by George Moore
‘I thought you had written the second act to your satisfaction. You said that after the talk we had that afternoon you wrote for three hours without stopping, and that you had never done better work.’
‘Yes, I wrote a great deal; but on reading it over I found that — I don’t mean to say that none of it will stand; some still seems to me to be all right, but a great deal will require alteration.’
The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence Hubert said —
‘What are you thinking of, dearest?’
‘I was thinking that supposing you were mistaken — if I failed to help you in your work.’
‘And I never succeeded in writing my play?’
‘No; I don’t mean that. Of course you will write your play; all you have to do is to be less critical.’
‘Yes, I know — I have heard that before; but, unfortunately, we cannot change ourselves. I’ll either carry my play through completely, realise my ideal, or — —’
‘Remain for ever unsatisfied?’
‘Whether I write it or no, I shall be happy in your love.’
‘Yes, yes; let us be happy.’
They looked at each other. He did not speak, but his thought said —
‘There is no happiness on earth for him who has not accomplished his task.’
‘Shall we be happy? I wonder. We have both suffered,’ she said, ‘we are both tired of suffering, and it is only right that we should be happy.’
‘Yes, we shall be happy, I will be happy. It shall be my pleasure to attend to you, to give you all your desire. But you said just now that you had suffered. I have told you my past. Tell me yours. I know nothing except that you were unhappily married.’
‘There is little else to know; a woman’s life is not adventurous, like a man’s. I have not known the excitement of “first nights,” nor the striving and the craving for an artistic ideal. My life has been essentially a woman’s life, — suppression of self and monotonous duty, varied by heart-breaking misfortune. I married when I was very young; before I had even begun to think about life I found —— But why distress these hours with painful memories?’
‘It is pleasant to look back on the troubles we have passed through.’
‘Well, I learnt in one year the meaning of three terrible words — poverty, neglect, and cruelty. In the second year of my marriage my husband died of drink, and I was left a widow at twenty, entirely penniless. I went to live with my sister, and she was so poor that I had to support myself by giving music-lessons. You think you know the meaning of poverty: you may; but you do not know what a young woman who wants to earn her bread honestly has to put up with, trudging through wet and cold, mile after mile, to give a lesson, paid for at the rate of one-and-sixpence or two shillings an hour.’
Julia took her eyes from her husband’s face, and looked dreamily into the fire. Then, raising her face from the flame, she looked around with the air of one seeking for some topic of conversation. At that moment she caught sight of the corner of a letter lying on the mantelpiece. Reaching forth her hand, she took it. It was addressed to her husband.
‘Here is a letter for you, Hubert.... Why, it comes from Ashwood. Yes, and it is in the hand-writing of one of the servants. Oh, it is Black’s writing! It may be about Emily. Something may have happened to her. Open it quickly.’
‘That is not probable. Nothing can have happened to her.’
‘Look and see. Be quick!’
Hubert opened the letter, and he had not read three lines when Julia’s face caught expression from his, which had become overcast.
‘It is bad news, I know. Something has happened. What is it? Don’t keep me waiting. The suspense is worse than the truth.’
‘It is very awful, Julia. Don’t give way.’
‘Tell me what it is. Is she dead?
‘Yes; she is dead.’ Julia got up from her husband’s knees and stood by the mantelpiece, leaning upon it. ‘It is more than mere death.’
‘What do you mean? She killed herself — is that it?’
‘Yes; she drowned herself the night before last in the lake.’
‘Oh, it is too horrible! Then we have murdered her. Our unpardonable selfishness! I cannot bear it!’ Her eyes closed and her lips trembled. Hubert caught her in his arms, laid her on the chair, and, fetching some water in a tumbler, sprinkled her face; then he held it to her lips; she drank a little, and revived. ‘I’m not going to faint. Tell me — tell me when the unfortunate child — —’
‘They don’t know exactly. She was in the drawing-room at tea-time, and the drawing-room was empty when Black went round three-quarters of an hour after to lock up. He thought she had gone to her room. It was the gardener who brought in the news in the morning about nine.’
‘Oh, good God!’
‘Black says he noticed that she looked very depressed the day before, but he thought she was looking better when he brought in the tea.’
‘It was then she got my letter. Does Black say anything about giving her a letter?’
‘Yes, that is to say — —’
‘I knew it! I knew it!’ said Julia; and her eyes were wild with grief, and she rocked herself to and fro. ‘It was that letter that drove her to it. It was most ill-advised. I told you so. You should have written. She would have borne the news better had it come from you. My instinct told me so, but I let myself be persuaded. I told you how it would happen. I told you. You can’t say I didn’t. Oh! why did you persuade me — why — why — why?’
‘Julia dear, we are not responsible. We were in nowise bound to sacrifice our happiness to her — —’
‘Don’t say a word! I say we were bound. Life can never be the same to me again.’
Hubert did not answer. Nothing he could say would be of the slightest avail, and he feared to say anything that might draw from her expressions which she would afterwards regret. He had never seen her moved like this, nor did he believe her capable of such agitation, and the contrast of her present with her usual demeanour made it the more impressive.
‘Oh,’ she said, leaning forward and looking at him fixedly, ‘take this nightmare off my brain, or I shall go mad! It isn’t true; it cannot be true. But — oh! yes, it’s true enough.’
‘Like you, Julia, I am overwhelmed; but we can do nothing.’
‘Do nothing!’ she cried; ‘do nothing! We can do nothing but pray for her — we who sacrificed her.’ And she slipped on her knees and burst into a passionate fit of weeping.
‘The best thing that could have happened,’ thought Hubert; and his thought said, clearly and precisely, ‘Yes; it is awful, shocking, cruel beyond measure!’
The fire was sinking, and he built it up quietly, ashamed of this proof of his regard for physical comfort, and hoping it would pass unnoticed. His pain expressed itself less vehemently than Julia’s; but for all that his mind ached. He remembered how he had taken everything from her — fortune, happiness, and now life itself. It was an appalling tragedy — one of those senseless cruelties which we find nature constantly inventing. A thought revealed an unexpected analogy between him and his victim. In both lives there had been a supreme desire, and both had failed. ‘Hers was the better part,’ he said bitterly. ‘Those whose souls are burdened with desire that may not be gratified had better fling the load aside. They are fools who carry it on to the end.... If it were not for Julia — —’
Then he sought to determine what were his exact feelings. He knew he was infinitely sorry for poor Emily; but he could not stir himself into a paroxysm of grief, and, ashamed of his inability to express his feelings, he looked at Julia, who still wept.
‘No doubt,’ he thought, ‘women have keener feelings than we have.’
At that moment Julia got up from her knees. She had brushed away her tears. Her face was shaken with grief.
‘My heart is breaking,’ she said. ‘This is too cruel — too cruel! And on my wedding night.’
Their eyes met; and, divining each other’s th
ought, each felt ashamed, and Julia said —
‘Oh, what am I saying? This dreadful selfishness, from which we cannot escape, that is with us even in such a moment as this! That poor child gone to her death, and yet amid it all we must think of ourselves.’
‘My dear Julia, we cannot escape from our human nature; but, for all that, our grief is sincere. We can do nothing. Do not grieve like that.’
‘And why not? She was my best friend. How have I repaid her? Alas! as woman always repays woman for kindness done. The old story. I cannot forgive myself. No, no! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. Leave me. I can see nothing but Emily’s reproachful face.’ She covered her face in her hands and sobbed again.
The same scenes repeated themselves over and over again. The same fits of passionate grief; the same moment of calm, when words impregnated with self dropped from their lips. The same nervous sense that something of the dead girl stood between them. And still they sat by the fire, weary with sorrow, recrimination, long regret, and pain. They could grieve no more; and before dawn sleep pressed upon their eyelids, and at the end of a long silence he dozed — a pale, transparent sleep, through which the realities of life appeared almost as plainly as before. Suddenly he awoke, and he shivered in the chill room. The fire was sinking; dawn divided the window-curtains. He looked at his wife. She seemed to him very beautiful as she slept, her face turned a little on one side, and again he asked himself if he loved her. Then, going to the window, he drew the curtains softly, so as not to awaken her; and as he stood watching a thin discoloured day breaking over the roofs, it again seemed to him that Emily’s suicide was the better part. ‘Those who do not perform their task in life are never happy.’ The words drilled themselves into his brain with relentless insistency. He felt a terrible emptiness within him which he could not fill. He looked at his wife and quailed a little at the thought that had suddenly come upon him. She was something like himself — that was why he had married her. We are attracted by what is like ourselves. Emily’s passion might have stirred him. Now he would have to settle down to live with Julia, and their similar natures would grow more and more like one another. Then, turning on his thoughts, he dismissed them. They were the morbid feverish fancies of an exceptional, of a terrible night. He opened the window quietly so as not to awaken his wife. And in the melancholy greyness of the dawn he looked down into the street and wondered what the end would be.
He did not think that he would live long. Disappointed men — those who have failed in their ambition — do not live to make old bones. There were men like him in every profession — the arts are crowded with them. He had met barristers and soldiers and clergy-men, just like himself. One hears of their deaths — failure of the heart’s action, paralysis of the brain, a hundred other medical causes — but the real cause is, lack of appreciation.
He would hang on for another few years, no doubt; during that time he must try to make his wife happy. His duty was now to be a good husband, at all events, there was that.
His wife lay asleep in the arm-chair, and fearing she might catch cold, he came into the room closing the window very gently behind him.
THE END
Esther Waters
1899 EDITION
Written in a Zola-like naturalistic style, this novel stands out among Moore’s publications as the book that enjoyed immediate success, including Gladstone’s approval of the novel in the Westminster Gazette, bringing the novelist financial security. Continuously revised by Moore (1899, 1917, 1920, 1931), it is often regarded as his best novel. The title character, Esther Waters, is a “fallen woman” – that is, a woman who was probably single and who had transgressed sexually by consent or otherwise and who more than likely had an illegitimate child as a result. Victorian commentators and charitable workers were willing to help fallen women that were “once fallen”, but a woman helped previously became “twice fallen” and was thought to be beyond help. Esther Waters, being “once fallen”, would be seen by the nineteenth-century reader as worthy of their empathy. The theme of the “fallen woman” was a popular one in Victorian culture; other novels using this theme include Adam Bede by George Eliot and Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell. Bearing in mind the preoccupation in Victorian Britain with this subject, it is little wonder that the novel was and is considered to be Moore’s most popular and successful work.
The well written scenes set in an equestrian racing yard are almost certainly inspired by Moore’s youth, growing up adjacent to his father’s racing yard in Ireland. The book is dedicated to T W Rolleston, fellow Irishman, supporter of traditional Irish crafts and publisher.
The narrative introduces nineteen year-old Esther Waters, as she embarks upon a new “position” at Woodview House, the home of the Barfield family, near London. Esther is a young woman of character – petite, almost plain, until she smiles, when her face becomes “as bright as the month… of June”; then her character and humour shine from her. She has great hopes of her new position as kitchen maid, this being the first time she has worked in a mansion with a hierarchy of servants. It is clearly a busy household, with a strong emphasis on horses and racing — and the associated gambling — and Esther soon begins to hear the “below stairs” gossip; but she never forgets her “perilous” position. She is terrified of being thrown out without a penny and also resents the teasing she receives due to her pious behaviour (she is a member of the Plymouth Brethren).
Esther is particularly sensitive over the fact that she cannot read or write, the result of having to forego school to help her invalid mother and it is to help her mother that she resolves to endure any and all insults, in order to receive wages she can send home. The one bright part of her life at Woodview is her mistress, Mrs Barfield, who is also a member of the Plymouth Brethren and so teaches her to read; she also enjoys the fun and company of the young men of the household, in particular, William Latch, a footman and the cook’s son.
One sunny afternoon, feeling reckless and carefree and believing herself much in love, Esther is seduced by Latch, but regrets it immediately; in her faith, she is now a fallen woman, sullied and sinful. Worse is to come – following William’s dalliance with Peggy, a member of the extended Barfield family and subsequent elopement, Esther finds out she is pregnant. Inevitably, she is dismissed, as Mrs Barfield does not want her bad example to influence the other female staff. With a heavy heart, the seven-month-pregnant Esther returns to London, unemployed. Having met with her family and uncouth step father again, Esther eventually goes into labour and has her baby at Queen Charlotte’s Hospital; whilst she is recovering from the birth, her sister visits and delivers her own devastating news that their mother has died during childbirth and the remaining family plans to emigrate.
Esther will be left entirely alone, a fallen woman, trying to rebuild her life with an illegitimate child to support. Worse still, she has given most of her remaining money to her sister to fund her emigration and now Esther and her baby must go to the workhouse, the ultimate shame for a single woman with an illegitimate child. Esther has vowed to give her baby boy, Jackie, every advantage in life as far as she is able, but how can a fallen woman, destined for the workhouse, do such a thing? Esther may be full of resolve, but her future looks bleak…
Esther Waters is a gripping narrative told with a clarity that is rare for the times; some of the descriptions are cinematic in their realism. In fact, oddments here and there actually read like directions in a film script, such as “Sarah and Grover entered the kitchen talking loudly”. It is important to place the story in the context of its times, otherwise some passages will irritate the modern reader — at one point Esther says of her seduction by Latch: “It is always a woman’s fault … But he should not have deserted me as he did, that’s the only thing I reproach him with, the rest was my fault — I shouldn’t have touched the second glass of ale.” Despite this, it is a wonderful window into the past; illustrating, for example, the worries women in the nineteenth century had regarding childbirth,
both for themselves and their baby. Esther’s mother encourages her daughter to buy some ready made baby clothes just in case the child is premature, but also suggests buying a length of cloth – either to make a spare set of clothes if she and the baby survive the birth, but to make a shroud if the child dies: ““You might take three yards, Esther; if anything should happen to yer bairn it will always come in useful.” Esther is an appealing character, drawn by Moore with empathy, but also realism – she is not a pretty girl, has a quick temper and has a will of steel, but still falls prey to her emotions when it comes to the opposite sex. Whether approached as historical commentary or a gripping and well told story, this is a must-read from Moore’s oeuvre.
The first edition
The first edition’s title page
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
XLIII
