by George Moore
To-day she had been to see Cecilia, and had come back more tired and pained than ever. The strange, passionate affection had not soothed, and the ascetic vision of life remorselessly insisted on by the cripple jarred on Alice’s already overstrained feelings, till now, in her brain, fevered with loneliness and tense with natural want of love, there surged backwards and forwards, like a ghastly and unceasing dream, all the terrible allusions she had heard that day made to the long families of unmarried girls in the county, and Cecilia’s pessimistic ridicule and sneers at all the joys of life. Cold and weary, she sat watching the night falling over the waste of immaculate snow.
And pallid even as the snow, the scroll that held her life’s history was unfolded; and with agonised mind she strove to read the decrees of Pate. But through her gazing eyes the plain of virginal snow, flecked with the cold blue shadows of the trees, sank into her soul, bleaching it of every hope of joy; and, gathering suggestions from the surroundings, she saw a white path extending before her — a sterile way that she would have to tread — a desolate way, with no songs in its sullen air, but only sad sighs, and only stainless tears, falling, falling, ever falling — falling silently. Grey was the gloom that floated, and overworn were the spectres that passed therein; and the girl buried her face in her hands, as if to shut out the vision of the journey she would have to go. She foretasted the idleness she would have courageously to drink to the last; she foresaw the lonely death that would in the end overtake her. Her life was a grey tint, unillumined by lamp of delight or star of duty. She had not been included in the scheme of existence; there was no end for her to attain, no height for her to climb; and now, looking into the future, she could see no issue for the love and energy which throbbed within her. Must it all die? How horrible, how narrow, how indefensible, how unintelligent did the laws that guarded a young girl’s life from the living touch of the world appear to her to be! and, as a prisoner will raise his arms to heat down the walls of his cell, she appealed against them all: “Give me a duty, give me a mission to perform, and I will live!” she cried despairingly; “but, oh! save me from this grey dream of idleness!” Then, her thoughts full of obtuse agony, she considered the martyrdom which was awaiting her, and from which no escape seemed possible. The scroll of the years was again unrolled before her — she saw herself growing old, amid bits of lace, faded flowers, and chattering chaperons. Those were the joys life had reserved for her; her pains would he the languors and irritations of endless idleness, and the sour sneering of girl acquaintances. She saw herself sitting amid them: the Brennans, the Duffys, the Honourable Miss Gores, and hosts of others, all waiting until someone would take pity and ask them to dance. For this, and only this, the whole system of their education had been devised. They had been dressed out in a little French, a little music, a little watercolour-painting — for this, and only this: to snigger, to cajole, to chatter to any man who would condescend to listen to them, and to gladly marry any man who would undertake to keep them. For this, and only this, did the flower-adorned bosoms swell sweetly beneath the laced corsets; for this were the white smiles that greeted the partners approaching; for this were the red laughs that cajoled behind shadowy curtains; for this were the pretty feet advanced, with the flesh seen through the open work of the stocking; for this, and only this, was the pleading azure of the adoring eyes.
And from this awful mummery in muslin there was no escape. It would continue until the comedy became tragedy; until, with aching hearts and worn faces, they would be forced aside by the crush of the younger generation; and, looking aghast in the face of their five and thirty years, read there their sentence to die, as they had lived, ignorant of life and its meaning. Oh! never to know, born never to know, condemned never to know, the one joy in which gain is forgotten! was the cry that echoed through the bleakness of the girl’s heart. Black was her despair — black as the black cloud that hunted the moon. Passing, it let the white rays splinter; and, in the rapid succession of light and gloom, Alice’s thoughts turned, changed, trembled, and were broken.
Oh! what a terrible cruelty is a girl’s life! She with a plain face is like a seed fallen upon a rock. There she will remain to perish, while around her the green crop will grow gladly in May and April winds, and ripen to summer fulness under July and August suns. She will see her companions becoming brides, and then mothers; and, if she lives out her useless life to the end, she will see grandchildren crowding about their knees; each age will bring them new interests, while each succeeding year will rob her pitilessly of any hopes, and joys she may still cling to. For her there is nothing, nothing, nothing! Her life is weak and sterile, even as the plain of moonlight-stricken snow. Like it, she will fade, will pass into a moist and sunless grave, without leaving a trace of herself on the earth — this beautiful earth, built out of and made lovely with love. Yes, built out of love — for all is love. Spring, with amorous hands, will withdraw the chaste veil of winter’s maidenhood, and the world, like a bride arrayed in flowers and expectation, will be but a universal shrine, wherein is worshipped the deity. All then shall be ministrants of love. Sweet winds shall join herb and flowers, and through the purple night soft-winged moths shall carry the desire of every plant and blossom; in the light air the wings of mating birds shall mingle, and upon the earth the lowliest animals be united; only woman is forbidden to obey the one universal instinct, coequal with the music of the spheres, and eternal even as it.
Then, filled with pale presentiment, the girl cried out: “Oh! give me life, give me love!” and her anguish was like the wail of the frozen bird, that wailed its thin life away in the silent light of the stars. Alice loved her life; and she wished to live it sincerely, and in all its fulness. She demanded love, it was only love that could relieve her from the torture she was suffering — a husband had always formed part of her thoughts. She remembered, when a child, having once seen a pair of lovers walking with their arms about each other. For months she had dreamed of their kisses, striving at the same time to invent for them suitable words and phrases; and she reminded herself how she had always joyed in things relating to motherhood; how the spectacle of a mother nursing her child had once delighted her, and how she had looked forward to the day when she would perform the same sweet office. But now she knew that that hope was vain. In an hour one truth had become terribly distinct, and, in the nightmare-terrors of her mind, strange thoughts, thoughts of which she was ashamed, passed and mockingly taunted her, and it required all the strength of her intelligence to regain her mental balance. Was she impure? She did not wish to be, but she trembled to think of her life pure from end to end — pure as that plain of virgin snow. Then the sorrow that rose out of her soul became part of the sorrow of others; and, pale and lonely as the glittering trees that raised their faces to the sky, she saw the girls she had seen at the ball passing stainless and sterile through the generation of which she was but a single unit. The moon had risen out of the clouds, and hanging like a night-lamp, blanching the draperies of the distant woods, the land was flooded with so divine an effulgence, that in the disordered imagination of the girl it seemed to be the white bed of celibacy in which the whole county was sleeping.
Yes; all were suffering alike, all were enduring the same white death! Yet as her thoughts passed from the contemplation of the collective pain, and fixed themselves again on the raw of her own individual grief, she again believed she was the most miserable of all. For did not her companions at least hold that human life was but the hour of darkness that precedes the dawn of an eternal day — a day of glory and original light? But to her even this consolation was denied; and now, in the prostration of her ideas, she called out, though she well knew it to be impossible, to be fed at this table of thin hope. “What does it matter?” she cried; “nothing matters; and even if it be no active force in their lives, though they believe in it no more than in the flirtation of yesterday, it fills better than woolwork, or tennis-playing, or small-talk, the void of our objectless days. The duty of
worshipping is an emotion if it be no more; even to the most heedless it supplies the sensation of having done something; and, to those who allow their souls to be absorbed by the myth, it supplies an adequate motive to live and to suffer pain.”
But for her, who knew that life was but a pilgrimage to the worm, there was no escape; until death she would drift, a dead leaf, adown the tepid and trivial current of her life, unless — then the word marriage sighed through her thoughts. It came suddenly upon her like a gust of sweet perfume; and, through the gloom of dying and dead illusions, she dreamed of a love around which, flowerwise, two lives should twining grow, always unfolding their hopes and joys to an equal light. Nor was there in her vision any of the lascivious dependency which she daily saw taken for the highest aim. What she saw was an ideal couple, journeying with a firm step through life, sharing burdens and sorrows, that were made lighter by the sharing. Fragments of history came back to her; and, in a confused and disjointed way, she realised how men have bought women, imprisoned women, kept women as a sort of common property; but that throughout the ages they have never been considered as anything more than objects of luxury or necessity. “How then,” she asked passionately, “can we be really noble and pure, while we are still decked out in innocence, virtue, and belief as ephemeral as the muslins we wear? Until we are free to think, until we are their sisters in thought, we cannot hope to become the companions, the friends, the supports of men.” Alice thought clearly and directly; but, as is often the case with subjective natures, she shrank from the glare and the rough shocks of the practical contest. Although she now rebelled against social, as she had long done against religious laws, she was ready to outwardly conform to the former as to the latter. Having the divine power to create, and to live an interior life, she often forgot the reality of existence, until, with awakening hands, it shook her, as on the present occasion, rudely from her dreams. Light laughter was now heard ascending the staircase, and, as Olive burst into the moon-whitened room, she exclaimed:
“Goodness me! Alice; how can you remain up here all alone, and by that smouldering fire? Why don’t you come downstairs? It has been so pleasant. Papa has been humming to himself. He says he is quite satisfied with the first part of the tune, but the second won’t come right; and, as mamma had a lot to say to Lord Dungory, I and Captain Hibbert sat out in the passage together. He was awfully nice. He told me that I was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and that he had never seen me looking so sweet. But tell me, do tell me, how you think this way of doing up my hair suits me?”
“Very well, indeed; but what else did Captain Hibbert say to you?”
“Well, I’ll tell you something,” replied Olive, suddenly turning from the glass. And, assuming a pose, scarcely less affected than those of the dancing-girls by Canova, she continued: “But first promise not to tell anyone. I don’t know what I should do if you did. You promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“If you look as serious as that I shall never be able to tell you. It is very wicked, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. He put his arm round my waist and kissed me. Now don’t scold, I won’t be scolded,” the girl said, as she watched the cloud gathering on her sister’s face. “Oh! you don’t know how angry I was. I cried, I assure you I did, and I told him ho had disgraced me. I couldn’t say more than that, could I, now? and he promised never to do it again. It was the first time a man ever kissed me — I was awfully ashamed. No one ever attempted to kiss you, I suppose; nor can I fancy their trying, for your cross face would soon frighten them; but I can’t look serious.”
The words cut like a keen steel; and, quivering with pain, Alice said: “And did he ask you to marry him?”
“Oh! of course he did, but I haven’t told mamma, for she is always talking to me about Lord Kilearney — the little marquis, as she calls him; but I couldn’t have him. Just fancy giving up dear Edward! I assure you that I believe that he would till himself if I did. He has often told me that I am the only thing that is worth living for.”
Alice looked questioningly at the silly beauty before her. She had already determined to speak to her mother about Captain Hibbert; for her good sense told her that, if in the end the girl was not intended for him, it was wrong to allow her to continue her flirtation. But, for the moment, the consideration of her own misfortunes absorbed her. Was there nothing — and all happiness seemed to be in the balance — in marriage but a sensual gratification; and did a man seek for nothing but a beautiful body that he could kiss and enjoy ? Did his desires never turn to mating with one who could sympathise with his hopes, comfort him in his fears; and united by that most profound and penetrating of all unions — that of the soul — be collaborator in life’s work ? If so, life were indeed a lovely thing! and, like a glad bird, the girl’s heart soared through the silver skies of her dream, until the unanswerable question again struck her: “Could no man love as she did?”
All she had heard and seen said no; but, unconvinced, she, with a painful reiteration, insisted that if women did not think of men so, why should men be so degraded? Nor did her soul-searching cease at this point. The mind that had asserted its independence amid such surroundings as Alice’s, that had not shrunk from following the guidance of reason, and accepting its conclusion that religion, being no truth, was to be cast aside as an idle folly, would not falter now. However repugnant it might be to her present feeling, she was ready to allow that marriage owned a material as well as a spiritual aspect, and that neither could be overlooked. Some, therefore, though their souls were as beautiful as the day, were, from purely physical causes, incapacitated from entering into the marriage-state. Cecilia was such an one! Did she, Alice, share the same fate ? and, her brain throbbing with terrors as intimate and intense as the pulsing of her blood, the girl that night, straight and stark, her head buried in the pillow, asked herself if she were not proper for a husband’s love; her limbs, were they not as strong and as healthy, if not as fair as her sister’s?— “Yes! yes!” and the darkness answered again.
“Yes;” but looking through the length of years, in spite of all, she saw herself for ever sleeping in celibacy.
“She knew she would never be married.” It was as if some instinct had told her. The words clashed in her ears; she forced their meaning deep into her heart — she strove to wipe away each hope as it gleamed within the mirror of her despair.
When the girls came down to breakfast Mrs. Barton left off lecturing her husband, and, as with an air of relief he stretched his embroidered-slippered feet to the fire and continued reading the Daily Express, she said:
“Lord Rosshill has been fired at, and only just escaped with his life.”
“I am glad it was not Lord Dungory,” replied Olive.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Barton, slightly embarrassed; “but Lord Rosshill is not a young man, and—”
“Neither is Lord Dungory,” chimed in Olive, as she helped herself to an egg.
“I wish you would not interrupt me, Olive,” said Mrs. Barton. “I was going to say that the nervous shock must be dreadful, even if one does escape with one’s life from an assassin.”
Then Mr. Barton read from the Daily Express the account of a dastardly murder in Kerry. A bailiff’s house had been broken into by an armed gang, and the unfortunate man had been dragged out of bed and shot before his own door. In Meath an attempt had been made to blow up a landlord’s house with dynamite; in Queen’s County shot had been fired through a diningroom window, and two large hay-yards had been maliciously burned; in Wicklow forty head of cattle had had their tails cut off; in Roscommon and in Galway two men, occupying farms from which tenants had been evicted, had been so seriously beaten that their lives were despaired of. This list of crimes was considered large; but so absorbed was each family in its own private interest, that the news of the outrages committed in the East and South was received with indifference; and it was not until Lord Rosshill’s escape and the probable reductions he would make to his tenants had been
fully discussed, that any reference was made to the rest of Ireland. At last Mrs. Barton said, after glancing her eye over the columns of the paper, to assure herself of the accuracy of her husband’s reading:
“I wonder if all this will suffice to force the Government to pass a new Coercion Bill.”
“I wish they would put me at the head of an army,’ said Mr. Barton, whose thoughts had gone back to his picture of the “Altars of the Druids.”
“Dressed in Julius Cæsar’s big red cloak, on the great white horse, wouldn’t papa look fine, leading the landlords against the tenants?” cried Mrs. Barton, in her winsomest manner. She treated her husband exactly as she did Milord; indeed, just as she did everybody else.
After breakfast the party separated. Mrs. Barton went to dress to receive Lord Dungory; Mr. Barton retired to his studio. In the girls’ room Olive and Barnes gossiped incessantly, and the bland, soft-smiling maid ripped the body of a ball-dress, while the corn-coloured beauty trimmed a smoking-cap with yellow braid. In brief phrases she referred to, and with scornful little laughs commented on, the matrimonial prospects of different young ladies.
Captain Hibbert’s name was frequently mentioned, and Alice was surprised to hear her sister say she had forbidden him ever to visit the Lawlers. At that moment the dull sound of distant firing broke the stillness of the snow.
“I took good care to make him promise not to go to this shooting-party the last time I saw him.”
“And what harm was there in his going to this shooting-party?” said Alice.
“What harm? I suppose, miss, you have heard what kind of woman Mrs. Lawler is? Ask Barnes.”
“You shouldn’t talk in this way, Olive. We know well enough that Mrs. Lawler was not a lady before she married; but nothing can be said against her since.”
