by George Moore
I would not scold thee, Rhesos, but thou hast kept me waiting long at the door of the temple and seeking thee up and down the hillside, hearing appreciations of all sorts — of the temple and of myself, some saying that thou hast flattered me; and then there were malicious tongues who said thou wert envious. But Phidias — where is he? Rhesos asked. Doubtless in the temple, Timotheus answered. Then let the door stand ajar, Timotheus, for I would watch the master prowling round my statue, finding faults that nobody else would, and merits, too. So well do I know him that I can tell by his back whether he likes or dislikes. And the door being ajar, Rhesos beheld Phidias surrounded by young men hanging on his lightest word, whether of admonition or of praise. I thought, Timotheus, that the temple was forbidden to Aulis until Athens was satisfied. There are other doors, replied Timotheus, and doubtless a few drachmas given to the doorkeeper closed his ears to the accent of his country. Now he approaches them, said Rhesos, and invites their departure; in a few minutes we shall have them round this way. And as if in answer to his words the young coxcombs appeared, talking of the architecture of the temple, a few holding it to be worthy of the statue, the many wishing it were otherwise than as it was.
The pediment is not imposing, cried one. I would have had a wider and a grander approach, two flights of steps at least, said another; and in the discussion that it pleased them to hold, it came to Rhesos to hear that Phidias had challenged the legs of the Goddess, saying they needed scraping. A little filing around the knees, were cited as Phidias’s exact words, and the young men continued talking blatantly till Earine, who kept watch on Rhesos’s face, said: The sculptor of Aphrodite is within your hearing, sirs. My friend’s memory is better than mine, replied the first speaker, and what a file can remove is surely unimportant; and another, afraid lest he should be accused of telling tales behind Phidias’s back, sought to eliminate all danger by a little humour, saying: Phidias’s attention was withdrawn from the statue by Melissa’s search for her children. The children were with her in the temple, said Earine. How could she lose them? To pray better, replied the young man, they had hidden themselves behind a pillar. And for what were they praying? That their bummies might grow round and beautiful as Auntie’s and be shapen into marble by Uncle Rhesos!... A knocking was heard from within and Kebren came through the doorway; and when the cause of the merriment was explained to him he joined in the laughter, and to put an end to it bade the young men away to admire the groves. Nor Couldst thou, Rhesos, he added, have restrained thyself at the sight of the children hiding their faces for shame in their mother’s peplos. Already I am forgotten by thee, father, and by Earine, Rhesos answered. Melissa’s children interest you more than my statue, and rightly, since Phidias doth not approve of the knees. And the moment seeming to him propitious to consider the joints that the master had disparaged, he passed over the threshold, followed by Kebren and Earine.
The temple is not yet open to the people! Kebren cried back to Timotheus, and he waited for Rhesos to tell him whether he would work over the legs again, or accept them as they had come to him from the model. I would hear from Phidias himself, father, that the knees distract from the body and face; criticism that is of any avail should come from the lips of the master. Had I a file in my hands I could think better. I left a box of tools here last night — Yes, yes, Rhesos, I can give them to thee in a moment! cried Kebren, and bringing the tools out of a corner where he had hidden them, he added: I hope the file is not too rough. I must needs be alone with Earine, father; I would withdraw into thoughts and memories before I can decide to lay chisel or file against my marble. Kebren’s reverence for his son’s genius compelled obedience, and Rhesos walked to and fro trying to come to terms with himself; but he could not shape out his conduct exactly, and remembered instead how in the years gone by whilst walking in Athens with Alkamenes, and coming upon the statue of a young woman in which the legs were not as vivid as the torso, he had said: Sacrifices must needs be made for unity; in my imagination I see legs better than those I see with my eyes, but — He and Alkamenes had talked for a long while, asking if they should hold for evermore by Phidias’s dogma that unity comes before all else, and their talk returned to him as he considered his statue. Every age hath its own sculpture, he said to himself. Phidias is king among his marbles, and I must be master among mine, or else.... Awakening from his reverie his eyes fell upon Earine standing before him, and at the sight of her he began to speak his thoughts aloud, saying: She is the pattern that the Goddess chose to send me. I see nothing to alter, he continued, walking towards the door, nor anything to reproach me. My art is my own, and to-day I am free to follow the current of my soul. Father, open the door; enter, for I have things to tell thee.
Thou’rt well pleased with thy work? Kebren asked as he crossed the threshold. Well pleased indeed, Rhesos answered; finding nothing to change is a happy moment in a sculptor’s life. But Phidias’s admonitions must have let in some light that was not there before, said Kebren. Phidias is a great decorative sculptor, father, and must see and feel differently from me, and I would not be myself if I could find fault with the master or strive with him. My Aphrodite is as the Goddess wished herself to be in the temple. She sent me the pattern, and I have followed it. For a long time, said Earine, I was bidden by intimations to cross the strait, and at last obeyed without fear, believing myself to be possessed of a Goddess. Earine speaks well, said Kebren; she hath learnt speech from thy marbles, Rhesos, and her story will be told to-night by thee at the banquet. The banquet is for you all, Rhesos answered, but not for me; my work is my banquet. But the whole town, dear son, is coming to hear thee speak of sculpture; I foresee this day as the greatest day that Aulis hath ever known —— — Greater, Rhesos interjected, than the day the Greek fleet sailed for Troy? Yes, my son. For that we live in it? Rhesos asked. No, replied Kebren, and the men fell to wrangling about past and present.
How men come to wrangle at last, even father and son! Earine said to herself, and she found satisfaction in the marble, not looking beyond it. Of what now are they talking? — of the glories of Babylon and Thebes, drifting wide of the subject: the banquet that is to be held this evening. Ah, now they are back upon it, Rhesos failing to give the promise his father asks that he shall attend.... But I can see thee, son, brought in on a litter, thy head adorned with a wreath; and that is why, since thou wouldst tear every secret out of my heart, I would have thee find some reason in Phidias’s admonitions; thou canst answer them at the banquet. Thou wouldst have me tell the baker, the butcher, and the fishmonger, cried Rhesos, that the greatest sculptor who ever lived in the world judges my statue wrongly — father, for shame! Forgive me, he added; I speak hastily.
But I would be away on the sea with Earine, leaving thee and Thrasillos to explain sculpture to those who would hear it explained; and a greater speech than ever I should make will be spoken by thee, father. Earine, come forward and tell that we, who have voyaged all over the Greek world, have heard everywhere the speech spoken on yonder shore at the burning of Otanes praised and set above even the orations over the dead of Pericles. We have indeed, Earine answered; and it is not surprising that thou hast passed almost into legend, Kebren, though living hidden away in Aulis, for have we not heard all our lives that thou earnest to Aulis as a rhapsodist? I came to Aulis as a rhapsodist, truly, Earine; yet I remained as a merchant. But the rhapsodist is in thee still, cried Rhesos; he will rise up again at the banquet as he did at the funeral pyre. Ah, Rhesos, words are easily spoken in the silence of a temple, but it is difficult to speak them among men who may become enemies at any moment. How shall I praise thee to those who have begotten sons and daughters that have not fulfilled the hopes they inspired in childhood? For me to take thy place at the banquet would be to awaken jealousy in the heart of Milon, who on more occasions than one hath been poisoned against me. These poisonings are forgotten now, and thou wouldst not have me produce an asp from my tunic and watch it gliding down the table, snapping at the nearest
hands? To compare the asp with jealousy, father, is an old tale; speak not of it, but believe me that our intention is the same, though the means are different. I would see thee at table, Rhesos —— — I shall be away with Earine, father, sailing for Syracuse, watching the stars whilst thou art exercising thy great gift of speech to the enjoyment of Aulis. The Triton floats now in the Euripos, said Kebren; she looses for Syracuse at daybreak. Then write an order to the captain, father, bidding him loose at sunset. All this is decreed, Rhesos continued, the honour of a great speech going to thee, and to me the honour of a flight to Syracuse, whither many of our great men have gone already. Since it must be so, dear son, I will write. And having written the order to the captain of the Triton, Kebren begged Rhesos to consider once more if the wisest course for him to take was to absent himself from Aulis. Of a certainty it is, Rhesos answered. A year will give the folk a chance of studying the statue they have got for the temple. On my return I will mix with your rejoicings, and my laurels (if any remain after a year’s consideration), will be collected by me and worn. Come, Earine; a long walk across the valley awaits us. We cannot walk through the town —— — Sir, cried Timotheus from the doorway, the people will return to their homes if the temple be not opened to them. Then let them enter, Kebren replied. And following Rhesos and Earine through the western door, he stood on the steps of the temple, forgetful of all things except the twain as they hastened across the valley.
The Short Story Collections
St. Mary’s College, Oscott, a Catholic boarding school near Birmingham — where Moore began his education. By the summer of 1867 he was expelled, for (in his own words) ‘idleness and general worthlessness’ and he returned to Mayo.
Celibates
CONTENTS
MILDRED LAWSON.
JOHN NORTON
AGNES LAHENS.
INTRODUCTION.
LOOKING BACK OVER the twenty years since “Celibates” was first published I find that the George Moore of the earlier year is the George Moore of to-day. The novelist of 1895 and the novelist of 1915 are one and the same person. Each is really interested in himself; each is more concerned with how the world and its humanity appear to him than how they appear to the casual observer or how they may be in themselves. The writer is always expressing himself through the facts and personalities which have stirred his imagination to creative effort. George Moore has never been a reporter or a philosopher; he has always been an artist.
Now to say that the author of “Celibates” is always expressing himself does not at all mean that he is recording merely his private sensations, emotions, and moods. Egoist as he is, George Moore could not write his autobiography. He tried to do this lately in “Ave,” “Vale,” and “Salve,” and failed — failed captivatingly. He is always most himself when he is dealing with what is not himself — with skies and hills and ocean and gardens and men and women. Moore is a naturalist in the finest sense of that word. He deals with nature as the artist must deal with it if nature is to be understood and enjoyed. For Moore’s relationship with nature, and especially with human nature, is of that rare kind which is the experience of the very few — of those fine spirits endowed with the highest sympathy — a sympathy which is not a feeling with or for others but an actual union with others, a union which brings suffering as well as enjoyment. This is the artist’s burden of sorrow and it is also his privilege. It is because of it that every true work of art has in it also something of a religious influence — a binding power which unites the separated onlookers in an experience of a common emotion. If the artist have not this peculiar sympathy he can have no vision and will never be a creator; he will never show us or tell us the new and strange mysteries of life which nature is continually unfolding. The artist’s mission is to reveal to us the visions he alone has been vouchsafed to see, and to reveal them so that the revelation is a creation. The men and women he is introducing to us must be as real and as living to us as they are to him. That is what George Moore has done in “Celibates” and that is why I say he is an artist.
“Celibates” consists of three stories — two of women and one of a man. Mildred Lawson and John Norton are celibates by nature. Agnes Lahens is a celibate from environment and circumstance. Each of the three is utterly different from the other, and yet all are alike in that they are the products of a modern civilization. Mildred and John are without that compulsive force which is known as the sexual passion. If they have it at all, it has been diluted by tradition and so-called culture into a mere sensation. Agnes’s passion is an arrested one, so that what there is of it is easily diverted into an expression of religious aspiration.
Mildred Lawson would be called a born flirt. She is pretty, charming, and talented; but she is cold, unresponsive, selfish, and futile. She is also eminently respectable after the English middle-class manner. She has ambition, but she lacks the will-power to school herself and the determination to accomplish. She is rich in goods but very poor in goodness. She is often moved profoundly by beautiful thoughts and uplifting emotions of which she herself is the pleasing, pulsating centre; but her soul is negative, so that her spiritual states evaporate when the opportunity is given her for transforming them into acts. She never gets anywhere. She is self-conscious to a degree and unstable as water. After breaking one man’s heart and deadening the hearts of three other men, she finally accepts an old and rejected sweetheart, only to be torn by suspicions that he no longer cares for her and is marrying her only for her money. We leave her a prey to thoughts of a life which, unconsciously, she has brought on herself.
John Norton might be called the born monk. He is, however, but the male embodiment of that cultured selfishness of which Mildred Lawson is the female expression. He is not a flirt. He takes life too seriously to be that; but he takes it so seriously that there is only room in the world for himself alone. He comes of a fine old English stock, is rich, and is his own master. He treats his mother as a cold- blooded English gentleman, with Norton’s peculiar nature, would treat a mother — with polite but firm disregard of her claims. He has enough and to spare of will-power, but it is become degenerated into obstinacy. He fails because he wants too much, because he is unsocial at heart, and does not understand that life means giving as well as taking. His sexual passion finds expression in a religious fanaticism which is but the expression of utter selfishness, as all sexual passion is. In the company of Kitty he has moments of exaltation, when his degenerate passion scents the pure air of love; but he can never let himself go. When, on one occasion, he so far forgets himself as to allow his heart to be responsive to Kitty’s natural purity and he kisses her, he is so shocked at what he has done that he runs away and leaves the girl to a terrible fate. We leave him also a prey to thoughts of what he might have prevented. He, too, like Mildred Lawson, must henceforth face a life of his own unconscious making.
Agnes Lahens is the victim of a heartless, selfish society in which the abuse of love has made its world a desert and its products Dead Sea fruit. Out of a sheer impulse for self-protection she flies to the nunnery, which is ready to give her life at the price of her womanhood and her self-sacrifice.
As portraits, these of Mildred Lawson and John Norton are exquisitely finished. They are half-lengths, with a quality of coloring fascinating in its repelling truth. Every tint and shade have been cunningly and caressingly laid in, so that the features, living and animated, are yet filled with suggestions of the spiritual barrenness in the originals. Very human they are, and yet they are without those gracious qualities which link humanity with what we feel to be divine. There is the touch of nature here, but it is not the touch which makes the whole world kin. That touch we ourselves supply; and it speaks eloquently for Moore’s art that in picturing these unlovely beings he throws us back on our better selves. Beyond the vision of these celibates here revealed we see a passionate humanity, working, hating, sorrowing, and dying, yet always loving, and in loving finding its fullest life in an earthly salvation. True love i
s a mighty democrat. Knowing these “Celibates,” we welcome the more gladly those who, even if less gifted, are ready to walk with us, hand in hand, along the common human highway of the “pilgrim’s progress.”
TEMPLE SCOTT.
MILDRED LAWSON.
I.
THE TALL DOUBLE stocks were breathing heavily in the dark garden; the delicate sweetness of the syringa moved as if on tip-toe towards the windows; but it was the aching smell of lilies that kept Mildred awake.
As she tossed to and fro the recollections of the day turned and turned in her brain, ticking loudly, and she could see each event as distinctly as the figures on the dial of a great clock.
‘What a strange woman that Mrs. Fargus — her spectacles, her short hair, and that dreadful cap which she wore at the tennis party! It was impossible not to feel sorry for her, she did look so ridiculous. I wonder her husband allows her to make such a guy of herself. What a curious little man, his great cough and that foolish shouting manner; a good-natured, empty-headed little fellow. They are a funny couple! Harold knew her husband at Oxford; they were at the same college. She took honours at Oxford; that’s why she seemed out of place in a little town like Sutton. She is quite different from her husband; he couldn’t pass his examinations; he had been obliged to leave. … What made them marry?
‘I don’t know anything about Comte — I wish I did; it is so dreadful to be ignorant. I never felt my ignorance before, but that little woman does make me feel it, not that she intrudes her learning on any one; I wish she did, for I want to learn. I wish I could remember what she told me: that all knowledge passes through three states: the theological, the — the — metaphysical, and the scientific. We are religious when we are children, metaphysical when we are one-and- twenty, and as we get old we grow scientific. And I must not forget this, that what is true for the individual is true for the race. In the earliest ages man was religious (I wonder what our vicar would say if he heard this). In the Middle Ages man was metaphysical, and in these latter days he is growing scientific.
