by George Moore
PRINCESS. You will not be offended if I tell you the truth?
KING. No; my word on it.
PRINCESS. I could never have listened to your love.
KING (rising hastily). Am I then so ugly, so horrible, so vile, that even if your heart were not engaged elsewhere you could not have listened to me?
PRINCESS. You are neither horrible nor vile, King Cophetua; but again promise me secrecy, and I will tell you the whole truth.
KING. I promise.
PRINCESS. You are loved by a maiden far more beautiful than I; she is dying of love for your sake! She has suffered much for her love; she is suffering still.
KING. Who is this maiden?
PRINCESS. Ah! She is but a beggar-maid; she lives on charity, the songs she sings, and the flowers she sells in the streets. And now she is poorer than ever, for your royal mother has caused her to be driven out of the city.
Here the King weeps — he is supposed to be deeply touched by the Princess’s account of the wrongs done to the beggar-maid — and it is finally arranged between him and the Princess that they shall pretend to have come to some violent misunderstanding, and that, in their war of words, they shall insult each other’s parents so grossly that all possibilities of a marriage will be for ever at an end. Throwing aside a chair so as to bring the Queen within ear-shot, the King declares that his royal neighbour is an old dunce, and that there is not enough money in his treasury to pay the Court boot-maker; the Princess retaliates by saying that the royal mother of the crowned head she is addressing is an old cat, who paints her face and beats her maids-of-honour.
The play that up to this point had been considered a little tedious now engaged the attention of the audience, and when the Queen entered she was greeted with roars of laughter. The applause was deafening. Olive played her part better than had been expected, and all the white frocks trembled with excitement. The youths in the left-hand corner craned their heads forward so as not to lose a syllable of what was coming; the Bishop recrossed his legs in a manner that betokened his entire satisfaction; and, delighted, the mammas and papas whispered together. But the faces of the nuns betrayed the anxiety they felt. Inquiring glances passed beneath the black hoods; all the sleek faces grew alive and alarmed. May was now alone on the stage, and there was no saying what indiscretion she might not be guilty of.
The Reverend Mother, however, had anticipated the danger of the scene, and had sent round word to the nun in charge of the back of the stage to tell Miss Gould that she was to set the crown straight on her head, and to take her hands out of her pockets. The effect of receiving such instructions from the wings was that May forgot one-half her words, and spoke the other half so incorrectly that the passage Alice had counted on so much— ‘At last, thank Heaven, that tiresome trouble is over, and I am free to return to music and poetry’ — was rendered into nonsense, and the attention of the audience lost. Nor were matters set straight until a high soprano voice was heard singing:
‘Buy, buy, who will buy roses of me?
Roses to weave in your hair.
A penny, only a penny for three,
Roses a queen might wear!
Roses! I gathered them far away
In gardens, white and red.
Roses! Make presents of roses to-day
And help me to earn my bread.’
The King divined that this must be the ballad-singer — the beggar-maid who loved him, who, by some secret emissaries of the Queen, had been driven away from the city, homeless and outcast; and, snatching his lute from the wall, he sang a few plaintive verses in response. The strain was instantly taken up, and then, on the current of a plain religious melody, the two voices were united, and, as two perfumes, they seemed to blend and become one.
Alice would have preferred something less ethereal, for the exigencies of the situation demanded that the King should get out of the window and claim the hand of the beggar-maid in the public street. But the nun who had composed the music could not be brought to see this, and, after a comic scene between the Queen and the Chancellor, the King, followed by his Court and suite, entered, leading the beggar-maid by the hand. In a short speech he told how her sweetness, her devotion, and, above all, her beautiful voice, had won his heart, and that he intended to make her his Queen. A back cloth went up, and it disclosed a double throne, and as the young bride ascended the steps to take her place by the side of her royal husband, a joyful chorus was sung, in which allusion was made to a long reign and happy days.
Everyone was enchanted but Alice, who had wished to show how a man, in the trouble and bitterness of life, must yearn for the consoling sympathy of a woman, and how he may find the dove his heart is sighing for in the lowliest bracken; and, having found her, and having recognized that she is the one, he should place her in his bosom, confident that her plumes are as fair and immaculate as those that glitter in the sunlight about the steps and terraces of the palace. Instead of this, she had seen a King who seemed to regard life as a sensual gratification; and a beggar-maid, who looked upon her lover, not timidly, as a new-born flower upon the sun, but as a clever huckstress at a customer who had bought her goods at her valuing. But the audience did not see below the surface, and, in answer to clapping of hands and cries of Encore, the curtain was raised once more, and King Cophetua, seated on his throne by the side of his beggar-maid, was shown to them again.
The excitement did not begin to calm until the tableaux vivants were ready. For, notwithstanding the worldliness of the day, it was thought that Heaven should not be forgotten. The convent being that of the Holy Child, something illustrative of the birth of Christ naturally suggested itself. No more touching or edifying subject than that of the Annunciation could be found. Violet’s thin, elegant face seemed representative of an intelligent virginity, and in a long, white dress she knelt at the prie-dieu. Olive, with a pair of wings obtained from the local theatre, and her hair, blonde as an August harvesting, lying along her back, took the part of the Angel. She wore a star on her forehead, and after an interval that allowed the company to recover their composure, and the carpenter to prepare the stage, the curtain was again raised. This time the scene was a stable. At the back, in the right-hand corner, there was a manger to which was attached a stuffed donkey; Violet sat on a low stool and held the new-born Divinity in her arms; May, who for the part of Joseph had been permitted to wear a false beard, held a staff, and tried to assume the facial expression of a man who had just been blessed with a son. In the foreground knelt the three wise men from the East; with outstretched hands they held forth their offerings of frankincense and myrrh. The picture of the world’s Redemption was depicted with such taste that a murmur of pious admiration sighed throughout the hall.
Soon after a distribution of prizes began, and when the different awards had been distributed, and the Bishop had made a speech, there was benediction in the convent-church.
III
‘AND TO THINK,’ said Alice, ‘that this is the very last evening we shall ever pass here!’
‘I don’t see why you should be so very sorry for that,’ replied May; ‘I should have thought that you must have had enough of the place. Why, you have been here nearly ten years! I never would have consented to remain so long as that.’
‘I didn’t mind; we have been very happy here, and to say good-bye, and for ever, to friends we have known so long, and who have been so good to us, seems very sad — at least, it does to me.’
‘It is all very well for you,’ said Olive; ‘I dare say you have been happy here, you have always been the petted and spoilt child of the school. Nothing was ever too good for Alice; no matter who was wrong or what was done, Alice was sure to be right.’
‘I never knew anyone so unreasonable,’ said Cecilia. ‘You grumble at everything, and you are always dying of jealousy of your sister.’
‘That’s not true, and you haven’t much to talk of; after beating your brains out you only just got the prize for composition. Besides, if you lik
e the convent as much as I dare say you do, although you aren’t a Catholic, you had better stop here with my sister.’
‘Oh, Olive! how can you speak to Cecilia in that horrid way? I am ashamed of you.’
‘So you are going to turn against me, Alice; but that’s your way. I shan’t stay here.’
The retreating figure of the young girl stood out in beautiful distinctness in the pale light; behind her the soft evening swept the sea, effacing with azure the brown sails of the fishing-boats; in front of her the dresses of the girls flitted white through the sombre green of the garden.
‘I am sorry,’ said Cecilia, ‘you spoke to her. She is put out because she didn’t get a prize, and Sister Agnes told her that she nearly spoilt the play by the stupid way she played the Princess.’
‘She will find that that temper of hers will stand in her way if she doesn’t learn to control it,’ Violet said; ‘but, now she is gone, tell me, Alice, how do you think she played her part? As far as I can judge she didn’t seem to put any life into it. You meant the Princess to be a sharp, cunning woman of the world, didn’t you?’
‘No, not exactly; but I agree with you that Olive didn’t put life into it.’
‘Well, anyhow, the play was a great success, and you got, dear Alice, the handsomest prize that has ever been given in the school.’
‘And how do you think I did the King? Did I make him look like a man? I tried to walk just as Fred Scully does when he goes down to the stables.’
‘You did the part very well, May; but I think I should like him to have been more sentimental.’
‘I don’t think men are sentimental — at least, not as you think they are. I tried to copy Fred Scully.’
‘My part was a mere nothing. You must write me a something, Alice, one of these days — a coquettish girl, you know, who could twist a man round her fingers. A lot of bavardage in it.’
‘I suppose you’ll never be able to speak English again, now you’ve got the prize for French conversation.’
‘Sour grapes! You would like to have got it yourself. I worked hard for it. I was determined to get it, for ma says it is of great advantage in society for a girl to speak French well.’
‘Jealous! I should like to know why I should be jealous. Of what? I got all I tried for. Besides, the truth about your French prize is that you may consider yourself very fortunate, for if’ (she mentioned the name of one of her schoolfellows) ‘hadn’t been so shy and timid, you’d have come off second best.’
The rudeness of this retort drew a sharp answer from Violet; and then, in turn, but more often simultaneously, the girls discussed the justice of the distribution. The names of an infinite number of girls were mentioned; but when, in the babbling flow of convent-gossip, a favourite nun was spoken of, one of the chatterers would sigh, and for a moment be silent.
The violet waters of the bay had darkened, and, like the separating banners of a homeward-moving procession, the colours of the sky went east and west. The girdle of rubies had melted, had become the pale red lining of a falling mantle; the large spaces of gold grew dim; orange and yellow streamers blended; lilac and blue pennons faded to deep greys; dark hoods and dark veils were drawn closer; purple was gathered like garments about the loins; the night fell, and the sky, now decorated with a crescent moon and a few stars, was filled with stillness and adoration. The day’s death was exquisite, even human; and as she gazed on the beautiful corpse lowered amid the fumes of a thousand censers into an under-world, even Violet’s egotism began to dream.
‘The evening is lovely. I am glad; it is the last we shall pass here,’ said the girl pensively, ‘and all good-byes are sad.’
‘Yes, we have been happy,’ said May, ‘and I too am sorry to leave; but then we couldn’t spend our lives here. There are plenty of things to be done at home; and I suppose we shall all get married one of these days? And there will be balls and parties before we get married. I don’t think that I’d care to get married all at once. Would you, Violet?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps not, unless it was to someone very grand indeed.’
‘Oh, would you do that? I don’t think I could marry a man unless I loved him,’ said May.
‘Yes, but you might love someone who was very grand as well as someone who wasn’t.’
‘That’s true enough; but then—’ and May stopped, striving to readjust her ideas, which Violet’s remark had suddenly disarranged. After a pause she said:
‘But does your mother intend to bring you to Dublin for the season? Are you going to be presented this year?’
‘I hope so. Mamma said I should be, last vacation.’
‘I shall take good care that I am. The best part of the hunting will be over, and I wouldn’t miss the Castle balls for anything. Do you like officers?’
The crudity of the question startled Alice, and it was with difficulty she answered she didn’t know — that she had not thought about the matter.
May and Violet continued the conversation; and over the lingering waste of yellow, all that remained to tell where the sun had set, the night fell like a heavy, blinding dust, sadly and regretfully, as the last handful of earth thrown upon a young girl’s grave.
IV
IN THE TINY cornfields the reapers rose from their work to watch the carriage. Mr. Barton commented on the disturbed state of the country. Olive asked if Mr. Parnell was good-looking. A railway-bridge was passed and a pine-wood aglow with the sunset, and a footman stepped down from the box to open a swinging iron gate.
This was Brookfield. Sheep grazed on the lawn, at the end of which, beneath some chestnut-trees, was the house. It had been built by the late Mr. Barton out of a farmhouse, but the present man, having travelled in Italy and been attracted by the picturesque, had built a verandah; and for the same reason had insisted on calling his daughter Olive.
‘Oh there, mamma!’ cried Olive, looking out of the carriage window; and the two girls watched their mother, a pretty woman of forty, coming across the greensward to meet them.
She moved over the greensward in a skirt that seemed a little too long — a black silk skirt trimmed with jet. As she came forward her daughters noticed that their mother dyed her hair in places where it might be suspected of turning grey. It was parted in the middle and she wore it drawn back over her ears and slightly puffed on either side in accordance with the fashion that had come in with the Empress Eugenie. Even in a photograph she was like a last-century beauty sketched by Romney in pastel — brown, languid, almond-shaped eyes, a thin figure a little bent. Even in youth it had probably resembled Alice’s rather than Olive’s, but neither had inherited her mother’s hands — the most beautiful hands ever seen — and while they trifled with the newly bought foulards a warbling voice inquired if Olive was sure she was not tired.
‘Five hours in the train! And you, Alice? You must be starving, my dear, and I’m afraid the saffron buns are cold. Milord brought us over such a large packet to-day. We must have some heated up. They won’t be a minute.’
‘Oh, mamma, I assure you I am not in the least hungry!’ cried Olive.
‘La beauté n’a jamais faim, elle se nourrit d’elle même,’ replied Lord Dungory, who had just returned from the pleasure-ground whither he had gone for a little walk with Arthur.
‘You will find Milord the same as ever — toujours galant; always thinking of la beauté, et les femmes.’
Lord Dungory was the kind of man that is often seen with the Mrs. Barton type of woman. An elderly beau verging on the sixties, who, like Mrs. Barton, suggested a period. His period was very early Victorian, but he no longer wore a silk hat in the country. A high silk hat in Galway would have called attention to his age, so the difficulty of costume was ingeniously compromised by a tall felt, a cross between a pot and a chimney-pot. For collars, a balance had been struck between the jaw-scrapers of old time and the nearest modern equivalent; and in the tying of the large cravat there was a reminiscence, but nothing more, of the past generation.
He had modelled himself, consciously or unconsciously, on Lord Palmerston, and in the course of conversation one gathered that he was on terms of intimacy with the chiefs of the Liberal party, such as Lord Granville and Lord Hartington, and if the listener was credited with any erudition, allusion was made to the most celebrated artists and authors, and to their works. There was a celebrated Boucher in Dungory Castle, which Milord, it was hinted, had bought for some very small sum many years ago on the Continent; there was also a cabinet by Buhl and a statue supposed to be a Jean Gougon, and the proofs of their authenticity were sometimes spoken of after a set dinner-party. His speech was urbane, and, on all questions of taste, Lord Dungory’s opinion was eagerly sought for. He gave a tone to the ideas put forward in the surrounding country houses, and it was through him that Mr. Barton held the title of a genius born out of due time. If Arthur, he said, had lived two centuries ago, when the gift of imagination was considered indispensable in the artist, he would have achieved high distinction. His subjects — The Bridal of Triermain and Julius Cæsar overturning the Altars of the Druids — would have been envied, perhaps stolen, by the Venetian painters. And this tribute to Arthur’s genius, so generously expressed, enabled him to maintain the amenities of his life at Brookfield. He never forgot to knock at Arthur’s studio-door, and the moment his eyes fell on a new composition, he spoke of it with respect; and he never failed to allude to it at lunch. He lunched at Brookfield every day. At half-past one his carriage was at the door. In the afternoons he went out to drive with Mrs. Barton or sat in the drawing-room with her. Four times in the week he remained to dinner, and did not return home until close on midnight.
Whether he ever made any return to Mrs. Barton for her hospitalities, and, if so, in what form he repaid his obligations to her, was, when friends drew together, a favourite topic of conversation in the county of Galway. It had been remarked that the Bartons never dined at Dungory Castle except on state occasions; and it was well-known that the Ladies Cullen hated Mrs. Barton with a hatred as venomous as the poison hid in the fangs of adders.
