by George Moore
“Is it not amazing that a woman who could think like that should be capable of flinging up her art — the art which I gave her — on account of the preaching of that wooden-headed Mostyn?” Sitting down suddenly he opened a drawer, and, taking out her photograph, he said: “Here she is as Leonore, but you should have seen her in the part. The photograph gives no idea whatever; you haven’t seen her picture. Come, let me show you her picture: one of the most beautiful pictures that —— ever painted; the most beautiful in the room, and there are many beautiful things in this room. Isn’t it extraordinary that a woman so beautiful, so gifted, so enchanting, so intended by life for life should be taken with the religious idea suddenly? She has gone mad without doubt. A woman who could do the things that she could do to pass over to religion, to scapulars, rosaries, indulgencies! My God! my God!” and he fell back in his armchair, and did not speak again for a long time. Getting up suddenly, he said, “If you want to smoke any more there are cigars on the table; I am going to bed.”
“Well, it is hard upon him,” Ulick said as he took a cigar; and lighting his candle, he wandered up the great green staircase by himself, seeking the room he had been given at the end of one of the long corridors.
XII
“DID IT EVER occur to you,” Owen said one evening, as the men sat smoking after dinner, after the servant had brought in the whisky and seltzer, between eleven and twelve, in that happy hour when the spirit descends and men and women sitting together are taken with a desire to communicate the incommunicable part of themselves— “did it ever occur to you,” Owen said, blowing the smoke and sipping his whisky and seltzer from time to time, “that man is the most ridiculous animal on the face of this earth?”
“You include women?” Ulick asked.
“No, certainly not; women are not nearly so ridiculous, because they are more instinctive, more like the animals which we call the lower animals in our absurd self-conceit. As I have often said, women have never invented a religion; they are untainted with that madness, and they are not moralists. They accept the religions men invent, and sometimes they become saints, and they accept our moralities — what can they do, poor darlings, but accept? But they are not interested in moralities, or in religions. How can they be? They are the substance out of which life comes, whereas we are but the spirit, the crazy spirit — the lunatic crying for the moon. Spirit and substance being dependent one on the other, concessions have to be made; the substance in want of the spirit acquiesces, says, ‘Very well, I will be religious and moral too.’ Then the spirit and the substance are married. The substance has been infected—”
“What makes you say all this, Asher?”
“Well, because I have just been thinking that perhaps my misfortunes can be traced back to myself. Perhaps it was I who infected Evelyn.”
“You?”
“Yes, I may have brought about a natural reaction. For years I was speaking against religion to her, trying to persuade her; whereas if I had let the matter alone it would have died of inanition, for she was not really a religious woman.”
“I see, I see,” Ulick answered thoughtfully.
“Had she met you in the beginning,” Owen continued, “she might have remained herself to the end; for you would have let her alone. Religion provokes me… I blaspheme; but you are indifferent, you are not interested. You are splendid, Ulick.”
A smile crossed Ulick’s lips, and Owen wondered what the cause of the smile might be, and would have asked, only he was too interested in his own thoughts; and the words, “I wonder you trouble about people’s beliefs” turned him back upon himself, and he continued:
“I have often wondered. Perhaps something happens to one early in life, and the mind takes a bias. My animosity to religion may have worn away some edge off her mind, don’t you see? The moral idea that one lover is all right, whereas any transgression means ruin to a woman, was never invented by her. It came from me; it is impossible she could have developed that moral idea from within — she was infected with it.”
“You think so?” Ulick replied thoughtfully, and took another cigar.
“Yes, if she had met you,” Owen continued, returning to his idea.
“But if she had met me in the beginning you wouldn’t have known her; and you wouldn’t consent to that so that she might be saved from Monsignor?”
“I’d make many sacrifices to save her from that nightmare of a man; but the surrender of one’s past is unthinkable. The future? Yes. But there is nothing to be done. We don’t know where she is. Her father said she would be in London at the end of the week; therefore she is in London now.” “If she didn’t change her mind.” “No, she never changes her mind about such things; any change of plans always annoyed her. So she is in London, and we do not know her address. Isn’t it strange? And yet we are more interested in her than in any other human being.”
“It would be easy to get her address; I suppose Innes would tell us. I shouldn’t mind going down to Dulwich if I were not so busy with this opera company. The number of people I have to see, five-and-twenty, thirty letters every day to be written — really I haven’t a minute. But you, Asher, don’t you think you might run down to Dulwich and interview the old gentleman? After all, you are the proper person. I am nobody in her life, only a friend of a few months, whereas she owes everything to you. It was you who discovered her — you who taught her, you whom she loved.”
“Yes, there is a great deal in what you say, Ulick, a great deal in what you say. I hadn’t thought of it in that light before. I suppose the lot does fall to me by right to go to the old gentleman and ask him. Before you came we were getting on very well, and he quite understood my position.”
Several days passed and no step was taken to find Evelyn’s address in London.
“If I were you, Asher, I would go down to-morrow, for I have been thinking over this matter, and the company of which I am the secretary of course cannot pay her what she used to get ten years ago, but I think my directors would be prepared to make her a very fair offer, and, after all, the great point would be to get her back to the stage.”
“I quite agree, Ulick, I quite agree.” “Very well, if you think so go to Dulwich.” “Yes, yes, I’ll go.” And Owen came back that evening, not with Evelyn’s address, but with the news that she was in London, living in a flat in Bayswater. “Think of that,” Owen said, “a flat in Bayswater after the house I gave her in Park Lane. Think of that! Devoted to poor people, arranging school treats, and making clothes.”
“So he wouldn’t give you her address?”
“When I asked him, he said, and not unreasonably, ‘If she wanted to see you she would write.’ What could I answer? And to leave a letter with him for her would serve no purpose; my letter would not interest her; it might remain unanswered. No, no, mine is the past; there is no future for me in her life. If anybody could do anything it is you. She likes you.”
“But, my good friend, I don’t know where she is, and you won’t find out.”
“Haven’t I been to see her father?”
“Oh, her father! A detective agency would give us her address within the next twenty-four hours, and the engagement must be filled up within a few weeks.”
“I can’t go to a detective agency and pay a man to track her out — no, not for anything.”
“Not even to save her from Monsignor?”
“Not even that. There are certain things that cannot be done. Let us say no more.”
A fortnight later Owen was reading in the corner by the window about five o’clock, waiting for Ulick to come home — he generally came in for a cup of tea — and hearing a latchkey in the door, he put down his book.
“Is Sir Owen in?”
“Sir Owen is in the study, sir.”
And Ulick came in somewhat hurriedly. There was a light in his eyes which told Owen that something had happened, something that would interest him, and nothing could interest him unless news of Evelyn.
“Have you seen h
er?” and Owen took off his spectacles.
“Yes,” Ulick answered, “I have seen her.”
“You met her?”
“Yes.”
“By accident?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ulick was too excited to sit down; he walked about the hearthrug in order to give more emphasis to his story.
“My hansom turned suddenly out of a large thoroughfare into some mean streets, and the neighbourhood seemed so sordid that I was just going to tell the driver to avoid such short cuts for the future when I caught sight of a tall figure in brown holland. To meet Evelyn in such a neighbourhood seemed very unlikely, but as the cab drew nearer I could not doubt that it was she. I put up my stick, but at that moment Evelyn turned into a doorway.”
“You knocked?”
Ulick nodded.
“What sort of place was it?”
“All noise and dirt; a lot of boys.”
“A school?”
“It seemed more like a factory. Evelyn came forward and said, ‘I will see you in half an hour, if you will wait for me at my flat,’ ‘But I don’t know the address,’ I said. She gave me the address, Ayrdale Mansions, and I went away in the cab; and after a good deal of driving we discovered Ayrdale Mansions, a huge block, all red brick and iron, a sort of model dwelling-houses, rather better.”
“Good Lord!”
“I went up a stone staircase.”
“No carpet?”
“No. Mérat opened the door to me. I told her I had met Miss Innes in a slum; she followed me into the drawing-room, saying, ‘One of these days Mademoiselle will bring back some horrid things with her.’”
“Good Lord! Tell me what her rooms were like?”
“The flat is better than you would expect to find in such a building. It is the staircase that makes the place look like a model dwelling-house. There is a drawing-room and a dining-room.”
“What kind of furniture has she in the drawing-room?”
“An oak settle in the middle of the room and—”
“That doesn’t sound very luxurious.”
“But there are photographs of pictures on the walls, Italian saints, the Renaissance, you know, Botticelli and Luini; her writing-table is near the window, and covered with papers; she evidently writes a great deal. Mérat tells me she spends her evenings writing there quite contented.”
“That will do about the room; now tell me about herself.”
“She came in looking very like herself.”
“Glad to see you?”
“I think she was. She didn’t seem to have any scruples about seeing me. Our meeting was pure accident, so she was not responsible.”
“Tell me, what did she look like?”
“Well, you know her appearance? She hasn’t grown stouter her hair hasn’t turned grey.”
“Yet she has changed?”
“Yes, she has changed; but — I don’t know exactly how to word it — an extraordinary goodness seems to have come into her face. It always seemed to me that a great deal of her charm was in the kindness which seemed to float about her and to look out of her eyes, and that look which you know, or which you don’t know—”
“I know it very well.”
“Well, that look is more apparent than ever. I noticed it especially as she leaned over the table looking at me.”
“I know, those quiet, kindly eyes, steady as marble. A woman’s eyes are more beautiful than a man’s because they are steadier. Yes, it is impossible to look into her eyes and not to love her; her thick hair drawn back loosely over the ears. There never was anybody so winsome as she. You know what I mean?”
“How he loves her!” Ulick said to himself; “how he loves her! All his life is reflected in his love of her.”
“Are you going to see her again?” Owen asked suddenly.
“Well, yes.”
“Did she raise no difficulties?”
“No.”
“You didn’t speak to her about your plans to induce her to accept the engagement?”
“Not yet.”
“Shall you?”
“I suppose so, but I cannot somehow imagine that she will ever go back to the stage. She said, having made money enough for the nuns, she had finished with the stage for ever, and was glad of it.”
“Once an idea gets into our minds we become the slaves of it, and her mind was always more like a man’s than a woman’s mind.”
This point was discussed, Ulick pretending not to understand Owen’s meaning in order to draw him into confidences.
“She has asked you to go to see her, so I suppose she likes you. I wish you well. Anything rather than Monsignor should get her. You have my best wishes.”
“What does he mean by saying I have his best wishes? Does he mean that he would prefer me to be her lover, if that would save her from religion? Would he use me as the cat uses the monkey to pull the chestnuts out of the fire, and then take them from me.” But he did not question Owen as to his meaning, and showed no surprise when a few days afterwards Owen came into the drawing-room, interrupting him in his work, saying:
“Have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten what?”
“Why, that you have an appointment with Evelyn.”
“So I have, so I have!” he said, laying down his pen. “And if I don’t hasten, I shall miss it.”
Owen took his hat, saying, “Your hat wants brushing; you mustn’t go to her with an unbrushed hat.”
Ulick ran away north, casting one glance back. Owen — would he sit in his study thinking of his lost happiness or would he try to forget it in some picture-dealer’s shop?
XIII
“HAS MR. DEAN come in?”
“No, Sir Owen.”
“What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Dinner is quite ready?”
“Quite ready, Sir Owen.”
“I don’t think there is any good in waiting. Something must have detained Mr. Dean.”
“Very well, Sir Owen.”
The butler left the room surprised, for if there was one thing that Sir Owen hated it was to dine by himself, yet Owen had not screamed out a single blasphemy, or even muttered a curse, and wondering at his master’s strange resignation, the butler crossed the hall, hoping Sir Owen’s health was not run down. He put the evening paper by Sir Owen, for there had been some important racing that day, and sometimes Sir Owen would talk quite affably. There were other times when he would not say a word, and this was one of them. He pushed the paper away, and went on eating, irritated by the sound of his knife and fork on his plate, the only sound in the dining-room, for the footmen went silently over the thick pile carpet, receiving their directions by a gesture from the great butler.
After dinner Owen had recourse to the evening paper, and he read it, and every other paper in his room, advertisements and all, asking himself what the devil had happened to Ulick. Some of his operatic friends must have asked him to dinner. A moment after it seemed to him that Ulick was treating his house like a hotel. “Damn him! he might have easily sent me a telegram.” At half-past ten the footman brought in the whisky, and Owen sat sipping his drink, smoking cigars, and wondering why Ulick had net come home for dinner; and the clock had struck half-past eleven before Ulick’s latchkey was heard in the door.
“I hope you didn’t wait dinner for me?”
“We waited a little while. Where have you been?”
“She asked me to stay to dinner.”
“Oh, she asked you to stay to dinner!” Such a simple explanation of Ulick’s absence Owen hadn’t thought of, and, reading his face, Ulick hastened to tell him that after dinner they had gone to a concert.
“Well, I suppose you were right to go with her; the concert must have been a great break in her life…. Sitting there all the evening, writing letters, trying to get situations for drunken men, girl mothers, philanthropy of every kind. How she must have enjoyed the concert! Tell me
about it; and tell me how she was dressed.”
Ulick had not remarked Evelyn’s dress very particularly, and Owen was angry with him for only being able to tell him that she wore a pale silk of a faint greenish colour.
“And her cloak?”
“Oh, her cloak was all right; it seemed warm enough.”
Owen wanted to know what jewellery she wore, and complained that she had sold all the jewellery he had given her for the nuns. Ulick was really sorry for him. Now, what did she think of the singing? To please him Ulick attributed all his criticism of the singers to Evelyn, and Owen said:
“Extraordinary, isn’t it? Did she say that she regretted leaving the stage? And what did she say about me?”
Ulick had been expecting this question.
“She hoped you were very well, and that you did not speak unkindly of her.”
“Speak unkindly of her!” and Owen’s thoughts seemed to fade away.
Cigar after cigar, drink after drink, until sleep settled in their eyes, and both went to bed too weary to think of her any more.
But next day Owen remembered that Ulick had not told him if he had driven Evelyn home after the concert, and the fact that he had not mentioned how they had parted was in itself suspicious; and he determined to question Ulick. But Ulick was seldom in Berkeley Square; he pleaded as his excuse business appointments; he had business appointments all over London; Owen listened to his explanations, and then they talked of other things. In this way Owen never learnt on what terms Evelyn and Ulick were: whether she wrote to him, whether they saw each other daily or occasionally. It was not natural to think that after a dinner and a concert their intimacy should cease as suddenly as it had begun. No doubt they dined together in restaurants, and they went to concerts. Every hour which he spent away from Berkeley Square he spent with her … possibly. To find out if this were true he would have to follow Ulick, and that he couldn’t do. He might question him? No, he couldn’t do that. And, sitting alone in his study in the evening, for Ulick had gone out after dinner, he asked himself if he could believe that Ulick was with the directors of the opera company. It was much more likely that he was in the Bayswater flat, trying to persuade Evelyn to return to the stage. So far he was doing good work, but the only means he had of persuading her was through her senses, by making love to her. Her senses had kindled for him once, why shouldn’t they kindle again? It would be a hard struggle between the flesh and the idea, the idea which urged her in one direction, and the flesh which drew her in another. Which would prevail? Ulick was young, and Owen knew how her senses flared up, how certain music set her senses on fire and certain literature. “All alone in that flat,” and the vision becoming suddenly intense he saw Ulick leading her to the piano, and heard the music, and saw her eyes lifted as she had lifted them many times to him — grey marble eyes, which would never soften for him again.
