by George Moore
During the season in Dublin it is found convenient to give teas: the young ladies have to be introduced to the men they will meet afterwards at the Castle. These gatherings take place at five o’clock in the afternoon; and as Mrs. Barton passed along the streets on her way to Lady Georgina’s, she reflected on the appearance of the town. Its present animation she declared could not be taken as in the least representative of the normal condition of things. Once the Castle season ended, all would lapse into the usual state of torpor and indifference.
“I assure you, my dears, we are all on the brink of ruin, we are dancing on the edge of a precipice. In flying from Galway we thought we had fled from the Land League; but I was talking to Lord Dungory this morning, and he says that the city is undermined, that a network of conspiracy is spread all over the place. He says there are assassins waiting and watching night and day to kill the Lord Lieutenant, and that there are so many plots hatching for the blowing up of the Castle, that even now it is doubtful if it will be considered safe to hold a Drawing-room.”
“Oh! Mamma, I think I should die, if there were to be no Drawing-room.”
“Of course there’ll be a Drawing-room; but it only shows what a terrible state things must be in that such rumours should be put forth. The shopkeepers are complaining dreadfully. Mrs. Symond says she has to give three years’ credit. You see lots of people have shut up their houses; I am afraid there will not be many parties; it is all the fault of that wicked Land League, and the Government won’t put it down, nor yet the Pope. What’s the use in our subscribing to his Church if he’ll do nothing for us?”
The weary, the woebegone, the threadbare streets — yes threadbare conveys the moral idea of Dublin in 1882. Stephen’s Green, recently embellished by a wealthy nobleman with gravel walks, mounds and ponds, looked like a school-treat set out for the entertainment of charity children. And melancholy Merrion Square! broken pavements, unpainted hall-doors, rusty area railings, meagre outside curs hidden almost out of sight in the deep gutters — how infinitely pitiful!
The Dublin streets stare the vacant and helpless stare of a beggar selling matches on a doorstep, and the feeble cries for amusement are like those of the child beneath the ragged shawl for the red gleam of a passing soldier’s coat. On either side of you, there is a bawling ignorance or plaintive decay. Look at the houses! Like crones in borrowed bonnets some are fashionable with flowers in the rotting window frames — others languish in silly cheerfulness like women living on the proceeds of the pawnshop; others — those with brass-plates on the doors — are evil smelling as the prescriptions of the threadbare doctor, bald as the bill of costs of the servile attorney. And the souls of the Dubliners blend and harmonise with their connatural surroundings.
We are in a land of echoes and shadows. Lying, mincing, grimacing — careless of all but the pleasures of scandal and marriage, trailing their ignorance, arrogantly the poor shades go by. Gossip and waltz tunes are all that they know. Is there a girl or young man in Dublin who has read a play of Shakespeare, a novel of Balzac, a poem of Shelley? Is there one who could say for certain that Leonardo da Vinci was neither comic-singer nor patriot? — No. Like children, the young and the old, run hither and thither, seeking in Liddell oblivion of the Land League. Catholic in name, they curse the Pope for not helping them in their affliction; moralists by tradition, they accept at their parties women who parade their lovers to the town from the top of a tramcar. In Dublin there is baptism in tea and communion in a cutlet.
We are in a land of echoes and shadows. Smirking, pretending, grimacing, the poor shades go by, waving a mock-English banner over a waxwork show: policemen and bailiffs in front, landlords and agents behind, time-servers, Castle hirelings, panderers and worse on the box; nodding the while their dollish cardboard heads, and distributing to an angry populace, on either side, much bran and brogue. Shadows, echoes, and nothing more. See the girls! How their London fashions sit upon them; how they strive to strut and lisp like those they saw last year in Hyde Park. See the young men — the Castle bureaucrats — how they splutter their recollections of English plays, English scenes, English noblemen. See the pot-hatted Gigmen of the Kildare Street Club! The green flags of the League are passing; the cries of a new Ireland awaken the dormant air; but the Gigmen foam at their windows and spit out mongrel curses on the land that refuses to call them Irishmen.
“The country is going to the devil!” cries one.
“Oh! that brute Gladstone! “moans a second.
“Are you going to Lady Georgina’s tea, this afternoon?” asks a third.
“Of course; the whole club is to be there, I believe.”
Notwithstanding her limited income, Lady Georgina was a person of taste. Her stair-carpets were neither worn nor dusty, but fresh and red, and, on the first landing a conservatory full of red and white camellias struck vibrating notes of colour.
“This is considered to be the most artistic house in Dublin,” said Mrs. Barton, as the servant showed them upstairs.
“How lovely the camellias look,” said Olive “And now, Alice, mind, none of your Liberalism in this house, or you will ruin your sister’s chances.”
Lady Georgina wore a wig, or her hair was arranged so as to look like one. Fifty years had rubbed away much of her youthful ugliness; and, in the delicate twilight of her rooms, her aristocratic bearing might be mistaken for good looks. Now, as she bent over her tea-table, the aristocratic grace of her figure was drawn across the narrow width of grey daylight, which divided the handsome curtains. In accordance with the latest London craze, the walls were sprinkled with Dresden and Wedgwood teacups, placed upon red velvet étagères. The sofas were luxurious, and each recess was beautifully composed with statues, and screens in crewel work — Lady Georgina was a celebrated needlewoman. She was now begging Lord Kilcarney to assist her at a charity bazaar; and from over the cream-jug she launched an indignant and comprehensive glance at Olive as a place was made for her next to him. Few people had as yet arrived: but when Harding was announced, Mrs. Barton whispered:
“Here’s your friend, Alice; don’t miss your chance.”
Then every moment bevies of girls came in and were accommodated with seats, and if possible with young men. Teacups were sent down to be washed, and the young men were passed from group to group. The young ladies smiled and looked delightful, and spoke of dancing and tennis until, replying to an imperative glance from their chaperons, from time to time they rose to leave: but obeying a look of supplication from their hostess the young men remained.
Lord Kilcarney had been hunted desperately around screens and over every ottoman in the room; and Lady Georgina had proved her good will in proportion to the amount of assistance she had accorded to her friends in the chase. Long ago he had been forced away from Olive. Mrs. Barton endured with stoical indifference the scowls of her hostess; but at length, compelled to recognise that none of the accidents attendant on the handing of teacups or the moving of chairs would bring him back, she rose to take her leave. The little Marquis was on his feet in a moment, and, shaking hands with her effusively, he promised to call to see them at the Shelbourne. A glance went round; and of Mrs. Barton’s triumph there could be no doubt.
Hours went, hours of anticipation, of broken dreams; hours filled with calls for “Mamma,” with injunctions not to forget this thing and that; nervous, fragile hours, whose skirts trailed in remembrances, in condemnatory criticisms of young men; hours overweighted with rendezvous and visits; hours embittered by regrets at having missed Lord Kilcarney the day he called at the Shelbourne.
But the day above all other days was assuredly that when they paid their first visit to Mrs. Symond. The drive, how long it was! The cab, how it slipped sideways along the tram-lines! At last it stopped, and the women squeezed themselves out. A very narrow staircase covered with oilcloth. The portal to the temple of Hymen was bare, and as bland as an introduction in good society. There was no wrinkle in the tightly-stretched floorcloth; and the pr
im lay figures exhibited morning dresses in eternally ladylike attitudes. The walls were lined with tall wardrobes, and the rustling of silver paper was as continuous as the murmur of a fountain.
“Oh! how do you do, Mrs. Barton? We have been expecting you for the last two or three days. I will run upstairs and tell Mrs. Symond that you are here; she will be so glad to see you.”
“That is Miss Cooper!” explained Mrs. Barton. “Everyone knows her; she has been with Mrs. Symond many years. And, as for dear Mrs. Symond, there is no one like her.”
To this sympathetic dressmaker all fashionable hips and bosoms were confided, and all high-bred griefs and scandals; and when the giggling Countess left, the sighing Marchioness was received with genial sympathy. Mrs. Symond was a thin woman with long features, and a mild and affable manner. The moment she appeared at the door Mrs. Barton rushed forward, and the women kissed each other profusely.
“And how do you do, dear Mrs. Barton, and how well you are looking, and the young ladies? I see Miss Olive has improved since she was in Dublin.” (In an audible whisper)
“Everyone is talking about her. There is no doubt but that she’ll be the belle of the season.” (In a still audible, but lower tone of voice.) “But tell me, is it true that—”
“How, now, now! “said Mrs. Barton, drowning her words in cascades of silvery laughter, “I know nothing of what you’re saying; ha! ha! ha! no, no — I assure you. I will not—”
Then, as soon as the ladies had recovered their composure, a few questions were asked about her Excellency, the prospects of the Castle season, and the fashions of the year.
“And now tell me,” said Mrs. Barton, “what pretty things have you that would make up nicely for trains?”
“Trains, Mrs. Barton? We have some sweet things that would make up beautifully for trains. Miss Cooper, will you kindly fetch over that case of silks that we had over yesterday from Paris?”
“The young ladies must be, of course, in white; for Miss Olive I should like, I think, snowdrops; for you, Mrs. Barton, I am uncertain which of two designs I shall recommend. Now this is a perfectly regal material.”
With words of compliment and solicitation, the black-dressed assistant displayed the armouries of Venus — armouries filled with the deep blue of midnight, with the faint tints of dawn, with strange flowers and birds, with moths, and moons, and stars. Lengths of white silk clear as the notes of violins playing in a minor key; white poplin falling into folds statuesque as the bass of a fugue by Bach; yards of ruby velvet, rich as an air from Verdi played on the piano; tender green velvet, pastoral as hautboys heard beneath trees in a fair Arcadian vale; blue turquoise faille Française fanciful as the tinkling of a guitar twanged by a Watteau shepherd; gold brocade, sumptuous as organ tones swelling through the jewelled twilight of a nave; scarves and trains of midnight-blue profound as the harmonic snoring of a bassoon; golden daffodils violent as the sound of a cornet; bouquets of pink roses and daisies, charmful and pure as the notes of a flute; white faille, soft draperies of tulle, garlands of white lilac, sprays of white heather, delicate and resonant as the treble voices of children singing carols in dewy English woods; berthas, flounces, plumes, stomachers, lappets, veils, frivolous as the strains of a German waltz played on Liddell’s band.
An hour passed, but the difficulty of deciding if Olive’s dress should be composed of silk or Irish poplin was very great, for determined that all should be humiliated Mrs. Barton laid her plans amid designs for night and morning; birds fluttering through leafy trees, birds drowsing on bending boughs, and butterflies folding their wings. At a critical moment, however, an assistant announced that Mrs. Scully was waiting. The ladies started; desperate effort was made; rosy clouds and veils of silver tissue were spoken of; but nothing could be settled, and on the staircase the ladies had to squeeze into a corner to allow Violet and Mrs. Scully to pass.
“How do you do, Olive? How do you do, Alice? and you, Mrs. Barton, how do you do? And what are you going to wear? Have you decided on your dress?”
“Oh! That is a secret that could be told to no one; oh, not for worlds!” said Mrs. Barton.
“I’m sure it will be very beautiful,” replied Mrs. Scully, with just a reminiscence of the politeness of the Galway grocery business in her voice.
“I hear you have taken a house in Fitzwilliam Square for the season?” said Mrs. Barton.
“Yes, we are very comfortable; you must come and see us. You are at the Shelbourne, I believe?”
“Come to tea with us,” cried Violet. “We are always at home about five.”
“We shall be delighted,” returned Mrs. Barton.
Mrs. Scully’s acquaintance with Mrs. Symond was of the slightest; but, knowing that claims to fashion in Dublin are judged by the intimacy you affect with the dressmaker, she shook her warmly by the hand, and addressed her as dear Mrs. Symond. To the Christian name of Helen none less than a Countess dare to aspire.
“And how well you are looking, dear Mrs. Symond; and when are you going to take your daughters to the Castle?”
“Oh, not for some time yet; my eldest is only sixteen.” Mrs. Symond had three daughters to bring out, and she hoped when her feet were set on the redoubtable ways of Cork Hill, her fashionable customers would extend to her a cordial helping hand. Mrs. Symond’s was one of the myriad little schemes with which Dublin is honeycombed, and although she received Mrs. Scully’s familiarities somewhat coldly, she kept her eyes fixed upon Violet. The insidious thinnesses of the girl’s figure, and her gay, winsome look interested her, and as if speaking to herself she said:
“You will want something very sweet; something quite pure and lovely for Miss Scully?”
Mother and daughter were instantly all attention, and Mrs. Symond continued:
“Let me see, I have some Surat silk that would make up sweetly. Miss Cooper, will you have the kindness to fetch those rolls of Surat silk we received yesterday from Paris?”
Then beautiful as a flower harvesting, the hues and harmonies of earth, ocean, and sky fell before the ravished eyes. The white Surat silk, chaste, beautiful, delicious as that presentiment of shared happiness which fills a young girl’s mind when her fancy awakens in the soft spring sunlight; the white faille Française with tulle and garlands of white lilac, delicate and only as sensuous as the first meetings of sweethearts, when the may is white in the air and the lilac is in bloom on the lawn; trains of blue sapphire broché looped with blue ostrich feathers, seductive and artificial as a boudoir plunged in a dream of Ess bouquet; dove-coloured velvet trains adorned with tulips and tied with bows of brown and pink — temperate as the love that endures when the fiery day of passion has gone down; corsages and trains of daffodil silk, embroidered with shaded maple-leaves, impure as lamp-lit and patchouli-scented couches; trains of white velouture festooned with tulle; trails of snowdrops, icy as lips that have been bought, and cold as a life that lives in a name.
The beautiful silks hissed as they came through the hands of the assistants, cat-like the velvet footfalls of the velvet fell; it was a witches’ Sabbath, and out of this terrible cauldron each was to draw her share of the world’s gifts. Smiling and genial, Mrs. Symond stirred the ingredients with a yard measure; the girls came trembling, doubting, hesitating; and the anxious mothers saw what remained of their jeopardised fortunes sliding in a thin golden stream into the flaming furnace that the demon of Cork Hill blew with unintermittent breath.
Secrets, what secrets were held on the subject of the presentation dresses! The obscure Hill was hound with a white frill of anticipation. Olive’s fame had gone forth. She was admitted to be the new Venus, and Lord Kilcarney was spoken of as likely to yield to her the coveted coronet. Would he marry her without so much as looking at another girl? was the question on every lip, and in the jealousy thus generated the appraisers of Violet’s beauty grew bolder. Her thinness was condoned, and her refinement insisted upon. Nor were May Gould and her chances overlooked by the gossips of Merrion Square.
Her flirtation with Fred Scully was already a topic of conversation.
Alice knew she was spoken of pityingly, but she hungered little after the praise of the Dubliners, and she preferred to stay at home and talk to Harding in the ladies’ drawing-room, rather than follow her mother and sister in their wild hunt after Lord Kilcarney. Through the afternoon teas of Merrion Square and Stephen’s Green the chase went merrily.
CHAPTER III.
ON THE NIGHT of the Drawing-room, February 20th, 1882, the rain rushed along the streets — and it could be heard wildly splashing on the flagstones. A wind, too, bad risen; and, threatening to tear every window from its sash, it careered in great and fearsome gusts: sky there was none, nor sight of anything save when the lightning revealed the outline of the housetops. The rattling and the crashing of the thunder was appalling; and often, behind their closely-drawn curtains, the girls trembled, and, covering their faces in their hands, forgot the article of clothing they were in search of. In their rooms all was warm and snug and gay with firelight and silk: the chaperons had whispered that warm baths were advisable, and along the passages the ladies’-maids passed hurriedly, carrying cans of hot water, sponges, and drying-sheets.
Alice and Olive slept in two rooms on the third floor, on either side of their mother; May and Mrs. Gould were on the fourth, and next to May was Fred Scully, who, under the pretext of the impossibility of his agreeing with his mother concerning the use of a latch-key, had lately moved into the hotel. May was deeply concerned in Fred’s grievance; and discussing it, or the new Shelbourne scandal — the loves of the large lady and the little man at the other end of the corridor — they lingered about each other’s bedroom-doors. Alice could now hear them talking as they descended the staircase together; then a burst of smothered laughter, and May came in to see her.
