Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  The two o’clock train took her to town, a hansom from Victoria to Chelsea, and she walked up the street thinking of the woman who would open the door to her. There was something about her she didn’t like. But it didn’t matter; she would be shown in at once, and of course left alone with Ralph.... Supposing the woman were to sit there all the while! But it was too late now; she had knocked. I’ve come to see Mr. Hoskin. Feeling that her speech was too abrupt, she added: I hope he is better to-day. Ellen answered that Mr. Hoskin seemed a little better and was in the studio. Etta expected to find him dawdling from easel to easel, and was shocked to catch sight of him in a small iron bed, hardly more than a foot from the floor, his large features wasted by illness. His eyes glowed, and Ellen placed a chair by his bedside, saying that she was going out, but would not be away for more than half an hour. As soon as the door closed, Etta took the thin hand extended to her.

  Oh, Ralph, I’m so sorry to find you ill. But you’re better to-day, aren’t you?

  Yes, I feel a little better to-day. It was good of you to come.

  I came at once, Ralph.

  How did you hear I was ill? We’ve not written to each other for a long while.

  I heard it in the National. Miss Brand told me.

  You know her? I remember, she wrote about the new pictures for an American paper.

  Yes; how familiar it sounds; those dear days in the National. Ralph’s eyes were fixed upon her. She could not bear their wistfulness, and she lowered hers, saying: She told me you were ill.

  But when did you return from France? Tell me.

  About six weeks ago. I fell ill the moment I got back.

  What was the matter?

  I had overdone it. I had overworked myself. I had let myself get run down. The doctor said that I didn’t eat enough meat; you know, I never did care for meat.

  I remember.

  When I got better I was ordered to the sea-side; then I went on a visit to some friends and didn’t get back to Sutton till Christmas. We had a lot of stupid people staying with us. I couldn’t do any work while they were in the house. When they left I began a picture, but I tried too difficult a subject and got into trouble with my drawing. You said I’d never succeed. I often thought of what you said. Well, then I went to the National. Ethel Brand told me you were ill, that you had been ill for some time, at least a month. A thin smile curled Ralph’s red lips, and his eyes seemed to grow more wistful. I’ve been ill for more than a month, he said. But no matter. Ethel Brand told you, and — ?

  Of course I couldn’t stay at the National. I felt I must see you, and my feet turned towards St. James’s Park, to the little bridge where we used to stand talking of painting and each other. She looked at him sideways, so that her bright brown eyes might have all their charm. His pale eyes, wistful and dying, were fixed upon her, not intently as a few moments before, but vaguely, and the thought stirred in her mind that he might die before her eyes. In that event, what was she to do? Are you listening? she said. Oh yes, I’m listening, he answered. His smile was reassuring, and she continued: Suddenly I felt that — that I must see you. I felt I must know what was the matter, so I took a cab and came straight here. Your servant —

  You mean Ellen.

  I thought she was your servant. She said that you were lying down and couldn’t be disturbed. She didn’t seem to wish me to see you or to know what was the matter.

  I was asleep when you called yesterday, but when I heard of your visit I told her to write the letter which you received this morning. It was kind of you to come.

  Kind of me to come! You must think badly of me if you think I could have stayed away. But now tell me, Ralph, what does the doctor say? Have you had the best medical advice? Are you in want of anything? Can I do anything? Pray don’t hesitate. You know that I was, that I am, very fond of you, that I would do anything. You have been ill a long while now — what is the matter?

  Thank you, dear. Things must take their course. What that course is it is impossible to say. I’ve had excellent medical advice, and Ellen takes care of me.

  But what is your illness? Ethel Brand told me that you caught a bad cold about a month ago. Perhaps a specialist —

  Yes, I had a bad attack of influenza about a month or six weeks ago, and I hadn’t strength, the doctor said, to recover from it. I have been in bad health for some time. I’ve been disappointed. My painting hasn’t gone very well lately. That was a disappointment; and disappointment, I think, is as often the cause of a man’s death as anything else. The doctors give it a name: influenza, paralysis of the brain, or failure of the heart’s action; but these are the superficial causes of death. There is oftener a deeper reason, one which medical science is unable to take into account.

  Oh, Ralph, you mean me! Don’t say that I am the cause. It was not my fault. If I broke my engagement, it was because I knew I could not have made you happy. There’s no reason to be jealous, it wasn’t for any other man. I was really very fond of you. It wasn’t my fault.

  No, dear, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. We were not in luck’s way, that’s all.

  Etta longed for tears, but her eyes remained dry, and rising from the chair Ellen Gibbs had given her, she wandered round the studio, examining the various canvases. In one, a woman who had just left her bath passed her arms into the sleeves of a long, white wrapper, and Etta admired its naturalness. But she was more interested in the fact that the picture was painted from the woman who had opened the door to her. She sits for the figure and attends on him when he is ill! She must be his mistress; since when, I wonder.

  How do you like it, Etta?

  Very much. It is beautifully drawn, so natural and so original. How did you think of that movement? How did you think of it?

  I don’t know. She took the pose. I think the movement is all right.

  Yes; it is a movement that happens every morning, yet no one thought of it before. How did you think of it?

  I don’t know; I asked her to take some poses, and it came like that. I think it is good. I’m glad you like it.

  It is very different from the stupid things we draw in the studio.

  I told you that you’d do no good by going to France.

  I learnt a good deal there. Everybody cannot learn by themselves, as you did. Only genius can do that.

  Genius! A few little pictures.... I think I might have done something if I’d had the chance. I should have liked to finish that picture. It is a good beginning. I never did better.

  Dearest, you will live to paint your picture. I want you to finish it. I want you to live for my sake. I will buy that picture.

  There’s only one thing I should care to live for.

  And that you shall have.

  Then I’ll try to live. He raised himself a little in bed. His eyes were fixed on her and he tried hard to believe. I’m afraid, he said, it’s too late now. She watched him with the eyes she knew he loved, and though ashamed of the question, she could not put it back: Would you sooner live for me than for that picture?

  One never knows what one would choose, he said. Such speculations are always vain, and never were they vainer than now.... But I’m glad you like the movement. It doesn’t matter even if I never finish it. I don’t think it looks bad in its present state, does it?

  It is a sketch, one of those things that could not be finished. I recognise the model. She sat for it, didn’t she?

  Yes.

  And you never told me? Oh, Ralph, while you were telling me you loved me, you were living with this woman!

  It happened so. Things don’t come out as straight or as nice as we’d like them to; that’s the way things come out in life — a bit crooked, tangled, cracked. I couldn’t have done otherwise. That’s the way things happened to come out. There’s no other explanation.

  And if I’d consented to marry you, you’d have put her away.

  Etta, don’t scold me. Things happened that way.

  Etta did not answer, and Ralph co
ntinued: What are you thinking of?

  Of the cruelty, of the wretchedness of it all.

  Why look at that side of it. If I did wrong, I’ve been punished. She knows all. She has forgiven me. You can do as much. Forgive me; kiss me. I’ve never kissed you.

  I cannot kiss you now. I hear her coming. Wipe those tears away. The doctor said that you were to be kept quiet.

  Shall I see you again?

  I don’t think I can come again. She’ll be here.

  Etta! What difference can it make?

  We shall see....

  The door opened. Ellen came in, and Etta got up to go. I hope you’ve enjoyed your walk, Miss Gibbs?

  Yes, thank you. I haven’t been out for some days.

  Nursing is very fatiguing.... Good-bye, Mr. Hoskin. I hope I shall soon hear that you ‘re better. Perhaps Miss Gibbs will write.

  Yes, I’ll write; but I’m afraid Mr. Hoskin has been talking too much. Let me open the door for you.

  V

  Two days afterwards she received a letter from Ellen Gibbs:

  MADAM, — It is my sad duty to inform you that Mr. Ralph Hoskin died this afternoon at two o’clock. He begged me to write and thank you for the violets you sent him. The funeral will take place on Monday. If you come here to-morrow, you will see him before he is put into his coffin — I am, Yours truly, ELLEN GIBBS.

  The desire to see her dead lover was an instinct, and the journey from Sutton to Chelsea was unperceived by her; and she did not recover from the febrile obedience her desire imposed until Ellen opened the studio door.

  I received a letter from you — Etta began. Yes, I know; come in. Etta hated the plain, middle-class appearance and dress of this girl. She hated the tone of her voice, and walked without answering into the studio, drawing back affrighted, so different is death from life. But catching sight of the violets, she recovered herself, and overcome, she stood watching the dead man, forgetful whether Ellen knew or was ignorant of what her relations might have been, remembering only that he was dead. And the desire to say a prayer falling upon her, she knelt by the bedside.

  Don’t let me disturb you, said Ellen. When you have finished —

  Will you not say a prayer with me?

  I have said my prayers. Our prayers would not mingle.

  What does she mean? thought Etta. Our prayers would not mingle! Why? Because I’m a pure woman and she isn’t? I wonder if she meant that. I hope she does not intend any violence. Her heart throbbed with fear, her knees weakened, she thought she would faint. And resolved to faint on the slightest provocation, she rose from her knees and stood facing the other woman, who stood between her and the door. Etta tried to speak, but words stuck fast in her throat, and it was some time before her terror allowed her to see that the expression on Ellen’s face was not one of anger, but of resignation. She was safe! She has pretty eyes, thought Etta, a weak, nervous creature; I can do with her what I like. If she thinks that she can get the better of me, I’ll very soon show her that she is mistaken. Of course, if it came to violence I could do nothing but scream, for I’m not very strong.

  Well, Ellen said, I hope you’re satisfied. He died thinking of you. I hope you’re satisfied.

  Mr. Hoskin and I were intimate friends. It is only natural that he should think of me.

  We were happy until you came. You’ve made dust and ashes of my life. Why did you take the trouble to do this? You were not in love with him, and I did you no injury.

  I didn’t know of your existence till the other day. I heard that —

  That I was his mistress? Well, so I was. It appears that you were not. But I should like to know which of us two is the most virtuous, which has done the least harm. I made him happy; you killed him.

  This is madness!

  No, it is not madness. I know all about you. Ralph told me everything.

  It surprises me very much that he should have spoken about me. It was not like him. I hope that he didn’t tell you — that he didn’t suggest that there were any improper relations between us.

  I dare say that you were virtuous, more or less, as far as your own body is concerned.

  I cannot discuss such questions with you, Etta said timidly, and swinging her parasol vaguely, she tried to pass Ellen by. But it was difficult to get by. The picture she had admired the other day blocked the way.

  Yes, said Ellen, in her sad, doleful voice, you can look at it. I sat for it. I’m not ashamed; and perhaps I did more good by sitting than you’ll do with your painting.... But look at him — there he lies. He might have been a great artist if he hadn’t met you, and I should have been a happy woman. Now I’ve nothing to live for.... You said that you didn’t know of my existence till the other day. But you knew that in making that man love you, you were robbing another woman.

  That is very subtle.

  You knew that you did not love him, and that it could end only in unhappiness. It has ended in death.

  Etta looked at the cold face, so clay-like, and the horror of the situation creeping over her, she lost strength to go, and listened meekly to Ellen: He smiled a little — it was a little, sad smile — when he told me that I was to write saying that he would be glad if you would come to see him when he was dead. I think I know what was passing in his mind — he hoped that his death might be a warning to you. Not many men die of broken hearts, but one never knows; one did, look at him and take your lesson.

  I assure you that we were merely friends. He liked me, I know — he loved me, if you will; I could not help that. Etta drew on the floor of the studio with her parasol. I am very sorry; it is most unfortunate. I did nothing wrong. I’m sure he never suggested —

  How that one idea does run in your head! I wonder if your thoughts are equally chaste. I read you in the first glance. One glance was enough. Your eyes tell a mean little soul; you try to resist sometimes, but your nature turns naturally to evil. There are people like that.

  If I had done what you seem to think I ought to have done, he would have abandoned you. And Etta looked at her rival triumphantly.

  That would have been better than what has happened. Then there would have been only one heart broken.

  Etta hated the woman for the humiliation she was imposing upon her, and at the same time she could not but feel admiration for such single-heartedness. And noticing on Etta’s face the change of expression, but misinterpreting it, Ellen said: — I can read you through and through. You have wrecked two lives. Oh, that anybody should be so wicked, that anybody should delight in wickedness! I cannot understand it.

  You are accusing me wrongly. But let me go. It is not likely that we shall arrive at any understanding.

  Go, then.

  Ellen threw herself on a chair by the bedside, and Etta whisked her black crape dress out of the studio.

  VI

  She began new pictures, attributing every failure to the death of Ralph, saying to herself or to Ethel Brand (if she happened to be a visitor at the Manor House, which she frequently was during the winter): Ralph was the only painter in England, at least the only one I knew, who could help me, who could criticise my work from a painter’s point of view. You know what I mean? Ethel Brand, whose thoughts went into music rather than into painting, answered that her desire to compose ceased practically with Rubenstein’s death. She had often held out against his emendations, which seemed to her alien from her idea, but she generally gave in, accepting them in the end. But are there not many musicians who can correct grammatical mistakes, though they can do nothing else? Etta asked, and Ethel agreed that there were, but she felt that her life as a composer was ended. One never knows, she added, and there are times when I feel that I have not said all I have to say in music. For the moment, however, I am not writing music, but about music in the newspapers — it pays better, and to musical criticisms I have added art criticisms; having lived a great deal with artists, I know how to do it. You could help me, Etta. Etta said that she would be delighted to do so, and in their walks round the
galleries the women began to take pleasure in each other’s company, and the intervals that divided them began to seem longer and longer, till at length a flat in Paris was spoken of. Ethel said that there were some nice apartments in the rue Hauteville, off the boulevard Montmartre. Which would not be far, dear, from your studio. I once thought of taking a flat in that street myself, but the flats were too large for one person.

  Etta smiled upon her friend’s project, but the idea was not ripe in her yet, and without knowing why, she lingered on in Sutton till the spring. It was not till the early spring that the nostalgia of the boulevards began to take possession of her, and then it was she who pressed Ethel to come away at once, saying that the Manor House and Harold had again become wearisome to her, and the whole neighbourhood oppressive. There isn’t a room in the house in which I can paint, she argued when Harold tried to dissuade her. Moreover, I cannot live in Sutton. If you will take a house in London.... I must live where painting is being done. I cannot afford two houses, he answered, and a month later Etta and Ethel were furnishing a flat in the rue Hauteville, a burden that Ethel took upon her own shoulders so that Etta should be free to attend to her work in the studio, whither she went every morning at eight, more intent upon painting than ever, or maybe more intent upon the studio, which in the person of its proprietor, M. Davau, attracted Etta. She was always talking of him, asking him to dinner at the flat, buying boxes for the theatre, hiring a carriage to take them, and detaining him in the café afterwards for as long as he consented to remain. She never seemed to weary of him. A strange choice indeed Davau seemed to Ethel, and she often wondered if Etta loved the great, black-bearded Southerner with conviction. Very often after he had left them, speaking out of their meditations, one would admit to the other that for some reason which escaped them his beard and his belly were forgotten in the charm of his personality. But in what did this personality consist? He was not a great artist; as an artist he was a failure. What then? Ethel asked, and Etta answered: He seems to know his own mind; he is true to himself, a sensualist, I think, unfortunately, but he has himself well in hand. I don’t like fat men, nor hairy hands, but —