Bartlett.— “To-morrow, to-morrow!” He walks away, and returns to her. “Have you read — have you ever read The Talking Oak, Miss Wyatt?”
Constance.— “Tennyson’s? A thousand times. Isn’t it charming?”
Bartlett.— “It’s absurd, I think. Do you remember where he makes the oak say of the young lady, —
‘And in a fit of frolic, mirth She strove to span my waist:.... I wish’d myself the fair young beech That here beside me stands, That round me, clasping each in each, She might have lock’d her hands’?”
Constance.— “Why, that’s lovely, — that attribution of human feeling to the tree. Don’t you think so?”
Bartlett, absently.— “Yes, yes; beautiful. But it’s terrible, too; terrible. Supposing the oak really had human feeling; or supposing that a man had been meant in the figure of an oak” — He has drawn near Constance again; but now he retreats. “Ah, I can’t work out the idea.”
Constance.— “What idea? I can’t imagine what you mean.”
Bartlett.— “Ah! I can. My trouble is, I can’t say what I mean! This was sometime a paradox.”
Constance.— “Oh! I should think, a riddle.”
Bartlett.— “Some day I hope you’ll let me read it to you.”
Constance.— “Why not now?”
Bartlett, impetuously.— “If you only meant what you said, it would be — so much better than if I said what I meant!”
Constance.— “You are dealing in mysteries to-day.”
Bartlett.— “Oh, the greatest of them! But don’t mind. Wait! I’ll try to tell you what I mean. I won’t make you stand, while I talk. Here!” He wheels up in front of the picture one of the haircloth sofas; Constance mechanically sinks down upon it, and he takes his place at her side; she bends upon him a look of smiling amusement. “I can put my meaning best, I think, in the form of allegory. Do you like allegory, Miss Wyatt?”
Constance.— “Yes. That is, not very much.”
Bartlett.— “Oh! You don’t like allegory! Upon second thoughts, I don’t myself. We will not try allegory. We will try a supposed case. I think that’s always the best way, don’t you?”
Constance.— “No, I don’t like any sort of indirection. I believe the straightforward way is the best.”
Bartlett.— “Yes, so do I; but it’s impossible. We must try a supposed case.”
Constance, laughing.— “Well!”
Bartlett.— “Ah! I can’t say anything if you laugh. It’s a serious matter.”
Constance, with another burst of laughter.— “I should never have thought so.” With a sudden return of her old morbid mood: “I beg your pardon for laughing. What right have I to laugh? Go on, Mr. Bartlett, and I will listen as I should have done. I am ashamed.”
Bartlett.— “No, no! That won’t do! You mustn’t take me so seriously as that! Oh, Miss Wyatt, if I could only be so much your friend, your fool, — I don’t care what, — as to banish that look, that tone from you for ever!”
Constance.— “Why do you care?”
Bartlett.— “Why do I care?”
Constance.— “Yes. Why should you mind whether so weak and silly a thing as I is glad or sad? I can’t understand. Why have you had so much patience with me? Why do you take all this trouble on my account, and waste your time on me? Why” —
Bartlett, starting up.— “Why do I do it?” He walks away to the other side of the room with signs of great inward struggle; then he swiftly returns to her side where she has risen and stands near the sofa, and seizes her hand. “Well, I will tell you why. No, no! I can’t! It would be” —
General Wyatt, behind his newspaper.— “Outrageous! Gross violation of good faith! Infernal shame!” The General concludes these observations with a loud, prolonged, and very stertorous respiration.
Constance, running to him.— “Why, papa, what do you mean? Oh poor papa! He’s asleep, and in such a wretched position!” From which she hastens to move him, while Bartlett, recovering from the amaze in which the appositeness of the General’s remarks had plunged him, breaks into a harsh “Ha! ha!” Constance turns and advances upon him in threatening majesty: “Did you laugh, Mr. Bartlett?”
Bartlett, after a moment’s dismay.— “Well, I don’t know whether you call it laughing. I smiled.”
Constance, with increasing awfulness: “Why did you laugh, Mr. Bartlett?”
Bartlett.— “I — I — I can’t say.”
Constance.— “You were laughing at General Wyatt!”
Bartlett.— “Was there nothing to laugh at?”
Constance.— “For children! For vulgar, silly boys! For a gentleman, nothing!”
Bartlett, with rising wrath.— “Then I have no excuse, unless I say that I am no gentleman.”
Constance.— “I shall not dispute you in anything; and I will leave you to the enjoyment of your mirth.”
Bartlett.— “Very well. As you like. I am sorry to have offended you. I shall take care never to offend you again.” Constance sweeps towards one door, at the threshold of which she pauses to look round and see Bartlett dashing her box of colours together as if it were his own, and thrusting it under his arm, seizing with a furious hand the canvas on the easel and his coat from the chair-back, and then rushing from the room. She drops her face into her hands and vanishes, and the next moment Mrs. Wyatt enters.
IV.
Mrs. Wyatt and General Wyatt.
Mrs. Wyatt.— “What is the matter with Constance, James? Have you been” — She goes up to the General and discovers his vigilance: “Asleep!” Waking him: “James, James! Is this the way you do the dragon, as you call it?”
General Wyatt, starting awake: “Dragon? Dragon? What dragon? I dreamt I was a perfect fiery dragon, and went about breathing flame and smoke. How long have I slept, Margaret? Where is Mr. Bartlett? Where is Constance?”
Mrs. Wyatt.— “Oh, you may well ask that, James. I just met Constance at the door, in tears. Oh, I hope nothing dreadful has happened.”
General Wyatt.— “Nonsense, Margaret. Here, help me up, my dear. My nap hasn’t done me any good. I’m stiff all over.”
Mrs. Wyatt, anxiously.— “I’m afraid you have taken cold, James.”
General Wyatt, with impatience.— “Cold? No! Not in the least. I’m perfectly well. But that was a very unpleasant dream. Margaret, I’m afraid that I breathed rather — explosively, at one time.”
Mrs. Wyatt.— “Oh, James, this is worse and worse. It must have mortified Constance, dreadfully.”
General Wyatt, taking his wife’s arm, and limping from the scene:— “Well, well! Never mind! I’ll make it right with Bartlett. He’s a man of sense, and will help me laugh it off with her. It will be all right, Margaret; don’t worry over a trifle like that.”
Mrs. Wyatt, as they disappear:— “Trifle? Her whole happiness may depend upon it.” At the instant of their withdrawal, Constance and Bartlett, hastily entering by opposite doors, encounter each other in the middle of the room.
V.
Bartlett and Constance
Both, at once.— “I came to” —
Bartlett.— “Restore you your box of colours and your canvas, which I carried off by mistake.”
Constance.— “To say that I am very, very sorry for my rudeness to you, and to entreat you to forget my abominable words, if you can.”
Bartlett, with a generous rush of emotion, dropping the canvas on the floor at one side and the box of colours on the other, and snatching her extended hand to his lips.— “Don’t say that. I deserved a thousand times more. You were right.”
Constance.— “No, no! I can’t let you blame yourself to save me from self-reproach. I know papa was ridiculous. But what made me angry was this thought that you were laughing at him. I couldn’t bear that. I shouldn’t have minded your laughing at me; but at papa!”
Bartlett, sadly.— “I happened to be laughing much more at myself than your father. Where is the General?”
Co
nstance.— “He has gone with mamma. They wondered where you were, and I said you were coming back again.”
Bartlett.— “How did you know?”
Constance.— “I thought you would come, — that you would upbraid yourself for my bad behaviour, and return to excuse it to me. You see what perfect faith I — we — have in you.”
Bartlett, earnestly.— “Have you indeed perfect faith in me?”
Constance.— “Perfect!”
Bartlett, vehemently.— “But why, why do you trust me? You see that I am hasty and rude.”
Constance.— “Oh no, not rude.”
Bartlett.— “But I assure you that I am so; and you have seen that I laughed — that I am wanting in delicacy, and” —
Constance, devoutly.— “How can you say that to us, when every day, every hour, every instant of the last month has given us proof of unimaginable kindness in you!” He eagerly approaches and takes her hands, which she frankly yields him. “Your patience, your noble forbearance, which we so sorely tried, has made us all forget that you are a stranger, and — and — to me it’s as if we had always known you” — her head droops— “as if you were a — an old friend, a — brother” —
Bartlett, dropping her hands.— “Oh!” He turns away, and pacing the length of the room reapproaches her hastily.
Constance, with a little cry.— “Mr. Bartlett! Do look! Did you intend to trample my canvas and colours under foot?” She makes as if to stoop for them.
Bartlett, his manner undergoing a total change as if he had been suddenly recalled to himself at a critical moment.— “Don’t!” He hastily picks them up, and puts the canvas on the easel and the colours on the table. With a glance at the canvas: “Ponkwasset doesn’t seem to have been seriously injured by his violent usage. Shall you like to try your hand at him again to-morrow?”
Constance.— “Oh, yes. But on one condition.”
Bartlett.— “Yes.”
Constance.— “That you have a little faith in me, too.”
Bartlett.— “Oh, Miss Wyatt” —
Constance.— “I used to have a bad temper, and now that I’m getting better it seems to be getting worse. Try to believe in me enough to know that when I do or say some violent thing, I’m ashamed of it; and that when I wounded you, I really meant to hurt myself; that I — Oh, you know, Mr. Bartlett, how much you’ve borne from us, and how much we owe you; and if you did anything now to make us think less of your unselfish goodness, we never could forgive you!” Bartlett remains with bowed head. “I must go, now.” Gaily: “Perhaps to-morrow, when we resume our lessons, you’ll tell me what you meant to-day, when you couldn’t explain yourself.”
Bartlett, vehemently.— “No, I can never tell you.”
Constance.— “I can’t believe that! At any rate, we shall talk the matter over, and I may say something to help you. You know how one thing leads to another.”
Bartlett.— “But nothing you can ever say now will lead to what I wanted to say.”
Constance, laughing.— “Don’t be sure. If you rouse my curiosity, I shall be a powerful aid to expression. With a woman’s wit to help you out with your meaning, how can you help making it clear?”
Bartlett.— “Because — because it wants something more than wit in you to make it clear.”
Constance.— “Well, you shall have sympathy, if sympathy is what you need. Is it something like sympathy?”
Bartlett.— “Something like sympathy; but — not — not exactly sympathy.”
Constance, with another laugh.— “How difficult you make it! I see! You want compassion.”
Bartlett, quickly.— “Oh, no! I would sooner have contempt!”
Constance.— “But that’s the one thing you can’t have. Try to think of something else you want, and let me know to-morrow.” She nods brightly to him, and he follows her going with a gaze of hopeless longing. As she vanishes through the doorway, he lifts his hand to his lips, and reverently kisses it to her.
Bartlett, alone.— “Try to think what I want and let you know! Ah, my darling, my darling! Your faith in me kills my hope. If you only dared a little less with me, how much more I might dare with you; and if you were not so sisterly sweet, how much sweeter you might be! Brother? Forty thousand brothers could not with all their quantity of love make up my sum! You drive me farther than your worst enemy from you with that fatal word. Brother? I hate brother! If it had been cousin — And kind? Oh, I would we were
‘A little less than kin, and more than kind!’”
IV. NOT AT ALL LIKE.
I.
Bartlett and Cummings.
Bartlett.— “Six weeks since you were here? I shouldn’t have thought that.” Bartlett’s easel stands before the window, in the hotel parlour; he has laid a tint upon the canvas, and has retired a few paces for the effect, his palette and mahl-stick in hand, and his head carried at a critical angle. Cummings, who has been doing the duty of art-culture by the picture, regards it with renewed interest. Bartlett resumes his work: “Pretty good, Cummings?”
Cummings.— “Capital! The blue of that distance” —
Bartlett, with a burlesque sigh.— “Ah, I looked into my heart and painted for that! Well, you find me still here, Cummings, and apparently more at home than ever. The landlord has devoted this parlour to the cause of art, — makes the transients use the lower parlour, now, — and we have this all to ourselves: Miss Wyatt sketches, you know. Her mother brings her sewing, and the General his bruises; he hasn’t quite scrambled up, yet, from that little knock-down of his; a man doesn’t, at his time of life, I believe; and we make this our family-room; and a very queer family we are! Fine old fellow, the General; he’s behaved himself since his accident like a disabled angel, and hasn’t sworn, — well, anything worth speaking of. Yes, here I am. I suppose it’s all right, but for all I know it may be all wrong.” Bartlett sighs in unguarded sincerity. “I don’t know what I’m here for. Nature began shutting up shop a fortnight ago at a pretty lively rate, and edging loafers to the door, with every sign of impatience; and yet here I am, hanging round still. I suppose this glimpse of Indian Summer is some excuse just now; it’s a perfect blessing to the landlord, and he’s making hay — rowen crop — while the sun shines; I’ve been with him so long now, I take quite an interest in his prosperity, if eight dollars a week of it do come out of me! What is talked of in ‘art-circles’ down in Boston, brother Cummings?”
Cummings.— “Your picture.”
Bartlett, inattentively, while he comes up to his canvas, and bestows an infinitesimal portion of paint upon a destitute spot in the canvas.— “Don’t be sarcastic, Cummings.”
Cummings.— “I’m not, I assure you.”
Bartlett, turning toward him incredulously.— “Do you mean to say that The First Grey Hair is liked?”
Cummings.— “I do. There hasn’t been any picture so much talked of this season.”
Bartlett.— “Then it’s the shameless slop of the name. I should think you’d blush for your part in that swindle. But clergymen have no conscience, where they’ve a chance to do a fellow a kindness, I’ve observed.” He goes up to Cummings with his brush in his mouth, his palette on one hand, and his mahl-stick in the other, and contrives to lay hold of his shoulders with a few disengaged fingers. As Cummings shrinks a little from his embrace: “Oh, don’t be afraid; I shan’t get any paint on you. You need a whole coat of whitewash, though, you unscrupulous saint!” He returns to his easel. “So The Old Girl — that’s what I shall call the picture — is a success, is she? The admiring public ought to see the original elm-tree now; she hasn’t got a hair, grey or green, on her head; she’s perfectly bald. I say, Cummings, how would it do for me to paint a pendant, The Last Grey Hair? I might look up a leaf or two on the elm, somewhere: stick it on to the point of twig; they wouldn’t know any better.”
Cummings.— “The leafless elm would make a good picture, whatever you called it.” Bartlett throws back his shaggy head and la
ughs up at the ceiling. “The fact is, Bartlett, I’ve got a little surprise for you.”
Bartlett, looking at him askance.— “Somebody wanting to chromo The Old Girl? No, no; it isn’t quite so bad as that!”
Cummings, in a burst.— “They did want to chromo it. But it’s sold. They’ve got you two hundred dollars for it.” Bartlett lays down his brush, palette, and mahl-stick, dusts his fingers, puts them in his pockets, and comes and stands before Cummings, on whom, seated, he bends a curious look.
Bartlett.— “And do you mean to tell me, you hardened atheist, that you don’t believe in the doctrine of future punishments? What are they going to do with you in the next world? And that picture-dealer? And me? Two hun — It’s an outrage! It’s — the picture wasn’t worth fifty, by a stretch of the most charitable imagination! Two hundred, d — Why, Cummings, I’ll paint no end of Old Girls, First and Last Grey Hairs — I’ll flood the market! Two — Good Lord!” Bartlett goes back to his easel, and silently resumes his work. After a while: “Who’s been offered up?”
Cummings.— “What?”
Bartlett.— “Who’s the victim? My patron? The noble and discriminating and munificent purchaser of The Old Girl?”
Cummings.— “Oh! Mrs. Bellingham. She’s going to send it out to her daughter in Omaha.”
Bartlett.— “Ah! Mrs. Blake wishes to found an art museum with that curiosity out there? Sorry for the Omaha-has.” Cummings makes a gesture of impatience. “Well, well; I won’t then, old fellow! I’m truly obliged to you. I accept my good fortune with compunction, but with all the gratitude imaginable. I say, Cummings!”
Cummings.— “Well?”
Bartlett.— “What do you think of my taking to high art, — mountains twelve hundred feet above the sea, like this portrait of Ponkwasset?”
Cummings.— “I’ve always told you that you had only to give yourself scope, — attempt something worthy of your powers” —
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 1115
