is walled up +or boarded off here and there. Some of the windows look right over the +court, the two stone angels on the gateway, and the broad green and +brown orto, the fruit garden which stretches to the lagoon, its vine +trellises invisible among the close leaves of the trees. Beyond the +brown and green, there is a little strip of pale water, and then mud +flats, where the tide has ebbed, the palest brown, and then more pale +water, and the walls and windows of the madhouse, San Servolo, coming up +squarely out of the lagoon. + + * * * * * + +October 26.--Does the too exciting exquisiteness of Venice drive people +mad? Two madhouses in the water! It is like a menace. + +I went out in the gondola yesterday on the lagoon on the other side of +the island. It was an afternoon of faint, exquisite sunshine, and the +water lay like a mirror, bright and motionless, reflecting nothing but a +small stake, or the hull, hoisted nets, and stooping back of a fisher +and his boat. I looked along the level, polished surface to where sails +rose up against the sky, between the black, compact bulk of the forts. +The water lapped around the oar as it dipped and lifted, and trickled +with a purring sound from the prow. I lay and felt perfectly happy, not +thinking of anything, hardly conscious of myself. I had closed my eyes, +and when I opened them again we were drifting close to a small island, +on which there was a many-windowed building, most of the windows grated +over, and a church with closed doors; the building almost filled the +island; it had a walled garden with trees. A kind of moaning sound came +from inside the walls, rising and falling, confused and broken. 'It is +San Clemente,' said the gondolier over my shoulder; 'they keep mad +people there, mad women.' + + * * * * * + +November 1.--She writes affectionate letters to me, without a respite; +she will not let me alone to get well. For I am sure I could get well +here if I were quite left to myself. And now even Venice is turning +evil. Is it in the place, in myself, is it my disease returning to take +hold of me? Is it the power of the woman coming back across land and +water to take hold of me? I am getting afraid to go about this strange +house at night; the wind comes in from the sea, and tears at the old +walls and the roof; I scarcely know if it is the wind I hear when I wake +up in the night. + + * * * * * + +November 3.--There is something unnatural in standing between water and +water and hearing the shriek of a steam-engine. I am hardly too far, I +suppose, from the railway-station, to have actually heard it. But the +idea seems a foolish joke, unworthy of the place. + + * * * * * + +November 6.--Every day I find myself growing more uneasy. If I look out +of the windows at dawn, when land and water seem to awaken like a +flower, some poison comes to me out of this perhaps too perfect beauty. +I dread the day, which seems to follow me and drag me back, after I have +escaped another night; I never felt anything like this insidious coiling +of water about one. + +I came to Venice for peace, and I find a subtle terror growing up out of +its waters, with a more ghostly insistence than anything solid on the +earth has ever given me. Daylight seems to mask some gulf, which, with +the early dark and the first lamps, begins to grow visible. As I look +across at Venice from this island, I see darkness, and lights growing +like trees and flowers out of the creeping water, and, white and +immense, with its black windows and one lighted lamp, the Doges' Palace. +Nothing else is real, and the beauty of this one white thing, the one +thing whose form the eye can fasten upon, is the beauty of witchcraft. I +expect to see it gone in the morning. + +And the noises here are mysterious. I hear a creak outside my window, +and it comes nearer, and a great orange sail passes across the window +like a curtain drawn over it. Bells break out, and ring wildly, as if +out of the water. Steamers hoot, with that unearthly sound to which one +can never get accustomed. The barking of a dog comes from somewhere +across the water, a voice cries out suddenly, and then the shriek of +steam from a vessel, and again, from some new quarter, a volley of +bells. + + * * * * * + +November 9.--The wind woke me from sleep, rattling the wooden shutter +against the panes of the windows, and I could hear it lifting the water +up the steps of the landing-place, where there is always a chafing and +gurgling whenever the wind is not quite still. I looked out, and, +pressing my face close against the glass, I could just distinguish the +black bundle of stakes in the dim water, which I could see throbbing +under a very faint light, where the gas-lamp, hung from the next house, +shone upon it. Beyond, there was nothing but darkness, and the level row +of lights on the Riva, and the white walls, cut into stone lacework, of +the Doges' Palace. The wind seemed to pass down the canal, as if on its +way from the sea to the sea. I felt it go by, like a living thing, not +turning to threaten me. + + * * * * * + +November 13.--I am beginning almost to wish that she were here. She +writes that she is coming, and I scarcely know whether to be glad or +sorry. I fear her more than anything in the world, but there is +something here which is hardly of the world, a vague, persistent image +of death, impalpable, unintelligible, not to be shaken off; and I know +not what I am dreading, not the mere fear of water, though I have always +had that, but some terrible expectancy, which keeps me now from getting +any rest by day or by night. + + * * * * * + +November 22.--At last something has happened, nothing indeed to my hurt, +but it has broken the strain a little. The last days have been windless, +warm, and, till yesterday afternoon, cloudless. Suddenly, as I sat in +the Piazza, the daylight seemed to be put out by a great blackness +which came up rapidly out of the north, and hung over half the sky. A +wind swept suddenly in from the lagoon, and blew sharply across the open +space and along the arcades. In hardly more than a moment the Piazza was +empty. I went down to the Riva, and called to my gondolier, who swung to +and fro in his moored boat. The water was blackening, and had begun to +race past. He called to me that we must wait, and I saw one or two +gondolas hurrying up the Grand Canal, carried along by the tide, the men +rowing hard. As the rain began I went into the Grand Hotel, and sat +looking out on the water, which blackened and whitened and flung itself +forward in actual waves, and splashed right up the steps and over the +balcony. The rain came down steadily, and the lightning flickered across +the sky behind the Salute, and lit up the domes, the windows, the steps, +and a few people huddled there. Every now and then the water turned +white; I saw every outline as it shouldered forward like a sea and broke +on the marble steps; and the water was empty, not a gondola, not even a +steamer; and then a steamer which had turned home drifted past without +a passenger. I went out, and felt the rain on my face, and the water +splashing on the steps; not far off I could see the gondolas tossing on +their moorings. I seemed to be on the shore of some horrible island, and +I had to cross the sea, which there was no crossing. I was afraid the +gondola would come for me; but nothing, I thought, should tempt me upon +that tossing water: I saw the black hull whirled sideways, and the man +reeling over on his oar. No gondola came, and I slept that night in the +Grand Hotel, which seemed to me, as I heard the water splashing under my +windows, impregnably safe. + + * * * * * + +November 27.--She is here, she has become kind to me now, only kind and +gentle; I am no longer afraid of her love. I have been ill again, and +she has taken care of me, she has taken me away from this horrible +Giudecca. I look out on a great garden, in which I can forget there is +any water in Venice; I am near the land and I see nothing but trees. The +house is full of pictures, beautiful old Venetian things; it is like +living in another century, yet in the midst of a comfort which rests me. +I am no longer afraid of her love; I seem to have become a child, and +her love is maternal. When I look at her I can see her face as it was, +as it is, without a scar; I see that she is beautiful. If I get well +again I will never leave her. + + * * * * * + +December 12.--There is a phrase of Balzac which turns over and over in +my head. It is in the story called 'Sur Catherine de Médicis,' and he is +speaking of the Calvinist martyr, who is recovering after being +tortured. 'On ne saurait croire' says Balzac, 'à quel point un homme, +seul dans son lit et malade, devient personnel.' Since I have been lying +in bed, in this queer fever which keeps me shaking and hot (some +Venetian chill which has got into my very bones), I have had so +singularly little feeling of personality, I seem to have become so +suddenly impersonal, that I wonder if Balzac was right. The world, +ideas, sensations, all are fluid, and I flow through them, like a +gondola carried along by the current; no, like a weed adrift on it. + + * * * * * + +The journal ends there, and the writing of the last page is faint and +unsteady. + +Here I might leave the matter, but I am impelled to mention a +circumstance which I always associate in my mind with the tragical +situation revealed in poor Luxulyan's journal. A year after it had come +into my hands, and while I was still hesitating whether or not to have +it printed, I happened to be passing through Rome, where the Eckensteins +had gone to live; and a sort of curiosity, I suppose, more than any +friendly feeling I had for them, suggested to me that I should call upon +them in the palace which they had taken in the Via Giulia. The concierge +was not in his loge, and I went up the first flight of broad low marble +stairs and rang at the door. It was opened by a servant in livery. 'Is +the Baroness von Eckenstein at home?' I asked; and as the man remained +silent, I added, 'Will you send in my card?' He still stared at me +without replying, and I repeated my question. At last he said: 'Madame +la Baronne died the day before yesterday. She was buried this morning.' + +I can hardly say that I was profoundly grieved, but the suddenness of +the announcement struck me with a kind of astonishment. I inquired for +the Baron; he was in, and I was taken through one after another of the +vast marble rooms which, in Roman palaces, lead to the reception-room. +Every room was crowded with pictures, statues, rare Eastern vases, +tables and cases of bibelots, exotic plants, a profusion of showy things +brought together from the ends of the world. The Baron received me with +almost more than his usual ceremony. His face wore an expression of +correct melancholy, he spoke in a subdued and slightly mournful voice. +He told me that his beloved wife had succumbed to a protracted illness, +that she had suffered greatly, but, at the end, through the skilful aid +of the best surgeons in Europe, she had passed into a state of +somnolency, so that her death had been almost unconscious. He raised his +eyes with an air of pious resignation, and said that he thanked God for +having taken to himself so admirable, so perfect a being, whose loss, +indeed, must leave him inconsolable for the rest of his life on earth. +He spoke in measured syllables, and always in the same precise and +mournful tone. I found myself unconsciously echoing his voice and +reflecting his manner, and it seemed to me as if we were both playing in +a comedy, and repeating words which we had learnt by heart. I went +through my part mechanically, and left him. When I found myself in the +street I dismissed the cab which was waiting to take me to the Vatican. +I wanted to walk. I do not know why I felt a cold shiver run through me, +for the sky was cloudless, and it was the month of June. + + + =Transcriber's Notes:= + - hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the + original (other than as listed below) + Page 35, 'Lavengro" took my thoughts ==> 'Lavengro' took my thoughts + Page 37, trembled with ecstacy ==> trembled with ecstasy + Page 60, immensly, and especially ==> immensely, and especially + Page 93, mortages left just enough ==> mortgages left just enough + Page 116, in an ecstacy ==> in an ecstasy + Page 129, a little pale and she ==> a little pale, and she + Page 162, these confectionaries. ==> these confectionaries.' + Page 196, Arlesian women one was ==> Arlesian women: one was + Page 209, Allee des Tombeaux ==> Allée des Tombeaux + Page 214, grown up, like Peter? ==> grown up, like Peter?' + Page 229, divine will aright?' ==> divine will aright? + Page 259, But what if only ==> but what if only + Page 261, which is insensative ==> which is insensitive + Page 262, artifically attached ==> artificially attached + Page 275, in whose pyschology ==> in whose psychology + Page 288, first of her chilhood ==> first of her childhood + Page 291, agony as the vitrol ==> agony as the vitriol + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Spiritual Adventures, by Arthur Symons + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIRITUAL ADVENTURES *** + +***** This file should be named 38893-8.txt or 38893-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/8/9/38893/ + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Ross Cooling and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Spiritual Adventures + +Author: Arthur Symons + +Release Date: February 15, 2012 [EBook #38893] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIRITUAL ADVENTURES *** + + + + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Ross Cooling and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<br /><br /> +<h1>CONSTABLE'S MISCELLANY<br /> +OF ORIGINAL & SELECTED<br /> +PUBLICATIONS IN LITERATURE</h1> +<br /> +<h2>SPIRITUAL<br /><br /> + +ADVENTURES<br /><br /> + +BY<br /><br /> + +ARTHUR<br /><br /> + +SYMONS</h2> + +<br /><br /><br /> +<h2>CONSTABLE·AND·CO·LIMITED·LONDON</h2> + + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h4> +<i>First Published</i> 1905.<br /> +<i>Constable's Miscellany</i> 1928.</h4> +<br /><br /><br /> +<h4><span class="smcap">Printed in Great Britain by<br /> +Lowe & Brydone Printers Limited. Park Street, N.W.1.</span></h4> + + +<br /><br /><br /> +<h3>TO<br /> +<br /> +THOMAS HARDY</h3> + + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<table summary="CONTENTS" width="70%"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr">Page</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#A_PRELUDE_TO_LIFE">A PRELUDE TO LIFE</a></td> +<td class="tdr">3</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#ESTHER_KAHN">ESTHER KAHN</a></td> +<td class="tdr">57</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#CHRISTIAN_TREVALGA">CHRISTIAN TREVALGA</a></td> +<td class="tdr">91</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#THE_CHILDHOOD_OF_LUCY_NEWCOME">THE CHILDHOOD OF LUCY NEWCOME</a></td> +<td class="tdr">125</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#THE_DEATH_OF_PETER_WAYDELIN">THE DEATH OF PETER WAYDELIN</a></td> +<td class="tdr">157</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#AN_AUTUMN_CITY">AN AUTUMN CITY</a></td> +<td class="tdr">189</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#SEAWARD_LACKLAND">SEAWARD LACKLAND</a></td> +<td class="tdr">213</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><a href="#EXTRACTS_FROM_THE_JOURNAL_OF_HENRY_LUXULYAN">EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF HENRY LUXULYAN</a></td> +<td class="tdr">253</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h2><a name="A_PRELUDE_TO_LIFE" id="A_PRELUDE_TO_LIFE"></a>A PRELUDE TO LIFE.</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>I am afraid I must begin a good way back if I am to explain myself to +myself at all satisfactorily. I can see how the queer child I was laid +the foundation of the man I became, and yet I remember singularly little +of my childhood. My parents were never very long in one place, and I +have never known what it was to have a home, as most children know it; a +home that has been lived in so long that it has got into the ways, the +bodily creases, of its inhabitants, like an old, comfortable garment, +warmed through and through by the same flesh. I left the town where I +was born when I was one year old, and I have never seen it since. I do +not even remember in what part of England my eyes first became conscious +of the things about them. I remember the hammering of iron on wood, when +a great ship was launched in a harbour; the terrifying sound of cannons, +as they burst into smoke on a great plain near an ancient castle, while +the soldiers rode in long lines across the grass; the clop-clop of a +cripple with a wooden leg; with my intense terror at the toppling wagons +of hay, as I passed them in the road. I remember absolutely nothing else +out of my very early childhood; I have not even been told many things +about it, except that I once wakened my mother, as I lay in a little cot +at her side, to listen to the nightingales, and that Victor Hugo once +stopped the nurse to smile at me, as she walked with me in her arms at +Fermain Bay, in Guernsey. If I have been a vagabond, and have never been +able to root myself in any one place in the world, it is because I have +no early memories of any one sky or soil. It has freed me from many +prejudices in giving me its own unresting kind of freedom; but it has +cut me off from whatever is stable, of long growth in the world.</p> + +<p>I could not read until I was nine years old, and I could not read +because I resolutely refused to learn. I declared that it was +impossible; that I, at all events, never could do it; and I made the +most of a slight weakness in my eyes, saying that it hurt them, and +drawing tears out of my eyes at the sight of a book. I liked being read +to, and I used to sit on the bed while my sister, who often had to lie +down to rest, read out stories to me. I had a theory that a boy must +never show any emotion, and the pathetic parts of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' +tried me greatly. On one occasion I felt my sobs choking me, and the +passion of sorrow, mingled with the certainty that my emotion would +betray itself, sent me into a paroxysm of rage, in which I tore the book +from my sister's hands, and attacked her with my fists.</p> + +<p>I never learned to read properly until I went to school at the age of +nine. I had been for a little while to a dame's school, and learned +nothing. I could only read easy words, out of large print books, and I +was totally ignorant of everything in the world, when I suddenly found I +had to go to school. I was taken to see the schoolmaster, whom I hated, +because I had been told he had only one lung, and I heard them +explaining to him how backward I was, and how carefully I had to be +treated. When the day came I left the house as if I were going to the +scaffold, walked very slowly until I had nearly reached the door of the +school, and then, when I saw the other boys hurrying in with their +satchels, and realised that I was to be in their company, to sit on a +form side by side with strangers, who knew all the things I did not +know, I turned round and walked away much more quickly than I had come. +I took some time in getting home, and I had to admit that I had not been +to school. In the afternoon I was sent back, not alone. I have no +recollection of more than the obscure horror of that first day at +school. I went home in the evening with lessons that I knew had to be +learned. Life seemed suddenly to have become serious. Up to then I had +always fancied that the grave things people said to me had no particular +meaning for me; for other people, no doubt, but not for me. I had played +with other boys on the terrace facing the sea; I had seen them going off +to school, and I had not had to go with them. Now everything had +changed. There was no longer any sea; I had to live in a street; I had +lessons to learn, and other people were to be conscious how well I +learned them.</p> + +<p>It was that which taught me to read. What had seemed to me not worth +doing when I had only myself to please, for I could never realise that +my parents, so to speak, counted, became all at once a necessity, +because now there were others to reckon with. It was discovered that in +the midst of my unfathomable ignorance I had one natural talent; I could +spell, without ever being taught. I saw other boys poring over the +columns of their spelling-books, trying in vain to get the order of the +letters into their heads. I never even read them through; they came to +me by ear, instinctively. Finding myself able to do without trying +something that the others could not succeed in doing at all, I felt that +I could be hardly less intelligent than they, and I felt the little +triumph of outdoing others. I began to learn greedily.</p> + +<p>The second day I was at school I found the schoolroom door shut when I +came into the playground, and I was told that I could not come in. I +climbed the gymnasium ladder and looked through the window. Two boys +were having a furious fight, and the bigger boys of the school were +gravely watching it. I was completely fascinated; it was a new +sensation. That day a boy bigger than myself jeered at me. I struck him. +There was a rapid fight before all the school, and I knocked him down. I +never needed to fight again, nor did I.</p> + +<p>When I had once begun to learn, I learned certain things very quickly, +and others not at all. I never understood a single proposition of +Euclid; I never could learn geography, or draw a map. Arithmetic and +algebra I could do moderately, so long as I merely had to follow the +rules; the moment common sense was required I was helpless. History I +found entertaining, and I could even remember the dates, because they +had to do with facts which were like stories. French and Latin I picked +up easily, Greek with more difficulty. German I was never able to +master; I had an instinctive aversion to the mere sound of it, and I +could not remember the words; there were no pegs in my memory for them +to hang upon, as there were for the words of all the Romance languages. +When a thing did not interest me, nothing could make me learn it. I was +not obstinate, I was helpless. I have never been able to make out why +geography was so completely beyond my power. I have travelled since then +over most of Europe, and I have learned geography with the sight of my +eyes. But with all my passion for places I have never been able to find +my way in them until I have come to find it instinctively, and I suppose +that is why the names in the book or on the map said nothing to me. At +an examination when I was easily taking half the prizes, I have read +through my papers in geography and in Euclid, and taken them up to the +head-master's desk, and handed them back to him, calmly telling him that +I could not answer a single question. I was never able to go in for +matriculation, or any sort of general public examination, to the great +dissatisfaction of my masters, because, while I could have come out +easily at the top in most of the subjects, there were always one or two +in which I could do nothing.</p> + +<p>I was not popular, at any of my schools, either with the boys or with +the masters, but I was not disliked. I neither hated out-of-door games +nor particularly cared for them. I rather liked cricket, but never +played football. I was terribly afraid of making a mistake before other +people, and would never attempt anything unless I was sure that I could +do it. I did not make friends readily, and I was somewhat indifferent to +my friends. I cannot now recollect a single school-friend at all +definitely, except one strange little creature, with the look and the +intelligence of a grown man; and I remember him chiefly because he +seemed to care very much for me, not because I ever cared much for him. +He had a mathematical talent which I was told was a kind of genius, but, +even then, he was only just kept alive, and he died in boyhood. He +seemed to me different from any one else I knew, more like a girl than a +boy; some one to be pitied. I remember his saying good-bye to me when +they took him away to die.</p> + +<p>What the masters really thought of me I never quite knew. I looked upon +them as a kind of machine, not essentially different from the blackboard +on which they wrote figures in chalk. They sometimes made mistakes about +things which I knew, and this gave me a general distrust of them. I took +their praise coolly, as a thing which was my due, and I was quite +indifferent to their anger. I took no pains to conceal my critical +attitude towards them, and one classical master in particular was in +terror of me. He was not a sound scholar, and he knew that I knew it. +Every day he watched me out of the corner of his eye to see if I was +going to expose him, and he bribed me by lending me books which I wanted +to read. I loathed him, and left him alone. One day he carried his +deceit too far; there was an inquiry, and he disappeared. I have no +doubt my criticism was often unjust; I had the insolence of the parvenu +in learning. It had come to me too late for me to be able to take it +lightly. I corrected the dictation, put Maréchal for 'Marshal' because +the word was used in reference to Ney, who I knew was a Frenchman; and +was furious when my pedantry lost me a mark.</p> + +<p>During all this time I was living in the country, in small country towns +in the South of England, places to which Blackmore and Kingsley had +given a sort of minor fame. I remember long drives by night over +Dartmoor, and the sea at Westward Ho. Dartmoor had always a singular +fascination for me, partly because of its rocky loneliness, the abrupt +tors on which one could so easily be surprised in the mist, and partly +because there was a convict prison there, in a little town which we +often had occasion to visit. The most exquisite sensation of pleasure +which the drinking of water has ever given me was one hot day on +Dartmoor, when I drank the coldest water there ever was in the world out +of the hollow of my hand under a little Roman bridge that we had to +cross in driving to Princetown. The convict settlement was at +Princetown, and as we came near we could see gangs of convicts at work +on the road. Warders with loaded muskets walked up and down, and the +men, in their drab clothes marked in red with the broad-arrow, shovelled +and dug sullenly, like slaves. I thought every one of them had been a +murderer, and when one of them lifted his head from his work to look at +us as we passed I seemed to see some diabolical intention in his eyes. I +still remember one horrible grimace, done, I suppose, to frighten me. I +feared them, but I pitied them; I felt certain that some one was +plotting how to escape, and that he would suddenly drop his shovel and +begin to run, and that I should see the musket pointed at him and hear +the shot, and see the man fall. Once there was an alarm that two +convicts had escaped, and I expected at every moment to see them jump +out from behind a rock as we drove back at night. The warders had been +hurrying through the streets, I had seen the bloodhounds in leash; I +sickened at the thought of the poor devils who would be captured and +brought back between two muskets. Once I saw an escaped convict being +led back to prison; his arms were tied with cords, he had a bloody scar +on his forehead, his face was swollen with heat and helpless rage.</p> + +<p>But I have another association with Princetown besides the convicts. It +was in the house of one of the warders that I first saw 'Don Quixote.' +We had gone in to get some tea, and, as we waited in the parlour, and my +father talked with the man, a grave, powerful person dressed in +dark-blue clothes, I came upon a book and opened it, and began to read. +I thought it the most wonderful book I had ever seen; I could not put it +down, I refused to be separated from it, and the warder said he would +lend it to me, and I might take it back with me that night. There was a +thunderstorm as we drove back over the moor in the black darkness; I +remember the terror of the horse, my father's cautious driving, for the +road was narrow and there was a ditch on each side; the rain poured, and +the flashes of lightning lit up the solid darkness of the moor for an +instant, and then left us in the hollow of a deeper darkness. I clutched +the book tight under my overcoat; the majesty of the storm mingled in +my head with the heroic figure of which I had just caught a glimpse in +the book; I sat motionless, inexpressibly happy, and when we reached +home I had to waken myself out of a dream.</p> + +<p>The dream lasted until I had finished the book, and after. I cannot +remember how I felt, I only know that no book had ever meant so much to +me. It was 'Don Quixote' which wakened in me the passion for reading. +From that time I read incessantly, and I read everything. The first +verse I read was Scott, and from Scott I turned to Byron, at twelve or +thirteen, as to a kind of forbidden fruit, which must be delicious +because it is forbidden. I had been told that Byron was a very, very +great poet, and a very, very wicked man, an atheist, a writer whom it +was dangerous to read. At school I managed to get hold of a Byron, which +I read surreptitiously at the same moment that I was reading 'The +Headless Horseman.' I thought 'The Headless Horseman' very fine and +gory, but I was disappointed in the Byron, because I could not find +'Don Juan' in it. I knew, through reading a religious paper which +condemned wickedness in great detail, that 'Don Juan' was in some way +appallingly wicked. I wanted to see for myself, but I never, at that +time, succeeded in finding an edition immodest enough to contain it.</p> + + +<h3>II.</h3> + +<p>While all this, and much more that I have forgotten, was building up +about me the house of life that I was to live in, I was but imperfectly +conscious of more than a very few things in the external world, and but +half awake to more than a very few things in the world within me. I +lived in the country, or at all events with lanes and fields always +about me; I took long walks, and liked walking; but I never was able to +distinguish oats from barley, or an oak from a maple; I never cared for +flowers, except slightly for their colour, when I saw many of them +growing together; I could not distinguish a blackbird from a thrush; I +was never conscious in my blood of the difference between spring and +autumn. I always loved the winter wind and the sunlight, and to plunge +through crisp snow, and to watch the rain through leaves. But I would +walk for hours without looking about me, or caring much for what I saw; +I was never tired, and the mere physical delight of walking shut my +eyes and my ears. I was always thinking, but never to much purpose; I +hated to think, because thinking troubled me, and whenever I thought +long my thoughts were sure to come round to one of two things: the +uncertainty of life, and the uncertainty of what might be life after +death. I was terribly afraid of death; I did not know exactly what held +me to life, but I wanted it to last for ever. I had always been +delicate, but never with any definite sickness; I was uneasy about +myself because I saw that others were uneasy about me, and my voracious +appetite for life was partly a kind of haste to eat and drink my fill at +a feast from which I might at any time be called away. And then I was +still more uneasy about hell.</p> + +<p>My parents were deeply religious; we all went to church, a Nonconformist +church, twice on Sunday; I was not allowed to read any but pious books +or play anything but hymns or oratorios on Sunday; I was taught that +this life, which seemed so real and so permanent to me, was but an +episode in existence, a little finite part of eternity. We had grace +before and after meals; we had family prayers night and morning; we +seemed to live in continual communication with the other world. And yet, +for the most part, the other world meant nothing to me. I believed, but +could not interest myself in the matter. I read the Bible with keen +admiration, especially Ecclesiastes; the Old Testament seemed to me +wholly delightful, but I cared less for the New Testament; there was so +much doctrine in it, it was so explicit about duties, about the conduct +of life. I was taught to pray to God the Father, in the name of God the +Son, for the inspiration of God the Holy Ghost. I said my prayers +regularly; I was absolutely sincere in saying them; I begged hard for +whatever I wanted, and thought that if I begged hard enough my prayer +would be answered. But I found it very difficult to pray. It seemed to +me that prayer was useless unless it were uttered with an intimate +apprehension of God, unless an effort of will brought one mentally into +His presence. I tried hard to hypnotise myself into that condition, but +I rarely succeeded. Other thoughts drifted through my mind while my +lips were articulating words of supplication. I said, over and over +again, 'O Lord, for Jesus' sake!' and even while I was saying the words +with fervour I seemed to lose hold of their meaning. I was taught that +being clever mattered little, but that being good mattered infinitely. I +wanted to want to be good, but all I really wanted was to be clever. I +felt that this in itself was a wickedness. I could not help it, but I +believed that I should be punished for not being able to help it. I was +told that if I was very good I should go to heaven, but that if I was +wicked I should go to hell. I saw but one alternative.</p> + +<p>And so the thought of hell was often in my mind, for the most part very +much in the background, but always ready to come forward at any external +suggestion. Once or twice it came to me with such vividness that I +rolled over on the ground in a paroxysm of agony, trying to pray God +that I might not be sent to hell, but unable to fix my mind on the words +of the prayer. I felt the eternal flames taking hold on me, and some +foretaste of their endlessness seemed to enter into my being. I never +once had the least sensation of heaven, or any desire for it. Never at +any time did it seem to me probable that I should get there.</p> + +<p>I remember once in church, as I was looking earnestly at the face of a +child for whom I had a boyish admiration, that the thought suddenly shot +across my mind: 'Emma will die, Emma will go to heaven, and I shall +never see her again.' I shivered all through my body, I seemed to see +her vanishing away from me, and I turned my eyes aside, so that I could +not see her. But the thought gnawed at me so fiercely that a prayer +broke out of me, silently, like sweat: 'O God, let me be with her! O +God, let me be with her!' When I came out into the open air, and felt +the cold breeze on my forehead, the thought had begun to relax its hold +on me, and I never felt it again, with that certainty; but it was as if +a veil had been withdrawn for an instant, the veil which renders life +possible, and, for that instant, I had seen.</p> + +<p>When my mother talked to me about pious things, I felt that they were +extraordinarily real to her, and this impressed me the more because her +thirst for this life was even greater than mine, and her hold on +external things far stronger. My father was a dryly intellectual, +despondent person, whose whole view of life was coloured by the +dyspepsia which he was never without, and the sick headaches which laid +him up for a whole day, every week or every fortnight. He was quite +unimaginative, cautious in his affairs, a great reader of the newspaper; +but he never seemed to me to have had the same sense of life as my +mother and myself. I respected him, for his ability, his scholarship, +and his character; but we had nothing akin, he never interested me. He +was severely indulgent to me; I never knew him to be unkind, or even +unreasonable. But I took all such things for granted, I felt no +gratitude for them, and I was only conscious that my father bored me. I +had no dislike for him; an indifference, rather; perhaps a little more +than indifference, for if he came into the room, and I did not happen to +be absorbed in reading, I usually went out of it. We might sit together +for an hour, and it never occurred to either of us to speak. So when he +spoke to me of my soul, which he did seriously, sadly, with an undertone +of reproach, my whole nature rose up against him. If to be good was to +be like him, I did not wish to be good.</p> + +<p>With my mother, it was quite different. She had the joy of life, she was +sensitive to every aspect of the world; she felt the sunshine before it +came, and knew from what quarter the wind was blowing when she awoke in +the morning. I think she was never indifferent to any moment that ever +passed her by; I think no moment ever passed her by without being seized +in all the eagerness of acceptance. I never knew her when she was not +delicate, so delicate that she could rarely go out of doors in the +winter; but I never heard her complain, she was always happy, with a +natural gaiety which had only been strengthened into a kind of vivid +peace by the continual presence of a religion at once calm and +passionate. She was as sure of God as of my father; heaven was always as +real to her as the room in which she laughed and prayed. Sometimes, as +she read her Bible, her face quickened to an ecstasy. She was ready at +any moment to lay down the book and attend to the meanest household +duties; she never saw any gulf between meditation and action; her +meditations were all action. When a child, she had lain awake, longing +to see a ghost; she had never seen one, but if a ghost had entered the +room she would have talked with it as tranquilly as with a living +friend. To her the past, the present, and the future were but moments of +one existence; life was everything to her, and life was indestructible. +Her own personal life was so vivid that it never ceased, even in sleep. +She dreamed every night, precise, elaborate dreams, which she would tell +us in the morning with the same clearness as if she were telling us of +something that had really happened. She was never drowsy, she went to +sleep the moment her head was laid on the pillow, she awoke instantly +wide awake. There were things that she knew and things that she did not +know, but she was never vague. A duty was as clear to her as a fact; +infinitely tolerant to others, she expected from herself perfection, +the utmost perfection of which her nature was capable. It was because my +mother talked to me of the other world that I felt, in spite of myself, +that there was another world. Her certainty helped to make me the more +afraid.</p> + +<p>She did not often talk to me of the other world. She preferred that I +should see it reflected in her celestial temper and in a capability as +of the angels. She sorrowed at my indifference, but she was content to +wait; she was sure of me, she never doubted that, sooner or later, I +should be saved. This, too, troubled me. I did not want to be saved. It +is true that I did not want to go to hell, but the thought of what my +parents meant by salvation had no attraction for me. It seemed to be the +giving up of all that I cared for. There was a sort of humiliation in +it. Jesus Christ seemed to me a hard master.</p> + +<p>Sometimes there were revival services at the church, and I was never +quite at my ease until they were over. I was afraid of some appeal to my +emotions, which for the moment I should not be able to resist. I knew +that it would mean nothing, but I did not want to give in, even for a +moment. I felt that I might have to resist with more than my customary +indifference, and I did not like to admit to myself that any active +resistance could be necessary. I knelt, as a stormy prayer shook the +people about me into tears, rigid, forcing myself to think of something +else. I saw the preacher move about the church, speaking to one after +another, and I saw one after another get up and walk to the communion +rail, in sign of conversion. I wondered that they could do it, whatever +they felt; I wondered what they felt; I dreaded lest the preacher should +come up to me with some irresistible power, and beckon me up to that +rail. If he did come, I knelt motionless, with my face in my hands, not +answering his questions, not seeming to take the slightest notice of +him; but my heart was trembling, I did not know what was going to +happen; I felt nothing but that horrible uneasiness, but I feared it +might leave me helpless, at the man's mercy, or at God's perhaps.</p> + +<p>As we walked home afterwards, I could see the others looking at me, +wondering at my spiritual stubbornness, wondering if at last I had felt +something. To them, I knew, I was like a man who shut his eyes and +declared that he could not see. 'You have only to open your eyes,' they +said to the man. But the man said, 'I prefer being blind.' It was +inexplicable to them. But they were not less inexplicable to me.</p> + + +<h3>III.</h3> + +<p>From the time when 'Don Quixote' first opened my eyes to an imaginative +world outside myself, I had read hungrily; but another world was also +opened to me when I was about sixteen. I had been taught scales and +exercises on the piano; I had tried to learn music, with very little +success, when one day the head-master of the school asked me to go into +his drawing-room and copy out something for him. As I sat there copying, +the music-master, a German, came in and sat down at the piano. He played +something which I had never heard before, something which seemed to me +the most wonderful thing I had ever heard. I tried to go on copying, but +I did not know what I was writing down; I was caught into an ecstasy, +the sound seemed to envelop me like a storm, and then to trickle through +me like raindrops shaken from wet leaves, and then to wrap me again in a +tempest which was like a tempest of grief. When he had finished I said, +'Will you play that over again?' As he played it again I began to +distinguish it more clearly; I heard a slow, heavy trampling of feet, +marching in order, then what might have been the firing of cannon over a +grave, and the trampling again. When he told me that it was Chopin's +Funeral March, I understood why it was that the feet had moved so +slowly, and why the cannon had been fired; and I saw that the melody +which had soothed me was the timid, insinuating consolation which love +or hope sometimes brings to the mourner. I asked him if he would teach +me music and if he would teach me that piece. He promised to teach me +that piece, and I learned it. I learned no more scales and exercises; I +learned a few more pieces; but in a little while I could read at sight; +and when I was not reading a book I was reading a piece of music at the +piano. I never acquired the technique to play a single piece correctly, +but I learned to touch the piano as if one were caressing a living +being, and it answered me in an intimate and affectionate voice.</p> + +<p>Books and music, then, together with my solitary walks, were the only +means of escape which I was able to find from the tedium of things as +they were. I was passionately in love with life, but the life I lived +was not the life I wanted. I did not know quite what I wanted, but I +knew that what I wanted was something very different from what I +endured. We were very poor, and I hated the constraints of poverty. We +were surrounded by commonplace, middle-class people, and I hated +commonplace and the middle classes. Sometimes we were too poor even to +have a servant, and I was expected to clean my own boots. I could not +endure getting my hands or my shirt-cuffs dirty; the thought of having +to do it disgusted me every day. Sometimes my mother, without saying +anything to me, had cleaned my boots for me. I was scarcely conscious of +the sacrifices which she and the others were continually making. I made +none, of my own accord, and I felt aggrieved if I had to share the +smallest of their privations.</p> + +<p>From as early a time as I can remember, I had no very clear +consciousness of anything external to myself; I never realised that +others had the right to expect from me any return for the kindness which +they might show me or refuse to me, at their choice. I existed, others +also existed; but between us there was an impassable gulf, and I had +rarely any desire to cross it. I was very fond of my mother, but I felt +no affection towards any one else, nor any desire for the affection of +others. To be let alone, and to live my own life for ever, that was what +I wanted; and I raged because I could never entirely escape from the +contact of people who bored me and things which depressed me. If people +called, I went out of the room before they were shown in; if I had not +time to get away, I shook hands hurriedly, and slipped out as soon as I +could. I remember a cousin who used to come to tea every Sunday for two +or three years. My aversion to her was so great that I could hardly +answer her if she spoke to me, and I used to think of Shelley, and how +he too, like me, would 'lie back and languish into hate.' The woman was +quite inoffensive, but I am still unable to see her or hear her speak +without that sickness of aversion which used to make the painfulness of +Sunday more painful.</p> + +<p>People in general left me no more than indifferent; they could be +quietly avoided. They meant no more to me than the chairs on which they +sat; I was untouched by their fortunes; I was unconscious of my human +relationship to them. To my mother every person in the world became, for +the moment of contact, the only person in the world; if she merely +talked with any one for five minutes she was absorbed to the exclusion +of every other thought; she saw no one else, she heard nothing else. I +watched her, with astonishment, with admiration; I felt that she was in +the right and I in the wrong; that she gained a pleasure and conferred a +benefit, while I only wearied myself and offended others; but I could +not help it. I felt nothing, I saw nothing, outside myself.</p> + +<p>I always had a room upstairs, which I called my study, where I could sit +alone, reading or thinking. No one was allowed to enter the room; only, +in winter, as I always let the fire go out, my mother would now and then +steal in gently without speaking, and put more coals on the fire. I used +to look up from my books furiously, and ask why I could not be left +alone; my mother would smile, say nothing, and go out as quietly as she +had come in. I was only happy when I was in my study, but, when I had +shut the door behind me, I forgot all about the tedious people who were +calling downstairs, the covers of the book I was reading seemed to +broaden out into an enclosing rampart, and I was alone with myself.</p> + +<p>At my last school there was one master, a young man, who wrote for a +provincial newspaper, of which he afterwards became the editor, with +whom I made friends. He had read a great deal, and he knew a few +literary people; he was equally fond of literature and of music. Some +school composition of mine had interested him in me, and he began to +lend me books, and to encourage me in trying to express myself in +writing. I had already run through Scott and Byron, with a very little +Shelley, and had come to Browning, whom he detested. When I was laid up +with scarlatina he sent me over a packet of books to read; one of them +was Swinburne's 'Poems and Ballads,' which seemed to give voice to all +the fever that I felt just then in my blood. I read 'Wuthering Heights' +at the same time and Rabelais a little time afterwards. I read all the +bound volumes of the 'Cornhill Magazine' from the beginning right +through, stories, essays, and poems, and I remember my delight in 'Harry +Richmond,' at a time when I had never heard the name of George Meredith. +I read essays signed 'R. L. S.', from which I got my first taste of a +sort of gipsy element in literature which was to become a passion when, +later on, 'Lavengro' fell into my hands. The reading of 'Lavengro' did +many things for me. It absorbed me from the first page, with a curiously +personal appeal, as of some one akin to me, and when I came to the place +where Lavengro learns Welsh in a fortnight, I laid down the book with a +feeling of fierce emulation. I had often thought of learning Italian: I +immediately bought an Italian Bible, and a grammar; I worked all day +long, not taking up 'Lavengro' again, until, at the end of the fortnight +which I had given myself, I could read Italian. Then I finished +'Lavengro.'</p> + +<p>'Lavengro' took my thoughts into the open air, and gave me my first +conscious desire to wander. I learned a little Romany, and was always on +the lookout for gipsies. I realised that there were other people in the +world besides the conventional people I knew, who wore prim and shabby +clothes, and went to church twice on Sundays, and worked at business and +professions, and sat down to the meal of tea at five o'clock in the +afternoon. And I realised that there was another escape from these +people besides a solitary flight in books; that if a book could be so +like a man, there were men and women, after all, who had the interest of +a book as well as the warm advantage of being alive. Humanity began to +exist for me.</p> + +<p>But with this discovery of a possible interest in real people, there +came a deeper loathing of the people by whom I was surrounded. I had +for the most part been able to ignore them; now I wanted to get away, so +that I could live my own life, and choose my own companions. My vague +notions of sex became precise, became a torture.</p> + +<p>When I first read Rabelais and the 'Poems and Ballads,' I was ignorant +of my own body; I looked upon the relationship of man and woman as +something essentially wicked; my imagination took fire, but I was hardly +conscious of any physical reality connected with it. I was irrepressibly +timid in the presence of a woman; I hardly ever met young people of my +own age; and I had a feeling of the deepest reverence for women, from +which I endeavoured to banish the slightest consciousness of sex. I +thought it an inexcusable disrespect; and in my feeling towards the one +or two much older women who at one time or another had a certain +attraction for me, there was nothing, conscious at least, but a purely +romantic admiration. At the same time I had a guilty delight in reading +books which told me about the sensations of physical love, and I +trembled with ecstasy as I read them. Thoughts of them haunted me; I put +them out of my head by an effort, I called them back, they ended by +never leaving me.</p> + +<p>I think it was a little earlier than this that I began to walk in my +sleep, and to have nightmares; but it was just then that I suffered most +from those obscure terrors of the night. Once, when I was a child, I +remember waking up in my nightshirt on the drawing-room sofa, and being +wrapped up in a shawl and carried upstairs by my father, and put back +into bed. I had come down in my sleep, opened the door, and walked into +the room without seeing any one, and laid myself down on the sofa. I did +not often dream, but, whenever I dreamed, it was of infinite spirals, up +which I had to climb, or of ladders, whose rungs dropped away from me as +my feet left them, or of slimy stone stairways into cold pits of +darkness, or of the tightening of a snake's coils around me, or of +walking with bare feet across a floor curdling with snakes. I awoke, +stifling a scream, my hair damp with sweat, out of impossible tasks in +which time shrank and swelled in some deadly game with life; something +had to be done in a second, and all eternity passed, lingering, while +the second poised over me like a drop of water always about to drip: it +fell, and I was annihilated into depth under depth of blackness.</p> + +<p>Into these dreams of abstract horror there began to come a disturbing +element of sex. My books and my thoughts haunted me; I was restless and +ignorant, physically innocent, but with a sort of naïve corruption of +mind. All the interest which I had never been able to find in the soul, +I found in what I only vaguely apprehended of the body. To me it was +something remote, evil, mainly inexplicable; but nothing I had ever felt +had meant so much to me. I never realised that there was any honesty in +sex, that nature was after all natural. I reached stealthily after some +stealthy delight of the senses, which I valued the more because it was a +forbidden thing. Love I never associated with the senses, it was not +even passion that I wanted; it was a conscious, subtle, elaborate +sensuality, which I knew not how to procure. And there was an infinite +curiosity, which I hardly even dared dream of satisfying; a curiosity +which was like a fever. I was scarcely conscious of any external +temptations. The ideas in which I had been trained, little as they had +seemed consciously to affect me, had given me the equivalent of what I +may call virtue, in a form of good taste. I was ashamed of my desires, +of my sensations, though I made no serious effort to escape them; but I +knew that, even if the opportunity were offered, something, some scruple +of physical refinement, some timidity, some unattached sense of fitness, +would step in to prevent me from carrying them into practice.</p> + + +<h3>IV.</h3> + +<p>Every now and then my father used to talk to me seriously, saying that I +should have to choose some profession, and make my own living. I always +replied that there was nothing I could possibly do, that I hated every +profession, that I would rather starve than soil my hands with business, +and that so long as I could just go on living as I was then living, I +wanted nothing more. I did not want to be a rich man, I was never able +to realise money as a tangible thing, I wanted to have just enough to +live on, only not at home; in London. My father did not press the +matter; I could see that he dreaded my leaving home, and he knew that, +for the time, going to London was out of the question.</p> + +<p>One summer I went down to a remote part of England to stay with some of +my relations. I had seen none of them since I was a child, I knew +nothing about them, except that some were farmers, some business people; +there was an astronomer, an old sea-captain, and a mad uncle who lived +in a cottage by himself on a moor near the sea, and grew marvellous +flowers in a vast garden. I stayed with a maiden aunt, who was like a +very old and very gaunt little bird; she was deaf, wrinkled, and bent, +but her hair was still yellow, her voice a high piping treble, and she +ran about with the tireless vivacity of a young girl. She had been +pretty, and had all the little vanities of a coquette; she wore bright, +semi-fashionable clothes, and conspicuous hats. She had much of the +natural gaiety of my mother, who was her elder sister; and she was +infinitely considerate to me, turning out one of her little rooms that I +might have it for a study. She liked me to play to her, and would sit by +the side of the old piano listening eagerly. The mad uncle was her +brother, and he would come in sometimes from his cottage, bringing great +bundles of flowers. He was very kind and gentle, and he would sometimes +tell me of the letters he had been writing to the Prince of Wales on the +subject of sewage, and of how the Prince of Wales had acknowledged his +communications. He had many theories about sewage; I have heard that +some of them were plausible and ingenious; and he was convinced that his +theories would some day be accepted, and that he would become famous. I +believe his brain had been turned by an unlucky passion for a beautiful +girl; he was only in an asylum for a short time; and for the most part +lived happily in his cottage among his flowers, developing theories of +sewage, and taking sun-baths naked in the garden.</p> + +<p>The people of whom I saw most were some cousins: the father kept a shop, +and they all helped in the business. They were very kind, and did all +they could for me by feeding me plentifully and taking me for long +drives in the country, which was very hilly and wooded, and sometimes to +the sea, which was not too far off to reach by driving. We had not an +idea in common, and I always wondered how it was possible that my aunt, +who was my mother's eldest sister, could ever have married my uncle. He +was a kind man, and, in his way, intelligent; but he talked incessantly, +insistently, and with something unctuous in his voice and manner; he +came close to me while he spoke, and tapped my shoulder with his fingers +or my leg with his stick. I could not bear him to touch me; sometimes he +dropped his h's, and, as I heard them drop, I saw the old man looking +fixedly into my face with his large, keen, shifting eyes.</p> + +<p>One of the daughters had something inquiring in her mind, a touch of +rebellious refinement; she had enough instinct for another kind of life +to be at least discontented with her own; with her I could talk. But the +others fitted into their environment without a crease or a ruffle. They +went to the shop early in the morning, slaved there all day, taught in +the Sunday-School on Sundays, said the obvious things to one another all +day long, were perfectly content to be where they were, do what they +did, think what they thought, and say what they said. Their house +reflected them like a mirror. Everything was clean and new, there was +plenty of everything; and I used to sit in their drawing-room looking +round it in a vain attempt to find a single thing which I could have +lived with, in a house of my own.</p> + +<p>I went home from the visit gladly, glad to be at home again. We were +living then in the Midlands, and I used to spend whole days at +Kenilworth, at Warwick, at Coventry; I knew them from Scott's novels, +but I had never seen a ruined castle, a city with ancient buildings, and +I began to feel that there was something else to be seen in the world +besides the things I had dreamed of seeing. I took a boat at Leamington, +and rowed up the river as far as the chain underneath Warwick Castle. I +do not know why I have always remembered that moment, as if it marked a +date to me. It was with a full enjoyment of the contrast that I found +them busy preparing for a <i>fête</i> when I got back to Leamington; +stringing up the Chinese lanterns to the branches of the trees, and +putting out little tables on the grass. At Coventry I loved going +through the narrow streets, looking up at the windows which leaned +together under their gabled roofs. I saw Lady Godiva borne through the +streets, more clothed than she appears in the pictures, in the midst of +a gay and solemn procession, tricked out in old-fashioned frippery. And +I spent a long day there, one of the days of the five-day fair, which +feasted me with sensations on which I lived for weeks. It was the first +time I had ever plunged boldly into what Baudelaire calls 'the bath of +multitude'; it intoxicated me, and seemed, for the first time in my +life, to carry me outside myself. I pushed my way through the crowds in +those old and narrow streets, in an ecstasy of delight at all that +movement, noise, colour, and confusion. I seemed suddenly to have become +free, in contact with life. I had no desire to touch it too closely, no +fear of being soiled at its contact; a vivid spirit of life seemed to +come to me, in my solitude, releasing me from thought, from daily +realities.</p> + +<p>Once I went as far as Chester. It was the Cup day, and there was an +excursion. I watched the race, feeling a momentary excitement as the +horses passed close to me, and the pellets of turf shot from their heels +into the air above my head; the crowd was more varied than any crowd I +had ever seen, and I discovered a blonde gipsy girl, in charge of a +cocoanut-shy, who let me talk a little Romany with her. I thought +Chester, with its arcades and its city-walls, the most wonderful old +place I had ever seen. As I walked round the wall, a woman leaned out of +a window and called to me: I thought of Rahab in the Bible, and went +home dreaming romantically about the harlot on the wall.</p> + +<p>One day, as I was walking along a country road, I was stopped by a +sailor, who asked me how far it was to some distant place. He was +carrying a small bundle, and was walking, he told me, until he came to a +certain sea-port. He did not beg, but accepted gladly enough what I gave +him. He had been on many voyages, and had picked up a good many words of +different languages, which he mispronounced in a scarcely intelligible +jargon of his own. He had been left behind by his ship in Russia, where +he had stayed on account of a woman: she could speak no English, and he +but little Russian; but it did not seem to have mattered. It was the +first time I had seemed to come so close to the remote parts of the +world; and as he went on his way, he turned back to urge me to go on +some voyage which he seemed to remember with more pleasure than any +other: to the West Indies, I think. I began to pore over maps, and plan +to what parts of the world I would go.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, little by little, I was beginning to live my own life at +home; I played the piano on Sundays, to whatever tune I liked; I read +whatever I liked on Sundays; and, finally, I ceased to go to church. +Latterly I had come to put my boredom there to some purpose: I followed +the lessons word by word in Bibles and Testaments in many languages, +and, while the sermon was going on I kept my Bible quietly open on my +knees, and read on, chapter after chapter, while the preacher preached I +knew not what: I never heard a word of it, not even the text. I read, +not for the Bible's sake, but to learn the language in which I was +reading it. My parents knew this, but after all it was the Bible, and +they could hardly object to my reading the Bible. Sometimes I scribbled +down ideas that came into my head; sometimes I merely sat there, with a +stony inattention, showing, I fancy, in my face, all the fierce disgust +that I felt. During the sermon I always found it quite easy to abstract +my attention; during the hymns I amused myself by criticising the bad +rhymes and false metaphors; but during prayer-time, though I kept my +eyes wide open, and sat as upright as I dared, I could hardly help +hearing what was said. What was said, very often, made me ashamed, as if +I were unconsciously helping to repeat absurdities to God.</p> + +<p>When I told my parents that I could go to church no longer, I had no +definite reason to allege, except that the matter did not interest me. I +did not doubt the truth of the Christian religion; I neither affirmed +nor denied; it was something, to me, beside the question. I could argue +about dogma; I defended a liberal interpretation of doctrines; I +insisted that there were certain questions which we were bound to leave +open. But I was not alienated from Christianity by intellectual +difficulties; it had never taken hold of me, and I gave up nothing but a +pretence in giving up the sign of outward respect for it. My parents +were deeply grieved, but, then as always, they respected my liberty.</p> + +<p>The first time I remember going to London, for I had been there when a +child, was by an excursion, which brought me back the same night. Of the +day, or of what I did then, I can recall nothing; daylight never meant +so much to me as the first lighting of the lamps. I found my way back to +King's Cross, in some bewilderment, to find that one train had gone, and +that the next would leave me an hour or two more in London. I walked +among the lights, through hurrying crowds of people, in long, dingy +streets, not knowing where I was going, till I found myself outside a +great building which seemed to be a kind of music-hall. I went in; it +was the Agricultural Hall, and some show was being given there. There +were acrobats, gymnasts, equilibrists, performing beasts; there was a +vast din, concentrating all the noises of a fair within four walls; +people swarmed to and fro over the long floor, paying more heed to one +another than to the performance. I scrutinised the show and the people, +a little uneasily; it was very new to me, and I was not yet able to feel +at home in London. I found my way to the station like one who comes +home, half dizzy and half ashamed, after a debauch.</p> + +<p>The next time I went to London, I went for a week. I stayed in a +lodging-house near the British Museum, a mean, uncomfortable place, +where I had to be indoors by midnight. During the day I read in the +Museum; the atmosphere weighed upon me, and gave me a headache every +day; the same atmosphere weighed upon me in the streets around the +Museum; I was dull, depressed, anxious to get through with the task for +which I had come to London, anxious to get back again to the country. I +went back with a little book-learning, of the kind that I wanted to +acquire; I began to have books sent down to me from a Library in London; +I worked, more and more diligently, at reading and studying books; and +I began to think of devoting myself entirely to some sort of literary +work. It was not that I had anything to say, or that I felt the need of +expressing myself. I wanted to write books for the sake of writing +books; it was food for my ambition, and it gave me something to do when +I was alone, apart from other people. It helped to raise another barrier +between me and other people.</p> + +<p>I went up to London again for a longer visit, and I stayed in a +lodging-house in one of the streets leading from the Strand to the +Embankment, near the stage-door of one of the theatres. A little actress +and her mother were staying in the house, and I felt that I was getting +an intimate acquaintance with the stage, as I sat up with the little +actress, after her mother had gone to bed, and listened timidly to her +stories of parts and dresses and the other girls. She was quite young, +and still ingenuous enough to look forward to the day when she would +have her name on the placards in letters I forget how many inches high. +I had been to my first theatre, it was Irving in 'King Lear,' and now I +was hearing about the stage from one who lived on it. A little actress, +afterwards famous for her beauty, and then a child with masses of gold +hair about her ears, lived next door, at another lodging-house, which +her mother kept. I watched for her to pass the window, or for a chance +of meeting her in the street. When I went back again to the country, it +was with a fixed resolve to come and live in London, where, it seemed, I +could, if I liked, be something more than a spectator of the great, +amusing crowd. The intoxication of London had got hold of me; I felt at +home in it, and I felt that I had never yet found anywhere to be at home +in.</p> + +<p>I lived in London for five years, and I do not think there was a day +during those five years in which I did not find a conscious delight in +the mere fact of being in London. When I found myself alone, and in the +midst of a crowd, I began to be astonishingly happy. I needed so little +at the beginning of that time. I have never been able to stay long under +a roof without restlessness, and I used to go out into the streets, +many times a day, for the pleasure of finding myself in the open air and +in the streets. I had never cared greatly for the open air in the +country, the real open air, because everything in the country, except +the sea, bored me; but here, in the 'motley' Strand, among these +hurrying people, under the smoky sky, I could walk and yet watch. If +there ever was a religion of the eyes, I have devoutly practised that +religion. I noted every face that passed me on the pavement; I looked +into the omnibuses, the cabs, always with the same eager hope of seeing +some beautiful or interesting person, some gracious movement, a delicate +expression, which would be gone if I did not catch it as it went. This +search without an aim grew to be almost a torture to me; my eyes ached +with the effort, but I could not control them. At every moment, I knew, +some spectacle awaited them; I grasped at all these sights with the same +futile energy as a dog that I once saw standing in an Irish stream, and +snapping at the bubbles that ran continually past him on the water. +Life ran past me continually, and I tried to make all its bubbles my +own.</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h2><a name="ESTHER_KAHN" id="ESTHER_KAHN"></a>ESTHER KAHN.</h2> + +<p>Esther Kahn was born in one of those dark, evil-smelling streets with +strange corners which lie about the Docks. It was a quiet street, which +seemed to lead nowhere, but to stand aside, for some not quite honest +purpose of its own. The blinds of some of these houses were always +drawn; shutters were nailed over some of the windows. Few people passed; +there were never many children playing in the road; the women did not +stand talking at their open doors. The doors opened and shut quietly; +dark faces looked out from behind the windows; the Jews who lived there +seemed always to be at work, bending over their tables, sewing and +cutting, or else hurrying in and out with bundles of clothes under their +arms, going and coming from the tailors for whom they worked. The Kahns +all worked at tailoring: Esther's father and mother and grandmother, her +elder brother and her two elder sisters. One did seaming, another +button-holing, another sewed on buttons; and, on the poor pay they got +for that, seven had to live.</p> + +<p>As a child Esther had a strange terror of the street in which she lived. +She was never sure whether something dreadful had just happened there, +or whether it was just going to happen. But she was always in suspense. +She was tormented with the fear of knowing what went on behind those +nailed shutters. She made up stories about the houses, but the stories +never satisfied her. She imagined some great, vague gesture; not an +incident, but a gesture; and it hung in the air suspended like a shadow. +The gestures of people always meant more to her than their words; they +seemed to have a secret meaning of their own, which the words never +quite interpreted. She was always unconsciously on the watch for their +meaning.</p> + +<p>At night, after supper, the others used to sit around the table, talking +eagerly. Esther would get up and draw her chair into the corner by the +door, and for a time she would watch them, as if she were looking on at +something, something with which she had no concern, but which interested +her for its outline and movement. She saw her father's keen profile, the +great, hooked nose, the black, prominent, shifty eye, the tangled black +hair straggling over the shirt-collar; her mother, large, placid, with +masses of black, straight hair coiled low over her sallow cheeks; the +two sisters, sharp and voluble, never at rest for a moment; the brother, +with his air of insolent assurance, an immense self-satisfaction hooded +under his beautifully curved eyelids; the grandmother, with her bent and +mountainous shoulders, the vivid malice of her eyes, her hundreds of +wrinkles. All these people, who had so many interests in common, who +thought of the same things, cared for the same things, seemed so fond of +one another in an instinctive way, with so much hostility for other +people who were not belonging to them, sat there night after night, in +the same attitudes, always as eager for the events of to-day as they had +been for the events of yesterday. Everything mattered to them +immensely, and especially their part in things; and no one thing seemed +to matter more than any other thing. Esther cared only to look on; +nothing mattered to her; she had no interest in their interests; she was +not sure that she cared for them more than she would care for other +people; they were what she supposed real life was, and that was a thing +in which she had only a disinterested curiosity.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, when she had been watching them until they had all seemed to +fade away and form again in a kind of vision more precise than the +reality, she would lose sight of them altogether and sit gazing straight +before her, her eyes wide open, her lips parted. Her hand would make an +unconscious movement, as if she were accompanying some grave words with +an appropriate gesture; and Becky would generally see it, and burst into +a mocking laugh, and ask her whom she was mimicking.</p> + +<p>'Don't notice her,' the mother said once; 'she's not a human child, +she's a monkey; she's clutching out after a soul, as they do. They look +like little men, but they know they're not men, and they try to be; +that's why they mimic us.'</p> + +<p>Esther was very angry; she said to herself that she would be more +careful in future not to show anything that she was feeling.</p> + +<p>At thirteen Esther looked a woman. She was large-boned, with very small +hands and feet, and her body seemed to be generally asleep, in a kind of +brooding lethargy. She had her mother's hair, masses of it, but softer, +with a faint, natural wave in it. Her face was oval, smooth in outline, +with a nose just Jewish enough for the beauty of suave curves and +unemphatic outlines. The lips were thick, red, strung like a bow. The +whole face seemed to await, with an infinite patience, some moulding and +awakening force, which might have its way with it. It wanted nothing, +anticipated nothing; it waited. Only the eyes put life into the mask, +and the eyes were the eyes of the tribe; they had no personal meaning in +what seemed to be their mystery; they were ready to fascinate +innocently, to be intolerably ambiguous without intention; they were +fathomless with mere sleep, the unconscious dream which is in the eyes +of animals.</p> + +<p>Esther was neither clever nor stupid; she was inert. She did as little +in the house as she could, but when she had to take her share in the +stitching she stitched more neatly than any of the others, though very +slowly. She hated it, in her languid, smouldering way, partly because it +was work and partly because it made her prick her fingers, and the skin +grew hard and ragged where the point of the needle had scratched it. She +liked her skin to be quite smooth, but all the glycerine she rubbed into +it at night would not take out the mark of the needle. It seemed to her +like the badge of her slavery.</p> + +<p>She would rather not have been a Jewess; that, too, was a kind of badge, +marking her out from other people; she wanted to be let alone, to have +her own way without other people's help or hindrance. She had no +definite consciousness of what her own way was to be; she was only +conscious, as yet, of the ways that would certainly not be hers.</p> + +<p>She would not think only of making money, like her mother, nor of being +thought clever, like Becky, nor of being admired because she had good +looks and dressed smartly, like Mina. All these things required an +effort, and Esther was lazy. She wanted to be admired, and to have +money, of course, and she did not want people to think her stupid; but +all this was to come to her, she knew, because of some fortunate quality +in herself, as yet undiscovered. Then she would shake off everything +that now clung to her, like a worn-out garment that one keeps only until +one can replace it. She saw herself rolling away in a carriage towards +the west; she would never come back. And it would be like a revenge on +whatever it was that kept her stifling in this mean street; she wanted +to be cruelly revenged.</p> + +<p>As it was, her only very keen pleasure was in going to the theatre with +her brother or her sisters; she cared nothing for the music-halls, and +preferred staying at home to going with the others when they went to the +Pavilion or the Foresters. But when there was a melodrama at the +Standard, or at the Elephant and Castle, she would wait and struggle +outside the door and up the narrow, winding stairs, for a place as near +the front of the gallery as she could get. Once inside, she would never +speak, but she would sit staring at the people on the stage as if they +hypnotised her. She never criticised the play, as the others did; the +play did not seem to matter; she lived it without will or choice, merely +because it was there and her eyes were on it.</p> + +<p>But after it was over and they were at home again, she would become +suddenly voluble as she discussed the merits of the acting. She had no +hesitations, was certain that she was always in the right, and became +furious if any one contradicted her. She saw each part as a whole, and +she blamed the actors for not being consistent with themselves. She +could not understand how they could make a mistake. It was so simple, +there were no two ways of doing anything. To go wrong was as if you said +no when you meant yes; it must be wilful.</p> + +<p>'You ought to do it yourself, Esther,' said her sisters, when they were +tired of her criticisms. They meant to be satirical, but Esther said, +seriously enough: 'Yes, I could do it; but so could that woman if she +would let herself alone. Why did she try to be something else all the +time?'</p> + +<p>Time went slowly with Esther; but when she was seventeen she was still +sewing at home and still waiting. Nothing had come to her of all that +she had expected. Two of her cousins, and a neighbour or two, had wanted +to marry her; but she had refused them contemptuously. To her sluggish +instinct men seemed only good for making money, or, perhaps, children; +they had not come to have any definite personal meaning for her. A +little man called Joel, who had talked to her passionately about love, +and had cried when she refused him, seemed to her an unintelligible and +ridiculous kind of animal. When she dreamed of the future, there was +never any one of that sort making fine speeches to her.</p> + +<p>But, gradually, her own real purpose in life had become clear. She was +to be an actress. She said nothing about it at home, but she began to +go round to the managers of the small theatres in the neighbourhood, +asking for an engagement. After a long time the manager gave her a small +part. The piece was called 'The Wages of Sin,' and she was to be the +servant who opens the door in the first act to the man who is going to +be the murderer in the second act, and then identifies him in the fourth +act.</p> + +<p>Esther went home quietly and said nothing until supper-time. Then she +said to her mother: 'I am going on the stage.'</p> + +<p>'That's very likely,' said her mother, with a sarcastic smile; 'and when +do you go on, pray?'</p> + +<p>'On Monday night,' said Esther.</p> + +<p>'You don't mean it!' said her mother.</p> + +<p>'Indeed I mean it,' said Esther, 'and I've got my part. I'm to be the +servant in "The Wages of Sin."'</p> + +<p>Her brother laughed. 'I know,' he said, 'she speaks two words twice.'</p> + +<p>'You are right,' said Esther; 'will you come on Monday, and hear how I +say them?'</p> + +<p>When Esther had made up her mind to do anything, they all knew that she +always did it. Her father talked to her seriously. Her mother said: 'You +are much too lazy, Esther; you will never get on.' They told her that +she was taking the bread out of their mouths, and it was certain she +would never put it back again. 'If I get on,' said Esther, 'I will pay +you back exactly what I would have earned, as long as you keep me. Is +that a bargain? I know I shall get on, and you won't repent of it. You +had better let me do as I want. It will pay.'</p> + +<p>They shook their heads, looked at Esther, who sat there with her lips +tight shut, and a queer, hard look in her eyes, which were trying not to +seem exultant; they looked at one another, shook their heads again, and +consented. The old grandmother mumbled something fiercely, but as it +sounded like bad words, and they never knew what Old Testament language +she would use, they did not ask her what she was meaning.</p> + +<p>On Monday Esther made her first appearance on the stage. Her mother +said to her afterwards: 'I thought nothing of you, Esther; you were just +like any ordinary servant.' Becky asked her if she had felt nervous. She +shook her head; it had seemed quite natural to her, she said. She did +not tell them that a great wave of triumph had swept over her as she +felt the heat of the gas footlights come up into her eyes, and saw the +floating cluster of white faces rising out of a solid mass of +indistinguishable darkness. In that moment she drew into her nostrils +the breath of life.</p> + +<p>Esther had a small part to understudy, and before long she had the +chance of playing it. The manager said nothing to her, but soon +afterwards he told her to understudy a more important part. She never +had the chance to play it, but, when the next piece was put on at the +theatre, she was given a part of her own. She began to make a little +money, and, as she had promised, she paid so much a week to her parents +for keeping her. They gained by the bargain, so they did not ask her to +come back to the stitching. Mrs. Kahn sometimes spoke of her daughter to +the neighbours with a certain languid pride; Esther was making her way.</p> + +<p>Esther made her way rapidly. One day the manager of a West End theatre +came down to see her; he engaged her at once to play a small but +difficult part in an ambitious kind of melodrama that he was bringing +out. She did it well, satisfied the manager, was given a better part, +did that well, too, was engaged by another manager, and, in short, began +to be looked upon as a promising actress. The papers praised her with +moderation; some of the younger critics, who admired her type, praised +her more than she deserved. She was making money; she had come to live +in rooms of her own, off the Strand; at twenty-one she had done, in a +measure, what she wanted to do; but she was not satisfied with herself. +She had always known that she could act, but how well could she act? +Would she never be able to act any better than this? She had drifted +into the life of the stage as naturally as if she had never known +anything else; she was at home, comfortable, able to do what many others +could not do. But she wanted to be a great actress.</p> + +<p>An old actor, a Jew, Nathan Quellen, who had taken a kind of paternal +interest in her, and who helped her with all the good advice that he had +never taken to himself, was fond of saying that the remedy was in her +own hands.</p> + +<p>'My dear Esther,' he would tell her, smoothing his long grey hair down +over his forehead, 'you must take a lover; you must fall in love; +there's no other way. You think you can act, and you have never felt +anything worse than a cut finger. Why, it's an absurdity! Wait till you +know the only thing worth knowing; till then you're in short frocks and +a pinafore.'</p> + +<p>He cited examples, he condensed the biographies of the great actresses +for her benefit. He found one lesson in them all, and he was sincere in +his reading of history as he saw it. He talked, argued, protested; the +matter seriously troubled him. He felt he was giving Esther good advice; +he wanted her to be the thing she wanted to be. Esther knew it and +thanked him, without smiling; she sat brooding over his words; she never +argued against them. She believed much of what he said; but was the +remedy, as he said, in her own hands? It did not seem so.</p> + +<p>As yet no man had spoken to her blood. She had the sluggish blood of a +really profound animal nature. She saw men calmly, as calmly as when +little Joel had cried because she would not marry him. Joel still came +to see her sometimes, with the same entreaty in his eyes, not daring to +speak it. Other men, very different men, had made love to her in very +different ways. They had seemed to be trying to drive a hard bargain, to +get the better of her in a matter of business; and her native cunning +had kept her easily on the better side of the bargain. She was resolved +to be a business woman in the old trade of the affections; no one should +buy or sell of her except at her own price, and she set the price vastly +high.</p> + +<p>Yet Quellen's words set her thinking. Was there, after all, but one way +to study for the stage? All the examples pointed to it, and, what was +worse, she felt it might be true. She saw exactly where her acting +stopped short.</p> + +<p>She looked around her with practical eyes, not seeming to herself to be +doing anything unusual or unlikely to succeed in its purpose. She +thought deliberately over all the men she knew; but who was there whom +it would be possible to take seriously? She could think of only one man: +Philip Haygarth.</p> + +<p>Philip Haygarth was a man of five-and-thirty, who had been writing plays +and having them acted, with only a moderate success, for nearly ten +years. He was one of the accepted men, a man whose plays were treated +respectfully, and he had the reputation of being much cleverer than his +plays. He was short, dark, neat, very worldly-looking, with thin lips +and reflective, not quite honest eyes. His manner was cold, restrained, +with a mingling of insolence and diffidence. He was a hard worker and a +somewhat deliberately hard liver. He avoided society and preferred to +find his relaxation among people with whom one did not need to keep up +appearances, or talk sentiment, or pay afternoon calls. He admired +Esther Kahn as an actress, though with many reservations; and he admired +her as a woman, more than he had ever admired anybody else. She appealed +to all his tastes; she ended by absorbing almost the whole of those +interests and those hours which he set apart, in his carefully arranged +life, for such matters.</p> + +<p>He made love to Esther much more skilfully than any of her other lovers, +and, though she saw through his plans as clearly as he wished her to see +through them, she was grateful to him for a certain finesse in his +manner of approach. He never mentioned the word 'love,' except to jest +at it; he concealed even the extent to which he was really disturbed by +her presence; his words spoke only of friendship and of general topics. +And yet there could never be any doubt as to his meaning; his whole +attitude was a patient waiting. He interested her; frankly, he +interested her: here, then, was the man for her purpose. With his +admirable tact, he spared her the least difficulty in making her +meaning clear. He congratulated himself on a prize; she congratulated +herself on the accomplishment of a duty.</p> + +<p>Days and weeks passed, and Esther scrutinised herself with a distinct +sense of disappointment. She had no moral feeling in the matter; she was +her own property, it had always seemed to her, free to dispose of as she +pleased. The business element in her nature persisted. This bargain, +this infinitely important bargain, had been concluded, with open eyes, +with a full sense of responsibility, for a purpose, the purpose for +which she lived. What was the result?</p> + +<p>She could see no result. The world had in no sense changed for her, as +she had been supposing it would change; a new excitement had come into +her life, and that was all. She wondered what it was that a woman was +expected to feel under the circumstances, and why she had not felt it. +How different had been her feeling when she walked across the stage for +the first time! That had really been a new life, or the very beginning +of life. But this was no more than a delightful episode, hardly to be +disentangled from the visit to Paris which had accompanied it. She had, +so to speak, fallen into a new habit, which was so agreeable, and seemed +so natural, that she could not understand why she had not fallen into it +before; it was a habit she would certainly persist in, for its own sake. +The world remained just the same.</p> + +<p>And her art: she had learned nothing. No new thrill came into the words +she spoke; her eyes, as they looked across the footlights, remembered +nothing, had nothing new to tell.</p> + +<p>And so she turned, with all the more interest, an interest almost +impersonal, to Philip Haygarth when he talked to her about acting and +the drama, when he elaborated his theories which, she was aware, +occupied him more than she occupied him. He was one of those creative +critics who can do every man's work but their own. When he sat down to +write his own plays, something dry and hard came into the words, the +life ebbed out of those imaginary people who had been so real to him, +whom he had made so real to others as he talked. He constructed +admirably and was an unerring judge of the construction of plays. And he +had a sense of acting which was like the sense that a fine actor might +have, if he could be himself and also some one looking on at himself. He +not only knew what should be done, but exactly why it should be done. +Little suspecting that he had been chosen for the purpose, though in so +different a manner, he set himself to teach her art to Esther.</p> + +<p>He made her go through the great parts with him; she was Juliet, Lady +Macbeth, Cleopatra; he taught her how to speak verse and how to feel the +accent of speech in verse, another kind of speech than prose speech; he +trained her voice to take hold of the harmonies that lie in words +themselves; and she caught them, by ear, as one born to speak many +languages catches a foreign language. She went through Ibsen as she had +gone through Shakespeare; and Haygarth showed her how to take hold of +this very different subject-matter, so definite and so elusive. And +they studied good acting-plays together, worthless plays that gave the +actress opportunities to create something out of nothing. Together they +saw Duse and Sarah Bernhardt; and they had seen Réjane in Paris, in +crudely tragic parts; and they studied the English stage, to find out +why it maintained itself at so stiff a distance from nature. She went on +acting all the time, always acting with more certainty; and at last she +attempted more serious parts, which she learned with Haygarth at her +elbow.</p> + +<p>She had to be taught her part as a child is taught its lesson; word by +word, intonation by intonation. She read it over, not really knowing +what it was about; she learned it by heart mechanically, getting the +words into her memory first. Then the meaning had to be explained to +her, scene by scene, and she had to say the words over until she had +found the right accent. Once found, she never forgot it; she could +repeat it identically at any moment; there were no variations to allow +for. Until that moment she was reaching out blindly in the dark, feeling +about her with uncertain fingers.</p> + +<p>And, with her, the understanding came with the power of expression, +sometimes seeming really to proceed from the sound to the sense, from +the gesture inward. Show her how it should be done, and she knew why it +should be done; sound the right note in her ears, arrest her at the +moment when the note came right, and she understood, by a backward +process, why the note should sound thus. Her mind worked, but it worked +under suggestion, as the hypnotists say; the idea had to come to her +through the instinct, or it would never come.</p> + +<p>As Esther found herself, almost unconsciously, becoming what she had +dreamed of becoming, what she had longed to become, and, after all, +through Philip Haygarth, a more personal feeling began to grow up in her +heart toward this lover who had found his way to her, not through the +senses, but through the mind. A kind of domesticity had crept into their +relations, and this drew Esther nearer to him. She began to feel that he +belonged to her. He had never, she knew, been wholly absorbed in her, +and she had delighted him by showing no jealousy, no anxiety to keep +him. As long as she remained so, he felt that she had a sure hold on +him. But now she began to change, to concern herself more with his +doings, to assert her right to him, as she had never hitherto cared to +do. He chafed a little at what seemed an unnecessary devotion.</p> + +<p>Love, with Esther, had come slowly, taking his time on the journey; but +he came to take possession. To work at her art was to please Philip +Haygarth; she worked now with a double purpose. And she made surprising +advances as an actress. People began to speculate: had she genius, or +was this only an astonishingly developed talent, which could go so far +and no farther?</p> + +<p>For, in this finished method, which seemed so spontaneous and yet at the +same time so deliberate, there seemed still to be something, some +slight, essential thing, almost unaccountably lacking. What was it? Was +it a fundamental lack, that could never be supplied? Or would that +slight, essential thing, as her admirers prophesied, one day be +supplied? They waited.</p> + +<p>Esther was now really happy, for the first time in her life; and as she +looked back over those years, in the street by the Docks, when she had +lived alone in the midst of her family, and since then, when she had +lived alone, working, not finding the time long, nor wishing it to go +more slowly, she felt a kind of surprise at herself. How could she have +gone through it all? She had not even been bored. She had had a purpose, +and now that she was achieving that purpose, the thing itself seemed +hardly to matter. Her art kept pace with her life; she was giving up +nothing in return for happiness; but she had come to prize the +happiness, her love, beyond all things.</p> + +<p>She knew that Haygarth was proud of her, that he looked upon her talent, +genius, whatever it was, as partly the work of his hands. It pleased her +that this should be so; it seemed to bind him to her more tightly.</p> + +<p>In this she was mistaken, as most women are mistaken when they ask +themselves what it is in them that holds their lovers. The actress +interested Haygarth greatly, but the actress interested him as a +problem, as something quite apart from his feelings as a man, as a +lover. He had been attracted by the woman, by what was sombre and +unexplained in her eyes, by the sleepy grace of her movements, by the +magnetism that seemed to drowse in her. He had made love to her +precisely as he would have made love to an ignorant, beautiful creature +who walked on in some corner of a Drury Lane melodrama. On principle, he +did not like clever women. Esther, it is true, was not clever, in the +ordinary, tiresome sense; and her startling intuitions, in matters of +acting, had not repelled him, as an exhibition of the capabilities of a +woman, while they preoccupied him for a long time in that part of his +brain which worked critically upon any interesting material. But nothing +that she could do as an artist made the least difference to his feeling +about her as a woman; his pride in her was like his pride in a play +that he had written finely, and put aside; to be glanced at from time to +time, with cool satisfaction. He had his own very deliberate theory of +values, and one value was never allowed to interfere with another. A +devoted, discreet amateur of woman, he appreciated women really for +their own sakes, with an unflattering simplicity. And for a time Esther +absorbed him almost wholly.</p> + +<p>He had been quite content with their relations as they were before she +fell seriously in love with him, and this new, profound feeling, which +he had never even dreaded, somewhat disturbed him. She was adopting +almost the attitude of a wife, and he had no ambition to play the part +of a husband. The affections were always rather a strain upon him; he +liked something a little less serious and a little more exciting.</p> + +<p>Esther understood nothing that was going on in Philip Haygarth's mind, +and when he began to seem colder to her, when she saw less of him, and +then less, it seemed to her that she could still appeal to him by her +art and still touch him by her devotion. As her warmth seemed more and +more to threaten his liberty, the impulse to tug at his chain became +harder to resist. His continued, unvarying interest in her acting, his +patience in helping her, in working with her, kept her for some time +from realising how little was left now of the more personal feeling. It +was with sharp surprise, as well as with a blinding rage, that she +discovered one day, beyond possibility of mistake, that she had a rival, +and that Haygarth was only doling out to her the time left over from her +rival.</p> + +<p>It was an Italian, a young girl who had come over to London with an +organ-grinder, and who posed for sculptors, when she could get a +sitting. It was a girl who could barely read and write, an insignificant +creature, a peasant from the Campagna, who had nothing but her good +looks and the distinction of her attitudes. Esther was beside herself +with rage, jealousy, mortification; she loved, and she could not pardon. +There was a scene of unmeasured violence. Haygarth was cruel, almost +with intention; and they parted, Esther feeling as if her life had been +broken sharply in two.</p> + +<p>She was at the last rehearsals of a new play by Haygarth, a play in +which he had tried for once to be tragic in the bare, straightforward +way of the things that really happen. She went through the rehearsals +absent-mindedly, repeating her words, which he had taught her how to +say, but scarcely attending to their meaning. Another thought was at +work behind this mechanical speech, a continual throb of remembrance, +going on monotonously. Her mind was full of other words, which she heard +as if an inner voice were repeating them; her mind made up pictures, +which seemed to pass slowly before her eyes: Haygarth and the other +woman. At the last rehearsal Quellen came round to her, and, ironically +as she thought, complimented her on her performance. She meant, when the +night came, not to fail: that was all.</p> + +<p>When the night came, she said to herself that she was calm, that she +would be able to concentrate herself on her acting and act just as +usual. But, as she stood in the wings, waiting for her moment to +appear, her eyes went straight to the eyes of the other woman, the +Italian model, the organ-grinder's girl, who sat, smiling contentedly, +in the front of a box, turning her head sometimes to speak to some one +behind her, hidden by the curtain. She was dressed in black, with a rose +in her hair: you could have taken her for a lady; she was triumphantly +beautiful. Esther shuddered as if she had been struck; the blood rushed +into her forehead and swelled and beat against her eyes. Then, with an +immense effort, she cleared her mind of everything but the task before +her. Every nerve in her body lived with a separate life as she opened +the door at the back of the stage, and stood, waiting for the applause +to subside, motionless under the eyes of the audience. There was +something in the manner of her entrance that seemed to strike the fatal +note of the play. She had never been more restrained, more effortless; +she seemed scarcely to be acting; only, a magnetic current seemed to +have been set in motion between her and those who were watching her. +They held their breaths, as if they were assisting at a real tragedy; as +if, at any moment, this acting might give place to some horrible, naked +passion of mere nature. The curtain rose and rose again at the end of +the first act; and she stood there, bowing gravely, in what seemed a +deliberate continuation, into that interval, of the sentiment of the +piece. Her dresses were taken off her and put on her, for each act, as +if she had been a lay-figure. Once, in the second act, she looked up at +the box; the Italian woman was smiling emptily, but Haygarth, taking no +notice of her, was leaning forward with his eyes fixed on the stage. +After the third act he sent to Esther's dressing-room a fervent note, +begging to be allowed to see her. She had made his play, he said, and +she had made herself a great actress. She crumpled the note fiercely, +put it carefully into her jewel-box, and refused to see him. In the last +act she had to die, after the manner of the Lady of the Camellias, +waiting for the lover who, in this case, never came. The pathos of her +acting was almost unbearable, and, still, it seemed not like acting at +all. The curtain went down on a great actress.</p> + +<p>Esther went home stunned, only partly realising what she had done, or +how she had done it. She read over the note from Haygarth, +unforgivingly; and the long letter that came from him in the morning. As +reflection returned, through all the confused suffering and excitement, +to her deliberate, automatic nature, in which a great shock had brought +about a kind of release, she realised that all she had wanted, during +most of her life, had at last come about. The note had been struck, she +had responded to it, as she responded to every suggestion, faultlessly; +she knew that she could repeat the note, whenever she wished, now that +she had once found it. There would be no variation to allow for, the +actress was made at last. She might take back her lover, or never see +him again, it would make no difference. It would make no difference, she +repeated, over and over again, weeping uncontrollable tears.</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h2><a name="CHRISTIAN_TREVALGA" id="CHRISTIAN_TREVALGA"></a>CHRISTIAN TREVALGA.</h2> + +<p>He had never known what it was to feel the earth solid under his feet. +And now, while he waited for the doctor who was to decide whether he +might still keep his place in the world, and make what he could of all +that remained to him of his life, the past began to come back to him, +blurred a little in his memory, and with whole spaces blotted out of it, +but in a steady return upon himself, as the past, it is said, comes back +to a drowning man at the instant before death. There was that next step +to take, the step that frightened him; was it into another, more +painful, kind of oblivion? He was still an artist, his fingers were +still his own; but had the man all gone out of him, the power to live +for himself, when his fingers were no longer on the keyboard? That was +to be decided; and the past was trying to make its own comment on the +situation.</p> + +<p>Christian Trevalga was born in a little sea-coast village in Cornwall, +and the earliest thing he remembered was the sharp, creaking voice of +the sea-gulls, as they swept past him at the edge of the cliff, high up +over the sea. He was conscious of it, because it hurt him, sooner than +he was conscious of the many voices of the sea, which, all through his +childhood, sang out of the midst of all his dreams. Pain always meant +more to him than pleasure, though, indeed, he was not always sure if the +things that hurt him were not the things he cared for most.</p> + +<p>He was thirty-six now, and he had never gone back to the village since +he left it, at the age of sixteen, to come to London and try to win a +scholarship at the College. His father was a gentleman, who had come +down in the world; drink, gambling, and a low kind of debauchery brought +him down; and when he came back from Spain in a certain year, sobered, +something of a wreck, and married to a slow-witted Spanish woman whom he +had found no one knew where, he had only an old-fashioned, untidy, but +large and rambling, house on a cliff to live in, on the outskirts of a +village, most of which had once belonged to him. Debts and mortgages +left just enough to live on uncomfortably; he was not exacting now, and +the place was good for an idle, helpless man, who was tired of what he +called living, and had taken a late fancy to the open air, and, as soon +as the child was old enough, to the companionship of his child. His wife +sat indoors all day, crouching over the fire, except when the summer +heat was extreme, and then she lay on the grass, under an umbrella. When +they sat at table her fingers were always crumbling the bread into tiny +crumbs, and often, at tea-time especially, she would take a large slice +of bread and mould it into little figures, little nude figures +exquisitely proportioned, with all the modelling of the limbs and +shoulder-blades. Sometimes she would do more than a single figure, a +little well, for instance, and a woman kneeling at the brink, and +leaning over it, with her arms outstretched. She loved the little +figures, and talked about them very seriously, criticising their +defects, not content with the lines that she had got, seeing them with +subtler curves than any she had been able to get. She would like to have +kept some of them, but, though she soaked them in milk, they would +always crumble away as soon as the bread dried. Christian stared at her +when her fingers were busy; he was puzzled, not exactly happy; he +generally ran away and left her for his father, who was not so queer, +half-absorbed, and busy about nothing.</p> + +<p>His father had a great fondness for music, but he could not play any +instrument, only whistle. He whistled elaborate tunes, with really a +kind of skill. There was a good old Broadwood piano in the house, and, +from as long ago as he could remember, Christian had been put on the +music-stool, and told to play what his father whistled. The first time +he was put there he picked out every note correctly, with one finger. +The father caught him up in his exuberant way: 'You will be a great +musician, my boy!' he said. The mother nodded over the fire, and looked +down at her tiny fingers, which could pick out form as the child, it +seemed, could pick out sound.</p> + +<p>Christian lived at the piano, playing all the music that he could find +in the house, and making up a strange, formless music of his own when +there was nothing else to play. His ear, from the first, was faultless; +if a poker fell in the fireplace he could tell you the pitch of the note +which it sounded. He was always listening, and sounds, with him, often +became visible, or at least reflected themselves upon his brain in +contours and patterns. The wind at night, when it flapped at the windows +with the sound of a sail flapping, seemed to surround the house with +realisable forms of sound. The music which he played on the piano made +lines, whenever he thought of it; never pictures. His mother, who did +not seem to herself to know or care anything about music, sometimes +described a little scene which the music he had been playing called up +to her, but he could never see things in that way. When he played the +first ballad of Chopin, for instance, she saw two lovers, sheltering +under trees in a wood, out of the rain which was falling around them, +and she followed their emotions, as the music interpreted them to her. +But he did not understand music like that; what was mathematical in it +he saw as pattern, but the emotion came to him in an almost equally +abstract way, as musical emotion, beginning and ending in the music +itself, and not needing to have any of one's own feelings put into it. +It was the music itself that cried and wept, and tore one; the passions +of abstract sound.</p> + +<p>For, he knew from the beginning, the soul of music is something more +than the soul of humanity expressing itself in melody, and the life of +music something more than an audible dramatisation of human life. +Beethoven, let us say, is angry with the world, Schumann dreams about +the roots of a flower; and they sit down to make music under that +impulse. Well, the anger will be there, and the flower coming up out of +the earth, but the music itself will have forgotten both the dream and +the feeling, the moment it begins to speak articulately in sound. It +will have its own message, as well as its own language, and you will not +be able to write down that message in words, any more than your words +can be translated into that language.</p> + +<p>And so Christian, with his divination of what music really means, was +never able to attach any expressible meaning to the pieces he played, +and became tongue-tied if any one asked him questions about them. The +emotion of the music, the idea, the feeling there, that was what moved +him; and his own personal feelings, apart from some form of music which +might translate them into a region where he could recognise them with +interest, came to mean less and less to him, until he seemed hardly to +have any personal feelings at all. It was natural to him to be kind, +people liked him and often imagined that he responded to their liking; +but, at many periods of his life, accused him of gross unkindness, or +even treachery, and he had not been conscious of the affection or of its +betrayal.</p> + +<p>And outward things, too, as well as people, meant very little to him, +and meant less and less as time went on. What he saw, when he went for +long walks with his father, had vanished from his memory before he had +returned to the house; it was as if he had been walking through +underground passages, with only a little faint light on the roadway in +front of his feet. He knew all the sea-cries, but never seemed to notice +the movement, the colour, of the sea; the sunsets over the sea left him +indifferent; he looked, with the others, but said nothing, and seemed to +see nothing.</p> + +<p>When he had decided that he was going to be a great pianist, and this +was when he was about ten, he had settled down to the hard work which +that meant, with an enthusiasm so profound and tenacious that it looked +like stolidity. They gave him a room at the top of the house, where he +could practise without disturbing anybody, and he shut himself in there, +until he was dragged out unwillingly to his meals, grudging the time +when he had to sit quiet at the table. 'What are you always thinking +about?' they would ask him, as he frowned silently over his food; but +he was thinking about nothing, he wanted to get back to the bar in the +middle of which he had been interrupted. The cadence seemed to hang in +space, swinging like a spider, and unable to catch the cornice on the +other wall.</p> + +<p>He was sixteen when he went up to London for the first time, and it had +been arranged that he should take lodgings in Bloomsbury, and try to +hear some of the great pianists, and, if possible, get some help +privately, before he tried for the scholarship. He got a bedroom at the +top of a house in Coptic Street, and hired a piano, which took up most +of the space left over by the bed; and he began to go to the shilling +seats at concerts, especially when there was any piano music to be +heard. Just then several of the most famous pianists were in London; he +went to hear them, at first with a horrible apprehension, and then more +boldly, as he saw what could be learned from them, and yet seemed to +fancy that they, too, might have found something to learn from him. He +heard their thunders, and laughed: that was not his idea of the +instrument, a thing, in their hands, that could overtop an orchestra +playing fortissimo. He saw these athletes fight with the poor instrument +as if they fought with a dangerous wild beast. Some used it as an anvil +to hammer sparks out of it; the chords rang and rebounded as if iron had +struck iron; it was the new art of attack, and piano-makers were +strengthening their defences daily. Some displayed an incredible +agility, and invented all sorts of ugly difficulties, in order to +overcome them; they reminded him of the dancing girls he had read of, +who used, at Roman feasts, to leap head-foremost into the midst of a +circle of sword-blades, and dance there on their hands, and leap out +again. He knew that he could not do any of these things, as he heard +them done; but was that really the way to treat music, or the way to +treat the piano?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Christian Trevalga remembered all this as he sat waiting for the doctor +in his rooms in Piccadilly; and it came to him like the first act of a +play which he was still watching, without knowing how the curtain was to +come down. That year in London, the loneliness, poverty, labour of it; +the great day of the competition, when he played behind the curtain, and +Rubinstein, sitting among the professors, silenced every hesitation with +his strong approval; the three years of hard daily work, the painful +perfecting of everything that he had sketched out for himself; life, as +he had lived it, a queer, silent, sullen, not unattractive boy, among +the students in whom he took so little interest; all this passed before +him in a single flash of memory. He had gone abroad, at the expense of +the college; had travelled in Germany and Austria; had extorted the +admiration of Brahms, who had said, 'I hate what you play, and I hate +how you play it, but you play the piano!' Tschaikowsky was in Vienna; he +had taken a warm personal liking to the unresponsive young Englishman, +who seemed to be always frowning, and looking at you distrustfully from +under his dark, overhanging eyebrows. It was not to the musician that he +was unresponsive, as he was to the musician in Brahms, the German doctor +of music in spectacles, that peered out of those learned, intellectual +scores. He felt Tschaikowsky with his nerves, all that suffering music +without silences, never still and happy, like most other music, at all +events sometimes. But the man, when he walked arm in arm with him, +seemed excessive, a kind of uneasy responsibility.</p> + +<p>Then he had come back to London, lived and worked there, given concerts, +made his fame in the world, seen himself triumph, watching his own +career with an absolute certainty of being able to do what he wanted. +And all the time he had been, as he was that day at the college when he +won the scholarship, playing behind a curtain. He knew that on the other +side of the curtain was the world, with many things to do besides +listening to him, though he could arrest it when he liked, and make it +listen; then it went on its way again, and the other things continued to +occupy it. Well, for him, where were those other things? They hardly +existed. The great men who had given him their friendship, all the +people who came to him because they admired him, those who came to him +because his playing seemed to speak to them from somewhere inside their +own hearts, in the little voices of their blood, the women who, as it +seemed, loved him: why was it that he could not be as they were, respond +to them in their own language, which was that of humanity itself, +admire, like, love them back?</p> + +<p>He had tried to find himself, to become real, by falling in love. Women +had not found it difficult to fall in love with him; his reticence, his +enigmatical reluctance to speak out, the sympathetic sullenness of his +face, a certain painful sensibility which shot like distressed nerves +across his cheeks and forehead and tugged at the restless corners of his +eyelids, seemed to attract them as to something which they could perhaps +find out, and then soothe, and put to rest. He had no morals, and was +too indifferent to refuse much that was offered to him. When it was a +simple adventure of the flesh, he accepted it simply, and, without +knowing it, won the reputation of being both sensual and hard-hearted, a +sort of coldly passionate creature, that promised everything in the +sincerity of one moment, and broke every promise in the sincerity of the +next. He did not go out of his way to find a woman who did not seem to +suggest herself to him; and when he mistook what was, perhaps, real love +for something else, all he wanted, he was genuinely sorry, and, at least +once, almost fancied that he was going to answer in key at last.</p> + +<p>He had met Rana Vaughan at the college, where she was trying, +impossibly, to learn the piano. She had the artist's soul, and long, +white fingers, which seemed eager to touch the ivory and ebony of the +instrument; only, the soul and the fingers never could agree among +themselves, there was some stoppage of the electric current between +them. The piano never responded to her, but she knew, better than all +the professors, how it should respond; and Trevalga's playing was the +only playing she had ever liked. She adored him because he could do what +she wanted, above all things, to do; and it was with almost a vicarious +ecstasy that she listened to him. She admired, pitied, wanted to help +him; exulted in him, became his comrade, perhaps (he wondered?) loved +him, or would have loved him if he would have let her. He, who could +talk to no one else, could talk to her; and she brought him a warmth and +reality of life which he had never known. In her, for a time, he seemed +to touch real things; and, for a time, the experience quickened him.</p> + +<p>She cared intensely for the one thing he cared for, and not less +intensely (and here was the wonder to him) for all the other things that +existed outside his interests. For her, life was everything, and +everything was a part of life. She would have given everything she had +to become a great player; but, if you found your way down to the root of +things, her feeling for music was neither more nor less than her feeling +for every form of art, and her feeling for art, which was unerring, was +the same thing as her feeling for skating or dancing. She got as much +pleasure from bending a supple binding in her hand as from reading the +poems inside it. She made no selections in life, beyond picking out all +the beautiful and pleasant things, whatever they might be. Trevalga +studied her with amazement; he felt withered, shrivelled up, in body and +soul, beside her magnificent acceptance of the world; she vitalised him, +drew him away from himself; and he feared her. He feared women.</p> + +<p>To live with a woman, thought Christian, in the same house, the same +room with her, is as if the keeper were condemned to live by day and +sleep by night in the wild beast's cage. It is to be on one's guard at +every minute, to apprehend always the claws behind the caressing +softness of their padded coverings, to be continually ready to amuse +one's dangerous slave, with one's life for the forfeit. The strain of +it, the trial to the nerves, the temper! it was not to be thought of +calmly. He looked around him, and saw all the other keepers of these +ferocious, uncertain creatures, wearing out their lives in the exciting +companionship; and a dread of women took the place of his luxurious +indifference, as he imagined himself actually playing the part, too.</p> + +<p>It would be, he saw, a conflict of egoisms, and he could not afford to +risk his own. Woman, as he saw her, is the beast of prey: rapacious of +affection, time, money, all the flesh and all the soul, one's nerves, +one's attention, pleasure, duty, art itself! She is the rival of the +idea, and she never pardons. She requires the sacrifice of the whole +man; nothing less will satisfy her; and, to love a woman is, for an +artist, to change one's religion.</p> + +<p>Christian had tried honestly to explain himself to Rana, but the girl +would not understand him. She cared for his art as much as he did; she +would never come between him and his art; she would hate him if he +preferred her to his art. She said all that, sincerely; but he shook his +head obstinately, a little sadly, knowing that for him possible things +were impossible. The mere presence of any one he cared for, all the more +if he cared for her a great deal, disturbed him, upset his life. And he +must keep his life intact while he might.</p> + +<p>After all, he considered, what was he? Caged already, for another kind +of slavery, the prisoner of his own fingers, as they worked, +independently of himself, mechanically, doing their so many miles of +promenade a day over the piano. He was such another as the equilibrist +whirling around his fixed bar, or swinging from trapeze to trapeze in +the air; a specialist in a particular kind of muscular movement, which +in him communicated itself to the mechanism of an instrument of sound. +For ever on the trapeze of sound, his life, the life of his reputation, +risked whenever he went through his performance before the public; yes, +he was only a kind of acrobat, doing tricks with his fingers.</p> + +<p>As he looked fairly at all his imprisonments, dreading the worst, the no +longer solitary imprisonment, he realised that he had no outlook, that +he would never be able to look through the bars. 'I have only felt,' he +said to himself, 'I have never thought, and I have felt only one thing +very acutely, music.' He was almost frightened as he saw, in a flash, +within that narrow limits this one interest, this exercise of one +instinct, caged him. Other men were curious about many things; the +world existed for them, not only as substance, but as a matter for +thought; there were all the destinies of nations and of mankind to think +about, and he had never thought about them. He wondered what people +meant when they spoke about general interests. Were they a kind of +safety valve, for the lack of which he was bound, sooner or later, to +come to grief?</p> + +<p>Occupied more and more nervously with himself, shutting himself up for +days and nights, almost without food, in an agony of attack on some +difficulty hardly tangible enough to be put into words, he let Rana +Vaughan drift away from him, with an unavowed sense of failure, of +having lost something which he could not bring himself to take, and +which might yet have saved him. She parted from him, at the last, +angrily, her pity worn out, her admiration stained with contempt. He +remembered the look of her face, flushed, indignant, as, withdrawn now +wholly into herself, she said good-bye for the last time. With her went +his last hold on the world.</p> + +<p>Gradually sound began to take hold of him, like a slave who has overcome +his master. The sensation of sound presented itself to him continually, +not in the form of memory, nor as the suggestion of a composition, but +in a disquieting way, like some invisible companion, always at one's +side, whispering into one's ears. He was not always able to distinguish +between what he actually heard, a noise in the street, for instance, +which came to him for the most part with the suggestion of a cadence, +which his ear completed as if it had been the first note of a well-known +tune, and what he seemed to hear, through noise or silence, in some +region outside reality. 'So long as I can distinguish,' he said to +himself, 'between the one and the other, I am safe; the danger will be +when they become indistinguishable.'</p> + +<p>He had realised a certain danger, always. He felt that he was a piece of +mechanism which was not absolutely to be trusted. There had been +something wrong from the beginning; the works did not wear evenly; one +part or another was bound to use itself up before its time; and then, +well, not even a shock would be needed to set everything out of order: +it was only a question of time.</p> + +<p>He began to watch himself more closely, to watch for the enemy; and now +a kind of expectant uneasiness came of itself to suggest otherwise +imperceptible pains and troubles of sound. He was always listening, with +a frequent precipitation of pulses, to nothing, to something about to +come, to the fancy of music. The days dragged, and yet some feverish +idea seemed always to be hurrying him along; he was restless whenever +his fingers were not on the keys of the piano.</p> + +<p>One day, at a concert, while he was playing one of Chopin's studies, +something in the curve of the music, which he had always seen as a wavy +line, going on indefinitely in space, spreading itself out elastically, +but without ever forming a pattern, seemed to become almost externally +visible, just above the level of the strings on the open top of the +piano. It was like grey smoke, forming and unforming as if it boiled up +softly out of the pit where the wires were coiled up. It was so distinct +that he shut his eyes for a moment, to see if it would be there when he +opened them again. It was still there, getting darker in colour, and +more distinct. He looked out of the corner of his eyes, to see if the +people sitting near him had noticed anything; but the people sitting +near him had their eyes fixed on his fingers, from which he seemed, as +usual, to be quite detached; they evidently saw nothing. He smiled to +himself, half apologetically; the piece had come to an end, and he was +bowing to the applause; he walked boldly off the platform.</p> + +<p>When he came back to play again, he looked nervously at the top of the +piano, but there was nothing to be seen. He sat down, and bent over the +keyboard, and his hands began to run to and fro softly. When he looked +up he saw what he was playing as clearly as he could have seen the notes +if they had been there: but the wavy line was upright now, and drifted +upwards swiftly, vanishing at a certain point; it swayed to and fro like +a snake beating time to the music of the snake-charmer; and he looked at +it as if it understood him, and nodded his head to it, to show that he +understood. By this time it seemed to him quite natural, and he forgot +that there had ever been a time when he had not seen the music like +that.</p> + +<p>On his way home after the concert, it occurred to him that something +unusual had happened, but he could not remember what it was. He dined by +himself, and after dinner went out into the streets, and walked in the +midst of people, as he liked to do, that he might take hold of something +real. But he could not concentrate his mind, he seemed somehow to be +slipping away from himself, dissolving into an uneasy vacancy. The +people did not seem, very real that night: he stopped for a long time at +the corner of the pavement, near Piccadilly Circus, and tried to see +what was going on around him. It was quite useless. The confusing +lights, the crush and hurry of figures wrapped in dark clothes, the +noise of the horses' hoofs striking the stones, the shouts of +omnibus-conductors and newsboys, all the surge and struggle of horrible +exterior forces, seeming to be tightened up into an inextricable +disorder, but pushing out with a hundred arms this way and that, making +some sort of headway against the opposition of things, brought over him +a complete bewilderment. 'I can see no reason,' he said to himself, 'why +I am here rather than there, why these atoms which know one another so +little, or have lost some recognition of themselves, should coalesce in +this particular body, standing still where all is in movement.' He +looked at the horses pulled back roughly at a cross-current, and tossing +back their heads as the hind-legs grew convulsively rigid, and he felt +sorry for them, and wondered why the driver was driving them and why +they were not driving the driver. Some one ran violently against him, +and apologised. The shock did nothing to wake him up; he noticed it, +waited for the effect, and was surprised that no effect came. +'Decidedly,' he said to himself, 'I am losing my sense of material +things, for, slight as it always has been, I have always resented being +pushed into the mud.'</p> + +<p>He went home, and opened the piano; but he was afraid of it, and shut it +up, and went to bed. He slept well, but he dreamed that he was on the +island of Portland, among the convicts; there was a woman with him, who +seemed to be Rana, and they had tea at a farm, high up among trees; and +then he went away and forgot her, and found himself in a lonely place +where there were a number of cucumber-frames on the ground, and several +convicts were laid out asleep in each, half-naked, and packed together +head to heel. Then he remembered the woman, and went back to the farm +where he had left her; but she was no longer there, she had gone to look +for him, and he thought she must have lost her way among the convicts. +He was greatly distressed, but he found he was walking with her along +Piccadilly, and she told him that she had been waiting for him a long +time in an omnibus which had stopped at the corner of the Circus.</p> + +<p>When he awoke in the morning he was relieved to find that his brain +seemed to have become quite clear, surprisingly clear, as if the fog +that had been gathering about him had lifted; and he sat at the piano +playing for many hours, and when he had finished playing he heard still +more ravishing sounds in the air, a music which was like what Chopin +might have written in Paradise. Tears of delight came into his eyes; he +sat listening in an ecstasy. Now everything had come right; all the +trouble and confusion had gone out of the sounds; they no longer teased +him with their muttering, coming and going elusively; they were all +about him, they flooded the air, they were like pure joy, speaking at +last its own language.</p> + +<p>And for days after that he went about with a strange, secret smile on +his face, more than reconciled to his new companion, enamoured of him; +and at last he could keep the secret no longer, but had to tell every +one he met of this miracle that now went with him wherever he went. When +he stopped listening, and played the music that he had known before this +new music spoke to him, he seemed to play better than he had ever played +before. Only, when he had stopped playing, he sank back sleepily into +his ecstatic oblivion, not distinguishing between those he talked with +in his dream (the Chopin out of Paradise) and the few remaining friends, +who now came about him pityingly, and tried to do what they could for +him. Their coming awakened him a little; he awoke enough to realise that +they thought him mad; and it was with a very lucid fear that he waited +now for the doctor who was to decide finally whether he might still keep +his place in the world.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Five years later, when Christian Trevalga died in the asylum at ——, +some loose scraps of paper were found, on which he had jotted down a few +disconnected thoughts about music. They are, perhaps, worth giving, for +they are more explicit than he ever cared, or was able, to be when he +was quite sane; and, fragmentary as they are, may help to complete one's +picture of the man.</p> + +<p>'It has been revealed to me that there is but one art, but many +languages through which men speak it. When the angels talk among +themselves, their speech is art; for they do not talk as men do, to +discuss matters or to relate facts, but to express either love or +wisdom. It is partly the beauty of their voices which causes whatever +they say to assume a form of beauty. Music comes nearer than any other +of the human languages to the sound of these angelic voices. But +painting is also a language, and sculpture, and poetry; only these have +more of the atmosphere of the earth about them, and are not so clear. I +have heard pictures which spoke to me melodiously, and I have listened +to the faultless rhythm of statues; but it was as an Englishman who +knows French and Italian quite well follows a conversation in those +languages. He has to substitute one sound for another in his mind.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>'When I am playing the piano I am always afraid of hurting a sound. I +believe that sounds are living beings, flying about us like motes in the +air, and that they suffer if we clutch them roughly. Have you ever tried +to catch a butterfly without brushing the dust off its wings? Every time +I press a note I feel as if I were doing that, and it is an agony to +me. I am certain that I have hurt fewer sounds than any other pianist.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>'Chopin's music screams under its breath, like a patient they are +operating upon in the hospital. There are flowers on the pillow, great +sickly pungent flowers, and he draws in their perfume with the same +breath that is jarred down below by the scraping sound of the little +saw.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>'Chopin always treats the piano like a gentleman. He never gives it a +note that it cannot sing, he is always scrupulous towards its whims, he +indulges it like a spoilt child. Schumann comes back cloudily out of a +dream, and sets down the notes as he heard them, upon paper; then he +leaves the piano to make the best of it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>'Most modern music is a beggar for pity. The musician tries to show us +how he has suffered, and how hopeless he is. He sets his toothache and +his heartache to music, putting those sufferings into the music, +without remembering that sounds have their own agonies, which alone they +can express in a perfect manner. He forgets also that joy is the natural +speech of music, and that when he comes to sound for the expression of +his joy he is asking it to sing out of its own heart.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>'I remember I once heard a Siamese band playing on board the yacht of +the King of Siam. It played its own music, of which I could make +nothing; and also passages from our operas. How can the same ears hear +in two different ways? And how far behind these Eastern musicians are +we, who cannot even understand their music when it is played to us! Some +day some one will dig down to the roots, and turn up music as it is +before it is tamed to the scale.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>'It is strange, I never used to think about music: I accepted it by an +act of faith; I was too near it to look all round it. But lately, I do +not know why, I have been forced to think out many of the things which +I used to know without thinking. It all comes to the same thing in the +end; one form or another of knowledge; and does it matter if I can +explain it to you or not?'</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h2><a name="THE_CHILDHOOD_OF_LUCY_NEWCOME" id="THE_CHILDHOOD_OF_LUCY_NEWCOME"></a>THE CHILDHOOD OF LUCY NEWCOME.</h2> + +<p>The house which Lucy Newcome remembered as her home, the only home she +ever had, was a small house, hardly more than a cottage, with a little, +neat garden in front of it, and a large, untidy garden at the back. +There was a low wooden palisade cutting it off from the road, which, in +that remote suburb of the great town, had almost the appearance of a +road in the country. The house had two windows, one on each side of the +door, and above that three more windows, and attics above that. The +windows on each side of the door were the windows of the two +sitting-rooms; the kitchen, with its stone floor, its shining rows of +brass things around the walls, its great dresser, was at the back. It +was through the kitchen that you found your way into the big garden, +where the grass was always long and weedy and ill-kept, and so all the +pleasanter for lying on; and where there were a few alder-trees, a +pear-tree on which the pears never seemed to thrive, for it was quite +close to Lucy's bedroom window, a flower-bed along the wall, and a +great, old sundial, which Lucy used to ponder over when the shadows came +and stretched out their long fingers across it. The garden, when she +thinks of it now, comes to her often as she saw it one warm Sunday +evening, walking to and fro there beside her mother, who was saying how +good it was to be well again, or better: this was not long before she +died; and Lucy had said to herself, What a dear little mother I have, +and how young, and small, and pretty she looks in that lilac bodice with +the bright belt round the waist! Lucy had been as tall as her mother +when she was ten, and at twelve she could look down on her quite +protectingly.</p> + +<p>Her father she but rarely saw; but it was her father whom she +worshipped, whom she was taught to worship. The whole house, she, her +mother, and Linda, the servant, who was more friend than servant (for +she took no wages, and when she wanted anything, asked for it), all +existed for the sake of that wonderful, impracticable father of hers; it +was for him they starved, it was to him they looked for the great future +which they believed in so implicitly, but scarcely knew in what shape to +look for. She knew that he had come of gentlefolk, in another county, +that he had been meant for the Church, and, after some vague misfortune +at Cambridge, had married her mother, who was but seventeen, and of a +class beneath him, against the will of his relations, who had cast him +off just as, at twenty-one, he had come into a meagre allowance from the +will of his grandfather. He had been the last of eleven children, born +when his mother was fifty years of age, and he had inherited the +listless temperament of a dwindling stock. He had never been able to do +anything seriously, or even to make up his mind quite what great thing +he was going to do. First he had found a small clerkship, then he had +dropped casually upon the post which he was to hold almost to the time +of his death, as secretary to some Assurance Society, whose money it was +his business to collect. He did the work mechanically; at first, +competently enough; but his heart was in other things. Lucy was never +sure whether it was the great picture he was engaged upon, or the great +book, that was to make all the difference in their fortunes. She never +doubted his power to do anything he liked; and it was one of her +privileges sometimes to be allowed to sit in his room (the sitting-room +on the left of the door, where it was always warmer and more comfortable +than anywhere else in the house), watching him at his paints or his +manuscripts, with great serious eyes that sometimes seemed to disquiet +him a little; and then she would be told to run away and not worry +mother.</p> + +<p>The little mother, too, she saw less of than children mostly see of +their mothers; for her mother was never quite well, and she would so +often be told: 'You must be quiet now, and not go into your mother's +room, for she has one of her headaches,' that she gradually accustomed +herself to do without anybody's company, and then she would sit all +alone, or with her doll, who was called Arabella, to whom she would +chatter for hours together, in a low and familiar voice, making all +manner of confidences to her, and telling her all manner of stories. +Sometimes she would talk to Linda instead, sitting on the corner of the +kitchen fender; but Linda was not so good a listener, and she had a way +of going into the scullery, and turning on a noisy stream of water, just +at what ought to have been the most absorbing moment of the narrative.</p> + +<p>Lucy was a curious child, one of those children of whom nurses are +accustomed to say that they will not make old bones. She was always a +little pale, and she would walk in her sleep; and would spend whole +hours almost without moving, looking vaguely and fixedly into the air: +children ought not to dream like that! She did not know, herself, very +often, what she was dreaming about; it seemed to her natural to sit for +hours doing nothing.</p> + +<p>Often, however, she knew quite well what she was dreaming about; and +first of all she was dreaming about herself. Really, she would explain +if you asked her, she did not belong to her parents at all; she belonged +to the fairies; she was a princess; there was another, a great mother, +who would come some day and claim her. And this consciousness of being +really a princess was one of the joys of her imagination. She had +composed all the circumstances of her state, many times over, indeed, +and always in a different way. It was the heightening she gave to what +her mother had taught her: that she was of a better stock than the other +children who lived in the other small houses all round, and must not +play with them, or accept them as equals. That was to be her consolation +if she had to do without many of the things she wanted, and to be +shabbily dressed (out of old things of her mother's, turned and cut and +pieced together), while perhaps some of those other children, who were +not her equals, had new dresses.</p> + +<p>And then she would make up stories about the people she knew, the ladies +to whom she paid a very shifting devotion, very sincere while it lasted. +One of her odd fancies was to go into the graveyard which surrounded the +church, and to play about in the grass there, or, more often, gather +flowers and leaves, and carry them to a low tomb, and sit there, weaving +them into garlands. These garlands she used to offer to the ladies whose +faces she liked, as they passed in and out of the church. The strange +little girl who sat among the graves, weaving garlands, and who would +run up to them so shyly, and with so serious a smile, offering them her +flowers, seemed to these ladies rather a disquieting little person, as +if she, like her flowers, had a churchyard air about her.</p> + +<p>Blonde, tall, slim, delicately-complexioned, with blue eyes and a +wavering, somewhat sensuous mouth, the child took after her father; and +he used to say of her sometimes, half whimsically, that she was bound to +be like him altogether, bound to go to the bad. The big, brilliant man, +who had made so winning a failure of life, so popular always, and the +centre of a little ring of intellectual people, used sometimes to let +her stay in the room of an evening, while he and his friends drank their +ale and smoked pipes and talked their atheistical philosophy. These +friends of her father used to pet her, because she was pretty; and it +was one of them who paid her the first compliment she ever had, +comparing her face to a face in a picture. She had never heard of the +picture, but she was immensely flattered; for she did not think a +painter would ever paint any one who was not very pretty. She listened +to their conversation, much of which she could not understand, as if she +understood every word of it; and she wondered very much at some of the +things they said. Her mother was a Catholic, and, though religion was +rarely referred to, had taught her some little prayers; and it puzzled +her that all this could be true, and yet that clever people should have +doubts of it. She had always learned that cleverness (book-learning, or +any disinterested journeying of the intellect) was the one important +thing in the world. Her father was clever: that was why everything must +bow to him. There must be something in it, then, if these clever people, +if her father himself, doubted of God, of heaven and hell, of the good +ordering of this world. And she announced one day to the pious servant, +who had told her that God sees everything, that when she was older she +meant to get the better of God, by building a room all walls and no +windows, within which she would be good or bad as she pleased, without +his seeing her.</p> + +<p>Lucy was never sent to school, like most children; that was partly +because they were very poor, but more because her father had always +intended to teach her himself, on a new and liberal scheme of education, +which seemed to him better than the education you get in schools. And +sometimes, for as much as a few weeks together, he would set her lessons +day by day, and be excessively severe with her, not permitting her to +make a single slip in anything he had given her to learn. He would even +punish her sometimes, if she still failed to learn some lesson +perfectly; and that seemed to her a mortal indignity; so that one day +she rushed out into the garden, and climbed up into a tree, and then +called out, tremulously but triumphantly: 'If you promise not to punish +me, I'll come down; but if you don't, I'll throw myself down!'</p> + +<p>She always disliked learning lessons, and those fits of scrupulousness +on his part were her great dread. They did not occur often; and between +whiles he was very lenient, ready to get out of the trouble of teaching +her on the slightest excuse; only too glad if she did not bother him by +coming to say her lessons. Both were quite happy then; she to be allowed +to sit in his room with her lesson-book on her knees, dreaming; he not +to be hindered in the new sketch he was making or the notes he was +preparing for that great book of the future, perhaps out of one of those +old, calf-covered books which he used to bring back from second-hand +shops in the town, and which Lucy used to admire for their ancient +raggedness, as they stood in shelves round the room, brown and +broken-backed.</p> + +<p>And then if she had not her geography to learn by heart (those lists of +capes and rivers and the population of countries, which she could indeed +learn by heart, but which represented nothing to her of the actual world +itself) she had of course all the more time for her own reading. When +she had outgrown that old fancy about the fairies, and about being a +princess, she cared nothing for stories of adventure; but little for the +material wonders of the 'Arabian Nights'; somewhat more for the +'Pilgrim's Progress,' in which she always lingered over that passage of +the good people through the bright follies of Vanity Fair; but most of +all for certain quiet stories of lovers, in which there was no +improbable incident, and no too fantastical extravagance of passion; but +a quiet probable fidelity, plenty of troubles, and of course a wedding +at the end. One book, 'The Story of Mrs. Jardine,' she was never tired +of reading; and she liked almost all the stories in the bound volumes of +the 'Argosy.' Then there was a little book of poetical selections; she +never could remember the name of it afterwards; and there were the songs +of Thomas Moore, and, above all, there was Mrs. Hemans. Those gentle and +lady-like poems 'of the affections,' with their nice sentiments, the +faded ribbons of their second-hand romance, seemed to the child like a +beautiful glimpse into the real, tender, not too passionate world, where +men and women loved magnanimously, and had heroic sufferings, and died, +perhaps, but for a great love, or a great cause, and always nobly. She +thought that the ways of the world blossomed naturally into Casabiancas +and Gertrudes and Imeldas, who were faithful to death, and came into +their inheritance of love or glory beyond the grave. She used to wonder +if she, too, like Costanza, had a 'pale Madonna brow'; and she wished +nothing more fervently than to be like those saintly and affectionate +creatures, always so beautiful, and so often (what did it matter?) +unfortunate, who took poison from the lips of their lovers, and served +God in prison, and came back afterwards, spirits, out of the angelical +rapture of heaven, to be as some rare music, or subtle perfume, in the +souls of those who had loved them. Many of these poems were about death, +and it seemed natural to her, at that time, to think much about death, +which she conceived as a quite peaceful thing, coming to you invisibly +out of the sky, and which she never associated with the pale faces and +more difficult breathing of those about her. She had never known her +mother to be quite well; and when, on her twelfth birthday, her mother +called her into her room, where she lay in bed now so often, and talked +to her more solemnly than she had ever talked before, saying that if she +became very ill, too ill to get up at all, Lucy was to look after her +father as carefully as she herself had looked after him, always to look +after him, and never let him want for anything; even then it did not +seem to the child that this meant more than a little more illness; and +it was so natural for people to be ill.</p> + +<p>And so, after all, the end came almost suddenly; and the first great +event of her childhood took her by surprise. The gentle, suffering +woman had been failing for many months, and when, one afternoon in early +March, the doctor told her to take to her bed at once, life seemed to +ebb out of her daily, with an almost visible haste to be gone. Whenever +she was allowed to come in, Lucy would curl herself up on the foot of +the bed, never taking her eyes off the face of the dying woman, who was +for the most part unconscious, muttering unintelligible words sometimes, +in a hoarse voice, broken by coughs, and breathing, all the time, in +great, heavy breaths, which made a rattle in her throat. When she was in +the next room, Lucy could hear this monotonous sound going on, almost as +plainly as in the room itself. It was that sound that frightened her, +more than anything; for, when she was sitting on the bed, watching the +face lying among the pillows (drawn, and glazed with a curious flush, as +it was), it seemed, after all, only as if her mother was very, very ill, +and as if she might get better, for the lips were still red, and sucked +in readily all the spoonsful of calvesfoot jelly, and brandy and water, +which were really just keeping her alive from hour to hour. On Friday +night, in the middle of the night, as Lucy was sleeping quietly, she +felt, in her dream, as it seemed to her, two lips touch her cheek, and, +starting awake, saw her father standing by the bedside. He told her to +get up, put on some of her things, and come quietly into the next room. +She crept in, huddled up in a shawl, very pale and trembling, and it +seemed to her that her mother must be a little better, for she drew her +breath more slowly and not quite so loudly. One arm was lying outside +the clothes, and every now and then this arm would raise itself up, and +the hand would reach out, blindly, until the nurse, or her father, took +it and laid it back gently in its place. They told her to kiss her +mother, and she kissed her, crying very much, but her mother did not +kiss her, or open her eyes; and as she touched her hair, which was +coming out from under her cap, she felt that it was all damp, but the +lips were quite dry and warm. Then they told her to go back to bed, but +she clung to the foot of the bed, and refused to go, and the nurse said, +'I think she may stay.' The tears were running down both her cheeks, +but she did not move, or take her eyes off the face on the pillow. It +was very white now, and once or twice the mouth opened with a slight +gasp; once the face twitched, and half turned on the pillow; she had to +wait before the next breath came; then it paused again; then, with an +effort, there was another breath; then a long pause, a very slow breath, +and no more. She was led round to kiss her mother again on the forehead, +which was quite warm; but she knew that her mother was dead, and she +sobbed wildly, inconsolably, as they led her back to her own room, +where, after they had left her, and she could hear them moving quietly +about the house, she lay in bed trying to think, trying not to think, +wondering what it was that had really happened, and if things would all +be different now.</p> + +<p>And with her mother's death it seemed as if her own dream-life had come +suddenly to an end, and a new, more desolate, more practical life had +begun, out of which she could not look any great distance. After the +black darkness of those first few days; the coming of the undertakers, +the hammering down of the coffin, the slow drive to the graveside, the +wreath of white flowers which she shed, white flower by white flower, +upon the shining case of wood lying at the bottom of a great pit, in +which her mother was to be covered up to stay there for ever; after +those first days of merely dull misery, broken by a few wild outbursts +of tears, she accepted this new life into which she had come, as she +accepted the black clothes which Linda the servant, now more a friend +than ever, had had made for her. Her father could no longer bear to +sleep in the room in which his wife had died, so Lucy gave up her own +room to him, and moved into the room that had been her mother's; and it +seemed to bring her closer to her mother to sleep there. She thought of +her mother very often, and very sadly, but the remembrance of those +almost last words to her, those solemn words on her twelfth birthday, +that she was to look after her father as her mother had looked after +him, and never let him want for anything, helped her to meet every day +bravely, because every day brought some definite thing for her to do. +She felt years and years older, and quietly ready for whatever was now +likely to happen.</p> + +<p>For a little while she saw more of her father, for they had their +mid-day meal together now, and she used to come and sit at the table +when he was having his nine o'clock meat supper, with which he had +always indulged himself, even when there was very little in the house +for the others. He still took it, and his claret with it, which the +doctor had ordered him to take; but he took it with scantier and +scantier appetite; talking less over his wine, and falling into a +strange and brooding listlessness. During his wife's illness he had let +his affairs drift; and the society of which he was the secretary had +overlooked it, as far as they could, on account of his trouble. But now +he attended to his duties less than ever; and he was reminded, a little +sharply, that things could not go on like this much longer. He took no +heed of the warning, though the duns were beginning to gather about +him. When there was a ring at the door, Lucy used to squeeze up against +the window to see who it was; and if it was one of those troublesome +people whom she soon got to know by sight, she would go to the door +herself, and tell them that they could not see her father, and explain +to them, in her grave, childish way, that it was no use coming to her +father for money, because he had no money just then but he would have +some at quarter-day, and they might call again then. Sometimes the men +tried to push past her into the hall, but she would never let them; her +father was not in, or he was very unwell, and no one could see him; and +she spoke so calmly and so decidedly that they always finished by going +away. If they swore at her, or said horrid things about her father, she +did not mind much. It did not surprise her that such dreadful people +used dreadful language.</p> + +<p>In telling the duns that her father was very unwell, she was not always +inventing. For a long time there had been something vaguely the matter +with him, and ever since her mother's death he had sickened visibly, +and nothing would rouse him from his pale and cheerless decrepitude. He +would lie in bed till four, and then come downstairs and sit by the +fireplace, smoking his pipe in silence, doing nothing, neither reading, +nor writing, nor sketching. All his interest in life seemed to have gone +out together; his very hopes had been taken from him, and without those +fantastic hopes he was but the shadow of himself. It scarcely roused him +when the directors of his society wrote to him that they would require +his services no longer. When they sent a man to unscrew the brass plate +on the door, on which there were the name of the society and the amount +of its capital, he went outside and stood in the garden while it was +being done. Then he gave the man a shilling for his trouble.</p> + +<p>Soon after that, he refused to eat or get up, and a great terror came +over Lucy lest he, too, should die; and now there was no money in the +house, and the duns still knocked at the door. She begged him to let her +write to his relations, but he refused flatly, saying that they would +not receive her mother, and he would never see them, or take a penny of +their money as long as he lived. One day a cab drove up to the door, and +a hard-featured woman got out of it. Lucy, looking out of the bedroom +window, recognised her aunt, Miss Marsden, her mother's eldest sister, +whom she had only seen at the funeral, and to whose grim face and rigid +figure she had already taken a dislike. It appeared that Linda, unknown +to them, had written to tell her into what desperate straits they had +fallen; and her severe sense of duty had brought her to their help.</p> + +<p>And the aunt was certainly good to them in her stern, unkindly way. The +first thing she did was to send for a doctor, who shook his head very +gravely when he had examined the patient; and spoke of foreign travel, +and other impossible, expensive remedies. That was the first time that +Lucy ever began to long for money, or to realise exactly what money +meant. It might mean life or death, she saw now.</p> + +<p>Her father now lay mostly in bed, very weak and quiet, and mostly in +silence; and whether his eyes were closed or open, he seemed to be +thinking, always thinking. He liked Lucy to come and sit by him; but if +she chattered much he would stop her, after a while, and say that he was +tired, and she must be quiet. And then sometimes he would talk to her, +in his vague, disconnected way, about her mother, and of how they had +met, and had found hard times together a great happiness; and he would +look at her with an almost impersonal scrutiny, and say: 'I think you +will live happily, not with the happiness that we had, for you will +never love as we loved, but you will find it easy to like people, and +many people will find it easy to like you; and if you have troubles they +will weigh on you lightly, for you will live always in the day, that is, +without too much memory of the day that was, or too much thought of the +day that will be to-morrow.' And once he said: 'I hardly know why it is +I feel so little anxiety about your future. I seem somehow to know that +you will always find people to look after you. I don't know why they +should, I don't know why they should.' And then he added, after a pause, +looking at her a little sadly, 'You will never love nor be loved +passionately, but you have a face that will seem to many, the first time +they see you, like the face of an old and dear friend.'</p> + +<p>Sometimes, when he felt a little better, the sick man would come +downstairs, and at times he would walk about in the garden, stooping +under his great-coat and leaning upon his stick. One very bright day in +early February he seemed better than he had been since his illness had +come upon him, and as he stood at the window looking at the white road +shining under the pale sun, he said suddenly: 'I feel quite well to-day, +I shall go for a little walk.' His eyes were bright, there was a slight +flush on his cheek, and he seemed to move a little more easily than +usual. 'Lucy,' he said, 'I think I should like some claret with my +supper to-night, like old times. You must go into the town and get me +some: I suppose there is none in the house.' Lucy took the money gladly, +for she thought: 'He is beginning to be better.' 'Get it from Allen's,' +he called after her, as she went to put on her hat and jacket; 'it won't +take so very much longer to go there and back, and it will be better +there.' When she came downstairs her aunt was helping him to put on his +coat. 'Don't wait for me,' he said, smiling, and tapping her cheek with +his thin, chilly fingers; 'I shall have to walk slowly.' She went out, +and turning, as she came to the bend in the road, saw him come out of +the gate, leaning on his stick, and begin to walk slowly along in the +middle of the road. He did not look up, and she hurried on.</p> + +<p>It was the last time she ever saw him. The house, when she returned to +it, after her journey into town, had an air of ominous quiet, and she +saw with surprise that her father's hat and coat were lying in a heap +across the chair in the hall, instead of hanging neatly upon the +hat-pegs. As she closed the door behind her, she heard the bedroom door +opened, and her aunt came quickly downstairs with a strange look on her +face. She began to tremble, she knew not why, and mechanically she put +the bottle of wine on the floor by the side of the chair; and her aunt, +though she would always have everything put in its proper place, did not +seem to notice it; but took her into the sitting-room, and said: 'There +has been an accident; no, you must not go upstairs'; and she said to +herself, seeming to hear her own words at the back of her brain, where +there was a dull ache that was like the coming-to of one who has been +stunned: 'He is dead, he is dead.' She felt that her aunt was shaking +her, and wondered why she shook her, and why everything looked so dim, +and her aunt's face seemed to be fading away from her, and she caught at +her; and then she heard her aunt say (she could hear her now), 'I +thought you were going to faint: I'll have no fainting, if you please; I +must go up to him again.' So he was not dead, after all; and she +listened, with a relief which was almost joy, while her aunt told her +rapidly what had happened: how the mail-cart had turned a corner at full +speed just as he was walking along the road, more tired than he had +thought, and he had not the strength to pull himself out of the way in +time, and had been knocked down, and the wheel had just missed him, but +he had been terribly shaken, and one of the horse's hoofs had struck him +on the face. They hoped it was nothing serious; he seemed to feel little +pain; but he had said: 'Don't let Lucy come in; she musn't see me like +this.'</p> + +<p>Lucy had been so used to obey her father, his commands had always been +so capricious, that she obeyed now without a murmur. She understood him; +the fastidiousness which was part of his affection, and which made him +refuse to be seen, by those he loved, under a disfigurement which time +would probably heal, was one of the things for which she loved him, for +it was part of her pride in him.</p> + +<p>The doctor had come and gone; he had been very serious, she had seen his +grave face, and had overheard one or two of his words to her aunt; she +had heard him say: 'Of course, it is a question of time.' Night came on, +and she sat in the unlighted room alone, and looking into the fire, in +which the last dreams of her childhood seemed to flicker in little +wavering tongues of flame, which throbbed, and went out, one after +another, in smoke or ashes. She cried a little, quietly, and did not +wipe away the tears; but sat on, looking into the fire, and thinking. +She was crying when her aunt came downstairs, and told her that she must +go to bed; he was resting quietly, and they hoped he would be better in +the morning.</p> + +<p>She slept heavily, without dreams; and the hour seemed to her late when +she awoke in the morning. It was Linda, not her aunt, who came into the +room, and took her in her arms, and cried over her, and did not need to +tell her that she had no father. He had died suddenly in his sleep, and +just before he turned over on his side for the last rest, he had said to +her (she thought drowsily): 'I am very tired; if anything happens, cover +my face.' When Lucy crept into the room, on tip-toe, his face was +covered. It was a white, shrouded thing that lay there, not her father. +The terror of the dead seized hold upon her, and she shrieked, and +Linda caught her up in her arms, and carried her back to her room, and +soothed her, as if she had been a little, wailing child.</p> + +<p>At the funeral she saw, for the first time, her father's relations, the +rich relations who had cast him off; and she hated them for being there, +for speaking to her kindly, for offering to look after her. She was rude +to them, and she wished to be rude. 'My father would never touch your +money,' she said, 'and I am sure he wouldn't like me to, and I don't +want it. I don't want to have anything to do with you.' She clung to the +severe aunt who had been good to her father; and she tried to smile on +her other uncle and aunt, and on her cousin, who was not many years +older than she was: he had seemed to her so kind, and so ready to be her +friend. 'I will go with my aunt,' she said. The rich relatives +acquiesced, not unwillingly. They did not linger in the desolate house, +where this unreasonable child, as they thought her, stood away from them +on the other side of the room. She seemed to herself to be doing the +right thing, and what her father would have wished; and she saw them go +out with relief, not giving a thought to the future, only knowing that +she had buried her childhood, on that day of the funeral, in the grave +with her father.</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h2><a name="THE_DEATH_OF_PETER_WAYDELIN" id="THE_DEATH_OF_PETER_WAYDELIN"></a>THE DEATH OF PETER WAYDELIN.</h2> + +<p>Peter Waydelin, the painter of those mysterious, brutal pictures, who +died last year at the age of twenty-four, spent a week with me at +Bognor, trying to get better, a little while before it was quite +certainly too late; and we had long talks of a very intimate kind as we +lay and lounged about the sand from Selsey to Blake's Felpham, along +that exquisite coast. To him, if he were to be believed, all that meant +very little; he hated nature, he was always assuring you; but at Bognor +nature deals with its material so much in the manner of art that he can +hardly have been sincere in not feeling the colour-sense of those +arrangements of sand, water, and sky which were perpetually changing +before him. One of our conversations that I remembered best, because he +seemed to put more of himself into it than usual, took place one +afternoon in June as we lay on the sand about half-way towards Selsey, +beyond the last of those troublesome groins, and I remember that as I +listened to him, and heard him defining so sincerely his own ideas of +art, I was conscious all the time of a magnificent silent refutation of +some of those ideas, as nature, quietly expressing herself before us, +transformed the whole earth gradually into a new and luminous world of +air. He did not seem to see the sunset; now and then he would pick up a +pebble and throw it vehemently, almost angrily, into the water. We were +talking of art. He began to explain to me what art meant to him, and +what it was he wanted to do with his own art. I remember almost the very +words he used, sometimes so serious, sometimes so petulant and boyish. I +was interested in his ideas, and the man too interested me; so young and +so experienced, so mature already and so enthusiastic under his +cynicism. He puzzled me: it was as if there were a clue wanting; I could +not get further with him than a certain point, frank, self-explanatory +even, as he seemed to be. Of himself he never spoke, only of his ideas. +I knew vaguely that he had been in Paris, and I supposed that he had +been living there for some time. I had met him in London, in the street, +quite casually, and he had looked so ill that I had asked him there and +then to come with me to Bognor, where I was going. He agreed willingly, +and was at the station with his bag the next day. I never ask people +about their private affairs, and his talk was entirely about pictures, +his own chiefly, and about ideas. As he talked I tried to piece together +the man and his words. What was it in this man, who was so much a +gentleman, that drew him instinctively, whenever he took up a brush or a +pencil, towards gross things, things that he painted as if he hated +them, but painted always? Was it a theory or an enslavement? and had he, +in order to interpret with so cruel a fidelity so much that was +factitious and dishonourable in life, sunk to the level of what he +painted? I could not tell. He was not obviously the man of his pictures, +nor was he obviously the reverse. I felt in those pictures, and I felt +equally, but differently, in the man, a fundamental sincerity; after +that came I know not how much of pose, perhaps merely the defiant pose +of youth. He was a problem to me, which I wanted to think out; and I +listened very attentively to everything that he said on that afternoon +when he was so much more communicative than usual.</p> + +<p>'All art, of course,' he said, 'is a way of seeing, and I have my way. I +did not get to it at once. Like everybody else, I began by seeing too +much. Gradually I gave up seeing things in shades, in subdivisions; I +saw them in masses, each single. It takes more choice than you think, +and more technical skill, to set one plain colour against another, +unshaded, like a great, raw morsel, or a solid lump of the earth. The +art of the painter, you observe, consists in seeing in a new, +summarising way, getting rid of everything but the essentials; in seeing +by patterns. You know how a child draws a house? Well, that is how the +average man thinks he sees it, even at a distance. You have to train +your eye not to see. Whistler sees nothing but the fine shades, which +unite into a picture in an almost bodiless way, as Verlaine writes songs +almost literally "without words." You can see, if you like, in just the +opposite way: leaving in only the hard outlines, leaving out everything +that lies between. To me that is the best way of summarising, the most +abbreviated way. You get rid of all that molle, sticky way of work which +squashes pictures into cakes and puddings, and of that stringy way of +work which draws them out into tapes and ribbons. It is a way of seeing +square, and painting like hits from the shoulder.</p> + +<p>'I wonder,' he went on, after a moment, 'how many people think that I +paint ugly pictures, as they call them, because I am unable to paint +pretty ones? Perhaps even you have never seen any of my quite early +work: Madonnas for Christmas cards and hallelujah angels for +stained-glass windows. They were the prettiest things imaginable, +immensely popular, and they brought me in several pounds. I take them +out and show them to people who complain that I have no sense of +beauty, and they always ask me pityingly why I have not gone on turning +out these confectionaries.'</p> + +<p>'I contend that I have never done anything which is without beauty, +because I have never done anything which is without life, and life is +the source and sap of beauty. I tell you that there is not one of those +grimacing masks, those horribly pale or horribly red faces, plastered +white or red, leering professionally across a gulf of footlights, or a +café-table, that does not live, live to the roots of the eyes, somewhere +in the soul, I think! And if beauty is not the visible spirit of all +that infamous flesh, when I have sabred it like that along my canvas, +with all my hatred and all my admiration of its foolish energy, I at +least am unable to conjecture where beauty has gone to live in the +world.'</p> + +<p>He looked at me almost indignantly, as if he took me for one of his +critics. I said nothing, and he went on:</p> + +<p>'I have done nothing, believe me, without being sure that I was doing a +beautiful thing. People don't see it, it seems. How should they, when +we do our best to train them up within the prison walls of a Raphael +æsthetics, when we send them to the Apollo Belvedere, instead of to the +marbles of Ægina? Our academies shut out nine parts of beauty and +imprison us with the poor tenth, which we have never even the space to +frequent casually and grow familiar with. How much of the world itself +do you think exists as a thing of beauty for the average man? Why, he +has to know if the most exquisite leaf in the world, the thing I came +upon just now in the lane, belongs to a flower or a weed before he can +tell whether he ought to commend it for existing. I hate nature, because +fools prostrate themselves before sunsets; as if there is not much +better drawing in that leaf than in all the Turners of the sky. You see, +one has to quote Turner to apologise for a sunset!'</p> + +<p>He laughed, really without malice, waving his hand towards the sky with +a youthful impertinence. For a little while he was silent, and then, in +a different tone, he said:</p> + +<p>'I wonder if it is possible to paint what one doesn't like, to take +one's models as models, and only know them for the hours during which +they sit to you in this attitude or that. I don't believe that it is. +Much of our bad painting comes from respectable people thinking that +they can soil their hands with paint and not let the dye sink into their +innermost selves. Do you know that you are the only man of my own world +that I ever see, or have seen for years now? People call me eccentric; I +am only logical. You can't paint the things I paint, and live in a +Hampstead villa. You must come and see me some day: will you take the +address? 3 Somervell Street, Islington. It's not much like a studio. +However, there's "Collins's" at hand, and I live there a good deal, you +know. I lived in the Hampstead Road for some time on account of the +"Bedford." But "Collins's" suits me and my models better.'</p> + +<p>He broke off with an ambiguous laugh, flung his last stone into the +water, and jumped up, as if to end the conversation. Something in the +way he spoke made me feel vaguely uneasy, but I was used to his +exaggerations, his way of inventing as he went along. Was I, after all, +any nearer to his secret, to himself as he really was?</p> + +<p>Waydelin went back to London and I to Russia, which I shall always +remember, after that terrible summer under the gold and green domes of +Moscow, as the hottest country in which I have ever been. When I came +back to London I thought of Waydelin, made plan after plan to visit him, +when one evening in November I received a brief note in his handwriting, +asking me if I would come and see him at once, as he was very ill, and +wanted to see me on a matter of business. I started immediately after +dinner and got to Islington a little after nine. The street was one of +those drab, hopeless streets to which a Russian observer has lately +attributed the 'spleen' from which all Englishmen are thought to suffer. +There was a row of houses on each side of the way, every house exactly +like every other house, each with its three steps leading to the door, +its bow window on one side, its strip of dingy earth in which there were +a few dusty stalks between the lowest step and the railing, the paint +for the most part peeling off the door, the bell-handle generally +hanging out from its hole in the wall. I rang at No. 3. I had to wait +for some time, and then the door was opened by an impudent-looking +servant girl in a very untidy dress. I asked for Waydelin. 'Mrs. +Waydelin, did you say?' said the girl, leering at me; then, calling over +my head to the driver of a four-wheeler which just then drew up at the +door, 'Wait five minutes, will you?' she turned to me again: 'Mr. +Waydelin? I don't know if you can see him.' I told her impatiently that +I had come by appointment, and she held the door open for me to come in. +She knocked at a room on the first floor. 'Come in,' said a shrill voice +that I did not know, and I went in.</p> + +<p>It was a bedroom; a woman, with her bodice off, was making-up in front +of the glass, and in a corner, with the clothes drawn up to his chin, a +man lay in bed. The cheeks were covered by a three days' beard; they +were ridged into deep hollows; large eyes, very wide open, looked out +under a mass of uncombed hair, and as the face turned round on the +pillow and looked at me without any change of expression I recognised +Peter Waydelin. The woman, seeing me in the glass, nodded at my +reflection, and said, as she drew a black pencil through her eyelashes: +'You'll excuse me, won't you? I have to be at the hall in ten minutes. +Don't stand on ceremony; there's Peter. He'll be glad to see you, poor +dear!' She spoke in a common and affected voice, and I thought her a +deplorable person, with her carefully curled yellow hair, her rouged and +powdered cheeks, her mouth glistening with lip salve, her big, empty +blue eyes with their blackened under-lids, her fat arms and shoulders, +the tawdry finery of her costume, half on and half off the body. I moved +towards the bed, and Waydelin looked up at me with a queer, mournful +smile.</p> + +<p>'It was good of you to come,' he said, stretching out a long, thin hand +to me; 'Clara has to go out, and we can have a talk. How do you like the +last thing I've done?'</p> + +<p>I lifted the drawing which was lying on the bed. It was a portrait of +the woman before the glass, just as she looked now, one of the most +powerful of his drawings, crueller even than usual in its insistence on +the brutality of facts: the crude contrasts of bone and fat, the vulgar +jaw, the brassy eyes, the reckless, conscious attitude. Every line +seemed to have been drawn with hatred. I looked at Mrs. Waydelin. She +had finished dressing, and she came up to the bedside to say good-bye to +Peter. 'Horrid thing,' she said, nodding her head at the drawing; 'not a +bit like me, is it? I assure you none of them like it at the hall. They +say it doesn't do me justice. I'm sure I hope not.' I bowed and murmured +something. 'Good-bye, Peter,' she said, smiling down at him in a kindly, +hurried way, 'I'll come back as soon as I can,' and with a nod to me she +was out of the room.</p> + +<p>Peter drew himself slowly up in the bed, pointed to a shawl, which I +wrapped round his shoulders, and then, looking at me a little defiantly, +said: 'My theory, do you remember? of living the life of my models! She +is a very nice woman and an excellent model, and they appreciate her +very much at "Collins's"; but it appears that I have no gift for +domesticity.'</p> + +<p>I scarcely knew what to say. While I hesitated he went on: 'Don't +suppose I have any illusions, or, indeed, ever had. I married that woman +because I couldn't help doing it, but I knew what I was doing all the +time. Have you ever been in Belgium? There is stuff they give you there +to drink called Advokat, which you begin by hating, but after a time you +can't get on without it. She is like Advokat.'</p> + +<p>'You are ill, Waydelin,' I said, 'and you speak bitterly. I don't like +to hear you speak like that about your wife.'</p> + +<p>Waydelin stared at me curiously. 'So you are going to defend her against +my brutality,' he said. 'I will give you every opportunity. Did you know +I was married?'</p> + +<p>I shook my head.</p> + +<p>'I have been married three years,' he said, 'and I never told even you. +I know you did not take me at my word when I talked about how one had to +live in order to paint as I painted, but I did not tell you half. I +have been living, if you like to call it so, systematically, not as a +stranger in a foreign country which he stares at over his Baedeker, but +as like a native as I could, and with no return ticket in my pocket. Why +shouldn't one be as thorough in one's life as in one's drawing? Is it +possible for one to be otherwise, if one is really in earnest in either? +And the odd thing is, as you will say, I didn't live in that way because +I wanted to do it for my art, but something deeper than my art, a +profound, low instinct, drew me to these people, to this life, without +my own will having anything to do with it. My work has been much more +sincere than any one suspected. It used to amuse me when the papers +classed me with the Decadents of a moment, and said that I was probably +living in a suburban villa, with a creeper on the front wall. I have +never cared for anything but London, or in London for anything but here, +or the Hampstead Road, or about the Docks. I never really chose the +music-halls or the public-houses; they chose me. I made the music-halls +my clubs; I lived in them, for the mere delight of the thing; I liked +the glitter, false, barbarous, intoxicating, the violent animality of +the whole spectacle, with its imbecile words, faces, gestures, the very +heat and odour, like some concentrated odour of the human crowd, the +irritant music, the audience! I went there, as I went to public-houses, +as I walked about the streets at night, as I kept company with +vagabonds, because there was a craving in me that I could not quiet. I +fitted in theories with my facts; and that is how I came to paint my +pictures.'</p> + +<p>As he spoke, with bitter ardour, I looked at him as if I were seeing him +for the first time. The room, the woman, that angry drawing on the bed, +and the dishevelled man dying there, just at the moment when he had +learnt everything that such experiences could teach him, fell of a +sudden into a revealing relation with each other. I did not know whether +to feel that the man had been heroic or a fool; there had been, it was +clear to me, some obscure martyrdom going on, not the less for art's +sake because it came out of the mere necessity of things. A great pity +came over me, and all I could say was, 'But, my dear friend, you have +been very unhappy!'</p> + +<p>'I never wanted to be happy,' said Waydelin; 'I wanted to live my own +life and do my own work; and if I die to-morrow (as likely enough I +may), I shall have done both things. My work satisfies me, and, because +of that, so does my life.'</p> + +<p>'Are you very ill?' I asked.</p> + +<p>'Dead, relatively speaking,' he said in his jaunty way, which death +itself could not check in him; 'I'm only waiting on some celestial order +of precedence in these matters, which, I confess, I don't understand. So +it was good of you to come; I would like to arrange with you about what +is to be done with my work, presently, when they will have to accept me. +I always said that I had only to die in order to be appreciated.'</p> + +<p>I had a long talk with him, and I promised to carry out his wishes. All +the money that his pictures brought in was to go to his wife, but, as he +said, she would not know what to do with them if they were left in her +own hands, not even how to turn them into money. He was quite certain +that they would sell; he knew exactly the value of what he had done, and +he knew how and when work finds its own level.</p> + +<p>I sat beside the bed, talking, for more than two hours. He could no +longer do much work, he said, and he hated being alone when he was not +working. But it amused him to talk, for a change. 'Clara talks when she +is here,' he said, with one of his queer smiles. I promised to come back +and see him again. 'Come soon,' he said, 'if you want to be sure of +finding me.'</p> + +<p>I went back two days afterwards, a little later in the evening so that I +need not meet Mrs. Waydelin, and he seemed better. He had shaved, his +hair was brushed and combed, and he was sitting up in bed, with the +shawl thrown lightly about his shoulders.</p> + +<p>'Would you like to know,' he began, almost at once, 'how I came to paint +in what we will call, if you please, my final manner? One day, at the +theatre, I saw Sada Yacco. She taught me art.'</p> + +<p>'What do you mean?' I said.</p> + +<p>'Look here,' he went on, 'they say everything has been done in art. But +no, there is at least one thing that remains for us. Have you ever seen +Sada Yacco? When I saw her for the first time I said to myself, "I have +found out the secret of Japanese art." I had never been able to +understand how it was that the Japanese, who can imitate natural things, +a bird, a flower, the rain, so perfectly, have chosen to give us, +instead of a woman's face, that blind oval, in which the eyes, nose, and +mouth seem to have been made to fit a pattern. When I saw Sada Yacco I +realised that the Japanese painters had followed nature as closely in +their woman's faces as in their birds and flowers, but that they had +studied them from the women of the Green Houses, the women who make up, +and that Japanese women, made up for the stage or for the factitious +life of the Green Houses, look exactly like these elegant, unnatural +images of the painters. What a new kind of reality that opened up to me, +as if a window had suddenly opened in a wall! Here, I said to myself, is +something that the painters of Europe have never done; it remains for +me to do it. I will study nature under the paint by which woman, after +all, makes herself more woman; the ensign of her trade, her flag as the +enemy. I will get at the nature of this artificial thing, at the skin +underneath it, and the soul under the skin. Watteau and the Court +painters have given us the dainty, exterior charm of the masquerade, +woman when she plays at being woman, among "lyres and flutes." Degas, of +course, has done something of what I want to do, but only a part, and +with other elements in his pure design, the drawing of Ingres, setting +itself new tasks, exercising its technique upon shapeless bodies in +tubs, and the strained muscles of the dancer's leg as she does +"side-practice." What I am going to do is to take all the ugliness, +gross artifice, crafty mechanism, of sex disguising itself for its own +ends: that new nature which vice and custom make out of the honest +curves and colours of natural things.</p> + +<p>'Well, I have tried to do that; in all my best work, my work of the last +two or three years, I have done it. I am sure that what I have done is +a new thing, and I think it is the one new thing left to us Western +painters.'</p> + +<p>'I am beginning to understand you,' I said, 'and I have not always found +it easy. When I admire you, it has so often seemed to me irrational. I +am gradually finding out your logic. Do you remember those talks we used +to have at Bognor, one in particular, when you told me about your way of +seeing?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, yes,' he said, 'I remember, but there was one thing I am almost +sure I did not tell you, and it is curious. I don't understand it +myself. Do you know what it is to be haunted by colours? There is +something like a temptation of the devil, to me, in the colour green. I +know it is the commonest colour in nature, it is a good, honest colour, +it is the grass, the trees, the leaves, very often the sea. But no, it +isn't like that that it comes to me. To me it is an aniline dye, +poisoning nature. I adore and hate it. I can never get away from it. If +I paint a group outside a café at Montmartre by gas-light or electric +light, I paint a green shadow on the faces, and I suppose the green +shadow isn't there; yet I paint it. Some tinge of green finds its way +invariably into my flesh-colour; I see something green in rouged cheeks, +in peroxide-of-hydrogen hair; green lays hold of this poor, unhappy +flesh that I paint, as if anticipating the colour-scheme of the grave. I +know it, and yet I can't help doing it; I can't explain to you how it is +that I at once see and don't see a thing; but so it is.</p> + +<p>'And it grew upon me too like an obsession. I always wanted to keep my +eyes perfectly clear, so that I could make my own arrangements of things +for myself, deliberately; but this, in some unpleasant way, seemed +horribly like "nature taking the pen out of one's hand and writing," as +somebody once said about a poet. I would rather do all the writing +myself; the more so, as I have to translate as I go.'</p> + +<p>He broke off suddenly, as if a wave of exhaustion had come over him. His +eyes, which had been very bright, had gone dull again, and he let his +head droop till the chin rested on his breast.</p> + +<p>'I have tired you,' I said, 'you must not talk any more. Try to go to +sleep now, and I will come back another day.'</p> + +<p>'To-morrow?' he said, looking at me sleepily.</p> + +<p>I promised. When I went back the next day he was weaker, but he insisted +on sitting up and talking. He spoke of his wife, without affection and +without bitterness; he spoke of death, with so little apprehension, or +even curiosity, that I was startled. His art was still a much more +realisable thing to him.</p> + +<p>'Do you believe in God, religion, and all that?' he said. 'To tell you +the honest truth, I have never been able to take a vital interest in +those or any other abstract matters: I am so well content with this +world, if it would only go on existing, and I don't in the least care +how it came into being, or what is going to happen to it after I have +moved on. I suppose one ought to feel some sort of reverence for +something, for an unknown power, at least, which has certainly worked to +good purpose. Well, I can't. I don't know what reverence is. If I were +quite healthy, I should be a pagan, and choose, well! Dionysus Zagreus, +a Bacchus who has been in hell, to worship after my fashion, in some +religious kind of "orgie on the mountains." That is how somebody +explains the origin of religion, or was it of religious hymns? I forget; +but, you see, having had this rickety sort of body to drag about with +me, I have never been able to follow any of my practical impulses of +that sort, and I have had to be no more than an unemployed atheist, +ready to gibe at the gods he doesn't understand.</p> + +<p>'I am afraid even in art,' he went on, as if leaving unimportant things +for the one thing important, 'I don't find it easy to look up to +anybody, at least in a way that anybody can be imagined as liking. I +have never gone very much to the National Gallery, not because I don't +think Venetian and Florentine pictures quite splendid, painted when they +were, but because I can get nothing out of them that is any good for me, +now in this all but twentieth century. You won't expect me, of all +people, to prate about progress, but, all the same, it's no use going to +Botticelli for hints about modern painting. We have different things to +look at, and see them differently. A man must be of his time, else why +try to put his time on the canvas? There are people, of course, who +don't, if you call them painters: Watts, Burne-Jones, Moreau, that sort +of hermit-crab. But I am talking about painting life and making it live. +If it comes to making pictures for churches and curiosity shops!'</p> + +<p>He spoke eagerly, but in a voice which grew more and more tired, and +with long pauses. I was going to try to get him to rest when the front +door opened noisily and I heard Mrs. Waydelin's voice in the hall. I +heard other voices, men's and women's, feet coming up the stairs. I +looked apprehensively at Waydelin. He showed no surprise. I heard a door +open on the landing; then, a moment after, it was shut, and Mrs. +Waydelin came into the bedroom, flushed and perspiring through the +paint, and ran up to the bed. 'I have brought a few friends in to +supper,' she said. 'They won't disturb you, you know, and I couldn't +very well get out of it.'</p> + +<p>She would have entered into explanations, but Waydelin cut her short. 'I +have not the least objection,' he said. 'I must only ask you to +apologise to them for my absence. I am hardly entertaining at present.'</p> + +<p>She stared at him, as if wondering what he meant; then she asked me if I +would join her at supper, and I declined; then went to the +dressing-table, took up a pot of vaseline and looked at her eyelashes in +the glass; then put it down again, came back to the bed, told Peter +Waydelin to cheer up, and bounced out of the room.</p> + +<p>I could see that Waydelin was now very tired and in need of sleep. I got +up to go. The partition between the two rooms must have been very thin, +for I could hear a champagne-cork drawn, the shrill laughter of women, +men talking loudly, and chairs being moved about the floor. 'I don't +mind,' he said, seeing what I was thinking, 'so long as they don't sing. +But they won't begin to sing for two hours yet, and I can get some +sleep. Good-night. Perhaps I shall not see you again.'</p> + +<p>'May I come again?' I said.</p> + +<p>'I always like seeing you,' he said, smiling, and thereupon turned over +on the pillow, just as he was, and fell asleep.</p> + +<p>I looked at his face as he lay there, with the shawl about his shoulders +and his hands outside the bedclothes. The jaw hung loose, the cheeks +were pinched with exhaustion, sweat stood out about the eyes. The sudden +collapse into sleep alarmed me. I could not leave him in such a state, +and with no one at hand but those people supping in the next room. I sat +down in a corner near the bed and waited.</p> + +<p>As I sat there listening to the exuberant voices, I wondered by what +casual or quixotic impulse Waydelin had been led to marry the woman, and +whether the woman was really heartless because she sat drinking +champagne with her friends of the music-hall while her husband, a man of +genius in his way, lay dying in the next room. I forced myself to +acknowledge that she had probably no suspicion of how near she was to +being a widow, that Waydelin would deceive her to the end in this +matter, and the last thing in the world he would desire would be to see +Mrs. Waydelin in tears at the foot of the bed.</p> + +<p>As time went on the supper-party got merrier, but Waydelin did not stir, +and I sat still in my corner. It was probably in about two hours, as he +had foreseen, that a chord was struck on the piano, and a man began to +sing a music-hall song in a rough, facile voice. At the sound Waydelin +shivered through his whole body and woke up. In a very weak voice he +asked me for water. I brought him a glass of water and held it to his +lips. He drank a little and then pushed it away and began shivering +again. 'Let me send for a doctor,' I said, but he seized my hand, and +said violently that he would see no doctor. In the next room the piano +rattled and all the voices joined in the chorus. I distinguished the +voice of Mrs. Waydelin. He seemed to be listening to it, and I said, +'Let me call her in.' 'Poor Clara may as well amuse herself,' he said, +with his odd smile. 'What is the use? I feel very much as if I am going +to die. Will it bother you: being here, I mean?' His voice seemed to +grow weaker as he spoke, and his eyes stared. I left him and went +hastily into the other room. The singer stopped abruptly, and the girl +at the piano turned round. I saw the remains of supper on the table, the +empty glasses and bottles, the chairs tilted back, the cigars, +tobacco-smoke, the flushed faces, rings, artificial curls; and then Mrs. +Waydelin came to me out of the midst of them, looking almost frightened, +and said, 'What's the matter?' 'Get rid of these people at once,' I said +in a low voice, 'and send for a doctor.' Her face sobered instantly, she +took one step to the bell, was about to ring it, then turned and said to +one of the men, 'Go for a doctor, Jim,' and to the others, 'You'll go, +all of you, quietly?' and then she came with me into the bedroom.</p> + +<p>Waydelin lay shivering and quaking on the bed; he seemed very conscious +and wholly preoccupied with himself. He never looked at the woman as she +flung herself on the floor by the bedside and began to cry out to him +and kiss his hand. The tears ran down over her cheeks, leaving ghastly +furrows in the wet powder, which clotted and caked under them. The curl +was beginning to come out of her too yellow hair, which straggled in +wisps about her ears. She sobbed in gulps, and entreated him to look at +her and forgive her. At that he looked, and as he looked life seemed to +revive in his eyes. He motioned to me to lift him up. I lifted him +against the pillows, and in a weak voice he asked me for drawing-paper +and a pencil. 'Don't move,' he said to his wife, who knelt there struck +into rigid astonishment, with terror and incomprehension in her eyes. +The pose, its grotesque horror, were finer than the finest of his +inventions. He made a few scrawls on the paper, trying to fix that last +and best pose of his model. But he could no longer guide the pencil, and +he let it drop out of his hand with a look of helplessness, almost of +despair, and sank down in the bed and shut his eyes. He did not open +them again. The doctor came, and tried all means to revive him, but +without success. Something in him seemed consciously to refuse to come +back to life. He lay for some time, dying slowly, with his eyes fast +shut, and it was only when the doctor had felt his heart and found no +movement that he knew he was dead.</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h2><a name="AN_AUTUMN_CITY" id="AN_AUTUMN_CITY"></a>AN AUTUMN CITY.</h2> + +<p>To Daniel Roserra life was a matter of careful cultivation. He respected +nature, for what might be cunningly extracted from nature; provided only +that one's aim was a quite personal thing, willingly subject to +surroundings on its way to the working out of itself. He tended his soul +as one might tend some rare plant; careful above most things of the +earth it was to take root in. And so he thought much of the influence of +places, of the image a place makes for itself in the consciousness, of +all that it might do in the formation of a beautiful or uncomely +disposition. Places had virtues of their own for him; he supposed that +he had the quality of divining their secrets; at all events, if they +were places to which he could possibly be sensitive. Much of his time +was spent in travelling, in a leisurely way, about Europe; not for the +sake of seeing anything in particular, for he had no interest in +historical associations or in the remains of ugly things that happened +to be old, or in visiting the bric-a-brac museums of the fine arts which +make some of the more tolerable countries tedious. He chose a city, a +village, or a seashore for its charm, its appeal to him personally; +nothing else mattered.</p> + +<p>When Roserra was forty he fell in love, quite suddenly, though he had +armed himself, as he imagined, against such disturbances of the æsthetic +life, and was invulnerable. He had always said that a woman was like a +liqueur: a delightful luxury, to be taken with discretion. He feared the +influence of a companion in his delicate satisfactions: he realised that +a woman might not even be a sympathetic companion. He had, it is true, +often wished to try the experiment, a risky one, of introducing a woman +to one of his friends among cities; it was a temptation, but he +remembered how rarely such introductions work well among people. Would +the cities be any more fortunate?</p> + +<p>When, however, he fell in love, all hesitation was taken out of his +hands by the mere force of things. Livia Dawlish was remarkably +handsome, some people thought her beautiful; she was tall and dark, and +had a sulky, enigmatical look that teased and attracted him. Some who +knew her very well said that it meant nothing, and was merely an +accident of colour and form, like the green eye of the cat or the golden +eye of the buffalo. Roserra tried to study her, but he could get no +point of view. He felt something that he had never felt before, and this +something was like a magnetic current flowing subtly from her to him; +perhaps, like the magnetic rocks in the 'Arabian Nights,' ready to draw +out all the nails and bolts of his ship, and drown him among the wrecked +splinters of his life.</p> + +<p>He was rich, not too old, of a good Cornish family; he could be the most +charming companion in the world; he knew so many things and so many +places and was never tedious about them: Livia thought him on the whole +the most suitable husband whom she was likely to meet. She was happy +when he asked her to marry him, and she married him without a misgiving. +She was not reflective.</p> + +<p>After the marriage they went straight to Paris, and Roserra was +surprised and delighted to find how childishly happy Livia could be +among new surroundings. She had always wanted to see Paris, because of +its gaiety, its bright wickedness, its names of pleasure and fashion. +Everything delighted her; she seemed even to admire a little +indiscriminatingly. She thought the Sainte-Chapelle the most beautiful +thing in Paris.</p> + +<p>They went back to London with more luggage than they had brought with +them, and for six months Livia was quite happy. She wore her Paris hats +and gowns, she was admired, she went to the theatre; she seemed to get +on with Roserra even better than she had expected.</p> + +<p>During all this time Roserra seemed to have found out very little about +his wife. It gave him more pleasure to do what she wanted than it had +ever given him to carry out his own wishes. So far, they had never had a +dispute; he seemed to have put his own individuality aside as if it no +longer meant anything to him. But he had not yet discovered her +individuality from among her crowds of little likes and dislikes, which +meant nothing. Nothing had come out yet from behind those enigmatical +eyes; but he was waiting; they would open, and there would be treasure +there.</p> + +<p>Gradually, while he was waiting, his old self began to come back to him. +He must do as he had always wanted to do: introduce the most intimate of +his cities to a woman. Autumn was beginning; he thought of Arles, which +was an autumn city, and the city which meant more to him than almost any +other. He must share Arles with Livia.</p> + +<p>Livia had heard of the Arlesiennes, she remembered Paris, and, though +she was a little reluctant to leave the new London into which she had +come since her marriage, she consented without apparent unwillingness.</p> + +<p>They went by sea to Marseilles, and Livia wished they were not going any +further. Roserra smiled a little satisfied smile; she was so pleased +with even slight, superficial things, she could get pleasure out of the +empty sunlight and obvious sea of Marseilles. When the deeper appeal of +Arles came to her, that new world in which one went clean through the +exteriorities of modern life, how she would respond to it!</p> + +<p>They reached Arles in the afternoon, and drove to the little +old-fashioned house which Roserra had taken in the square which goes +uphill from the Amphitheatre, with the church of Notre Dame la Major in +the corner. Livia looked about her vividly as the cab rattled round +twenty sharp angles, in the midst of narrow streets, on that perilous +journey. Here were the Arlesiennes, standing at doorways, walking along +the pavements, looking out of windows. She scarcely liked to admit to +herself that she had seen prettier faces elsewhere. The costume, +certainly, was as fine as its reputation; she would get one, she +thought, to wear, for amusement, in London. And the women were a noble +race; they walked nobly, they had beautiful black hair, sometimes +stately and impressive features. But she had expected so much more than +that; she had expected a race of goddesses, and she found no more than a +townful of fine-looking peasants.</p> + +<p>'Do not judge too quickly,' said Roserra to her; 'you must judge neither +the place nor the people until you have lived yourself into their midst. +The first time I came here I was disappointed. Gradually I began to see +why it was that even the guide-books tell you to come to this quiet, +out-of-the-way place, made up of hovels that were once palaces.'</p> + +<p>'I will wait,' said Livia contentedly. The queer little house, with its +homely furniture, the gentle, picturesque woman who met her at the door, +amused her. It was certainly an adventure.</p> + +<p>Next day, and the days following, they walked about the town, and +Roserra felt that his own luxuriating sensations could hardly fail to be +shared by Livia, though she said little and seemed at times +absent-minded. They strolled among the ruins of the theatre begun under +Augustus, and among the coulisses of the great amphitheatre; they sat +on the granite steps; they went up the hundred steps of the western +tower. From the cloisters of St. Trophime they went across to the museum +opposite, where a kindly little dwarf showed them the altar to Leda, the +statue of Mithras, and the sarcophagi with the Good Shepherd. He sold +them some photographs of Arlesian women: one was very beautiful. 'That +is my sister,' he said shyly.</p> + +<p>When the soul of Autumn made for itself a body, it made Arles. An autumn +city, hinting of every gentle, resigned, reflective way of fading out of +life, of effacing oneself in a world to which one no longer attaches any +value; always remembering itself, always looking into a mournfully +veiled mirror which reflects something at least of what it was, Arles +sits in the midst of its rocky plains, by the side of its river, among +the tombs. Everything there seems to grow out of death, and to be +returning thither. The town rises above its ruins, does not seem to be +even yet detached from them. The remains of the theatre look down on +the public garden; one comes suddenly on a Roman obelisk and the +fragments of Roman walls; a Roman column has been built into the wall of +one of the two hotels which stand in the Forum, now the Place du Forum; +and the modern, the comparatively modern houses, have an air which is +neither new nor old, but entirely sympathetic with what is old. They are +faded, just a little dilapidated, not caring to distinguish themselves +from the faint colours, the aged slumber, of the very ancient things +about them.</p> + +<p>Livia tried to realise what it was that charmed Roserra in all this. To +her there was no comfort in it; it depressed her; in the air itself +there was something of decay. There was a smell of dead leaves +everywhere, the moisture of stone, the sodden dampness of earth, water +forming into little pools on the ground, creeping out of the earth and +into the earth again. There was dust on everything; the trees that close +in almost the whole city as with a leafy wall were dust-grey even in +sunlight. The Aliscamps seemed to her drearier than even a modern +cemetery, and she wondered what it was that drew Roserra to them, with +a kind of fascination. On the way there, along the Avenue Victor Hugo, +there were some few signs of life; the cafés, the Zouaves going in and +out of their big barrack, the carts coming in from the country; and in +the evening the people walked there. But she hated the little melancholy +public garden at the side, with its paths curving upwards to the ruined +walls and arches of the Roman theatre, its low balustrades of crumbling +stone, its faint fountains, greenish grey. It was a place, she thought, +in which no one could ever be young or happy; and the road which went +past it did but lead to the tombs. Roserra told her that Dante, when he +was in hell, and saw the 'modo più amaro' in which the people there are +made into alleys of living tombs, remembered Arles:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p> +'Si com' ad Arli ove 'l Rodano stagna.'<br /> +</p></div> + +<p>She laughed uneasily, with a half shudder. The tombs are moved aside now +from the Aliscamps, into the little secluded Allée des Tombeaux, where +they line both sides of the way, empty stone trough after empty stone +trough, with here and there a more pompous sarcophagus. There is a quiet +path between them, which she did not even like to walk in, leading to +the canal and the bowling-green; and in the evening the old men creep +out and sit among the tombs.</p> + +<p>At first there was bright sunshine every day, but the sun scorched; and +then it set in to rain. One night a storm wakened her, and it seemed to +her that she had never heard such thunder, or seen such lightning, as +that which shook the old roof under which she lay, and blazed and +flickered at the window until it seemed to be licking up the earth with +liquid fire. The storm faded out in a morning of faint sunshine; only +the rain clung furtively about the streets all day.</p> + +<p>Day after day it rained, and Livia sat in the house, listlessly reading +the novels which she had brought with her, or staring with fierce +impatience out of the window. The rain came down steadily, ceaselessly, +drawing a wet grey curtain over the city. Roserra liked that softened +aspect which came over things in this uncomfortable weather; he walked +every day through the streets in which the water gathered in puddles +between the paving-stones, and ran in little streams down the gutters; +he found a kind of autumnal charm in the dripping trees and soaked paths +of the Aliscamps; a peaceful, and to him pathetic and pleasant, odour of +decay. Livia went out with him once, muffled in a long cloak, and +keeping her whole face carefully under the umbrella. She wanted to know +where he was taking her, and why; she shivered, sneezed, and gave one or +two little coughs. When she saw the ground of the Aliscamps, and the +first trees began to drip upon her umbrella with a faint tap-tapping on +the strained silk, she turned resolutely, and hurried Roserra straight +back to the house.</p> + +<p>After that she stayed indoors day after day, getting more irritable +every day. She took up one book after another, read a little, and then +laid it down. She walked to and fro in the narrow room, with nothing, as +she said, to think about, and nothing to see if she looked out of the +window. There was the square, every stone polished by the rain; the +other houses in the square, most of them shuttered; the little church in +the corner, with its monotonous bell, its few worshippers. She knew them +all; they were mostly women, plain, elderly women; not one of them had +any interest, or indeed existence, for her. She wondered vaguely why +they went backwards and forwards, between their houses and the church, +in such a regular way. Could it really amuse them? Could they really +believe certain things so firmly that it was worth while taking all that +trouble in order to be on the right side at last? She supposed so, and +ended her speculations.</p> + +<p>When Roserra was with her, he annoyed her by not seeming to mind the +weather. He would come in from a walk, and, if she seemed to be busy +reading, would sit down cheerfully by the stove, and really read the +book which he had in his hand. She looked at him over the pages of hers, +hating to see him occupied when she could not fix her mind on anything. +She felt imprisoned; not that she really wanted to go out: it was the +not being able to that fretted her.</p> + +<p>About the time when, if she had been in London, she would have had tea, +the uneasiness came over her most actively. She would go upstairs to her +room, and sit watching herself pityingly in the glass; or she would try +on hat after hat, hats which had come from Paris, and were meant for +Paris or London, hats which she could not possibly wear here, where her +smallest and simplest ones seemed out of place. Sometimes she brought +herself back into a good temper by the mere pleasurable feel of the +things; and she would run downstairs forgetting that she was in Arles.</p> + +<p>One afternoon, when she was in one of her easiest moods, Roserra +persuaded her to attend Benediction with him at the church of Notre Dame +la Major, in the corner of the square. The church was quite dark, and +she could only dimly see the high-altar, draped in white, and with +something white rising up from its midst, like a figure mysteriously +poised among the unlighted candles. Hooded figures passed, and knelt +with bowed heads; presently a light passed across the church, and a lamp +was let down by a chain, lighted, and drawn up again to its place. Then +a few candles were lighted, and only then did she see the priest +kneeling motionless before the altar. The chanting was very homely, like +that in a village church; there was even the village church's harmonium; +but the monotony of one air repeated over and over again brought even to +Livia some sense of a harmony between this half-drowsy service and the +slumbering city outside. They waited until the service was over, the +priests went out, the lamps and the candles were extinguished, and the +hooded figures, after a little silence, began to move again in the +dimness of the church.</p> + +<p>Sometimes she would go with Roserra to the cloisters of St. Trophime, +where Arles, as he said, seemed to withdraw into its most intimate self. +The oddness of the whole place amused her. Every side was built in a +different century: the north in the ninth, the east in the thirteenth, +the west in the fourteenth, and the south in the sixteenth; and the +builders, century by century, have gathered into this sadly battered +court a little of the curious piety of age after age, working here to +perpetuate, not only the legends of the Church, but the legends that +have their home about Arles. Again and again, among these naïve +sculptures, one sees the local dragon, the man-eating Tarasque who has +given its name to Tarascon. The place is full of monsters, and of +figures tortured into strange dislocations. Adam swings ape-like among +the branches of the apple-tree, biting at the leaves before he reaches +the apple. Flames break out among companies of the damned, and the devil +sits enthroned above his subjects. A gentle Doctor of the Church holding +a book, and bending his head meditatively sideways, was shown to Livia +as King Solomon; with, of course, in the slim saint on the other side of +the pillar, the Queen of Sheba. Broken escutcheons, carved in stone, +commemorate bishops on the walls. There is no order, or division of +time; one seems shut off equally from the present and from any +appreciable moment of the past; shut in with the same vague and +timeless Autumn that has moulded Arles into its own image.</p> + +<p>But it was just this, for which Roserra loved Arles above all other +places, that made Livia more and more acutely miserable. Wandering about +the streets which bring one back always to one's starting-point, or +along the boulevards which suggest the beginning of the country, but set +one no further into it, nothing seems to matter very much, for nothing +seems very much to exist. In Livia, as Roserra was gradually finding +out, there was none of that sympathetic submissiveness to things which +meant for him so much of the charm of life. She wanted something +definite to do, somewhere definite to go; her mind took no subtle colour +from things, nor was there any active world within her which could +transmute everything into its own image. She was dependent on an +exterior world, cut to a narrow pattern, and, outside that, nothing had +any meaning for her. He began to wonder if he had made the irremediable +mistake, and, in his preoccupation with that uneasy idea, everything +seemed changed; he, too, began to grow restless.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Livia was deciding that she certainly had made a mistake, +unless she could, after all, succeed in getting her own way; and to do +that she would have to take things into her own hands, much more +positively than she had yet done. She would walk with him when it was +fine, because there was nothing else to do. Once they walked out to the +surprising remains of the abbey of Mont-Major, and it began to rain, and +they lingered uncomfortably about the ruins and in the subterranean +chapel. She walked back with him, nursing a fine hatred in silence. She +turned it over in her heart, and it grew and gathered, like a snowball +rolled over and over in the snow. It was comprehensive and unreasoning, +and it forgot the small grievance out of which it rose, in a sense of +the vast grievance into which it had swollen. To Roserra such moods, +which were now becoming frequent, were unintelligible, and he suffered +from them like one who has to find his way through a camp of his enemies +in the dark.</p> + +<p>When they got back to the house, Livia would silently take up a book and +sit motionless for hours, turning over the pages without raising her +eyes, or showing a consciousness of his presence. He pretended to do the +same, but his eyes wandered continually, and he had to read every page +twice over. He wanted to speak, but never knew what to say, when she was +in this prickly state of irritation. To her, his critical way of +waiting, and doing nothing, became an oppression. And his silence, and +what she supposed to be his indifference, grew upon her like a heavy +weight, until the silent woman, who sat there reading sullenly, felt the +impulse to rise and fling away the book, and shriek aloud.</p> + +<p>Livia did not say that she wished to go away from Arles, anywhere from +Arles, but the desire spoke in all her silences. She made no complaint, +but Roserra saw an unfriendliness growing up in her eyes which terrified +him. She held him, as she had held him since their first meeting, by a +kind of magnetism which he had come to realise was neither love nor +sympathy. He felt that he could hate her, and yet not free himself from +that influence. What was to be done? He would have to choose; his life +of the future could no longer be his life of the past. His introduction +of a woman to his best friend had been unfortunate, as such +introductions always are, in one way or another. He had tended his soul +for more than half a lifetime, waited upon it delicately, served it with +its favourite food; and now something stronger had come forward and +said: No more. What was it? He had no wish to speculate; it mattered +little whether it was what people called his higher nature, or what they +called his lower nature, which had brought him to this result. At least +he had some recompense.</p> + +<p>When he told Livia that he had decided to go back to Marseilles ('Arles +does not suit you,' he said; 'you have not been well since we came +here') Livia flung herself into his arms with an uncontrollable delight. +On the night before they left, he sat for a long time, alone, under the +Allée des Tombeaux. When he came back, Livia was watching for him from +the window. She ran to the door and opened it.</p> + +<p>It was midday when they reached Marseilles. The sun burned on the blue +water, which lay hot, motionless, and glittering. There was not a breath +of wind, and the dust shone on the roads like a thick white layer of +powder. The light beat downwards from the blue sky, and upwards from the +white dust of the roads. The heat was enveloping; it wrapped one from +head to foot like the caress of a hot furnace. Roserra pressed his hands +to his forehead, as he leaned with Livia over the terrace above the sea; +his head throbbed, it was an effort even to breathe. He remembered the +grey coolness of the Allée des Tombeaux, where the old men sat among the +tombs. A nausea, a suffocating nausea, rose up within him as he felt the +heat and glare of this vulgar, exuberant paradise of snobs and tourists. +He sickened with revolt before this over-fed nature, sweating the fat of +life. He looked at Livia; she stood there, perfectly cool under her +sunshade, turning to watch a carriage that came towards them in a cloud +of dust. She was once more in her element, she was quite happy; she had +plunged back into the warmth of life out of that penetential chillness +of Arles; and it was with real friendliness that she turned to Roserra, +as she saw his eyes fixed upon her.</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h2><a name="SEAWARD_LACKLAND" id="SEAWARD_LACKLAND"></a>SEAWARD LACKLAND.</h2> + +<p>Seaward Lackland was born on a day of storm, when his father was out at +sea in his fishing-boat; and the mother vowed that if her husband came +home alive the boy should be dedicated to the Lord. Isaac Lackland was +the only one of his mates who came home alive out of the storm; and the +boy got the queer name of Seaward because his mother had looked out to +sea, as soon as she had strength enough to be propped up in bed, praying +for her husband every minute of the time until he came back. She could +see the sea through the little leaded windows of the cottage which stood +right on the edge of the cliff above Carbis Bay. The child's earliest +recollection was of the shape and colour of the waves, between the +diamond leadings, as he was held up to the window in his mother's arms. +It was like looking at pictures in frames, he thought afterwards.</p> + +<p>The child was dedicated to the Lord. Isaac knelt down by the bedside and +prayed over him as Mary held him in her arms, and when he got up from +his knees he said: 'Mary, if the boy lives, please God, he shall have +his schooling; and I wouldn't say but he might make a fine preacher of +the Gospel.'</p> + +<p>'It was little schooling Peter ever had,' said his wife.</p> + +<p>'Peter was wanted in the boat; this youngster can wait.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, Isaac, do you think he'll go to America, when he's grown up, like +Peter?'</p> + +<p>'No, Mary, he'll not go farther than Land's End by land, or Mount's Bay +by sea, if what I feel is the truth. We've given him to the Lord, and I +say the Lord will lend him to us.'</p> + +<p>Mary said under her breath, 'Oh, please, Lord Jesus,' several times +over, with her eyes tight shut, as she did when she seemed to pray best. +Her first son had been drowned at sea, her second had run away from home +and gone to America; and she hardly dared think of what would happen to +this one. But they had done what they could. Would not God watch over +him, and would he not be kind to her because she had given up some of +her rights in the child?</p> + +<p>The child grew strong and gentle; he learned quickly what he was taught, +and when he had learned it he would set himself to think out what it +really meant, and why it meant that and not something else. He was +always good to his mother, and as soon as he had learned to read he +would read to her out of a few books which she cared for, the Bible +chiefly, and Bogatzky's 'Golden Treasury,' and the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' +Through reading it over and over to his mother, he got to know a good +part of the Bible by heart, and he was always asking what this and that +puzzling passage meant exactly, and, when he got no satisfying answer, +trying to puzzle out a meaning for himself.</p> + +<p>Every day he went in to the Wesleyan day-school at St. Ives, and as he +walked there and back along the cliff-path, generally alone, all sorts +of whimsical ideas turned over in his head, ideas that came to him out +of books, and out of what people said, and out of the queer world in +which he found himself, half land and half water. It was always changing +about him and yet always there, in the same place, with its regular and +yet unaccountable tides and harvests. Sometimes there was a storm at sea +and all the boats did not come back, and the people he had talked with +yesterday had gone, like the stone he kicked over the cliff in walking, +or he saw them carried up the beach with covered faces. Death is always +about the life of fishermen, and he saw it more visibly and a thing more +natural and expected than it must seem to most children.</p> + +<p>He had always loved the sea, and it was his greatest delight to be taken +out when the pilchards were in the bay, and to sit in the boat watching +the silver shoals as they crowded into the straining net. He waited for +the cry of 'Heva!' from the watchman on the hill, and often sat beside +him, or stared out to sea through his long telescope, longing to be the +first to catch the moving glitter of silver. He talked with the men +'like a grown-up chap' they said, and they talked with him as if he +were a man, telling him stories, not the stories they would have told +children, but things out of their own lives, and ideas that came into +their heads as they lay out at sea all night in the drift-boats.</p> + +<p>There was one old man with whom the boy liked best to talk, because he +had been a sailor in his youth and had gone through all the seas and +landed at many ports, and had been shipwrecked on a wild island and +lived for a year among savages, and he was not like the other men, who +had always been fishers, and thought Plymouth probably as good as +London. Old Minshull seemed to the boy a very clever as well as a +far-travelled person, and he discussed some of his difficulties with him +and got help, he thought, from the old man.</p> + +<p>His difficulties were chiefly religious ones. He knew much more about +the Bible than about the world, and his imagination was constantly at +work on those absorbing stories in Kings and Judges, and all sorts of +cloudy pictures which he made up for himself out of obscure hints in the +Prophets and the Apocalypse. The old Cornishman knew his Bible pretty +well, but not so well as the boy; and the boy would bring the book out +on the cliff and read over some of the confusing things; murders, with +God's approval, it seemed, and treacheries which set nations free, and +are called 'blessed,' and the sins of the saints; and then mysterious +curses and unintelligible idolatries, and the Scarlet Woman and Jonah's +whale. He liked best the Old Testament, and had formed a clear idea of +God the Father as a perfectly just but constantly avenging deity; it +pained him if he could not bring everything into agreement with this +idea; and in the New Testament he was often perplexed by what Jesus +seemed to do and undo in the divine affairs. The old sailor turned over +all these matters in his head; they were new to him, but he faced them, +and he was sometimes able to suggest just the common-sense way out of +the difficulty.</p> + +<p>When Mary Lackland thought the boy old enough to understand the full +meaning of it, she told him how, on the day of his birth, he had been +dedicated to God, and she told him that he was never to forget this, +but to think much of God's claims upon him, and to be certain of a +special divine guardianship. He listened gravely, and promised. From +that time he began to look on God, not with less awe, but with a more +intimate sense of his continual presence, and a kind of filial feeling +grew up in him quite simply, a love of God, which came as a great +reality into his life. He felt that he must never dishonour this divine +father, either by anything he did or by the way in which he thought of +him even. Did not God, in a sense, depend on him as a father depends on +his son, to keep his honour spotless, to be more jealous of that honour +than of his own? That, or something like it, only half-defined to +himself, was what he felt about God, to whom his whole life had been +dedicated.</p> + +<p>When he had finished his schooling, the boy joined his father in the +boats, first, only by day, in the pilchard fishery, and then in the +drift-boats that went far out, at night, in the herring season. His +father was a silent man and rarely spoke to him; the other men half +feared and half despised him, because he would not drink or play cards +with them, and seemed to be generally either reading or thinking. He +thought a great deal in those long nights, and when he was eighteen he +began to be seriously alarmed because, so far as he knew, he was not +converted.</p> + +<p>He knew that he tried to do what was right, that he kept all the +commandments, prayed night and morning, and that he had this instinctive +love of God; but, according to the Methodists, all that was not enough. +There must be a moment, they held, in every man's life when he becomes +actively conscious of salvation; for every man there is a road to +Damascus. Seaward Lackland had not yet come to that great crisis, and he +waited for it, wondering what it was and when he would come to it.</p> + +<p>He began to be troubled about his sins. The Bible said that every evil +thought was a sin, and he did not know how many evil thoughts had come +into his mind since he had become conscious of good and evil. A heavy +burden of guilt weighed upon him; he could not put it aside; the more +he thought of God, the more conscious did he become of that awful gulf +which lay between him and God. Conversion, he had heard, bridged that +gulf, or your sins fell off into it and were no more seen, even if, +somewhere out of sight, they still existed, and would exist through all +eternity. He would have despaired but for the hope of that miracle. And +if I die, he said to himself, before I am converted?</p> + +<p>He had always gone regularly to chapel on Sundays and as often as he +could on week-days, but now he began to stay to the prayer-meetings +after the service, and the minister at St. Ives noticed him, and often +prayed with him and talked with him, but to no avail. A year went by, +and he grew more despondent; even his love for God seemed to be +slackening. One winter evening he heard that a famous revivalist was +coming to Lelant. He thought he would go and hear him, then something +seemed to urge him not to go; and he walked half-way there, and then +back again, unable to make up his mind. Then, thinking that it was the +devil who was trying to keep him away, he turned and walked resolutely +to Lelant.</p> + +<p>When he reached the chapel the service had begun. They were singing +'Jesu, lover of my soul,' and the preacher was standing inside the +communion-rail (he liked to be nearer the people than he could be in the +pulpit), and, as Seaward had the first glimpse of his face, he was +singing as if every word of the hymn meant something wonderful to him. +His eyes were wide open and shining; he held the closed hymn-book in +both hands, rigid in front of him, and the people seemed already to have +begun to feel that magnetic influence which he rarely failed to +establish between himself and his hearers. After the hymn he stretched +out his hand with a sudden gesture, and the people stood motionless for +a moment and then gradually sank down on their knees as he began to pray +rapidly. He seemed to be talking with God as if God were there in the +midst of them, and as he passed from supplication into a kind of vivid +statement, meant for the people rather than for the ear of God, there +seemed to be a dialogue going on, as if the answers which he gave were +hardly his own answers. He ended abruptly, and, without the harmonium, +started an almost incoherent marching-song which was well known at all +revivals. 'Hallelujah, send the glory!' he sang, and the voices of the +people rose louder and louder and feet began to beat time to the heavy +swing of the tune. Then he read the lesson and, without a pause, gave +out the text, and began to speak.</p> + +<p>Seaward Lackland had stepped into a pew near the door, and in the +furthest corner of the chapel. Something in the preacher's voice had +thrilled him, and he could not take his eyes off the long lean face, +with its eyes like two burning coals, as it seemed to him, under a high +receding forehead, from which the longish hair was brushed straight +back. A huge moustache seemed to eat up the whole lower part of the +face; and, as the man spoke, you saw nothing but the eyes and the +quivering moustache. He began quietly, but, from the first, in the +manner of one who has some all-important, and perhaps fatal, secret to +tell. An uneasiness spread gradually through the chapel, which +increased as he went on, with more urgency. People shifted in their +seats, looked sideways at their neighbours, as if they feared to have +betrayed themselves. Seaward felt himself turning hot and cold, for no +reason that he could think of, and he took out his handkerchief and +wiped his forehead. Near him he saw a young woman begin to cry, quite +quietly, and a man not far off drew long breaths, that he could hear, +almost like groans. The preacher's voice sounded like pathetic music, +and he heard the tones rather than the words, tones which seemed to +plead with him like music, asking something of him, as music did; and he +wanted to respond; and he realised that it was his sin that was keeping +him back from somehow completing the harmony, and he heard the +preacher's voice talking with his soul, as if no one were there but they +two. And God? God, perhaps.</p> + +<p>By this time many people in the chapel were weeping, men groaned +heavily, some jumped up crying 'Hallelujah!' and when the preacher ended +and said, 'Now let us have silent prayer,' and came down into the +aisle, and moved from pew to pew, one after another, as he spoke to +them, got up, and went to the communion-rail, and knelt there, some of +them with looks of great happiness. As Seaward saw the preacher coming +near him, he felt a horrible fear, he did not know of what; and he rose +quietly and stepped out into the night. But there, as he stood listening +to some exultant voices which he still heard crying 'Hallelujah!' and as +he felt the comfort of the cool air about him, and looked up at the +stars and the thin white clouds which were rushing across the moon, a +sense of quiet and well-being came over him, and he felt as if some +bitter thing had been taken out of his soul, and he were free to love +God and life at the same time, and not, as he had done till then, with +alternate pangs of regret. 'If God so loved the world,' he found himself +repeating; and the whole mercy of the text enveloped him. He walked home +along the cliff like one in a dream: he only hoped not to waken out of +that happiness.</p> + +<p>From this time, year by year, Seaward Lackland grew more eager to do +some work for God. He had made few friends among the young men and women +of his own age; to the women he seemed at once too cold and too earnest, +and the men were not quite certain of the comradeship of one who had so +much book-learning, and who was so full of strange ideas. He did not +mean to be unfriendly, but he had not the qualities that go to the easy +making of friendships; and he found no one, neither man nor woman, with +whom he had anything in common. The men respected him, for he was a good +fisherman; but the women had for the most part a certain contempt for +this large-boned, dull-eyed, heavy-jawed young man, who was never at his +ease when he was with them, and who waited on no occasions for meeting +them when they might have liked his company. The minister at St. Ives +had noticed him and asked him sometimes to come and have a talk with him +in his study. One day Lackland, warmed out of his reserve, had been +talking so well that the minister said to him: 'I think we must have +you as a local preacher, Lackland. What do you say to it?' He said +quietly: 'I would like to try, sir.'</p> + +<p>A few weeks afterwards, when the quarterly 'plan' was handed in at the +Lacklands' cottage, and Mrs. Lackland had unfolded it eagerly, to see +who were appointed to take the services at Carbis, she came suddenly +upon a name which startled her so much, that the broad sheet of paper +fluttered off her knees to the floor. 'My boy,' she said, as Seaward +picked it up, and handed it back to her with a smile, 'I have been +praying for this ever since I dedicated you to the Lord. Now I hardly +know what there is left for me to pray for.'</p> + +<p>'Pray that I may be steadfast in the faith, mother,' said Seaward.</p> + +<p>'I will, my son; but I wouldn't mind trusting him for that.'</p> + +<p>Everybody in the village was in Carbis Chapel to hear Seaward Lackland's +first sermon. He was not afraid of them; he had something to say, and he +was to speak for God; he said quietly all that was in his mind to say.</p> + +<p>After the sermon, while he was walking across to the cottage with his +father and mother, both very happy, and saying nothing at all, one or +two of the older people stayed behind to discuss the sermon. 'Do you +think he is quite orthodox?' said one of them, dubiously. 'I don't +know,' said another; 'there were some ideas, sure enough, I never heard +before; but I wouldn't say for that they weren't orthodox.' 'We must be +careful,' said a third; 'these young people think too much.' 'A great +deal too much,' said the first, 'once you begin to think for yourself, +what's to stop you?'</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>From the time of his first sermon Seaward Lackland looked upon his +dedication to God as not only complete, but, in a sense, accepted. He +had offered himself as an interpreter of the will of God to men, and +power was put into his hand. Now, he said to himself, if I should prove +a backslider, that would be a calamity for God also. The thought of his +sins, which he believed God to have pardoned, came back to him again and +again; he saw them still existing, like atoms which refused to go out +into nothingness; even if pardoned, not literally extinct. What if his +soul were one day to reinherit them, to slip back into their midst, +having let go of the hand of God, which needed at all times to hold him +up out of that deadly gulf? And now that he, who needed help so much, +had taken it upon him to try to help others, could he be sure that he +was rightly helping them? Could he, in all obedience, be sure that he +was interpreting the divine will aright?</p> + +<p>He had never found help in any book but the Bible. Once or twice he had +borrowed a commentary from the minister at St. Ives, but he could not +read these dry and barren discourses, which seemed to tell you so many +unnecessary things, but never the things that you wanted to know. He put +them aside, and the conviction came to him that with prayer and thought +everything would explain itself to him. Did not the Holy Ghost still +descend into men's minds, illuminating that patient darkness? He waited +more and more expectantly on that divine light, and it seemed to come +to him with a more punctual answer. At night, on the water, while the +other men lay across the seats, smoking their pipes in silence, he would +withdraw into his own mind until visible things no longer existed, and +he was alone in a darkness which began to glow with soft light. Only +then did he seem to see quite clearly, and what he saw was not always +what he had reasoned out for himself; but it was a solution, and it came +irresistibly.</p> + +<p>Once, when he had fallen asleep, he dreamed a dream from which he awoke +with a cry of terror. In his dream he had seen an evil spirit (it had +the appearance of a man, but he knew it to be an evil spirit because of +the infinitely evil joy which shone through the melancholy of its eyes), +and he was sitting talking with the evil spirit on the edge of a tall +cliff above the sea; and it said to him: Do you know that Seaward +Lackland is damned? and he said No, and it said: He is damned because he +has sinned the sin against the Holy Ghost; and the evil joy began to +grow and grow in its eyes, and it was watching him as if to discover +whether he knew that he himself was Seaward Lackland, and he tried to +say No again, more loudly, and as he drew back, the cliff began to +crumble away, but very slowly, so that a hundred years might have passed +while he felt himself slipping down into the gulf of the sea; and his +own cry awakened him.</p> + +<p>He knew that he had been dreaming, but the dream might have been a +message. He knew the text in the Bible, and he had often wondered what +it meant. Had not Jesus said: 'All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be +forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be +forgiven unto men'? It was the most terrible saying in the Bible. What +was the sin which even God could not forgive? He remembered that +reiteration in Matthew: 'And whosoever speaketh a word against the Son +of Man, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the +Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, nor in +the world to come.' Might it not be possible for a man to sin that sin +in ignorance? Would his ignorance avail him, if he had actually sinned +it? These thoughts troubled him strangely, and he tried to put them away +from him.</p> + +<p>They came back to him again, and more searchingly. Since his conversion +he had been as much troubled by the thought of his past sins as he had +been before that change occurred. They were put away; yes, but was it +not a kind of putting off the payment of a debt which might be still +accumulating? And now, if there was one sin which could never be atoned +for, and if he had committed that one sin? It was possible, and the +thought filled him with horror.</p> + +<p>One July night, when the boats were away in the North Sea, he set +himself to think the whole matter out; he would get at the truth, and +not endure this doubt and trouble any longer. He was sitting in the +stern of the boat, the other men were talking in low voices, but he was +used not to hear them. He put his elbows on his knees, and bowed his +head over till his hands met above it. He shut his eyes and stared hard +into the darkness under his eyelids. The boat rocked gently: he wanted +to keep quite still, so that he might think, and he put his feet against +the sides of the boat, steadying himself.</p> + +<p>As he sat there, annihilating thought that he might think the more +deeply, it seemed to him after a time as if all his past life came back +to him under a new aspect, as something which had been wrong from the +beginning. Had he not, as a child, been angry, greedy, loving only his +own pleasure, ungrateful to those who had refused him any of his desires +for his own good? Had he not been heedless and self-willed as a young +man, had he not even made a boast of his own righteousness after he had +found Christ? Was there a day since he had come to a knowledge of good +and evil when he had not sinned at least in thought? He imagined God +adding up all those sins, from the animal sins of childhood to the sins +of the mature mind. 'The Lamb's book of life': he remembered the words, +and they became terrible to him, for he saw all the pages in which his +account was written. For him it would be the book of eternal death.</p> + +<p>He lifted his head and looked up. God was up there, beyond that roof +which was his pavement. He was afraid of the great loneliness which lay +between him and God.</p> + +<p>He looked around. The drift-net lay out for a mile along the water, its +brown corks heaving gently, at regular intervals. Other boats lay +alongside, with their nets adrift; some of the boats were silent, the +men all asleep; from others he heard voices, a sudden laugh, and then +silence. The water was all about him, and the water was friendly, a +great breathing thing, that had him in its arms. He only felt at home +when he was on the water, because the water was so living, and the land +lay like a dead thing, always the same, but for the change of its +coverings. There was in the Bible one of those hard sayings: that in +heaven 'there shall be no more sea.' It was too difficult for him to +understand.</p> + +<p>The sea comforted him a little, but he said to himself: 'I do not want +to be dandled to sleep like a child; I want to see the truth.' Had he, +or had he not, among the numberless sins, which he had seen God adding +up in his book, committed the one sin which should never be pardoned? He +did not know what that sin was, but, he argued, my ignorance makes no +difference. If I pick toad-stools for mushrooms, and eat them, I shall +pay the penalty, just the same as if I had eaten them on purpose. The +Bible, it was true, did not tell you, as far as he could discover; but +there must be people who knew. There was the minister, who had a +reference Bible, and knew Hebrew. He would certainly know.</p> + +<p>'When we get back to St. Ives,' said Lackland to himself, 'I will go and +see Mr. Curnock; meanwhile the less I think about this the better.' But +there was one thought that he could not put out of his mind. Suppose he +had not sinned the unpardonable sin, had he not sinned so often, and so +deeply, that God ought not to pardon him, if he were really a just +judge, and not swayed, as men are, by a pity which is only one form of +partiality? He had always conceived sternly of God; the Jehovah of the +Old Testament was always before him, a mighty avenger, a God of battles +and judgments, inexorably just. If God was also love, God might forgive +him; he would want to forgive him; but would it be right to accept +mercy, if that mercy lowered his creator in his own eyes? The thought +stung him, raced through him like poison; he could not escape from it. +His old sense of honour towards God came back on him with redoubled +force. If God were just, God would not forgive him. Did he not love God +so much that he would suffer eternal misery, gladly, in order that God +might be just?</p> + +<p>When the boats went home with their fish, Lackland had only one thought: +to go and see Mr. Curnock at St. Ives. He walked in from Carbis that +evening, and found the minister alone in his study. Mr. Curnock +respected him; he had gone steadily on, year after year, preaching +whenever he was wanted, and though one or two people had complained that +his sermons were not strictly orthodox, most of the people spoke well of +him; many said that he had helped them. On that night he was very +serious, and he seemed to be hesitating to say all that he had to say. +At last he admitted that it was the text in the Bible which was +troubling him.</p> + +<p>Mr. Curnock went up to his shelves and looked along them. 'I know,' he +said, 'that many people have been needlessly disturbed about that +saying. And, as the Bible does not tell us, we cannot be quite certain +what that sin is. But if I can find one or two passages that recur to +me, in some of the people who have written about the Gospels, I think +they will throw some light on the matter.' He took down a big black +book, and turned over the pages. 'Here, for instance: "Not a particular +<i>act</i> of sin but a <i>state</i> of wilful, determined opposition to the Holy +Spirit, is meant." That is very much what I should imagine to be the +truth. But it is a little vague, perhaps?'</p> + +<p>'I don't thoroughly see it,' said Lackland. 'The Bible says "blasphemy +against the Holy Ghost."'</p> + +<p>'Well now,' said the minister, taking down another book, 'here is a +translation from a Spaniard of the sixteenth century, who has been +called "a Quaker before his time." He puts things quaintly, but I like +him better than the formal people. Let me see: "Whence, considering that +..." No, that doesn't concern us; here it is: "do I come to understand +that a man then sins against the Holy Spirit, when, with mental +malignity he persuades men that the works of the Holy Spirit are the +works of the devil, he being soul-convinced of the contrary." Is that +clear?'</p> + +<p>'That's clearer,' said Lackland.</p> + +<p>'He goes on, on the next page,' said Mr. Curnock, '"And I understand +that sin against the Holy Ghost that worked in Christ was inexcusable, +for it could not spring save from the most depraved minds, obstinate in +depravity."' Mr. Curnock shut the book, and put it back in its place. +'Now, do you see,' he said, sitting down by the table, 'this awful sin, +such as it is, could not be sinned unconsciously; its very essence is +that it is a deliberate rejection of what we know to be truth. I might +almost say that to sin it, a man must make up his mind that he will do +so.'</p> + +<p>'I think I see,' said Lackland, staring before him; 'and I was wrong +there, for certain: I never committed that sin. But, all the same, I +don't feel quite clear yet.'</p> + +<p>'Why is that?' said the minister.</p> + +<p>'Have you never thought, sir,' said Lackland, 'that the only return we +can make to God for his love to us, is to love him more than we love +ourselves?'</p> + +<p>'But certainly,' said Mr. Curnock.</p> + +<p>'Well,' said Lackland, 'do you see it might be that a good Christian +would think most of saving his own soul.'</p> + +<p>'That is his duty,' said Mr. Curnock.</p> + +<p>'But are they both true?' said Lackland.</p> + +<p>'Both things you have said are perfectly true,' said Mr. Curnock; 'only, +I see no contradiction between them.'</p> + +<p>'Thank you, sir,' said Lackland, getting to his feet; 'I'll go and think +it all over; I'm not very ready at thinking, I have to set my mind to +things slowly; and you've given me a good lot to think over. Good-night, +Mr. Curnock.'</p> + +<p>'And now, my dear Lackland,' said the minister, as he opened the door of +the house, 'above all, don't worry over a text which none of us are very +sure about. Be certain of one thing, that God's mercy is infinite, and +that he'll bring you through.'</p> + +<p>Lackland walked slowly away from the door, along the terrace above the +sea, and then more rapidly, as he came out on the rough path along the +cliff. The wind blew sharply against him; the moon glittered in the sky, +among a multitude of glittering stars; and he heard the sea screaming +and tearing at the pebbles, as he sat down on the edge of the cliff, +just before getting to Carbis Bay, and looked along the uneasy water, +which quivered all over with little waves, hunching themselves up, one +after another, and leaping forward, all in a white froth, as they struck +upon the beach. 'They are like the lives of men,' thought Lackland; 'all +that effort, a struggling onward, a getting to the journey's end: see, +that wave is making for just that old tin can, and it has hit it, and +the can rolls over and remains, and the wave is gone.' He drew his +breath in sharply, drawing up the salt smell of the sea into his +nostrils, and sat there for a long time thinking.</p> + +<p>No, he had not committed the sin against the Holy Ghost: God could still +pardon him. But was it right, was it just, that God should pardon him? +One after another of the hard sayings of the Old Testament came into his +mind: it was clearly impossible to fulfil every one of those +obligations; he could but strive towards them, and fail, and fall back +on the mercy of God. At that thought something rose up in him like a +pride on behalf of God, and he said to himself: 'I will never ask God to +stoop in order that I may rise.' As he said the words he looked round +him; the aspect of the place, which he had known all his life, seemed to +change, to become dim, to become mysteriously distinct, and he saw that +he was sitting where he had sat with the evil spirit in his dream. He +got up hastily and went indoors.</p> + +<p>Night after night Seaward Lackland went out with the fishing-boats; he +did his share of the work just as usual, took his share of the profits, +slept by day, and sat awake by night; and, to all about him, he was the +same man as before. But an ecstasy was growing up within him which kept +his own ears shut to everything but one interior voice; he was +meditating a great sacrifice; and a great happiness began to inhabit his +soul. 'If God so loved the world,' he repeated, as he had repeated it on +the night of his conversion, 'that he gave his only begotten Son ...' He +brooded over the words, wondering if a mere man could imitate that +supreme surrender. He was only a poor fisherman; the disciples had been +that, and Jesus had called them to leave their fathers and their nets +and follow him. Both his father and mother were dead; no one in the +world depended on him; he was free to give up the world, if he chose, +for God. The thought intoxicated him; he saw nothing but the thought, +like a light beckoning to him in the darkness: perhaps calling him to +destruction. The pride of a vast magnanimity thrilled through him: he +would sin the one sin that God could not pardon, in order that God +should deal with him according to his justice, and not according to his +mercy. He would, as he had dreamed when a child, prefer God's honour to +his own; he would give up heaven in order that God might be worthy of +his own idea of him. I will sin, he said to himself, the sin against the +Holy Ghost, and I will do it for the love of God.</p> + +<p>When he had made up his mind, and was full of an exultant inner peace +because of it, he still waited and pondered, not knowing quite how he +would do the thing he had decided to do. It must be done publicly, and +he must suffer for it here, as he was to suffer for it hereafter. It +must be done in Carbis Chapel, when his turn came to preach there.</p> + +<p>It was some time before his turn came, and he waited with a feverish +impatience. He tried to think out what he should say, but he could not +imagine anything that seemed to him sufficiently 'obstinate in +depravity.' He remembered the phrase, 'when, with mental malignity, he +persuades men that the works of the Holy Spirit are the works of the +devil'; and he tried to work out an argument, at which he shuddered, +which would seem to show Jesus as one working miracles with the help of +Satan. At first he could not put two words together, but gradually the +task became easier; strange arguments came into his head, which seemed +almost plausible to himself; he wondered if it was actually the devil, +for his own ends, helping him. He did not write down a word, though he +was accustomed to write every word of his sermons; every word, as he +thought it, stamped itself in his mind, like a seal pressed into burning +wax.</p> + +<p>The night before the Sunday on which he was to preach his last sermon, +he lay in bed trying to sleep, but unable to close his eyes on the +darkness that seemed to palpitate about him. He got out of bed, threw +open the window, and leaned out. The night was quite black, he could see +nothing, but he could hear the waves splashing upon the sand down below +in the bay. A chill wind bit at his face, and made his body shiver. He +shut the window, and lay down in bed again, staring for the dawn. He +felt cold right through to the heart, and he felt horribly alone. By +to-morrow night he would have cut himself adrift; he would be like that +seaweed which the sea was tossing upon the sand, and dragging away from +the sand. For God's sake he would have cast off God, and he had no other +friend. To-morrow he would have none. His resolution never wavered, but +he no longer wished the dawn to come quickly; he would have liked, when +he saw the first light on the window-panes, to have held back the dawn.</p> + +<p>He was to preach in the evening, and in the morning he sat in the chapel +and heard the minister from St. Ives telling of the mercy of God. His +text was: 'I say unto you that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one +sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons which +need no repentance.' He spoke of salvation for all; not a word was said +about that one exception. Lackland felt a bitter smile twitching at the +corners of his lips.</p> + +<p>At night he made his own tea as usual, and walked up and down the room, +often looking at the clock, until it was time to go across to the +chapel. He saw the people passing his window on their way; some of them +looked in, saw him, and nodded in a friendly manner. He looked again at +the clock; now it was time for him to go, and he went into a corner of +the room, knelt down, and prayed to God for strength to deny him. Then +he walked rapidly across to the chapel.</p> + +<p>The chapel was very full, it seemed to him oppressively hot, and he felt +the blood flushing his forehead. Many of the people remembered +afterwards that they had noticed something strange in his manner from +the moment in which he set foot on the steps of the pulpit. They were +quick to recognise the outward signs of a flame lighted within; and they +anticipated a fine sermon. His first prayer was very short, but it was +like a last confession. Each word seemed to live with a sharp, painful +life of its own; the words cried out, and called down heaven for an +answer. The text was a verse out of the twenty-fourth chapter of St. +Matthew: 'Then if any man shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or +there; believe it not.' It was not the first time he had chosen a +strange text. He began slowly, and with an unusual solemnity. It seemed +to him that they were not understanding him aright. As he went on, his +voice, which had at first been low, grew louder; he spoke as if he were +hurrying through some message which had been laid upon him to deliver; +yet with the calmness of one who has mastered his own fever. He was +speaking the most terrible words they had ever heard, and they were at +first too bewildered even to think. As he went on, they began to look at +one another, wondering if he were mad or they; one or two women near the +door got up quietly and went out; men stirred in their seats; a great +shudder went through the whole congregation. Blasphemies such as they +had never dreamed of filled their ears, dazed their senses; and Seaward +Lackland stood there calmly, like a martyr, one of them said afterwards; +the sweat stood out on his forehead, but he spoke in an even voice: was +it Seaward Lackland or was it the devil who stood there denying God, +denying the Holy Spirit? There were those who looked up at the ceiling +above them, thinking that the roof would fall in and bury them with the +blasphemer. But as heaven did not stir in its own defence, it was for +them to assume the defence of heaven. An old class leader stood up in +his pew, near the communion-rail, and turning his back on the preacher, +said in a loud voice: 'I entreat you all to listen to this man no +longer, but to go instantly home, and pray God Almighty to forgive you +for what you have heard this day.' Lackland stood silent, and every one +in the chapel got up and went quickly out, the old class-leader the +last; and Lackland was left alone in the chapel, standing before the +open Bible in the pulpit. He fell on his knees and covered his face with +his hands: 'O God, forgive me,' he prayed, 'for what I have done for +thee to-day.'</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>From that day Seaward Lackland was an outcast in the village. The mates +with whom he shared the boat and the nets refused to go to sea in his +company, lest they should share a judgment reserved for him, and all be +drowned together. He accepted his fate without protest, and, as one +thing after another slipped out of his hands, made no complaint. When +there was nothing else for him to do, he drove a cart which used to +carry the fish from the boats to the salting-cellars, and afterwards +from the cellars to the railway station, where they were sent in barrels +to the nearest port for Genoa and Leghorn. He was too poor now to live +in his cottage, and housed with some others as poor as himself, in a +half-fallen shanty on the way to Lelant. Even his housemates mocked him, +and held themselves more decent folks than he. It was thought that his +brain had weakened, for he became more and more eccentric in his ways, +and got to talk with himself, for hours together, in a low voice, but +with the gestures of one explaining something to an unseen disputant. +One day as he was racing up the hill by the side of his cart, urging on +the horses, his foot slipped, and he fell under the near wheel, which +had crushed into his breast-bone before the horses could be stopped. He +was carried back, and laid on his ragged bed; and was just able to ask +those about him to fetch the minister from St. Ives. He was not quite +dead when the minister came, and he said 'Amen,' simply, to the prayer +which the minister offered up for him. Then, as he seemed anxious to say +something, the minister stooped down, and, to help him, said: 'Perhaps +you want to tell us why you sinned against God ...' he was going to add, +'and that you repent of it, and hope for salvation,' but the dying man, +in a very faint but ecstatic voice, said: 'Because I loved God more than +I loved myself'; and so died, with a great joy on his face. But the +minister shook his head sorrowfully, not understanding what he meant.</p> + +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +<h2><a name="EXTRACTS_FROM_THE_JOURNAL_OF_HENRY_LUXULYAN" id="EXTRACTS_FROM_THE_JOURNAL_OF_HENRY_LUXULYAN"></a>EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF HENRY LUXULYAN.</h2> + +<p>When Henry Luxulyan died in Venice, a few years ago, he left a written +request that all his papers should be sent to me under seal. He was a +townsman of mine, and that, I think, had been almost the only link +between us, though I had known him from childhood, and we used to meet, +more or less accidentally, and at long intervals, all through his life. +As a boy he had few friends; he did not seek them; and I was never sure +that he looked upon me as in any real sense a friend. It was always +vaguely supposed that he was very clever, and as he took part in no +boyish games, and did not ride, or swim, or even walk much, but seemed +to brood, and linger, and be thinking, it was supposed that he had +interests of his own, and would one day be or do something remarkable. +He was never communicative about anything, but once or twice in later +years, he spoke to me of his historical studies, and I gathered that he +was making researches (for a book, I supposed) into the life of Attila: +a subject remote and gloomy enough, I thought, to be naturally +attractive to him. For some years I lost sight of him altogether, and +then, to my surprise, met him at the house of a German Baron and his +wife, who were settled in London, where they entertained lavishly. It +was the last house at which I had ever expected to meet him; though +indeed the Baroness was a woman of considerable learning, and very +intelligent and sympathetic. I found that he had become her librarian, +and was living in the house. He looked ill and restless. Whenever I +dined at the house, he was always there. I noticed that the Baroness +treated him more like a friend than a librarian; appealing to him on +every occasion as if he had the management of the whole household. I +never had much private talk with him, but he seemed glad to see me, and +referred sometimes, but never very definitely, to his work, which I +encouraged him to persevere with. He seemed almost pathetically alone; +but I remembered that he had never cared to be otherwise. The nervous +restlessness which I had observed in him was more marked every time that +I saw him; and it was with no surprise that I heard he had broken down, +and was in Venice, trying to recover. But it was in Venice that he took +the fever of which he died.</p> + +<p>I never knew why he left that strange request that his papers should be +sent to me; nor was there any message among them, or the least +indication of what he wanted me to do with them. Most of them were +concerned with the life of Attila, but there were not three properly +finished chapters; and the mass of fragments, quotations, references, +tentative notes, mutually destructive and unresolved conjectures, +baffled my utmost endeavours, and remained for me, and I fear must +always remain, so much lost labour, like an enigma of which the key is +missing. But in the midst of these papers, thrust as if hurriedly into +one of the bundles, so that the string had cut into the outer leaves of +loose manuscripts, there was a thin book bound in parchment, almost +filled with Luxulyan's close, uneasy writing. It was a journal, many +times begun and relinquished, ending with a date not many days before +his death. Between the pages were two letters, in a woman's handwriting. +I burnt the letters without reading them; then I read the journal.</p> + +<p>What I print here is printed with but few omissions; only I have changed +the names, and not left any allusion, as far as I know, to circumstances +which it is likely that any one could easily identify. For the omissions +I make myself wholly responsible; as, indeed, for the printing of the +journal at all. It seems to me a genuine document; odd, disconcerting, +like the man who wrote it; profoundly disconcerting to me, on reading +it, as I discovered the real subterranean being whom I had known, during +his lifetime, only by a few, scarcely perceptible outlines on the +surface. Such as it is, I give it here, reserving till afterwards +something more which I shall have to say by way of comment or epilogue.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 5.—I have been talking with the doctor to-day, and he tells me +that my nerves are seriously out of order. There, of course, he is quite +right, and he tells me nothing I did not know already. Only, why tell +me? That is just what it does me no good to think about. If I am to keep +in even so shaky an equilibrium as this, which at least might be worse, +it is essential for me to forget there is any danger. What folly, to be +a doctor and honest!</p> + +<p>For my part, I was quite frank with him. I told him it was terrible, to +be alone and to think about death every day of one's life. He put out a +soothing hand professionally, and began to say something about 'with +care' and 'I see no reason why,' and so forth; 'no reason why, with +care, you should not live, well——' 'How long,' I interrupted him, as +he hesitated. 'Thirty years, forty years,' he said confidently, 'why +not? I tell you there is no reason why you should not die an old man.' +And he thought he was comforting me! I only said, 'It is horrible.' 'In +heaven's name,' he said, with real amazement, 'what is horrible?' I told +him: this dwindling away, this continual losing of all the forces that +hold one to life, this inevitable encroachment of the other thing, the +darkness; and the uncertainty of it all, except the ending. 'Come now,' +he said, as if he were arguing with a child, 'be reasonable; you don't +expect to live for ever?' 'That is just it,' I said; and then I put it +to him: 'don't you find it horrible to think of?' 'I never think of it,' +he said. 'I have to see to it every day. One accustoms oneself to the +things one sees every day. You brood over it because it is hidden away +from you.'</p> + +<p>He said that as if he was saying something fine, courageous, even +intelligent.</p> + +<p>I shivered as he spoke so lightly of seeing people die every day, and I +said, 'You think nothing of it!' 'To me,' he said, more seriously, 'it +is the one quite natural thing in the world. One is tired, one lies +down, one sleeps. And even if one isn't conscious of being tired, there +is nothing so good as sleep.' It struck me that he was quoting from +Marcus Aurelius, in a sort of roundabout way, and I let him go on +talking; but when he looked at me and said: 'I have never met any one +before who worried over the thought that he would have to die when he +was seventy, eighty, ninety: how do you know you won't live to be +ninety?' the simplicity of the man struck me as being laughable; a child +could have reasoned better, and I said: 'If I live to be ninety I shall +never have passed a day without thinking about death, and I know that I +am logically right in never losing sight of the only thing in the world +which is of infinite importance. You call it morbid, but what if only I +am wide awake, after all, and you others are walking straight into a pit +with your eyes shut?' It was then that he repeated that my nerves were +seriously out of order. He told me that I must find distraction. In +other words, I must shut my eyes from time to time. Well, there is no +doubt about it. That is what I must try to do. But how?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 6.—I suppose it is only because I am nervous, and because the +doctor told me I must not live so much by myself, but I am beginning to +think again about Clare, and I had not thought of her for a long time. +When one has lived with a woman, in the same house with her, every day +and every night for three years: think, there are one thousand and +ninety-five days in three years! well, something remains, in the very +look and touch of the furniture, in the treacherous blank of the +mirrors, which forget nothing, and hide so much, something that will +never wholly go; and I must not expect to release my senses, as I have +released my mind and my will, from the power of that woman.</p> + +<p>Only, the less I think about her the better; and there is no danger of +my wanting her back again. That would be singularly inconvenient, if, as +I can but suppose, she is perfectly happy with that ordinary person whom +she had the curious taste to prefer to me. One must guard against being +ridiculous, even when one is alone with oneself, and I am content to +seem no hero to this serviceable valet, my journal; but it is partly +the incapacity of good taste in them that makes women so intolerable. +There are men of whom I have said to myself: Now, if Clare fell in love +with this man, or that man, it would seem to me so natural, so +legitimate; I could almost despise her for not submitting to a +fascination which is insensitive not to feel. But a poseur, a fop, a +cad; one of those men whom every man sees through at the first +hand-shake; a sleek flatterer, whose compliments are vulgarities; the +shopman air of 'inquire within upon everything'; yes, that is the man +who takes his choice of women. Is vulgarity a curable thing? and will +the vulgarity of women ever be cultured out of them?</p> + +<p>I once tried to believe that there are women and women; but I have never +found that the 'and' meant anything essential.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 7.—I dined out at night, with my Jew friends, the Kahns, whom I +have not cared to see for so long; and the distraction has done me good. +They were charming, sympathetic, not obtrusively anxious about me; they +welcomed me as if I were really a friend; and there were some pleasant +people at the dinner-table. Only, I do not understand how they could ask +to dinner a certain Baroness von Eckenstein who was there. One should +preserve a certain decency in intercourse; there are things one should +be spared! I sat opposite to her, and she talked to me a good deal +across the table; she seemed intelligent; she might be all that is +admirable. Her figure was firm, ample, almost majestic, and the face had +once been not less finely designed, but over the whole left side, from +the forehead to the neck, there was a great white scar, shapeless, +horribly white, and scored as with deep cuts, which had formed +cicatrices of a yet more ghastly white. The bloodless and livid skin, +ploughed and wrinkled with these raised cicatrices, was drawn tightly +over the cheek-bone. The eyelid, strangely misshapen, was alone the +natural colour of flesh, but this eyelid looked as if it were +artificially attached to the underpart of the eyebrow, and on the +forehead above the eye there was a white scar, as if the flesh had been +cut away to form the eyelid. I dared not look at her, and yet, in spite +of myself, my eyes kept seeking her face. A death's head would be a more +agreeable companion at table. They tell me she is newly come to London, +very rich, very hospitable; Mrs. Kahn, with her intolerable indulgence, +means to make a friend of her; if I go there again I am sure to meet +her, and only the thought of that disgrace of nature makes me shiver. +Must I cut myself off again from just what had promised to be a real +distraction? I will stay at home, work, not think, bury myself in my +books.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 8.—I realise, on thinking it over in a perfectly calm mood, +without any sort of nervous excitement, that I have always been afraid +of women; and that is one reason, the chief perhaps, why I have always +been so lonely, both when Clare was with me, and before and after it. +Just as I cannot get out of my head that there is some concealed +conspiracy against me, in earthly things, so there seems to be, in the +other sex, a kind of hidden anger or treachery, which makes me uneasy. I +was never really happy when a woman sat on the other side of the table, +at the other corner of the fireplace. Vigny was right:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p> +'Toujours ce compagnon dont le coeur n'est pas sûr.'<br /> +</p></div> + +<p>I will quote no more: the verse becomes Biblical; and indeed it is of +Samson and Delilah. Just what attracts me in a woman revolts me: the +'love strong as death,' which is no more than 'la candeur de l'antique +animal,' raised to the power of self-expression. It bewilders, distracts +yes, terrifies me. That women are better and worse than we think them, I +am certain; and no doubt nature was wise in setting us on our knees +before the enigma. To be so mysterious and so contemptible! Merely for +us to think that, shuts us away from them, our possible friends, as by a +great wall, outside which there can be only enemies. We capitulate, +perhaps, but it is the enemy who has conquered.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 9.—I have been working hard, going nowhere, and I suppose staying +indoors too much. I begin to be restless again. The Kahns have written +asking me to dine with them on Sunday: will that woman be there? Hans +Greger is coming with his old music, and I should like to hear the viols +and harpsichord again. I think I must go.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile some rumours of war which I read on the newspaper placards +have set me puzzling over one of my favourite enigmas. Is it not +incredible that there should be people in the world who will kill one +another, and even themselves, for any one of a multitude of foolish +reasons? As if life was not short enough at the longest, and one's +bodily pains troublesome enough without even the added risk of +accidents; and yet we must do our best to aid the enemy of us all; we +must make ourselves lieutenants of death; and for what? The thing begins +in our fantasies of honour, precedence, patriotism, or by whatever name, +big or small, we choose to christen the tiny germ of unreason. War +reduces to an absurdity, with its pompous mortal emphasis, the whole +argument. I have been thinking out a theory of this disease of humanity, +to which scientific people should have given a name. It might be +studied, in cellars, as they study bacilli.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 10.—To-day has been one of those days in which London becomes +intolerable. The dust-carts in the street, the reek of chop-houses, the +unwashed bodies in frowsy clothes, stink on the air, and the air is too +heavy to drain off this odious foulness, and one breathes it, and seems +to sicken. I am sure some loathsome gas is rising up out of the canal +under my windows; my head turns if I lean out and look over; and now it +is between two lights, almost too dark to see by daylight and not dark +enough to draw the curtains and turn on the electric light. It is the +time of day that I hate most; it is the only time of the day when I +actively want to be doing something, and when I am acutely miserable +because I have nothing to do.</p> + +<p>The last half-hour, since I wrote these words, has been as miserable a +half-hour as I remember spending in my life. And yet there is nothing to +account for it, except this absurd sensitiveness which is growing upon +me. Why is it that one clings to life when it bores one in this manner? +I am not sure that I have ever felt what people call the joy of living: +life has always seemed to me a more or less ridiculous compromise; and +yet there is nothing I dread so much as any sort of truth, the truth +which might put an end, once and for all, to this compromise. Was there +ever any one so illogical? I hate life, and yet I want to go on living +for ever. Sometimes, coming back at night, after a concert in which some +great music has struck one into a profound seriousness, a strange and +terrifying sensation takes hold of me as the cab turns suddenly, out of +a tangle of streets, into a broad road between trees and houses: one +enters into it as into a long dimly lighted alley, and at the end of the +road is the sky, with one star hung like a lantern upon the darkness; +and it seems as if the sky is at the end of the road, that if one drove +right on one would plunge over the edge of the world. All that is solid +on the earth seems to melt about one; it is as if one's eyes had been +suddenly opened, and one saw for the first time. And the great dread +comes over me: the dread of what may be on the other side of reality. +And it seems as if all the years of the longest life, measured out into +days and hours, would not be long enough to hold me back from the horror +of that plunge.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 11.—She deceived me: all women deceive. I have no right to +condemn her any more than I condemn my doctor for deceiving me when I am +ill. He tells me: You will be better to-morrow; knowing that the only +way to make me better is to make me think I am going to be so. It would +be worse for us if women did not deceive us.</p> + +<p>She was vain, selfish, sensual: should I have cared for her if she had +not been all three? To almost everybody she seemed gentle and modest: +was it really that I knew her better, or did everybody else know +something about her which I had never discovered? That is the odd thing +which I am beginning to wonder. She lived with me for three years, and +then left me. Whose fault was it that she left me after three years? In +this wholly unusual state of humility in which I find myself at +present, I cannot say that the fault was not partly mine, and partly +that she was a woman. What a thing it is to be a woman, and how +perplexing are even their virtues! They are not made, as we are, all of +a piece; they are not made to be consistent; they think so little of +what we think so much of; even sex is a light, simple, and natural thing +to them, to which they attach none of our morbid valuations. It is for +all this that, when I am not in this particular mood, I hate and fear +them; but to-day it all seems so natural, and women themselves seem so +pardonable. Think of the daily habits of their life: how many times a +day they dress and undress themselves, and all it means. With each new +gown a woman puts on a new self, made to match it. All day long they are +playing the comedian, while we do but sit in the stalls, listen, watch +and applaud. At least the play is for our entertainment; we pay them to +act it: let us be indulgent if the acting is not always to our taste.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 13.—I have just come from the Kahns'. Certainly there is no music +like this old, tinkling, unwearied music of Greger's for giving one a +sort of phantom or ghostly peace, as if the present faded into the +distance, and life became a memory, half sad and half happy, and above +all not too poignant. I can no longer allow myself to hear Wagner, much +less Tschaikowsky: music made to make people suffer.</p> + +<p>Of course the Baroness was there. She sat by me at dinner, but on my +left, and I could only see the unspoilt half of her face. Every now and +then I thought of the other half, and a kind of sickness came over me. +Once I turned to my other neighbour, in the middle of a sentence. But, +for the most part, I forgot, and then it seemed to me that I was talking +with the most accomplished woman I had ever met. She has travelled, +knows many languages, many people; she has the feeling, and, I think, +some of the knowledge of an artist; we spoke of music, painting, the art +of living; and, oddly enough, she has a passion for just my own +subject; history is her favourite reading, and when I spoke of one of +my own hobbies, of Attila, she quoted Jornandes, and a passage, I +remembered, that Thierry has not translated: she must have read it in +Latin. How has she found time to do all this? To me she does not seem +very young, but I suppose she is very little over forty. She spoke of +everything with great frankness; only, never of herself. I have hardly +spoken to the husband, to whom I have never seen her speak. He is very +tall, very dark, very thin, with an air of politeness so excessive that +it seems a kind of irony. She has asked me to come and see her; she +promises me the use of her library. Can I, I wonder, ever get the better +of that repugnance which rises in me when I see the ragged mask, the +mended eyelid?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 14.—I have been filling these pages with rumours and +apprehensions, and now, just when I least expected it, something +definite has happened, which seems to make them all very trivial and +secondary. The Argonaut Building Society, into which I had put nearly +all the little money I had, has failed; there has been swindling; I am +ruined. What am I to do? I shall have to earn my living, heaven knows +how; I shall have to give up my work, sell my books, find some cheaper +rooms. This is the one thing I never thought would happen. I have been +afraid of most things but poverty, and now it is poverty which has come +upon me. Perhaps something will be saved out of the wreck of this false +Argonaut. I must wait until I know for certain that there is nothing.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 15.—I called on the Baroness von Eckenstein. I did not expect to +see such a library. It was made by three generations of savants, and +continued by herself. There are folios not in the British Museum; one +that I had come to think had never existed. If she will really let me +sometimes use her library, I can sell my books cheerfully. She has a +remarkable intelligence. But for that scar she would have been +singularly handsome. What can have caused it, I wonder? It is like the +scar which I once saw on the face of a woman over whom her rival had +thrown vitriol. I am far from supposing any such vulgar tragedy in the +household of the Eckensteins!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 16.—No further news yet from the Argonaut. I can only anticipate +the worst. Nothing but rain without, and this intolerable suspense in +one's mind. I can neither work nor think.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 17.—To-day the weather has changed, and see how this barometer of +my nerves registers the change! I have been walking in Regent's Park, +the nearest country, and I feel singularly good, wise, and happy. That +uninteresting park, uninteresting in itself, has a gift of refreshment, +as one turns into it out of the streets. I find myself leaning against +the railing to watch a little dark creature with red legs and a red +bill, that swims between the swans, and clambers up on the grass, and +runs about there stealthily with a shy grace. There is an island, to +which all the water-birds go, and it is grown over with trees and +bushes and green weeds, down to the edge of the water, and they go there +when they want to be alone, as one goes into a deep wood, out of the +streets in which people stare. To-day I was perfectly happy, merely +walking about the park. I sat under a tree for half an hour, and it was +only when I realised that a queer sound which had come to me at +intervals, a mournful and deep cry, which I had heard in a kind of +dream, was the crying of the wild beasts, over yonder, inside their +bars, that I got up and came away.</p> + +<p>I have gone back to my journal at three o'clock in the morning, because +I cannot sleep, and one of my old horrors has taken hold of me again. I +am writing in order to give myself almost a sense of companionship: this +talking to oneself on paper is so different from the loud emptiness of +the night, when one is awake, and one's thoughts cry out. I woke up +suddenly, and felt the darkness about me, like a horrible oppression. I +felt as I have sometimes felt when the train has been carrying me +through a long tunnel. All the blood went to my head, as if I were +stifling, and I had a need of daylight. I turned on the electric light, +but it made no difference; it was no more than the light in the +railway-carriage while the darkness is thundering about one's ears, I +had the sensation of a world in which the daylight had been blotted out, +and men stumbled in a perpetual night, which the lamps did but make +visible. I felt that I should not be able to go on breathing unless I +thrust the thought out of my mind, and I got up and turned on all the +lights and walked to and fro in the rooms, and then came in here to +quiet myself in the way I have found so good, by writing down all these +fears and scruples of mine, as coldly as I can, as if they belonged to +somebody else, in whose psychology I am interested. Already the +uneasiness has almost left me. And yet who knows if I am only wrapping +the blanket round my head once more, in order that I may run through +fire and not see it?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 18.—I have had one of my old headaches to-day, partly because I +slept so little last night and partly because there has been thunder, +at intervals, all day long; and now at night, when it is quite cool +again, after the rain which washed off the suffocating heat of the day, +the sky still gives a nervous twitch now and again, like a face which +has lost control of its muscles. Yesterday it seemed as if Spring had +come, but to-day a premature Summer leapt out on the world, in one of +those distressing paroxysms of the elements in which I get more than my +share of the general discomfort. It is only for the last few hours that +I have recognised myself, and already I find it difficult to remember +that other self, which lay on the sofa with half-shut eyes and a +forehead eaten away by the little sharp teeth of the nerves. How we +measure ourselves by time, and time by ourselves! Then, it seemed +incredible that I should ever be my usual self again; my focus had been +suddenly altered, and nothing was the same. I think we ought to be more +grateful for such occasions than we are; for this sort of readjustment +is certainly useful. All habits, and not only what we call bad habits, +are hurtful; and life is one long habit, which it is good to vary +sometimes.</p> + +<p>I suppose that my headache is not quite gone yet, and that it is this +which makes me write down these obvious reflections. I must stop writing +for to-night.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 20.—I have had a strange, generous, almost incredible letter from +the Baroness. She has heard from the Kahns that I have lost all my +money, and she offers me the post of librarian; I can live in the house, +and I am to have a salary which is much more than I had before the +Argonaut went to pieces. I have only to say yes, and I am saved.</p> + +<p>Can I accept this charity? It is nothing less. What can I give in +return? Nothing. What can have induced her to offer me this immediate +kindness? That she is generous I do not doubt; but to this point? I must +revise my opinions about women.</p> + +<p>There is charity, certainly, and I shall soon be penniless, and not well +able to refuse it. She prizes her library; she wishes it to be put in +order, catalogued, kept in order, added to; she saw my interest, she +knew that I am perfectly capable to do what she wants to have done. Is +there anything unnatural after all in what must after all remain her +immense kindness?</p> + +<p>One thing remains. Can I accustom myself to see her every day, to sit at +table with her, to be constantly at her call? At first it will not be +easy, and then afterwards, who knows? but that would be the worst of +all, I may come to find a sort of perverse pleasure in looking at her, +the pleasure which is part horror, and which comes from affronting and +half encouraging disgust.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>April 28.—I have written nothing in my journal for the last week; too +many things have happened, and I have seemed to go through them almost +mechanically. I am already in my new quarters; I have my rooms, near the +library in which I work, in the vast house at Queen's Gate; and I am +already more than half regretting my old flat over Regent's Canal, where +I could be alone from morning to night.</p> + +<p>There was no serious question of refusing this most fortunate +opportunity; I had no choice: it was this or nothing, for if I recover +£100 out of the Argonaut, it will be the utmost I have to hope for. The +Baroness is a woman of action; she insisted, she arranged everything, +and I found myself here without having done more than consent to let +things be done for me. Certainly that is a form of arrangement which +suits me, and life here seems to go not less smoothly; I have but to +accept it, not without a certain satisfaction. The Baron must be +enormously rich; there is something almost ostentatious in the display +of gold, silver, and silk. Nothing is simple; the cost of these +expensive things seems as if ticketed upon them; and there are coronets +everywhere. But I, who never seriously thought about money until the +little I had melted away, have never realised what an efficacious oil +can be distilled out of gold for making all the wheels of life go +smoothly. I am treated as one of the family; I profit hardly less than +they from all that I care for in the possession of riches.</p> + +<p>And yet, there is something here which weighs upon me; a sort of moral +atmosphere which renders me uneasy. I see clearly, what I had guessed +before, that there is no affection, that there is even a certain degree +of alienation, between the Baron and Baroness. Nothing can be more +polite, but with a sort of enigmatical politeness, which hides I know +not what, than the Baron's manner towards his wife. He is scrupulously, +exaggeratedly, polite towards every one; and his excessive ceremony with +me puts a certain restraint upon me. I imagine that he detests me, +merely from the extreme care with which he tries to convince me of his +amiability. The whole man seems to me false; or, it may be, he has acted +a part so long that the part has fastened itself upon him. His eyes and +his mouth seem never to say the same thing; both guard, as at two +doorways, the thoughts which are at work in his brain.</p> + +<p>The attitude of the Baroness towards her husband has a different +inflexion of meaning; it is frigidly polite, but with a more evident +shade of aversion. If he puts forward an opinion, she contradicts it; +while he assents, outwardly, to all her opinions, but with an ironical +air which seems itself a negation. He is a great sportsman, and I have +never seen him with a book in his hands; she cares passionately for +reading, and hates every form of sport. But it is not merely a +difference of temperament; there is, I am convinced, something very +definite which sets a barrier between them. What is it? Here is a +problem, for once outside the eternal, wearing, for the most part +inevitable, problem of myself, which I shall do well to study. How +gladly I welcome anything which can distract me from my own sensations, +in which I have so long lived isolated, alone with myself!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>May 5.—The library is even finer than I thought. The labour of +cataloguing it will be an amusement. For the present I do none of my own +work; I am absorbed in this new occupation. How strange, how fortunate, +to be at the same time taken outside myself in my thoughts, and away +from what becomes monotonous in my studies! I have found, it would +seem, precisely the distraction which the doctor ordered me. Only, the +old solitary life seems a thing to regret, now I have left it behind me; +and ought I not to regret the self which I left with it?</p> + +<p>It is certain that I shall never accustom myself to look at the Baroness +without repugnance. From my childhood I have never been able to endure +the sight of any human disfigurement. I used to faint at the sight of +blood, and I have always looked away when I have seen people crowding +about a man or a horse fallen in the street. It is not pity, it is a +very sensitive egoism: before an accident I imagine the thing happening +to me, or I imagine myself obliged to touch the wound or the broken +limb. I never look at the Baroness without a mental shiver at the +thought of what that dead, furrowed, and discoloured skin must be like +to the touch.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>May 9.—I have got no further in my study of these two enigmatical +people, who seem to have not one thought, not one feeling, in common, +and yet who seem to live so calmly side by side, in this vast house +where they need never meet except at meals, or when the presence of +strangers isolates them. I am wholly unable to talk with the Baron, who +ignores me with the most punctilious deference. He never enters the +library, and, in the drawing-room, is never without a newspaper, of +which he rarely turns the pages. With the Baroness I can always talk; I +can even, what is rare with me, listen. For a woman, her ideas are +surprisingly well informed: quotations, of course, but arranged with a +personal sense of decoration. She can discuss general questions broadly, +with a rare frankness, a kind of eager sincerity. What does the Baron +think, I wonder, behind that screen of the newspaper, if, as he sits +motionless, he is listening, as I cannot but believe, to every word that +is said? I often look at the newspaper, hoping to see it at least +quiver, if not drop to the floor, and the man leap out of his ambush. +The Baroness interests me a little more every day, and this interest is +oddly balanced by my equal difficulty in looking or in not looking at +her. When she is talking with me she invariably arranges herself so as +to be on my left; often she leans her head on her left hand, as if to +shield even what remains unseen. How horribly she must suffer from this +living mask, under which she is condemned to exist! How long, I wonder, +has she worn it, and shall I ever know the cause? Is she always +conscious of its presence, of the eyes that seek to avoid it, and +return, despite themselves, stealthily? I can conceive no more exquisite +torture. Or yes, there is one. Suppose this woman, in whom I can +distinguish a quite unusual force and energy of emotion, were to fall in +love again: she is at the age of lasting passions, and what could be +more natural in her? That would be a tragedy which I hardly like to +think of; the more so, as I can easily conceive how powerful must have +been her attraction before the time of this accident. There is something +almost magnetic in her nature, and I can see that the Kahns, for +instance, are attracted by her to the point of hardly seeing her as she +is, of forgetting to look at her with their own eyes.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>May 15.—The dinner-parties which women in society condemn themselves to +the task of giving become less and less intelligible to me as I see them +from so close a point of view. How little pleasure they seem to give to +any except very young or very old people! It is a kind of slavery: penal +servitude with hard labour. I am sure neither of the Eckensteins gets +the slightest personal pleasure out of these big dinners which they are +so constantly giving. I am equally sure that the people who accept their +invitations would generally rather not come; that they accept them +largely because it is difficult to write and say I will not come; partly +out of a vague hope, almost invariably deceived, that they will meet +some delightful new person; partly out of the mere social necessity of +killing time. I have never seen so much before of a London season, and I +shall be glad when it is over.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>August 10.—They have taken a house for the summer down here in this +remote part of my own county, Cornwall; there is fishing for the Baron, +and golf not far off, and boating, I suppose. The heat in London was +becoming intolerable; my old headaches began to come back; and I was +only too glad to say yes when the Baroness asked me, almost +hesitatingly, if I would come with them. Here I have nothing to do; we +walk on the cliffs, drive across Cornwall and back again, sit under the +trees on this lawn, from which one can hear the sea, not quite knowing +if it is the sound of the sea or of the trees. In short, one is idle, +and in the open air. I am well again already; only, inexpressibly lazy.</p> + +<p>The Baroness and I are thrown together so much, by the mere loneliness +of the place, and the determined absence of the Baron, that we are +getting to know one another better. In driving and walking she +invariably keeps on my left; for which I am grateful to her. She is a +good walker, and cares for the sea, I think, as much as I do.</p> + +<p>Is it chiefly the influence of the place, the weather, the homeliness +and familiarity of the old manor-house, where we sit and walk in the +garden, as in a grassy opening in the midst of a wood? That, and the +stillness and unconfined space on the cliffs, where one can sit silent +for so long, until only intimate words come; all that, I am sure, has +had its influence on both of us, certainly on me. The Baroness has begun +to question me about myself, and I, who hate confidences, find myself +telling her what I have told no one.</p> + +<p>I have told her about Clare, about my thoughts, my ideas, my sensations, +all that I have up to now only confessed to my journal. How is it that +she draws my secrets out of me, and how is it that I feel a pleasure in +telling them to her?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>August 15.—To-day we drove to the Lizard, and sat for an hour on that +high peak of rocks which goes down into the sea at this last southerly +edge of England. The sea was steel-blue, almost motionless except where +it made a little circle of foam around each rock, and it seemed to +stretch endlessly, as if it flowed over all the rest of the world. Ships +were going by, with sails and black smoke, with a great haste to be +somewhere. We sat silent for a time, and then she began to tell me about +herself; little confidences of no moment, only they seemed to be +hesitating on the verge of some fuller confidence. At first I thought +she was going to tell me all; but the wind began to get chill, and the +sun faded out behind clouds, and her mood changed, and she got up, and +we went back to the carriage.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>August 20.—At last I know the whole story, or as much of it as I am +likely to know. Last night, after dinner, we were sitting alone in the +garden, in a corner where the trees darken the grass; she sat with her +hand half covering her face, in that attitude which is habitual with +her, though only the right side of her face was visible, and the long +silence became more and more intimate until at last she spoke. She began +to tell me of herself, and first of her childhood among the Bohemian +woods, her escapes from the army of governesses and tutors, her dreams +in the depths of the forest, the 'Buch der Lieder' read by moonlight and +thrust under the pillow as she fell asleep: in short, a very pretty, +very German, sentimental education. Then the young English tutor, with +his tragic beauty, his Byronic sighs; she pities, admires, falls in love +with him; their meetings, declarations; they plot a romantic elopement, +but the coachman turns traitor; the Byronic gentleman is dismissed, and +the girl sent to her cousins in Vienna, where she begins to see the +world, and to dream more worldly dreams. The Baron presents himself, +with his title, his money, his serious reputation; the parents implore +her to accept him, and she accepts him, in order that she may accomplish +a social duty. By this time she has made innumerable friends, Vienna is +the world to her, she cannot exist without people, excitement, +admiration; and when the Baron, who hunts during half the year, takes +her away to his castle, and leaves her there, from morning to night, day +after day for months together, she lives the life of a prisoner, alone +with her books and her more and more discontented thoughts. Time passes, +and the husband whom she has never loved becomes a polite stranger, then +an unwelcome guest. He sees indifference passing into aversion, and +makes no attempt to arrest the course of things. It is enough if she is +submissive, and his pride does not so much as dream of a revolt.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile there are neighbours, hunting friends who come to the castle, +and among them is a young Frenchman. She told me simply, quietly, as if +she were telling me the story of some one else, how this man had +gradually attracted her, how delicately and perseveringly he had made +love to her, and how his presence rendered the tedium of her life less +insupportable. She loved him, she believed that he loved her, and a new +happiness came into her life. One day the husband, who had appeared to +suspect nothing, came back unexpectedly. She had been playing the piano, +her lover was seated just behind her, and as she rose from the piano and +flung herself passionately into his arms, she saw, over his shoulder, +the reflection of her husband's face in the mirror. He had opened the +door while she was playing, and stood motionless, holding the door half +open, with his eyes fixed upon them. Before she could make a movement +the door had closed silently. It did not open again. The lover left the +castle hastily, meeting no one on the way. Hours passed, and she sat +watching the door, quiet with terror. At last she could bear it no +longer, and she went straight to her husband's apartments. The painters +had been at work, and their tools, paints, brushes, and bottles were +still lying about. Her husband was seated at his writing-table. As she +entered the room he put down the pen, turned to her calmly and said: 'I +am writing to ask Xavier to dinner, but you will have to fix the date. I +have a little surprise for him.' He rose, took three steps towards her, +with a look of inexpressibly sarcastic malignity, and, stooping rapidly, +picked up a bottle from the floor, and flung the contents in her face. +She shrieked in agony as the vitriol burnt into her like liquid fire, +and she rolled over at his feet, shrieking.</p> + +<p>When, after months of suffering, the bandages were at last taken off, +and she could resume her place at the table, she found, on coming +downstairs to dinner, one guest awaiting her with her husband. It was +her lover. She had not seen him, no word from him had reached her, since +the accident. During dinner the Baron was cheerful, almost gay; he +related amusing stories, turning from one to the other with an air of +cordiality, and affecting not to notice that neither spoke more than a +few words. Soon after dinner, the guest excused himself. A few days +afterwards it was reported that he had left the neighbourhood.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>August 21.—I lay awake last night for several hours, unable to get this +horrible story out of my head. I thought these were things that no +longer happened, or only in Russia, perhaps; I thought we were at least +so far civilised. It is the meanness of the revenge that horrifies me +most in its atrocity. And that these two people, after that moment's +revelation of the one to the other, should have gone on living together, +under the same roof: it is incredible. There, I suppose, is +civilisation, the hypocrisy of our conventions, which, if they cannot +suppress the brute in the human animal, are prompt to cloak the thing +once done, to pretend that it never was done, never could have been +done.</p> + +<p>Now, when I sit at table between that man and woman, I scarcely know +whether I am judge, witness, or accuser. What had been instinctive in my +distrust of the man has become a mental revulsion not less intense than +the physical revulsion which I must always feel towards the woman. Only, +towards her, I have a new feeling, a kind of sympathetic confidence, +mingled with pity; and it pleases me that she has confidence in me. It +would give me pleasure if I could aid her, in some way that I cannot +even conjecture, to avenge herself on that diabolical tyrant, her +husband.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>September 25.—As I look back over these pages it seems to me that I +have lost the habit of writing down my thoughts about general questions, +which my once wholly personal preoccupations brought constantly before +me. How a journal changes with one's life, if it is really, as mine is, +the confidant of one's moods, the secret witness of one's growth or +decay! I suppose it is that, as I accustom myself to look for my +interest outside the circle of my own brain, I become less personal, +less sick with myself. My old terrors, my old preoccupations, have +loosened their hold on me, I think; my brain is getting more quiescent, +more conventional. If only the nerves do not break out again, as I find +it so easy to realise their doing; if I can avoid excitement, that is, +keep myself as I am now, an interested spectator of other people's +lives, with no too eager interests of my own: that will at last set me +wholly to rights. And, certainly, this divine Cornish air, half salt, +half honey, will have done something for me, in helping to cure me of a +too narrow, London philosophy.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>August 3.—It is almost exactly a year since I have written anything in +my journal, which I find where I left it, forgotten in the corner of a +drawer in the Cornish manor-house, to which we have gone back again this +summer. I am glad to be here again, but, all the same, it is not quite +as it was last year. The Baroness and I are better friends than ever. I +am more accustomed to her, she is kindness itself. Ah yes, that is it. +Her kindness begins to become fatiguing; I would prefer a little +liberty. Why is it that good people forge chains with their kindness, +adding link to link with the best intentions in the world, until one is +tripped up and weighed down and held by the fetters of innumerable +favours? To break so much as a link is held to be ingratitude. But one's +liberty, then, is there anything comparable in the price one pays, and +in the utmost one can receive in place of it?</p> + +<p>Is it that a woman is unable to conceive of the fatigue of kindness? How +incomprehensible to them must be that marvellous sentence in 'Adolphe': +'Je me reposais, pour ainsi dire, dans l'indifférence des autres, de la +fatigue de son amour.' And, even if it is not love, the heaviest of all +burdens when it comes unasked, there is still a fatiguing weight in that +affectionate vigilance which is one long appeal for gratitude, in that +sleepless solicitude which 'prevents,' in both senses of the word, all +one's goings. I am beginning to find this with the Baroness, who would +replace Providence for me, but with a more continual intervention.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>August 18.—O this intolerable demand on one's gratitude, this assumed +right of all the world to receive back favour for favour, to be paid for +giving! Must there be a market for kindness, and balances to weigh +charity by the pound weight? I am not sure that the conventional +estimation of gratitude as one of the main virtues, of gratitude in all +circumstances and for all favours received, has not a profoundly +bourgeois origin. I have never been able clearly to recognise the +necessity, or even the possibility, of gratitude towards any one for +whom I have not a feeling of personal affection, quite apart from any +exchange of benefits. The conferring of what is called a favour, +materially, and the prompt return of a delicate sentiment, gratitude, +seems to me a kind of commercialism of the mind, a mere business +transaction, in which an honest exchange is not always either possible +or needful. The demand for gratitude in return for a gift comes largely +from the respect which most people have for money; from the idea that +money is the most 'serious' thing in the world, the symbol of a physical +necessity, but a thing having no real existence in itself, no real +importance to the mind which refuses to realise its existence. Only the +miser really possesses it in itself, in any significant way; for the +miser is an idealist, the poet of gold. To all others it is a kind of +mathematics, and a synonym for being 'respected.' You may say it is +necessary, almost as necessary as breathing, and I will not deny it. +Only I will deny that any one can be actively grateful for the power of +breathing. He cannot conceive of himself without that power. To +conceive of oneself without money, that is to say, without the means of +going on living, is at once to conceive of the right, the mere human +right, to assistance. And when, instead of money, it is some unasked, +necessary or unnecessary, gift which is laid before us, to be taken +whether we choose or not, what more have we to do than to take it, +silently, without thanks, without complaint, as we would pick up an +apple that has dropped to us over an orchard hedge? I say all that to +myself, and believe it, and yet some irrational obligation weighs upon +me, whenever I think of breaking away from this woman and her affection.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>October 25.—Can it be possible, or am I falling into the most absurd of +misapprehensions? What has happened, that I should seem to-day to be +conscious of what I had not even dreamt of yesterday? Nothing has +happened; she, her husband, and I have sat in our usual places at the +table and in the garden; not a word different from our usual words has +passed between us; and yet ... Why is it that no man can ever be +friends with any woman? It is the woman, usually, who puts the question. +And she, I am certain that she never wanted to be anything but my +friend. Then she wanted to be my only friend; she wanted to make my mind +her possession. I see it step by step, now that I think back. Then what +we call nature came in to trouble the balance. She is a healthy, normal +woman; she has all the natural affections. Why is it that tenderness in +women must always take the fever? For there is no doubt about it, none. +Once you have seen a certain look in a woman's eyes, once a certain +thrill has come into her fingers, there is no mistaking. I have seen +that look in her eyes, I can still feel the thrill of her fingers, as +her hand touched mine, and seemed to forget to let go.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>October 26.—I awoke this morning in a cold sweat. I had been dreaming +of Clare, I heard her footstep coming along the corridor, the door +opened, I knew it was she, but she was veiled, and when she called my +name her voice sounded far away, as if the veil muffled it; and I put +up my hand to lift her veil, and she prayed me not to lift it, but I +would not listen to her, and when I saw her face it was Clare, but with +the cheek and eyelid of the Baroness. One of us shrieked, and I awoke +trembling.</p> + +<p>It is still early morning, but I have no mind to sleep again, and +perhaps dream. I must try to put these ugly thoughts out of my head, and +here is a morning which should help me, if anything in nature could. Is +it that some sense, which other people have is lacking in me? I have +never found that peace in nature of which I have heard so often, and +which, on such a morning as this, when the light begins to glow softly +over the world, and the wind comes in salt from the sea, and the leaves +rustle as if at an imperceptible caress, should come to me as simple as +to trees. There is a physical delight in it, certainly; but it goes no +deeper than the skin of my forehead.</p> + +<p>I remember, when I first met the Baroness, thinking how cruel, how +ironical, it would be, if she were to fall in love again. I remember +also, when I first knew her story, wishing that I could help her: yes, +here it is written down, last August: 'if I could aid her, in some way +that I cannot even conjecture, to avenge herself on that diabolical +tyrant, her husband.' I certainly saw no connection between the two +things, nor any relation of myself to either of them. And yet, see how +both have come together, and how strangely I stand between them, +touching both.</p> + +<p>The notion seems to me, at present, incredible; and yet, why? Yet more +improbable things have happened, and who am I, or who is she, after all, +that, in the malice of nature, no such idea should enter into a woman's +head?</p> + +<p>I wrote here, not so long ago, 'I am more accustomed to her.' Shall I +ever be able to say more than that? And it is terrible to be able to say +no more than that.</p> + +<p>I suppose, if I loved her, I should notice nothing. Is it that pity +would come in to take up all the room? But I have never had any gift for +pity; and then, all conjecture is idle, for I certainly do not love +her.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>October 28.—Is it possible that I could have been mistaken, or is she +conscious that she has betrayed her secret, and now hides it away again? +To-day she has seemed really, not affectedly indifferent. Do I +altogether wish that it were so? Have I not got used to being looked +after not quite as a stranger, to a kindness on which it has seemed to +me that I could always rely? Is there not something I should find myself +missing, if it were taken away from me?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>October 29.—We are to go back to London in a day or two. It rains every +day, and almost all day long. Every one stays indoors, and we seem +always to find ourselves in different rooms. After dinner the Baron +looks up sometimes from his newspaper; the talk is quite formal, because +he joins in it. Can she have shown him some sign of encouragement, or is +it he? And is she keeping back something, or am I wrong in all that I +have conjectured? Nothing is as it was. I shall be glad when we are back +in London.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 2.—We are back in London. I hardly see her now. For nearly a +week she has avoided me, and I am astonished to find myself, I can +hardly say piqued, and yet there is a little pique in it too. It is so +evident to me that she is playing a part, but the part is well played, +and I feel oddly disquieted. I hate change, uncertainty, that kind of +uneasiness which women used to cause me, but which I have so long given +up feeling. I miss the old freedom of her talk, her confidences to me, +her faculty for taking an interest in one's ideas, one's personal +sensations. How odd that this should have come to mean so much more to +me than I knew! And there is something else that I miss, in her new +reserve, now that it comes suddenly up between us as a barrier. I used +to wish for just such a barrier. And now it annoys me to find it there. +It is only restlessness on my part, I know, but it surprises me to find +that I am capable of so near an approach to, after all, some kind of +feeling. I thought I had buried all that quite securely, years ago.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 5.—To-day I have heard news of Clare for the first time during +all these years since she went away. And it is not as I fancied; she is +not happy, not even well off; she has been seen in poor lodgings at the +seaside, and alone. Has the man, the turgid fop and brute, whom I +criticised her and all her sex for caring about, left her, then? It +looks like it. Could one imagine, on his part, anything else? I knew him +so much better than she did! But I am horribly sorry; I do not want to +see her again, but I should like, if I could, to help her. I wonder if +she will write to me. I shall take it as a compliment if she writes.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 7.—She has written, and the letter has reached me here, after +a little delay. She must think I am not going to write. She wants to see +me, and it will perhaps be better for me to see her. She is in London; +it would be kinder if I called; and heaven knows there is no danger. Her +letter is full of dignity; she knows me and there are no tears in it; +the regrets are duly temperate; she does not even ask to be forgiven. 'I +am in trouble: you once cared for me: I have not forgotten that you can +be kind: will you help me?' That is the substance of her letter. I will +write to her to-night, and say that I will come and see her.</p> + +<p>1 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span>—Shall I never understand women? will nothing ever teach me +wisdom? I was foolish enough to think that the Baroness would help me, +that I could be open with her, as I have been till now. I had no secrets +from her in regard to Clare, and she knows how much all that is in the +past. I showed her the letter. She read it in silence, with her hand +over her eyes. Then, not raising her head, she said, in a voice that +seemed her ordinary voice: 'You will go and see her?' 'I think it would +be best,' I said. She lifted her head suddenly, clenched the paper in +her hand, and flung it on the carpet at my feet. For a moment I was too +startled even to move. Her face was convulsed with rage; her face was +terrible, more terrible than I have ever seen it. The scar seemed to +whiten, the blood rushed to her other cheek and made her forehead +purple; her eyes glowed. I stooped to pick up the letter, and began to +smooth it out on my knee. I fixed my eyes on it, so as not to see her; +and she knew why I did not look at her. She seemed to make a great +effort to recover her self-control, and I saw her fingers clutch a fold +of her skirt and clench tightly upon it. 'You want to see her?' she +said, still in a low voice; and I said, what was quite the truth: 'No, I +do not want to see her, I only want to help her, and I think it would be +kinder, as well as more satisfactory, to go than to write.' 'I +understand,' she said coldly; 'you want to see her again. I understand +your feeling.' I was annoyed at her misinterpretation, and said nothing. +'You still care for her,' she said, 'I can see it, it is useless for you +to deny it; you want to go back to her. Well, she is free now: go back +to her.' I was going to protest, but she rose, and held up her hand to +silence me. Tears were in her eyes, the anger was gone, she could hardly +speak. 'Yes,' she said, 'go and see her; I will not keep you from her; +if you still love her, there is nothing else to be done. I understand, I +understand.' And she sank back in the chair again, with her hands over +her face, weeping big tears.</p> + +<p>When I saw her suffering, I was sorry, and I knelt down beside her and +took away one of her hands from before her face, and kissed the hand +still wet with tears. I assured her that Clare was nothing to me now, +and I convinced her of my sincerity. She dried her eyes, smiled sadly, +and said, 'Then you promise me you will not go and see her.' 'But no, I +said, 'I have told you that it is best to go and see her; but you know +the whole reason why I mean to do so.' She turned rigid in an instant, +and I should have had to go through the whole scene over again, if I had +not had the cowardice to say, 'I promise that I will not see her.' She +begged me to show her the letter that I wrote. Why should I refuse?</p> + +<p>After to-day there can be no further disguise between us. On her side +everything has been said, and on mine everything has been understood. By +what I have done to-day I have put myself into her hands, I have given +her the right to arrange my life as she pleases; I have shown her my +weakness, I have let her see her own strength. Does it matter how one +gives way, or how a woman overcomes? To-day I honestly wanted to do the +right thing, to be kind to a woman I had once cared for, and I am +powerless to do it. These agitations, these restrictions, this +sentimental ceremony, are too much for me. How is it that I did not +sooner realise the way things were tending, and set a barrier, not only +against this passionate foe without, but against this weakness, this +kindness, that turn traitors within, and run so readily to the closed +gates to open them?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 8.—The letter I wrote was cold; it was as if one were giving +charity. Clare replies gratefully, as if to a benevolent stranger. I +have spoilt the idea which she still had of me. I am sorry for it; the +more so as I have no desire to see her; but I should like to have +behaved at least instinctively. It is for another woman, always, that +one is unjust to a woman. And why is it? Is it because I pity this woman +so much, that I have been unjust to the other? I did not know till +yesterday how much she cared for me. What is going to happen? I ask +myself, not liking, or not daring, to wait for an answer. How one evades +coming to a conclusion, precisely when too much depends on that +conclusion! I have never understood myself, and just now the brain in me +seems to sit aside and reserve judgment, while all manner of feelings, +instincts, sensations, chatter among themselves. No, I will confess +nothing to these pages, and chiefly because it would take a casuist to +prepare my confession.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 9.—She loves me cruelly, with a dull passion that does not +come till after youth and the years one calls the years of love are long +past. I have had a terrible scene with her; terrible because, for the +first time, a woman's love seems to me a wholly serious thing, and one's +own feeling to matter less. My own feeling: what is it here? Shall I +understand one woman, at last, when the desire to do so is over? +Passions, then, are real things in women, and, if no one is responsible, +at least one cannot always hold aloof from them, or go by on the other +side. She loves me, and she can conceal it no longer; and she is ashamed +that I should see her as she is, and she exults in her shame, and is +reckless and timorous, and is at my mercy, and does not know that it is +just this that holds me, and that I cannot, if I would, turn away from +one now helpless, and a beggar. Something in her helplessness takes hold +of me like a great force, breaks down my indifference; because, I think, +it convinces me, to the roots of my mind, as no woman ever before +convinced me, that what one calls love may be life itself, carrying away +all the props of the world in its overflow. I am afraid of this horrible +reality; but I cannot escape it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 10.—I try to persuade myself that I have become her lover +wholly out of pity; but the more intimate self which listens is not to +be persuaded. Certainly I do not love her, but is it only because she +loves me, and because she is the most unfortunate of women, that ... No, +there is something else, some animal attraction, which comes to me in +spite of my repugnance; a gross, unmistakable desire, which I would not +admit even to myself if the consciousness of it were not forced upon me. +What I should not have believed in another, I experience, beyond denial, +in myself.</p> + +<p>Shall a man never know what it is in him that responds, without love, to +a woman's gesture? Is it a kind of animal vanity? Is it that love +creates, not love, but a flattered readiness to be loved? Did I not +think how terrible it would be if she fell in love again, and did I not +mean, for the main part, because she could expect no return? And I was +wrong. Something has taken hold of me, an appeal, a partly honest and +partly perverse attraction; and I say to myself that it is pity, but +though pity is part of it, it is not all pity; and I find myself, as I +have always found myself, doing the exact opposite of what seems most +natural and desirable. Why?</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 20.—I have made a mistake, but it was inevitable. I have put +back my shoulders under the yoke, and all the peace is over. I have had +just time enough to rest, and to get ready for the old labour, and now I +am troubled with all a woman's ingenuity of trouble: her nerves, her +cares, her affections, her solicitudes, her whole minute and +never-ceasing possession. How am I to explain myself? There was no +choice; it is useless to regret what could but have been accepted. She +has a calm will to love, she is like some force of nature against which +it is useless to struggle.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 22.—I do not know why it is, but all my old nervous uneasiness +is coming back on me again, against all sense or reason. I have that +curious feeling that something is going to happen; I find myself +listening to noises, unable to sit quiet, watching my own brain. All +the restlessness has come back, and some of the fear. I am afraid of +this woman's love. I could not leave her, but I am afraid of what will +happen to me.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>December 3.—No, I shall never get accustomed to it; the same physical +horror will always be there; it has been there when the attraction was +strongest; it has never been out of my mind, or away from the eyes of my +senses. She is aware of it, and suffers; and I am helpless before her +suffering. And it is this, nothing but this, which turns my thoughts +morbid, whenever I think over a situation which might otherwise have had +nothing unusual in it. The husband studies me with a kind of curious and +mocking interest, which he allows to remain on his face when he sees us +together. Does he suspect, know, approve, or disapprove? Do I seem to +him ... But in any case all that is beside the question: I once thought +that it would be a generous revenge to make him suffer; now I am +conscious how idle the thought was. Is it not all idle, is not +everything more or less beside the question?</p> + +<p>I am tired of writing in my journal, always the same things. I will shut +the book, and perhaps not open it again.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>January 5.—I have not written anything in my journal for years (how +many years is it?), and I do not know what impulse or what accident has +led me to open it again, and to turn over some of the pages on which the +dust has settled, and to begin to write there as I am doing, half +mechanically. What is it that seems strange as I read what I have +written here? I suppose that I should have considered, discussed, +questioned the very things which are now as if they had always been. I +do not dream of changing them, any more than I dream of changing the +course of life itself, on its inevitable way. But a rage in me never +quite dies out: against this woman who has taken me from myself, and +against life that is wasting me daily. I have no happiness if I look +either forward or backward. I have always succumbed to what I have most +dreaded, and every reluctance has turned in me to an irresistible force +of attraction. And now I am softly, stealthily entangled, held by loving +hands, imprisoned in comfort; I do some good at last, for certainly I +help to make a wronged and pitiable woman happy; I have no will to break +any bond, and yet I am more desolately alone than I have ever been, more +fretted by the old self, by apprehensions and memories, by the passing +of time and the lack of hope or desire. I would welcome any change, +though it brought worse things, if I could but end this monotony in +which there is no rest; end it somehow, and rest a little, and be alone.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>October 12.—I have been ill, I am better, I am in Venice. Surely one +gets well of every trouble in Venice, where, if anywhere in the world, +there should be peace, the oblivion of water, of silence, the unreal +life of sails? I have come to an old house on the Giudecca, where one is +islanded even from the island life of Venice: I look across and see +land, the square white Dogana, the Salute, like a mosque, the whole +Riva, with the Doges' Palace. There lies all that is most beautiful in +the world, and I have only to look out of my windows to see it. Palladio +built the house, and the rooms are vast; the beams overhead are so high +that I feel shrunk as I look at them, as if lost in all this space; +which, however, delights my humour.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>October 14.—The art in life is to sit still, and to let things come +towards you, not to go after them, or even to think that they are in +flight. How often I have chased some divine shadow, through a whole day +till evening, when, going home tired, I have found the visitor just +turning away from my closed door.</p> + +<p>To sit still, in Venice, is to be at home to every delight. I love St. +Mark's, the Piazza, the marble benches under the colonnade of the Doges' +Palace, the end of land beyond the Dogana, the steps of the Redentore; +above all, my own windows. Sitting at any one of these stations one +gathers as many floating strays of life as a post in the sea gathers +weeds. And it is all a sort of immense rest, literally a dream, for +there is sleep all over Venice. I have been sitting for a long time in +St. Mark's, thinking of nothing. The voices of the priests chanting +hummed and buzzed like echoes in an iron bell. They troubled me a +little, but without breaking the enchantment, as importunate insects +trouble a summer afternoon. Very old men in purple sat sunk into the +stalls of the choir, loth to move, almost overcome with sleep; waiting, +with an accustomed patience, till the task was over.</p> + +<p>Here (infinite relief!) I can think of nothing. She writes to me, and I +put aside the letters, and I forget quite easily that some day she will +come for me, and the old life must begin over again. I do not dread it, +because I do not remember it. I am still weak, and I must not excite +myself; I must sink into this delicious Venice, where forgetfulness is +easier than anywhere in the world. The autumn is like a gentler summer; +no such autumn has been known, even in Venice, for many years; and I am +to be happy here, I think.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>October 25.—I have been roaming about the strange house, upstairs, in +these vast garrets paved with stone, with old carved chimneys, into +which they have put modern stoves, and beams, the actual roof-trees +overhead; nearly all unoccupied space, out of which a room is walled up +or boarded off here and there. Some of the windows look right over the +court, the two stone angels on the gateway, and the broad green and +brown orto, the fruit garden which stretches to the lagoon, its vine +trellises invisible among the close leaves of the trees. Beyond the +brown and green, there is a little strip of pale water, and then mud +flats, where the tide has ebbed, the palest brown, and then more pale +water, and the walls and windows of the madhouse, San Servolo, coming up +squarely out of the lagoon.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>October 26.—Does the too exciting exquisiteness of Venice drive people +mad? Two madhouses in the water! It is like a menace.</p> + +<p>I went out in the gondola yesterday on the lagoon on the other side of +the island. It was an afternoon of faint, exquisite sunshine, and the +water lay like a mirror, bright and motionless, reflecting nothing but a +small stake, or the hull, hoisted nets, and stooping back of a fisher +and his boat. I looked along the level, polished surface to where sails +rose up against the sky, between the black, compact bulk of the forts. +The water lapped around the oar as it dipped and lifted, and trickled +with a purring sound from the prow. I lay and felt perfectly happy, not +thinking of anything, hardly conscious of myself. I had closed my eyes, +and when I opened them again we were drifting close to a small island, +on which there was a many-windowed building, most of the windows grated +over, and a church with closed doors; the building almost filled the +island; it had a walled garden with trees. A kind of moaning sound came +from inside the walls, rising and falling, confused and broken. 'It is +San Clemente,' said the gondolier over my shoulder; 'they keep mad +people there, mad women.'</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 1.—She writes affectionate letters to me, without a respite; +she will not let me alone to get well. For I am sure I could get well +here if I were quite left to myself. And now even Venice is turning +evil. Is it in the place, in myself, is it my disease returning to take +hold of me? Is it the power of the woman coming back across land and +water to take hold of me? I am getting afraid to go about this strange +house at night; the wind comes in from the sea, and tears at the old +walls and the roof; I scarcely know if it is the wind I hear when I wake +up in the night.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 3.—There is something unnatural in standing between water and +water and hearing the shriek of a steam-engine. I am hardly too far, I +suppose, from the railway-station, to have actually heard it. But the +idea seems a foolish joke, unworthy of the place.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 6.—Every day I find myself growing more uneasy. If I look out +of the windows at dawn, when land and water seem to awaken like a +flower, some poison comes to me out of this perhaps too perfect beauty. +I dread the day, which seems to follow me and drag me back, after I have +escaped another night; I never felt anything like this insidious coiling +of water about one.</p> + +<p>I came to Venice for peace, and I find a subtle terror growing up out of +its waters, with a more ghostly insistence than anything solid on the +earth has ever given me. Daylight seems to mask some gulf, which, with +the early dark and the first lamps, begins to grow visible. As I look +across at Venice from this island, I see darkness, and lights growing +like trees and flowers out of the creeping water, and, white and +immense, with its black windows and one lighted lamp, the Doges' Palace. +Nothing else is real, and the beauty of this one white thing, the one +thing whose form the eye can fasten upon, is the beauty of witchcraft. I +expect to see it gone in the morning.</p> + +<p>And the noises here are mysterious. I hear a creak outside my window, +and it comes nearer, and a great orange sail passes across the window +like a curtain drawn over it. Bells break out, and ring wildly, as if +out of the water. Steamers hoot, with that unearthly sound to which one +can never get accustomed. The barking of a dog comes from somewhere +across the water, a voice cries out suddenly, and then the shriek of +steam from a vessel, and again, from some new quarter, a volley of +bells.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 9.—The wind woke me from sleep, rattling the wooden shutter +against the panes of the windows, and I could hear it lifting the water +up the steps of the landing-place, where there is always a chafing and +gurgling whenever the wind is not quite still. I looked out, and, +pressing my face close against the glass, I could just distinguish the +black bundle of stakes in the dim water, which I could see throbbing +under a very faint light, where the gas-lamp, hung from the next house, +shone upon it. Beyond, there was nothing but darkness, and the level row +of lights on the Riva, and the white walls, cut into stone lacework, of +the Doges' Palace. The wind seemed to pass down the canal, as if on its +way from the sea to the sea. I felt it go by, like a living thing, not +turning to threaten me.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 13.—I am beginning almost to wish that she were here. She +writes that she is coming, and I scarcely know whether to be glad or +sorry. I fear her more than anything in the world, but there is +something here which is hardly of the world, a vague, persistent image +of death, impalpable, unintelligible, not to be shaken off; and I know +not what I am dreading, not the mere fear of water, though I have always +had that, but some terrible expectancy, which keeps me now from getting +any rest by day or by night.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 22.—At last something has happened, nothing indeed to my hurt, +but it has broken the strain a little. The last days have been windless, +warm, and, till yesterday afternoon, cloudless. Suddenly, as I sat in +the Piazza, the daylight seemed to be put out by a great blackness +which came up rapidly out of the north, and hung over half the sky. A +wind swept suddenly in from the lagoon, and blew sharply across the open +space and along the arcades. In hardly more than a moment the Piazza was +empty. I went down to the Riva, and called to my gondolier, who swung to +and fro in his moored boat. The water was blackening, and had begun to +race past. He called to me that we must wait, and I saw one or two +gondolas hurrying up the Grand Canal, carried along by the tide, the men +rowing hard. As the rain began I went into the Grand Hotel, and sat +looking out on the water, which blackened and whitened and flung itself +forward in actual waves, and splashed right up the steps and over the +balcony. The rain came down steadily, and the lightning flickered across +the sky behind the Salute, and lit up the domes, the windows, the steps, +and a few people huddled there. Every now and then the water turned +white; I saw every outline as it shouldered forward like a sea and broke +on the marble steps; and the water was empty, not a gondola, not even a +steamer; and then a steamer which had turned home drifted past without +a passenger. I went out, and felt the rain on my face, and the water +splashing on the steps; not far off I could see the gondolas tossing on +their moorings. I seemed to be on the shore of some horrible island, and +I had to cross the sea, which there was no crossing. I was afraid the +gondola would come for me; but nothing, I thought, should tempt me upon +that tossing water: I saw the black hull whirled sideways, and the man +reeling over on his oar. No gondola came, and I slept that night in the +Grand Hotel, which seemed to me, as I heard the water splashing under my +windows, impregnably safe.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>November 27.—She is here, she has become kind to me now, only kind and +gentle; I am no longer afraid of her love. I have been ill again, and +she has taken care of me, she has taken me away from this horrible +Giudecca. I look out on a great garden, in which I can forget there is +any water in Venice; I am near the land and I see nothing but trees. The +house is full of pictures, beautiful old Venetian things; it is like +living in another century, yet in the midst of a comfort which rests me. +I am no longer afraid of her love; I seem to have become a child, and +her love is maternal. When I look at her I can see her face as it was, +as it is, without a scar; I see that she is beautiful. If I get well +again I will never leave her.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>December 12.—There is a phrase of Balzac which turns over and over in +my head. It is in the story called 'Sur Catherine de Médicis,' and he is +speaking of the Calvinist martyr, who is recovering after being +tortured. 'On ne saurait croire' says Balzac, 'à quel point un homme, +seul dans son lit et malade, devient personnel.' Since I have been lying +in bed, in this queer fever which keeps me shaking and hot (some +Venetian chill which has got into my very bones), I have had so +singularly little feeling of personality, I seem to have become so +suddenly impersonal, that I wonder if Balzac was right. The world, +ideas, sensations, all are fluid, and I flow through them, like a +gondola carried along by the current; no, like a weed adrift on it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The journal ends there, and the writing of the last page is faint and +unsteady.</p> + +<p>Here I might leave the matter, but I am impelled to mention a +circumstance which I always associate in my mind with the tragical +situation revealed in poor Luxulyan's journal. A year after it had come +into my hands, and while I was still hesitating whether or not to have +it printed, I happened to be passing through Rome, where the Eckensteins +had gone to live; and a sort of curiosity, I suppose, more than any +friendly feeling I had for them, suggested to me that I should call upon +them in the palace which they had taken in the Via Giulia. The concierge +was not in his loge, and I went up the first flight of broad low marble +stairs and rang at the door. It was opened by a servant in livery. 'Is +the Baroness von Eckenstein at home?' I asked; and as the man remained +silent, I added, 'Will you send in my card?' He still stared at me +without replying, and I repeated my question. At last he said: 'Madame +la Baronne died the day before yesterday. She was buried this morning.'</p> + +<p>I can hardly say that I was profoundly grieved, but the suddenness of +the announcement struck me with a kind of astonishment. I inquired for +the Baron; he was in, and I was taken through one after another of the +vast marble rooms which, in Roman palaces, lead to the reception-room. +Every room was crowded with pictures, statues, rare Eastern vases, +tables and cases of bibelots, exotic plants, a profusion of showy things +brought together from the ends of the world. The Baron received me with +almost more than his usual ceremony. His face wore an expression of +correct melancholy, he spoke in a subdued and slightly mournful voice. +He told me that his beloved wife had succumbed to a protracted illness, +that she had suffered greatly, but, at the end, through the skilful aid +of the best surgeons in Europe, she had passed into a state of +somnolency, so that her death had been almost unconscious. He raised his +eyes with an air of pious resignation, and said that he thanked God for +having taken to himself so admirable, so perfect a being, whose loss, +indeed, must leave him inconsolable for the rest of his life on earth. +He spoke in measured syllables, and always in the same precise and +mournful tone. I found myself unconsciously echoing his voice and +reflecting his manner, and it seemed to me as if we were both playing in +a comedy, and repeating words which we had learnt by heart. I went +through my part mechanically, and left him. When I found myself in the +street I dismissed the cab which was waiting to take me to the Vatican. +I wanted to walk. I do not know why I felt a cold shiver run through me, +for the sky was cloudless, and it was the month of June.</p> + + +<br /><br /> +<b>Transcriber's Notes:</b><br /> +- hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the +original (other than as listed below)<br /> +Page 35, 'Lavengro" took my thoughts ==> 'Lavengro' took my thoughts<br /> +Page 37, trembled with ecstacy ==> trembled with ecstasy<br /> +Page 60, immensly, and especially ==> immensely, and especially<br /> +Page 93, mortages left just enough ==> mortgages left just enough<br /> +Page 116, in an ecstacy ==> in an ecstasy<br /> +Page 129, a little pale and she ==> a little pale, and she<br /> +Page 162, these confectionaries. ==> these confectionaries.'<br /> +Page 196, Arlesian women one was ==> Arlesian women: one was<br /> +Page 209, Allee des Tombeaux ==> Allée des Tombeaux<br /> +Page 214, grown up, like Peter? ==> grown up, like Peter?'<br /> +Page 229, divine will aright?' ==> divine will aright?<br /> +Page 259, But what if only ==> but what if only<br /> +Page 261, which is insensative ==> which is insensitive<br /> +Page 262, artifically attached ==> artificially attached<br /> +Page 275, in whose pyschology ==> in whose psychology<br /> +Page 288, first of her chilhood ==> first of her childhood<br /> +Page 291, agony as the vitrol ==> agony as the vitriol + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Spiritual Adventures, by Arthur Symons + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIRITUAL ADVENTURES *** + +***** This file should be named 38893-h.htm or 38893-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/8/9/38893/ + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Ross Cooling and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Spiritual Adventures + +Author: Arthur Symons + +Release Date: February 15, 2012 [EBook #38893] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIRITUAL ADVENTURES *** + + + + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Ross Cooling and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + + + + + + + + + CONSTABLE'S MISCELLANY + OF ORIGINAL & SELECTED + PUBLICATIONS IN LITERATURE + + SPIRITUAL + + ADVENTURES + + BY + + ARTHUR + + SYMONS + + + CONSTABLE.AND.CO.LIMITED.LONDON + + + + + _First Published_ 1905. + _Constable's Miscellany_ 1928. + + Printed in Great Britain by + Lowe & Brydone Printers Limited. Park Street, N.W.1. + + + + + TO + + THOMAS HARDY + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + A PRELUDE TO LIFE 3 + + ESTHER KAHN 57 + + CHRISTIAN TREVALGA 91 + + THE CHILDHOOD OF LUCY NEWCOME 125 + + THE DEATH OF PETER WAYDELIN 157 + + AN AUTUMN CITY 189 + + SEAWARD LACKLAND 213 + + EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF HENRY LUXULYAN 253 + + + + + A PRELUDE TO LIFE. + + + I + +I am afraid I must begin a good way back if I am to explain myself to +myself at all satisfactorily. I can see how the queer child I was laid +the foundation of the man I became, and yet I remember singularly little +of my childhood. My parents were never very long in one place, and I +have never known what it was to have a home, as most children know it; a +home that has been lived in so long that it has got into the ways, the +bodily creases, of its inhabitants, like an old, comfortable garment, +warmed through and through by the same flesh. I left the town where I +was born when I was one year old, and I have never seen it since. I do +not even remember in what part of England my eyes first became conscious +of the things about them. I remember the hammering of iron on wood, when +a great ship was launched in a harbour; the terrifying sound of cannons, +as they burst into smoke on a great plain near an ancient castle, while +the soldiers rode in long lines across the grass; the clop-clop of a +cripple with a wooden leg; with my intense terror at the toppling wagons +of hay, as I passed them in the road. I remember absolutely nothing else +out of my very early childhood; I have not even been told many things +about it, except that I once wakened my mother, as I lay in a little cot +at her side, to listen to the nightingales, and that Victor Hugo once +stopped the nurse to smile at me, as she walked with me in her arms at +Fermain Bay, in Guernsey. If I have been a vagabond, and have never been +able to root myself in any one place in the world, it is because I have +no early memories of any one sky or soil. It has freed me from many +prejudices in giving me its own unresting kind of freedom; but it has +cut me off from whatever is stable, of long growth in the world. + +I could not read until I was nine years old, and I could not read +because I resolutely refused to learn. I declared that it was +impossible; that I, at all events, never could do it; and I made the +most of a slight weakness in my eyes, saying that it hurt them, and +drawing tears out of my eyes at the sight of a book. I liked being read +to, and I used to sit on the bed while my sister, who often had to lie +down to rest, read out stories to me. I had a theory that a boy must +never show any emotion, and the pathetic parts of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' +tried me greatly. On one occasion I felt my sobs choking me, and the +passion of sorrow, mingled with the certainty that my emotion would +betray itself, sent me into a paroxysm of rage, in which I tore the book +from my sister's hands, and attacked her with my fists. + +I never learned to read properly until I went to school at the age of +nine. I had been for a little while to a dame's school, and learned +nothing. I could only read easy words, out of large print books, and I +was totally ignorant of everything in the world, when I suddenly found I +had to go to school. I was taken to see the schoolmaster, whom I hated, +because I had been told he had only one lung, and I heard them +explaining to him how backward I was, and how carefully I had to be +treated. When the day came I left the house as if I were going to the +scaffold, walked very slowly until I had nearly reached the door of the +school, and then, when I saw the other boys hurrying in with their +satchels, and realised that I was to be in their company, to sit on a +form side by side with strangers, who knew all the things I did not +know, I turned round and walked away much more quickly than I had come. +I took some time in getting home, and I had to admit that I had not been +to school. In the afternoon I was sent back, not alone. I have no +recollection of more than the obscure horror of that first day at +school. I went home in the evening with lessons that I knew had to be +learned. Life seemed suddenly to have become serious. Up to then I had +always fancied that the grave things people said to me had no particular +meaning for me; for other people, no doubt, but not for me. I had played +with other boys on the terrace facing the sea; I had seen them going off +to school, and I had not had to go with them. Now everything had +changed. There was no longer any sea; I had to live in a street; I had +lessons to learn, and other people were to be conscious how well I +learned them. + +It was that which taught me to read. What had seemed to me not worth +doing when I had only myself to please, for I could never realise that +my parents, so to speak, counted, became all at once a necessity, +because now there were others to reckon with. It was discovered that in +the midst of my unfathomable ignorance I had one natural talent; I could +spell, without ever being taught. I saw other boys poring over the +columns of their spelling-books, trying in vain to get the order of the +letters into their heads. I never even read them through; they came to +me by ear, instinctively. Finding myself able to do without trying +something that the others could not succeed in doing at all, I felt that +I could be hardly less intelligent than they, and I felt the little +triumph of outdoing others. I began to learn greedily. + +The second day I was at school I found the schoolroom door shut when I +came into the playground, and I was told that I could not come in. I +climbed the gymnasium ladder and looked through the window. Two boys +were having a furious fight, and the bigger boys of the school were +gravely watching it. I was completely fascinated; it was a new +sensation. That day a boy bigger than myself jeered at me. I struck him. +There was a rapid fight before all the school, and I knocked him down. I +never needed to fight again, nor did I. + +When I had once begun to learn, I learned certain things very quickly, +and others not at all. I never understood a single proposition of +Euclid; I never could learn geography, or draw a map. Arithmetic and +algebra I could do moderately, so long as I merely had to follow the +rules; the moment common sense was required I was helpless. History I +found entertaining, and I could even remember the dates, because they +had to do with facts which were like stories. French and Latin I picked +up easily, Greek with more difficulty. German I was never able to +master; I had an instinctive aversion to the mere sound of it, and I +could not remember the words; there were no pegs in my memory for them +to hang upon, as there were for the words of all the Romance languages. +When a thing did not interest me, nothing could make me learn it. I was +not obstinate, I was helpless. I have never been able to make out why +geography was so completely beyond my power. I have travelled since then +over most of Europe, and I have learned geography with the sight of my +eyes. But with all my passion for places I have never been able to find +my way in them until I have come to find it instinctively, and I suppose +that is why the names in the book or on the map said nothing to me. At +an examination when I was easily taking half the prizes, I have read +through my papers in geography and in Euclid, and taken them up to the +head-master's desk, and handed them back to him, calmly telling him that +I could not answer a single question. I was never able to go in for +matriculation, or any sort of general public examination, to the great +dissatisfaction of my masters, because, while I could have come out +easily at the top in most of the subjects, there were always one or two +in which I could do nothing. + +I was not popular, at any of my schools, either with the boys or with +the masters, but I was not disliked. I neither hated out-of-door games +nor particularly cared for them. I rather liked cricket, but never +played football. I was terribly afraid of making a mistake before other +people, and would never attempt anything unless I was sure that I could +do it. I did not make friends readily, and I was somewhat indifferent to +my friends. I cannot now recollect a single school-friend at all +definitely, except one strange little creature, with the look and the +intelligence of a grown man; and I remember him chiefly because he +seemed to care very much for me, not because I ever cared much for him. +He had a mathematical talent which I was told was a kind of genius, but, +even then, he was only just kept alive, and he died in boyhood. He +seemed to me different from any one else I knew, more like a girl than a +boy; some one to be pitied. I remember his saying good-bye to me when +they took him away to die. + +What the masters really thought of me I never quite knew. I looked upon +them as a kind of machine, not essentially different from the blackboard +on which they wrote figures in chalk. They sometimes made mistakes about +things which I knew, and this gave me a general distrust of them. I took +their praise coolly, as a thing which was my due, and I was quite +indifferent to their anger. I took no pains to conceal my critical +attitude towards them, and one classical master in particular was in +terror of me. He was not a sound scholar, and he knew that I knew it. +Every day he watched me out of the corner of his eye to see if I was +going to expose him, and he bribed me by lending me books which I wanted +to read. I loathed him, and left him alone. One day he carried his +deceit too far; there was an inquiry, and he disappeared. I have no +doubt my criticism was often unjust; I had the insolence of the parvenu +in learning. It had come to me too late for me to be able to take it +lightly. I corrected the dictation, put Marechal for 'Marshal' because +the word was used in reference to Ney, who I knew was a Frenchman; and +was furious when my pedantry lost me a mark. + +During all this time I was living in the country, in small country towns +in the South of England, places to which Blackmore and Kingsley had +given a sort of minor fame. I remember long drives by night over +Dartmoor, and the sea at Westward Ho. Dartmoor had always a singular +fascination for me, partly because of its rocky loneliness, the abrupt +tors on which one could so easily be surprised in the mist, and partly +because there was a convict prison there, in a little town which we +often had occasion to visit. The most exquisite sensation of pleasure +which the drinking of water has ever given me was one hot day on +Dartmoor, when I drank the coldest water there ever was in the world out +of the hollow of my hand under a little Roman bridge that we had to +cross in driving to Princetown. The convict settlement was at +Princetown, and as we came near we could see gangs of convicts at work +on the road. Warders with loaded muskets walked up and down, and the +men, in their drab clothes marked in red with the broad-arrow, shovelled +and dug sullenly, like slaves. I thought every one of them had been a +murderer, and when one of them lifted his head from his work to look at +us as we passed I seemed to see some diabolical intention in his eyes. I +still remember one horrible grimace, done, I suppose, to frighten me. I +feared them, but I pitied them; I felt certain that some one was +plotting how to escape, and that he would suddenly drop his shovel and +begin to run, and that I should see the musket pointed at him and hear +the shot, and see the man fall. Once there was an alarm that two +convicts had escaped, and I expected at every moment to see them jump +out from behind a rock as we drove back at night. The warders had been +hurrying through the streets, I had seen the bloodhounds in leash; I +sickened at the thought of the poor devils who would be captured and +brought back between two muskets. Once I saw an escaped convict being +led back to prison; his arms were tied with cords, he had a bloody scar +on his forehead, his face was swollen with heat and helpless rage. + +But I have another association with Princetown besides the convicts. It +was in the house of one of the warders that I first saw 'Don Quixote.' +We had gone in to get some tea, and, as we waited in the parlour, and my +father talked with the man, a grave, powerful person dressed in +dark-blue clothes, I came upon a book and opened it, and began to read. +I thought it the most wonderful book I had ever seen; I could not put it +down, I refused to be separated from it, and the warder said he would +lend it to me, and I might take it back with me that night. There was a +thunderstorm as we drove back over the moor in the black darkness; I +remember the terror of the horse, my father's cautious driving, for the +road was narrow and there was a ditch on each side; the rain poured, and +the flashes of lightning lit up the solid darkness of the moor for an +instant, and then left us in the hollow of a deeper darkness. I clutched +the book tight under my overcoat; the majesty of the storm mingled in +my head with the heroic figure of which I had just caught a glimpse in +the book; I sat motionless, inexpressibly happy, and when we reached +home I had to waken myself out of a dream. + +The dream lasted until I had finished the book, and after. I cannot +remember how I felt, I only know that no book had ever meant so much to +me. It was 'Don Quixote' which wakened in me the passion for reading. +From that time I read incessantly, and I read everything. The first +verse I read was Scott, and from Scott I turned to Byron, at twelve or +thirteen, as to a kind of forbidden fruit, which must be delicious +because it is forbidden. I had been told that Byron was a very, very +great poet, and a very, very wicked man, an atheist, a writer whom it +was dangerous to read. At school I managed to get hold of a Byron, which +I read surreptitiously at the same moment that I was reading 'The +Headless Horseman.' I thought 'The Headless Horseman' very fine and +gory, but I was disappointed in the Byron, because I could not find +'Don Juan' in it. I knew, through reading a religious paper which +condemned wickedness in great detail, that 'Don Juan' was in some way +appallingly wicked. I wanted to see for myself, but I never, at that +time, succeeded in finding an edition immodest enough to contain it. + + + II. + +While all this, and much more that I have forgotten, was building up +about me the house of life that I was to live in, I was but imperfectly +conscious of more than a very few things in the external world, and but +half awake to more than a very few things in the world within me. I +lived in the country, or at all events with lanes and fields always +about me; I took long walks, and liked walking; but I never was able to +distinguish oats from barley, or an oak from a maple; I never cared for +flowers, except slightly for their colour, when I saw many of them +growing together; I could not distinguish a blackbird from a thrush; I +was never conscious in my blood of the difference between spring and +autumn. I always loved the winter wind and the sunlight, and to plunge +through crisp snow, and to watch the rain through leaves. But I would +walk for hours without looking about me, or caring much for what I saw; +I was never tired, and the mere physical delight of walking shut my +eyes and my ears. I was always thinking, but never to much purpose; I +hated to think, because thinking troubled me, and whenever I thought +long my thoughts were sure to come round to one of two things: the +uncertainty of life, and the uncertainty of what might be life after +death. I was terribly afraid of death; I did not know exactly what held +me to life, but I wanted it to last for ever. I had always been +delicate, but never with any definite sickness; I was uneasy about +myself because I saw that others were uneasy about me, and my voracious +appetite for life was partly a kind of haste to eat and drink my fill at +a feast from which I might at any time be called away. And then I was +still more uneasy about hell. + +My parents were deeply religious; we all went to church, a Nonconformist +church, twice on Sunday; I was not allowed to read any but pious books +or play anything but hymns or oratorios on Sunday; I was taught that +this life, which seemed so real and so permanent to me, was but an +episode in existence, a little finite part of eternity. We had grace +before and after meals; we had family prayers night and morning; we +seemed to live in continual communication with the other world. And yet, +for the most part, the other world meant nothing to me. I believed, but +could not interest myself in the matter. I read the Bible with keen +admiration, especially Ecclesiastes; the Old Testament seemed to me +wholly delightful, but I cared less for the New Testament; there was so +much doctrine in it, it was so explicit about duties, about the conduct +of life. I was taught to pray to God the Father, in the name of God the +Son, for the inspiration of God the Holy Ghost. I said my prayers +regularly; I was absolutely sincere in saying them; I begged hard for +whatever I wanted, and thought that if I begged hard enough my prayer +would be answered. But I found it very difficult to pray. It seemed to +me that prayer was useless unless it were uttered with an intimate +apprehension of God, unless an effort of will brought one mentally into +His presence. I tried hard to hypnotise myself into that condition, but +I rarely succeeded. Other thoughts drifted through my mind while my +lips were articulating words of supplication. I said, over and over +again, 'O Lord, for Jesus' sake!' and even while I was saying the words +with fervour I seemed to lose hold of their meaning. I was taught that +being clever mattered little, but that being good mattered infinitely. I +wanted to want to be good, but all I really wanted was to be clever. I +felt that this in itself was a wickedness. I could not help it, but I +believed that I should be punished for not being able to help it. I was +told that if I was very good I should go to heaven, but that if I was +wicked I should go to hell. I saw but one alternative. + +And so the thought of hell was often in my mind, for the most part very +much in the background, but always ready to come forward at any external +suggestion. Once or twice it came to me with such vividness that I +rolled over on the ground in a paroxysm of agony, trying to pray God +that I might not be sent to hell, but unable to fix my mind on the words +of the prayer. I felt the eternal flames taking hold on me, and some +foretaste of their endlessness seemed to enter into my being. I never +once had the least sensation of heaven, or any desire for it. Never at +any time did it seem to me probable that I should get there. + +I remember once in church, as I was looking earnestly at the face of a +child for whom I had a boyish admiration, that the thought suddenly shot +across my mind: 'Emma will die, Emma will go to heaven, and I shall +never see her again.' I shivered all through my body, I seemed to see +her vanishing away from me, and I turned my eyes aside, so that I could +not see her. But the thought gnawed at me so fiercely that a prayer +broke out of me, silently, like sweat: 'O God, let me be with her! O +God, let me be with her!' When I came out into the open air, and felt +the cold breeze on my forehead, the thought had begun to relax its hold +on me, and I never felt it again, with that certainty; but it was as if +a veil had been withdrawn for an instant, the veil which renders life +possible, and, for that instant, I had seen. + +When my mother talked to me about pious things, I felt that they were +extraordinarily real to her, and this impressed me the more because her +thirst for this life was even greater than mine, and her hold on +external things far stronger. My father was a dryly intellectual, +despondent person, whose whole view of life was coloured by the +dyspepsia which he was never without, and the sick headaches which laid +him up for a whole day, every week or every fortnight. He was quite +unimaginative, cautious in his affairs, a great reader of the newspaper; +but he never seemed to me to have had the same sense of life as my +mother and myself. I respected him, for his ability, his scholarship, +and his character; but we had nothing akin, he never interested me. He +was severely indulgent to me; I never knew him to be unkind, or even +unreasonable. But I took all such things for granted, I felt no +gratitude for them, and I was only conscious that my father bored me. I +had no dislike for him; an indifference, rather; perhaps a little more +than indifference, for if he came into the room, and I did not happen to +be absorbed in reading, I usually went out of it. We might sit together +for an hour, and it never occurred to either of us to speak. So when he +spoke to me of my soul, which he did seriously, sadly, with an undertone +of reproach, my whole nature rose up against him. If to be good was to +be like him, I did not wish to be good. + +With my mother, it was quite different. She had the joy of life, she was +sensitive to every aspect of the world; she felt the sunshine before it +came, and knew from what quarter the wind was blowing when she awoke in +the morning. I think she was never indifferent to any moment that ever +passed her by; I think no moment ever passed her by without being seized +in all the eagerness of acceptance. I never knew her when she was not +delicate, so delicate that she could rarely go out of doors in the +winter; but I never heard her complain, she was always happy, with a +natural gaiety which had only been strengthened into a kind of vivid +peace by the continual presence of a religion at once calm and +passionate. She was as sure of God as of my father; heaven was always as +real to her as the room in which she laughed and prayed. Sometimes, as +she read her Bible, her face quickened to an ecstasy. She was ready at +any moment to lay down the book and attend to the meanest household +duties; she never saw any gulf between meditation and action; her +meditations were all action. When a child, she had lain awake, longing +to see a ghost; she had never seen one, but if a ghost had entered the +room she would have talked with it as tranquilly as with a living +friend. To her the past, the present, and the future were but moments of +one existence; life was everything to her, and life was indestructible. +Her own personal life was so vivid that it never ceased, even in sleep. +She dreamed every night, precise, elaborate dreams, which she would tell +us in the morning with the same clearness as if she were telling us of +something that had really happened. She was never drowsy, she went to +sleep the moment her head was laid on the pillow, she awoke instantly +wide awake. There were things that she knew and things that she did not +know, but she was never vague. A duty was as clear to her as a fact; +infinitely tolerant to others, she expected from herself perfection, +the utmost perfection of which her nature was capable. It was because my +mother talked to me of the other world that I felt, in spite of myself, +that there was another world. Her certainty helped to make me the more +afraid. + +She did not often talk to me of the other world. She preferred that I +should see it reflected in her celestial temper and in a capability as +of the angels. She sorrowed at my indifference, but she was content to +wait; she was sure of me, she never doubted that, sooner or later, I +should be saved. This, too, troubled me. I did not want to be saved. It +is true that I did not want to go to hell, but the thought of what my +parents meant by salvation had no attraction for me. It seemed to be the +giving up of all that I cared for. There was a sort of humiliation in +it. Jesus Christ seemed to me a hard master. + +Sometimes there were revival services at the church, and I was never +quite at my ease until they were over. I was afraid of some appeal to my +emotions, which for the moment I should not be able to resist. I knew +that it would mean nothing, but I did not want to give in, even for a +moment. I felt that I might have to resist with more than my customary +indifference, and I did not like to admit to myself that any active +resistance could be necessary. I knelt, as a stormy prayer shook the +people about me into tears, rigid, forcing myself to think of something +else. I saw the preacher move about the church, speaking to one after +another, and I saw one after another get up and walk to the communion +rail, in sign of conversion. I wondered that they could do it, whatever +they felt; I wondered what they felt; I dreaded lest the preacher should +come up to me with some irresistible power, and beckon me up to that +rail. If he did come, I knelt motionless, with my face in my hands, not +answering his questions, not seeming to take the slightest notice of +him; but my heart was trembling, I did not know what was going to +happen; I felt nothing but that horrible uneasiness, but I feared it +might leave me helpless, at the man's mercy, or at God's perhaps. + +As we walked home afterwards, I could see the others looking at me, +wondering at my spiritual stubbornness, wondering if at last I had felt +something. To them, I knew, I was like a man who shut his eyes and +declared that he could not see. 'You have only to open your eyes,' they +said to the man. But the man said, 'I prefer being blind.' It was +inexplicable to them. But they were not less inexplicable to me. + + + III. + +From the time when 'Don Quixote' first opened my eyes to an imaginative +world outside myself, I had read hungrily; but another world was also +opened to me when I was about sixteen. I had been taught scales and +exercises on the piano; I had tried to learn music, with very little +success, when one day the head-master of the school asked me to go into +his drawing-room and copy out something for him. As I sat there copying, +the music-master, a German, came in and sat down at the piano. He played +something which I had never heard before, something which seemed to me +the most wonderful thing I had ever heard. I tried to go on copying, but +I did not know what I was writing down; I was caught into an ecstasy, +the sound seemed to envelop me like a storm, and then to trickle through +me like raindrops shaken from wet leaves, and then to wrap me again in a +tempest which was like a tempest of grief. When he had finished I said, +'Will you play that over again?' As he played it again I began to +distinguish it more clearly; I heard a slow, heavy trampling of feet, +marching in order, then what might have been the firing of cannon over a +grave, and the trampling again. When he told me that it was Chopin's +Funeral March, I understood why it was that the feet had moved so +slowly, and why the cannon had been fired; and I saw that the melody +which had soothed me was the timid, insinuating consolation which love +or hope sometimes brings to the mourner. I asked him if he would teach +me music and if he would teach me that piece. He promised to teach me +that piece, and I learned it. I learned no more scales and exercises; I +learned a few more pieces; but in a little while I could read at sight; +and when I was not reading a book I was reading a piece of music at the +piano. I never acquired the technique to play a single piece correctly, +but I learned to touch the piano as if one were caressing a living +being, and it answered me in an intimate and affectionate voice. + +Books and music, then, together with my solitary walks, were the only +means of escape which I was able to find from the tedium of things as +they were. I was passionately in love with life, but the life I lived +was not the life I wanted. I did not know quite what I wanted, but I +knew that what I wanted was something very different from what I +endured. We were very poor, and I hated the constraints of poverty. We +were surrounded by commonplace, middle-class people, and I hated +commonplace and the middle classes. Sometimes we were too poor even to +have a servant, and I was expected to clean my own boots. I could not +endure getting my hands or my shirt-cuffs dirty; the thought of having +to do it disgusted me every day. Sometimes my mother, without saying +anything to me, had cleaned my boots for me. I was scarcely conscious of +the sacrifices which she and the others were continually making. I made +none, of my own accord, and I felt aggrieved if I had to share the +smallest of their privations. + +From as early a time as I can remember, I had no very clear +consciousness of anything external to myself; I never realised that +others had the right to expect from me any return for the kindness which +they might show me or refuse to me, at their choice. I existed, others +also existed; but between us there was an impassable gulf, and I had +rarely any desire to cross it. I was very fond of my mother, but I felt +no affection towards any one else, nor any desire for the affection of +others. To be let alone, and to live my own life for ever, that was what +I wanted; and I raged because I could never entirely escape from the +contact of people who bored me and things which depressed me. If people +called, I went out of the room before they were shown in; if I had not +time to get away, I shook hands hurriedly, and slipped out as soon as I +could. I remember a cousin who used to come to tea every Sunday for two +or three years. My aversion to her was so great that I could hardly +answer her if she spoke to me, and I used to think of Shelley, and how +he too, like me, would 'lie back and languish into hate.' The woman was +quite inoffensive, but I am still unable to see her or hear her speak +without that sickness of aversion which used to make the painfulness of +Sunday more painful. + +People in general left me no more than indifferent; they could be +quietly avoided. They meant no more to me than the chairs on which they +sat; I was untouched by their fortunes; I was unconscious of my human +relationship to them. To my mother every person in the world became, for +the moment of contact, the only person in the world; if she merely +talked with any one for five minutes she was absorbed to the exclusion +of every other thought; she saw no one else, she heard nothing else. I +watched her, with astonishment, with admiration; I felt that she was in +the right and I in the wrong; that she gained a pleasure and conferred a +benefit, while I only wearied myself and offended others; but I could +not help it. I felt nothing, I saw nothing, outside myself. + +I always had a room upstairs, which I called my study, where I could sit +alone, reading or thinking. No one was allowed to enter the room; only, +in winter, as I always let the fire go out, my mother would now and then +steal in gently without speaking, and put more coals on the fire. I used +to look up from my books furiously, and ask why I could not be left +alone; my mother would smile, say nothing, and go out as quietly as she +had come in. I was only happy when I was in my study, but, when I had +shut the door behind me, I forgot all about the tedious people who were +calling downstairs, the covers of the book I was reading seemed to +broaden out into an enclosing rampart, and I was alone with myself. + +At my last school there was one master, a young man, who wrote for a +provincial newspaper, of which he afterwards became the editor, with +whom I made friends. He had read a great deal, and he knew a few +literary people; he was equally fond of literature and of music. Some +school composition of mine had interested him in me, and he began to +lend me books, and to encourage me in trying to express myself in +writing. I had already run through Scott and Byron, with a very little +Shelley, and had come to Browning, whom he detested. When I was laid up +with scarlatina he sent me over a packet of books to read; one of them +was Swinburne's 'Poems and Ballads,' which seemed to give voice to all +the fever that I felt just then in my blood. I read 'Wuthering Heights' +at the same time and Rabelais a little time afterwards. I read all the +bound volumes of the 'Cornhill Magazine' from the beginning right +through, stories, essays, and poems, and I remember my delight in 'Harry +Richmond,' at a time when I had never heard the name of George Meredith. +I read essays signed 'R. L. S.', from which I got my first taste of a +sort of gipsy element in literature which was to become a passion when, +later on, 'Lavengro' fell into my hands. The reading of 'Lavengro' did +many things for me. It absorbed me from the first page, with a curiously +personal appeal, as of some one akin to me, and when I came to the place +where Lavengro learns Welsh in a fortnight, I laid down the book with a +feeling of fierce emulation. I had often thought of learning Italian: I +immediately bought an Italian Bible, and a grammar; I worked all day +long, not taking up 'Lavengro' again, until, at the end of the fortnight +which I had given myself, I could read Italian. Then I finished +'Lavengro.' + +'Lavengro' took my thoughts into the open air, and gave me my first +conscious desire to wander. I learned a little Romany, and was always on +the lookout for gipsies. I realised that there were other people in the +world besides the conventional people I knew, who wore prim and shabby +clothes, and went to church twice on Sundays, and worked at business and +professions, and sat down to the meal of tea at five o'clock in the +afternoon. And I realised that there was another escape from these +people besides a solitary flight in books; that if a book could be so +like a man, there were men and women, after all, who had the interest of +a book as well as the warm advantage of being alive. Humanity began to +exist for me. + +But with this discovery of a possible interest in real people, there +came a deeper loathing of the people by whom I was surrounded. I had +for the most part been able to ignore them; now I wanted to get away, so +that I could live my own life, and choose my own companions. My vague +notions of sex became precise, became a torture. + +When I first read Rabelais and the 'Poems and Ballads,' I was ignorant +of my own body; I looked upon the relationship of man and woman as +something essentially wicked; my imagination took fire, but I was hardly +conscious of any physical reality connected with it. I was irrepressibly +timid in the presence of a woman; I hardly ever met young people of my +own age; and I had a feeling of the deepest reverence for women, from +which I endeavoured to banish the slightest consciousness of sex. I +thought it an inexcusable disrespect; and in my feeling towards the one +or two much older women who at one time or another had a certain +attraction for me, there was nothing, conscious at least, but a purely +romantic admiration. At the same time I had a guilty delight in reading +books which told me about the sensations of physical love, and I +trembled with ecstasy as I read them. Thoughts of them haunted me; I put +them out of my head by an effort, I called them back, they ended by +never leaving me. + +I think it was a little earlier than this that I began to walk in my +sleep, and to have nightmares; but it was just then that I suffered most +from those obscure terrors of the night. Once, when I was a child, I +remember waking up in my nightshirt on the drawing-room sofa, and being +wrapped up in a shawl and carried upstairs by my father, and put back +into bed. I had come down in my sleep, opened the door, and walked into +the room without seeing any one, and laid myself down on the sofa. I did +not often dream, but, whenever I dreamed, it was of infinite spirals, up +which I had to climb, or of ladders, whose rungs dropped away from me as +my feet left them, or of slimy stone stairways into cold pits of +darkness, or of the tightening of a snake's coils around me, or of +walking with bare feet across a floor curdling with snakes. I awoke, +stifling a scream, my hair damp with sweat, out of impossible tasks in +which time shrank and swelled in some deadly game with life; something +had to be done in a second, and all eternity passed, lingering, while +the second poised over me like a drop of water always about to drip: it +fell, and I was annihilated into depth under depth of blackness. + +Into these dreams of abstract horror there began to come a disturbing +element of sex. My books and my thoughts haunted me; I was restless and +ignorant, physically innocent, but with a sort of naive corruption of +mind. All the interest which I had never been able to find in the soul, +I found in what I only vaguely apprehended of the body. To me it was +something remote, evil, mainly inexplicable; but nothing I had ever felt +had meant so much to me. I never realised that there was any honesty in +sex, that nature was after all natural. I reached stealthily after some +stealthy delight of the senses, which I valued the more because it was a +forbidden thing. Love I never associated with the senses, it was not +even passion that I wanted; it was a conscious, subtle, elaborate +sensuality, which I knew not how to procure. And there was an infinite +curiosity, which I hardly even dared dream of satisfying; a curiosity +which was like a fever. I was scarcely conscious of any external +temptations. The ideas in which I had been trained, little as they had +seemed consciously to affect me, had given me the equivalent of what I +may call virtue, in a form of good taste. I was ashamed of my desires, +of my sensations, though I made no serious effort to escape them; but I +knew that, even if the opportunity were offered, something, some scruple +of physical refinement, some timidity, some unattached sense of fitness, +would step in to prevent me from carrying them into practice. + + + IV. + +Every now and then my father used to talk to me seriously, saying that I +should have to choose some profession, and make my own living. I always +replied that there was nothing I could possibly do, that I hated every +profession, that I would rather starve than soil my hands with business, +and that so long as I could just go on living as I was then living, I +wanted nothing more. I did not want to be a rich man, I was never able +to realise money as a tangible thing, I wanted to have just enough to +live on, only not at home; in London. My father did not press the +matter; I could see that he dreaded my leaving home, and he knew that, +for the time, going to London was out of the question. + +One summer I went down to a remote part of England to stay with some of +my relations. I had seen none of them since I was a child, I knew +nothing about them, except that some were farmers, some business people; +there was an astronomer, an old sea-captain, and a mad uncle who lived +in a cottage by himself on a moor near the sea, and grew marvellous +flowers in a vast garden. I stayed with a maiden aunt, who was like a +very old and very gaunt little bird; she was deaf, wrinkled, and bent, +but her hair was still yellow, her voice a high piping treble, and she +ran about with the tireless vivacity of a young girl. She had been +pretty, and had all the little vanities of a coquette; she wore bright, +semi-fashionable clothes, and conspicuous hats. She had much of the +natural gaiety of my mother, who was her elder sister; and she was +infinitely considerate to me, turning out one of her little rooms that I +might have it for a study. She liked me to play to her, and would sit by +the side of the old piano listening eagerly. The mad uncle was her +brother, and he would come in sometimes from his cottage, bringing great +bundles of flowers. He was very kind and gentle, and he would sometimes +tell me of the letters he had been writing to the Prince of Wales on the +subject of sewage, and of how the Prince of Wales had acknowledged his +communications. He had many theories about sewage; I have heard that +some of them were plausible and ingenious; and he was convinced that his +theories would some day be accepted, and that he would become famous. I +believe his brain had been turned by an unlucky passion for a beautiful +girl; he was only in an asylum for a short time; and for the most part +lived happily in his cottage among his flowers, developing theories of +sewage, and taking sun-baths naked in the garden. + +The people of whom I saw most were some cousins: the father kept a shop, +and they all helped in the business. They were very kind, and did all +they could for me by feeding me plentifully and taking me for long +drives in the country, which was very hilly and wooded, and sometimes to +the sea, which was not too far off to reach by driving. We had not an +idea in common, and I always wondered how it was possible that my aunt, +who was my mother's eldest sister, could ever have married my uncle. He +was a kind man, and, in his way, intelligent; but he talked incessantly, +insistently, and with something unctuous in his voice and manner; he +came close to me while he spoke, and tapped my shoulder with his fingers +or my leg with his stick. I could not bear him to touch me; sometimes he +dropped his h's, and, as I heard them drop, I saw the old man looking +fixedly into my face with his large, keen, shifting eyes. + +One of the daughters had something inquiring in her mind, a touch of +rebellious refinement; she had enough instinct for another kind of life +to be at least discontented with her own; with her I could talk. But the +others fitted into their environment without a crease or a ruffle. They +went to the shop early in the morning, slaved there all day, taught in +the Sunday-School on Sundays, said the obvious things to one another all +day long, were perfectly content to be where they were, do what they +did, think what they thought, and say what they said. Their house +reflected them like a mirror. Everything was clean and new, there was +plenty of everything; and I used to sit in their drawing-room looking +round it in a vain attempt to find a single thing which I could have +lived with, in a house of my own. + +I went home from the visit gladly, glad to be at home again. We were +living then in the Midlands, and I used to spend whole days at +Kenilworth, at Warwick, at Coventry; I knew them from Scott's novels, +but I had never seen a ruined castle, a city with ancient buildings, and +I began to feel that there was something else to be seen in the world +besides the things I had dreamed of seeing. I took a boat at Leamington, +and rowed up the river as far as the chain underneath Warwick Castle. I +do not know why I have always remembered that moment, as if it marked a +date to me. It was with a full enjoyment of the contrast that I found +them busy preparing for a _fete_ when I got back to Leamington; +stringing up the Chinese lanterns to the branches of the trees, and +putting out little tables on the grass. At Coventry I loved going +through the narrow streets, looking up at the windows which leaned +together under their gabled roofs. I saw Lady Godiva borne through the +streets, more clothed than she appears in the pictures, in the midst of +a gay and solemn procession, tricked out in old-fashioned frippery. And +I spent a long day there, one of the days of the five-day fair, which +feasted me with sensations on which I lived for weeks. It was the first +time I had ever plunged boldly into what Baudelaire calls 'the bath of +multitude'; it intoxicated me, and seemed, for the first time in my +life, to carry me outside myself. I pushed my way through the crowds in +those old and narrow streets, in an ecstasy of delight at all that +movement, noise, colour, and confusion. I seemed suddenly to have become +free, in contact with life. I had no desire to touch it too closely, no +fear of being soiled at its contact; a vivid spirit of life seemed to +come to me, in my solitude, releasing me from thought, from daily +realities. + +Once I went as far as Chester. It was the Cup day, and there was an +excursion. I watched the race, feeling a momentary excitement as the +horses passed close to me, and the pellets of turf shot from their heels +into the air above my head; the crowd was more varied than any crowd I +had ever seen, and I discovered a blonde gipsy girl, in charge of a +cocoanut-shy, who let me talk a little Romany with her. I thought +Chester, with its arcades and its city-walls, the most wonderful old +place I had ever seen. As I walked round the wall, a woman leaned out of +a window and called to me: I thought of Rahab in the Bible, and went +home dreaming romantically about the harlot on the wall. + +One day, as I was walking along a country road, I was stopped by a +sailor, who asked me how far it was to some distant place. He was +carrying a small bundle, and was walking, he told me, until he came to a +certain sea-port. He did not beg, but accepted gladly enough what I gave +him. He had been on many voyages, and had picked up a good many words of +different languages, which he mispronounced in a scarcely intelligible +jargon of his own. He had been left behind by his ship in Russia, where +he had stayed on account of a woman: she could speak no English, and he +but little Russian; but it did not seem to have mattered. It was the +first time I had seemed to come so close to the remote parts of the +world; and as he went on his way, he turned back to urge me to go on +some voyage which he seemed to remember with more pleasure than any +other: to the West Indies, I think. I began to pore over maps, and plan +to what parts of the world I would go. + +Meanwhile, little by little, I was beginning to live my own life at +home; I played the piano on Sundays, to whatever tune I liked; I read +whatever I liked on Sundays; and, finally, I ceased to go to church. +Latterly I had come to put my boredom there to some purpose: I followed +the lessons word by word in Bibles and Testaments in many languages, +and, while the sermon was going on I kept my Bible quietly open on my +knees, and read on, chapter after chapter, while the preacher preached I +knew not what: I never heard a word of it, not even the text. I read, +not for the Bible's sake, but to learn the language in which I was +reading it. My parents knew this, but after all it was the Bible, and +they could hardly object to my reading the Bible. Sometimes I scribbled +down ideas that came into my head; sometimes I merely sat there, with a +stony inattention, showing, I fancy, in my face, all the fierce disgust +that I felt. During the sermon I always found it quite easy to abstract +my attention; during the hymns I amused myself by criticising the bad +rhymes and false metaphors; but during prayer-time, though I kept my +eyes wide open, and sat as upright as I dared, I could hardly help +hearing what was said. What was said, very often, made me ashamed, as if +I were unconsciously helping to repeat absurdities to God. + +When I told my parents that I could go to church no longer, I had no +definite reason to allege, except that the matter did not interest me. I +did not doubt the truth of the Christian religion; I neither affirmed +nor denied; it was something, to me, beside the question. I could argue +about dogma; I defended a liberal interpretation of doctrines; I +insisted that there were certain questions which we were bound to leave +open. But I was not alienated from Christianity by intellectual +difficulties; it had never taken hold of me, and I gave up nothing but a +pretence in giving up the sign of outward respect for it. My parents +were deeply grieved, but, then as always, they respected my liberty. + +The first time I remember going to London, for I had been there when a +child, was by an excursion, which brought me back the same night. Of the +day, or of what I did then, I can recall nothing; daylight never meant +so much to me as the first lighting of the lamps. I found my way back to +King's Cross, in some bewilderment, to find that one train had gone, and +that the next would leave me an hour or two more in London. I walked +among the lights, through hurrying crowds of people, in long, dingy +streets, not knowing where I was going, till I found myself outside a +great building which seemed to be a kind of music-hall. I went in; it +was the Agricultural Hall, and some show was being given there. There +were acrobats, gymnasts, equilibrists, performing beasts; there was a +vast din, concentrating all the noises of a fair within four walls; +people swarmed to and fro over the long floor, paying more heed to one +another than to the performance. I scrutinised the show and the people, +a little uneasily; it was very new to me, and I was not yet able to feel +at home in London. I found my way to the station like one who comes +home, half dizzy and half ashamed, after a debauch. + +The next time I went to London, I went for a week. I stayed in a +lodging-house near the British Museum, a mean, uncomfortable place, +where I had to be indoors by midnight. During the day I read in the +Museum; the atmosphere weighed upon me, and gave me a headache every +day; the same atmosphere weighed upon me in the streets around the +Museum; I was dull, depressed, anxious to get through with the task for +which I had come to London, anxious to get back again to the country. I +went back with a little book-learning, of the kind that I wanted to +acquire; I began to have books sent down to me from a Library in London; +I worked, more and more diligently, at reading and studying books; and +I began to think of devoting myself entirely to some sort of literary +work. It was not that I had anything to say, or that I felt the need of +expressing myself. I wanted to write books for the sake of writing +books; it was food for my ambition, and it gave me something to do when +I was alone, apart from other people. It helped to raise another barrier +between me and other people. + +I went up to London again for a longer visit, and I stayed in a +lodging-house in one of the streets leading from the Strand to the +Embankment, near the stage-door of one of the theatres. A little actress +and her mother were staying in the house, and I felt that I was getting +an intimate acquaintance with the stage, as I sat up with the little +actress, after her mother had gone to bed, and listened timidly to her +stories of parts and dresses and the other girls. She was quite young, +and still ingenuous enough to look forward to the day when she would +have her name on the placards in letters I forget how many inches high. +I had been to my first theatre, it was Irving in 'King Lear,' and now I +was hearing about the stage from one who lived on it. A little actress, +afterwards famous for her beauty, and then a child with masses of gold +hair about her ears, lived next door, at another lodging-house, which +her mother kept. I watched for her to pass the window, or for a chance +of meeting her in the street. When I went back again to the country, it +was with a fixed resolve to come and live in London, where, it seemed, I +could, if I liked, be something more than a spectator of the great, +amusing crowd. The intoxication of London had got hold of me; I felt at +home in it, and I felt that I had never yet found anywhere to be at home +in. + +I lived in London for five years, and I do not think there was a day +during those five years in which I did not find a conscious delight in +the mere fact of being in London. When I found myself alone, and in the +midst of a crowd, I began to be astonishingly happy. I needed so little +at the beginning of that time. I have never been able to stay long under +a roof without restlessness, and I used to go out into the streets, +many times a day, for the pleasure of finding myself in the open air and +in the streets. I had never cared greatly for the open air in the +country, the real open air, because everything in the country, except +the sea, bored me; but here, in the 'motley' Strand, among these +hurrying people, under the smoky sky, I could walk and yet watch. If +there ever was a religion of the eyes, I have devoutly practised that +religion. I noted every face that passed me on the pavement; I looked +into the omnibuses, the cabs, always with the same eager hope of seeing +some beautiful or interesting person, some gracious movement, a delicate +expression, which would be gone if I did not catch it as it went. This +search without an aim grew to be almost a torture to me; my eyes ached +with the effort, but I could not control them. At every moment, I knew, +some spectacle awaited them; I grasped at all these sights with the same +futile energy as a dog that I once saw standing in an Irish stream, and +snapping at the bubbles that ran continually past him on the water. +Life ran past me continually, and I tried to make all its bubbles my +own. + + + + + ESTHER KAHN. + + +Esther Kahn was born in one of those dark, evil-smelling streets with +strange corners which lie about the Docks. It was a quiet street, which +seemed to lead nowhere, but to stand aside, for some not quite honest +purpose of its own. The blinds of some of these houses were always +drawn; shutters were nailed over some of the windows. Few people passed; +there were never many children playing in the road; the women did not +stand talking at their open doors. The doors opened and shut quietly; +dark faces looked out from behind the windows; the Jews who lived there +seemed always to be at work, bending over their tables, sewing and +cutting, or else hurrying in and out with bundles of clothes under their +arms, going and coming from the tailors for whom they worked. The Kahns +all worked at tailoring: Esther's father and mother and grandmother, her +elder brother and her two elder sisters. One did seaming, another +button-holing, another sewed on buttons; and, on the poor pay they got +for that, seven had to live. + +As a child Esther had a strange terror of the street in which she lived. +She was never sure whether something dreadful had just happened there, +or whether it was just going to happen. But she was always in suspense. +She was tormented with the fear of knowing what went on behind those +nailed shutters. She made up stories about the houses, but the stories +never satisfied her. She imagined some great, vague gesture; not an +incident, but a gesture; and it hung in the air suspended like a shadow. +The gestures of people always meant more to her than their words; they +seemed to have a secret meaning of their own, which the words never +quite interpreted. She was always unconsciously on the watch for their +meaning. + +At night, after supper, the others used to sit around the table, talking +eagerly. Esther would get up and draw her chair into the corner by the +door, and for a time she would watch them, as if she were looking on at +something, something with which she had no concern, but which interested +her for its outline and movement. She saw her father's keen profile, the +great, hooked nose, the black, prominent, shifty eye, the tangled black +hair straggling over the shirt-collar; her mother, large, placid, with +masses of black, straight hair coiled low over her sallow cheeks; the +two sisters, sharp and voluble, never at rest for a moment; the brother, +with his air of insolent assurance, an immense self-satisfaction hooded +under his beautifully curved eyelids; the grandmother, with her bent and +mountainous shoulders, the vivid malice of her eyes, her hundreds of +wrinkles. All these people, who had so many interests in common, who +thought of the same things, cared for the same things, seemed so fond of +one another in an instinctive way, with so much hostility for other +people who were not belonging to them, sat there night after night, in +the same attitudes, always as eager for the events of to-day as they had +been for the events of yesterday. Everything mattered to them +immensely, and especially their part in things; and no one thing seemed +to matter more than any other thing. Esther cared only to look on; +nothing mattered to her; she had no interest in their interests; she was +not sure that she cared for them more than she would care for other +people; they were what she supposed real life was, and that was a thing +in which she had only a disinterested curiosity. + +Sometimes, when she had been watching them until they had all seemed to +fade away and form again in a kind of vision more precise than the +reality, she would lose sight of them altogether and sit gazing straight +before her, her eyes wide open, her lips parted. Her hand would make an +unconscious movement, as if she were accompanying some grave words with +an appropriate gesture; and Becky would generally see it, and burst into +a mocking laugh, and ask her whom she was mimicking. + +'Don't notice her,' the mother said once; 'she's not a human child, +she's a monkey; she's clutching out after a soul, as they do. They look +like little men, but they know they're not men, and they try to be; +that's why they mimic us.' + +Esther was very angry; she said to herself that she would be more +careful in future not to show anything that she was feeling. + +At thirteen Esther looked a woman. She was large-boned, with very small +hands and feet, and her body seemed to be generally asleep, in a kind of +brooding lethargy. She had her mother's hair, masses of it, but softer, +with a faint, natural wave in it. Her face was oval, smooth in outline, +with a nose just Jewish enough for the beauty of suave curves and +unemphatic outlines. The lips were thick, red, strung like a bow. The +whole face seemed to await, with an infinite patience, some moulding and +awakening force, which might have its way with it. It wanted nothing, +anticipated nothing; it waited. Only the eyes put life into the mask, +and the eyes were the eyes of the tribe; they had no personal meaning in +what seemed to be their mystery; they were ready to fascinate +innocently, to be intolerably ambiguous without intention; they were +fathomless with mere sleep, the unconscious dream which is in the eyes +of animals. + +Esther was neither clever nor stupid; she was inert. She did as little +in the house as she could, but when she had to take her share in the +stitching she stitched more neatly than any of the others, though very +slowly. She hated it, in her languid, smouldering way, partly because it +was work and partly because it made her prick her fingers, and the skin +grew hard and ragged where the point of the needle had scratched it. She +liked her skin to be quite smooth, but all the glycerine she rubbed into +it at night would not take out the mark of the needle. It seemed to her +like the badge of her slavery. + +She would rather not have been a Jewess; that, too, was a kind of badge, +marking her out from other people; she wanted to be let alone, to have +her own way without other people's help or hindrance. She had no +definite consciousness of what her own way was to be; she was only +conscious, as yet, of the ways that would certainly not be hers. + +She would not think only of making money, like her mother, nor of being +thought clever, like Becky, nor of being admired because she had good +looks and dressed smartly, like Mina. All these things required an +effort, and Esther was lazy. She wanted to be admired, and to have +money, of course, and she did not want people to think her stupid; but +all this was to come to her, she knew, because of some fortunate quality +in herself, as yet undiscovered. Then she would shake off everything +that now clung to her, like a worn-out garment that one keeps only until +one can replace it. She saw herself rolling away in a carriage towards +the west; she would never come back. And it would be like a revenge on +whatever it was that kept her stifling in this mean street; she wanted +to be cruelly revenged. + +As it was, her only very keen pleasure was in going to the theatre with +her brother or her sisters; she cared nothing for the music-halls, and +preferred staying at home to going with the others when they went to the +Pavilion or the Foresters. But when there was a melodrama at the +Standard, or at the Elephant and Castle, she would wait and struggle +outside the door and up the narrow, winding stairs, for a place as near +the front of the gallery as she could get. Once inside, she would never +speak, but she would sit staring at the people on the stage as if they +hypnotised her. She never criticised the play, as the others did; the +play did not seem to matter; she lived it without will or choice, merely +because it was there and her eyes were on it. + +But after it was over and they were at home again, she would become +suddenly voluble as she discussed the merits of the acting. She had no +hesitations, was certain that she was always in the right, and became +furious if any one contradicted her. She saw each part as a whole, and +she blamed the actors for not being consistent with themselves. She +could not understand how they could make a mistake. It was so simple, +there were no two ways of doing anything. To go wrong was as if you said +no when you meant yes; it must be wilful. + +'You ought to do it yourself, Esther,' said her sisters, when they were +tired of her criticisms. They meant to be satirical, but Esther said, +seriously enough: 'Yes, I could do it; but so could that woman if she +would let herself alone. Why did she try to be something else all the +time?' + +Time went slowly with Esther; but when she was seventeen she was still +sewing at home and still waiting. Nothing had come to her of all that +she had expected. Two of her cousins, and a neighbour or two, had wanted +to marry her; but she had refused them contemptuously. To her sluggish +instinct men seemed only good for making money, or, perhaps, children; +they had not come to have any definite personal meaning for her. A +little man called Joel, who had talked to her passionately about love, +and had cried when she refused him, seemed to her an unintelligible and +ridiculous kind of animal. When she dreamed of the future, there was +never any one of that sort making fine speeches to her. + +But, gradually, her own real purpose in life had become clear. She was +to be an actress. She said nothing about it at home, but she began to +go round to the managers of the small theatres in the neighbourhood, +asking for an engagement. After a long time the manager gave her a small +part. The piece was called 'The Wages of Sin,' and she was to be the +servant who opens the door in the first act to the man who is going to +be the murderer in the second act, and then identifies him in the fourth +act. + +Esther went home quietly and said nothing until supper-time. Then she +said to her mother: 'I am going on the stage.' + +'That's very likely,' said her mother, with a sarcastic smile; 'and when +do you go on, pray?' + +'On Monday night,' said Esther. + +'You don't mean it!' said her mother. + +'Indeed I mean it,' said Esther, 'and I've got my part. I'm to be the +servant in "The Wages of Sin."' + +Her brother laughed. 'I know,' he said, 'she speaks two words twice.' + +'You are right,' said Esther; 'will you come on Monday, and hear how I +say them?' + +When Esther had made up her mind to do anything, they all knew that she +always did it. Her father talked to her seriously. Her mother said: 'You +are much too lazy, Esther; you will never get on.' They told her that +she was taking the bread out of their mouths, and it was certain she +would never put it back again. 'If I get on,' said Esther, 'I will pay +you back exactly what I would have earned, as long as you keep me. Is +that a bargain? I know I shall get on, and you won't repent of it. You +had better let me do as I want. It will pay.' + +They shook their heads, looked at Esther, who sat there with her lips +tight shut, and a queer, hard look in her eyes, which were trying not to +seem exultant; they looked at one another, shook their heads again, and +consented. The old grandmother mumbled something fiercely, but as it +sounded like bad words, and they never knew what Old Testament language +she would use, they did not ask her what she was meaning. + +On Monday Esther made her first appearance on the stage. Her mother +said to her afterwards: 'I thought nothing of you, Esther; you were just +like any ordinary servant.' Becky asked her if she had felt nervous. She +shook her head; it had seemed quite natural to her, she said. She did +not tell them that a great wave of triumph had swept over her as she +felt the heat of the gas footlights come up into her eyes, and saw the +floating cluster of white faces rising out of a solid mass of +indistinguishable darkness. In that moment she drew into her nostrils +the breath of life. + +Esther had a small part to understudy, and before long she had the +chance of playing it. The manager said nothing to her, but soon +afterwards he told her to understudy a more important part. She never +had the chance to play it, but, when the next piece was put on at the +theatre, she was given a part of her own. She began to make a little +money, and, as she had promised, she paid so much a week to her parents +for keeping her. They gained by the bargain, so they did not ask her to +come back to the stitching. Mrs. Kahn sometimes spoke of her daughter to +the neighbours with a certain languid pride; Esther was making her way. + +Esther made her way rapidly. One day the manager of a West End theatre +came down to see her; he engaged her at once to play a small but +difficult part in an ambitious kind of melodrama that he was bringing +out. She did it well, satisfied the manager, was given a better part, +did that well, too, was engaged by another manager, and, in short, began +to be looked upon as a promising actress. The papers praised her with +moderation; some of the younger critics, who admired her type, praised +her more than she deserved. She was making money; she had come to live +in rooms of her own, off the Strand; at twenty-one she had done, in a +measure, what she wanted to do; but she was not satisfied with herself. +She had always known that she could act, but how well could she act? +Would she never be able to act any better than this? She had drifted +into the life of the stage as naturally as if she had never known +anything else; she was at home, comfortable, able to do what many others +could not do. But she wanted to be a great actress. + +An old actor, a Jew, Nathan Quellen, who had taken a kind of paternal +interest in her, and who helped her with all the good advice that he had +never taken to himself, was fond of saying that the remedy was in her +own hands. + +'My dear Esther,' he would tell her, smoothing his long grey hair down +over his forehead, 'you must take a lover; you must fall in love; +there's no other way. You think you can act, and you have never felt +anything worse than a cut finger. Why, it's an absurdity! Wait till you +know the only thing worth knowing; till then you're in short frocks and +a pinafore.' + +He cited examples, he condensed the biographies of the great actresses +for her benefit. He found one lesson in them all, and he was sincere in +his reading of history as he saw it. He talked, argued, protested; the +matter seriously troubled him. He felt he was giving Esther good advice; +he wanted her to be the thing she wanted to be. Esther knew it and +thanked him, without smiling; she sat brooding over his words; she never +argued against them. She believed much of what he said; but was the +remedy, as he said, in her own hands? It did not seem so. + +As yet no man had spoken to her blood. She had the sluggish blood of a +really profound animal nature. She saw men calmly, as calmly as when +little Joel had cried because she would not marry him. Joel still came +to see her sometimes, with the same entreaty in his eyes, not daring to +speak it. Other men, very different men, had made love to her in very +different ways. They had seemed to be trying to drive a hard bargain, to +get the better of her in a matter of business; and her native cunning +had kept her easily on the better side of the bargain. She was resolved +to be a business woman in the old trade of the affections; no one should +buy or sell of her except at her own price, and she set the price vastly +high. + +Yet Quellen's words set her thinking. Was there, after all, but one way +to study for the stage? All the examples pointed to it, and, what was +worse, she felt it might be true. She saw exactly where her acting +stopped short. + +She looked around her with practical eyes, not seeming to herself to be +doing anything unusual or unlikely to succeed in its purpose. She +thought deliberately over all the men she knew; but who was there whom +it would be possible to take seriously? She could think of only one man: +Philip Haygarth. + +Philip Haygarth was a man of five-and-thirty, who had been writing plays +and having them acted, with only a moderate success, for nearly ten +years. He was one of the accepted men, a man whose plays were treated +respectfully, and he had the reputation of being much cleverer than his +plays. He was short, dark, neat, very worldly-looking, with thin lips +and reflective, not quite honest eyes. His manner was cold, restrained, +with a mingling of insolence and diffidence. He was a hard worker and a +somewhat deliberately hard liver. He avoided society and preferred to +find his relaxation among people with whom one did not need to keep up +appearances, or talk sentiment, or pay afternoon calls. He admired +Esther Kahn as an actress, though with many reservations; and he admired +her as a woman, more than he had ever admired anybody else. She appealed +to all his tastes; she ended by absorbing almost the whole of those +interests and those hours which he set apart, in his carefully arranged +life, for such matters. + +He made love to Esther much more skilfully than any of her other lovers, +and, though she saw through his plans as clearly as he wished her to see +through them, she was grateful to him for a certain finesse in his +manner of approach. He never mentioned the word 'love,' except to jest +at it; he concealed even the extent to which he was really disturbed by +her presence; his words spoke only of friendship and of general topics. +And yet there could never be any doubt as to his meaning; his whole +attitude was a patient waiting. He interested her; frankly, he +interested her: here, then, was the man for her purpose. With his +admirable tact, he spared her the least difficulty in making her +meaning clear. He congratulated himself on a prize; she congratulated +herself on the accomplishment of a duty. + +Days and weeks passed, and Esther scrutinised herself with a distinct +sense of disappointment. She had no moral feeling in the matter; she was +her own property, it had always seemed to her, free to dispose of as she +pleased. The business element in her nature persisted. This bargain, +this infinitely important bargain, had been concluded, with open eyes, +with a full sense of responsibility, for a purpose, the purpose for +which she lived. What was the result? + +She could see no result. The world had in no sense changed for her, as +she had been supposing it would change; a new excitement had come into +her life, and that was all. She wondered what it was that a woman was +expected to feel under the circumstances, and why she had not felt it. +How different had been her feeling when she walked across the stage for +the first time! That had really been a new life, or the very beginning +of life. But this was no more than a delightful episode, hardly to be +disentangled from the visit to Paris which had accompanied it. She had, +so to speak, fallen into a new habit, which was so agreeable, and seemed +so natural, that she could not understand why she had not fallen into it +before; it was a habit she would certainly persist in, for its own sake. +The world remained just the same. + +And her art: she had learned nothing. No new thrill came into the words +she spoke; her eyes, as they looked across the footlights, remembered +nothing, had nothing new to tell. + +And so she turned, with all the more interest, an interest almost +impersonal, to Philip Haygarth when he talked to her about acting and +the drama, when he elaborated his theories which, she was aware, +occupied him more than she occupied him. He was one of those creative +critics who can do every man's work but their own. When he sat down to +write his own plays, something dry and hard came into the words, the +life ebbed out of those imaginary people who had been so real to him, +whom he had made so real to others as he talked. He constructed +admirably and was an unerring judge of the construction of plays. And he +had a sense of acting which was like the sense that a fine actor might +have, if he could be himself and also some one looking on at himself. He +not only knew what should be done, but exactly why it should be done. +Little suspecting that he had been chosen for the purpose, though in so +different a manner, he set himself to teach her art to Esther. + +He made her go through the great parts with him; she was Juliet, Lady +Macbeth, Cleopatra; he taught her how to speak verse and how to feel the +accent of speech in verse, another kind of speech than prose speech; he +trained her voice to take hold of the harmonies that lie in words +themselves; and she caught them, by ear, as one born to speak many +languages catches a foreign language. She went through Ibsen as she had +gone through Shakespeare; and Haygarth showed her how to take hold of +this very different subject-matter, so definite and so elusive. And +they studied good acting-plays together, worthless plays that gave the +actress opportunities to create something out of nothing. Together they +saw Duse and Sarah Bernhardt; and they had seen Rejane in Paris, in +crudely tragic parts; and they studied the English stage, to find out +why it maintained itself at so stiff a distance from nature. She went on +acting all the time, always acting with more certainty; and at last she +attempted more serious parts, which she learned with Haygarth at her +elbow. + +She had to be taught her part as a child is taught its lesson; word by +word, intonation by intonation. She read it over, not really knowing +what it was about; she learned it by heart mechanically, getting the +words into her memory first. Then the meaning had to be explained to +her, scene by scene, and she had to say the words over until she had +found the right accent. Once found, she never forgot it; she could +repeat it identically at any moment; there were no variations to allow +for. Until that moment she was reaching out blindly in the dark, feeling +about her with uncertain fingers. + +And, with her, the understanding came with the power of expression, +sometimes seeming really to proceed from the sound to the sense, from +the gesture inward. Show her how it should be done, and she knew why it +should be done; sound the right note in her ears, arrest her at the +moment when the note came right, and she understood, by a backward +process, why the note should sound thus. Her mind worked, but it worked +under suggestion, as the hypnotists say; the idea had to come to her +through the instinct, or it would never come. + +As Esther found herself, almost unconsciously, becoming what she had +dreamed of becoming, what she had longed to become, and, after all, +through Philip Haygarth, a more personal feeling began to grow up in her +heart toward this lover who had found his way to her, not through the +senses, but through the mind. A kind of domesticity had crept into their +relations, and this drew Esther nearer to him. She began to feel that he +belonged to her. He had never, she knew, been wholly absorbed in her, +and she had delighted him by showing no jealousy, no anxiety to keep +him. As long as she remained so, he felt that she had a sure hold on +him. But now she began to change, to concern herself more with his +doings, to assert her right to him, as she had never hitherto cared to +do. He chafed a little at what seemed an unnecessary devotion. + +Love, with Esther, had come slowly, taking his time on the journey; but +he came to take possession. To work at her art was to please Philip +Haygarth; she worked now with a double purpose. And she made surprising +advances as an actress. People began to speculate: had she genius, or +was this only an astonishingly developed talent, which could go so far +and no farther? + +For, in this finished method, which seemed so spontaneous and yet at the +same time so deliberate, there seemed still to be something, some +slight, essential thing, almost unaccountably lacking. What was it? Was +it a fundamental lack, that could never be supplied? Or would that +slight, essential thing, as her admirers prophesied, one day be +supplied? They waited. + +Esther was now really happy, for the first time in her life; and as she +looked back over those years, in the street by the Docks, when she had +lived alone in the midst of her family, and since then, when she had +lived alone, working, not finding the time long, nor wishing it to go +more slowly, she felt a kind of surprise at herself. How could she have +gone through it all? She had not even been bored. She had had a purpose, +and now that she was achieving that purpose, the thing itself seemed +hardly to matter. Her art kept pace with her life; she was giving up +nothing in return for happiness; but she had come to prize the +happiness, her love, beyond all things. + +She knew that Haygarth was proud of her, that he looked upon her talent, +genius, whatever it was, as partly the work of his hands. It pleased her +that this should be so; it seemed to bind him to her more tightly. + +In this she was mistaken, as most women are mistaken when they ask +themselves what it is in them that holds their lovers. The actress +interested Haygarth greatly, but the actress interested him as a +problem, as something quite apart from his feelings as a man, as a +lover. He had been attracted by the woman, by what was sombre and +unexplained in her eyes, by the sleepy grace of her movements, by the +magnetism that seemed to drowse in her. He had made love to her +precisely as he would have made love to an ignorant, beautiful creature +who walked on in some corner of a Drury Lane melodrama. On principle, he +did not like clever women. Esther, it is true, was not clever, in the +ordinary, tiresome sense; and her startling intuitions, in matters of +acting, had not repelled him, as an exhibition of the capabilities of a +woman, while they preoccupied him for a long time in that part of his +brain which worked critically upon any interesting material. But nothing +that she could do as an artist made the least difference to his feeling +about her as a woman; his pride in her was like his pride in a play +that he had written finely, and put aside; to be glanced at from time to +time, with cool satisfaction. He had his own very deliberate theory of +values, and one value was never allowed to interfere with another. A +devoted, discreet amateur of woman, he appreciated women really for +their own sakes, with an unflattering simplicity. And for a time Esther +absorbed him almost wholly. + +He had been quite content with their relations as they were before she +fell seriously in love with him, and this new, profound feeling, which +he had never even dreaded, somewhat disturbed him. She was adopting +almost the attitude of a wife, and he had no ambition to play the part +of a husband. The affections were always rather a strain upon him; he +liked something a little less serious and a little more exciting. + +Esther understood nothing that was going on in Philip Haygarth's mind, +and when he began to seem colder to her, when she saw less of him, and +then less, it seemed to her that she could still appeal to him by her +art and still touch him by her devotion. As her warmth seemed more and +more to threaten his liberty, the impulse to tug at his chain became +harder to resist. His continued, unvarying interest in her acting, his +patience in helping her, in working with her, kept her for some time +from realising how little was left now of the more personal feeling. It +was with sharp surprise, as well as with a blinding rage, that she +discovered one day, beyond possibility of mistake, that she had a rival, +and that Haygarth was only doling out to her the time left over from her +rival. + +It was an Italian, a young girl who had come over to London with an +organ-grinder, and who posed for sculptors, when she could get a +sitting. It was a girl who could barely read and write, an insignificant +creature, a peasant from the Campagna, who had nothing but her good +looks and the distinction of her attitudes. Esther was beside herself +with rage, jealousy, mortification; she loved, and she could not pardon. +There was a scene of unmeasured violence. Haygarth was cruel, almost +with intention; and they parted, Esther feeling as if her life had been +broken sharply in two. + +She was at the last rehearsals of a new play by Haygarth, a play in +which he had tried for once to be tragic in the bare, straightforward +way of the things that really happen. She went through the rehearsals +absent-mindedly, repeating her words, which he had taught her how to +say, but scarcely attending to their meaning. Another thought was at +work behind this mechanical speech, a continual throb of remembrance, +going on monotonously. Her mind was full of other words, which she heard +as if an inner voice were repeating them; her mind made up pictures, +which seemed to pass slowly before her eyes: Haygarth and the other +woman. At the last rehearsal Quellen came round to her, and, ironically +as she thought, complimented her on her performance. She meant, when the +night came, not to fail: that was all. + +When the night came, she said to herself that she was calm, that she +would be able to concentrate herself on her acting and act just as +usual. But, as she stood in the wings, waiting for her moment to +appear, her eyes went straight to the eyes of the other woman, the +Italian model, the organ-grinder's girl, who sat, smiling contentedly, +in the front of a box, turning her head sometimes to speak to some one +behind her, hidden by the curtain. She was dressed in black, with a rose +in her hair: you could have taken her for a lady; she was triumphantly +beautiful. Esther shuddered as if she had been struck; the blood rushed +into her forehead and swelled and beat against her eyes. Then, with an +immense effort, she cleared her mind of everything but the task before +her. Every nerve in her body lived with a separate life as she opened +the door at the back of the stage, and stood, waiting for the applause +to subside, motionless under the eyes of the audience. There was +something in the manner of her entrance that seemed to strike the fatal +note of the play. She had never been more restrained, more effortless; +she seemed scarcely to be acting; only, a magnetic current seemed to +have been set in motion between her and those who were watching her. +They held their breaths, as if they were assisting at a real tragedy; as +if, at any moment, this acting might give place to some horrible, naked +passion of mere nature. The curtain rose and rose again at the end of +the first act; and she stood there, bowing gravely, in what seemed a +deliberate continuation, into that interval, of the sentiment of the +piece. Her dresses were taken off her and put on her, for each act, as +if she had been a lay-figure. Once, in the second act, she looked up at +the box; the Italian woman was smiling emptily, but Haygarth, taking no +notice of her, was leaning forward with his eyes fixed on the stage. +After the third act he sent to Esther's dressing-room a fervent note, +begging to be allowed to see her. She had made his play, he said, and +she had made herself a great actress. She crumpled the note fiercely, +put it carefully into her jewel-box, and refused to see him. In the last +act she had to die, after the manner of the Lady of the Camellias, +waiting for the lover who, in this case, never came. The pathos of her +acting was almost unbearable, and, still, it seemed not like acting at +all. The curtain went down on a great actress. + +Esther went home stunned, only partly realising what she had done, or +how she had done it. She read over the note from Haygarth, +unforgivingly; and the long letter that came from him in the morning. As +reflection returned, through all the confused suffering and excitement, +to her deliberate, automatic nature, in which a great shock had brought +about a kind of release, she realised that all she had wanted, during +most of her life, had at last come about. The note had been struck, she +had responded to it, as she responded to every suggestion, faultlessly; +she knew that she could repeat the note, whenever she wished, now that +she had once found it. There would be no variation to allow for, the +actress was made at last. She might take back her lover, or never see +him again, it would make no difference. It would make no difference, she +repeated, over and over again, weeping uncontrollable tears. + + + + + CHRISTIAN TREVALGA. + + +He had never known what it was to feel the earth solid under his feet. +And now, while he waited for the doctor who was to decide whether he +might still keep his place in the world, and make what he could of all +that remained to him of his life, the past began to come back to him, +blurred a little in his memory, and with whole spaces blotted out of it, +but in a steady return upon himself, as the past, it is said, comes back +to a drowning man at the instant before death. There was that next step +to take, the step that frightened him; was it into another, more +painful, kind of oblivion? He was still an artist, his fingers were +still his own; but had the man all gone out of him, the power to live +for himself, when his fingers were no longer on the keyboard? That was +to be decided; and the past was trying to make its own comment on the +situation. + +Christian Trevalga was born in a little sea-coast village in Cornwall, +and the earliest thing he remembered was the sharp, creaking voice of +the sea-gulls, as they swept past him at the edge of the cliff, high up +over the sea. He was conscious of it, because it hurt him, sooner than +he was conscious of the many voices of the sea, which, all through his +childhood, sang out of the midst of all his dreams. Pain always meant +more to him than pleasure, though, indeed, he was not always sure if the +things that hurt him were not the things he cared for most. + +He was thirty-six now, and he had never gone back to the village since +he left it, at the age of sixteen, to come to London and try to win a +scholarship at the College. His father was a gentleman, who had come +down in the world; drink, gambling, and a low kind of debauchery brought +him down; and when he came back from Spain in a certain year, sobered, +something of a wreck, and married to a slow-witted Spanish woman whom he +had found no one knew where, he had only an old-fashioned, untidy, but +large and rambling, house on a cliff to live in, on the outskirts of a +village, most of which had once belonged to him. Debts and mortgages +left just enough to live on uncomfortably; he was not exacting now, and +the place was good for an idle, helpless man, who was tired of what he +called living, and had taken a late fancy to the open air, and, as soon +as the child was old enough, to the companionship of his child. His wife +sat indoors all day, crouching over the fire, except when the summer +heat was extreme, and then she lay on the grass, under an umbrella. When +they sat at table her fingers were always crumbling the bread into tiny +crumbs, and often, at tea-time especially, she would take a large slice +of bread and mould it into little figures, little nude figures +exquisitely proportioned, with all the modelling of the limbs and +shoulder-blades. Sometimes she would do more than a single figure, a +little well, for instance, and a woman kneeling at the brink, and +leaning over it, with her arms outstretched. She loved the little +figures, and talked about them very seriously, criticising their +defects, not content with the lines that she had got, seeing them with +subtler curves than any she had been able to get. She would like to have +kept some of them, but, though she soaked them in milk, they would +always crumble away as soon as the bread dried. Christian stared at her +when her fingers were busy; he was puzzled, not exactly happy; he +generally ran away and left her for his father, who was not so queer, +half-absorbed, and busy about nothing. + +His father had a great fondness for music, but he could not play any +instrument, only whistle. He whistled elaborate tunes, with really a +kind of skill. There was a good old Broadwood piano in the house, and, +from as long ago as he could remember, Christian had been put on the +music-stool, and told to play what his father whistled. The first time +he was put there he picked out every note correctly, with one finger. +The father caught him up in his exuberant way: 'You will be a great +musician, my boy!' he said. The mother nodded over the fire, and looked +down at her tiny fingers, which could pick out form as the child, it +seemed, could pick out sound. + +Christian lived at the piano, playing all the music that he could find +in the house, and making up a strange, formless music of his own when +there was nothing else to play. His ear, from the first, was faultless; +if a poker fell in the fireplace he could tell you the pitch of the note +which it sounded. He was always listening, and sounds, with him, often +became visible, or at least reflected themselves upon his brain in +contours and patterns. The wind at night, when it flapped at the windows +with the sound of a sail flapping, seemed to surround the house with +realisable forms of sound. The music which he played on the piano made +lines, whenever he thought of it; never pictures. His mother, who did +not seem to herself to know or care anything about music, sometimes +described a little scene which the music he had been playing called up +to her, but he could never see things in that way. When he played the +first ballad of Chopin, for instance, she saw two lovers, sheltering +under trees in a wood, out of the rain which was falling around them, +and she followed their emotions, as the music interpreted them to her. +But he did not understand music like that; what was mathematical in it +he saw as pattern, but the emotion came to him in an almost equally +abstract way, as musical emotion, beginning and ending in the music +itself, and not needing to have any of one's own feelings put into it. +It was the music itself that cried and wept, and tore one; the passions +of abstract sound. + +For, he knew from the beginning, the soul of music is something more +than the soul of humanity expressing itself in melody, and the life of +music something more than an audible dramatisation of human life. +Beethoven, let us say, is angry with the world, Schumann dreams about +the roots of a flower; and they sit down to make music under that +impulse. Well, the anger will be there, and the flower coming up out of +the earth, but the music itself will have forgotten both the dream and +the feeling, the moment it begins to speak articulately in sound. It +will have its own message, as well as its own language, and you will not +be able to write down that message in words, any more than your words +can be translated into that language. + +And so Christian, with his divination of what music really means, was +never able to attach any expressible meaning to the pieces he played, +and became tongue-tied if any one asked him questions about them. The +emotion of the music, the idea, the feeling there, that was what moved +him; and his own personal feelings, apart from some form of music which +might translate them into a region where he could recognise them with +interest, came to mean less and less to him, until he seemed hardly to +have any personal feelings at all. It was natural to him to be kind, +people liked him and often imagined that he responded to their liking; +but, at many periods of his life, accused him of gross unkindness, or +even treachery, and he had not been conscious of the affection or of its +betrayal. + +And outward things, too, as well as people, meant very little to him, +and meant less and less as time went on. What he saw, when he went for +long walks with his father, had vanished from his memory before he had +returned to the house; it was as if he had been walking through +underground passages, with only a little faint light on the roadway in +front of his feet. He knew all the sea-cries, but never seemed to notice +the movement, the colour, of the sea; the sunsets over the sea left him +indifferent; he looked, with the others, but said nothing, and seemed to +see nothing. + +When he had decided that he was going to be a great pianist, and this +was when he was about ten, he had settled down to the hard work which +that meant, with an enthusiasm so profound and tenacious that it looked +like stolidity. They gave him a room at the top of the house, where he +could practise without disturbing anybody, and he shut himself in there, +until he was dragged out unwillingly to his meals, grudging the time +when he had to sit quiet at the table. 'What are you always thinking +about?' they would ask him, as he frowned silently over his food; but +he was thinking about nothing, he wanted to get back to the bar in the +middle of which he had been interrupted. The cadence seemed to hang in +space, swinging like a spider, and unable to catch the cornice on the +other wall. + +He was sixteen when he went up to London for the first time, and it had +been arranged that he should take lodgings in Bloomsbury, and try to +hear some of the great pianists, and, if possible, get some help +privately, before he tried for the scholarship. He got a bedroom at the +top of a house in Coptic Street, and hired a piano, which took up most +of the space left over by the bed; and he began to go to the shilling +seats at concerts, especially when there was any piano music to be +heard. Just then several of the most famous pianists were in London; he +went to hear them, at first with a horrible apprehension, and then more +boldly, as he saw what could be learned from them, and yet seemed to +fancy that they, too, might have found something to learn from him. He +heard their thunders, and laughed: that was not his idea of the +instrument, a thing, in their hands, that could overtop an orchestra +playing fortissimo. He saw these athletes fight with the poor instrument +as if they fought with a dangerous wild beast. Some used it as an anvil +to hammer sparks out of it; the chords rang and rebounded as if iron had +struck iron; it was the new art of attack, and piano-makers were +strengthening their defences daily. Some displayed an incredible +agility, and invented all sorts of ugly difficulties, in order to +overcome them; they reminded him of the dancing girls he had read of, +who used, at Roman feasts, to leap head-foremost into the midst of a +circle of sword-blades, and dance there on their hands, and leap out +again. He knew that he could not do any of these things, as he heard +them done; but was that really the way to treat music, or the way to +treat the piano? + + * * * * * + +Christian Trevalga remembered all this as he sat waiting for the doctor +in his rooms in Piccadilly; and it came to him like the first act of a +play which he was still watching, without knowing how the curtain was to +come down. That year in London, the loneliness, poverty, labour of it; +the great day of the competition, when he played behind the curtain, and +Rubinstein, sitting among the professors, silenced every hesitation with +his strong approval; the three years of hard daily work, the painful +perfecting of everything that he had sketched out for himself; life, as +he had lived it, a queer, silent, sullen, not unattractive boy, among +the students in whom he took so little interest; all this passed before +him in a single flash of memory. He had gone abroad, at the expense of +the college; had travelled in Germany and Austria; had extorted the +admiration of Brahms, who had said, 'I hate what you play, and I hate +how you play it, but you play the piano!' Tschaikowsky was in Vienna; he +had taken a warm personal liking to the unresponsive young Englishman, +who seemed to be always frowning, and looking at you distrustfully from +under his dark, overhanging eyebrows. It was not to the musician that he +was unresponsive, as he was to the musician in Brahms, the German doctor +of music in spectacles, that peered out of those learned, intellectual +scores. He felt Tschaikowsky with his nerves, all that suffering music +without silences, never still and happy, like most other music, at all +events sometimes. But the man, when he walked arm in arm with him, +seemed excessive, a kind of uneasy responsibility. + +Then he had come back to London, lived and worked there, given concerts, +made his fame in the world, seen himself triumph, watching his own +career with an absolute certainty of being able to do what he wanted. +And all the time he had been, as he was that day at the college when he +won the scholarship, playing behind a curtain. He knew that on the other +side of the curtain was the world, with many things to do besides +listening to him, though he could arrest it when he liked, and make it +listen; then it went on its way again, and the other things continued to +occupy it. Well, for him, where were those other things? They hardly +existed. The great men who had given him their friendship, all the +people who came to him because they admired him, those who came to him +because his playing seemed to speak to them from somewhere inside their +own hearts, in the little voices of their blood, the women who, as it +seemed, loved him: why was it that he could not be as they were, respond +to them in their own language, which was that of humanity itself, +admire, like, love them back? + +He had tried to find himself, to become real, by falling in love. Women +had not found it difficult to fall in love with him; his reticence, his +enigmatical reluctance to speak out, the sympathetic sullenness of his +face, a certain painful sensibility which shot like distressed nerves +across his cheeks and forehead and tugged at the restless corners of his +eyelids, seemed to attract them as to something which they could perhaps +find out, and then soothe, and put to rest. He had no morals, and was +too indifferent to refuse much that was offered to him. When it was a +simple adventure of the flesh, he accepted it simply, and, without +knowing it, won the reputation of being both sensual and hard-hearted, a +sort of coldly passionate creature, that promised everything in the +sincerity of one moment, and broke every promise in the sincerity of the +next. He did not go out of his way to find a woman who did not seem to +suggest herself to him; and when he mistook what was, perhaps, real love +for something else, all he wanted, he was genuinely sorry, and, at least +once, almost fancied that he was going to answer in key at last. + +He had met Rana Vaughan at the college, where she was trying, +impossibly, to learn the piano. She had the artist's soul, and long, +white fingers, which seemed eager to touch the ivory and ebony of the +instrument; only, the soul and the fingers never could agree among +themselves, there was some stoppage of the electric current between +them. The piano never responded to her, but she knew, better than all +the professors, how it should respond; and Trevalga's playing was the +only playing she had ever liked. She adored him because he could do what +she wanted, above all things, to do; and it was with almost a vicarious +ecstasy that she listened to him. She admired, pitied, wanted to help +him; exulted in him, became his comrade, perhaps (he wondered?) loved +him, or would have loved him if he would have let her. He, who could +talk to no one else, could talk to her; and she brought him a warmth and +reality of life which he had never known. In her, for a time, he seemed +to touch real things; and, for a time, the experience quickened him. + +She cared intensely for the one thing he cared for, and not less +intensely (and here was the wonder to him) for all the other things that +existed outside his interests. For her, life was everything, and +everything was a part of life. She would have given everything she had +to become a great player; but, if you found your way down to the root of +things, her feeling for music was neither more nor less than her feeling +for every form of art, and her feeling for art, which was unerring, was +the same thing as her feeling for skating or dancing. She got as much +pleasure from bending a supple binding in her hand as from reading the +poems inside it. She made no selections in life, beyond picking out all +the beautiful and pleasant things, whatever they might be. Trevalga +studied her with amazement; he felt withered, shrivelled up, in body and +soul, beside her magnificent acceptance of the world; she vitalised him, +drew him away from himself; and he feared her. He feared women. + +To live with a woman, thought Christian, in the same house, the same +room with her, is as if the keeper were condemned to live by day and +sleep by night in the wild beast's cage. It is to be on one's guard at +every minute, to apprehend always the claws behind the caressing +softness of their padded coverings, to be continually ready to amuse +one's dangerous slave, with one's life for the forfeit. The strain of +it, the trial to the nerves, the temper! it was not to be thought of +calmly. He looked around him, and saw all the other keepers of these +ferocious, uncertain creatures, wearing out their lives in the exciting +companionship; and a dread of women took the place of his luxurious +indifference, as he imagined himself actually playing the part, too. + +It would be, he saw, a conflict of egoisms, and he could not afford to +risk his own. Woman, as he saw her, is the beast of prey: rapacious of +affection, time, money, all the flesh and all the soul, one's nerves, +one's attention, pleasure, duty, art itself! She is the rival of the +idea, and she never pardons. She requires the sacrifice of the whole +man; nothing less will satisfy her; and, to love a woman is, for an +artist, to change one's religion. + +Christian had tried honestly to explain himself to Rana, but the girl +would not understand him. She cared for his art as much as he did; she +would never come between him and his art; she would hate him if he +preferred her to his art. She said all that, sincerely; but he shook his +head obstinately, a little sadly, knowing that for him possible things +were impossible. The mere presence of any one he cared for, all the more +if he cared for her a great deal, disturbed him, upset his life. And he +must keep his life intact while he might. + +After all, he considered, what was he? Caged already, for another kind +of slavery, the prisoner of his own fingers, as they worked, +independently of himself, mechanically, doing their so many miles of +promenade a day over the piano. He was such another as the equilibrist +whirling around his fixed bar, or swinging from trapeze to trapeze in +the air; a specialist in a particular kind of muscular movement, which +in him communicated itself to the mechanism of an instrument of sound. +For ever on the trapeze of sound, his life, the life of his reputation, +risked whenever he went through his performance before the public; yes, +he was only a kind of acrobat, doing tricks with his fingers. + +As he looked fairly at all his imprisonments, dreading the worst, the no +longer solitary imprisonment, he realised that he had no outlook, that +he would never be able to look through the bars. 'I have only felt,' he +said to himself, 'I have never thought, and I have felt only one thing +very acutely, music.' He was almost frightened as he saw, in a flash, +within that narrow limits this one interest, this exercise of one +instinct, caged him. Other men were curious about many things; the +world existed for them, not only as substance, but as a matter for +thought; there were all the destinies of nations and of mankind to think +about, and he had never thought about them. He wondered what people +meant when they spoke about general interests. Were they a kind of +safety valve, for the lack of which he was bound, sooner or later, to +come to grief? + +Occupied more and more nervously with himself, shutting himself up for +days and nights, almost without food, in an agony of attack on some +difficulty hardly tangible enough to be put into words, he let Rana +Vaughan drift away from him, with an unavowed sense of failure, of +having lost something which he could not bring himself to take, and +which might yet have saved him. She parted from him, at the last, +angrily, her pity worn out, her admiration stained with contempt. He +remembered the look of her face, flushed, indignant, as, withdrawn now +wholly into herself, she said good-bye for the last time. With her went +his last hold on the world. + +Gradually sound began to take hold of him, like a slave who has overcome +his master. The sensation of sound presented itself to him continually, +not in the form of memory, nor as the suggestion of a composition, but +in a disquieting way, like some invisible companion, always at one's +side, whispering into one's ears. He was not always able to distinguish +between what he actually heard, a noise in the street, for instance, +which came to him for the most part with the suggestion of a cadence, +which his ear completed as if it had been the first note of a well-known +tune, and what he seemed to hear, through noise or silence, in some +region outside reality. 'So long as I can distinguish,' he said to +himself, 'between the one and the other, I am safe; the danger will be +when they become indistinguishable.' + +He had realised a certain danger, always. He felt that he was a piece of +mechanism which was not absolutely to be trusted. There had been +something wrong from the beginning; the works did not wear evenly; one +part or another was bound to use itself up before its time; and then, +well, not even a shock would be needed to set everything out of order: +it was only a question of time. + +He began to watch himself more closely, to watch for the enemy; and now +a kind of expectant uneasiness came of itself to suggest otherwise +imperceptible pains and troubles of sound. He was always listening, with +a frequent precipitation of pulses, to nothing, to something about to +come, to the fancy of music. The days dragged, and yet some feverish +idea seemed always to be hurrying him along; he was restless whenever +his fingers were not on the keys of the piano. + +One day, at a concert, while he was playing one of Chopin's studies, +something in the curve of the music, which he had always seen as a wavy +line, going on indefinitely in space, spreading itself out elastically, +but without ever forming a pattern, seemed to become almost externally +visible, just above the level of the strings on the open top of the +piano. It was like grey smoke, forming and unforming as if it boiled up +softly out of the pit where the wires were coiled up. It was so distinct +that he shut his eyes for a moment, to see if it would be there when he +opened them again. It was still there, getting darker in colour, and +more distinct. He looked out of the corner of his eyes, to see if the +people sitting near him had noticed anything; but the people sitting +near him had their eyes fixed on his fingers, from which he seemed, as +usual, to be quite detached; they evidently saw nothing. He smiled to +himself, half apologetically; the piece had come to an end, and he was +bowing to the applause; he walked boldly off the platform. + +When he came back to play again, he looked nervously at the top of the +piano, but there was nothing to be seen. He sat down, and bent over the +keyboard, and his hands began to run to and fro softly. When he looked +up he saw what he was playing as clearly as he could have seen the notes +if they had been there: but the wavy line was upright now, and drifted +upwards swiftly, vanishing at a certain point; it swayed to and fro like +a snake beating time to the music of the snake-charmer; and he looked at +it as if it understood him, and nodded his head to it, to show that he +understood. By this time it seemed to him quite natural, and he forgot +that there had ever been a time when he had not seen the music like +that. + +On his way home after the concert, it occurred to him that something +unusual had happened, but he could not remember what it was. He dined by +himself, and after dinner went out into the streets, and walked in the +midst of people, as he liked to do, that he might take hold of something +real. But he could not concentrate his mind, he seemed somehow to be +slipping away from himself, dissolving into an uneasy vacancy. The +people did not seem, very real that night: he stopped for a long time at +the corner of the pavement, near Piccadilly Circus, and tried to see +what was going on around him. It was quite useless. The confusing +lights, the crush and hurry of figures wrapped in dark clothes, the +noise of the horses' hoofs striking the stones, the shouts of +omnibus-conductors and newsboys, all the surge and struggle of horrible +exterior forces, seeming to be tightened up into an inextricable +disorder, but pushing out with a hundred arms this way and that, making +some sort of headway against the opposition of things, brought over him +a complete bewilderment. 'I can see no reason,' he said to himself, 'why +I am here rather than there, why these atoms which know one another so +little, or have lost some recognition of themselves, should coalesce in +this particular body, standing still where all is in movement.' He +looked at the horses pulled back roughly at a cross-current, and tossing +back their heads as the hind-legs grew convulsively rigid, and he felt +sorry for them, and wondered why the driver was driving them and why +they were not driving the driver. Some one ran violently against him, +and apologised. The shock did nothing to wake him up; he noticed it, +waited for the effect, and was surprised that no effect came. +'Decidedly,' he said to himself, 'I am losing my sense of material +things, for, slight as it always has been, I have always resented being +pushed into the mud.' + +He went home, and opened the piano; but he was afraid of it, and shut it +up, and went to bed. He slept well, but he dreamed that he was on the +island of Portland, among the convicts; there was a woman with him, who +seemed to be Rana, and they had tea at a farm, high up among trees; and +then he went away and forgot her, and found himself in a lonely place +where there were a number of cucumber-frames on the ground, and several +convicts were laid out asleep in each, half-naked, and packed together +head to heel. Then he remembered the woman, and went back to the farm +where he had left her; but she was no longer there, she had gone to look +for him, and he thought she must have lost her way among the convicts. +He was greatly distressed, but he found he was walking with her along +Piccadilly, and she told him that she had been waiting for him a long +time in an omnibus which had stopped at the corner of the Circus. + +When he awoke in the morning he was relieved to find that his brain +seemed to have become quite clear, surprisingly clear, as if the fog +that had been gathering about him had lifted; and he sat at the piano +playing for many hours, and when he had finished playing he heard still +more ravishing sounds in the air, a music which was like what Chopin +might have written in Paradise. Tears of delight came into his eyes; he +sat listening in an ecstasy. Now everything had come right; all the +trouble and confusion had gone out of the sounds; they no longer teased +him with their muttering, coming and going elusively; they were all +about him, they flooded the air, they were like pure joy, speaking at +last its own language. + +And for days after that he went about with a strange, secret smile on +his face, more than reconciled to his new companion, enamoured of him; +and at last he could keep the secret no longer, but had to tell every +one he met of this miracle that now went with him wherever he went. When +he stopped listening, and played the music that he had known before this +new music spoke to him, he seemed to play better than he had ever played +before. Only, when he had stopped playing, he sank back sleepily into +his ecstatic oblivion, not distinguishing between those he talked with +in his dream (the Chopin out of Paradise) and the few remaining friends, +who now came about him pityingly, and tried to do what they could for +him. Their coming awakened him a little; he awoke enough to realise that +they thought him mad; and it was with a very lucid fear that he waited +now for the doctor who was to decide finally whether he might still keep +his place in the world. + + * * * * * + +Five years later, when Christian Trevalga died in the asylum at ----, +some loose scraps of paper were found, on which he had jotted down a few +disconnected thoughts about music. They are, perhaps, worth giving, for +they are more explicit than he ever cared, or was able, to be when he +was quite sane; and, fragmentary as they are, may help to complete one's +picture of the man. + +'It has been revealed to me that there is but one art, but many +languages through which men speak it. When the angels talk among +themselves, their speech is art; for they do not talk as men do, to +discuss matters or to relate facts, but to express either love or +wisdom. It is partly the beauty of their voices which causes whatever +they say to assume a form of beauty. Music comes nearer than any other +of the human languages to the sound of these angelic voices. But +painting is also a language, and sculpture, and poetry; only these have +more of the atmosphere of the earth about them, and are not so clear. I +have heard pictures which spoke to me melodiously, and I have listened +to the faultless rhythm of statues; but it was as an Englishman who +knows French and Italian quite well follows a conversation in those +languages. He has to substitute one sound for another in his mind. + + * * * * * + +'When I am playing the piano I am always afraid of hurting a sound. I +believe that sounds are living beings, flying about us like motes in the +air, and that they suffer if we clutch them roughly. Have you ever tried +to catch a butterfly without brushing the dust off its wings? Every time +I press a note I feel as if I were doing that, and it is an agony to +me. I am certain that I have hurt fewer sounds than any other pianist. + + * * * * * + +'Chopin's music screams under its breath, like a patient they are +operating upon in the hospital. There are flowers on the pillow, great +sickly pungent flowers, and he draws in their perfume with the same +breath that is jarred down below by the scraping sound of the little +saw. + + * * * * * + +'Chopin always treats the piano like a gentleman. He never gives it a +note that it cannot sing, he is always scrupulous towards its whims, he +indulges it like a spoilt child. Schumann comes back cloudily out of a +dream, and sets down the notes as he heard them, upon paper; then he +leaves the piano to make the best of it. + + * * * * * + +'Most modern music is a beggar for pity. The musician tries to show us +how he has suffered, and how hopeless he is. He sets his toothache and +his heartache to music, putting those sufferings into the music, +without remembering that sounds have their own agonies, which alone they +can express in a perfect manner. He forgets also that joy is the natural +speech of music, and that when he comes to sound for the expression of +his joy he is asking it to sing out of its own heart. + + * * * * * + +'I remember I once heard a Siamese band playing on board the yacht of +the King of Siam. It played its own music, of which I could make +nothing; and also passages from our operas. How can the same ears hear +in two different ways? And how far behind these Eastern musicians are +we, who cannot even understand their music when it is played to us! Some +day some one will dig down to the roots, and turn up music as it is +before it is tamed to the scale. + + * * * * * + +'It is strange, I never used to think about music: I accepted it by an +act of faith; I was too near it to look all round it. But lately, I do +not know why, I have been forced to think out many of the things which +I used to know without thinking. It all comes to the same thing in the +end; one form or another of knowledge; and does it matter if I can +explain it to you or not?' + + + + + THE CHILDHOOD OF LUCY NEWCOME. + + +The house which Lucy Newcome remembered as her home, the only home she +ever had, was a small house, hardly more than a cottage, with a little, +neat garden in front of it, and a large, untidy garden at the back. +There was a low wooden palisade cutting it off from the road, which, in +that remote suburb of the great town, had almost the appearance of a +road in the country. The house had two windows, one on each side of the +door, and above that three more windows, and attics above that. The +windows on each side of the door were the windows of the two +sitting-rooms; the kitchen, with its stone floor, its shining rows of +brass things around the walls, its great dresser, was at the back. It +was through the kitchen that you found your way into the big garden, +where the grass was always long and weedy and ill-kept, and so all the +pleasanter for lying on; and where there were a few alder-trees, a +pear-tree on which the pears never seemed to thrive, for it was quite +close to Lucy's bedroom window, a flower-bed along the wall, and a +great, old sundial, which Lucy used to ponder over when the shadows came +and stretched out their long fingers across it. The garden, when she +thinks of it now, comes to her often as she saw it one warm Sunday +evening, walking to and fro there beside her mother, who was saying how +good it was to be well again, or better: this was not long before she +died; and Lucy had said to herself, What a dear little mother I have, +and how young, and small, and pretty she looks in that lilac bodice with +the bright belt round the waist! Lucy had been as tall as her mother +when she was ten, and at twelve she could look down on her quite +protectingly. + +Her father she but rarely saw; but it was her father whom she +worshipped, whom she was taught to worship. The whole house, she, her +mother, and Linda, the servant, who was more friend than servant (for +she took no wages, and when she wanted anything, asked for it), all +existed for the sake of that wonderful, impracticable father of hers; it +was for him they starved, it was to him they looked for the great future +which they believed in so implicitly, but scarcely knew in what shape to +look for. She knew that he had come of gentlefolk, in another county, +that he had been meant for the Church, and, after some vague misfortune +at Cambridge, had married her mother, who was but seventeen, and of a +class beneath him, against the will of his relations, who had cast him +off just as, at twenty-one, he had come into a meagre allowance from the +will of his grandfather. He had been the last of eleven children, born +when his mother was fifty years of age, and he had inherited the +listless temperament of a dwindling stock. He had never been able to do +anything seriously, or even to make up his mind quite what great thing +he was going to do. First he had found a small clerkship, then he had +dropped casually upon the post which he was to hold almost to the time +of his death, as secretary to some Assurance Society, whose money it was +his business to collect. He did the work mechanically; at first, +competently enough; but his heart was in other things. Lucy was never +sure whether it was the great picture he was engaged upon, or the great +book, that was to make all the difference in their fortunes. She never +doubted his power to do anything he liked; and it was one of her +privileges sometimes to be allowed to sit in his room (the sitting-room +on the left of the door, where it was always warmer and more comfortable +than anywhere else in the house), watching him at his paints or his +manuscripts, with great serious eyes that sometimes seemed to disquiet +him a little; and then she would be told to run away and not worry +mother. + +The little mother, too, she saw less of than children mostly see of +their mothers; for her mother was never quite well, and she would so +often be told: 'You must be quiet now, and not go into your mother's +room, for she has one of her headaches,' that she gradually accustomed +herself to do without anybody's company, and then she would sit all +alone, or with her doll, who was called Arabella, to whom she would +chatter for hours together, in a low and familiar voice, making all +manner of confidences to her, and telling her all manner of stories. +Sometimes she would talk to Linda instead, sitting on the corner of the +kitchen fender; but Linda was not so good a listener, and she had a way +of going into the scullery, and turning on a noisy stream of water, just +at what ought to have been the most absorbing moment of the narrative. + +Lucy was a curious child, one of those children of whom nurses are +accustomed to say that they will not make old bones. She was always a +little pale, and she would walk in her sleep; and would spend whole +hours almost without moving, looking vaguely and fixedly into the air: +children ought not to dream like that! She did not know, herself, very +often, what she was dreaming about; it seemed to her natural to sit for +hours doing nothing. + +Often, however, she knew quite well what she was dreaming about; and +first of all she was dreaming about herself. Really, she would explain +if you asked her, she did not belong to her parents at all; she belonged +to the fairies; she was a princess; there was another, a great mother, +who would come some day and claim her. And this consciousness of being +really a princess was one of the joys of her imagination. She had +composed all the circumstances of her state, many times over, indeed, +and always in a different way. It was the heightening she gave to what +her mother had taught her: that she was of a better stock than the other +children who lived in the other small houses all round, and must not +play with them, or accept them as equals. That was to be her consolation +if she had to do without many of the things she wanted, and to be +shabbily dressed (out of old things of her mother's, turned and cut and +pieced together), while perhaps some of those other children, who were +not her equals, had new dresses. + +And then she would make up stories about the people she knew, the ladies +to whom she paid a very shifting devotion, very sincere while it lasted. +One of her odd fancies was to go into the graveyard which surrounded the +church, and to play about in the grass there, or, more often, gather +flowers and leaves, and carry them to a low tomb, and sit there, weaving +them into garlands. These garlands she used to offer to the ladies whose +faces she liked, as they passed in and out of the church. The strange +little girl who sat among the graves, weaving garlands, and who would +run up to them so shyly, and with so serious a smile, offering them her +flowers, seemed to these ladies rather a disquieting little person, as +if she, like her flowers, had a churchyard air about her. + +Blonde, tall, slim, delicately-complexioned, with blue eyes and a +wavering, somewhat sensuous mouth, the child took after her father; and +he used to say of her sometimes, half whimsically, that she was bound to +be like him altogether, bound to go to the bad. The big, brilliant man, +who had made so winning a failure of life, so popular always, and the +centre of a little ring of intellectual people, used sometimes to let +her stay in the room of an evening, while he and his friends drank their +ale and smoked pipes and talked their atheistical philosophy. These +friends of her father used to pet her, because she was pretty; and it +was one of them who paid her the first compliment she ever had, +comparing her face to a face in a picture. She had never heard of the +picture, but she was immensely flattered; for she did not think a +painter would ever paint any one who was not very pretty. She listened +to their conversation, much of which she could not understand, as if she +understood every word of it; and she wondered very much at some of the +things they said. Her mother was a Catholic, and, though religion was +rarely referred to, had taught her some little prayers; and it puzzled +her that all this could be true, and yet that clever people should have +doubts of it. She had always learned that cleverness (book-learning, or +any disinterested journeying of the intellect) was the one important +thing in the world. Her father was clever: that was why everything must +bow to him. There must be something in it, then, if these clever people, +if her father himself, doubted of God, of heaven and hell, of the good +ordering of this world. And she announced one day to the pious servant, +who had told her that God sees everything, that when she was older she +meant to get the better of God, by building a room all walls and no +windows, within which she would be good or bad as she pleased, without +his seeing her. + +Lucy was never sent to school, like most children; that was partly +because they were very poor, but more because her father had always +intended to teach her himself, on a new and liberal scheme of education, +which seemed to him better than the education you get in schools. And +sometimes, for as much as a few weeks together, he would set her lessons +day by day, and be excessively severe with her, not permitting her to +make a single slip in anything he had given her to learn. He would even +punish her sometimes, if she still failed to learn some lesson +perfectly; and that seemed to her a mortal indignity; so that one day +she rushed out into the garden, and climbed up into a tree, and then +called out, tremulously but triumphantly: 'If you promise not to punish +me, I'll come down; but if you don't, I'll throw myself down!' + +She always disliked learning lessons, and those fits of scrupulousness +on his part were her great dread. They did not occur often; and between +whiles he was very lenient, ready to get out of the trouble of teaching +her on the slightest excuse; only too glad if she did not bother him by +coming to say her lessons. Both were quite happy then; she to be allowed +to sit in his room with her lesson-book on her knees, dreaming; he not +to be hindered in the new sketch he was making or the notes he was +preparing for that great book of the future, perhaps out of one of those +old, calf-covered books which he used to bring back from second-hand +shops in the town, and which Lucy used to admire for their ancient +raggedness, as they stood in shelves round the room, brown and +broken-backed. + +And then if she had not her geography to learn by heart (those lists of +capes and rivers and the population of countries, which she could indeed +learn by heart, but which represented nothing to her of the actual world +itself) she had of course all the more time for her own reading. When +she had outgrown that old fancy about the fairies, and about being a +princess, she cared nothing for stories of adventure; but little for the +material wonders of the 'Arabian Nights'; somewhat more for the +'Pilgrim's Progress,' in which she always lingered over that passage of +the good people through the bright follies of Vanity Fair; but most of +all for certain quiet stories of lovers, in which there was no +improbable incident, and no too fantastical extravagance of passion; but +a quiet probable fidelity, plenty of troubles, and of course a wedding +at the end. One book, 'The Story of Mrs. Jardine,' she was never tired +of reading; and she liked almost all the stories in the bound volumes of +the 'Argosy.' Then there was a little book of poetical selections; she +never could remember the name of it afterwards; and there were the songs +of Thomas Moore, and, above all, there was Mrs. Hemans. Those gentle and +lady-like poems 'of the affections,' with their nice sentiments, the +faded ribbons of their second-hand romance, seemed to the child like a +beautiful glimpse into the real, tender, not too passionate world, where +men and women loved magnanimously, and had heroic sufferings, and died, +perhaps, but for a great love, or a great cause, and always nobly. She +thought that the ways of the world blossomed naturally into Casabiancas +and Gertrudes and Imeldas, who were faithful to death, and came into +their inheritance of love or glory beyond the grave. She used to wonder +if she, too, like Costanza, had a 'pale Madonna brow'; and she wished +nothing more fervently than to be like those saintly and affectionate +creatures, always so beautiful, and so often (what did it matter?) +unfortunate, who took poison from the lips of their lovers, and served +God in prison, and came back afterwards, spirits, out of the angelical +rapture of heaven, to be as some rare music, or subtle perfume, in the +souls of those who had loved them. Many of these poems were about death, +and it seemed natural to her, at that time, to think much about death, +which she conceived as a quite peaceful thing, coming to you invisibly +out of the sky, and which she never associated with the pale faces and +more difficult breathing of those about her. She had never known her +mother to be quite well; and when, on her twelfth birthday, her mother +called her into her room, where she lay in bed now so often, and talked +to her more solemnly than she had ever talked before, saying that if she +became very ill, too ill to get up at all, Lucy was to look after her +father as carefully as she herself had looked after him, always to look +after him, and never let him want for anything; even then it did not +seem to the child that this meant more than a little more illness; and +it was so natural for people to be ill. + +And so, after all, the end came almost suddenly; and the first great +event of her childhood took her by surprise. The gentle, suffering +woman had been failing for many months, and when, one afternoon in early +March, the doctor told her to take to her bed at once, life seemed to +ebb out of her daily, with an almost visible haste to be gone. Whenever +she was allowed to come in, Lucy would curl herself up on the foot of +the bed, never taking her eyes off the face of the dying woman, who was +for the most part unconscious, muttering unintelligible words sometimes, +in a hoarse voice, broken by coughs, and breathing, all the time, in +great, heavy breaths, which made a rattle in her throat. When she was in +the next room, Lucy could hear this monotonous sound going on, almost as +plainly as in the room itself. It was that sound that frightened her, +more than anything; for, when she was sitting on the bed, watching the +face lying among the pillows (drawn, and glazed with a curious flush, as +it was), it seemed, after all, only as if her mother was very, very ill, +and as if she might get better, for the lips were still red, and sucked +in readily all the spoonsful of calvesfoot jelly, and brandy and water, +which were really just keeping her alive from hour to hour. On Friday +night, in the middle of the night, as Lucy was sleeping quietly, she +felt, in her dream, as it seemed to her, two lips touch her cheek, and, +starting awake, saw her father standing by the bedside. He told her to +get up, put on some of her things, and come quietly into the next room. +She crept in, huddled up in a shawl, very pale and trembling, and it +seemed to her that her mother must be a little better, for she drew her +breath more slowly and not quite so loudly. One arm was lying outside +the clothes, and every now and then this arm would raise itself up, and +the hand would reach out, blindly, until the nurse, or her father, took +it and laid it back gently in its place. They told her to kiss her +mother, and she kissed her, crying very much, but her mother did not +kiss her, or open her eyes; and as she touched her hair, which was +coming out from under her cap, she felt that it was all damp, but the +lips were quite dry and warm. Then they told her to go back to bed, but +she clung to the foot of the bed, and refused to go, and the nurse said, +'I think she may stay.' The tears were running down both her cheeks, +but she did not move, or take her eyes off the face on the pillow. It +was very white now, and once or twice the mouth opened with a slight +gasp; once the face twitched, and half turned on the pillow; she had to +wait before the next breath came; then it paused again; then, with an +effort, there was another breath; then a long pause, a very slow breath, +and no more. She was led round to kiss her mother again on the forehead, +which was quite warm; but she knew that her mother was dead, and she +sobbed wildly, inconsolably, as they led her back to her own room, +where, after they had left her, and she could hear them moving quietly +about the house, she lay in bed trying to think, trying not to think, +wondering what it was that had really happened, and if things would all +be different now. + +And with her mother's death it seemed as if her own dream-life had come +suddenly to an end, and a new, more desolate, more practical life had +begun, out of which she could not look any great distance. After the +black darkness of those first few days; the coming of the undertakers, +the hammering down of the coffin, the slow drive to the graveside, the +wreath of white flowers which she shed, white flower by white flower, +upon the shining case of wood lying at the bottom of a great pit, in +which her mother was to be covered up to stay there for ever; after +those first days of merely dull misery, broken by a few wild outbursts +of tears, she accepted this new life into which she had come, as she +accepted the black clothes which Linda the servant, now more a friend +than ever, had had made for her. Her father could no longer bear to +sleep in the room in which his wife had died, so Lucy gave up her own +room to him, and moved into the room that had been her mother's; and it +seemed to bring her closer to her mother to sleep there. She thought of +her mother very often, and very sadly, but the remembrance of those +almost last words to her, those solemn words on her twelfth birthday, +that she was to look after her father as her mother had looked after +him, and never let him want for anything, helped her to meet every day +bravely, because every day brought some definite thing for her to do. +She felt years and years older, and quietly ready for whatever was now +likely to happen. + +For a little while she saw more of her father, for they had their +mid-day meal together now, and she used to come and sit at the table +when he was having his nine o'clock meat supper, with which he had +always indulged himself, even when there was very little in the house +for the others. He still took it, and his claret with it, which the +doctor had ordered him to take; but he took it with scantier and +scantier appetite; talking less over his wine, and falling into a +strange and brooding listlessness. During his wife's illness he had let +his affairs drift; and the society of which he was the secretary had +overlooked it, as far as they could, on account of his trouble. But now +he attended to his duties less than ever; and he was reminded, a little +sharply, that things could not go on like this much longer. He took no +heed of the warning, though the duns were beginning to gather about +him. When there was a ring at the door, Lucy used to squeeze up against +the window to see who it was; and if it was one of those troublesome +people whom she soon got to know by sight, she would go to the door +herself, and tell them that they could not see her father, and explain +to them, in her grave, childish way, that it was no use coming to her +father for money, because he had no money just then but he would have +some at quarter-day, and they might call again then. Sometimes the men +tried to push past her into the hall, but she would never let them; her +father was not in, or he was very unwell, and no one could see him; and +she spoke so calmly and so decidedly that they always finished by going +away. If they swore at her, or said horrid things about her father, she +did not mind much. It did not surprise her that such dreadful people +used dreadful language. + +In telling the duns that her father was very unwell, she was not always +inventing. For a long time there had been something vaguely the matter +with him, and ever since her mother's death he had sickened visibly, +and nothing would rouse him from his pale and cheerless decrepitude. He +would lie in bed till four, and then come downstairs and sit by the +fireplace, smoking his pipe in silence, doing nothing, neither reading, +nor writing, nor sketching. All his interest in life seemed to have gone +out together; his very hopes had been taken from him, and without those +fantastic hopes he was but the shadow of himself. It scarcely roused him +when the directors of his society wrote to him that they would require +his services no longer. When they sent a man to unscrew the brass plate +on the door, on which there were the name of the society and the amount +of its capital, he went outside and stood in the garden while it was +being done. Then he gave the man a shilling for his trouble. + +Soon after that, he refused to eat or get up, and a great terror came +over Lucy lest he, too, should die; and now there was no money in the +house, and the duns still knocked at the door. She begged him to let her +write to his relations, but he refused flatly, saying that they would +not receive her mother, and he would never see them, or take a penny of +their money as long as he lived. One day a cab drove up to the door, and +a hard-featured woman got out of it. Lucy, looking out of the bedroom +window, recognised her aunt, Miss Marsden, her mother's eldest sister, +whom she had only seen at the funeral, and to whose grim face and rigid +figure she had already taken a dislike. It appeared that Linda, unknown +to them, had written to tell her into what desperate straits they had +fallen; and her severe sense of duty had brought her to their help. + +And the aunt was certainly good to them in her stern, unkindly way. The +first thing she did was to send for a doctor, who shook his head very +gravely when he had examined the patient; and spoke of foreign travel, +and other impossible, expensive remedies. That was the first time that +Lucy ever began to long for money, or to realise exactly what money +meant. It might mean life or death, she saw now. + +Her father now lay mostly in bed, very weak and quiet, and mostly in +silence; and whether his eyes were closed or open, he seemed to be +thinking, always thinking. He liked Lucy to come and sit by him; but if +she chattered much he would stop her, after a while, and say that he was +tired, and she must be quiet. And then sometimes he would talk to her, +in his vague, disconnected way, about her mother, and of how they had +met, and had found hard times together a great happiness; and he would +look at her with an almost impersonal scrutiny, and say: 'I think you +will live happily, not with the happiness that we had, for you will +never love as we loved, but you will find it easy to like people, and +many people will find it easy to like you; and if you have troubles they +will weigh on you lightly, for you will live always in the day, that is, +without too much memory of the day that was, or too much thought of the +day that will be to-morrow.' And once he said: 'I hardly know why it is +I feel so little anxiety about your future. I seem somehow to know that +you will always find people to look after you. I don't know why they +should, I don't know why they should.' And then he added, after a pause, +looking at her a little sadly, 'You will never love nor be loved +passionately, but you have a face that will seem to many, the first time +they see you, like the face of an old and dear friend.' + +Sometimes, when he felt a little better, the sick man would come +downstairs, and at times he would walk about in the garden, stooping +under his great-coat and leaning upon his stick. One very bright day in +early February he seemed better than he had been since his illness had +come upon him, and as he stood at the window looking at the white road +shining under the pale sun, he said suddenly: 'I feel quite well to-day, +I shall go for a little walk.' His eyes were bright, there was a slight +flush on his cheek, and he seemed to move a little more easily than +usual. 'Lucy,' he said, 'I think I should like some claret with my +supper to-night, like old times. You must go into the town and get me +some: I suppose there is none in the house.' Lucy took the money gladly, +for she thought: 'He is beginning to be better.' 'Get it from Allen's,' +he called after her, as she went to put on her hat and jacket; 'it won't +take so very much longer to go there and back, and it will be better +there.' When she came downstairs her aunt was helping him to put on his +coat. 'Don't wait for me,' he said, smiling, and tapping her cheek with +his thin, chilly fingers; 'I shall have to walk slowly.' She went out, +and turning, as she came to the bend in the road, saw him come out of +the gate, leaning on his stick, and begin to walk slowly along in the +middle of the road. He did not look up, and she hurried on. + +It was the last time she ever saw him. The house, when she returned to +it, after her journey into town, had an air of ominous quiet, and she +saw with surprise that her father's hat and coat were lying in a heap +across the chair in the hall, instead of hanging neatly upon the +hat-pegs. As she closed the door behind her, she heard the bedroom door +opened, and her aunt came quickly downstairs with a strange look on her +face. She began to tremble, she knew not why, and mechanically she put +the bottle of wine on the floor by the side of the chair; and her aunt, +though she would always have everything put in its proper place, did not +seem to notice it; but took her into the sitting-room, and said: 'There +has been an accident; no, you must not go upstairs'; and she said to +herself, seeming to hear her own words at the back of her brain, where +there was a dull ache that was like the coming-to of one who has been +stunned: 'He is dead, he is dead.' She felt that her aunt was shaking +her, and wondered why she shook her, and why everything looked so dim, +and her aunt's face seemed to be fading away from her, and she caught at +her; and then she heard her aunt say (she could hear her now), 'I +thought you were going to faint: I'll have no fainting, if you please; I +must go up to him again.' So he was not dead, after all; and she +listened, with a relief which was almost joy, while her aunt told her +rapidly what had happened: how the mail-cart had turned a corner at full +speed just as he was walking along the road, more tired than he had +thought, and he had not the strength to pull himself out of the way in +time, and had been knocked down, and the wheel had just missed him, but +he had been terribly shaken, and one of the horse's hoofs had struck him +on the face. They hoped it was nothing serious; he seemed to feel little +pain; but he had said: 'Don't let Lucy come in; she musn't see me like +this.' + +Lucy had been so used to obey her father, his commands had always been +so capricious, that she obeyed now without a murmur. She understood him; +the fastidiousness which was part of his affection, and which made him +refuse to be seen, by those he loved, under a disfigurement which time +would probably heal, was one of the things for which she loved him, for +it was part of her pride in him. + +The doctor had come and gone; he had been very serious, she had seen his +grave face, and had overheard one or two of his words to her aunt; she +had heard him say: 'Of course, it is a question of time.' Night came on, +and she sat in the unlighted room alone, and looking into the fire, in +which the last dreams of her childhood seemed to flicker in little +wavering tongues of flame, which throbbed, and went out, one after +another, in smoke or ashes. She cried a little, quietly, and did not +wipe away the tears; but sat on, looking into the fire, and thinking. +She was crying when her aunt came downstairs, and told her that she must +go to bed; he was resting quietly, and they hoped he would be better in +the morning. + +She slept heavily, without dreams; and the hour seemed to her late when +she awoke in the morning. It was Linda, not her aunt, who came into the +room, and took her in her arms, and cried over her, and did not need to +tell her that she had no father. He had died suddenly in his sleep, and +just before he turned over on his side for the last rest, he had said to +her (she thought drowsily): 'I am very tired; if anything happens, cover +my face.' When Lucy crept into the room, on tip-toe, his face was +covered. It was a white, shrouded thing that lay there, not her father. +The terror of the dead seized hold upon her, and she shrieked, and +Linda caught her up in her arms, and carried her back to her room, and +soothed her, as if she had been a little, wailing child. + +At the funeral she saw, for the first time, her father's relations, the +rich relations who had cast him off; and she hated them for being there, +for speaking to her kindly, for offering to look after her. She was rude +to them, and she wished to be rude. 'My father would never touch your +money,' she said, 'and I am sure he wouldn't like me to, and I don't +want it. I don't want to have anything to do with you.' She clung to the +severe aunt who had been good to her father; and she tried to smile on +her other uncle and aunt, and on her cousin, who was not many years +older than she was: he had seemed to her so kind, and so ready to be her +friend. 'I will go with my aunt,' she said. The rich relatives +acquiesced, not unwillingly. They did not linger in the desolate house, +where this unreasonable child, as they thought her, stood away from them +on the other side of the room. She seemed to herself to be doing the +right thing, and what her father would have wished; and she saw them go +out with relief, not giving a thought to the future, only knowing that +she had buried her childhood, on that day of the funeral, in the grave +with her father. + + + + + THE DEATH OF PETER WAYDELIN. + + +Peter Waydelin, the painter of those mysterious, brutal pictures, who +died last year at the age of twenty-four, spent a week with me at +Bognor, trying to get better, a little while before it was quite +certainly too late; and we had long talks of a very intimate kind as we +lay and lounged about the sand from Selsey to Blake's Felpham, along +that exquisite coast. To him, if he were to be believed, all that meant +very little; he hated nature, he was always assuring you; but at Bognor +nature deals with its material so much in the manner of art that he can +hardly have been sincere in not feeling the colour-sense of those +arrangements of sand, water, and sky which were perpetually changing +before him. One of our conversations that I remembered best, because he +seemed to put more of himself into it than usual, took place one +afternoon in June as we lay on the sand about half-way towards Selsey, +beyond the last of those troublesome groins, and I remember that as I +listened to him, and heard him defining so sincerely his own ideas of +art, I was conscious all the time of a magnificent silent refutation of +some of those ideas, as nature, quietly expressing herself before us, +transformed the whole earth gradually into a new and luminous world of +air. He did not seem to see the sunset; now and then he would pick up a +pebble and throw it vehemently, almost angrily, into the water. We were +talking of art. He began to explain to me what art meant to him, and +what it was he wanted to do with his own art. I remember almost the very +words he used, sometimes so serious, sometimes so petulant and boyish. I +was interested in his ideas, and the man too interested me; so young and +so experienced, so mature already and so enthusiastic under his +cynicism. He puzzled me: it was as if there were a clue wanting; I could +not get further with him than a certain point, frank, self-explanatory +even, as he seemed to be. Of himself he never spoke, only of his ideas. +I knew vaguely that he had been in Paris, and I supposed that he had +been living there for some time. I had met him in London, in the street, +quite casually, and he had looked so ill that I had asked him there and +then to come with me to Bognor, where I was going. He agreed willingly, +and was at the station with his bag the next day. I never ask people +about their private affairs, and his talk was entirely about pictures, +his own chiefly, and about ideas. As he talked I tried to piece together +the man and his words. What was it in this man, who was so much a +gentleman, that drew him instinctively, whenever he took up a brush or a +pencil, towards gross things, things that he painted as if he hated +them, but painted always? Was it a theory or an enslavement? and had he, +in order to interpret with so cruel a fidelity so much that was +factitious and dishonourable in life, sunk to the level of what he +painted? I could not tell. He was not obviously the man of his pictures, +nor was he obviously the reverse. I felt in those pictures, and I felt +equally, but differently, in the man, a fundamental sincerity; after +that came I know not how much of pose, perhaps merely the defiant pose +of youth. He was a problem to me, which I wanted to think out; and I +listened very attentively to everything that he said on that afternoon +when he was so much more communicative than usual. + +'All art, of course,' he said, 'is a way of seeing, and I have my way. I +did not get to it at once. Like everybody else, I began by seeing too +much. Gradually I gave up seeing things in shades, in subdivisions; I +saw them in masses, each single. It takes more choice than you think, +and more technical skill, to set one plain colour against another, +unshaded, like a great, raw morsel, or a solid lump of the earth. The +art of the painter, you observe, consists in seeing in a new, +summarising way, getting rid of everything but the essentials; in seeing +by patterns. You know how a child draws a house? Well, that is how the +average man thinks he sees it, even at a distance. You have to train +your eye not to see. Whistler sees nothing but the fine shades, which +unite into a picture in an almost bodiless way, as Verlaine writes songs +almost literally "without words." You can see, if you like, in just the +opposite way: leaving in only the hard outlines, leaving out everything +that lies between. To me that is the best way of summarising, the most +abbreviated way. You get rid of all that molle, sticky way of work which +squashes pictures into cakes and puddings, and of that stringy way of +work which draws them out into tapes and ribbons. It is a way of seeing +square, and painting like hits from the shoulder. + +'I wonder,' he went on, after a moment, 'how many people think that I +paint ugly pictures, as they call them, because I am unable to paint +pretty ones? Perhaps even you have never seen any of my quite early +work: Madonnas for Christmas cards and hallelujah angels for +stained-glass windows. They were the prettiest things imaginable, +immensely popular, and they brought me in several pounds. I take them +out and show them to people who complain that I have no sense of +beauty, and they always ask me pityingly why I have not gone on turning +out these confectionaries.' + +'I contend that I have never done anything which is without beauty, +because I have never done anything which is without life, and life is +the source and sap of beauty. I tell you that there is not one of those +grimacing masks, those horribly pale or horribly red faces, plastered +white or red, leering professionally across a gulf of footlights, or a +cafe-table, that does not live, live to the roots of the eyes, somewhere +in the soul, I think! And if beauty is not the visible spirit of all +that infamous flesh, when I have sabred it like that along my canvas, +with all my hatred and all my admiration of its foolish energy, I at +least am unable to conjecture where beauty has gone to live in the +world.' + +He looked at me almost indignantly, as if he took me for one of his +critics. I said nothing, and he went on: + +'I have done nothing, believe me, without being sure that I was doing a +beautiful thing. People don't see it, it seems. How should they, when +we do our best to train them up within the prison walls of a Raphael +aesthetics, when we send them to the Apollo Belvedere, instead of to the +marbles of AEgina? Our academies shut out nine parts of beauty and +imprison us with the poor tenth, which we have never even the space to +frequent casually and grow familiar with. How much of the world itself +do you think exists as a thing of beauty for the average man? Why, he +has to know if the most exquisite leaf in the world, the thing I came +upon just now in the lane, belongs to a flower or a weed before he can +tell whether he ought to commend it for existing. I hate nature, because +fools prostrate themselves before sunsets; as if there is not much +better drawing in that leaf than in all the Turners of the sky. You see, +one has to quote Turner to apologise for a sunset!' + +He laughed, really without malice, waving his hand towards the sky with +a youthful impertinence. For a little while he was silent, and then, in +a different tone, he said: + +'I wonder if it is possible to paint what one doesn't like, to take +one's models as models, and only know them for the hours during which +they sit to you in this attitude or that. I don't believe that it is. +Much of our bad painting comes from respectable people thinking that +they can soil their hands with paint and not let the dye sink into their +innermost selves. Do you know that you are the only man of my own world +that I ever see, or have seen for years now? People call me eccentric; I +am only logical. You can't paint the things I paint, and live in a +Hampstead villa. You must come and see me some day: will you take the +address? 3 Somervell Street, Islington. It's not much like a studio. +However, there's "Collins's" at hand, and I live there a good deal, you +know. I lived in the Hampstead Road for some time on account of the +"Bedford." But "Collins's" suits me and my models better.' + +He broke off with an ambiguous laugh, flung his last stone into the +water, and jumped up, as if to end the conversation. Something in the +way he spoke made me feel vaguely uneasy, but I was used to his +exaggerations, his way of inventing as he went along. Was I, after all, +any nearer to his secret, to himself as he really was? + +Waydelin went back to London and I to Russia, which I shall always +remember, after that terrible summer under the gold and green domes of +Moscow, as the hottest country in which I have ever been. When I came +back to London I thought of Waydelin, made plan after plan to visit him, +when one evening in November I received a brief note in his handwriting, +asking me if I would come and see him at once, as he was very ill, and +wanted to see me on a matter of business. I started immediately after +dinner and got to Islington a little after nine. The street was one of +those drab, hopeless streets to which a Russian observer has lately +attributed the 'spleen' from which all Englishmen are thought to suffer. +There was a row of houses on each side of the way, every house exactly +like every other house, each with its three steps leading to the door, +its bow window on one side, its strip of dingy earth in which there were +a few dusty stalks between the lowest step and the railing, the paint +for the most part peeling off the door, the bell-handle generally +hanging out from its hole in the wall. I rang at No. 3. I had to wait +for some time, and then the door was opened by an impudent-looking +servant girl in a very untidy dress. I asked for Waydelin. 'Mrs. +Waydelin, did you say?' said the girl, leering at me; then, calling over +my head to the driver of a four-wheeler which just then drew up at the +door, 'Wait five minutes, will you?' she turned to me again: 'Mr. +Waydelin? I don't know if you can see him.' I told her impatiently that +I had come by appointment, and she held the door open for me to come in. +She knocked at a room on the first floor. 'Come in,' said a shrill voice +that I did not know, and I went in. + +It was a bedroom; a woman, with her bodice off, was making-up in front +of the glass, and in a corner, with the clothes drawn up to his chin, a +man lay in bed. The cheeks were covered by a three days' beard; they +were ridged into deep hollows; large eyes, very wide open, looked out +under a mass of uncombed hair, and as the face turned round on the +pillow and looked at me without any change of expression I recognised +Peter Waydelin. The woman, seeing me in the glass, nodded at my +reflection, and said, as she drew a black pencil through her eyelashes: +'You'll excuse me, won't you? I have to be at the hall in ten minutes. +Don't stand on ceremony; there's Peter. He'll be glad to see you, poor +dear!' She spoke in a common and affected voice, and I thought her a +deplorable person, with her carefully curled yellow hair, her rouged and +powdered cheeks, her mouth glistening with lip salve, her big, empty +blue eyes with their blackened under-lids, her fat arms and shoulders, +the tawdry finery of her costume, half on and half off the body. I moved +towards the bed, and Waydelin looked up at me with a queer, mournful +smile. + +'It was good of you to come,' he said, stretching out a long, thin hand +to me; 'Clara has to go out, and we can have a talk. How do you like the +last thing I've done?' + +I lifted the drawing which was lying on the bed. It was a portrait of +the woman before the glass, just as she looked now, one of the most +powerful of his drawings, crueller even than usual in its insistence on +the brutality of facts: the crude contrasts of bone and fat, the vulgar +jaw, the brassy eyes, the reckless, conscious attitude. Every line +seemed to have been drawn with hatred. I looked at Mrs. Waydelin. She +had finished dressing, and she came up to the bedside to say good-bye to +Peter. 'Horrid thing,' she said, nodding her head at the drawing; 'not a +bit like me, is it? I assure you none of them like it at the hall. They +say it doesn't do me justice. I'm sure I hope not.' I bowed and murmured +something. 'Good-bye, Peter,' she said, smiling down at him in a kindly, +hurried way, 'I'll come back as soon as I can,' and with a nod to me she +was out of the room. + +Peter drew himself slowly up in the bed, pointed to a shawl, which I +wrapped round his shoulders, and then, looking at me a little defiantly, +said: 'My theory, do you remember? of living the life of my models! She +is a very nice woman and an excellent model, and they appreciate her +very much at "Collins's"; but it appears that I have no gift for +domesticity.' + +I scarcely knew what to say. While I hesitated he went on: 'Don't +suppose I have any illusions, or, indeed, ever had. I married that woman +because I couldn't help doing it, but I knew what I was doing all the +time. Have you ever been in Belgium? There is stuff they give you there +to drink called Advokat, which you begin by hating, but after a time you +can't get on without it. She is like Advokat.' + +'You are ill, Waydelin,' I said, 'and you speak bitterly. I don't like +to hear you speak like that about your wife.' + +Waydelin stared at me curiously. 'So you are going to defend her against +my brutality,' he said. 'I will give you every opportunity. Did you know +I was married?' + +I shook my head. + +'I have been married three years,' he said, 'and I never told even you. +I know you did not take me at my word when I talked about how one had to +live in order to paint as I painted, but I did not tell you half. I +have been living, if you like to call it so, systematically, not as a +stranger in a foreign country which he stares at over his Baedeker, but +as like a native as I could, and with no return ticket in my pocket. Why +shouldn't one be as thorough in one's life as in one's drawing? Is it +possible for one to be otherwise, if one is really in earnest in either? +And the odd thing is, as you will say, I didn't live in that way because +I wanted to do it for my art, but something deeper than my art, a +profound, low instinct, drew me to these people, to this life, without +my own will having anything to do with it. My work has been much more +sincere than any one suspected. It used to amuse me when the papers +classed me with the Decadents of a moment, and said that I was probably +living in a suburban villa, with a creeper on the front wall. I have +never cared for anything but London, or in London for anything but here, +or the Hampstead Road, or about the Docks. I never really chose the +music-halls or the public-houses; they chose me. I made the music-halls +my clubs; I lived in them, for the mere delight of the thing; I liked +the glitter, false, barbarous, intoxicating, the violent animality of +the whole spectacle, with its imbecile words, faces, gestures, the very +heat and odour, like some concentrated odour of the human crowd, the +irritant music, the audience! I went there, as I went to public-houses, +as I walked about the streets at night, as I kept company with +vagabonds, because there was a craving in me that I could not quiet. I +fitted in theories with my facts; and that is how I came to paint my +pictures.' + +As he spoke, with bitter ardour, I looked at him as if I were seeing him +for the first time. The room, the woman, that angry drawing on the bed, +and the dishevelled man dying there, just at the moment when he had +learnt everything that such experiences could teach him, fell of a +sudden into a revealing relation with each other. I did not know whether +to feel that the man had been heroic or a fool; there had been, it was +clear to me, some obscure martyrdom going on, not the less for art's +sake because it came out of the mere necessity of things. A great pity +came over me, and all I could say was, 'But, my dear friend, you have +been very unhappy!' + +'I never wanted to be happy,' said Waydelin; 'I wanted to live my own +life and do my own work; and if I die to-morrow (as likely enough I +may), I shall have done both things. My work satisfies me, and, because +of that, so does my life.' + +'Are you very ill?' I asked. + +'Dead, relatively speaking,' he said in his jaunty way, which death +itself could not check in him; 'I'm only waiting on some celestial order +of precedence in these matters, which, I confess, I don't understand. So +it was good of you to come; I would like to arrange with you about what +is to be done with my work, presently, when they will have to accept me. +I always said that I had only to die in order to be appreciated.' + +I had a long talk with him, and I promised to carry out his wishes. All +the money that his pictures brought in was to go to his wife, but, as he +said, she would not know what to do with them if they were left in her +own hands, not even how to turn them into money. He was quite certain +that they would sell; he knew exactly the value of what he had done, and +he knew how and when work finds its own level. + +I sat beside the bed, talking, for more than two hours. He could no +longer do much work, he said, and he hated being alone when he was not +working. But it amused him to talk, for a change. 'Clara talks when she +is here,' he said, with one of his queer smiles. I promised to come back +and see him again. 'Come soon,' he said, 'if you want to be sure of +finding me.' + +I went back two days afterwards, a little later in the evening so that I +need not meet Mrs. Waydelin, and he seemed better. He had shaved, his +hair was brushed and combed, and he was sitting up in bed, with the +shawl thrown lightly about his shoulders. + +'Would you like to know,' he began, almost at once, 'how I came to paint +in what we will call, if you please, my final manner? One day, at the +theatre, I saw Sada Yacco. She taught me art.' + +'What do you mean?' I said. + +'Look here,' he went on, 'they say everything has been done in art. But +no, there is at least one thing that remains for us. Have you ever seen +Sada Yacco? When I saw her for the first time I said to myself, "I have +found out the secret of Japanese art." I had never been able to +understand how it was that the Japanese, who can imitate natural things, +a bird, a flower, the rain, so perfectly, have chosen to give us, +instead of a woman's face, that blind oval, in which the eyes, nose, and +mouth seem to have been made to fit a pattern. When I saw Sada Yacco I +realised that the Japanese painters had followed nature as closely in +their woman's faces as in their birds and flowers, but that they had +studied them from the women of the Green Houses, the women who make up, +and that Japanese women, made up for the stage or for the factitious +life of the Green Houses, look exactly like these elegant, unnatural +images of the painters. What a new kind of reality that opened up to me, +as if a window had suddenly opened in a wall! Here, I said to myself, is +something that the painters of Europe have never done; it remains for +me to do it. I will study nature under the paint by which woman, after +all, makes herself more woman; the ensign of her trade, her flag as the +enemy. I will get at the nature of this artificial thing, at the skin +underneath it, and the soul under the skin. Watteau and the Court +painters have given us the dainty, exterior charm of the masquerade, +woman when she plays at being woman, among "lyres and flutes." Degas, of +course, has done something of what I want to do, but only a part, and +with other elements in his pure design, the drawing of Ingres, setting +itself new tasks, exercising its technique upon shapeless bodies in +tubs, and the strained muscles of the dancer's leg as she does +"side-practice." What I am going to do is to take all the ugliness, +gross artifice, crafty mechanism, of sex disguising itself for its own +ends: that new nature which vice and custom make out of the honest +curves and colours of natural things. + +'Well, I have tried to do that; in all my best work, my work of the last +two or three years, I have done it. I am sure that what I have done is +a new thing, and I think it is the one new thing left to us Western +painters.' + +'I am beginning to understand you,' I said, 'and I have not always found +it easy. When I admire you, it has so often seemed to me irrational. I +am gradually finding out your logic. Do you remember those talks we used +to have at Bognor, one in particular, when you told me about your way of +seeing?' + +'Yes, yes,' he said, 'I remember, but there was one thing I am almost +sure I did not tell you, and it is curious. I don't understand it +myself. Do you know what it is to be haunted by colours? There is +something like a temptation of the devil, to me, in the colour green. I +know it is the commonest colour in nature, it is a good, honest colour, +it is the grass, the trees, the leaves, very often the sea. But no, it +isn't like that that it comes to me. To me it is an aniline dye, +poisoning nature. I adore and hate it. I can never get away from it. If +I paint a group outside a cafe at Montmartre by gas-light or electric +light, I paint a green shadow on the faces, and I suppose the green +shadow isn't there; yet I paint it. Some tinge of green finds its way +invariably into my flesh-colour; I see something green in rouged cheeks, +in peroxide-of-hydrogen hair; green lays hold of this poor, unhappy +flesh that I paint, as if anticipating the colour-scheme of the grave. I +know it, and yet I can't help doing it; I can't explain to you how it is +that I at once see and don't see a thing; but so it is. + +'And it grew upon me too like an obsession. I always wanted to keep my +eyes perfectly clear, so that I could make my own arrangements of things +for myself, deliberately; but this, in some unpleasant way, seemed +horribly like "nature taking the pen out of one's hand and writing," as +somebody once said about a poet. I would rather do all the writing +myself; the more so, as I have to translate as I go.' + +He broke off suddenly, as if a wave of exhaustion had come over him. His +eyes, which had been very bright, had gone dull again, and he let his +head droop till the chin rested on his breast. + +'I have tired you,' I said, 'you must not talk any more. Try to go to +sleep now, and I will come back another day.' + +'To-morrow?' he said, looking at me sleepily. + +I promised. When I went back the next day he was weaker, but he insisted +on sitting up and talking. He spoke of his wife, without affection and +without bitterness; he spoke of death, with so little apprehension, or +even curiosity, that I was startled. His art was still a much more +realisable thing to him. + +'Do you believe in God, religion, and all that?' he said. 'To tell you +the honest truth, I have never been able to take a vital interest in +those or any other abstract matters: I am so well content with this +world, if it would only go on existing, and I don't in the least care +how it came into being, or what is going to happen to it after I have +moved on. I suppose one ought to feel some sort of reverence for +something, for an unknown power, at least, which has certainly worked to +good purpose. Well, I can't. I don't know what reverence is. If I were +quite healthy, I should be a pagan, and choose, well! Dionysus Zagreus, +a Bacchus who has been in hell, to worship after my fashion, in some +religious kind of "orgie on the mountains." That is how somebody +explains the origin of religion, or was it of religious hymns? I forget; +but, you see, having had this rickety sort of body to drag about with +me, I have never been able to follow any of my practical impulses of +that sort, and I have had to be no more than an unemployed atheist, +ready to gibe at the gods he doesn't understand. + +'I am afraid even in art,' he went on, as if leaving unimportant things +for the one thing important, 'I don't find it easy to look up to +anybody, at least in a way that anybody can be imagined as liking. I +have never gone very much to the National Gallery, not because I don't +think Venetian and Florentine pictures quite splendid, painted when they +were, but because I can get nothing out of them that is any good for me, +now in this all but twentieth century. You won't expect me, of all +people, to prate about progress, but, all the same, it's no use going to +Botticelli for hints about modern painting. We have different things to +look at, and see them differently. A man must be of his time, else why +try to put his time on the canvas? There are people, of course, who +don't, if you call them painters: Watts, Burne-Jones, Moreau, that sort +of hermit-crab. But I am talking about painting life and making it live. +If it comes to making pictures for churches and curiosity shops!' + +He spoke eagerly, but in a voice which grew more and more tired, and +with long pauses. I was going to try to get him to rest when the front +door opened noisily and I heard Mrs. Waydelin's voice in the hall. I +heard other voices, men's and women's, feet coming up the stairs. I +looked apprehensively at Waydelin. He showed no surprise. I heard a door +open on the landing; then, a moment after, it was shut, and Mrs. +Waydelin came into the bedroom, flushed and perspiring through the +paint, and ran up to the bed. 'I have brought a few friends in to +supper,' she said. 'They won't disturb you, you know, and I couldn't +very well get out of it.' + +She would have entered into explanations, but Waydelin cut her short. 'I +have not the least objection,' he said. 'I must only ask you to +apologise to them for my absence. I am hardly entertaining at present.' + +She stared at him, as if wondering what he meant; then she asked me if I +would join her at supper, and I declined; then went to the +dressing-table, took up a pot of vaseline and looked at her eyelashes in +the glass; then put it down again, came back to the bed, told Peter +Waydelin to cheer up, and bounced out of the room. + +I could see that Waydelin was now very tired and in need of sleep. I got +up to go. The partition between the two rooms must have been very thin, +for I could hear a champagne-cork drawn, the shrill laughter of women, +men talking loudly, and chairs being moved about the floor. 'I don't +mind,' he said, seeing what I was thinking, 'so long as they don't sing. +But they won't begin to sing for two hours yet, and I can get some +sleep. Good-night. Perhaps I shall not see you again.' + +'May I come again?' I said. + +'I always like seeing you,' he said, smiling, and thereupon turned over +on the pillow, just as he was, and fell asleep. + +I looked at his face as he lay there, with the shawl about his shoulders +and his hands outside the bedclothes. The jaw hung loose, the cheeks +were pinched with exhaustion, sweat stood out about the eyes. The sudden +collapse into sleep alarmed me. I could not leave him in such a state, +and with no one at hand but those people supping in the next room. I sat +down in a corner near the bed and waited. + +As I sat there listening to the exuberant voices, I wondered by what +casual or quixotic impulse Waydelin had been led to marry the woman, and +whether the woman was really heartless because she sat drinking +champagne with her friends of the music-hall while her husband, a man of +genius in his way, lay dying in the next room. I forced myself to +acknowledge that she had probably no suspicion of how near she was to +being a widow, that Waydelin would deceive her to the end in this +matter, and the last thing in the world he would desire would be to see +Mrs. Waydelin in tears at the foot of the bed. + +As time went on the supper-party got merrier, but Waydelin did not stir, +and I sat still in my corner. It was probably in about two hours, as he +had foreseen, that a chord was struck on the piano, and a man began to +sing a music-hall song in a rough, facile voice. At the sound Waydelin +shivered through his whole body and woke up. In a very weak voice he +asked me for water. I brought him a glass of water and held it to his +lips. He drank a little and then pushed it away and began shivering +again. 'Let me send for a doctor,' I said, but he seized my hand, and +said violently that he would see no doctor. In the next room the piano +rattled and all the voices joined in the chorus. I distinguished the +voice of Mrs. Waydelin. He seemed to be listening to it, and I said, +'Let me call her in.' 'Poor Clara may as well amuse herself,' he said, +with his odd smile. 'What is the use? I feel very much as if I am going +to die. Will it bother you: being here, I mean?' His voice seemed to +grow weaker as he spoke, and his eyes stared. I left him and went +hastily into the other room. The singer stopped abruptly, and the girl +at the piano turned round. I saw the remains of supper on the table, the +empty glasses and bottles, the chairs tilted back, the cigars, +tobacco-smoke, the flushed faces, rings, artificial curls; and then Mrs. +Waydelin came to me out of the midst of them, looking almost frightened, +and said, 'What's the matter?' 'Get rid of these people at once,' I said +in a low voice, 'and send for a doctor.' Her face sobered instantly, she +took one step to the bell, was about to ring it, then turned and said to +one of the men, 'Go for a doctor, Jim,' and to the others, 'You'll go, +all of you, quietly?' and then she came with me into the bedroom. + +Waydelin lay shivering and quaking on the bed; he seemed very conscious +and wholly preoccupied with himself. He never looked at the woman as she +flung herself on the floor by the bedside and began to cry out to him +and kiss his hand. The tears ran down over her cheeks, leaving ghastly +furrows in the wet powder, which clotted and caked under them. The curl +was beginning to come out of her too yellow hair, which straggled in +wisps about her ears. She sobbed in gulps, and entreated him to look at +her and forgive her. At that he looked, and as he looked life seemed to +revive in his eyes. He motioned to me to lift him up. I lifted him +against the pillows, and in a weak voice he asked me for drawing-paper +and a pencil. 'Don't move,' he said to his wife, who knelt there struck +into rigid astonishment, with terror and incomprehension in her eyes. +The pose, its grotesque horror, were finer than the finest of his +inventions. He made a few scrawls on the paper, trying to fix that last +and best pose of his model. But he could no longer guide the pencil, and +he let it drop out of his hand with a look of helplessness, almost of +despair, and sank down in the bed and shut his eyes. He did not open +them again. The doctor came, and tried all means to revive him, but +without success. Something in him seemed consciously to refuse to come +back to life. He lay for some time, dying slowly, with his eyes fast +shut, and it was only when the doctor had felt his heart and found no +movement that he knew he was dead. + + + + + AN AUTUMN CITY. + + +To Daniel Roserra life was a matter of careful cultivation. He respected +nature, for what might be cunningly extracted from nature; provided only +that one's aim was a quite personal thing, willingly subject to +surroundings on its way to the working out of itself. He tended his soul +as one might tend some rare plant; careful above most things of the +earth it was to take root in. And so he thought much of the influence of +places, of the image a place makes for itself in the consciousness, of +all that it might do in the formation of a beautiful or uncomely +disposition. Places had virtues of their own for him; he supposed that +he had the quality of divining their secrets; at all events, if they +were places to which he could possibly be sensitive. Much of his time +was spent in travelling, in a leisurely way, about Europe; not for the +sake of seeing anything in particular, for he had no interest in +historical associations or in the remains of ugly things that happened +to be old, or in visiting the bric-a-brac museums of the fine arts which +make some of the more tolerable countries tedious. He chose a city, a +village, or a seashore for its charm, its appeal to him personally; +nothing else mattered. + +When Roserra was forty he fell in love, quite suddenly, though he had +armed himself, as he imagined, against such disturbances of the aesthetic +life, and was invulnerable. He had always said that a woman was like a +liqueur: a delightful luxury, to be taken with discretion. He feared the +influence of a companion in his delicate satisfactions: he realised that +a woman might not even be a sympathetic companion. He had, it is true, +often wished to try the experiment, a risky one, of introducing a woman +to one of his friends among cities; it was a temptation, but he +remembered how rarely such introductions work well among people. Would +the cities be any more fortunate? + +When, however, he fell in love, all hesitation was taken out of his +hands by the mere force of things. Livia Dawlish was remarkably +handsome, some people thought her beautiful; she was tall and dark, and +had a sulky, enigmatical look that teased and attracted him. Some who +knew her very well said that it meant nothing, and was merely an +accident of colour and form, like the green eye of the cat or the golden +eye of the buffalo. Roserra tried to study her, but he could get no +point of view. He felt something that he had never felt before, and this +something was like a magnetic current flowing subtly from her to him; +perhaps, like the magnetic rocks in the 'Arabian Nights,' ready to draw +out all the nails and bolts of his ship, and drown him among the wrecked +splinters of his life. + +He was rich, not too old, of a good Cornish family; he could be the most +charming companion in the world; he knew so many things and so many +places and was never tedious about them: Livia thought him on the whole +the most suitable husband whom she was likely to meet. She was happy +when he asked her to marry him, and she married him without a misgiving. +She was not reflective. + +After the marriage they went straight to Paris, and Roserra was +surprised and delighted to find how childishly happy Livia could be +among new surroundings. She had always wanted to see Paris, because of +its gaiety, its bright wickedness, its names of pleasure and fashion. +Everything delighted her; she seemed even to admire a little +indiscriminatingly. She thought the Sainte-Chapelle the most beautiful +thing in Paris. + +They went back to London with more luggage than they had brought with +them, and for six months Livia was quite happy. She wore her Paris hats +and gowns, she was admired, she went to the theatre; she seemed to get +on with Roserra even better than she had expected. + +During all this time Roserra seemed to have found out very little about +his wife. It gave him more pleasure to do what she wanted than it had +ever given him to carry out his own wishes. So far, they had never had a +dispute; he seemed to have put his own individuality aside as if it no +longer meant anything to him. But he had not yet discovered her +individuality from among her crowds of little likes and dislikes, which +meant nothing. Nothing had come out yet from behind those enigmatical +eyes; but he was waiting; they would open, and there would be treasure +there. + +Gradually, while he was waiting, his old self began to come back to him. +He must do as he had always wanted to do: introduce the most intimate of +his cities to a woman. Autumn was beginning; he thought of Arles, which +was an autumn city, and the city which meant more to him than almost any +other. He must share Arles with Livia. + +Livia had heard of the Arlesiennes, she remembered Paris, and, though +she was a little reluctant to leave the new London into which she had +come since her marriage, she consented without apparent unwillingness. + +They went by sea to Marseilles, and Livia wished they were not going any +further. Roserra smiled a little satisfied smile; she was so pleased +with even slight, superficial things, she could get pleasure out of the +empty sunlight and obvious sea of Marseilles. When the deeper appeal of +Arles came to her, that new world in which one went clean through the +exteriorities of modern life, how she would respond to it! + +They reached Arles in the afternoon, and drove to the little +old-fashioned house which Roserra had taken in the square which goes +uphill from the Amphitheatre, with the church of Notre Dame la Major in +the corner. Livia looked about her vividly as the cab rattled round +twenty sharp angles, in the midst of narrow streets, on that perilous +journey. Here were the Arlesiennes, standing at doorways, walking along +the pavements, looking out of windows. She scarcely liked to admit to +herself that she had seen prettier faces elsewhere. The costume, +certainly, was as fine as its reputation; she would get one, she +thought, to wear, for amusement, in London. And the women were a noble +race; they walked nobly, they had beautiful black hair, sometimes +stately and impressive features. But she had expected so much more than +that; she had expected a race of goddesses, and she found no more than a +townful of fine-looking peasants. + +'Do not judge too quickly,' said Roserra to her; 'you must judge neither +the place nor the people until you have lived yourself into their midst. +The first time I came here I was disappointed. Gradually I began to see +why it was that even the guide-books tell you to come to this quiet, +out-of-the-way place, made up of hovels that were once palaces.' + +'I will wait,' said Livia contentedly. The queer little house, with its +homely furniture, the gentle, picturesque woman who met her at the door, +amused her. It was certainly an adventure. + +Next day, and the days following, they walked about the town, and +Roserra felt that his own luxuriating sensations could hardly fail to be +shared by Livia, though she said little and seemed at times +absent-minded. They strolled among the ruins of the theatre begun under +Augustus, and among the coulisses of the great amphitheatre; they sat +on the granite steps; they went up the hundred steps of the western +tower. From the cloisters of St. Trophime they went across to the museum +opposite, where a kindly little dwarf showed them the altar to Leda, the +statue of Mithras, and the sarcophagi with the Good Shepherd. He sold +them some photographs of Arlesian women: one was very beautiful. 'That +is my sister,' he said shyly. + +When the soul of Autumn made for itself a body, it made Arles. An autumn +city, hinting of every gentle, resigned, reflective way of fading out of +life, of effacing oneself in a world to which one no longer attaches any +value; always remembering itself, always looking into a mournfully +veiled mirror which reflects something at least of what it was, Arles +sits in the midst of its rocky plains, by the side of its river, among +the tombs. Everything there seems to grow out of death, and to be +returning thither. The town rises above its ruins, does not seem to be +even yet detached from them. The remains of the theatre look down on +the public garden; one comes suddenly on a Roman obelisk and the +fragments of Roman walls; a Roman column has been built into the wall of +one of the two hotels which stand in the Forum, now the Place du Forum; +and the modern, the comparatively modern houses, have an air which is +neither new nor old, but entirely sympathetic with what is old. They are +faded, just a little dilapidated, not caring to distinguish themselves +from the faint colours, the aged slumber, of the very ancient things +about them. + +Livia tried to realise what it was that charmed Roserra in all this. To +her there was no comfort in it; it depressed her; in the air itself +there was something of decay. There was a smell of dead leaves +everywhere, the moisture of stone, the sodden dampness of earth, water +forming into little pools on the ground, creeping out of the earth and +into the earth again. There was dust on everything; the trees that close +in almost the whole city as with a leafy wall were dust-grey even in +sunlight. The Aliscamps seemed to her drearier than even a modern +cemetery, and she wondered what it was that drew Roserra to them, with +a kind of fascination. On the way there, along the Avenue Victor Hugo, +there were some few signs of life; the cafes, the Zouaves going in and +out of their big barrack, the carts coming in from the country; and in +the evening the people walked there. But she hated the little melancholy +public garden at the side, with its paths curving upwards to the ruined +walls and arches of the Roman theatre, its low balustrades of crumbling +stone, its faint fountains, greenish grey. It was a place, she thought, +in which no one could ever be young or happy; and the road which went +past it did but lead to the tombs. Roserra told her that Dante, when he +was in hell, and saw the 'modo piu amaro' in which the people there are +made into alleys of living tombs, remembered Arles: + + 'Si com' ad Arli ove 'l Rodano stagna.' + +She laughed uneasily, with a half shudder. The tombs are moved aside now +from the Aliscamps, into the little secluded Allee des Tombeaux, where +they line both sides of the way, empty stone trough after empty stone +trough, with here and there a more pompous sarcophagus. There is a quiet +path between them, which she did not even like to walk in, leading to +the canal and the bowling-green; and in the evening the old men creep +out and sit among the tombs. + +At first there was bright sunshine every day, but the sun scorched; and +then it set in to rain. One night a storm wakened her, and it seemed to +her that she had never heard such thunder, or seen such lightning, as +that which shook the old roof under which she lay, and blazed and +flickered at the window until it seemed to be licking up the earth with +liquid fire. The storm faded out in a morning of faint sunshine; only +the rain clung furtively about the streets all day. + +Day after day it rained, and Livia sat in the house, listlessly reading +the novels which she had brought with her, or staring with fierce +impatience out of the window. The rain came down steadily, ceaselessly, +drawing a wet grey curtain over the city. Roserra liked that softened +aspect which came over things in this uncomfortable weather; he walked +every day through the streets in which the water gathered in puddles +between the paving-stones, and ran in little streams down the gutters; +he found a kind of autumnal charm in the dripping trees and soaked paths +of the Aliscamps; a peaceful, and to him pathetic and pleasant, odour of +decay. Livia went out with him once, muffled in a long cloak, and +keeping her whole face carefully under the umbrella. She wanted to know +where he was taking her, and why; she shivered, sneezed, and gave one or +two little coughs. When she saw the ground of the Aliscamps, and the +first trees began to drip upon her umbrella with a faint tap-tapping on +the strained silk, she turned resolutely, and hurried Roserra straight +back to the house. + +After that she stayed indoors day after day, getting more irritable +every day. She took up one book after another, read a little, and then +laid it down. She walked to and fro in the narrow room, with nothing, as +she said, to think about, and nothing to see if she looked out of the +window. There was the square, every stone polished by the rain; the +other houses in the square, most of them shuttered; the little church in +the corner, with its monotonous bell, its few worshippers. She knew them +all; they were mostly women, plain, elderly women; not one of them had +any interest, or indeed existence, for her. She wondered vaguely why +they went backwards and forwards, between their houses and the church, +in such a regular way. Could it really amuse them? Could they really +believe certain things so firmly that it was worth while taking all that +trouble in order to be on the right side at last? She supposed so, and +ended her speculations. + +When Roserra was with her, he annoyed her by not seeming to mind the +weather. He would come in from a walk, and, if she seemed to be busy +reading, would sit down cheerfully by the stove, and really read the +book which he had in his hand. She looked at him over the pages of hers, +hating to see him occupied when she could not fix her mind on anything. +She felt imprisoned; not that she really wanted to go out: it was the +not being able to that fretted her. + +About the time when, if she had been in London, she would have had tea, +the uneasiness came over her most actively. She would go upstairs to her +room, and sit watching herself pityingly in the glass; or she would try +on hat after hat, hats which had come from Paris, and were meant for +Paris or London, hats which she could not possibly wear here, where her +smallest and simplest ones seemed out of place. Sometimes she brought +herself back into a good temper by the mere pleasurable feel of the +things; and she would run downstairs forgetting that she was in Arles. + +One afternoon, when she was in one of her easiest moods, Roserra +persuaded her to attend Benediction with him at the church of Notre Dame +la Major, in the corner of the square. The church was quite dark, and +she could only dimly see the high-altar, draped in white, and with +something white rising up from its midst, like a figure mysteriously +poised among the unlighted candles. Hooded figures passed, and knelt +with bowed heads; presently a light passed across the church, and a lamp +was let down by a chain, lighted, and drawn up again to its place. Then +a few candles were lighted, and only then did she see the priest +kneeling motionless before the altar. The chanting was very homely, like +that in a village church; there was even the village church's harmonium; +but the monotony of one air repeated over and over again brought even to +Livia some sense of a harmony between this half-drowsy service and the +slumbering city outside. They waited until the service was over, the +priests went out, the lamps and the candles were extinguished, and the +hooded figures, after a little silence, began to move again in the +dimness of the church. + +Sometimes she would go with Roserra to the cloisters of St. Trophime, +where Arles, as he said, seemed to withdraw into its most intimate self. +The oddness of the whole place amused her. Every side was built in a +different century: the north in the ninth, the east in the thirteenth, +the west in the fourteenth, and the south in the sixteenth; and the +builders, century by century, have gathered into this sadly battered +court a little of the curious piety of age after age, working here to +perpetuate, not only the legends of the Church, but the legends that +have their home about Arles. Again and again, among these naive +sculptures, one sees the local dragon, the man-eating Tarasque who has +given its name to Tarascon. The place is full of monsters, and of +figures tortured into strange dislocations. Adam swings ape-like among +the branches of the apple-tree, biting at the leaves before he reaches +the apple. Flames break out among companies of the damned, and the devil +sits enthroned above his subjects. A gentle Doctor of the Church holding +a book, and bending his head meditatively sideways, was shown to Livia +as King Solomon; with, of course, in the slim saint on the other side of +the pillar, the Queen of Sheba. Broken escutcheons, carved in stone, +commemorate bishops on the walls. There is no order, or division of +time; one seems shut off equally from the present and from any +appreciable moment of the past; shut in with the same vague and +timeless Autumn that has moulded Arles into its own image. + +But it was just this, for which Roserra loved Arles above all other +places, that made Livia more and more acutely miserable. Wandering about +the streets which bring one back always to one's starting-point, or +along the boulevards which suggest the beginning of the country, but set +one no further into it, nothing seems to matter very much, for nothing +seems very much to exist. In Livia, as Roserra was gradually finding +out, there was none of that sympathetic submissiveness to things which +meant for him so much of the charm of life. She wanted something +definite to do, somewhere definite to go; her mind took no subtle colour +from things, nor was there any active world within her which could +transmute everything into its own image. She was dependent on an +exterior world, cut to a narrow pattern, and, outside that, nothing had +any meaning for her. He began to wonder if he had made the irremediable +mistake, and, in his preoccupation with that uneasy idea, everything +seemed changed; he, too, began to grow restless. + +Meanwhile Livia was deciding that she certainly had made a mistake, +unless she could, after all, succeed in getting her own way; and to do +that she would have to take things into her own hands, much more +positively than she had yet done. She would walk with him when it was +fine, because there was nothing else to do. Once they walked out to the +surprising remains of the abbey of Mont-Major, and it began to rain, and +they lingered uncomfortably about the ruins and in the subterranean +chapel. She walked back with him, nursing a fine hatred in silence. She +turned it over in her heart, and it grew and gathered, like a snowball +rolled over and over in the snow. It was comprehensive and unreasoning, +and it forgot the small grievance out of which it rose, in a sense of +the vast grievance into which it had swollen. To Roserra such moods, +which were now becoming frequent, were unintelligible, and he suffered +from them like one who has to find his way through a camp of his enemies +in the dark. + +When they got back to the house, Livia would silently take up a book and +sit motionless for hours, turning over the pages without raising her +eyes, or showing a consciousness of his presence. He pretended to do the +same, but his eyes wandered continually, and he had to read every page +twice over. He wanted to speak, but never knew what to say, when she was +in this prickly state of irritation. To her, his critical way of +waiting, and doing nothing, became an oppression. And his silence, and +what she supposed to be his indifference, grew upon her like a heavy +weight, until the silent woman, who sat there reading sullenly, felt the +impulse to rise and fling away the book, and shriek aloud. + +Livia did not say that she wished to go away from Arles, anywhere from +Arles, but the desire spoke in all her silences. She made no complaint, +but Roserra saw an unfriendliness growing up in her eyes which terrified +him. She held him, as she had held him since their first meeting, by a +kind of magnetism which he had come to realise was neither love nor +sympathy. He felt that he could hate her, and yet not free himself from +that influence. What was to be done? He would have to choose; his life +of the future could no longer be his life of the past. His introduction +of a woman to his best friend had been unfortunate, as such +introductions always are, in one way or another. He had tended his soul +for more than half a lifetime, waited upon it delicately, served it with +its favourite food; and now something stronger had come forward and +said: No more. What was it? He had no wish to speculate; it mattered +little whether it was what people called his higher nature, or what they +called his lower nature, which had brought him to this result. At least +he had some recompense. + +When he told Livia that he had decided to go back to Marseilles ('Arles +does not suit you,' he said; 'you have not been well since we came +here') Livia flung herself into his arms with an uncontrollable delight. +On the night before they left, he sat for a long time, alone, under the +Allee des Tombeaux. When he came back, Livia was watching for him from +the window. She ran to the door and opened it. + +It was midday when they reached Marseilles. The sun burned on the blue +water, which lay hot, motionless, and glittering. There was not a breath +of wind, and the dust shone on the roads like a thick white layer of +powder. The light beat downwards from the blue sky, and upwards from the +white dust of the roads. The heat was enveloping; it wrapped one from +head to foot like the caress of a hot furnace. Roserra pressed his hands +to his forehead, as he leaned with Livia over the terrace above the sea; +his head throbbed, it was an effort even to breathe. He remembered the +grey coolness of the Allee des Tombeaux, where the old men sat among the +tombs. A nausea, a suffocating nausea, rose up within him as he felt the +heat and glare of this vulgar, exuberant paradise of snobs and tourists. +He sickened with revolt before this over-fed nature, sweating the fat of +life. He looked at Livia; she stood there, perfectly cool under her +sunshade, turning to watch a carriage that came towards them in a cloud +of dust. She was once more in her element, she was quite happy; she had +plunged back into the warmth of life out of that penetential chillness +of Arles; and it was with real friendliness that she turned to Roserra, +as she saw his eyes fixed upon her. + + + + + SEAWARD LACKLAND. + + +Seaward Lackland was born on a day of storm, when his father was out at +sea in his fishing-boat; and the mother vowed that if her husband came +home alive the boy should be dedicated to the Lord. Isaac Lackland was +the only one of his mates who came home alive out of the storm; and the +boy got the queer name of Seaward because his mother had looked out to +sea, as soon as she had strength enough to be propped up in bed, praying +for her husband every minute of the time until he came back. She could +see the sea through the little leaded windows of the cottage which stood +right on the edge of the cliff above Carbis Bay. The child's earliest +recollection was of the shape and colour of the waves, between the +diamond leadings, as he was held up to the window in his mother's arms. +It was like looking at pictures in frames, he thought afterwards. + +The child was dedicated to the Lord. Isaac knelt down by the bedside and +prayed over him as Mary held him in her arms, and when he got up from +his knees he said: 'Mary, if the boy lives, please God, he shall have +his schooling; and I wouldn't say but he might make a fine preacher of +the Gospel.' + +'It was little schooling Peter ever had,' said his wife. + +'Peter was wanted in the boat; this youngster can wait.' + +'Oh, Isaac, do you think he'll go to America, when he's grown up, like +Peter?' + +'No, Mary, he'll not go farther than Land's End by land, or Mount's Bay +by sea, if what I feel is the truth. We've given him to the Lord, and I +say the Lord will lend him to us.' + +Mary said under her breath, 'Oh, please, Lord Jesus,' several times +over, with her eyes tight shut, as she did when she seemed to pray best. +Her first son had been drowned at sea, her second had run away from home +and gone to America; and she hardly dared think of what would happen to +this one. But they had done what they could. Would not God watch over +him, and would he not be kind to her because she had given up some of +her rights in the child? + +The child grew strong and gentle; he learned quickly what he was taught, +and when he had learned it he would set himself to think out what it +really meant, and why it meant that and not something else. He was +always good to his mother, and as soon as he had learned to read he +would read to her out of a few books which she cared for, the Bible +chiefly, and Bogatzky's 'Golden Treasury,' and the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' +Through reading it over and over to his mother, he got to know a good +part of the Bible by heart, and he was always asking what this and that +puzzling passage meant exactly, and, when he got no satisfying answer, +trying to puzzle out a meaning for himself. + +Every day he went in to the Wesleyan day-school at St. Ives, and as he +walked there and back along the cliff-path, generally alone, all sorts +of whimsical ideas turned over in his head, ideas that came to him out +of books, and out of what people said, and out of the queer world in +which he found himself, half land and half water. It was always changing +about him and yet always there, in the same place, with its regular and +yet unaccountable tides and harvests. Sometimes there was a storm at sea +and all the boats did not come back, and the people he had talked with +yesterday had gone, like the stone he kicked over the cliff in walking, +or he saw them carried up the beach with covered faces. Death is always +about the life of fishermen, and he saw it more visibly and a thing more +natural and expected than it must seem to most children. + +He had always loved the sea, and it was his greatest delight to be taken +out when the pilchards were in the bay, and to sit in the boat watching +the silver shoals as they crowded into the straining net. He waited for +the cry of 'Heva!' from the watchman on the hill, and often sat beside +him, or stared out to sea through his long telescope, longing to be the +first to catch the moving glitter of silver. He talked with the men +'like a grown-up chap' they said, and they talked with him as if he +were a man, telling him stories, not the stories they would have told +children, but things out of their own lives, and ideas that came into +their heads as they lay out at sea all night in the drift-boats. + +There was one old man with whom the boy liked best to talk, because he +had been a sailor in his youth and had gone through all the seas and +landed at many ports, and had been shipwrecked on a wild island and +lived for a year among savages, and he was not like the other men, who +had always been fishers, and thought Plymouth probably as good as +London. Old Minshull seemed to the boy a very clever as well as a +far-travelled person, and he discussed some of his difficulties with him +and got help, he thought, from the old man. + +His difficulties were chiefly religious ones. He knew much more about +the Bible than about the world, and his imagination was constantly at +work on those absorbing stories in Kings and Judges, and all sorts of +cloudy pictures which he made up for himself out of obscure hints in the +Prophets and the Apocalypse. The old Cornishman knew his Bible pretty +well, but not so well as the boy; and the boy would bring the book out +on the cliff and read over some of the confusing things; murders, with +God's approval, it seemed, and treacheries which set nations free, and +are called 'blessed,' and the sins of the saints; and then mysterious +curses and unintelligible idolatries, and the Scarlet Woman and Jonah's +whale. He liked best the Old Testament, and had formed a clear idea of +God the Father as a perfectly just but constantly avenging deity; it +pained him if he could not bring everything into agreement with this +idea; and in the New Testament he was often perplexed by what Jesus +seemed to do and undo in the divine affairs. The old sailor turned over +all these matters in his head; they were new to him, but he faced them, +and he was sometimes able to suggest just the common-sense way out of +the difficulty. + +When Mary Lackland thought the boy old enough to understand the full +meaning of it, she told him how, on the day of his birth, he had been +dedicated to God, and she told him that he was never to forget this, +but to think much of God's claims upon him, and to be certain of a +special divine guardianship. He listened gravely, and promised. From +that time he began to look on God, not with less awe, but with a more +intimate sense of his continual presence, and a kind of filial feeling +grew up in him quite simply, a love of God, which came as a great +reality into his life. He felt that he must never dishonour this divine +father, either by anything he did or by the way in which he thought of +him even. Did not God, in a sense, depend on him as a father depends on +his son, to keep his honour spotless, to be more jealous of that honour +than of his own? That, or something like it, only half-defined to +himself, was what he felt about God, to whom his whole life had been +dedicated. + +When he had finished his schooling, the boy joined his father in the +boats, first, only by day, in the pilchard fishery, and then in the +drift-boats that went far out, at night, in the herring season. His +father was a silent man and rarely spoke to him; the other men half +feared and half despised him, because he would not drink or play cards +with them, and seemed to be generally either reading or thinking. He +thought a great deal in those long nights, and when he was eighteen he +began to be seriously alarmed because, so far as he knew, he was not +converted. + +He knew that he tried to do what was right, that he kept all the +commandments, prayed night and morning, and that he had this instinctive +love of God; but, according to the Methodists, all that was not enough. +There must be a moment, they held, in every man's life when he becomes +actively conscious of salvation; for every man there is a road to +Damascus. Seaward Lackland had not yet come to that great crisis, and he +waited for it, wondering what it was and when he would come to it. + +He began to be troubled about his sins. The Bible said that every evil +thought was a sin, and he did not know how many evil thoughts had come +into his mind since he had become conscious of good and evil. A heavy +burden of guilt weighed upon him; he could not put it aside; the more +he thought of God, the more conscious did he become of that awful gulf +which lay between him and God. Conversion, he had heard, bridged that +gulf, or your sins fell off into it and were no more seen, even if, +somewhere out of sight, they still existed, and would exist through all +eternity. He would have despaired but for the hope of that miracle. And +if I die, he said to himself, before I am converted? + +He had always gone regularly to chapel on Sundays and as often as he +could on week-days, but now he began to stay to the prayer-meetings +after the service, and the minister at St. Ives noticed him, and often +prayed with him and talked with him, but to no avail. A year went by, +and he grew more despondent; even his love for God seemed to be +slackening. One winter evening he heard that a famous revivalist was +coming to Lelant. He thought he would go and hear him, then something +seemed to urge him not to go; and he walked half-way there, and then +back again, unable to make up his mind. Then, thinking that it was the +devil who was trying to keep him away, he turned and walked resolutely +to Lelant. + +When he reached the chapel the service had begun. They were singing +'Jesu, lover of my soul,' and the preacher was standing inside the +communion-rail (he liked to be nearer the people than he could be in the +pulpit), and, as Seaward had the first glimpse of his face, he was +singing as if every word of the hymn meant something wonderful to him. +His eyes were wide open and shining; he held the closed hymn-book in +both hands, rigid in front of him, and the people seemed already to have +begun to feel that magnetic influence which he rarely failed to +establish between himself and his hearers. After the hymn he stretched +out his hand with a sudden gesture, and the people stood motionless for +a moment and then gradually sank down on their knees as he began to pray +rapidly. He seemed to be talking with God as if God were there in the +midst of them, and as he passed from supplication into a kind of vivid +statement, meant for the people rather than for the ear of God, there +seemed to be a dialogue going on, as if the answers which he gave were +hardly his own answers. He ended abruptly, and, without the harmonium, +started an almost incoherent marching-song which was well known at all +revivals. 'Hallelujah, send the glory!' he sang, and the voices of the +people rose louder and louder and feet began to beat time to the heavy +swing of the tune. Then he read the lesson and, without a pause, gave +out the text, and began to speak. + +Seaward Lackland had stepped into a pew near the door, and in the +furthest corner of the chapel. Something in the preacher's voice had +thrilled him, and he could not take his eyes off the long lean face, +with its eyes like two burning coals, as it seemed to him, under a high +receding forehead, from which the longish hair was brushed straight +back. A huge moustache seemed to eat up the whole lower part of the +face; and, as the man spoke, you saw nothing but the eyes and the +quivering moustache. He began quietly, but, from the first, in the +manner of one who has some all-important, and perhaps fatal, secret to +tell. An uneasiness spread gradually through the chapel, which +increased as he went on, with more urgency. People shifted in their +seats, looked sideways at their neighbours, as if they feared to have +betrayed themselves. Seaward felt himself turning hot and cold, for no +reason that he could think of, and he took out his handkerchief and +wiped his forehead. Near him he saw a young woman begin to cry, quite +quietly, and a man not far off drew long breaths, that he could hear, +almost like groans. The preacher's voice sounded like pathetic music, +and he heard the tones rather than the words, tones which seemed to +plead with him like music, asking something of him, as music did; and he +wanted to respond; and he realised that it was his sin that was keeping +him back from somehow completing the harmony, and he heard the +preacher's voice talking with his soul, as if no one were there but they +two. And God? God, perhaps. + +By this time many people in the chapel were weeping, men groaned +heavily, some jumped up crying 'Hallelujah!' and when the preacher ended +and said, 'Now let us have silent prayer,' and came down into the +aisle, and moved from pew to pew, one after another, as he spoke to +them, got up, and went to the communion-rail, and knelt there, some of +them with looks of great happiness. As Seaward saw the preacher coming +near him, he felt a horrible fear, he did not know of what; and he rose +quietly and stepped out into the night. But there, as he stood listening +to some exultant voices which he still heard crying 'Hallelujah!' and as +he felt the comfort of the cool air about him, and looked up at the +stars and the thin white clouds which were rushing across the moon, a +sense of quiet and well-being came over him, and he felt as if some +bitter thing had been taken out of his soul, and he were free to love +God and life at the same time, and not, as he had done till then, with +alternate pangs of regret. 'If God so loved the world,' he found himself +repeating; and the whole mercy of the text enveloped him. He walked home +along the cliff like one in a dream: he only hoped not to waken out of +that happiness. + +From this time, year by year, Seaward Lackland grew more eager to do +some work for God. He had made few friends among the young men and women +of his own age; to the women he seemed at once too cold and too earnest, +and the men were not quite certain of the comradeship of one who had so +much book-learning, and who was so full of strange ideas. He did not +mean to be unfriendly, but he had not the qualities that go to the easy +making of friendships; and he found no one, neither man nor woman, with +whom he had anything in common. The men respected him, for he was a good +fisherman; but the women had for the most part a certain contempt for +this large-boned, dull-eyed, heavy-jawed young man, who was never at his +ease when he was with them, and who waited on no occasions for meeting +them when they might have liked his company. The minister at St. Ives +had noticed him and asked him sometimes to come and have a talk with him +in his study. One day Lackland, warmed out of his reserve, had been +talking so well that the minister said to him: 'I think we must have +you as a local preacher, Lackland. What do you say to it?' He said +quietly: 'I would like to try, sir.' + +A few weeks afterwards, when the quarterly 'plan' was handed in at the +Lacklands' cottage, and Mrs. Lackland had unfolded it eagerly, to see +who were appointed to take the services at Carbis, she came suddenly +upon a name which startled her so much, that the broad sheet of paper +fluttered off her knees to the floor. 'My boy,' she said, as Seaward +picked it up, and handed it back to her with a smile, 'I have been +praying for this ever since I dedicated you to the Lord. Now I hardly +know what there is left for me to pray for.' + +'Pray that I may be steadfast in the faith, mother,' said Seaward. + +'I will, my son; but I wouldn't mind trusting him for that.' + +Everybody in the village was in Carbis Chapel to hear Seaward Lackland's +first sermon. He was not afraid of them; he had something to say, and he +was to speak for God; he said quietly all that was in his mind to say. + +After the sermon, while he was walking across to the cottage with his +father and mother, both very happy, and saying nothing at all, one or +two of the older people stayed behind to discuss the sermon. 'Do you +think he is quite orthodox?' said one of them, dubiously. 'I don't +know,' said another; 'there were some ideas, sure enough, I never heard +before; but I wouldn't say for that they weren't orthodox.' 'We must be +careful,' said a third; 'these young people think too much.' 'A great +deal too much,' said the first, 'once you begin to think for yourself, +what's to stop you?' + + * * * * * + +From the time of his first sermon Seaward Lackland looked upon his +dedication to God as not only complete, but, in a sense, accepted. He +had offered himself as an interpreter of the will of God to men, and +power was put into his hand. Now, he said to himself, if I should prove +a backslider, that would be a calamity for God also. The thought of his +sins, which he believed God to have pardoned, came back to him again and +again; he saw them still existing, like atoms which refused to go out +into nothingness; even if pardoned, not literally extinct. What if his +soul were one day to reinherit them, to slip back into their midst, +having let go of the hand of God, which needed at all times to hold him +up out of that deadly gulf? And now that he, who needed help so much, +had taken it upon him to try to help others, could he be sure that he +was rightly helping them? Could he, in all obedience, be sure that he +was interpreting the divine will aright? + +He had never found help in any book but the Bible. Once or twice he had +borrowed a commentary from the minister at St. Ives, but he could not +read these dry and barren discourses, which seemed to tell you so many +unnecessary things, but never the things that you wanted to know. He put +them aside, and the conviction came to him that with prayer and thought +everything would explain itself to him. Did not the Holy Ghost still +descend into men's minds, illuminating that patient darkness? He waited +more and more expectantly on that divine light, and it seemed to come +to him with a more punctual answer. At night, on the water, while the +other men lay across the seats, smoking their pipes in silence, he would +withdraw into his own mind until visible things no longer existed, and +he was alone in a darkness which began to glow with soft light. Only +then did he seem to see quite clearly, and what he saw was not always +what he had reasoned out for himself; but it was a solution, and it came +irresistibly. + +Once, when he had fallen asleep, he dreamed a dream from which he awoke +with a cry of terror. In his dream he had seen an evil spirit (it had +the appearance of a man, but he knew it to be an evil spirit because of +the infinitely evil joy which shone through the melancholy of its eyes), +and he was sitting talking with the evil spirit on the edge of a tall +cliff above the sea; and it said to him: Do you know that Seaward +Lackland is damned? and he said No, and it said: He is damned because he +has sinned the sin against the Holy Ghost; and the evil joy began to +grow and grow in its eyes, and it was watching him as if to discover +whether he knew that he himself was Seaward Lackland, and he tried to +say No again, more loudly, and as he drew back, the cliff began to +crumble away, but very slowly, so that a hundred years might have passed +while he felt himself slipping down into the gulf of the sea; and his +own cry awakened him. + +He knew that he had been dreaming, but the dream might have been a +message. He knew the text in the Bible, and he had often wondered what +it meant. Had not Jesus said: 'All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be +forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be +forgiven unto men'? It was the most terrible saying in the Bible. What +was the sin which even God could not forgive? He remembered that +reiteration in Matthew: 'And whosoever speaketh a word against the Son +of Man, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the +Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, nor in +the world to come.' Might it not be possible for a man to sin that sin +in ignorance? Would his ignorance avail him, if he had actually sinned +it? These thoughts troubled him strangely, and he tried to put them away +from him. + +They came back to him again, and more searchingly. Since his conversion +he had been as much troubled by the thought of his past sins as he had +been before that change occurred. They were put away; yes, but was it +not a kind of putting off the payment of a debt which might be still +accumulating? And now, if there was one sin which could never be atoned +for, and if he had committed that one sin? It was possible, and the +thought filled him with horror. + +One July night, when the boats were away in the North Sea, he set +himself to think the whole matter out; he would get at the truth, and +not endure this doubt and trouble any longer. He was sitting in the +stern of the boat, the other men were talking in low voices, but he was +used not to hear them. He put his elbows on his knees, and bowed his +head over till his hands met above it. He shut his eyes and stared hard +into the darkness under his eyelids. The boat rocked gently: he wanted +to keep quite still, so that he might think, and he put his feet against +the sides of the boat, steadying himself. + +As he sat there, annihilating thought that he might think the more +deeply, it seemed to him after a time as if all his past life came back +to him under a new aspect, as something which had been wrong from the +beginning. Had he not, as a child, been angry, greedy, loving only his +own pleasure, ungrateful to those who had refused him any of his desires +for his own good? Had he not been heedless and self-willed as a young +man, had he not even made a boast of his own righteousness after he had +found Christ? Was there a day since he had come to a knowledge of good +and evil when he had not sinned at least in thought? He imagined God +adding up all those sins, from the animal sins of childhood to the sins +of the mature mind. 'The Lamb's book of life': he remembered the words, +and they became terrible to him, for he saw all the pages in which his +account was written. For him it would be the book of eternal death. + +He lifted his head and looked up. God was up there, beyond that roof +which was his pavement. He was afraid of the great loneliness which lay +between him and God. + +He looked around. The drift-net lay out for a mile along the water, its +brown corks heaving gently, at regular intervals. Other boats lay +alongside, with their nets adrift; some of the boats were silent, the +men all asleep; from others he heard voices, a sudden laugh, and then +silence. The water was all about him, and the water was friendly, a +great breathing thing, that had him in its arms. He only felt at home +when he was on the water, because the water was so living, and the land +lay like a dead thing, always the same, but for the change of its +coverings. There was in the Bible one of those hard sayings: that in +heaven 'there shall be no more sea.' It was too difficult for him to +understand. + +The sea comforted him a little, but he said to himself: 'I do not want +to be dandled to sleep like a child; I want to see the truth.' Had he, +or had he not, among the numberless sins, which he had seen God adding +up in his book, committed the one sin which should never be pardoned? He +did not know what that sin was, but, he argued, my ignorance makes no +difference. If I pick toad-stools for mushrooms, and eat them, I shall +pay the penalty, just the same as if I had eaten them on purpose. The +Bible, it was true, did not tell you, as far as he could discover; but +there must be people who knew. There was the minister, who had a +reference Bible, and knew Hebrew. He would certainly know. + +'When we get back to St. Ives,' said Lackland to himself, 'I will go and +see Mr. Curnock; meanwhile the less I think about this the better.' But +there was one thought that he could not put out of his mind. Suppose he +had not sinned the unpardonable sin, had he not sinned so often, and so +deeply, that God ought not to pardon him, if he were really a just +judge, and not swayed, as men are, by a pity which is only one form of +partiality? He had always conceived sternly of God; the Jehovah of the +Old Testament was always before him, a mighty avenger, a God of battles +and judgments, inexorably just. If God was also love, God might forgive +him; he would want to forgive him; but would it be right to accept +mercy, if that mercy lowered his creator in his own eyes? The thought +stung him, raced through him like poison; he could not escape from it. +His old sense of honour towards God came back on him with redoubled +force. If God were just, God would not forgive him. Did he not love God +so much that he would suffer eternal misery, gladly, in order that God +might be just? + +When the boats went home with their fish, Lackland had only one thought: +to go and see Mr. Curnock at St. Ives. He walked in from Carbis that +evening, and found the minister alone in his study. Mr. Curnock +respected him; he had gone steadily on, year after year, preaching +whenever he was wanted, and though one or two people had complained that +his sermons were not strictly orthodox, most of the people spoke well of +him; many said that he had helped them. On that night he was very +serious, and he seemed to be hesitating to say all that he had to say. +At last he admitted that it was the text in the Bible which was +troubling him. + +Mr. Curnock went up to his shelves and looked along them. 'I know,' he +said, 'that many people have been needlessly disturbed about that +saying. And, as the Bible does not tell us, we cannot be quite certain +what that sin is. But if I can find one or two passages that recur to +me, in some of the people who have written about the Gospels, I think +they will throw some light on the matter.' He took down a big black +book, and turned over the pages. 'Here, for instance: "Not a particular +_act_ of sin but a _state_ of wilful, determined opposition to the Holy +Spirit, is meant." That is very much what I should imagine to be the +truth. But it is a little vague, perhaps?' + +'I don't thoroughly see it,' said Lackland. 'The Bible says "blasphemy +against the Holy Ghost."' + +'Well now,' said the minister, taking down another book, 'here is a +translation from a Spaniard of the sixteenth century, who has been +called "a Quaker before his time." He puts things quaintly, but I like +him better than the formal people. Let me see: "Whence, considering that +..." No, that doesn't concern us; here it is: "do I come to understand +that a man then sins against the Holy Spirit, when, with mental +malignity he persuades men that the works of the Holy Spirit are the +works of the devil, he being soul-convinced of the contrary." Is that +clear?' + +'That's clearer,' said Lackland. + +'He goes on, on the next page,' said Mr. Curnock, '"And I understand +that sin against the Holy Ghost that worked in Christ was inexcusable, +for it could not spring save from the most depraved minds, obstinate in +depravity."' Mr. Curnock shut the book, and put it back in its place. +'Now, do you see,' he said, sitting down by the table, 'this awful sin, +such as it is, could not be sinned unconsciously; its very essence is +that it is a deliberate rejection of what we know to be truth. I might +almost say that to sin it, a man must make up his mind that he will do +so.' + +'I think I see,' said Lackland, staring before him; 'and I was wrong +there, for certain: I never committed that sin. But, all the same, I +don't feel quite clear yet.' + +'Why is that?' said the minister. + +'Have you never thought, sir,' said Lackland, 'that the only return we +can make to God for his love to us, is to love him more than we love +ourselves?' + +'But certainly,' said Mr. Curnock. + +'Well,' said Lackland, 'do you see it might be that a good Christian +would think most of saving his own soul.' + +'That is his duty,' said Mr. Curnock. + +'But are they both true?' said Lackland. + +'Both things you have said are perfectly true,' said Mr. Curnock; 'only, +I see no contradiction between them.' + +'Thank you, sir,' said Lackland, getting to his feet; 'I'll go and think +it all over; I'm not very ready at thinking, I have to set my mind to +things slowly; and you've given me a good lot to think over. Good-night, +Mr. Curnock.' + +'And now, my dear Lackland,' said the minister, as he opened the door of +the house, 'above all, don't worry over a text which none of us are very +sure about. Be certain of one thing, that God's mercy is infinite, and +that he'll bring you through.' + +Lackland walked slowly away from the door, along the terrace above the +sea, and then more rapidly, as he came out on the rough path along the +cliff. The wind blew sharply against him; the moon glittered in the sky, +among a multitude of glittering stars; and he heard the sea screaming +and tearing at the pebbles, as he sat down on the edge of the cliff, +just before getting to Carbis Bay, and looked along the uneasy water, +which quivered all over with little waves, hunching themselves up, one +after another, and leaping forward, all in a white froth, as they struck +upon the beach. 'They are like the lives of men,' thought Lackland; 'all +that effort, a struggling onward, a getting to the journey's end: see, +that wave is making for just that old tin can, and it has hit it, and +the can rolls over and remains, and the wave is gone.' He drew his +breath in sharply, drawing up the salt smell of the sea into his +nostrils, and sat there for a long time thinking. + +No, he had not committed the sin against the Holy Ghost: God could still +pardon him. But was it right, was it just, that God should pardon him? +One after another of the hard sayings of the Old Testament came into his +mind: it was clearly impossible to fulfil every one of those +obligations; he could but strive towards them, and fail, and fall back +on the mercy of God. At that thought something rose up in him like a +pride on behalf of God, and he said to himself: 'I will never ask God to +stoop in order that I may rise.' As he said the words he looked round +him; the aspect of the place, which he had known all his life, seemed to +change, to become dim, to become mysteriously distinct, and he saw that +he was sitting where he had sat with the evil spirit in his dream. He +got up hastily and went indoors. + +Night after night Seaward Lackland went out with the fishing-boats; he +did his share of the work just as usual, took his share of the profits, +slept by day, and sat awake by night; and, to all about him, he was the +same man as before. But an ecstasy was growing up within him which kept +his own ears shut to everything but one interior voice; he was +meditating a great sacrifice; and a great happiness began to inhabit his +soul. 'If God so loved the world,' he repeated, as he had repeated it on +the night of his conversion, 'that he gave his only begotten Son ...' He +brooded over the words, wondering if a mere man could imitate that +supreme surrender. He was only a poor fisherman; the disciples had been +that, and Jesus had called them to leave their fathers and their nets +and follow him. Both his father and mother were dead; no one in the +world depended on him; he was free to give up the world, if he chose, +for God. The thought intoxicated him; he saw nothing but the thought, +like a light beckoning to him in the darkness: perhaps calling him to +destruction. The pride of a vast magnanimity thrilled through him: he +would sin the one sin that God could not pardon, in order that God +should deal with him according to his justice, and not according to his +mercy. He would, as he had dreamed when a child, prefer God's honour to +his own; he would give up heaven in order that God might be worthy of +his own idea of him. I will sin, he said to himself, the sin against the +Holy Ghost, and I will do it for the love of God. + +When he had made up his mind, and was full of an exultant inner peace +because of it, he still waited and pondered, not knowing quite how he +would do the thing he had decided to do. It must be done publicly, and +he must suffer for it here, as he was to suffer for it hereafter. It +must be done in Carbis Chapel, when his turn came to preach there. + +It was some time before his turn came, and he waited with a feverish +impatience. He tried to think out what he should say, but he could not +imagine anything that seemed to him sufficiently 'obstinate in +depravity.' He remembered the phrase, 'when, with mental malignity, he +persuades men that the works of the Holy Spirit are the works of the +devil'; and he tried to work out an argument, at which he shuddered, +which would seem to show Jesus as one working miracles with the help of +Satan. At first he could not put two words together, but gradually the +task became easier; strange arguments came into his head, which seemed +almost plausible to himself; he wondered if it was actually the devil, +for his own ends, helping him. He did not write down a word, though he +was accustomed to write every word of his sermons; every word, as he +thought it, stamped itself in his mind, like a seal pressed into burning +wax. + +The night before the Sunday on which he was to preach his last sermon, +he lay in bed trying to sleep, but unable to close his eyes on the +darkness that seemed to palpitate about him. He got out of bed, threw +open the window, and leaned out. The night was quite black, he could see +nothing, but he could hear the waves splashing upon the sand down below +in the bay. A chill wind bit at his face, and made his body shiver. He +shut the window, and lay down in bed again, staring for the dawn. He +felt cold right through to the heart, and he felt horribly alone. By +to-morrow night he would have cut himself adrift; he would be like that +seaweed which the sea was tossing upon the sand, and dragging away from +the sand. For God's sake he would have cast off God, and he had no other +friend. To-morrow he would have none. His resolution never wavered, but +he no longer wished the dawn to come quickly; he would have liked, when +he saw the first light on the window-panes, to have held back the dawn. + +He was to preach in the evening, and in the morning he sat in the chapel +and heard the minister from St. Ives telling of the mercy of God. His +text was: 'I say unto you that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one +sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons which +need no repentance.' He spoke of salvation for all; not a word was said +about that one exception. Lackland felt a bitter smile twitching at the +corners of his lips. + +At night he made his own tea as usual, and walked up and down the room, +often looking at the clock, until it was time to go across to the +chapel. He saw the people passing his window on their way; some of them +looked in, saw him, and nodded in a friendly manner. He looked again at +the clock; now it was time for him to go, and he went into a corner of +the room, knelt down, and prayed to God for strength to deny him. Then +he walked rapidly across to the chapel. + +The chapel was very full, it seemed to him oppressively hot, and he felt +the blood flushing his forehead. Many of the people remembered +afterwards that they had noticed something strange in his manner from +the moment in which he set foot on the steps of the pulpit. They were +quick to recognise the outward signs of a flame lighted within; and they +anticipated a fine sermon. His first prayer was very short, but it was +like a last confession. Each word seemed to live with a sharp, painful +life of its own; the words cried out, and called down heaven for an +answer. The text was a verse out of the twenty-fourth chapter of St. +Matthew: 'Then if any man shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or +there; believe it not.' It was not the first time he had chosen a +strange text. He began slowly, and with an unusual solemnity. It seemed +to him that they were not understanding him aright. As he went on, his +voice, which had at first been low, grew louder; he spoke as if he were +hurrying through some message which had been laid upon him to deliver; +yet with the calmness of one who has mastered his own fever. He was +speaking the most terrible words they had ever heard, and they were at +first too bewildered even to think. As he went on, they began to look at +one another, wondering if he were mad or they; one or two women near the +door got up quietly and went out; men stirred in their seats; a great +shudder went through the whole congregation. Blasphemies such as they +had never dreamed of filled their ears, dazed their senses; and Seaward +Lackland stood there calmly, like a martyr, one of them said afterwards; +the sweat stood out on his forehead, but he spoke in an even voice: was +it Seaward Lackland or was it the devil who stood there denying God, +denying the Holy Spirit? There were those who looked up at the ceiling +above them, thinking that the roof would fall in and bury them with the +blasphemer. But as heaven did not stir in its own defence, it was for +them to assume the defence of heaven. An old class leader stood up in +his pew, near the communion-rail, and turning his back on the preacher, +said in a loud voice: 'I entreat you all to listen to this man no +longer, but to go instantly home, and pray God Almighty to forgive you +for what you have heard this day.' Lackland stood silent, and every one +in the chapel got up and went quickly out, the old class-leader the +last; and Lackland was left alone in the chapel, standing before the +open Bible in the pulpit. He fell on his knees and covered his face with +his hands: 'O God, forgive me,' he prayed, 'for what I have done for +thee to-day.' + + * * * * * + +From that day Seaward Lackland was an outcast in the village. The mates +with whom he shared the boat and the nets refused to go to sea in his +company, lest they should share a judgment reserved for him, and all be +drowned together. He accepted his fate without protest, and, as one +thing after another slipped out of his hands, made no complaint. When +there was nothing else for him to do, he drove a cart which used to +carry the fish from the boats to the salting-cellars, and afterwards +from the cellars to the railway station, where they were sent in barrels +to the nearest port for Genoa and Leghorn. He was too poor now to live +in his cottage, and housed with some others as poor as himself, in a +half-fallen shanty on the way to Lelant. Even his housemates mocked him, +and held themselves more decent folks than he. It was thought that his +brain had weakened, for he became more and more eccentric in his ways, +and got to talk with himself, for hours together, in a low voice, but +with the gestures of one explaining something to an unseen disputant. +One day as he was racing up the hill by the side of his cart, urging on +the horses, his foot slipped, and he fell under the near wheel, which +had crushed into his breast-bone before the horses could be stopped. He +was carried back, and laid on his ragged bed; and was just able to ask +those about him to fetch the minister from St. Ives. He was not quite +dead when the minister came, and he said 'Amen,' simply, to the prayer +which the minister offered up for him. Then, as he seemed anxious to say +something, the minister stooped down, and, to help him, said: 'Perhaps +you want to tell us why you sinned against God ...' he was going to add, +'and that you repent of it, and hope for salvation,' but the dying man, +in a very faint but ecstatic voice, said: 'Because I loved God more than +I loved myself'; and so died, with a great joy on his face. But the +minister shook his head sorrowfully, not understanding what he meant. + + + + + EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF HENRY LUXULYAN. + + +When Henry Luxulyan died in Venice, a few years ago, he left a written +request that all his papers should be sent to me under seal. He was a +townsman of mine, and that, I think, had been almost the only link +between us, though I had known him from childhood, and we used to meet, +more or less accidentally, and at long intervals, all through his life. +As a boy he had few friends; he did not seek them; and I was never sure +that he looked upon me as in any real sense a friend. It was always +vaguely supposed that he was very clever, and as he took part in no +boyish games, and did not ride, or swim, or even walk much, but seemed +to brood, and linger, and be thinking, it was supposed that he had +interests of his own, and would one day be or do something remarkable. +He was never communicative about anything, but once or twice in later +years, he spoke to me of his historical studies, and I gathered that he +was making researches (for a book, I supposed) into the life of Attila: +a subject remote and gloomy enough, I thought, to be naturally +attractive to him. For some years I lost sight of him altogether, and +then, to my surprise, met him at the house of a German Baron and his +wife, who were settled in London, where they entertained lavishly. It +was the last house at which I had ever expected to meet him; though +indeed the Baroness was a woman of considerable learning, and very +intelligent and sympathetic. I found that he had become her librarian, +and was living in the house. He looked ill and restless. Whenever I +dined at the house, he was always there. I noticed that the Baroness +treated him more like a friend than a librarian; appealing to him on +every occasion as if he had the management of the whole household. I +never had much private talk with him, but he seemed glad to see me, and +referred sometimes, but never very definitely, to his work, which I +encouraged him to persevere with. He seemed almost pathetically alone; +but I remembered that he had never cared to be otherwise. The nervous +restlessness which I had observed in him was more marked every time that +I saw him; and it was with no surprise that I heard he had broken down, +and was in Venice, trying to recover. But it was in Venice that he took +the fever of which he died. + +I never knew why he left that strange request that his papers should be +sent to me; nor was there any message among them, or the least +indication of what he wanted me to do with them. Most of them were +concerned with the life of Attila, but there were not three properly +finished chapters; and the mass of fragments, quotations, references, +tentative notes, mutually destructive and unresolved conjectures, +baffled my utmost endeavours, and remained for me, and I fear must +always remain, so much lost labour, like an enigma of which the key is +missing. But in the midst of these papers, thrust as if hurriedly into +one of the bundles, so that the string had cut into the outer leaves of +loose manuscripts, there was a thin book bound in parchment, almost +filled with Luxulyan's close, uneasy writing. It was a journal, many +times begun and relinquished, ending with a date not many days before +his death. Between the pages were two letters, in a woman's handwriting. +I burnt the letters without reading them; then I read the journal. + +What I print here is printed with but few omissions; only I have changed +the names, and not left any allusion, as far as I know, to circumstances +which it is likely that any one could easily identify. For the omissions +I make myself wholly responsible; as, indeed, for the printing of the +journal at all. It seems to me a genuine document; odd, disconcerting, +like the man who wrote it; profoundly disconcerting to me, on reading +it, as I discovered the real subterranean being whom I had known, during +his lifetime, only by a few, scarcely perceptible outlines on the +surface. Such as it is, I give it here, reserving till afterwards +something more which I shall have to say by way of comment or epilogue. + + * * * * * + +April 5.--I have been talking with the doctor to-day, and he tells me +that my nerves are seriously out of order. There, of course, he is quite +right, and he tells me nothing I did not know already. Only, why tell +me? That is just what it does me no good to think about. If I am to keep +in even so shaky an equilibrium as this, which at least might be worse, +it is essential for me to forget there is any danger. What folly, to be +a doctor and honest! + +For my part, I was quite frank with him. I told him it was terrible, to +be alone and to think about death every day of one's life. He put out a +soothing hand professionally, and began to say something about 'with +care' and 'I see no reason why,' and so forth; 'no reason why, with +care, you should not live, well----' 'How long,' I interrupted him, as +he hesitated. 'Thirty years, forty years,' he said confidently, 'why +not? I tell you there is no reason why you should not die an old man.' +And he thought he was comforting me! I only said, 'It is horrible.' 'In +heaven's name,' he said, with real amazement, 'what is horrible?' I told +him: this dwindling away, this continual losing of all the forces that +hold one to life, this inevitable encroachment of the other thing, the +darkness; and the uncertainty of it all, except the ending. 'Come now,' +he said, as if he were arguing with a child, 'be reasonable; you don't +expect to live for ever?' 'That is just it,' I said; and then I put it +to him: 'don't you find it horrible to think of?' 'I never think of it,' +he said. 'I have to see to it every day. One accustoms oneself to the +things one sees every day. You brood over it because it is hidden away +from you.' + +He said that as if he was saying something fine, courageous, even +intelligent. + +I shivered as he spoke so lightly of seeing people die every day, and I +said, 'You think nothing of it!' 'To me,' he said, more seriously, 'it +is the one quite natural thing in the world. One is tired, one lies +down, one sleeps. And even if one isn't conscious of being tired, there +is nothing so good as sleep.' It struck me that he was quoting from +Marcus Aurelius, in a sort of roundabout way, and I let him go on +talking; but when he looked at me and said: 'I have never met any one +before who worried over the thought that he would have to die when he +was seventy, eighty, ninety: how do you know you won't live to be +ninety?' the simplicity of the man struck me as being laughable; a child +could have reasoned better, and I said: 'If I live to be ninety I shall +never have passed a day without thinking about death, and I know that I +am logically right in never losing sight of the only thing in the world +which is of infinite importance. You call it morbid, but what if only I +am wide awake, after all, and you others are walking straight into a pit +with your eyes shut?' It was then that he repeated that my nerves were +seriously out of order. He told me that I must find distraction. In +other words, I must shut my eyes from time to time. Well, there is no +doubt about it. That is what I must try to do. But how? + + * * * * * + +April 6.--I suppose it is only because I am nervous, and because the +doctor told me I must not live so much by myself, but I am beginning to +think again about Clare, and I had not thought of her for a long time. +When one has lived with a woman, in the same house with her, every day +and every night for three years: think, there are one thousand and +ninety-five days in three years! well, something remains, in the very +look and touch of the furniture, in the treacherous blank of the +mirrors, which forget nothing, and hide so much, something that will +never wholly go; and I must not expect to release my senses, as I have +released my mind and my will, from the power of that woman. + +Only, the less I think about her the better; and there is no danger of +my wanting her back again. That would be singularly inconvenient, if, as +I can but suppose, she is perfectly happy with that ordinary person whom +she had the curious taste to prefer to me. One must guard against being +ridiculous, even when one is alone with oneself, and I am content to +seem no hero to this serviceable valet, my journal; but it is partly +the incapacity of good taste in them that makes women so intolerable. +There are men of whom I have said to myself: Now, if Clare fell in love +with this man, or that man, it would seem to me so natural, so +legitimate; I could almost despise her for not submitting to a +fascination which is insensitive not to feel. But a poseur, a fop, a +cad; one of those men whom every man sees through at the first +hand-shake; a sleek flatterer, whose compliments are vulgarities; the +shopman air of 'inquire within upon everything'; yes, that is the man +who takes his choice of women. Is vulgarity a curable thing? and will +the vulgarity of women ever be cultured out of them? + +I once tried to believe that there are women and women; but I have never +found that the 'and' meant anything essential. + + * * * * * + +April 7.--I dined out at night, with my Jew friends, the Kahns, whom I +have not cared to see for so long; and the distraction has done me good. +They were charming, sympathetic, not obtrusively anxious about me; they +welcomed me as if I were really a friend; and there were some pleasant +people at the dinner-table. Only, I do not understand how they could ask +to dinner a certain Baroness von Eckenstein who was there. One should +preserve a certain decency in intercourse; there are things one should +be spared! I sat opposite to her, and she talked to me a good deal +across the table; she seemed intelligent; she might be all that is +admirable. Her figure was firm, ample, almost majestic, and the face had +once been not less finely designed, but over the whole left side, from +the forehead to the neck, there was a great white scar, shapeless, +horribly white, and scored as with deep cuts, which had formed +cicatrices of a yet more ghastly white. The bloodless and livid skin, +ploughed and wrinkled with these raised cicatrices, was drawn tightly +over the cheek-bone. The eyelid, strangely misshapen, was alone the +natural colour of flesh, but this eyelid looked as if it were +artificially attached to the underpart of the eyebrow, and on the +forehead above the eye there was a white scar, as if the flesh had been +cut away to form the eyelid. I dared not look at her, and yet, in spite +of myself, my eyes kept seeking her face. A death's head would be a more +agreeable companion at table. They tell me she is newly come to London, +very rich, very hospitable; Mrs. Kahn, with her intolerable indulgence, +means to make a friend of her; if I go there again I am sure to meet +her, and only the thought of that disgrace of nature makes me shiver. +Must I cut myself off again from just what had promised to be a real +distraction? I will stay at home, work, not think, bury myself in my +books. + + * * * * * + +April 8.--I realise, on thinking it over in a perfectly calm mood, +without any sort of nervous excitement, that I have always been afraid +of women; and that is one reason, the chief perhaps, why I have always +been so lonely, both when Clare was with me, and before and after it. +Just as I cannot get out of my head that there is some concealed +conspiracy against me, in earthly things, so there seems to be, in the +other sex, a kind of hidden anger or treachery, which makes me uneasy. I +was never really happy when a woman sat on the other side of the table, +at the other corner of the fireplace. Vigny was right: + + 'Toujours ce compagnon dont le coeur n'est pas sur.' + +I will quote no more: the verse becomes Biblical; and indeed it is of +Samson and Delilah. Just what attracts me in a woman revolts me: the +'love strong as death,' which is no more than 'la candeur de l'antique +animal,' raised to the power of self-expression. It bewilders, distracts +yes, terrifies me. That women are better and worse than we think them, I +am certain; and no doubt nature was wise in setting us on our knees +before the enigma. To be so mysterious and so contemptible! Merely for +us to think that, shuts us away from them, our possible friends, as by a +great wall, outside which there can be only enemies. We capitulate, +perhaps, but it is the enemy who has conquered. + + * * * * * + +April 9.--I have been working hard, going nowhere, and I suppose staying +indoors too much. I begin to be restless again. The Kahns have written +asking me to dine with them on Sunday: will that woman be there? Hans +Greger is coming with his old music, and I should like to hear the viols +and harpsichord again. I think I must go. + +Meanwhile some rumours of war which I read on the newspaper placards +have set me puzzling over one of my favourite enigmas. Is it not +incredible that there should be people in the world who will kill one +another, and even themselves, for any one of a multitude of foolish +reasons? As if life was not short enough at the longest, and one's +bodily pains troublesome enough without even the added risk of +accidents; and yet we must do our best to aid the enemy of us all; we +must make ourselves lieutenants of death; and for what? The thing begins +in our fantasies of honour, precedence, patriotism, or by whatever name, +big or small, we choose to christen the tiny germ of unreason. War +reduces to an absurdity, with its pompous mortal emphasis, the whole +argument. I have been thinking out a theory of this disease of humanity, +to which scientific people should have given a name. It might be +studied, in cellars, as they study bacilli. + + * * * * * + +April 10.--To-day has been one of those days in which London becomes +intolerable. The dust-carts in the street, the reek of chop-houses, the +unwashed bodies in frowsy clothes, stink on the air, and the air is too +heavy to drain off this odious foulness, and one breathes it, and seems +to sicken. I am sure some loathsome gas is rising up out of the canal +under my windows; my head turns if I lean out and look over; and now it +is between two lights, almost too dark to see by daylight and not dark +enough to draw the curtains and turn on the electric light. It is the +time of day that I hate most; it is the only time of the day when I +actively want to be doing something, and when I am acutely miserable +because I have nothing to do. + +The last half-hour, since I wrote these words, has been as miserable a +half-hour as I remember spending in my life. And yet there is nothing to +account for it, except this absurd sensitiveness which is growing upon +me. Why is it that one clings to life when it bores one in this manner? +I am not sure that I have ever felt what people call the joy of living: +life has always seemed to me a more or less ridiculous compromise; and +yet there is nothing I dread so much as any sort of truth, the truth +which might put an end, once and for all, to this compromise. Was there +ever any one so illogical? I hate life, and yet I want to go on living +for ever. Sometimes, coming back at night, after a concert in which some +great music has struck one into a profound seriousness, a strange and +terrifying sensation takes hold of me as the cab turns suddenly, out of +a tangle of streets, into a broad road between trees and houses: one +enters into it as into a long dimly lighted alley, and at the end of the +road is the sky, with one star hung like a lantern upon the darkness; +and it seems as if the sky is at the end of the road, that if one drove +right on one would plunge over the edge of the world. All that is solid +on the earth seems to melt about one; it is as if one's eyes had been +suddenly opened, and one saw for the first time. And the great dread +comes over me: the dread of what may be on the other side of reality. +And it seems as if all the years of the longest life, measured out into +days and hours, would not be long enough to hold me back from the horror +of that plunge. + + * * * * * + +April 11.--She deceived me: all women deceive. I have no right to +condemn her any more than I condemn my doctor for deceiving me when I am +ill. He tells me: You will be better to-morrow; knowing that the only +way to make me better is to make me think I am going to be so. It would +be worse for us if women did not deceive us. + +She was vain, selfish, sensual: should I have cared for her if she had +not been all three? To almost everybody she seemed gentle and modest: +was it really that I knew her better, or did everybody else know +something about her which I had never discovered? That is the odd thing +which I am beginning to wonder. She lived with me for three years, and +then left me. Whose fault was it that she left me after three years? In +this wholly unusual state of humility in which I find myself at +present, I cannot say that the fault was not partly mine, and partly +that she was a woman. What a thing it is to be a woman, and how +perplexing are even their virtues! They are not made, as we are, all of +a piece; they are not made to be consistent; they think so little of +what we think so much of; even sex is a light, simple, and natural thing +to them, to which they attach none of our morbid valuations. It is for +all this that, when I am not in this particular mood, I hate and fear +them; but to-day it all seems so natural, and women themselves seem so +pardonable. Think of the daily habits of their life: how many times a +day they dress and undress themselves, and all it means. With each new +gown a woman puts on a new self, made to match it. All day long they are +playing the comedian, while we do but sit in the stalls, listen, watch +and applaud. At least the play is for our entertainment; we pay them to +act it: let us be indulgent if the acting is not always to our taste. + + * * * * * + +April 13.--I have just come from the Kahns'. Certainly there is no music +like this old, tinkling, unwearied music of Greger's for giving one a +sort of phantom or ghostly peace, as if the present faded into the +distance, and life became a memory, half sad and half happy, and above +all not too poignant. I can no longer allow myself to hear Wagner, much +less Tschaikowsky: music made to make people suffer. + +Of course the Baroness was there. She sat by me at dinner, but on my +left, and I could only see the unspoilt half of her face. Every now and +then I thought of the other half, and a kind of sickness came over me. +Once I turned to my other neighbour, in the middle of a sentence. But, +for the most part, I forgot, and then it seemed to me that I was talking +with the most accomplished woman I had ever met. She has travelled, +knows many languages, many people; she has the feeling, and, I think, +some of the knowledge of an artist; we spoke of music, painting, the art +of living; and, oddly enough, she has a passion for just my own +subject; history is her favourite reading, and when I spoke of one of +my own hobbies, of Attila, she quoted Jornandes, and a passage, I +remembered, that Thierry has not translated: she must have read it in +Latin. How has she found time to do all this? To me she does not seem +very young, but I suppose she is very little over forty. She spoke of +everything with great frankness; only, never of herself. I have hardly +spoken to the husband, to whom I have never seen her speak. He is very +tall, very dark, very thin, with an air of politeness so excessive that +it seems a kind of irony. She has asked me to come and see her; she +promises me the use of her library. Can I, I wonder, ever get the better +of that repugnance which rises in me when I see the ragged mask, the +mended eyelid? + + * * * * * + +April 14.--I have been filling these pages with rumours and +apprehensions, and now, just when I least expected it, something +definite has happened, which seems to make them all very trivial and +secondary. The Argonaut Building Society, into which I had put nearly +all the little money I had, has failed; there has been swindling; I am +ruined. What am I to do? I shall have to earn my living, heaven knows +how; I shall have to give up my work, sell my books, find some cheaper +rooms. This is the one thing I never thought would happen. I have been +afraid of most things but poverty, and now it is poverty which has come +upon me. Perhaps something will be saved out of the wreck of this false +Argonaut. I must wait until I know for certain that there is nothing. + + * * * * * + +April 15.--I called on the Baroness von Eckenstein. I did not expect to +see such a library. It was made by three generations of savants, and +continued by herself. There are folios not in the British Museum; one +that I had come to think had never existed. If she will really let me +sometimes use her library, I can sell my books cheerfully. She has a +remarkable intelligence. But for that scar she would have been +singularly handsome. What can have caused it, I wonder? It is like the +scar which I once saw on the face of a woman over whom her rival had +thrown vitriol. I am far from supposing any such vulgar tragedy in the +household of the Eckensteins! + + * * * * * + +April 16.--No further news yet from the Argonaut. I can only anticipate +the worst. Nothing but rain without, and this intolerable suspense in +one's mind. I can neither work nor think. + + * * * * * + +April 17.--To-day the weather has changed, and see how this barometer of +my nerves registers the change! I have been walking in Regent's Park, +the nearest country, and I feel singularly good, wise, and happy. That +uninteresting park, uninteresting in itself, has a gift of refreshment, +as one turns into it out of the streets. I find myself leaning against +the railing to watch a little dark creature with red legs and a red +bill, that swims between the swans, and clambers up on the grass, and +runs about there stealthily with a shy grace. There is an island, to +which all the water-birds go, and it is grown over with trees and +bushes and green weeds, down to the edge of the water, and they go there +when they want to be alone, as one goes into a deep wood, out of the +streets in which people stare. To-day I was perfectly happy, merely +walking about the park. I sat under a tree for half an hour, and it was +only when I realised that a queer sound which had come to me at +intervals, a mournful and deep cry, which I had heard in a kind of +dream, was the crying of the wild beasts, over yonder, inside their +bars, that I got up and came away. + +I have gone back to my journal at three o'clock in the morning, because +I cannot sleep, and one of my old horrors has taken hold of me again. I +am writing in order to give myself almost a sense of companionship: this +talking to oneself on paper is so different from the loud emptiness of +the night, when one is awake, and one's thoughts cry out. I woke up +suddenly, and felt the darkness about me, like a horrible oppression. I +felt as I have sometimes felt when the train has been carrying me +through a long tunnel. All the blood went to my head, as if I were +stifling, and I had a need of daylight. I turned on the electric light, +but it made no difference; it was no more than the light in the +railway-carriage while the darkness is thundering about one's ears, I +had the sensation of a world in which the daylight had been blotted out, +and men stumbled in a perpetual night, which the lamps did but make +visible. I felt that I should not be able to go on breathing unless I +thrust the thought out of my mind, and I got up and turned on all the +lights and walked to and fro in the rooms, and then came in here to +quiet myself in the way I have found so good, by writing down all these +fears and scruples of mine, as coldly as I can, as if they belonged to +somebody else, in whose psychology I am interested. Already the +uneasiness has almost left me. And yet who knows if I am only wrapping +the blanket round my head once more, in order that I may run through +fire and not see it? + + * * * * * + +April 18.--I have had one of my old headaches to-day, partly because I +slept so little last night and partly because there has been thunder, +at intervals, all day long; and now at night, when it is quite cool +again, after the rain which washed off the suffocating heat of the day, +the sky still gives a nervous twitch now and again, like a face which +has lost control of its muscles. Yesterday it seemed as if Spring had +come, but to-day a premature Summer leapt out on the world, in one of +those distressing paroxysms of the elements in which I get more than my +share of the general discomfort. It is only for the last few hours that +I have recognised myself, and already I find it difficult to remember +that other self, which lay on the sofa with half-shut eyes and a +forehead eaten away by the little sharp teeth of the nerves. How we +measure ourselves by time, and time by ourselves! Then, it seemed +incredible that I should ever be my usual self again; my focus had been +suddenly altered, and nothing was the same. I think we ought to be more +grateful for such occasions than we are; for this sort of readjustment +is certainly useful. All habits, and not only what we call bad habits, +are hurtful; and life is one long habit, which it is good to vary +sometimes. + +I suppose that my headache is not quite gone yet, and that it is this +which makes me write down these obvious reflections. I must stop writing +for to-night. + + * * * * * + +April 20.--I have had a strange, generous, almost incredible letter from +the Baroness. She has heard from the Kahns that I have lost all my +money, and she offers me the post of librarian; I can live in the house, +and I am to have a salary which is much more than I had before the +Argonaut went to pieces. I have only to say yes, and I am saved. + +Can I accept this charity? It is nothing less. What can I give in +return? Nothing. What can have induced her to offer me this immediate +kindness? That she is generous I do not doubt; but to this point? I must +revise my opinions about women. + +There is charity, certainly, and I shall soon be penniless, and not well +able to refuse it. She prizes her library; she wishes it to be put in +order, catalogued, kept in order, added to; she saw my interest, she +knew that I am perfectly capable to do what she wants to have done. Is +there anything unnatural after all in what must after all remain her +immense kindness? + +One thing remains. Can I accustom myself to see her every day, to sit at +table with her, to be constantly at her call? At first it will not be +easy, and then afterwards, who knows? but that would be the worst of +all, I may come to find a sort of perverse pleasure in looking at her, +the pleasure which is part horror, and which comes from affronting and +half encouraging disgust. + + * * * * * + +April 28.--I have written nothing in my journal for the last week; too +many things have happened, and I have seemed to go through them almost +mechanically. I am already in my new quarters; I have my rooms, near the +library in which I work, in the vast house at Queen's Gate; and I am +already more than half regretting my old flat over Regent's Canal, where +I could be alone from morning to night. + +There was no serious question of refusing this most fortunate +opportunity; I had no choice: it was this or nothing, for if I recover +L100 out of the Argonaut, it will be the utmost I have to hope for. The +Baroness is a woman of action; she insisted, she arranged everything, +and I found myself here without having done more than consent to let +things be done for me. Certainly that is a form of arrangement which +suits me, and life here seems to go not less smoothly; I have but to +accept it, not without a certain satisfaction. The Baron must be +enormously rich; there is something almost ostentatious in the display +of gold, silver, and silk. Nothing is simple; the cost of these +expensive things seems as if ticketed upon them; and there are coronets +everywhere. But I, who never seriously thought about money until the +little I had melted away, have never realised what an efficacious oil +can be distilled out of gold for making all the wheels of life go +smoothly. I am treated as one of the family; I profit hardly less than +they from all that I care for in the possession of riches. + +And yet, there is something here which weighs upon me; a sort of moral +atmosphere which renders me uneasy. I see clearly, what I had guessed +before, that there is no affection, that there is even a certain degree +of alienation, between the Baron and Baroness. Nothing can be more +polite, but with a sort of enigmatical politeness, which hides I know +not what, than the Baron's manner towards his wife. He is scrupulously, +exaggeratedly, polite towards every one; and his excessive ceremony with +me puts a certain restraint upon me. I imagine that he detests me, +merely from the extreme care with which he tries to convince me of his +amiability. The whole man seems to me false; or, it may be, he has acted +a part so long that the part has fastened itself upon him. His eyes and +his mouth seem never to say the same thing; both guard, as at two +doorways, the thoughts which are at work in his brain. + +The attitude of the Baroness towards her husband has a different +inflexion of meaning; it is frigidly polite, but with a more evident +shade of aversion. If he puts forward an opinion, she contradicts it; +while he assents, outwardly, to all her opinions, but with an ironical +air which seems itself a negation. He is a great sportsman, and I have +never seen him with a book in his hands; she cares passionately for +reading, and hates every form of sport. But it is not merely a +difference of temperament; there is, I am convinced, something very +definite which sets a barrier between them. What is it? Here is a +problem, for once outside the eternal, wearing, for the most part +inevitable, problem of myself, which I shall do well to study. How +gladly I welcome anything which can distract me from my own sensations, +in which I have so long lived isolated, alone with myself! + + * * * * * + +May 5.--The library is even finer than I thought. The labour of +cataloguing it will be an amusement. For the present I do none of my own +work; I am absorbed in this new occupation. How strange, how fortunate, +to be at the same time taken outside myself in my thoughts, and away +from what becomes monotonous in my studies! I have found, it would +seem, precisely the distraction which the doctor ordered me. Only, the +old solitary life seems a thing to regret, now I have left it behind me; +and ought I not to regret the self which I left with it? + +It is certain that I shall never accustom myself to look at the Baroness +without repugnance. From my childhood I have never been able to endure +the sight of any human disfigurement. I used to faint at the sight of +blood, and I have always looked away when I have seen people crowding +about a man or a horse fallen in the street. It is not pity, it is a +very sensitive egoism: before an accident I imagine the thing happening +to me, or I imagine myself obliged to touch the wound or the broken +limb. I never look at the Baroness without a mental shiver at the +thought of what that dead, furrowed, and discoloured skin must be like +to the touch. + + * * * * * + +May 9.--I have got no further in my study of these two enigmatical +people, who seem to have not one thought, not one feeling, in common, +and yet who seem to live so calmly side by side, in this vast house +where they need never meet except at meals, or when the presence of +strangers isolates them. I am wholly unable to talk with the Baron, who +ignores me with the most punctilious deference. He never enters the +library, and, in the drawing-room, is never without a newspaper, of +which he rarely turns the pages. With the Baroness I can always talk; I +can even, what is rare with me, listen. For a woman, her ideas are +surprisingly well informed: quotations, of course, but arranged with a +personal sense of decoration. She can discuss general questions broadly, +with a rare frankness, a kind of eager sincerity. What does the Baron +think, I wonder, behind that screen of the newspaper, if, as he sits +motionless, he is listening, as I cannot but believe, to every word that +is said? I often look at the newspaper, hoping to see it at least +quiver, if not drop to the floor, and the man leap out of his ambush. +The Baroness interests me a little more every day, and this interest is +oddly balanced by my equal difficulty in looking or in not looking at +her. When she is talking with me she invariably arranges herself so as +to be on my left; often she leans her head on her left hand, as if to +shield even what remains unseen. How horribly she must suffer from this +living mask, under which she is condemned to exist! How long, I wonder, +has she worn it, and shall I ever know the cause? Is she always +conscious of its presence, of the eyes that seek to avoid it, and +return, despite themselves, stealthily? I can conceive no more exquisite +torture. Or yes, there is one. Suppose this woman, in whom I can +distinguish a quite unusual force and energy of emotion, were to fall in +love again: she is at the age of lasting passions, and what could be +more natural in her? That would be a tragedy which I hardly like to +think of; the more so, as I can easily conceive how powerful must have +been her attraction before the time of this accident. There is something +almost magnetic in her nature, and I can see that the Kahns, for +instance, are attracted by her to the point of hardly seeing her as she +is, of forgetting to look at her with their own eyes. + + * * * * * + +May 15.--The dinner-parties which women in society condemn themselves to +the task of giving become less and less intelligible to me as I see them +from so close a point of view. How little pleasure they seem to give to +any except very young or very old people! It is a kind of slavery: penal +servitude with hard labour. I am sure neither of the Eckensteins gets +the slightest personal pleasure out of these big dinners which they are +so constantly giving. I am equally sure that the people who accept their +invitations would generally rather not come; that they accept them +largely because it is difficult to write and say I will not come; partly +out of a vague hope, almost invariably deceived, that they will meet +some delightful new person; partly out of the mere social necessity of +killing time. I have never seen so much before of a London season, and I +shall be glad when it is over. + + * * * * * + +August 10.--They have taken a house for the summer down here in this +remote part of my own county, Cornwall; there is fishing for the Baron, +and golf not far off, and boating, I suppose. The heat in London was +becoming intolerable; my old headaches began to come back; and I was +only too glad to say yes when the Baroness asked me, almost +hesitatingly, if I would come with them. Here I have nothing to do; we +walk on the cliffs, drive across Cornwall and back again, sit under the +trees on this lawn, from which one can hear the sea, not quite knowing +if it is the sound of the sea or of the trees. In short, one is idle, +and in the open air. I am well again already; only, inexpressibly lazy. + +The Baroness and I are thrown together so much, by the mere loneliness +of the place, and the determined absence of the Baron, that we are +getting to know one another better. In driving and walking she +invariably keeps on my left; for which I am grateful to her. She is a +good walker, and cares for the sea, I think, as much as I do. + +Is it chiefly the influence of the place, the weather, the homeliness +and familiarity of the old manor-house, where we sit and walk in the +garden, as in a grassy opening in the midst of a wood? That, and the +stillness and unconfined space on the cliffs, where one can sit silent +for so long, until only intimate words come; all that, I am sure, has +had its influence on both of us, certainly on me. The Baroness has begun +to question me about myself, and I, who hate confidences, find myself +telling her what I have told no one. + +I have told her about Clare, about my thoughts, my ideas, my sensations, +all that I have up to now only confessed to my journal. How is it that +she draws my secrets out of me, and how is it that I feel a pleasure in +telling them to her? + + * * * * * + +August 15.--To-day we drove to the Lizard, and sat for an hour on that +high peak of rocks which goes down into the sea at this last southerly +edge of England. The sea was steel-blue, almost motionless except where +it made a little circle of foam around each rock, and it seemed to +stretch endlessly, as if it flowed over all the rest of the world. Ships +were going by, with sails and black smoke, with a great haste to be +somewhere. We sat silent for a time, and then she began to tell me about +herself; little confidences of no moment, only they seemed to be +hesitating on the verge of some fuller confidence. At first I thought +she was going to tell me all; but the wind began to get chill, and the +sun faded out behind clouds, and her mood changed, and she got up, and +we went back to the carriage. + + * * * * * + +August 20.--At last I know the whole story, or as much of it as I am +likely to know. Last night, after dinner, we were sitting alone in the +garden, in a corner where the trees darken the grass; she sat with her +hand half covering her face, in that attitude which is habitual with +her, though only the right side of her face was visible, and the long +silence became more and more intimate until at last she spoke. She began +to tell me of herself, and first of her childhood among the Bohemian +woods, her escapes from the army of governesses and tutors, her dreams +in the depths of the forest, the 'Buch der Lieder' read by moonlight and +thrust under the pillow as she fell asleep: in short, a very pretty, +very German, sentimental education. Then the young English tutor, with +his tragic beauty, his Byronic sighs; she pities, admires, falls in love +with him; their meetings, declarations; they plot a romantic elopement, +but the coachman turns traitor; the Byronic gentleman is dismissed, and +the girl sent to her cousins in Vienna, where she begins to see the +world, and to dream more worldly dreams. The Baron presents himself, +with his title, his money, his serious reputation; the parents implore +her to accept him, and she accepts him, in order that she may accomplish +a social duty. By this time she has made innumerable friends, Vienna is +the world to her, she cannot exist without people, excitement, +admiration; and when the Baron, who hunts during half the year, takes +her away to his castle, and leaves her there, from morning to night, day +after day for months together, she lives the life of a prisoner, alone +with her books and her more and more discontented thoughts. Time passes, +and the husband whom she has never loved becomes a polite stranger, then +an unwelcome guest. He sees indifference passing into aversion, and +makes no attempt to arrest the course of things. It is enough if she is +submissive, and his pride does not so much as dream of a revolt. + +Meanwhile there are neighbours, hunting friends who come to the castle, +and among them is a young Frenchman. She told me simply, quietly, as if +she were telling me the story of some one else, how this man had +gradually attracted her, how delicately and perseveringly he had made +love to her, and how his presence rendered the tedium of her life less +insupportable. She loved him, she believed that he loved her, and a new +happiness came into her life. One day the husband, who had appeared to +suspect nothing, came back unexpectedly. She had been playing the piano, +her lover was seated just behind her, and as she rose from the piano and +flung herself passionately into his arms, she saw, over his shoulder, +the reflection of her husband's face in the mirror. He had opened the +door while she was playing, and stood motionless, holding the door half +open, with his eyes fixed upon them. Before she could make a movement +the door had closed silently. It did not open again. The lover left the +castle hastily, meeting no one on the way. Hours passed, and she sat +watching the door, quiet with terror. At last she could bear it no +longer, and she went straight to her husband's apartments. The painters +had been at work, and their tools, paints, brushes, and bottles were +still lying about. Her husband was seated at his writing-table. As she +entered the room he put down the pen, turned to her calmly and said: 'I +am writing to ask Xavier to dinner, but you will have to fix the date. I +have a little surprise for him.' He rose, took three steps towards her, +with a look of inexpressibly sarcastic malignity, and, stooping rapidly, +picked up a bottle from the floor, and flung the contents in her face. +She shrieked in agony as the vitriol burnt into her like liquid fire, +and she rolled over at his feet, shrieking. + +When, after months of suffering, the bandages were at last taken off, +and she could resume her place at the table, she found, on coming +downstairs to dinner, one guest awaiting her with her husband. It was +her lover. She had not seen him, no word from him had reached her, since +the accident. During dinner the Baron was cheerful, almost gay; he +related amusing stories, turning from one to the other with an air of +cordiality, and affecting not to notice that neither spoke more than a +few words. Soon after dinner, the guest excused himself. A few days +afterwards it was reported that he had left the neighbourhood. + + * * * * * + +August 21.--I lay awake last night for several hours, unable to get this +horrible story out of my head. I thought these were things that no +longer happened, or only in Russia, perhaps; I thought we were at least +so far civilised. It is the meanness of the revenge that horrifies me +most in its atrocity. And that these two people, after that moment's +revelation of the one to the other, should have gone on living together, +under the same roof: it is incredible. There, I suppose, is +civilisation, the hypocrisy of our conventions, which, if they cannot +suppress the brute in the human animal, are prompt to cloak the thing +once done, to pretend that it never was done, never could have been +done. + +Now, when I sit at table between that man and woman, I scarcely know +whether I am judge, witness, or accuser. What had been instinctive in my +distrust of the man has become a mental revulsion not less intense than +the physical revulsion which I must always feel towards the woman. Only, +towards her, I have a new feeling, a kind of sympathetic confidence, +mingled with pity; and it pleases me that she has confidence in me. It +would give me pleasure if I could aid her, in some way that I cannot +even conjecture, to avenge herself on that diabolical tyrant, her +husband. + + * * * * * + +September 25.--As I look back over these pages it seems to me that I +have lost the habit of writing down my thoughts about general questions, +which my once wholly personal preoccupations brought constantly before +me. How a journal changes with one's life, if it is really, as mine is, +the confidant of one's moods, the secret witness of one's growth or +decay! I suppose it is that, as I accustom myself to look for my +interest outside the circle of my own brain, I become less personal, +less sick with myself. My old terrors, my old preoccupations, have +loosened their hold on me, I think; my brain is getting more quiescent, +more conventional. If only the nerves do not break out again, as I find +it so easy to realise their doing; if I can avoid excitement, that is, +keep myself as I am now, an interested spectator of other people's +lives, with no too eager interests of my own: that will at last set me +wholly to rights. And, certainly, this divine Cornish air, half salt, +half honey, will have done something for me, in helping to cure me of a +too narrow, London philosophy. + + * * * * * + +August 3.--It is almost exactly a year since I have written anything in +my journal, which I find where I left it, forgotten in the corner of a +drawer in the Cornish manor-house, to which we have gone back again this +summer. I am glad to be here again, but, all the same, it is not quite +as it was last year. The Baroness and I are better friends than ever. I +am more accustomed to her, she is kindness itself. Ah yes, that is it. +Her kindness begins to become fatiguing; I would prefer a little +liberty. Why is it that good people forge chains with their kindness, +adding link to link with the best intentions in the world, until one is +tripped up and weighed down and held by the fetters of innumerable +favours? To break so much as a link is held to be ingratitude. But one's +liberty, then, is there anything comparable in the price one pays, and +in the utmost one can receive in place of it? + +Is it that a woman is unable to conceive of the fatigue of kindness? How +incomprehensible to them must be that marvellous sentence in 'Adolphe': +'Je me reposais, pour ainsi dire, dans l'indifference des autres, de la +fatigue de son amour.' And, even if it is not love, the heaviest of all +burdens when it comes unasked, there is still a fatiguing weight in that +affectionate vigilance which is one long appeal for gratitude, in that +sleepless solicitude which 'prevents,' in both senses of the word, all +one's goings. I am beginning to find this with the Baroness, who would +replace Providence for me, but with a more continual intervention. + + * * * * * + +August 18.--O this intolerable demand on one's gratitude, this assumed +right of all the world to receive back favour for favour, to be paid for +giving! Must there be a market for kindness, and balances to weigh +charity by the pound weight? I am not sure that the conventional +estimation of gratitude as one of the main virtues, of gratitude in all +circumstances and for all favours received, has not a profoundly +bourgeois origin. I have never been able clearly to recognise the +necessity, or even the possibility, of gratitude towards any one for +whom I have not a feeling of personal affection, quite apart from any +exchange of benefits. The conferring of what is called a favour, +materially, and the prompt return of a delicate sentiment, gratitude, +seems to me a kind of commercialism of the mind, a mere business +transaction, in which an honest exchange is not always either possible +or needful. The demand for gratitude in return for a gift comes largely +from the respect which most people have for money; from the idea that +money is the most 'serious' thing in the world, the symbol of a physical +necessity, but a thing having no real existence in itself, no real +importance to the mind which refuses to realise its existence. Only the +miser really possesses it in itself, in any significant way; for the +miser is an idealist, the poet of gold. To all others it is a kind of +mathematics, and a synonym for being 'respected.' You may say it is +necessary, almost as necessary as breathing, and I will not deny it. +Only I will deny that any one can be actively grateful for the power of +breathing. He cannot conceive of himself without that power. To +conceive of oneself without money, that is to say, without the means of +going on living, is at once to conceive of the right, the mere human +right, to assistance. And when, instead of money, it is some unasked, +necessary or unnecessary, gift which is laid before us, to be taken +whether we choose or not, what more have we to do than to take it, +silently, without thanks, without complaint, as we would pick up an +apple that has dropped to us over an orchard hedge? I say all that to +myself, and believe it, and yet some irrational obligation weighs upon +me, whenever I think of breaking away from this woman and her affection. + + * * * * * + +October 25.--Can it be possible, or am I falling into the most absurd of +misapprehensions? What has happened, that I should seem to-day to be +conscious of what I had not even dreamt of yesterday? Nothing has +happened; she, her husband, and I have sat in our usual places at the +table and in the garden; not a word different from our usual words has +passed between us; and yet ... Why is it that no man can ever be +friends with any woman? It is the woman, usually, who puts the question. +And she, I am certain that she never wanted to be anything but my +friend. Then she wanted to be my only friend; she wanted to make my mind +her possession. I see it step by step, now that I think back. Then what +we call nature came in to trouble the balance. She is a healthy, normal +woman; she has all the natural affections. Why is it that tenderness in +women must always take the fever? For there is no doubt about it, none. +Once you have seen a certain look in a woman's eyes, once a certain +thrill has come into her fingers, there is no mistaking. I have seen +that look in her eyes, I can still feel the thrill of her fingers, as +her hand touched mine, and seemed to forget to let go. + + * * * * * + +October 26.--I awoke this morning in a cold sweat. I had been dreaming +of Clare, I heard her footstep coming along the corridor, the door +opened, I knew it was she, but she was veiled, and when she called my +name her voice sounded far away, as if the veil muffled it; and I put +up my hand to lift her veil, and she prayed me not to lift it, but I +would not listen to her, and when I saw her face it was Clare, but with +the cheek and eyelid of the Baroness. One of us shrieked, and I awoke +trembling. + +It is still early morning, but I have no mind to sleep again, and +perhaps dream. I must try to put these ugly thoughts out of my head, and +here is a morning which should help me, if anything in nature could. Is +it that some sense, which other people have is lacking in me? I have +never found that peace in nature of which I have heard so often, and +which, on such a morning as this, when the light begins to glow softly +over the world, and the wind comes in salt from the sea, and the leaves +rustle as if at an imperceptible caress, should come to me as simple as +to trees. There is a physical delight in it, certainly; but it goes no +deeper than the skin of my forehead. + +I remember, when I first met the Baroness, thinking how cruel, how +ironical, it would be, if she were to fall in love again. I remember +also, when I first knew her story, wishing that I could help her: yes, +here it is written down, last August: 'if I could aid her, in some way +that I cannot even conjecture, to avenge herself on that diabolical +tyrant, her husband.' I certainly saw no connection between the two +things, nor any relation of myself to either of them. And yet, see how +both have come together, and how strangely I stand between them, +touching both. + +The notion seems to me, at present, incredible; and yet, why? Yet more +improbable things have happened, and who am I, or who is she, after all, +that, in the malice of nature, no such idea should enter into a woman's +head? + +I wrote here, not so long ago, 'I am more accustomed to her.' Shall I +ever be able to say more than that? And it is terrible to be able to say +no more than that. + +I suppose, if I loved her, I should notice nothing. Is it that pity +would come in to take up all the room? But I have never had any gift for +pity; and then, all conjecture is idle, for I certainly do not love +her. + + * * * * * + +October 28.--Is it possible that I could have been mistaken, or is she +conscious that she has betrayed her secret, and now hides it away again? +To-day she has seemed really, not affectedly indifferent. Do I +altogether wish that it were so? Have I not got used to being looked +after not quite as a stranger, to a kindness on which it has seemed to +me that I could always rely? Is there not something I should find myself +missing, if it were taken away from me? + + * * * * * + +October 29.--We are to go back to London in a day or two. It rains every +day, and almost all day long. Every one stays indoors, and we seem +always to find ourselves in different rooms. After dinner the Baron +looks up sometimes from his newspaper; the talk is quite formal, because +he joins in it. Can she have shown him some sign of encouragement, or is +it he? And is she keeping back something, or am I wrong in all that I +have conjectured? Nothing is as it was. I shall be glad when we are back +in London. + + * * * * * + +November 2.--We are back in London. I hardly see her now. For nearly a +week she has avoided me, and I am astonished to find myself, I can +hardly say piqued, and yet there is a little pique in it too. It is so +evident to me that she is playing a part, but the part is well played, +and I feel oddly disquieted. I hate change, uncertainty, that kind of +uneasiness which women used to cause me, but which I have so long given +up feeling. I miss the old freedom of her talk, her confidences to me, +her faculty for taking an interest in one's ideas, one's personal +sensations. How odd that this should have come to mean so much more to +me than I knew! And there is something else that I miss, in her new +reserve, now that it comes suddenly up between us as a barrier. I used +to wish for just such a barrier. And now it annoys me to find it there. +It is only restlessness on my part, I know, but it surprises me to find +that I am capable of so near an approach to, after all, some kind of +feeling. I thought I had buried all that quite securely, years ago. + + * * * * * + +November 5.--To-day I have heard news of Clare for the first time during +all these years since she went away. And it is not as I fancied; she is +not happy, not even well off; she has been seen in poor lodgings at the +seaside, and alone. Has the man, the turgid fop and brute, whom I +criticised her and all her sex for caring about, left her, then? It +looks like it. Could one imagine, on his part, anything else? I knew him +so much better than she did! But I am horribly sorry; I do not want to +see her again, but I should like, if I could, to help her. I wonder if +she will write to me. I shall take it as a compliment if she writes. + + * * * * * + +November 7.--She has written, and the letter has reached me here, after +a little delay. She must think I am not going to write. She wants to see +me, and it will perhaps be better for me to see her. She is in London; +it would be kinder if I called; and heaven knows there is no danger. Her +letter is full of dignity; she knows me and there are no tears in it; +the regrets are duly temperate; she does not even ask to be forgiven. 'I +am in trouble: you once cared for me: I have not forgotten that you can +be kind: will you help me?' That is the substance of her letter. I will +write to her to-night, and say that I will come and see her. + +1 A.M.--Shall I never understand women? will nothing ever teach me +wisdom? I was foolish enough to think that the Baroness would help me, +that I could be open with her, as I have been till now. I had no secrets +from her in regard to Clare, and she knows how much all that is in the +past. I showed her the letter. She read it in silence, with her hand +over her eyes. Then, not raising her head, she said, in a voice that +seemed her ordinary voice: 'You will go and see her?' 'I think it would +be best,' I said. She lifted her head suddenly, clenched the paper in +her hand, and flung it on the carpet at my feet. For a moment I was too +startled even to move. Her face was convulsed with rage; her face was +terrible, more terrible than I have ever seen it. The scar seemed to +whiten, the blood rushed to her other cheek and made her forehead +purple; her eyes glowed. I stooped to pick up the letter, and began to +smooth it out on my knee. I fixed my eyes on it, so as not to see her; +and she knew why I did not look at her. She seemed to make a great +effort to recover her self-control, and I saw her fingers clutch a fold +of her skirt and clench tightly upon it. 'You want to see her?' she +said, still in a low voice; and I said, what was quite the truth: 'No, I +do not want to see her, I only want to help her, and I think it would be +kinder, as well as more satisfactory, to go than to write.' 'I +understand,' she said coldly; 'you want to see her again. I understand +your feeling.' I was annoyed at her misinterpretation, and said nothing. +'You still care for her,' she said, 'I can see it, it is useless for you +to deny it; you want to go back to her. Well, she is free now: go back +to her.' I was going to protest, but she rose, and held up her hand to +silence me. Tears were in her eyes, the anger was gone, she could hardly +speak. 'Yes,' she said, 'go and see her; I will not keep you from her; +if you still love her, there is nothing else to be done. I understand, I +understand.' And she sank back in the chair again, with her hands over +her face, weeping big tears. + +When I saw her suffering, I was sorry, and I knelt down beside her and +took away one of her hands from before her face, and kissed the hand +still wet with tears. I assured her that Clare was nothing to me now, +and I convinced her of my sincerity. She dried her eyes, smiled sadly, +and said, 'Then you promise me you will not go and see her.' 'But no, I +said, 'I have told you that it is best to go and see her; but you know +the whole reason why I mean to do so.' She turned rigid in an instant, +and I should have had to go through the whole scene over again, if I had +not had the cowardice to say, 'I promise that I will not see her.' She +begged me to show her the letter that I wrote. Why should I refuse? + +After to-day there can be no further disguise between us. On her side +everything has been said, and on mine everything has been understood. By +what I have done to-day I have put myself into her hands, I have given +her the right to arrange my life as she pleases; I have shown her my +weakness, I have let her see her own strength. Does it matter how one +gives way, or how a woman overcomes? To-day I honestly wanted to do the +right thing, to be kind to a woman I had once cared for, and I am +powerless to do it. These agitations, these restrictions, this +sentimental ceremony, are too much for me. How is it that I did not +sooner realise the way things were tending, and set a barrier, not only +against this passionate foe without, but against this weakness, this +kindness, that turn traitors within, and run so readily to the closed +gates to open them? + + * * * * * + +November 8.--The letter I wrote was cold; it was as if one were giving +charity. Clare replies gratefully, as if to a benevolent stranger. I +have spoilt the idea which she still had of me. I am sorry for it; the +more so as I have no desire to see her; but I should like to have +behaved at least instinctively. It is for another woman, always, that +one is unjust to a woman. And why is it? Is it because I pity this woman +so much, that I have been unjust to the other? I did not know till +yesterday how much she cared for me. What is going to happen? I ask +myself, not liking, or not daring, to wait for an answer. How one evades +coming to a conclusion, precisely when too much depends on that +conclusion! I have never understood myself, and just now the brain in me +seems to sit aside and reserve judgment, while all manner of feelings, +instincts, sensations, chatter among themselves. No, I will confess +nothing to these pages, and chiefly because it would take a casuist to +prepare my confession. + + * * * * * + +November 9.--She loves me cruelly, with a dull passion that does not +come till after youth and the years one calls the years of love are long +past. I have had a terrible scene with her; terrible because, for the +first time, a woman's love seems to me a wholly serious thing, and one's +own feeling to matter less. My own feeling: what is it here? Shall I +understand one woman, at last, when the desire to do so is over? +Passions, then, are real things in women, and, if no one is responsible, +at least one cannot always hold aloof from them, or go by on the other +side. She loves me, and she can conceal it no longer; and she is ashamed +that I should see her as she is, and she exults in her shame, and is +reckless and timorous, and is at my mercy, and does not know that it is +just this that holds me, and that I cannot, if I would, turn away from +one now helpless, and a beggar. Something in her helplessness takes hold +of me like a great force, breaks down my indifference; because, I think, +it convinces me, to the roots of my mind, as no woman ever before +convinced me, that what one calls love may be life itself, carrying away +all the props of the world in its overflow. I am afraid of this horrible +reality; but I cannot escape it. + + * * * * * + +November 10.--I try to persuade myself that I have become her lover +wholly out of pity; but the more intimate self which listens is not to +be persuaded. Certainly I do not love her, but is it only because she +loves me, and because she is the most unfortunate of women, that ... No, +there is something else, some animal attraction, which comes to me in +spite of my repugnance; a gross, unmistakable desire, which I would not +admit even to myself if the consciousness of it were not forced upon me. +What I should not have believed in another, I experience, beyond denial, +in myself. + +Shall a man never know what it is in him that responds, without love, to +a woman's gesture? Is it a kind of animal vanity? Is it that love +creates, not love, but a flattered readiness to be loved? Did I not +think how terrible it would be if she fell in love again, and did I not +mean, for the main part, because she could expect no return? And I was +wrong. Something has taken hold of me, an appeal, a partly honest and +partly perverse attraction; and I say to myself that it is pity, but +though pity is part of it, it is not all pity; and I find myself, as I +have always found myself, doing the exact opposite of what seems most +natural and desirable. Why? + + * * * * * + +November 20.--I have made a mistake, but it was inevitable. I have put +back my shoulders under the yoke, and all the peace is over. I have had +just time enough to rest, and to get ready for the old labour, and now I +am troubled with all a woman's ingenuity of trouble: her nerves, her +cares, her affections, her solicitudes, her whole minute and +never-ceasing possession. How am I to explain myself? There was no +choice; it is useless to regret what could but have been accepted. She +has a calm will to love, she is like some force of nature against which +it is useless to struggle. + + * * * * * + +November 22.--I do not know why it is, but all my old nervous uneasiness +is coming back on me again, against all sense or reason. I have that +curious feeling that something is going to happen; I find myself +listening to noises, unable to sit quiet, watching my own brain. All +the restlessness has come back, and some of the fear. I am afraid of +this woman's love. I could not leave her, but I am afraid of what will +happen to me. + + * * * * * + +December 3.--No, I shall never get accustomed to it; the same physical +horror will always be there; it has been there when the attraction was +strongest; it has never been out of my mind, or away from the eyes of my +senses. She is aware of it, and suffers; and I am helpless before her +suffering. And it is this, nothing but this, which turns my thoughts +morbid, whenever I think over a situation which might otherwise have had +nothing unusual in it. The husband studies me with a kind of curious and +mocking interest, which he allows to remain on his face when he sees us +together. Does he suspect, know, approve, or disapprove? Do I seem to +him ... But in any case all that is beside the question: I once thought +that it would be a generous revenge to make him suffer; now I am +conscious how idle the thought was. Is it not all idle, is not +everything more or less beside the question? + +I am tired of writing in my journal, always the same things. I will shut +the book, and perhaps not open it again. + + * * * * * + +January 5.--I have not written anything in my journal for years (how +many years is it?), and I do not know what impulse or what accident has +led me to open it again, and to turn over some of the pages on which the +dust has settled, and to begin to write there as I am doing, half +mechanically. What is it that seems strange as I read what I have +written here? I suppose that I should have considered, discussed, +questioned the very things which are now as if they had always been. I +do not dream of changing them, any more than I dream of changing the +course of life itself, on its inevitable way. But a rage in me never +quite dies out: against this woman who has taken me from myself, and +against life that is wasting me daily. I have no happiness if I look +either forward or backward. I have always succumbed to what I have most +dreaded, and every reluctance has turned in me to an irresistible force +of attraction. And now I am softly, stealthily entangled, held by loving +hands, imprisoned in comfort; I do some good at last, for certainly I +help to make a wronged and pitiable woman happy; I have no will to break +any bond, and yet I am more desolately alone than I have ever been, more +fretted by the old self, by apprehensions and memories, by the passing +of time and the lack of hope or desire. I would welcome any change, +though it brought worse things, if I could but end this monotony in +which there is no rest; end it somehow, and rest a little, and be alone. + + * * * * * + +October 12.--I have been ill, I am better, I am in Venice. Surely one +gets well of every trouble in Venice, where, if anywhere in the world, +there should be peace, the oblivion of water, of silence, the unreal +life of sails? I have come to an old house on the Giudecca, where one is +islanded even from the island life of Venice: I look across and see +land, the square white Dogana, the Salute, like a mosque, the whole +Riva, with the Doges' Palace. There lies all that is most beautiful in +the world, and I have only to look out of my windows to see it. Palladio +built the house, and the rooms are vast; the beams overhead are so high +that I feel shrunk as I look at them, as if lost in all this space; +which, however, delights my humour. + + * * * * * + +October 14.--The art in life is to sit still, and to let things come +towards you, not to go after them, or even to think that they are in +flight. How often I have chased some divine shadow, through a whole day +till evening, when, going home tired, I have found the visitor just +turning away from my closed door. + +To sit still, in Venice, is to be at home to every delight. I love St. +Mark's, the Piazza, the marble benches under the colonnade of the Doges' +Palace, the end of land beyond the Dogana, the steps of the Redentore; +above all, my own windows. Sitting at any one of these stations one +gathers as many floating strays of life as a post in the sea gathers +weeds. And it is all a sort of immense rest, literally a dream, for +there is sleep all over Venice. I have been sitting for a long time in +St. Mark's, thinking of nothing. The voices of the priests chanting +hummed and buzzed like echoes in an iron bell. They troubled me a +little, but without breaking the enchantment, as importunate insects +trouble a summer afternoon. Very old men in purple sat sunk into the +stalls of the choir, loth to move, almost overcome with sleep; waiting, +with an accustomed patience, till the task was over. + +Here (infinite relief!) I can think of nothing. She writes to me, and I +put aside the letters, and I forget quite easily that some day she will +come for me, and the old life must begin over again. I do not dread it, +because I do not remember it. I am still weak, and I must not excite +myself; I must sink into this delicious Venice, where forgetfulness is +easier than anywhere in the world. The autumn is like a gentler summer; +no such autumn has been known, even in Venice, for many years; and I am +to be happy here, I think. + + * * * * * + +October 25.--I have been roaming about the strange house, upstairs, in +these vast garrets paved with stone, with old carved chimneys, into +which they have put modern stoves, and beams, the actual roof-trees +overhead; nearly all unoccupied space, out of which a room is walled up +or boarded off here and there. Some of the windows look right over the +court, the two stone angels on the gateway, and the broad green and +brown orto, the fruit garden which stretches to the lagoon, its vine +trellises invisible among the close leaves of the trees. Beyond the +brown and green, there is a little strip of pale water, and then mud +flats, where the tide has ebbed, the palest brown, and then more pale +water, and the walls and windows of the madhouse, San Servolo, coming up +squarely out of the lagoon. + + * * * * * + +October 26.--Does the too exciting exquisiteness of Venice drive people +mad? Two madhouses in the water! It is like a menace. + +I went out in the gondola yesterday on the lagoon on the other side of +the island. It was an afternoon of faint, exquisite sunshine, and the +water lay like a mirror, bright and motionless, reflecting nothing but a +small stake, or the hull, hoisted nets, and stooping back of a fisher +and his boat. I looked along the level, polished surface to where sails +rose up against the sky, between the black, compact bulk of the forts. +The water lapped around the oar as it dipped and lifted, and trickled +with a purring sound from the prow. I lay and felt perfectly happy, not +thinking of anything, hardly conscious of myself. I had closed my eyes, +and when I opened them again we were drifting close to a small island, +on which there was a many-windowed building, most of the windows grated +over, and a church with closed doors; the building almost filled the +island; it had a walled garden with trees. A kind of moaning sound came +from inside the walls, rising and falling, confused and broken. 'It is +San Clemente,' said the gondolier over my shoulder; 'they keep mad +people there, mad women.' + + * * * * * + +November 1.--She writes affectionate letters to me, without a respite; +she will not let me alone to get well. For I am sure I could get well +here if I were quite left to myself. And now even Venice is turning +evil. Is it in the place, in myself, is it my disease returning to take +hold of me? Is it the power of the woman coming back across land and +water to take hold of me? I am getting afraid to go about this strange +house at night; the wind comes in from the sea, and tears at the old +walls and the roof; I scarcely know if it is the wind I hear when I wake +up in the night. + + * * * * * + +November 3.--There is something unnatural in standing between water and +water and hearing the shriek of a steam-engine. I am hardly too far, I +suppose, from the railway-station, to have actually heard it. But the +idea seems a foolish joke, unworthy of the place. + + * * * * * + +November 6.--Every day I find myself growing more uneasy. If I look out +of the windows at dawn, when land and water seem to awaken like a +flower, some poison comes to me out of this perhaps too perfect beauty. +I dread the day, which seems to follow me and drag me back, after I have +escaped another night; I never felt anything like this insidious coiling +of water about one. + +I came to Venice for peace, and I find a subtle terror growing up out of +its waters, with a more ghostly insistence than anything solid on the +earth has ever given me. Daylight seems to mask some gulf, which, with +the early dark and the first lamps, begins to grow visible. As I look +across at Venice from this island, I see darkness, and lights growing +like trees and flowers out of the creeping water, and, white and +immense, with its black windows and one lighted lamp, the Doges' Palace. +Nothing else is real, and the beauty of this one white thing, the one +thing whose form the eye can fasten upon, is the beauty of witchcraft. I +expect to see it gone in the morning. + +And the noises here are mysterious. I hear a creak outside my window, +and it comes nearer, and a great orange sail passes across the window +like a curtain drawn over it. Bells break out, and ring wildly, as if +out of the water. Steamers hoot, with that unearthly sound to which one +can never get accustomed. The barking of a dog comes from somewhere +across the water, a voice cries out suddenly, and then the shriek of +steam from a vessel, and again, from some new quarter, a volley of +bells. + + * * * * * + +November 9.--The wind woke me from sleep, rattling the wooden shutter +against the panes of the windows, and I could hear it lifting the water +up the steps of the landing-place, where there is always a chafing and +gurgling whenever the wind is not quite still. I looked out, and, +pressing my face close against the glass, I could just distinguish the +black bundle of stakes in the dim water, which I could see throbbing +under a very faint light, where the gas-lamp, hung from the next house, +shone upon it. Beyond, there was nothing but darkness, and the level row +of lights on the Riva, and the white walls, cut into stone lacework, of +the Doges' Palace. The wind seemed to pass down the canal, as if on its +way from the sea to the sea. I felt it go by, like a living thing, not +turning to threaten me. + + * * * * * + +November 13.--I am beginning almost to wish that she were here. She +writes that she is coming, and I scarcely know whether to be glad or +sorry. I fear her more than anything in the world, but there is +something here which is hardly of the world, a vague, persistent image +of death, impalpable, unintelligible, not to be shaken off; and I know +not what I am dreading, not the mere fear of water, though I have always +had that, but some terrible expectancy, which keeps me now from getting +any rest by day or by night. + + * * * * * + +November 22.--At last something has happened, nothing indeed to my hurt, +but it has broken the strain a little. The last days have been windless, +warm, and, till yesterday afternoon, cloudless. Suddenly, as I sat in +the Piazza, the daylight seemed to be put out by a great blackness +which came up rapidly out of the north, and hung over half the sky. A +wind swept suddenly in from the lagoon, and blew sharply across the open +space and along the arcades. In hardly more than a moment the Piazza was +empty. I went down to the Riva, and called to my gondolier, who swung to +and fro in his moored boat. The water was blackening, and had begun to +race past. He called to me that we must wait, and I saw one or two +gondolas hurrying up the Grand Canal, carried along by the tide, the men +rowing hard. As the rain began I went into the Grand Hotel, and sat +looking out on the water, which blackened and whitened and flung itself +forward in actual waves, and splashed right up the steps and over the +balcony. The rain came down steadily, and the lightning flickered across +the sky behind the Salute, and lit up the domes, the windows, the steps, +and a few people huddled there. Every now and then the water turned +white; I saw every outline as it shouldered forward like a sea and broke +on the marble steps; and the water was empty, not a gondola, not even a +steamer; and then a steamer which had turned home drifted past without +a passenger. I went out, and felt the rain on my face, and the water +splashing on the steps; not far off I could see the gondolas tossing on +their moorings. I seemed to be on the shore of some horrible island, and +I had to cross the sea, which there was no crossing. I was afraid the +gondola would come for me; but nothing, I thought, should tempt me upon +that tossing water: I saw the black hull whirled sideways, and the man +reeling over on his oar. No gondola came, and I slept that night in the +Grand Hotel, which seemed to me, as I heard the water splashing under my +windows, impregnably safe. + + * * * * * + +November 27.--She is here, she has become kind to me now, only kind and +gentle; I am no longer afraid of her love. I have been ill again, and +she has taken care of me, she has taken me away from this horrible +Giudecca. I look out on a great garden, in which I can forget there is +any water in Venice; I am near the land and I see nothing but trees. The +house is full of pictures, beautiful old Venetian things; it is like +living in another century, yet in the midst of a comfort which rests me. +I am no longer afraid of her love; I seem to have become a child, and +her love is maternal. When I look at her I can see her face as it was, +as it is, without a scar; I see that she is beautiful. If I get well +again I will never leave her. + + * * * * * + +December 12.--There is a phrase of Balzac which turns over and over in +my head. It is in the story called 'Sur Catherine de Medicis,' and he is +speaking of the Calvinist martyr, who is recovering after being +tortured. 'On ne saurait croire' says Balzac, 'a quel point un homme, +seul dans son lit et malade, devient personnel.' Since I have been lying +in bed, in this queer fever which keeps me shaking and hot (some +Venetian chill which has got into my very bones), I have had so +singularly little feeling of personality, I seem to have become so +suddenly impersonal, that I wonder if Balzac was right. The world, +ideas, sensations, all are fluid, and I flow through them, like a +gondola carried along by the current; no, like a weed adrift on it. + + * * * * * + +The journal ends there, and the writing of the last page is faint and +unsteady. + +Here I might leave the matter, but I am impelled to mention a +circumstance which I always associate in my mind with the tragical +situation revealed in poor Luxulyan's journal. A year after it had come +into my hands, and while I was still hesitating whether or not to have +it printed, I happened to be passing through Rome, where the Eckensteins +had gone to live; and a sort of curiosity, I suppose, more than any +friendly feeling I had for them, suggested to me that I should call upon +them in the palace which they had taken in the Via Giulia. The concierge +was not in his loge, and I went up the first flight of broad low marble +stairs and rang at the door. It was opened by a servant in livery. 'Is +the Baroness von Eckenstein at home?' I asked; and as the man remained +silent, I added, 'Will you send in my card?' He still stared at me +without replying, and I repeated my question. At last he said: 'Madame +la Baronne died the day before yesterday. She was buried this morning.' + +I can hardly say that I was profoundly grieved, but the suddenness of +the announcement struck me with a kind of astonishment. I inquired for +the Baron; he was in, and I was taken through one after another of the +vast marble rooms which, in Roman palaces, lead to the reception-room. +Every room was crowded with pictures, statues, rare Eastern vases, +tables and cases of bibelots, exotic plants, a profusion of showy things +brought together from the ends of the world. The Baron received me with +almost more than his usual ceremony. His face wore an expression of +correct melancholy, he spoke in a subdued and slightly mournful voice. +He told me that his beloved wife had succumbed to a protracted illness, +that she had suffered greatly, but, at the end, through the skilful aid +of the best surgeons in Europe, she had passed into a state of +somnolency, so that her death had been almost unconscious. He raised his +eyes with an air of pious resignation, and said that he thanked God for +having taken to himself so admirable, so perfect a being, whose loss, +indeed, must leave him inconsolable for the rest of his life on earth. +He spoke in measured syllables, and always in the same precise and +mournful tone. I found myself unconsciously echoing his voice and +reflecting his manner, and it seemed to me as if we were both playing in +a comedy, and repeating words which we had learnt by heart. I went +through my part mechanically, and left him. When I found myself in the +street I dismissed the cab which was waiting to take me to the Vatican. +I wanted to walk. I do not know why I felt a cold shiver run through me, +for the sky was cloudless, and it was the month of June. + + + =Transcriber's Notes:= + - hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the + original (other than as listed below) + Page 35, 'Lavengro" took my thoughts ==> 'Lavengro' took my thoughts + Page 37, trembled with ecstacy ==> trembled with ecstasy + Page 60, immensly, and especially ==> immensely, and especially + Page 93, mortages left just enough ==> mortgages left just enough + Page 116, in an ecstacy ==> in an ecstasy + Page 129, a little pale and she ==> a little pale, and she + Page 162, these confectionaries. ==> these confectionaries.' + Page 196, Arlesian women one was ==> Arlesian women: one was + Page 209, Allee des Tombeaux ==> Allee des Tombeaux + Page 214, grown up, like Peter? ==> grown up, like Peter?' + Page 229, divine will aright?' ==> divine will aright? + Page 259, But what if only ==> but what if only + Page 261, which is insensative ==> which is insensitive + Page 262, artifically attached ==> artificially attached + Page 275, in whose pyschology ==> in whose psychology + Page 288, first of her chilhood ==> first of her childhood + Page 291, agony as the vitrol ==> agony as the vitriol + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Spiritual Adventures, by Arthur Symons + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPIRITUAL ADVENTURES *** + +***** This file should be named 38893.txt or 38893.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/8/8/9/38893/ + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Ross Cooling and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at +http://www.pgdpcanada.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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