Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  The door opened; he heard that Dr. Knight was at home, and passed into the modern Gothic building, noticing in spite of himself Murillo’s Virgin still on her crescent moon surrounded by cupids, her hands crossed, her eyes raised to heaven. But why think of such things at such a moment? he asked as he followed the passage to Dr. Knight’s room, where he found thee President seated before his great writing-table, a half-finished letter in front of him that Hugh judged to be a letter to the parents of one of the boys placed under his charge. As Hugh had come in unannounced, the prelate, thinking perchance that it was merely some casual visitor, finished the sentence he was writing, leaving Hugh watching the long, lean profile against the window.

  Good heavens! My dear Hugh, an unexpected visit this is indeed. Why, I thought you were on your honeymoon. I was, but have returned from it, sir. Returned from it! But what is the matter? You look ill; sit down. I shall have great difficulty in telling you, Dr. Knight, but I’ll try to tell you everything and truthfully.

  It will be very difficult — Where is Beatrice, Hugh?

  She is in Calais with my mother. So your mother accompanied you? No, sir, I telegraphed for her. At these words Dr. Knight’s face darkened, and Hugh heard him repeat the words! Telegraphed for her! But is Beatrice ill? She is in great grief, sir, but I don’t think she is ill. Hugh, tell me what you have come to tell me, and do not keep me in suspense any longer. I shall have to begin at the beginning, and it will take some little while, else you will not understand. The facts first, sir — And the explanation afterwards, cried the prelate. The fact is, sir, that I am not her husband and can never be.

  The men stared without speaking, and breaking a long pause Dr. Knight said: My dear Hugh, this is a nervousness. To understand, you’ll have to hear the story from the beginning, and then perhaps you will be able to advise me, at least I think and hope, Dr. Knight. And when he had related the circumstance in which he had proposed to Beatrice, Dr. Knight asked if it was his mother’s influence that had persuaded him. My mother, Hugh answered, was always very anxious for me to be married, and you know that I invited you to Wotton Hall in the hope that you would intervene between us, for at that time my mother was asking every woman she knew to the Hall with the view that I would pick one out. The day after you left, Percy and I went away together for a little holiday to Wales (you know all about that, sir; I told you here in this very room). She knew that I liked Percy, so she invited Beatrice. I am trying to follow you, Hugh. I suppose what you are telling me has some connection with your marriage? Yes, sir, it has. I liked Beatrice; she has the same tastes as I have, and we were engaged together upon the translation of a story of chivalry which Percy was to illustrate, and she was so sympathetic that I thought I loved her. But, my dear Hugh, you have only been married a day or two! cried the prelate, almost convinced now that he was in possession of the reason that had driven Hugh from his wife.

  I was going to tell you, sir, of my perplexities before marriage, otherwise the story will not be plain to you. The seriousness of Hugh’s tone calmed Dr. Knight, and he resigned himself to the task of listening. The whole story will not take more than a few minutes, Hugh continued. My mother asked me to take Beatrice to parties and I went about with her a great deal; and I liked her in a way, always suspecting, however — Suspecting what? the prelate interposed. That there was very little conviction in it, Hugh answered, and I should never have asked her to marry me if our names had not been connected in social talk. No doubt people spoke of us as engaged long before the coupling of our names came to my ears. Then came the day when I went to my mother and asked her if she had heard our names mentioned together, and she told me that unless I were altogether lacking in a sense of honour, my duty was to marry Beatrice. So I went to Beatrice and asked her if she liked me well enough to marry me. She said she did, and I was glad to hear her say it, but there was always the doubt in my mind. But what doubt? asked Dr. Knight. What doubt? It seemed to me that I loved her better, replied Hugh, when she was away from me than when she was by me. But every man loves a woman better when she is away from him than when she is by him, and what is true of man is true of woman. The doubt increased every day, Hugh continued, but I had no heart to break off the marriage. I liked her for my mother’s sake, for yours, sir, for her own; I was fond of her and am still, but not as a husband. And pray when did you find out that important fact? the prelate asked.

  Last night, sir. After the wedding I thought that I loved her; all doubt seemed to have gone. We arrived in Calais after midnight, and as we were both weary I did not go to her room. The next day we attended Mass in the Cathedral, and walked about the town, seeing all there was of interest. After dinner we remained sitting up talking till I noticed that Beatrice’s voice wearied, and I said: Beatrice, the journey has tired you, you had better go to your room. I went to mine, and after leaving her enough time to undress I went to her. And what I remember best now is the moment on the threshold, Beatrice in bed and only three or four yards between us. But it was in these three or four yards that the change came; I asked her if I might come into her bed and she answered: What a strange question to ask me, Hugh! So I lay down beside her, hoping to recover myself; but her womanly body was no help, only a hindrance, and the moments I spent with her were the most dreadful in my life. And that is the story you have come to tell me? the prelate asked, smiling almost cheerfully, for if it is, I think that I have got good news for you. My dear Hugh, every man, I may say, who is worth being called a man, who is not a brute, is seized with an excessive timidity on entering his wife’s room for the first time, and I beg you to believe that all you have to do is to go back to your wife and to put your trust in Nature and in the sacrament for the paralysing shyness that you feel to pass away. All will come right, and in a year’s time, maybe two or three, I shall receive an invitation from you to the baptism of my grandson or granddaughter.

  Hugh’s face remained unmoved, and the suspicion coming to Dr. Knight that perhaps his words were not bringing the consolation to Hugh’s mind that he hoped they would bring, he continued: My dear Hugh, I am many years older than you are, and I have had a very varied experience of life. A widower who enters Orders does not speak often of his married life, but circumstance changes everything. I loved my wife deeply, and in telling me your story you are only telling me my own, with this difference — that I did not run away. I cannot speak to you about my wife’s death; I could not speak many words without breaking down; as a priest I have to remember that all things in this world are but the will of God. I have heard many stories like yours, Hugh, and the advice I always give is the advice I have given you — go back to your wife and put your trust in Nature; I have never known my advice to fail. Hugh, I beseech you, go back to Beatrice. I am not telling you this because she is my daughter, and a very dear daughter, too; I am speaking in your interest as much as in hers. If I did not think you would make her a good husband I would not advise you to go back to her. I know nobody I would sooner have for a son-in-law than you. Beatrice loves you, or she wouldn’t have married you — that I know; a father knows his own daughter. I beseech you to go back at once; every hour you remain away from her is a danger.

  Dr. Knight, I haven’t told you everything, Hugh answered, and I can only tell you the full story under the seal of confession. Not that I mistrust you, but I should never be able to speak it except in confession.

  The priest rose from his chair without speaking and Hugh saw him cross the room and return with his stole on his shoulders. He took a chair and Hugh fell upon the praying-stool, covered his face with his hands, and, after uttering a short prayer, said: Of no sin am I guilty, father, but I am in danger of sin, and hope like a Christian to be given strength to resist sin. I did not leave my wife because of impotence; I am not impotent. It would be better, perhaps, if I were, for then I should be out of reach of temptation. But, my son, God does not wish us out of temptation. We are in this world to resist temptation, to qualify ourselves by our resistance fo
r his love, which lasts for ever. I am afraid, father, that you do not understand yet. I was attracted to Beatrice not for herself but for her likeness to her brother; her voice, her figure, her gait, in a thousand ways she reminded me of him, and I mistook the nature of my affection. I was deceived; it was not until I took Beatrice in my arms that I knew I could never love a woman. Does Percy know anything of this? Nothing, sir. We spent a few weeks together in Wales, as you know, and those weeks were as innocent in act and in thought as any weeks that ever were spent between two human beings. Percy knows nothing of my love. How could he, for I did not know it myself until last night. My dear Hugh, what you have told me is terribly serious, more serious than anything I imagined, but it does not oblige me to withdraw the advice that I have given you just now. Go back to your wife and live with her, and put your trust in Nature and the sacrament, and this by current in the blood will be swept away. Your wife will give you children, and the love of children is the base of human life. Apart from that all things are vain, except the love of God. Do you understand me, Hugh? Go back to your wife and put your trust in Nature and the sacrament. A good woman has helped many a man to outlive temptation, and children are sent by God to help man to live his life in the world.

  Hugh did not answer, and the men remained looking at each other for a long time. There’s no man from whom I would sooner take advice, sir, than yourself, Hugh said at last, but I know myself better than you can know me. It may be that others have come to you in the same trouble that I have, and that they have lived with their wives and been happy with them, but it would not be so with me. I couldn’t, but even if I were able to take your advice I might meet somebody who would awake the old original instinct, and it would be harder for me to conquer it then than it is today. I might fall a victim to it. There is only one thing for me to do — to put aside the sexual life for ever, for if I were to accept the second best — The second best, Hugh? Well, sir, I am telling you what I am, what God made me, and not what I wish to be and what you would wish me to be. To me Percy would be the better. However shocking it may be for you to hear this avowal, I must speak it. For his own high purposes God may have wished to try me, and a sore trial it is, to lay aside our instincts and affections for ever. But we may not judge God; we must accept his judgments with humility, and what I would wish you to know is that I did not seek in my thoughts for this love, nor in books nor in pictures did I learn it; it was only yesterday that it was revealed to me. A strange revelation, you will think, to fall upon a chaste man — for I am that, but so it is. My thought is how to keep out of temptation and I’ve come to ask your advice, not whether I should go back to my wife, for that cannot be, but to ask if you would advise me to take Orders. Sometimes I feel that Orders would be a help. I have never doubted the truth of the religion I was brought up in; I have accepted it and put my faith in the Church, and that is why I come as a supplicant to you, who represent the Church.

  The door opened suddenly. Father — Why, Hugh, I thought you were with Beatrice, said Percy. You were married only the day before yesterday, and you are here to-day! Marriage, Percy, does not always suit every man. Oh, so you and Beatrice don’t get on! I am sorry to hear that, I am indeed, but I hope we shall always remain friends, Hugh. I am afraid, Percy, that we shall not see each other any more, Hugh answered, and as I am speaking to your father now upon a matter of great moment — I will ask you, Percy, to leave us, the prelate said, and when Percy had withdrawn, he continued: I don’t think on the whole I could advise you to enter an Order, Hugh. You will be better alone, and, as I told you before, outside of the Church, you will be more help to our holy religion than you could be within it. You are a man of wealth and position; you have many people dependent upon you — men holding land from you, tenant farmers; many labourers are upon your estate. There’s plenty of work for you to do, if you choose to do it.

  If that be your advice to me, sir, I will take it. To feel that I am under your protection — under the protection of the Church will be a help. But you have not given me absolution. You are not guilty of any sin, Hugh. I understand that you hate and abhor the temptation that you have confessed to me. I hope I shall not fall into sin, Hugh answered, but if I were to say that I abhor the temptation, I might be making a bad confession, for how can one hate and abhor that which is part of oneself? You must allow me to speak a little in my defence, sir, for I would not seem to you shameful. For the good opinion of the world I care little, but for yours I care a great deal. When I was a schoolboy I felt that none could advise me as you could. I was not happy as a schoolboy, for I wanted to rise to the head of my class, and I could not learn easily like other boys, who could do in ten minutes what I could not in as many hours. I was very unhappy and looked round the College for one to whom I could confess my unhappiness, not finding anybody but you, Dr. Knight. We were allowed to choose our confessors and I chose you, and laid my disappointments and my griefs before you; and it was your words that helped m. I don’t know how I should have lived through my schooldays if it had not been for your kindness. I remember the day you said to me: — I am forty years of age and life has passed me by like a dream. There’s nothing wonderful to a man in those words, but they were wonderful to a boy. They were a help to me. As a priest you are forced to contemplate all things without prejudice, and you know I am not the first man who discovered himself to be as I am, averse from women. In the Bible —

  It is always condemned, the prelate interjected. Yes; but in Antiquity the Greeks and Romans — Hugh, the Greeks and Romans were born before our Lord Jesus came into the world to instruct it and to found a Church. Yes, sir, it is as you say.... It’s painful to me to look upon myself as a pariah. The teaching of the Church condemns all sensuality except the needful sensuality of the marriage bed, indulged in with a view to begetting children. Am I not right? Yes, you are right, Hugh, but — Well, sir, what I wish to say is (for I wish my confession to be complete), that I cannot see that my sin — But you are guilty of no sin, Hugh. What I wish to say is that even if I did fall into the sin that I have confessed to you, I do not think it would be worse than the sin committed by those who avoid the begetting of children. We need not indulge in casuistry, Hugh. We have to think now of what steps are to be taken. You tell me that you cannot go back to your wife?

  No, sir, that cannot be. I have told Beatrice she can get a nullity, and it would be a great relief to me, sir, if you would promise to go to my mother and tell her that she must bear her burden as well as another, for it comes to that. She will look upon her life as a failure if I do not give her grandchildren. That cannot be, and if we are to live together, she must accept the fact that Wotton Hall will be without an heir; not a very great misfortune, so one would think, but she doesn’t see it in that light, and I suppose we must admit her point of view. You will tell her that in everything else my desire is to be a good son? She has been a good mother to me and it distresses me that she should think I am to blame. Everything she pleases I will do that I can do. But one thing I cannot.

  Hugh, you have said many things, more than you need have said, for a priest is never prejudiced against a penitent, or should not be, no matter what his confession may be. How could I deem you shameful when you tell me that the aim of your life is to avoid sin, and that all you ask for is strength to overcome sin? You ask for my help, and I cannot refuse it. Your mother must know what she may and may not expect from you, and, as you say, she too must bear her burden. We all have burdens. I know, sir, that little things do not compensate us for a great loss. My mother is a good woman but has become obstinate in her ideas, as is but natural, for she has lived for one thing and one thing only. The priest answered that in his last visit to Wotton Hall he had gained some insight into Mrs. Monfert’s character, and promised that he would telegraph to Calais to announce his arrival. I have to bring my daughter back to her aunt. Poor girl! The prelate stood looking at Hugh, his thoughts away, and it was some time before he could give his mind to Hugh’s need.
We have to consider yourself, he said at last. Are you going to return to Wotton Hall? Or would you like me to see your mother before you return? Why not go abroad, to Italy? Or for a trip round the world? A trip round the world would suit me better than Italian pictures, Hugh answered, but I don’t think I could undertake it, at least not now. I must put my trust in Time and in a year or two my trouble will be loosened. When Beatrice is married — Yes, when Beatrice is married, returned Dr. Knight; but before she can marry again she must forget you. You can make an appointment by telegram, sir, to meet them in London, unless you decide to go to Calais, Hugh said, to which Dr. Knight replied that nothing would be gained by his going to Calais.

  XIV

  What! Is it Hugh Monfert come back to us? Hugh recognised the voice and the appearance of Father Lambert, and answered: Yes, yes, you are quite right; I came to see the President. But you are not leaving us? and Father Lambert mentioned the names of several priests, every one of whom, he declared, would be sorry not to meet their old pupil again. Hugh’s recollections of some of the priests mentioned were by no means pleasant, and he was not anxious to meet them; and he protested that he was too tired to enter into conversation with anybody. Yes, I can see you are tired, said persistent Father Lambert; you must stay for dinner. Hugh protested again that he could not. Come into the parlour and have tea before you leave; you really can’t go without taking something. Hugh’s one thought was to get the ugly, modern, Gothic building behind him, with its tiles and its leaded panes and all its sham; but he was dazed and without will to resist, and allowed himself to be led into the parlour, to sit before the blazing fire and to hear Father Lambert order tea. Be sure to bring a plate of buttered toast, the priest cried to the servant. My cab is waiting at the door, Hugh pleaded, but he had no strength to do more than plead, and before the tea came the President entered the room, saying: Hugh, I have been asking for you. Your cab is at the door, so I knew you had not left. Father Lambert, I hope you will excuse me, but I have something of a private nature to discuss with Mr. Monfert. Father Lambert withdrew and Dr. Knight said: I have come to a different decision, Hugh. I cannot let your mother and my daughter travel over by themselves. I dare say nothing would happen to them, that they would arrive safely, but it would not be seemly. If that be so, Hugh replied, we shall have to catch an early train, and it’s doubtful if you will reach Dover in time; the boat starts at two or thereabouts.