Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  At the ball Madame de Beausac wore a strange, melancholy air; she danced hardly at all, and asked her husband, much to his satisfaction, to take her home before the cotillon. Not a word was exchanged in the carriage, but when they were alone in their room she said, laying her arm on his shoulder and looking at him sadly -

  ‘I wonder, Albert, if you still like me?’

  ‘My dear, what makes you ask such a question? I hope that no one has -’

  ‘No, no, nothing of that. No one has told me stories about you. I was only thinking - it is four years since we were married; four years ago we were in London; I did love you then, didn’t I? - and you - you were crazy about me. I wonder if you’ve been true to me all this while. Tell me; I shall forgive you; tell me,’ she said, raising her eyes from white roses of the Aubusson carpet and looking at him earnestly.

  ‘True to you, my dear? Of course.’

  ‘Will you swear it?’

  ‘Berthe, someone must -’

  ‘No, dear, no one has. Only I want to know.’

  Madame de Beausac sighed deeply, her hand fell from his shoulder, and she watched her husband take off his coat. It seemed to her that he had grown stouter since breakfast, and she took up the Revue des Deux Mondes, sat down, and wondered.

  ‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’ he said, laying his face on the pillow.

  ‘Not yet; I’m going to read.’

  ‘I thought you had read the first part of the novel they are publishing in the Revue?’

  ‘Yes; but the second part was published to-day.’

  ‘Then, good night, dear; I’m rather tired.’

  ‘Good night, dear.’

  When her husband snored Madame de Beausac looked round and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Next day, when Mason called on Madame de Beausac, the footman led him through a suite of lofty rooms filled with bronze and tapestries, and it was in the last room, a beautiful room, that he found Madame de Beausac and her company. They were seated about an open window on mauve-coloured sofas, and the green garden was full of rhododendrons. ‘Just the kind of mistress that would suit me,’ thought Mason. He hoped that these ladies and gentlemen would go soon, and that Madame would refrain from looking at him till they were alone. His wishes were gratified. Not once did he catch her looking at him, and he had to console himself with the thought that women always slip into exaggeration. He waited as long as he dared; more ladies arrived, and at a quarter-past four he felt he must go. He bade her good-bye; her eyes were empty of the love he expected to find there, and he walked through the rooms feeling rather crestfallen. Suddenly he became aware that Madame de Beausac had left the guests; they were alone in the ante-room.

  ‘I’ve read the second part of your novel. You’re the young man. Do you run away with the married woman?’

  ‘Do you mean in reality or in fiction?’

  ‘In reality.’

  ‘There’s no necessity in running away, is there?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ she said. ‘But we haven’t a moment - someone else will ring presently. Are you going to the Prince’s masked ball to-night?’

  ‘I haven’t an invitation.’

  ‘I will send you one.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Half-past eleven,’ she whispered, and flew back to her guests.

  An Episode in Married Life When Mason had gone Madame de Beausac felt that she had acted very wrongly. She could not understand what had happened to her; something must have happened, for once or twice she thought that she must be going mad. But, mad or sane, the violence of her love did not abate, and she thought vainly how she might combat it. She went to her husband, feeling that a kind word would save her. He took her in his arms, and said she was looking pale; he kissed her, and for a moment she thought she felt better. But the overmastering passion which Mason had inspired in her was not to be swept away by a little uxorial kiss. To free herself from its clutch she must appeal to her child; perhaps her baby’s kisses would win her back to reason, and she took little Clare out of her cot.

  ‘Mother is going to a ball. What would baby do if Mother never were to come back?’

  Little Clare rubbed her eyes; she was not yet awake, and did not grasp her mother’s meaning.

  ‘What would baby do if Mother were never to come back?’

  Clare began to cry, and hid her face on her mother’s shoulder.

  ‘What would baby do?’

  ‘Die,’ said the poor little thing, sobbing, and Madame de Beausac laid the little girl back in her cot. She walked down the passage with a firm step: her little girl had saved her; she would not go to the ball. At that moment she caught sight of the dress she had intended to wear, a pink dress, the same she had worn at her cousin’s, and, without warning, all the intolerable desire came back, and for a sense of choking in the throat she could hardly answer her maid, who had come to ask her if she would dress now. She sat down, unable to decide. At last she determined to think no more - she would go to the ball. Going to the ball didn’t mean - didn’t mean - she would go the ball. She called her maid and dressed hurriedly in the strange calm of mind which follows submission to temptation.

  At the same moment Mason was tying his white necktie. He stopped his cab at Baron, the costumier’s, intending to hire a Venetian mantle. But as he was trying one on a strange thought came into his mind. Never in all his experience had he provoked so uncontrollable a passion. If he were to put this frantic passion to a severe test? He smiled, and forthwith refused the Venetian mantle and paused to consider what costume he would adopt.

  Madame de Beausac was dressed in the pink gown she had worn on the night she had met Mason. She carried a bouquet of orchids in her hand, and she moved forward slowly, shaking hands with her friends, searching amid the crowd for her lover. Suddenly she heard someone call her softly. She knew it was he, and she turned, her face aflame with pleasure. But the look of pleasure vanished, and a little cry of horror escaped her. A tall white Pierrot, incredibly hideous, stood beside her. The white powder seemed to have surprisingly lengthened Mason’s long face - he was hideous, ridiculous.

  ‘Don’t you like my costume?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, laughing, ‘I never saw anything like it,’ and she laughed again.

  He asked her to dance; she excused herself, and taking a friend’s arm passed up the room.

  When she returned he asked her to sit out a dance with him. It was difficult to refuse, and she took his arm and they sought a quiet corner. Mason felt he had gone a little too far, but he counted on the charm of his conversation to overcome the effect of the white powder on his face. But the spell was broken - conversation was impossible. She could not tolerate the horrible white face, and got up to go. As she drove home she looked at her husband almost with the same eyes that she had looked at him with four years ago, when they were in London on their honeymoon.

  When she arrived home she took little Clare out of her cot and kissed the poor little sleepy face till it was wide awake. And so did a powder-puff save a woman, when other remedies had failed, from the calamity of a great passion.

  EMMA BOVARY

  THE MISSES O’HARA arrived at Aix-les-Bains by the afternoon express from Mâcon. The month was September, the air was moveless and warm, and Ismena hoped that Letitia would be benefited by the change. Letitia had never been abroad before. Ismena had been to Paris in early youth to study art, and the drawings she had done in Julien’s were tied up in a portfolio, and it lay in a cupboard in their house in Dublin. But this was more than twenty years ago, and Ismena had discovered in the course of the journey to Aix that she had forgotten a good deal of her French. As they drove to the pension Letitia said she was glad they were going to say where English was spoken; she had been a little bored by her sister’s attempt to speak French, and when the fly stopped and the proprietress came forward she asked her in triumphant English if they could have a double-bedded room.

  ‘I am very sorry, Mesdames, but we have not a r
oom with two beds in it vacant, but we can give you two small rooms on the same floor.’

  The sisters stood looking at each other. They had been accustomed for many years to retire at the same hour, and Ismena wondered what it would be like to awaken in the middle of the night and to feel herself alone; and Letitia thought it would be very strange to undress by herself, and to go to sleep without saying good-night to her sister.

  ‘Your rooms will be in the same corridor,’ the proprietress said.

  And Ismena, thinking that she read in Letitia’s eyes acquiescence in this arrangement, said -

  ‘If you don’t mind, Letitia.’

  Ismena was tall and straight, and she was better looking than her sister. Her nose was slender and the nostrils were shapely, her eyes were clear and intelligent, her teeth were in good order, and she would not have looked her age had her hair not turned white. Letitia was stouter than her sister, her complexion was muddier, she was less distinguished looking, and her features corresponded to her character - neither was clear-cut. Her hair was an iron grey and her teeth were not so well preserved as Ismena’s; the front tooth looked as if it would not last much longer, there was an ominous black speck in it.

  In early youth they had lived in the west, and their habit had been to come up to Dublin in the spring and to stop for a month at a hotel. They said they came to Dublin to buy dresses, but their friends said that they came up to Dublin to look for husbands. Whatever their intentions in coming to Dublin may have been, it is certain that they received no proposals of marriage in the drawing-room of their hotel. Neither received a proposal until Ismena went to study art in Julien’s and Letitia was left alone in their lodge in the west. In this interval both were on the point of being married, but, unfortunately, Ismena thought it necessary to rush back to Ireland to see her sister and to bring her suitor with her; Letitia brought her suitor from the country; and when the young men saw the sisters together neither loved his betrothed as much as he had done before. There was no wish to change over, together neither sister seemed to please, and the young men broke off their engagements.

  After this miserable adventure their visits to Dublin became more private, they stayed only a few days in town, returning to the country as soon as their clothes came home from the dressmaker’s. Many years passed, and when they were middle-aged they had inherited a house in Stanhope Terrace, and they came to live in Dublin for good. They often said they would go abroad, but they had never dared to go until Letitia had been ordered abroad by the doctor. But now that they had got as far as Aix, there was no saying they might not go on to Rome when the season at Aix was over and if Letitia’s health had been benefited by the waters. They especially looked forward to going to Geneva, and regretted Mont Blanc could not be seen from Aix. Ismena consoled Letitia. She must put Mont Blanc out of her head. She must think of nothing but her health. They went to the baths every morning after mass, and after a short walk they returned to the pension for lunch; in the afternoon they went for drives around the green lake and admired the mountains; in the evening there was always some music in the drawing-room, and though Letitia and Ismena neither played nor sang, they were fond of music.

  True that they missed their reading a little, but about a week after their arrival they discovered there was an English library in the town.

  They had begun reading Mrs Henry Wood before they left Dublin; Letitia was in the middle of the twelfth and Ismena was finishing the thirteenth volume. The librarian said he could supply them with all her works, and both women had begun to think that their journey south was a complete success. Nothing happened to mar their happiness except that they were forced to sleep in different rooms, and now the little blot on it was about to be wiped away, the people who occupied the double-bedded room were going, and the question arose if they should leave their single rooms.

  Ismena, though not impatient to share her nights with her sister, was surprised to hear Letitia say it would be hardly worth while changing, now that they were returning home so soon, and she questioned her sister sharply in the baths that morning, but without obtaining any other answer from her.

  Letitia had found a book in her room, and a book that had interested her more than any book she had ever read. She had had occasion to move the chest of drawers, and the book dropped down. It was a French novel of many hundred pages and very closely written, but Letitia’s attention had been caught at once. She had opened the book at a page where the French was easy, and she had read of a farmer’s beautiful daughter who was going to marry a country doctor. The writer mentioned that when Emma put up her silk parasol the last drops splashed on the distended silk. Letitia had never ready anything like this in Sir Walter Scott or in Mrs Henry Wood. The rain-drops splashing upon the distended silk parasol excited her wonderment, the sensation was so near that she could feel and hear the cold rain on the silk, and that afternoon her sister noticed that she was a little distracted as they drove about the sailless green lake. Ismena admired the vines and thought it exciting to be in the south at the time of the vintage, but Letitia was thinking of the pages she had read before coming out to drive with her sister. They described the farmer’s daughter after her marriage. One day Emma was walking in some meadows wondering if her life would always be the same, and her thoughts ran round and round in circles, like the little Italian greyhound in front of her. Letitia had been impressed by the passage, and she felt that she must read this book, not once, but many times. But they were returning to Dublin in a few days, and she could not read the book in that time, nor yet in twenty days. She felt she must read the passage about the greyhound again. The book had probably been forgotten by some former occupant of the room. She did not like to take what did not belong to her, and she could not leave it behind, for then the people in the hotel would think that she had bought the book, that it was hers, and the last three days were spent in thinking of what she should do with it. She could not put it into that trunk; Ismena would be sure to find it, and she did not want Ismena to know that she had read it; she did not want Ismena to read this book; she did not want to discuss this book with Ismena. One can discuss Scott or Dickens or Thackeray, but one cannot discuss emotions that one ought never to have felt with one’s sister. Eventually she put the book into the pocket that she wore under her skirt, and it seriously inconvenienced her during the journey. It was difficult for her to get her purse when Ismena asked her for it at the ticket-offices, and the book thumped her legs when she walked, but she did not mind the inconvenience; she was troubled by the thought that she had stolen the book, but her anxiety to know what became of Emma was intense. She thought of the pleasure it would be to read this book in the garden, and almost the first thing she did was to hide her book in the tool-house. It was only in the garden she could read it; in the drawing-room she read Scott with Ismena. There was a rosewood table in the middle of the worn carpet, and the wall-paper was stained and dusty and covered with bad engravings of sentimental pictures, and there were some coloured lithographs of Pyrenean peasants and forgotten prima-donnas. It was in this drawing-room, sitting on the little green sofa or on the old armchairs, sheltered from the flare of the fire by tapestry screens, that Ismena and Letitia read the books that came every week from the circulating library. They always read the same authors, for if they read different authors they would have nothing to talk about, and they enjoyed discussing the heroes and the heroines in the evening before they took their candle and went to their bedroom. It was Ismena who decided which author they should read; her mind was more methodical than Letitia’s, and she believed that to derive any considerable benefit from an author he should be read from the earliest to the latest works. Her preference for authors of historical tendencies enabled her to overrule Letitia’s taste for modern sentimentalities, and she was now forcing a thorough reading of the Waverley novels upon her sister. Most of their reading was done in the afternoons and evenings. The sisters took the housekeeping and the gardening in turns. At half-past ten e
very morning they separated for a while. One took up the key-basket, the other looked to see if it were raining; if it were not, she put on her gardening gloves.

  ‘You don’t seem to care for Old Mortality?’

  ‘I admire it, but I don’t care to read it. How many more novels are there, Ismena, in this edition?’

  ‘Thirteen or fourteen, I think, dear; we ought to get through them all before February.’

  In those fourteen novels Letitia saw nothing but breastplates and ramparcs, and she made up her mind to skip a number of pages when Ismena went to the kitchen.

  ‘Before we went to Aix we began Mrs Henry Wood. You insisted on reading her and you did not finish her works.’

  ‘I read eighteen, and then I began to get confused about the characters and to muddle up the stories. I have read now a dozen volumes of Scott, and I don’t seem to have learned anything.’

  ‘What do you mean, Letitia?’

  ‘Well, one learns nothing of life.’

  There seemed to be some truth in Letitia’s remark, and Ismena thought before she answered -

  ‘You did not like Felix Holt, you never finished it, and you said that a novel was intended to amuse rather than to instruct.’

  ‘Felix Holt, if I remember right, is about democracy, socialism, and Methodism. I should like to read about life, about what people really feel. I cannot express myself any better, Ismena. Don’t you understand that one would like to read about one’s own life or about something that might have been one’s life?’

  ‘But no one could write a novel about our lives; nothing very much seems to have happened in them.’

  Letitia heard her go downstairs to the kitchen, and she put the marker twenty and odd pages farther than she had read. She turned on the sofa and looked out of the window. There were clouds, but it was still fine, and Letitia decided that this was the moment to go into the garden.