In recently reading her history through again, I have found it, because of her, as delightful as it was at the first or the second reading. I have felt the author’s foibles more, but I think I have been also more sensible of his very uncommon cleverness, and I am more than ever grateful to him for such a girl as Lucy Fountain. He does not overdo her; in his most successful moments he does not make such a clamor as usual; she has the ladylike power to put even her creator on his best behavior, and to make almost a master of him; just as she knows how to get the better of her Aunt Bazalgette and her Uncle Fountain, in their respective forms of selfishness, to keep Mr. Talboys from being offensive, and to prevent David Dodd from kicking him when she fails. She is the universal solvent of the story, reconciling and adapting its warring elements, and, when she has done her office, resuming her individuality at the final precipitation of events to lose it then in the absolute self-devotion of love.
III
I do not know in fiction a more pleasing story on the lines along which her story capers so nimbly. The situation is one which has always tempted the novelist and always will till novelists shall be no more. There is a perennial fascination in the notion of love between higher station and lower, but commonly the fascination is too great for the novelist’s sense of proportion, his respect for probability, and his reverence for truth. He is very, very rarely so candid as Reade, who has dealt with it more than once, and always pretty faithfully, resisting fairly well the temptation to blink its implications. Difference of social tradition is effaced in the glow of passion, as we see in the case of young ladies who now and then run away with their fathers’ coachmen; but their experience seems to be that it reasserts itself as passion fades. This is the experience of Lucy Fountain after she becomes Mrs. David Dodd; but that adorable creature philosophically ignores what she practically knows: that is, she makes the best of the inevitable, and as we see in “Very Hard Cash,” where the tale of her life after marriage is continued from “Love Me Little, Love Me Long,” she is not less fond of Dodd because he proves inalienably the simple heroic sailor that she fell in love with him for being. Few heroines are equal to so much, and it is for this reason chiefly that we must respect her.
The author far more easily makes us like her; for it is easier to impart the sense of charm than the sense of character; and we begin to feel her charm from the moment when bored to death helping her Uncle Fountain find himself at the top of his family tree, “ by a gymnastic of courtesy she first crushed, and then so moulded a yawn that it glided into a society smile.” You begin to feel her character still earlier, in that wonderful first chapter where she is shown the triumphant victim of her Aunt Bazalgette’s selfishness, a wily martyr who plans to have her own amidst the flames of sacrifice, and a moralist who keeps her conscience clean from the environing pitch of Mrs. Bazalgette’s lies. This lady once takes possession of the drawing-room to try on a dress she means to make Lucy make over for her:
“Mrs. Bazalgette then rang the bell, and told the servant to say she was out if any one called, no matter who. Meantime Lucy, impressed with the gravity of her office, took the dress carefully down from the pegs; and as it would have been death to crease it, and destruction to let its hem sweep against any of the inferior forms of matter, she came down the stairs holding this female weapon of destruction as high above her head as Judith waves the sword of Holofernes in Etty’s immortal picture. The other had just found time to loosen her dress and lock one of the doors; she now locked the other, and the rites began. Well!!?? ‘It fits you like a glove.’ ‘Really? tell the truth now; it is a sin to tell a story — about a new gown. What a nuisance one can’t see behind one!’ ‘I could fetch another glass, but you may trust my word, aunt. This point behind is very becoming; it gives distinction to the waist.’ ‘Yes, Baldwin cuts these bodies better than Olivier; but the worst of her is, when it comes to the trimming you have to think for yourself; the woman has no mind; she is a pair of hands, and there is an end of her.’ ‘I must confess it is a little plain, for one thing,’ said Lucy. ‘Why, you little goose, you don’t think I am going to wear it like this. No; I thought of having down a wreath and bouquet from Foster’s of violets and heart’s-ease — the bosom and sleeves covered with blonde, you know, and caught up here and there with a small bunch of the flowers. Then, in the centre heart’s-ease of the bosom I meant to have had two of my largest diamonds set — hush!’ The door-handle worked viciously; then came rap! rap! rap! rap! ‘Tic — tic — tic! this is always the way. Who is there? Go away! You can’t come here.’ ‘But I want to speak to you. What the deuce are you doing?’ said, through the key-hole, the wretch that owned the room in a mere legal sense. ‘We are trying a dress. Come again in an hour.’ ‘Confound your dresses! Who is we?’ ‘Lucy has got a new dress.’ ‘Aunt!’ whispered Lucy, in a tone of piteous expostulation. ‘Oh, if it is Lucy. Well, good-by, ladies. I am obliged to go to London at a moment’s notice for a couple of days. You will have done by when I come back, perhaps;’ and off went Bazalgette, whistling, but not best pleased. He had told his wife more than once that the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms of a house are the public rooms, and the bedrooms the private ones.”
Lucy’s Aunt Bazalgette, whose husband is a banker, is determined she shall marry a brilliant financier; her Uncle Fountain, who is cultivating a family tree, has set his mind on her marrying a man of old family, as exemplified in his neighbor Talboys. When she goes to her uncle, he has the long-descended Talboys about the house pretty much all the time, and after a certain evening of him, he rejoices that he never saw her in better spirits.
“‘I am glad you saw that,’ said Lucy, with a languid smile. ‘And how Talboys came out.’ ‘He did,’ sighed Lucy. Here the young lady lighted softly on an ottoman, and sunk gracefully back with a weary-o’- the-world air; and when she had settled down like so much floss silk, fixing her eye on the ceiling, and doling her words out languidly yet thoughtfully — just above a whisper: ‘Uncle, darling,’ inquired she, ‘where are the men we have all heard of?’ ‘How should I know? What men?’ ‘Where are the men of sentiment, that can understand a woman, and win her to reveal her real heart, the best treasure she has, uncle, dear?’ She paused for a reply; none coming, she continued, with decreasing energy: ‘Where are the men of spirit? the men of action? the upright, downright men, that Heaven sends to cure us of our disingenuousness? Where are the heroes and the wits?’ (an infinitesimal yawn); ‘where are the real men? And where are the women to whom such men can do homage without degrading themselves? where are the men who elevate a woman without making her masculine, and the women who can brighten and polish, and yet not soften the steel of manhood — tell me, tell me instantly,’ said she, with still greater languor and want of earnestness, and her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling in deep abstraction.”
Lucy’s aspiration for the heroic aptly prepares the way for David Dodd, who directly appears on the scene with his sister Eve, at one of those teas which replace for them the greater distinction of dinner. He tells stories of his seafaring, and supplies for her the demand she has made of her helpless uncle, and fills the long-felt want of her heart. Of course she knows this before she will own it; and the love-making goes deviously on and on, but never quite halts, though it often seems to halt. Through it all, Lucy is still Lucy, arming herself for final truth by all sorts of provisional feints, and never failing of a just sense of her sailor’s worth in any circumstances. Sometimes her magnanimity is severely tried, as when David, asked to be her aunt’s guest, appears among her fine company one day suddenly with his carpet-bag on his shoulder, the boy whom he had paid to carry it proving too weak for the work. Lucy manages so well that she commands her aunt’s entire admiration and esteem, which Mrs. Bazalgette confesses in a reading of the girl’s nature.
“‘If the gentlemen take you for a pane of glass, why, all the better; meantime, shall I tell you your real character? I have only just discovered it myself.’ ‘Oh, yes aunt, tell me my ch
aracter. I should so like to hear it from you.’ ‘Should you?’ said the other, a little satirically; ‘well, then, you are an IN-NOCENT FOX!’ ‘Aunt!”An in-no-cent fox; so run and get your work-box. I want you to run up a tear in my flounce.’ Lucy went thoughtfully for her work-box, murmuring ruefully, ‘I am an in-nocent fox — I am an in-nocent fox.’ She did not like her new character at all; it mortified her, and seemed self-contradictory as well as derogatory. On her return she could not help remonstrating: ‘How can that be my character? A fox is cunning, and I despise cunning; and I sure I am not innocent,’ added she, putting up both hands and looking penitent. With all this, a shade of vexation was painted on her lovely cheeks as she appealed against her epigram.”
But the innocence of all the foxes in the world cannot save a girl from the love with which she has filled a true man’s heart, if she happens to have filled it from her own, and the time has to come when after long twisting and turning to escape him Lucy Fountain is forced to listen to David Dodd. It is when she comes back to the garden, where she thinks she has left her glove, and finds Dodd on his knees with his face to the ground. She almost runs over him.
“‘What are you doing, Mr. Dodd?’ David arose from his Oriental position, and, being a young man whose impulse always was to tell the simple truth, replied: ‘I was kissing the place where you stood so long,’ He did not feel that he had done anything extraordinary, so he gave her this information composedly; but her face was scarlet in an instant; and he, seeing that, began to blush too. For once Lucy’s tact was baffled; she did not know what on earth to say, and she stood blushing like a girl of fifteen. Then she tried to turn it off. ‘Mr. Dodd, how can you be so ridiculous?’ said she, affecting humorous disdain. But David was not to be put down now; he was launched ‘I am not ridiculous for loving and worshipping you, for you are worthy of even more love than any human heart can hold.’ ‘Oh, hush, Mr. Dodd! I must not hear this.’ ‘Miss Lucy, I can’t keep it any longer — you must, you shall hear me. You can despise my love if you will, but you shall know it before you reject it.” Mr. Dodd, you have every right to be heard, but let me persuade you not to insist. Oh, why did I come back?’ ‘The first moment I saw you, Miss Lucy, it was a new life to me. I never looked twice at any girl before. It is not your beauty only — oh, no; it is your goodness — goodness such as I never thought was to be found on earth. Don’t turn your head from me; I know my defects; could I look on you and not see them? My manners are blunt and rude — oh, how different from yours! — but you could soon make me a fine gentleman, I love you so. And I am only the first mate of an India-man; but I should be captain next voyage, Miss Lucy, and a sailor like me has no expenses; all he has is his wife’s. The first lady in the land will not be petted as you will, if you will look kindly on me. Listen to me,’ trying to tempt her. ‘No, Miss Lucy, I have nothing to offer you worth your acceptance, only my love. No man ever loved woman as I love you; it is not love, it is worship, it is adoration! Ah! she is going to speak to me at last!’ Lucy presented at this moment a strange contrast of calmness and agitation. Her bosom heaved quickly, and she was pale, but her voice was calm, and, though gentle, decided. ‘I know you love me, Mr. Dodd, and I feared this. I have tried to save you the mortification of being declined by one who, in many things, is your inferior. I have even been rude and unkind to you. Forgive me for it. I meant kindly. I regret it now. Mr. Dodd, I thank you for the honor you do me, but I cannot accept your love.’ There was a pause, but David’s tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He was not surprised, yet he was stupefied when the blow came. At last he gasped out: ‘You love some other man?’ Lucy was silent. ‘Answer me, for pity’s sake; give me something to help me,’ ‘You have no right to ask me such a question, but — I have no attachment, Mr. Dodd.’ ‘Ah! then one word more; is it because you cannot love me, or because I am poor, and only first mate of an Indiaman?’ ‘That I will not answer. You have no right to question a lady why she — Stay! you wish to despise me. Well, why not, if that will cure you of this unfortunate — Think what you please of me, Mr. Dodd,’ murmured Lucy, sadly. ‘Ah! you know I can’t,’ cried David, despairingly. ‘I know that you esteem me more than I deserve. Well, I esteem you, Mr. Dodd. Why, then, can we not be friends? You have only to promise me you will never return to this subject — come!’ ‘Me promise not to love you! What is the use? Me be your friend, and nothing more, and stand looking on at the heaven that is to be another’s, and never to be mine? It is my turn to decline. Never. Betrothed lovers or strangers, but nothing between!... Shall I go now?’ ‘Yes,’ murmured Lucy, softly, trying to disarm the fatal word. ‘Forget me — and — forgive me!’ and, with this last word scarce audible, she averted her face, and held out her hand with angelic dignity, modesty, and pity. The kind words and the gentle action brought down the stout heart that had looked death in the face so often without flinching. ‘Forgive you, sweet angel! ‘he cried; ‘I pray Heaven to bless you, and to make you as happy as I am desolate for your sake. Oh, you show me more and more what I lose this day. God bless you! God bless—’ and David’s heart filled to choking, and he burst out sobbing despairingly, and the hot tears ran suddenly from his eyes over her hand as he kissed and kissed it. Then, with an almost savage feeling of shame (for these were not eyes that were wont to weep), he uttered one cry of despair and ran away, leaving her pale and panting heavily. She looked at her hand, wet with a hero’s tears, and for the second time her own began to gush.”
No intelligent reader would suppose this was the end, although he had not already been told that the lovers are securely wedded before the tale is done. Their story is subordinate prolonged, as we all know, through “Very Hard Cash,” and I do not think that there is anything Mrs. David Dodd says or does in that rather inferior book to decharacterize Miss Lucy Fountain. That girl is a great invention, and if it is true, as I have several times contended in these papers, that a novelist’s power is to be tested largely by his success in dealing with feminine nature, I do not see why I have called Charles Reade a minor novelist. It must be that the offences of his manner and the impertinences of his method have weighed too heavily with me. It is certain that these are so many and so grievous that a far more lenient critic might find them damnatory.
IV
Lucy Fountain is of the same type of heroine as Helen Rolleston in “Foul Play,” and the heroine of “A Terrible Temptation,” There is another type, the frankly honest, or the almost frankly honest, type which he deals with in Christie Johnstone in the novel of her name, and Katharine Gaunt in “Griffith Gaunt,” and Margaret in “The Cloister and the Hearth,” and Grace Carden in “Put Yourself in His Place but each of these has some little hint or tint of the Lucy Fountain type in her, which is perhaps nothing, after all, but the ultimate and inevitable expression of her femininity. Possibly when women are quite equal in their chances and conditions with men they will cease to be innocent foxes; but in the meantime we must be glad and grateful when they are innocent.
Still another type of heroine in Charles Reade’s fiction is that supremely illustrated by the titulary heroine of “Peg. Woffington.” If such heroines could always be openly or professionally of the theatre, we should have no right to object that they are mechanical. Actresses are and must be so entirely subservient to the exigencies of the stage that they end by exchanging their nature for its artifice, and in the highest effects of character deliver a coup de théâtre. It is not that they stab the potatoes; but that they peel or mash them with one eye on the public; or that they conceive of nothing sublimer than eating a poisoned potato so that their rivals may marry the men they love. It is not their fault, poor things: they have been so warped by their art that they cannot imagine anything finer than the devices with which they have brought down houses; or their inventors cannot imagine it for them, which is quite as bad in effect.
Charles Reade was of a better theatre than Charles Dickens, but he was of the theatre; and you seem to be reading a dramatization
of his novels, rather than the novels themselves. Yet they are ingenious, brilliant, witty, and abound in true suggestions of femininity; and their heroines merit much more attention than can be given them in a single paper.
VARIATIONS OF READE’S TYPE OF HEROINES
THE absence of anything like a philosophic criticism in England must account for the antics and aberrations of English novelists who were greatly gifted but wholly undisciplined, and who let themselves go to the bounds of their eccentricities because they were aware of no law that they need stand in fear of. Several of the greatest, like Jane Austen, Anthony Trollope Thomas Hardy, and George Moore, have been so admirably tempered by nature that they could not help being artists, worthy of any Continental school, amidst the prevailing æsthetic anarchy of their native island, where there is no school, where criticism is arbitrary and personal, where there are no ideals, but only standards; no principles, but only preferences. I have to note the lamentable results of these conditions in the case of nearly all the English novelists except those I have named; in the case of such a novelist as Charles Reade, a powerful but most wilful talent, they are comically disastrous; the final complexion of their tragedy is bouffe.
Charles Reade was as nobly intentioned as any novelist who has written; he imagined his vocation to be painting truly from nature; to be, as Mr. James defines the office of fiction, the representation of life. Yet for want of a principled criticism he could never understand that the painter has no business in the picture, the dramatist has no business on the stage. He is forever at your elbow as you read, audibly directing your attention to this and that surprising fact; winking to you, sticking his tongue in his cheek, and clucking to make you notice. He is not as bad as Thackeray, who spoils the illusion by whispering you that the whole thing is make-believe; he is faithful to his own fancy, at least; but he is of a worse literary taste, and in his anxiety to show you how full of drama the real world is, he drags in raw Incident by the hair, and makes a newspaper of his page.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 1568
