Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  XIII

  The next news of Etta was that she had gone to Algiers with the Comte, and the Comtesse, of course, who, contrary to all expectations, had decided to accompany her husband, bringing her children with her. Gabrielle’s house would therefore be deserted till the early summer, till June. The Comte would be there in July and August, and where the Comte was Etta would be. Such was the news, and Morton, who had returned to Fontainebleau from Paris, fell to thinking of Brittany, where he would find subjects more consonant with his talent than Fontainebleau forest, which Diaz and Rousseau had made somewhat trite and commonplace. Millet, too, had familiarised the public with long plains and shepherdesses following sheep. Jacques had painted sheep by day and night so often that one couldn’t think of a sheep-fold except in Jacques’s terms. But if he (Morton) were to spend his summer in Brittany, he would never see Etta again. And at the thought of never seeing her again he rose to his feet and walked up and down the studio, uncertain if he could go on living without seeing her. She would make the Comte miserable, unhappy, as she had made him; but he would prefer to be unhappy with her than happy with any other woman. Life in this lonely studio, mending landscapes, is terrible. I will begin a figure, he said, and went out in search of a model and found one, a happy, rosy-cheeked little servant, out of a place, who was glad to sit to him, and whom he made almost as unhappy as himself, for she very soon guessed that he was in love with another woman. But despite the help of his little model, Morton found the forgetting of Etta to be a long and bitter business; sometimes he thought it was all over, that he was free from her, but he knew he was not, and that if she held up her little finger he would go back to her. To be made unhappy, he said. Even so, I should go back to her. And when June came round and he prepared for his summer outing, the thought of seeing her again still held him in an unrelaxing grip; and to see her he must go to Barbizon, however much he might hate to see the old, ill-paven street, the inn garden, and the inn parlour covered with pictures. I can never paint there again, he said to himself; painting is happiness, and there’s no happiness for me in Barbizon. Wherever we have been unhappy is a dead place to us. And his thoughts turning to last year’s motives, he continued: — My spirit dries up at the very thought of them! But there’s much else in the forest of Fontainebleau. And if she doesn’t appear in June, she will not return, and I’ll go to Brittany, where everything will be new, the earth, the skies, and the people. If I had the courage to start to-morrow for Brittany!

  But he had not that courage and returned to Barbizon to wait for her, certain of pain and unhappiness, sorry for his pictures and sorry for himself, but unable to do otherwise than wait for news of Etta. Cissy and Elsie will bring me news of her, he said. But for Elsie and Cissy he had to wait several weeks, and his life seemed to burn up like autumn weeds when they told him she had not written to them during the winter. If she returns, it will be in another month, he said to himself, and regretting that he had left Paris, or thinking he did, he cursed the forest, saying that it kept alive his memory of her, till one morning Cissy came round to his studio with a letter that she had just received from Etta, who told that she was back in London, or rather in Sutton, and was coming to Fontainebleau a little later. Coming after the Malmédys, I suppose, said Morton, and looking through Cissy he saw Etta in his thought. She may be coming back to paint, Cissy answered, but Morton did not think that she would ever take up painting again. You see, she doesn’t speak of returning to Barbizon, but to Fontainebleau, to be nearer the Malmédys. She hasn’t forgotten you, Morton; if you read on, you’ll see. Morton read on; he swore and called her names, but he was pleased that he was not forgotten.

  A few days later Etta wrote to Elsie; her letter contained a cutting from a newspaper in which he was spoken of favourably, and at this expression of goodwill, Morton’s resolution to stand aloof broke down, and he began to think of the letter he might write without letting her see that all she had to do was to hold up her little finger to bring her lover back to her. I thought, he wrote, that after this journey to Algeria there would be a turning out of pockets. She won’t like that, he said, and chuckled over his sarcasm as he went to his subject in the forest. It was not long, however, before he began to regret his sarcasm, for Etta did not answer his letter, and he attributed her silence to his words. He was wrong again; Etta’s answer, when it came, contained no reference to the turning out of pockets, and he said: A sense of humour in a woman is a great help to a lost admirer. The words caused him a pang and then a sinking of the heart. A lost admirer! I couldn’t have expressed myself better. And then hope began to revive. She is coming back, and why should she write to me unless —— He did not dare to finish the sentence; and a week later a note came saying that she was driving over from Fontainebleau and would call at his studio in the afternoon about three o’clock.

  On opening the door, it seemed to him that he was receiving somebody out of a picture, so beautifully was Etta dressed; a terra-cotta silk was unusual and certainly incongruous in Barbizon, and in his rough way Morton expressed his surprise: You look as if you were just about to step into one of Watteau’s ships bound for Cythera. Etta laughed, saying that Watteau’s ships never reached Cythera, doing no more than to sail round its coasts, a remark that so thoroughly roused all Morton’s old animosities, that Etta spoke of Courbet, Corot, Daubigny, Diaz and Rousseau, without being able to engage him in conversation, it seeming to Morton that all her questions were designed to make fun of him. Or is all this talk about Courbet and Corot merely a beating to windward? he asked himself, his gloom increasing every moment. And perceiving that she was annoying him, Etta said: Well, tell me with whom you have been in love. I met somebody who tried to undo the mischief you did me, he answered, and she encouraged him to talk about this new love of his, an encouragement that he appreciated, for it relieved him of his love of her to tell her of the benefit that this new love had been to him; and to move her to repentance, he related that at one time he was very near to suicide. And you, he said, when he came to the end of his story, what have you been doing all this while? Tell me about the Comte. Did he make love to you? We saw a great deal of each other, she answered, and as for making love, it all depends upon the man and the woman. Love differs with every one of us, she continued, and he asked her if she had found the Comte’s love superior to his in practice and theory. She turned her brown eyes upon him and said, he thought somewhat sententiously, that he and the Comte were very different. You were true to yourself, she added. —

  And you to yourself! he rapped out. I am always that, she replied, her thoughtful and decisive voice exasperating Morton, who asked her bluntly whether the Comte was her lover, a question that brought a look of pleasure into her face.

  You may just as well tell me the truth, Etta; it would be a relief to know that there was some trace, some spark of humanity in you.

  No, he was not my lover in the sense that you mean, and I don’t think I could give myself to a man with any conviction unless I was going to have a child by him.

  I fear that we are as antagonistic as ever.

  It may be, but as long as we are not untruthful to each other —

  Oh, damn truth! Tell me about the Comte, and if you are going to marry him. His wife is ill, very ill, and a permanent recovery is not likely.

  I would not wish anything to happen to Marie, but if anything should happen — well, there’s no saying.

  I should like to see you settled, Etta, Morton said paternally, whereupon Etta became discursive, and rattled off a story. The Comte’s attentions to her in Algiers had caused much jealousy in the Government House, the other women not liking to see her put next to the Comte at dinner. She was invariably placed next to him. And thought catching fire from thought, she began to speak of the Comtesse’s friendships, telling that one day, on overlooking the invitations sent out, the Comte noticed a certain name, and sending for his orderly, he walked to and fro, asking himself how it was that the name appeared on the list in sp
ite of his having given strict orders that it should be omitted.

  My orders to you were that Mr. Villars was not to receive invitations to the Government House, but despite my orders I see his name among my guests. What explanation have you to offer?

  That I am not answerable for the inclusion of Mr. Villars’s name at dinner, sir. Mr. Villars received his invitation from the Comtesse.

  The Comtesse did not know of my interdiction.

  Pardon me, sir, but I mentioned your interdiction to the Comtesse.

  Gaston turned aside speechless, Etta said, and I heard afterwards —

  But, Etta, the Comtesse’s lying-in was announced in the newspapers.

  That third child was not his, as is well known. The Comte’s health precludes the possibility; and she spoke of a disease of the spine which obliged the Comte to wear iron supports. A sort of stays, Morton interjected. Etta answered: Yes, without perceiving the sarcasm, so deep was she in her own concernments. She broke the pause suddenly to tell of a journey that she and the Comte, and others, of course, had made, going as far into the desert as Biskra. You will be surprised to hear, she said, that I have returned to art.

  I am not in the least surprised.

  Not to painting, but to drawing.

  Better still. Show me your drawings. Etta opened her sketch-book; it had been in her lap all the while, but Morton had not noticed it Before I show you any, she said, I would like to say that I look upon my scribbles as material for half a dozen drawings or more — For a book you have written? interjected Morton. Yes, she answered, how quick you are. I have written some articles, and while writing and thinking of them I made a few drawings, and I think it would be unkind to separate the drawings from the text and the text from the drawings. But drawings done for reproduction require a little revision, Morton said. Yes, she replied; and I thought that I might look to you for revision and advice.

  Tea was brought in, and during the drinking of it, Etta’s drawings were announced by Morton to be very clever; and after tea, till the bell sounded for dinner, Morton listened to Etta reading her narrative of her travels in the land in which summer is always.

  XIV

  For the next few weeks Etta seemed to spend her time driving with a clergyman through the forest of Fontainebleau, visiting its various towns and villages, arriving at Barbizon nearly every day for luncheon or for afternoon tea — arriving in a carriage drawn not by one but by two horses, driven by a coachman in livery who wore a cockaded hat, and attended upon by a footman, also in a cockaded hat. A splendid creature he was standing by the carriage door, representing force and dignity, and a dainty spectacle was Etta, stepping in and out in her Watteau dresses, followed by her clergyman carrying a shawl and a parasol — a spectacle that provided Cissy and Elsie with an almost endless subject for conversation, each exciting the other to fresh sallies and acrimonious remarks. Etta always likes to do things in fine style, said Cissy, and Elsie answered: It is strange that Etta, who is so quick to laugh at others, sees nothing ridiculous in her own conduct. You’ll hardly believe it, but she has again taken a room at Lunions! When did you hear that? Cissy asked. Only this morning. And now she has her letters addressed here; I saw one just now waiting for her. The room she requires, for she changes her gowns three times a day, exchanging her morning dress for one more suitable for the afternoon — With stockings to match, for sure, interjected Cissy. But why does she come here with her parson? asked Morton.

  I tried to persuade her out of this new wickedness; for though you fooled me and made me very miserable, I said, we are evenly matched; but this poor young man.... What did she say? asked Elsie. She said he had come over in the hope of a curacy in Paris, and that if he did not get it, he was prepared to go to India on the Mission. But, being a man of great talent, she would like him to remain in Europe. He is staying at Fontainebleau, she said, and what more natural than that I should drive over to Barbizon with him? And change her dress three times a day, remarked Cissy. I’ve often thought she was a little mad, said Morton, looking questioningly at Elsie, who answered: She is certainly not normal. But what makes you think so? She often comes to my studio with the drawings she did in the desert, Morton replied, and once we had a talk about the clergyman. It appears that Mr. Barrett is very High Church, and she would have him go over to Rome, if he does not get the appointment, on the grounds that Rome favours converts. There’s nothing Etta likes so much as a Catholic church, said Cissy. But, Morton, have we told you that letters come for her to Lunions? Living at the Hotel de France and having letters addressed to Lunions seems very strange. It is certainly unusual, Morton answered, and the constant change of attire. And all for no purpose.

  The painters separated, each to his or her special subject, and when they returned weary from the forest with their canvases the first thing they saw was the barouche with its horses, coachman, and footman, in front of the hotel. Waiting for Madame la Pompadour! said Cissy. Madame Recamier returning from driving with Chateaubriand, answered Elsie, and they fell into the perennial discussion whether Madame Recamier had lived and died in strict singleness. After hearing all the evidence and Morton’s conjectures, Elsie said: We shall only just have time to make ourselves tidy for dinner; and the girls went upstairs wondering what richly coloured gown Etta would wear so that she might fool the parson to the top of her bent. The strangely assorted twain dined at a corner table, Etta’s gown and the parson’s coat and collar distracting everybody’s attention from his and her neighbour. It was always thus when they dined at Lunions, and on this day dinner was half over when a servant brought in a letter and stood whispering at the door, Morton and Cissy and Elsie guessing that the letter contained evil news for Etta. So they said afterwards in the garden when they talked together, telling each other how Etta’s face had brightened at the sight of the handwriting and how quickly a change had appeared in her, the first lines of the letter affecting her so much that the parson jumped to his feet to help her, thinking that she was about to faint. She would have fainted, said Elsie, if it hadn’t been for the glass of water that he forced her to drink. And did you see her face afterwards Morton, as she strove to gain control over herself? Yes, indeed I did, Cissy; and what powers of will she must have to have carried on as she did.

  She sent the parson to the piano with orders to do more than his usual splashing.

  She must have suffered agony, said Elsie; but determined to deceive us, to prove to us that nothing had happened worth speaking about, she got up to dance, and waltzed about the floor with herself.

  It was out of politeness I asked her to dance with me, but she refused, you remember. Morton’s face drooped into meditation, and Elsie answered: If she had danced with you, the parson might have stopped playing. Cissy continued the conversation, telling how soon after Etta had called the Reverend Barrett over to her, saying that she felt tired and would like to return to Fontainebleau. She showed pluck, said Morton, for while the horses were being put to she stood talking to us and bade us good-night in quite a cheerful mood, or seemingly. Now what news can she have received? The news she received, answered Elsie, did not come from London. Harold is not dead, though the Comte may be.

  The Comte! Yes, it may be that. Or it may be the Comtesse. She spoke of Marie as her great friend, saying that she did not wish anything to happen to Marie, but if —

  Oh yes, I know, interjected Elsie, clearing the decks! clearing the decks!

  XV

  It was in the afternoon next day, as Morton was setting out for Melun to fetch his mistress and model, that a letter came from the hotel-keeper at Fontainebleau, saying that Miss Marr had left word that she was not to be called in the morning, and it was not till midday that a housemaid entered the room and gave the alarm. The doctor was sent for, and after an examination of the body, he reported that Miss Marr had died probably from heart failure. Morton handed the letter to Elsie and Cissy, who were returning from their painting. Good heavens! cried Elsie, and at Morton’s bidding she an
d Cissy jumped into the carriage, whilst Morton followed, saying: It was the letter that she got last night. And all the way to Fontainebleau they asked each other questions: What did she do it for? But did she do it? Was it an accident? Or was it an overdose? We shall never know, Morton said as they drove into the long, straggling street of Fontainebleau, for she has destroyed the letter, no doubt. But did she show the letter to Mr. Barrett? Elsie asked. Morton shrugged his shoulders, and the carriage stopped before the Hotel de France.

  The hotel-keeper told them that he had sent round to Mr. Barrett’s hotel, but Mr. Barrett had taken the eight o’clock to Paris. He mentioned that visitors did not like to sleep in a house in which there was a dead body, certainly not on the same floor. He had refrained, however, from calling in the police, who would have taken the body to the morgue, for he had known Miss Marr for some time, and she was a friend of the Comte de Malmédy. Morton told the man that he need not fear any loss for not having sent for the police and that a reasonable compensation would be paid by Mr. Harold Marr — Who will be here to-morrow morning, he said. As I have his address I will write the telegram at once. May we go upstairs, said Cissy, to bid good-bye to our friend? We haven’t brought any flowers, added Elsie, there was no time; but we’ll send some. The hotel-keeper answered that a chambermaid would show them to the room.