Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  ‘MY DEAR KATE,

  ‘It must be now as clear to you as it is to me that it is quite impossible for us to go on living together. There is no use in our again discussing the whys and the wherefores; we had much better accept the facts of the case in silence, and mutually save each other the pain of trying to alter what cannot be altered.

  ‘I have arranged to allow you two pounds a week. This sum will be paid to you every Saturday, by applying to Messrs. Jackson and Co., Solicitors, Arundel Street, Strand.

  ‘Yours very affectionately,

  ‘RICHARD LENNOX.’

  Kate mechanically repeated the last words as she walked gloomily through the glare of the day. ‘Two pounds a week.’ she said, and with nothing else; not a friend, and the thought passed through her mind that she could not have a friend, she had fallen too low, yet from no fault of her own nor Dick’s, and it was that that frightened her. A terrible sense of loneliness, of desolation, was created in her heart. For her the world seemed to have ended, and she saw the streets and passers-by with the same vague, irresponsible gaze as a solitary figure would the universal ruin caused by an earthquake. She had no friends, no occupation, no interest of any kind in life; everything had slipped from her, and she shivered with a sense of nakedness, of moral destitution. Nothing was left to her, and yet she felt, she lived, she was conscious. Oh yes, horribly conscious. And that was the worst; and she asked herself why she could not pass out of sight, out of hearing and feeling of all the crying misery with which she was surrounded, and in a state of emotive somnambulism she walked through the crowds till she was startled from her dreams by hearing a voice calling after her, ‘Kate! Kate! — Mrs. Lennox!’

  It was Montgomery.

  ‘I’m so glad to have met you — so glad, indeed, for we have not seen much of each other. I don’t know how it was, but somehow it seemed to me that Dick did not want me to go and see you. I never could make out why, for he couldn’t have been jealous of me,’ he added a little bitterly. ‘But perhaps you’ve not heard that it’s all up as regards my piece at the Opéra Comique,’ he continued, not noticing Kate’s dejection in his excitement.

  ‘No, I haven’t heard,’ she answered mechanically.

  ‘It doesn’t matter much, though, for I’ve just been down to the Gaiety, and pretty well settled that it’s to be done in Manchester, at the Prince’s; so you see I don’t let the grass grow under my feet, for my row with Mrs. Forest only occurred this morning. But what’s the matter, Kate? What has happened?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, nothing. Tell me about Mrs. Forest first; I want to know.’

  ‘Well, it’s the funniest thing you ever heard in your life; but you won’t tell Dick, because he forbade me ever to speak to you about Mrs. Forest — not that there is anything but business between them; that I swear to you. But do tell me, Kate, what is the matter? I never saw you look so sad in my life. Have you had any bad news?’

  ‘No, no. Tell me about Mrs. Forest and your piece; I want to hear,’ she exclaimed excitedly.

  ‘Well, this is it,’ said Montgomery, who saw in a glance that she was not to be contradicted, and that he had better get on with his story. ‘In the first place, you know that the old creature has gone in for writing librettos herself, and has finished one about Buddhism, an absurdity; the opening chorus is fifty lines long, but she won’t cut one; but I’ll tell you about that after. I was to get one hundred for setting this blessed production to music, and it was to follow my own piece, which was in rehearsal. Well, like a great fool, I was explaining to Dubois the bosh I was writing by the yard for this infernal opera of hers. I couldn’t help it; she wouldn’t take advice on any point. She has written the song of the Sun-god in hexameters. I don’t know what hexameters are, but I would as soon set Bradshaw — leaving St. Pancras nine twenty-five, arriving at — ha! ha! ha! — with a puff, puff accompaniment on the trombone.’

  ‘Go on with the story,’ cried Kate.

  ‘Well, I was explaining all this,’ said Montgomery, suddenly growing serious, ‘when out she darted from behind the other wing — I never knew she was there. She called me a thief, and said she wouldn’t have me another five minutes in her theatre. Monti, the Italian composer, was sent for. I was shoved out, bag and baggage, and there will be no more rehearsals till the new music is ready. That’s all.’

  ‘I’m very sorry for you — very sorry,’ said Kate very quietly, and she raised her hand to brush away a tear.

  ‘Oh, I don’t care; I’d sooner have the piece done in Manchester. Of course it’s a bore, losing a hundred pounds. But, oh, Kate! do tell me what’s the matter; you know you can confide in me; you know I’m your friend.’

  At these kind words the cold deadly grief that encircled Kate’s heart like a band of steel melted, and she wept profusely. Montgomery drew her arm into his and pleaded and begged to be told the reason of these tears; but she could make no answer, and pressed Dick’s letter into his hand with a passionate gesture. He read it at a glance, and then hesitated, unable to make up his mind as to what he should do. No words seemed to him adequate wherewith to console her, and she was sobbing so bitterly that it was beginning to attract attention in the streets. They walked on without speaking for a few yards, Kate leaning upon Montgomery, until a hackney coachman, guessing that something was wrong signed to them with his whip.

  ‘Where are you living, dear?’

  Kate told him with some difficulty, and having directed the driver, he lapsed again into considering what course he should adopt. To put off the journey was impossible; Dick had promised to meet him there. It was now three o’clock. He had therefore three hours to spend with Kate — with the woman whom he had loved steadfastly throughout a loveless life. He had no word of blame for Dick; he had heard stories that had made his blood run cold; and yet, knowing her faults as he did, he would have opened his arms had it been possible, and crying through the fervour of years of waiting, said to her, ‘Yes, I will believe in you; believe in me and you shall be happy.’ There had never been a secret between them; their souls had been for ever as if in communication; and the love, unacknowledged in words, had long been as sunlight and moonlight, lighting the spaces of their dream-life. To the woman it had been as a distant star whose pale light was a presage of quietude in hours of vexation; to the man it seemed as a far Elysium radiant with sweet longing, large hopes that waxed but never waned, and where the sweet breezes of eternal felicity blew in musical cadence.

  And yet he was deceived in nothing. He knew now as he had known before, that although this dream might haunt him for ever, he should never hold it in his arms nor press it to his lips; and in the midst of this surging tide of misery there arose a desire that, glad in its own anguish, bade him increase the bitterness of these last hours by making a confession of his suffering; and, exulting savagely in the martyrdom he was preparing for himself, he said:

  ‘You know, Kate — I know you must know — you must have guessed that I care for you. I may as well tell you the truth now — you are the only woman I ever loved.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I always thought you cared for me. You have been very kind — oh! very kind, and I often think of it. Ah! everybody has, all my life long, been very good to me; it is I alone who am to blame, who am in fault. I have, I know I have, been very wicked, and I don’t know why. I did not mean it; I know I didn’t, for I’m not at heart a wicked woman. I suppose things must have gone against me; that’s about all.’

  Montgomery pushed his glasses higher on his nose, and after a long silence he said:

  ‘I’ve often thought that had you met me before you knew Dick, things might have been different. We should have got on better, although you might never have loved me so well.’

  Kate raised her eyes, and she said:

  ‘No one will ever know how I have loved, how I still love that man. Oftentimes I think that had I loved him less I should have been a better wife. I think he loved me, but it was not the love I dreamed of. Like you, I was
always sentimental, and Dick never cared for that sort of thing.’

  ‘I think I should have understood you better,’ said Montgomery; and the conversation came to a pause. A vision of the life of devotion spent at the feet of an ideal lover, that life of sacrifice and tenderness which had been her dream, and which she had so utterly failed to attain, again rose up to tantalize her like a glittering mirage: and she could not help wondering whether she would have realized this beautiful, this wonderful might-have-been if she had chosen this other man.

  ‘But I suppose you’ll make it up with Dick,’ said Montgomery somewhat harshly.

  Kate awoke from her reverie with a start, and answered sorrowfully that she did not know, that she was afraid Dick would never forgive her again.

  ‘I don’t remember if I told you that I’m going to see him in Manchester; he promised to go up there to make some arrangements about my piece.’

  ‘No, you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Well, I’ll speak to him. I’ll tell him I’ve seen you. I fancy I shall be able to make it all right,’ he added, with a feeble smile.

  ‘Oh! how good you are — how good you are,’ cried Kate, clasping her hands. ‘If he will only forgive me once again, I’ll promise, I’ll swear to him never to-to—’

  Here Kate stopped abashed, and burying her face in her hands, she wept bitterly. The tenderness, the melancholy serenity of their interview, had somehow suddenly come to an end. Each was too much occupied with his or her thoughts to talk much, and the effort to find phrases grew more and more irritating. Both were very sad, and although they sighed when the clock struck the hour of farewell, they felt that to pass from one pain to another was in itself an assuagement. Kate accompanied Montgomery to the station. He seemed to her to be out of temper; she to him to be further away than ever. The explanation that had taken place between them had, if not broken, at least altered the old bonds of sympathy, without creating new ones; and they were discontented, even like children who remember for the first time that to-day is not yesterday.

  They felt lonely watching the parallel lines of platforms; and when Montgomery waved his hand for the last time, and the train rolled into the luminous arch of sky that lay beyond the glass roofing, Kate turned away overpowered by grief and cruel recollections. When she got home, the solitude of her room became unbearable; she wanted someone to see, someone to console her. She had a few shillings in her pocket, but she remembered her resolutions and for some time resented the impervious clutch of the temptation. But the sorrow that hung about her, that penetrated like a corrosive acid into the very marrow of her bones, grew momentarily more burning, more unendurable. Twenty times she tried to wrench it out of her heart. The landlady brought her up some tea; she could not drink it; it tasted like soapsuds in her mouth. Then, knowing well what the results would be, she resolved to go out for a walk.

  Next day she was ill, and to pull herself together it was necessary to have a drink. It would not do to look too great a sight in the Solicitor’s office where Dick had told her in his letter to go to get her money. There she found not two, but five pounds awaiting her, and this enabled her to keep up a stage of semi intoxication until the end of the week.

  She at last woke up speechless, suffering terrible palpitations of the heart, but she had strength enough to ring her bell, and when the landlady came to her she nearly lost her balance and fell to the ground, so strenuously did Kate lean and cling to her for support. After gasping painfully for some moments Kate muttered: ‘I’m dying. These palpitations and the pain in my side.’

  The landlady asked if she would like to see the doctor, and with difficulty obtained her consent that the doctor should be sent for.

  ‘I’ll send at once,’ she said.

  ‘No, not at once,’ Kate cried. ‘Pour me out a little brandy and water, and I’ll see how I am in the course of the day.’

  The woman did as was desired, and Kate told her that she felt better, and that if it wasn’t for the pains in her side she’d be all right.

  The landlady looked a little incredulous; but her lodger had only been with her a fortnight, and so carefully had the brandy been hidden, and the inebriety concealed, that although she had her doubts, she was not yet satisfied that Kate was an habitual drunkard. Certainly appearances were against Mrs. Lennox; but as regards the brandy-bottle, she had watched it very carefully, and was convinced that scarcely more than sixpennyworth of liquor went out of it daily. The good woman did not know how it was replenished from another bottle that came sometimes from under the mattress, sometimes out of the chimney. And the disappearance of the husband was satisfactorily accounted for by the announcement that he had gone to Manchester to produce a new piece. Besides, Mrs. Lennox was a very nice person; it was a pleasure to attend to her, and during the course of the afternoon Mrs. White called several times at the second floor to inquire after her lodger’s health.

  But there was no change for the better. Looking the picture of wretchedness, Kate lay back in her chair, declaring in low moans that she never felt so ill in her life — that the pain in her side was killing her. At first, Mrs. White seemed inclined to make light of all this complaining, but towards evening she began to grow alarmed, and urged that the doctor should be sent for.

  ‘I assure you, ma’am,’ she said, ‘it’s always better to see a doctor. The money is never thrown away; for even if there’s nothing serious the matter, it eases one’s mind to be told so.’

  Kate was generally easy to persuade, but fearing that her secret drinking would be discovered, she declined for a long time to take medical advice. At last she was obliged to give way, and the die having been cast, she commenced to think how she might conceal part of the truth. Something of the coquetry of the actress returned to her, and, getting up from her chair, she went over to the glass to examine herself, and brushing back her hair, she said sorrowfully:

  ‘I’m a complete wreck. I can’t think what’s the matter with me, and I’ve lost all my hair. You’ve no idea, Mrs. White, of the beautiful hair I used to have; it used to fall in armfuls over my shoulders; now, it’s no more than a wisp.’

  ‘I think you’ve a great deal yet,’ replied Mrs. White, not wishing to discourage her.

  ‘And how yellow I am too!’

  To this Mrs. White mumbled something that was inaudible, and Kate thought suddenly of her rouge-pot and hare’s-foot. Her ‘make-up,’ and all her little souvenirs of Dick, lay securely packed away in an old band-box.

  ‘Mrs. White,’ she said, ‘might I ask you to get me a jug of hot water?’

  When the woman left the room, everything was spread hurriedly over the toilet-table. To see her, one would have thought that the call-boy had knocked at the door for the second time. A thin coating of cold cream was passed over the face and neck; then the powder-puff changed what was yellow into white, and the hare’s-foot gave a bloom to the cheeks. The pencil was not necessary, her eyebrows being by nature dark and well-defined. Then all disappeared again into the band-box, a drain was taken out of the bottle whilst she listened to steps on the stairs, and she had just time to get back to her chair when the doctor entered. She felt quite prepared to receive him. Mrs. White, who had come up at the same time, locked uneasily around; and, after hesitating about the confines of the room, she put the water-jug on the rosewood cabinet, and said:

  ‘I think I’ll leave you alone with the doctor, ma’am; if you want me you’ll ring.’

  Mr. Hooper was a short, stout man, with a large bald forehead, and long black hair; his small eyes were watchful as a ferret’s, and his fat chubby hands were constantly laid on his knee-caps.

  ‘I met Mrs. White’s servant in the street,’ he said, looking at Kate as if he were trying to read through the rouge on her face, ‘so I came at once. Mrs. White, with whom I was speaking downstairs, tells me that you’re suffering from a pain in your side.’

  ‘Yes, doctor, on the right side; and I’ve not been feeling very well lately.’

 
‘Is your appetite good? Will you let me feel your pulse?’

  ‘No, I’ve scarcely any appetite at all — particularly in the morning. I can’t touch anything for breakfast.’

  ‘Don’t you care to drink anything? Aren’t you thirsty?’

  Kate would have liked to have told a lie, but fearing that she might endanger her life by doing so, she answered:

  ‘Oh yes! I’m constantly very thirsty.’

  ‘Especially at night-time?’

  It was irritating to have your life read thus; and Kate felt angry when she saw this dispassionate man watching the brandy-bottle, which she had forgotten to put away.

  ‘Do you ever find it necessary to take any stimulant?’

  Grasping at the word ‘necessary,’ she replied:

  ‘Yes, doctor; my life isn’t a very happy one, and I often feel so low, so depressed as it were, that if I didn’t take a little something to keep me up I think I should do away with myself.’

  ‘Your husband is an actor, I believe?’

  ‘Yes; but he’s at present up in Manchester, producing a new piece. I’m on the stage, too. I’ve been playing a round of leading parts in the provinces, but since I’ve been in London I’ve been out of an engagement.’

  ‘I just asked you because I noticed you used a little powder, you know, on the face. Of course, I can’t judge at present what your complexion is; but have you noticed any yellowness about the skin lately?’

  The first instinct of a woman who drinks is to conceal her vice, and although she was talking to a doctor, Kate was again conscious of a feeling of resentment against the merciless eyes which saw through all the secrets of her life. But, cowed, as it were, by the certitude expressed by the doctor’s looks and words, she strove to equivocate, and answered humbly that she noticed her skin was not looking as clear as it used to. Dr. Hooper then questioned her further. He asked if she suffered from a sense of uncomfortable tension, fullness, weight, especially after meals; if she felt any pain in her right shoulder? and she confessed that he was right in all his surmises.