Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  There was more hunting; and when the October night began to gather, and the lurid sunset flared up in the west, Hubert got out another wrap, and placed it about Emily’s shoulders. But although the chill night had drawn them close together in the dog-cart, they were as widely separated as if oceans were between them. So far as lay in his power he had hidden the annoyance that the intrusion of her society had occasioned him; and, to deceive her, very little concealment was necessary. So long as she saw him she seemed to live in a dream, unconscious of every other thought.

  They rolled through a gradual effacement of things, seeing the lights of the farmhouses in the long plain start into existence, and then remain fixed, like gold beetles pinned on a blue curtain. The chill evening drew her to him, till they seemed one; and full of the intimate happiness of the senses which comes of a long day spent in the open air, she chattered of indifferent things. He thought how pleasant the drive would be were he with Mrs. Bentley — or, for the matter of that, with any one with whom he could talk about the novel that had interested him. They rolled along the smooth wide road, watching the streak of light growing narrower in a veil of light grey cloud drawn athwart the sky. Overpowered by her love, the girl hardly noticed his silence; and when they passed through the night of an overhanging wood her flesh thrilled, and a little faintness came over her; for the leaves that brushed her face had seemed like a kiss from her lover.

  XV

  ONE AFTERNOON, ABOUT the end of September, Hubert came down from his study about tea-time, and announced that he had written the last scene of his last act. Emily was alone in the drawing-room.

  ‘Oh, how glad I am! Then it is done at last. Why not write at once and engage the theatre? When shall we go to London?’

  ‘Well, I don’t mean that the play could be put into rehearsal to-morrow. It still requires a good deal of overhauling. Besides, even if it were completely finished, I should not care to produce it at once. I should like to lay it aside for a couple of months, and see how it read then.’

  ‘What a lot of trouble you do take! Does every one who writes plays take so much trouble?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid they do not, nor is it necessary they should. Their plays are merely incidents strung together more or less loosely; whereas my play is the development of a temperament, of temperamental characteristics which cannot be altered, having been inherited through centuries; it must therefore pursue its course to a fatal conclusion. In Shakespeare —— But no, no! these things have no interest for you. You shall have the nicest dress that money can buy; and if the play succeeds — —’

  The girl raised her pathetic eyes. In truth, she cared not at all what he talked to her about; she was occupied with her own thoughts of him, and just to sit in the room with him, and to look at him occasionally, was sufficient. But for once his words had pained her. It was because she could not understand that he did not care to talk to her. Why did she not understand? It was hard for a little girl like her to understand such things as he spoke about; but she would understand; and then her thoughts passed into words, and she said —

  ‘I understand quite as well as Julia. She, knows the names of more books than I, and she is very clever at pretending that she knows more than she does.’

  At that moment Mrs. Bentley entered. She saw that Emily was enjoying her talk with her cousin, and tried to withdraw. But Hubert told her that he had written the last act; she pretended to be looking for a book, and then for some work which she said had dropped out of her basket.

  ‘If Emily would only continue the talking,’ she thought, ‘I should be able to get away.’ But Emily said not a word. She sat as if frozen in her chair; and at length Mrs. Bentley was obliged to enter, however cursorily, into the conversation.

  ‘If you have written out The Gipsy from end to end, I should advise you to produce it without further delay. Once it is put on the stage, you will be able to see better where it is wrong.’

  ‘Then it will be too late. The critics will have expressed their opinion; the work will be judged. There are only one or two points about which I am doubtful. I wish Harding were here. I cannot work unless I have some one to talk to about my work. I don’t mean to say that I take advice; but the very fact of reading an act to a sympathetic listener helps me. I wrote the first act of Divorce in that way. It was all wrong. I had some vague ideas about how it might be mended. A friend came in; I told him my difficulties; in telling them they vanished, and I wrote an entirely new act that very night.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs. Bentley, ‘that I am not Mr. Harding. It must be very gratifying to one’s feelings to be able to help to solve a literary difficulty, particularly if one cannot write oneself.’

  ‘But you can — I’m sure you can. I remember asking your advice once before; it was excellent, and was of immense help to me. Are you sure it will not bore you? I shall be so much obliged if you will.’

  ‘Bore me! No, it won’t bore me,’ said Mrs. Bentley. ‘I’m sure I feel very much flattered.’ The colour mounted to her cheek, a smile was on her lips; but it went out at the sight of Emily’s face.

  ‘Then come up to my study. We shall have just time to get through the first act before dinner.’

  Mrs. Bentley hesitated; and, noticing her hesitation, Hubert looked surprised. At that moment Emily said —

  ‘May I not come too?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Emily. You see that we wish to see if there is anything in the play that a young girl should not hear.’

  ‘Always an excuse to get rid of me. You want to be alone. I never come into the room that you do not stop speaking. Oh, I can bear it no longer!’

  ‘My dear Emily!’

  ‘Don’t touch me! Go to her; shut yourself up together. Don’t think of me. I can bear it no longer!’ And she fled from the room, leaving behind her a sensation of alarm and pity. Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at each other, both at a loss for words. At last he said —

  ‘That poor child will cry herself into her grave. Have you noticed how poorly she is looking?’

  ‘Not noticed! But you do not know half of it. It has been going on now a long time. You don’t know half!’

  ‘I have noticed that things are not settling down as I hoped they would. It really has become quite dreadful to see that poor face looking reproachfully at you all day long. And I am quite at a loss to know what’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘It is worse than you think. You have not noticed that we hardly speak now?’

  ‘You — who were such friends — surely not!’

  Then she told him hurriedly, in brief phrases, of the change that had taken place in Emily in the last three months. ‘It was only the other night she accused me of going after you, of having designs upon you. It is very painful to have to tell you these things, but I have no choice in the matter. She lay on her bed crying, saying that every one hated her, that she was thoroughly miserable. Somehow she seems naturally an unhappy child. She was unhappy at home before she came here; but then I believe she had excellent reasons, — her mother was a very terrible person. However, all that is past; we have to consider the present now. She accused me of having designs on you, insisting all the while that every one was talking about it, and that she was fretting solely because of my good name. Of course, it is very ridiculous; but it is very pitiful, and will end badly if we don’t take means to put a stop to it. I shouldn’t be surprised if she went off her head. We ought to have the best medical advice.’

  ‘This is very serious,’ he said. And then, at the end of a long silence, he said again, ‘This is very serious — perhaps far more serious than we think.’

  ‘Not more serious than I think. I ought to have spoken about it to you before; but the subject is a delicate one. She hardly sleeps at all at night; she cries sometimes for hours; she works herself up into such fits of nervousness that she doesn’t know what she is saying, — accuses me of killing her, and then repents, declaring that I am the only one who has ever car
ed for her, and begs of me not to leave her. I do assure you it is becoming very serious.’

  ‘Have you any proposal to make regarding her? I need hardly say that I’m ready to carry out any idea of yours.’

  ‘You know what the cause of it is, I suppose?’

  ‘I do not know; I am not certain. I daresay I’m mistaken.’

  ‘No, you are not; I wish you were — that is to say, unless —— But I was saying that it is most serious. The child’s health is affected; she is working herself up into an awful state of mind; she is losing all self-control. I’m sure I’m the last person who would say anything against her; but the time has come to speak out. Well, the other day, when we were at the Eastwicks, you took the chair next to mine when she left the room. When she returned, she saw that you had changed your place, and she said to Ethel Eastwick, “Oh, I’m fainting. I cannot go in there; they are together.” Ethel had to take her up to her room. Well, this morbid sensitiveness is most unhealthy. If I walk out on the terrace, she follows, thinking that I have made an appointment to meet you. Jealousy of me fills up her whole mind. I assure you that I am most seriously alarmed. Something occurs every day — trifles, no doubt; and in anybody else they would mean nothing, but in her they mean a great deal.’

  ‘But what do you propose?’

  ‘Unless you intend to marry her — forgive me for speaking so plain — there is only one thing to do. I must leave.’

  ‘No, no; you must not leave! She could not live alone with me. But does she want you to leave?’

  ‘No; that is the worst of it. I have proposed it; she will not hear of it; to mention the subject is to provoke a scene. She is afraid if I left that you would come and see me; and the very thought of my escaping her vigilance is intolerable.’

  ‘It is very strange.’

  ‘Yes, it is very strange; but, opposed though she be to all thoughts of it, I must leave.’

  ‘As a favour I ask you to stay. Do me this service, I beg of you. I have set my heart on finishing my play this autumn. If it isn’t finished now, it never will be finished; and your leaving would create so much trouble that all thought of work would be out of the question. Emily could not remain alone here with me. I should have to find another companion for her; and you know how difficult that would be. I’m worried quite enough as it is.’ A look of pain passed through his eyes, and Mrs. Bentley wondered what he he could mean. ‘No,’ he said, taking her hands, ‘we are good friends — are we not? Do me this service. Stay with me until I finish this play; then, if things do not mend, go, if you like, but not now. Will you promise me?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Thank you. I am deeply obliged to you.’

  At the end of a long silence, Hubert said, ‘Will you not come up-stairs, and let me read you the first act?’

  ‘I should like to, but I think it better not. If Emily heard that you had read me your play, she would not close her eyes to-night; it would be tears and misery all the night through.’

  XVI

  THE STUDY IN which he had determined to write his masterpiece had been fitted up with taste and care. The floor was covered with a rare Persian carpet, and the walls were lined with graceful bookcases of Chippendale design; the volumes, half morocco, calf, and the yellow paper of French novels, showed through the diamond panes. The writing-table stood in front of the window; like the bookcases, it was Chippendale, and on the dark mahogany the handsome silver inkstand seemed to invite literary composition. There was a scent of flowers in the room. Emily had filled a bowl of old china with some pale September roses. The curtains were made of a modern cretonne — their colour was similar to the bowl of roses; and the large couch on which Hubert lay was covered with the same material. On one wall there was a sea-piece by Courbet, and upon another a river landscape, with rosy-tinted evening sky, by Corot. The chimney-piece was set out with a large gilt timepiece, and candelabra in Dresden china. Hubert had bought these works of art on the occasion of his last visit to London, about two months ago.

  It was twelve o’clock. He had finished reading his second act, and the reading had been a bitter disappointment. The idea floated, pure and seductive, in his mind; but when he tried to reduce it to a precise shape upon paper, it seemed to escape in some vague, mysterious way. Enticingly, like a butterfly it fluttered before him; he followed like a child, eagerly — his brain set on the mazy flight. It led him through a country where all was promise of milk and honey. He followed, sure that the alluring spirit would soon choose a flower; then he would capture it. Often it seemed to settle. He approached with palpitating heart; but lo! when the net was withdrawn it was empty.

  A look of pain and perplexity came upon his face; he remembered the lodging at seven shillings a week in the Tottenham Court Road. He had suffered there; but it seemed to him that he was suffering more here. He had changed his surroundings, but he had not changed himself. Success and failure, despair and hope, joy and sorrow, lie within and not without us. His pain lay at his heart’s root; he could not pluck it forth, and its gratification seemed more than ever impossible. He changed his position on the couch. Suddenly his thoughts said, ‘Perhaps I am mistaken in the subject. Perhaps that is the reason. Perhaps there is no play to be extracted from it; perhaps it would be better to abandon it and choose another.’ For a few seconds he scanned the literary horizon of his mind. ‘No, no!’ he said bitterly, ‘this is the play I was born to write. No other subject is possible; I can think of nothing else. This is all I can feel or see.’ It was the second act that now defied his efforts. It had once seemed clear and of exquisite proportions; now no second act seemed possible: the subject did not seem to admit of a second act; and, clasping his forehead with his hands, he strove to think it out.

  Any distraction from the haunting pain, now become chronic, is welcome, and he answers with a glad ‘Come in!’ the knock at the door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs. Bentley, ‘for disturbing you, but I should like to know what fish you would like for your dinner — soles, turbot, or whiting? Immersed in literary problems as you are, I daresay these details are very prosaic; but I notice that later in the day — —’

  Hubert laughed. ‘I find such details far more agreeable than literature. I can do nothing with my play.’

  ‘Aren’t you getting on this morning?’

  ‘No, not very well.’

  ‘What do you think of turbot?’

  ‘I think turbot very nice. Emily likes turbot.’

  ‘Very well, then. I’ll order turbot.’

  As Mrs. Bentley was about to withdraw, she said, ‘I’m sorry you are not getting on. What stops you now? That second act?’

  ‘Come, you are not very busy. I’ll read you the act as it stands, and then tell you how I think it ought to be altered. Nothing helps me so much as to talk it over; not only does it clear up my ideas, but it gives me desire to write. My best work has always been done in that way.’

  ‘I really don’t think I can stay. If Emily heard that you had been reading your play to me — —’

  ‘I’m tired of hearing of what Emily thinks. I can put up with a good deal, and I know that it is my duty to show much forbearance; but there is a limit to all things!’ This was the first time Mrs. Bentley had seen him show either excitement or anger; she hardly knew him in this new aspect. In a moment the blonde calm of the Saxon had dropped from him, and some Celtic emphasis appeared in his speech. ‘This hysterical girl,’ he continued, ’is a sore burden. Tears about this, and sighs about that; fainting fits because I happen to take a chair next to yours. You may depend upon it our lives are already the constant gossip of the neighbourhood.’

  ‘I know it is very annoying; and I, I assure you, receive my share. Every look and word is misinterpreted. I must not stay here.’

  ‘You must not go! I really want you. I assure you that your opinion will be of value.’

  ‘But think of Emily. It will make her wretched if she hears of it. You do not know how it affects her
. The slightest thing! You hardly see anything; I see it all.’

  ‘But there is no sense in it; it is pure madness. I’m writing a play, trying to work out a most difficult problem, and am in want of an audience, and I ask you if you will be kind enough to let me read you the act, and you cannot listen to it because — because — yes, that’s just it — because!’

  ‘You do not know how she suffers. Let me go; spare her the pain.’

  ‘She is not the only one who suffers. Do you think that I don’t suffer? I’ve set my heart — my very life is set on this play. I must get through with it; they are all waiting for it. My enemies say I cannot write it, but I shall if you will help me.’

  “Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were clasped.”

  ‘Poor Emily’s heart is equally broken. Her life is equally set — —’ Mrs. Bentley did not finish. Hubert just caught the words. Their significance struck him; he looked questioningly into Mrs. Bentley’s eyes; then, pretending not to have understood, he begged her to remain. With the air of one who yields to a temptation, she came into the room. He felt strangely happy, and, drawing over an arm-chair for her, he threw himself on the couch. He noticed that she wore a loose white jacket, and once during the reading of the act he was conscious of a beautiful hand hanging over the rail of the chair. Sometimes, in an exciting passage, the hands were clasped. The black slippers and the slender black-stockinged ankles showed beneath the skirt; and when he raised his eyes from the manuscript, he saw the blonde face and hair, and the pale eyes were always fixed upon him. She listened with a keen and penetrating interest to his criticism of the act, agreeing with him generally, sometimes quietly contesting a point, and with some strange fascination drawing new and unexpected ideas from him; and in the intellectual warmth of her femininity his brain seemed to clear and his ideas took new shape.