Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  MY DEAR PERCY, — It was like you to write at once, as soon as the news reached you, and it was like me to have forgotten to send you a letter when I wrote to your father. I remembered you on my way to the post, as I stood under some soughing pine trees that afforded very insufficient shelter from sudden and drenching rains. I thought of writing something on a scrap in the post office, but my thoughts were frozen as well as my hands, so I postponed writing. And then your dear letter came congratulating me on my engagement to Beatrice, who is now in London with her aunt, Mrs. Ellwood. I lunched with them yesterday, but they ran away immediately after the meal, telling of many appointments, and I could not get five minutes alone with Beatrice to ask her to help me with a difficult passage in Ferabras. She told me to leave it, and said she would try to send me a translation of it, which was well, for had it not been for her appointments with milliners and dressmakers we might have spent the whole afternoon over it, and I should have missed seeing my lawyers. The legal business is tedious, but I can manage that better than I can the buying of Beatrice’s wedding presents, for I have no eye for jewelry; and whilst overlooking strings of pearls and brooches, all of which seem to me alike, none inspiring either liking or aversion, I think of you, who would be able to discriminate at once. I wish you were with me to choose Beatrice’s presents, for I should not like her to be disappointed — I was going to write: in my taste, but that is the difficulty; I have no taste in jewelry; in drawing, in literature, perhaps, but in jewelry none. If two necklaces were to drop from the moon of different kinds and sorts, such as were never seen on earth before, you would be able to say: — This is good, the other merely cheap rubbish. But I cannot discriminate. Buying things the beauty and worth of which you have no sort of opinion is very unsatisfactory, and I return home afraid of my mother’s disapproval. She disapproves often but never gives her advice, and I say: Very well, mother, come up to London and choose the presents yourself; she will not do that, however, and so I flee from her to the Barn, and forget the present in memories of the days we spent wandering on foot through Wales, stopping at different inns. You remember the day we bought the partridges from the poacher and you cannot have forgotten the blow you received in that strange kitchen, and how in the middle of the riot the woman asleep by the fireplace woke up and told us the story of her dead son, everybody, poachers and gamekeepers alike, falling on their knees to pray. The blow you received was severer than you thought for, but you tramped on bravely and we reached St. David’s at last, laid aside our knapsacks in the inn and wandered down the steep street to see the violet Cathedral under the sunset. I wonder if those days are fixed in your memory as they are in mine: the mornings we spent among the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace, that was unroofed by Bishop Barlow to give wedding portions to his daughters, who married five Bishops. How we laughed! Do you remember the ladies who were painting, one of them painting very well? She came over and admired your drawing. What were her words — that no one ever had drawn a mullioned doorway before as you did, making the ruins live again, exhibiting them in new and unexpected aspects. She was a clever woman to recognise the merits of your fanciful yet truthful pencil. After the ruins my memories go to the day that we walked across the high uplands burnt by the sea winds and climbed over stone walls, into hollows and out of them, till at last we came to a great gulf in which two boats lay, white specks below us, and we waited for the tide to come up and float them. The island, too, how wonderful it was in its solitudes, the Sound dividing us from a noisy civilization. And you remember our talks in the summer nights, for the days of September were still summer, in the hollow where we slept amid the ferns. Those were days of great fun, Percy; cooking our meals in the abandoned bungalow and fishing for them round the western coast of the island. You have not forgotten the day we explored the caves and brought back the poor little seal that cried so bitterly and was taken home by the bull and the cow that followed our boat, knowing the youngling was on board. I wonder if they were angry with us for borrowing him? We shall never know, for they said nothing, but were glad to take him home again, that was apparent. The long walk, too, Percy, when I told you the story of Ferabras, the story setting us talking of a dozen different things at the inn till we could hardly keep our eyes open and nearly fell asleep in our chairs. We spoke, I remember, of marriage, and rather contemptuously, myself saying that I always thought of a married man walking after his wife, carrying her shawl and parasol, a ridiculous spectacle. How we laughed!

  I remember you charging me with a lack of sentimentality, and my answer: I am sentimental as another, but not about women. We dream our lives, but Nature makes them. If anybody had whispered to me as I lay down in bed: Thou’lt be married before the next year has well begun, I should have laughed. Yet it has come to pass, and I am glad, for is it not true that whosover has not a vocation for art, like a priest for religion, shall accept the world as it is? Not believing myself to be an artist, as you are, I do not feel justified in withholding myself from the natural life of marriage. I might have done so if I hadn’t met Beatrice, but I was fortunate enough to meet her, the only woman that I could have married, of that I am sure; and it is a great relief to me to know that on that one point at least there is certainty. As her husband I shall be able to help art indirectly, and every artist requires help; without patrons there can be no art. I shall be your patron, Percy — your translator to begin with and then your publisher. Beatrice and I will, when we come back from our honeymoon, apply ourselves to the happy task of finishing our translation of Ferabras. She is as much interested in your genius as I am, so everything is for the best. We shall meet in the Oratory next week. Good-bye. — Your affectionate friend,

  HUGH.

  XII

  After the wedding Mrs. Monfert returned to her hotel, her thoughts turning to prayer, for all she had striven for, hoped for, dreamed of, had come to pass. If she had had all the women in the world to choose from, she thought, she would have chosen Beatrice as the wife for her son, the one who was most likely to lead Hugh out of the idle habits that he had seemed unable to shake off since the rebuilding of Wotton Hall; and she congratulated herself that these long morning dalliances with the Middle Ages, his collection of armour, his sculpture, Greek and mediaeval, would come to an end naturally, Beatrice bringing into his life love of children, and with the coming of children his thoughts would turn to the administration of his estates, to assuming the position in the county to which he was entitled (he was not even a Deputy Lieutenant.) Beatrice might like him to enter Parliament! A son begins to resent his mother’s influence after a time, and if she be a wise mother she surrenders the son to the wife, which she would do, leaving them to Wotton Hall. She was glad that Beatrice approved of the rebuilding and the furnishing, for after all the years she had spent saving money to rebuild it and to furnish it, to hear that it was not to the taste of the owner, indeed that it was in contradiction to all his ideas, that he would have much preferred a mediaeval castle to live in, was disheartening. But those were the ideas of a boy and would disappear. Beatrice must have a bedroom to sleep in — she couldn’t sleep in a turret; where there are children there must be a nursery, and where there are ladies there must be drawing-rooms. Very soon her work would begin to be appreciated, and she began to think of the little triumph that would await her when she came to spend a few weeks with her daughter-in-law. Hugh’s thoughts would be different then and he would sneer no longer, perhaps even admire the console tables and the Auhusson carpets. But why was she finding fault with her son? God had given her a very good one, and in return for what God had given her she had tried hard to bring him up in the love and the fear of God. And of his love of God there was no doubt; he was firm in his religion, and she recalled instances of his anxiety to arrive in time for Mass, not to lose a minute of it. He went to confession every week and to holy communion, and his piety was her reward. Everybody has troubles and she had had hers, but it was her recompense never to have heard an evil story about him.
At Stanislaus College the boys were well watched, but nothing had reached her ears, and when he returned to her in the vacations she had never seen him looking after the maidservants, had never had to send one away because she was pretty. All the same, it was strange that he had never shown any interest in the women who came to Wotton Hall; she had not known him care to speak to any woman before he met Beatrice. Indeed, it had seemed that women could inspire no thought in him but rather — She paused before the word aversion, not wishing to pry into her son’s life; but Beatrice’s words: He kissed me as he might — well, as he might have kissed you, Mrs. Monfert, returned to her, and she said: — We both suspect him. Once a man is married, however, his whole nature changes, she thought, and full of hope for his future she fell asleep, awaking next morning with hardly any faint remembrance in her mind of the fears of the night, yet they had been many.

  At twelve o’clock she received a telegram saying they had arrived safely at Calais, where they would remain for two or three days, Hugh wishing to see the Cathedral. Wishing to see the Cathedral! she repeated, perplexed and suspicious, for it seemed to her that Hugh should be thinking of his wife rather than of cathedrals. There is a time for everything, she muttered, and fell to thinking; judged by the light of her reason her doubts were absurd and were laid aside, and she had begun to hope for the best when she was disturbed next morning by another telegram. Now what can have happened? she said, tearing open the yellow envelope: Come over to Calais by the midday boat, your presence urgently needed. My presence urgently needed! she cried. What can this mean? The journey in the train and in the boat passed in vain conjectures; for nothing she could think of would Hugh have telegraphed for her to come to Calais, and it seemed to her heartless that she did not find him waiting to meet the boat. Why not have saved me five minutes of anxiety? And she was crying: — It is heart less! when she caught sight of him waiting for her on the steps of the hotel.

  What has happened, Hugh? My dear mother, you will find Beatrice in room twenty-six, and I’d prefer that you went to her at once. There are things that cannot be spoken of between mother and son; the lift is waiting; and terrified by these words Mrs. Monfert passed into the lift. Number twenty-six, she cried to a housemaid, who led her down a passage and before knocking at the door asked whom she should announce. There’s no need to announce me; I am Mrs. Monfert. My dear Beatrice, what is the matter? she cried, and shut the door behind her. Hugh has sent me to you. I got a telegram from him early this morning in time to catch the boat train. He was on the hotel steps waiting for me and he sent me up here to you. Has he told you, Beatrice began — No, nothing. Beatrice raised herself up in bed and sat looking at Mrs. Monfert. My dear girl, there are tears in your eyes. What is it? Confide in me. I have come to help you. You can’t help me; he doesn’t love me, he doesn’t, he doesn’t. But you have only been married two days! And to win the girl out of her grief she began to speak of the alarm Hugh’s telegram had caused. To bring me over here for a quarrel that will be settled to-morrow or the day after — There’s no quarrel to settle, the girl said, and fell to weeping; nothing, nothing. It would be better that it should never be spoken of. But Hugh is greatly concerned, Beatrice; he was waiting for me at the door of the hotel and begged of me to come to you at once. He is, I assure you, greatly concerned. If he were greatly concerned about me, Beatrice answered, he would not have left me as he has done. But he said he thought you could explain things to me better than he could, and I came upstairs. You can do nothing, Mrs. Monfert, nothing. But if you’ll tell me everything, Beatrice, I may be able to help. No, you cannot; there’s no help anywhere. He doesn’t love me; my marriage was a mistake. Oh, Beatrice, Beatrice, you have been married but two days! It was he who told me, Mrs. Monfert, that the marriage was a mistake, and that he was no fit husband for me. But, Beatrice, you were only married the day before yesterday! Beatrice did not answer, and it was a long time before Mrs. Monfert could get another word from her. The spectacle of the distraught girl was almost unendurable, but she could not do else than persevere. You must take courage, Beatrice, and tell me what has happened. Beatrice, darling, I have come to help you. Mrs. Monfert, there is no help for me. The words were spoken in a more tranquil voice, and every moment Mrs. Monfert hoped that the needed words would come. But they were long in coming, and at last they came unexpectedly. Oh, mother — May I call you mother? I lost mine long ago.

  Yes, Beatrice, I am your mother. Think of me as your mother, and tell me what has happened. On these words she put her arm round the girl and raised her up in bed. Come, Beatrice, tell me. I can only tell you the facts, mother. The facts will be a great help; we will try to understand afterwards. Begin at the beginning.

  We had a very bad crossing and were so ill and tired when we arrived that I didn’t expect Hugh to come to my room. And did he? Mrs. Monfert asked. No; I thought he might have come to say good-morning, but he sent up word to ask if I’d like to lie in bed a little longer and have my breakfast upstairs, and I sent him word that I’d be down very soon. After breakfast we went to see the Cathedral. We returned to the hotel for luncheon, and went for a drive, seeing all that there was to be seen in Calais. He seemed preoccupied and nervous — But all men are nervous during the first weeks of their marriage. Beatrice’s eyes left Mrs. Monfert almost without hope. We dined together and sat up talking till he said: Beatrice, you look tired; you had better go to bed. I went to my room and waited for him to come, and presently the door opened. He hesitated for a moment on the threshold and asked if he might lie down beside me, and I said: Of course, are you not my husband? But when he took me in his arms a change came over him and he almost put me away; and then he spoke a few words, saying he would see me in the morning. Oh, I can’t go over it again, I can’t go over it again. But, dearest, you must. It’s the only way. There’s no way, dear mother, only through the Pope. He said I must get a nullity. A nullity, repeated Mrs. Monfert, after two days of marriage! He must be mad. No, he is not mad, nor even unkind. There’s something behind all this, mother, that I don’t understand, though you may; and if you do, I beg of you to tell me. When did he tell you that you must get a nullity — last night? No, this morning. He came to my room and said he was afraid he had done me a great wrong, involuntarily, of course. He spoke of a mistake — but in what was he mistaken? I am the same as I was always. I haven’t got leprosy, there’s nothing wrong with me. I am the woman he expected to find. Beatrice, darling, go on telling me the story just as it happened. He said he could never be any woman’s husband. What does that mean, mother? That he hates all women? I cannot tell you, Beatrice, but go on; repeat every word that he said and then perhaps I will be able to help you. He said that it would be easy for me to get a nullity and that he’d do everything in his power to help me to get one. I think he said he could love me as a sister but not as a wife. I asked him to tell me why — if there was any other woman be liked better, and he smiled, a little bitter smile, and told me he had sent you a telegram and that you’d be here presently and might be able to explain. But why should you be able to explain better than he? After all, he is my husband. And you love him, Beatrice? Yes, I do, mother; it was for no other reason that I married him. But the meaning of all this — what is it, what is it? Such a thing never happened to any woman before. I’ve heard of many marriages that went wrong afterwards, but never on the marriage night. Such a thing never happened before and never will again. And she continued in this strain till her nerves gave way, and hiding her face in the pillow she began to weep, so passionately that she was shaken, and so painfully that Mrs. Monfert was afraid something would break in her and her heart might give way. But at the word doctor, Beatrice said: — No, no; send for no doctor. It isn’t a thing of the body, it’s a thing of the mind.

  For one moment it seemed to Mrs. Monfert that she hated her son, and looking at the stricken girl she asked herself how it was that it befell her to bring such a man into the world; and then the sense of motherhood awaking in her, she
said: I have not heard his story. She rang the bell, and the order she gave was that the waiter should go downstairs and enquire for Mr. Monfert, and say that Mrs. Monfert, his mother, wished to speak to him. But the answer the waiter returned with was that Mr. Monfert had left the hotel. Left the hotel! Mrs.

  Monfert repeated, and taking the letter from the salver she opened it tremblingly, only half a dozen lines, saying that he was going to Beatrice’s father to tell him the story, for only the Church could advise them. The Church! Mrs. Monfert repeated. What has the Church to do with it? Is the Church to come between man and wife? And she remembered he had once said to her: Only the Church can advise me; I should not be satisfied if I did not get the advice of the Church.

  XIII

  On his journey from Calais to London Hugh thought continually that Dr. Knight might be away on holiday, and he prayed that this last misfortune might not befall him; for he could not return to his wife, nor could he confide his secret to his mother. So everything depended upon seeing Dr. Knight; he could confide his secret only to a priest, to whom everything in human nature is made comprehensible by virtue of his sacred calling. But Dr. Knight was Beatrice’s father and would be prejudiced, and it seemed to him that he lacked courage. At that moment a river winding through the landscape caught his eyes, river or canal — he was not certain at first which; a canal, for there was the towpath. He forgot his errand and remembered it again, for we do not think consecutively, only in spasms; and when at last the carriage took him through the lodge gates and the woods, stopping before the great door studded with iron nails, after the Gothic fashion, he began to recall all that Percy had told him about the folly of trying to revive dead idiom, art being no more than a series of formulas by means of which man interprets Nature. But to think of such things at such a moment was —