Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  CHAPTER X.

  FROM THE AUSTIN girls, whose eyes followed him, from Mr Hare, from Mrs Norton, John wandered sorrowfully away, — he wandered through the green woods and fields into the town. He stood by the railway gates. He saw the people coming and going in and out of the public houses; and he watched the trains that whizzed past, and he understood nothing, not even why the great bar of the white gate did not yield beneath the pressure of his hands; and in the great vault of the blue sky, white clouds melted and faded to sheeny visions of paradise, to a white form with folded wings, and eyes whose calm was immortality....

  A train stopped. He took a ticket and went to Brighton. As they steamed along a high embankment, he found himself looking into a little suburban cemetery. The graves, the yews, the sharp church spire touching the range of the hills. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and the dread responsive rattle given back by the coffin lid. He watched the group in the distant corner, and its very remoteness and removal from his personal knowledge and concern, moved him to passionate grief and tears....

  He walked through the southern sunlight of the town to the long expanse of sea. The mundane pier is taut and trim, and gay with the clangour of the band, the brown sails of the fishing boats wave in the translucid greens of water; and the white field of the sheer cliff, and all the roofs, gables, spires, balconies, and the green of the verandahs are exquisitely indicated and elusive in the bright air; and the beach is strange with acrobats and comic songs, nursemaids lying on the pebbles reading novels, children with their clothes tied tightly about them building sand castles zealously; see the lengthy crowd of promenaders — out of its ranks two little spots of mauve come running to meet the advancing wave, and now they fly back again, and now they come again frolicking like butterflies, as gay and as bright.

  Under the impulse of his ravening grief, John watched the spectacle of the world’s forgetfulness, and the seeming obscenity horrified him even to the limits of madness. He cried that it might pass from him. Solitude — the solemn peace of the hills, the appealing silence of a pine wood at even; how holy is the idea of solitude, find it where you will. The Gothic pile, the apostles and saints of the windows, the deep purples and crimsons, and the sunlight streaming through, and the pathetic responses and the majesty of the organ do not take away, but enhance and affirm the sensation of idea and God. The quiet rooms austere with Latin and crucifix; John could see them. Fondly he allowed these fancies to linger, but through the dream a sense of reality began to grow, and he remembered the narrowness of the life, when viewed from the material side, and its necessary promiscuousness, and he thought with horror of the impossibility of the preservation of that personal life, with all its sanctuary-like intensity, which was so dear to him. He waved away all thought of priesthood, and walking quickly down the pier, looking on the gay panorama of town and beach, he said, “The world shall be my monastery.”

  Spring Days

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  PREFACE

  WHEN HENRY VIZETELLY, that admirable scholar, historian, and journalist, was sent to prison for publishing Zola’s novels mine were taken over by Walter Scott, and all were reprinted except “Spring Days.” This book was omitted from the list of my acknowledged works, for public and private criticism had shown it no mercy; and I had lost faith in it. All the welcome it had gotten were a few contemptuous paragraphs scattered through the Press, and an insolent article in The Academy, which I did not see, but of which I was notified by a friend in the Strand at the corner of Wellington Street.

  “Was the article a long one?”

  “No, I don’t think they thought your book worth slashing. All I can tell you is that if any book of mine had been spoken of in that way I should never write another.”

  I left my friend, hoping that the number of The Academy would not fall into the hands of the editor of the great London review, to whom I had dedicated the book after a night spent listening to him quoting from the classics, Greek, English, and Latin. “A very poor testimony, one which he won’t thank me for,” I muttered, and stopped before St. Clement Danes to think what kind of letter he would write to me. But he did not even acknowledge through his secretary the copy I sent to him, and I accepted the rebuff without resentment, arguing that the fault was mine. “The proofs should have been submitted to him, but the printers were calling for them! There’s no going back; the mischief is done,” and I waited, putting my trust in time, which blots out all unfortunate things, “even dedications,” I said.

  Three months later, on opening my door one day, I found him standing with a common friend on the landing. I remember wondering what his reason was for bringing the friend, whether he had come as a sort of chaperon or witness. He left us after a few minutes, and I sat watching the great man of my imagination, asking myself if he were going to speak of “Spring Days,” hoping that he would avoid the painful subject. The plot and the characters of my new book might please him. If he would only allow me to speak about it he might be persuaded to accept a second dedication as some atonement for the first.

  “You were kind enough to dedicate your novel—”

  “‘Spring Days’?”

  “Yes, ‘Spring Days.’ I know that you wished to pay me a compliment, and if I didn’t write before it was because — —”

  “Was it so very bad?”

  A butty little man raised Oriental eyes and square hands in protest.

  “You have written other books,” he said, and proposed that we should go out together and walk in the Strand.

  “Yes, ‘The Confessions of a Young Man’ was much liked here and in France. Will you let me give it to you?” We stopped at a book shop. “It will please you and help you to forget ‘Spring Days.’” He smiled. “Never mention that book again,” I added. “I wonder how I could have written it.”

  We were in a hansom; he turned his head and looked at me without attempting to answer my question; and from that day till six months ago my impulse was to destroy every copy that came my way. A copy of “Spring Days” excited in me an uncontrollable desire of theft, and whenever I caught sight of one in a friend’s house I put it in my pocket without giving a thought to the inconvenience that the larceny might cause; the Thames received it, and I returned home congratulating myself that there was one copy less in the world of “Spring Days.”

  When the Boer War drove me out of London I said: “Dublin doesn’t contain a copy of that book;” and for nearly eight years I was left in peace, only Edward Martyn teasing me, saying that one of these days he must read the book.

  “R —— always says, ‘I like “Spring Days”.’”

  “Insolent little ass,” I answered, “I’ll cut him dead when we meet again.”

  But Edward was not joking as I thought he was, and some time afterwards he told me that after a good deal of advertising he had succeeded in obtaining a copy of “Spring Days.” The moment he left the room I searched the table and bookcase for it, but he kept it at Tillyra, else it would have gone into the Liffey, which receives all things.

  “My dear George, I like the book better than any of your novels,” he said one day on his return from Galway. “It is the most original, it is like no other novel, and that is why people didn’t understand it.”

  Of course it was impossible to quarrel with dear Edward, but I wondered if I ever should find pleasure in speaking to him again; and when A. E. told me a few weeks later that he had come upon a novel of mine which he had never read before— “Spring Days,” I said.

  “Edward gave it to you?”

  “No,” he answered, “I haven’t seen
him for many months.”

  “The worst book I ever wrote.” A. E. did not answer. “What do you think of it?” To my surprise I found him of the same opinion as Edward.

  “My dear A. E., you know how I rely on your judgment. For twenty-five years I have refused to allow this book to be reprinted. Shall I relent?”

  A. E. did not seem to think the book unworthy of me, and pressed me to read it.

  “I’ll lend you my copy.”

  I received it next day, but returned it to him unread, my courage having failed me at the last moment.

  A few months later I met Richard Best, one of the librarians at the National Library. He had just returned from his holidays; he had been spending them in Wales for the sake of the language.

  “By the way,” he said, “I came across an old novel of yours— ‘Spring Days.’”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “On the contrary, I liked it as well, if not better, than any novel you have written. It is so entirely original. My wife... I think you value her opinion—”

  “She liked it?”

  “Come home with me, and she’ll tell you how it struck her.”

  “I will, on one condition, that you don’t mention that you spoke to me about the book.”

  Best promised, and we had not been many minutes in the house before Mrs. Best interrupted my remarks about the weather to tell me what she thought of “Spring Days.”

  “The matter is important. Sooner or later I shall have to think about a collected edition. Is it to be included?”

  Mrs. Best, like A. E., offered to lend me her copy, but I could not bring myself to accept it, and escaped from the book till I came to live in London. Then Fate thrust it into my hands, the means employed being a woman to whom I had written for “Impressions and Opinions.” She had lost her copy; there was, however, an old book of mine which she had never heard me speak of— “Spring Days” — and which, etc., she was sending me the book.

  “Omens are omens,” I muttered, “and there’s no use kicking against the pricks eternally;” and cutting the string of the parcel I sat down to read a novel which I had kept so resolutely out of my mind for twenty-five years, that all I remembered of its story and characters was an old gentleman who lived in a suburb, and whose daughters were a great source of trouble to him. I met the style of the narrative as I might that of an original writer whose works I was unacquainted with. There was a zest in it, and I read on and on; I must have read for nearly two hours, which is a long read for me, laying the book aside from time to time, so that I might reflect at my ease on the tenacity with which it had clung to existence. Every effort had been made to drown it; again and again it had been flung into the river, literally and metaphorically, but it had managed to swim ashore like a cat. It would seem that some books have nine hundred and ninety and nine lives, and God knows how long my meditation might have lasted if the front door bell had not rung.

  “Are you at home, sir, to Mr. — ?”

  “Yes.”

  There is time for one word more, dear reader, and whilst my visitor lays his hat and coat on the table in the passage I will beseech you not to look forward to a sentimental story; “Spring Days” is as free from sentiment or morals as Daphnis and Chloe.

  G. M.

  I

  “MISS, I’LL HAVE his blood; I will, miss, I will.”

  “For goodness’ sake, cook, go back to your kitchen; put that dreadful pair of boots under your apron.”

  “No, miss; I’ll be revenged. He has insulted me.”

  “You can’t be revenged now, cook; you see he has shut himself in; you had better go back to your kitchen.”

  The groom, who was washing the carriage, stood, mop in hand, grinning, appreciating the discomfiture of the coachman, who was paying the penalty of his joke.

  “Cook, if you don’t go back to your kitchen instantly, I’ll give you notice. It is shameful — think what a scandal you are making in the stable-yard. Go back to your kitchen — I order you. It is half-past six, go and attend to your master’s dinner.”

  “He has insulted me, he has insulted me. I’ll have your blood!” she cried, battering at the door. The rattling of chains was heard as the horses turned their heads.

  “Put those boots under your apron, cook; go back to your kitchen, do as I tell you.”

  The woman retreated, Maggie following. At intervals there were stoppages, and cook re-stated her desire to have the coachman’s blood. Maggie did not attempt to argue with her, but sternly repeated her order to go back to her kitchen, and to conceal the old boots under her apron.

  “What business had he to rummage in my box, interfering with my things; he put them all along the kitchen table; he did it because I told you, miss, that he was carrying on with the kitchenmaid. He goes with her every evening into the wood shed, and a married man, too! I wouldn’t be his poor wife.”

  “Go back to your kitchen, cook; do as I tell you.”

  With muttered threats cook entered the house, and commanded the kitchenmaid to interfere no more with the oven, but to attend to her saucepans.

  “What a violent woman,” thought Maggie, “horrid woman. I am sure she’s Irish. I’ll get rid of her as soon as I can. The place is filthy, but I daren’t speak to her now. She’s stirring the saucepan with her finger.”

  At that moment quick steps were heard coming down the corridor, and Sally entered.

  “Cook, cook, I want you to put back the dinner half an hour. I have to go down the town.”

  “O Sally, I beg of you, what will father say?”

  “Father isn’t everybody. I daresay the train will be a little late; it often is. He won’t know anything about it, that is if you don’t tell him.”

  “What do you want to go down the town for?”

  “Never you mind. I don’t ask you what you do.”

  “You want to go down the slonk,” whispered Maggie.

  The cook stopped stirring the saucepan, and the kitchenmaid stood listening greedily.

  “Nothing of the kind,” Sally answered defiantly. “You’re always trying to get up something against me. Cook, will you keep back the dinner twenty minutes?”

  “Cook, I forbid you. I’m mistress here.”

  “How dare you insult me before the servants! Grace is mistress here, if it comes to that.”

  “Grace has given me over the housekeeping. I am mistress when she is too unwell to attend to it.”

  “Nothing of the sort. Grace is the eldest, I would give way to her, but I’m not going to give way to you. Cook, the dinner won’t be ready for another half hour, will it?”

  “I don’t know when the dinner will be ready, and I don’t care.”

  “It is a quarter to seven now, dinner won’t be ready before seven, will it, cook? Keep it back a bit. Now I must be off.”

  And, as Maggie expected, Sally ran past the glass houses and the pear and apple trees, for there was at the end of the vegetable garden a door in the brick wall that enclosed the manor house. It was used by the gardeners, and it communicated with a path leading through some corn and grass land to the high road. There were five acres of land attached to the manor house, tennis lawn, shady walks, flower garden, kitchen garden, stables, and coach house at the back, and all this spoke in somewhat glaring fashion the wealth and ease of a rich city merchant.

  “There she goes,” thought Maggie, flaunting her head. “What a fool she is to bully father instead of humouring him. We shall never hear the end of this. His dinner put back so that she may continue her flirtation with Meason! I shall have to tell the truth. Why should I tell a lie?”

  “Please, miss,” said the butler as Maggie passed through the baize door, “I think it right to tell you about cook. We find it very hard to put up with her in the servants’ hall. She is a very violent-tempered woman; nor can I say much for her in other respects. Last week she sold twenty pounds of dripping, and it wasn’t all dripping, miss, it was for the most part butter.”

&
nbsp; “John, I really can’t listen to any more stories about cook. Has the quarter-to-seven come in yet?”

  “I haven’t seen it pass, miss, but I saw Mr. Willy coming up the drive a minute ago.”

  Willy entered, and she turned to him and said: “Where have you been to, Willy?”

  “Brighton. Has father come in yet?”

  “No. You came by the tramcar?”

  “Yes.”

  With shoulders set well back and toes turned out, Willy came along the passage. His manner was full of deliberation, and he carried a small brown paper parcel under his arm as if it were a sword of state. Maggie followed him up the steep and vulgarly carpeted staircase that branched into the various passages forming the upper part of the house. Willy’s room was precise and grave, and there everything was held under lock and key. He put the brown paper parcel on the table; he took off his coat and laid it on the bed, heaving, at the same time, a sigh.

  “Did you notice if the quarter-to-seven has been signalled?”

  “Yes, but don’t keep on worrying; the train is coming along the embankment.”

  “Then there will be a row to-night.”

  “Why?”

  “Sally told cook to keep the dinner back; she has gone down the slonk to speak to Meason.”

  “Why didn’t you tell cook that she must take her orders from you and no one else?”

  “So I did, but Sally said I was no more mistress here than she was. I said Grace had given me charge of the house, when she could not attend to it; but Sally will listen to no one, she’ll drive father out of his mind. There’s no one he hates like the Measons.”