Armadale

by Wilkie Collins

  Shall I tear out the leaf on which all these shocking things have been written? No. My Diary is so nicely bound – it would be positive barbarity to tear out a leaf. Let me occupy myself harmlessly with something else. What shall it be? My dressing-case – I will put my dressing-case tidy, and polish up the few little things in it which my misfortunes have still left in my possession.

  I have shut up the dressing-case again. The first thing I found in it was Armadale’s shabby present to me on my marriage – the rubbishing little ruby ring. That irritated me to begin with. The second thing that turned up was my bottle of Drops. I caught myself measuring the doses with my eye, and calculating how many of them would be enough to take a living creature over the border-land between sleep and death. Why I should have locked the dressing-case in a fright, before I had quite completed my calculation, I don’t know – but I did lock it. And here I am back again at my Diary, with nothing, absolutely nothing, to write about. Oh, the weary day! the weary day! Will nothing happen to excite me a little in this horrible place?

  October 12th. – Midwinter’s all-important letter to the newspaper was despatched by the post last night. I was foolish enough to suppose that I might be honoured by having some of his spare attention bestowed on me to-day. Nothing of the sort! He had a restless night, after all his writing, and got up with his head aching, and his spirits miserably depressed. When he is in this state, his favourite remedy is to return to his old vagabond habits, and go roaming away by himself nobody knows where. He went through the form, this morning (knowing I had no riding-habit), of offering to hire a little broken-kneed brute of a pony for me, in case I wished to accompany him! I preferred remaining at home. I will have a handsome horse and a handsome habit, or I won’t ride at all. He went away, without attempting to persuade me to change my mind. I wouldn’t have changed it of course; but he might have tried to persuade me all the same.

  I can open the piano, in his absence – that is one comfort. And I am in a fine humour for playing – that is another. There is a sonata of Beethoven’s (I forget the number), which always suggests to me the agony of lost spirits in a place of torment. Come, my fingers and thumbs, and take me among the lost spirits, this morning!

  October 13th. – Our windows look out on the sea. At noon to-day, we saw a steamer coming in, with the English flag flying. Midwinter has gone to the port, on the chance that this may be the vessel from Gibraltar, with Armadale on board.

  Two o’clock. – It is the vessel from Gibraltar.3 Armadale has added one more to the long list of his blunders – he has kept his engagement to join us at Naples.

  How will it end, now?

  Who knows!

  October 16th. – Two days missed out of my Diary! I can hardly tell why, unless it is that Armadale irritates me beyond all endurance. The mere sight of him takes me back to Thorpe-Ambrose. I fancy I must have been afraid of what I might write about him, in the course of the last two days, if I indulged myself in the dangerous luxury of opening these pages.

  This morning, I am afraid of nothing – and I take up my pen again accordingly.

  Is there any limit, I wonder, to the brutish stupidity of some men? I thought I had discovered Armadale’s limit when I was his neighbour in Norfolk – but my later experience at Naples shows me that I was wrong. He is perpetually in and out of this house (crossing over to us in a boat from the hotel at Santa Lucia, where he sleeps); and he has exactly two subjects of conversation – the yacht for sale in the harbour here, and Miss Milroy. Yes! he selects me as the confidante of his devoted attachment to the major’s daughter! ‘It’s so nice to talk to a woman about it!’ That is all the apology he has thought it necessary to make for appealing to my sympathies – my sympathies! – on the subject of ‘his darling Neelie’, fifty times a day. He is evidently persuaded (if he thinks about it at all) that I have forgotten, as completely as he has forgotten, all that once passed between us, when I was first at Thorpe-Ambrose. Such an utter want of the commonest delicacy and the commonest tact, in a creature who is, to all appearance, possessed of a skin, and not a hide, and who does, unless my ears deceive me, talk, and not bray, is really quite incredible when one comes to think of it. But it is, for all that, quite true. He asked me – he actually asked me, last night – how many hundreds a year the wife of a rich man could spend on her dress. ‘Don’t put it too low,’ the idiot added, with his intolerable grin. ‘Neelie shall be one of the best-dressed women in England when I have married her.’ And this to me, after having had him at my feet, and then losing him again through Miss Milroy! This to me, with an Alpaca gown on, and a husband whose income must be helped by a newspaper!

  I had better not dwell on it any longer. I had better think and write of something else.

  The yacht. As a relief from hearing about Miss Milroy, I declare the yacht in the harbour is quite an interesting subject to me! She (the men call a vessel ‘She’; and I suppose if the women took an interest in such things, they would call a vessel ‘He’); she is a beautiful model; and her ‘top-sides’ (whatever they may be) are especially distinguished by being built of mahogany. But, with these merits, she has the defect, on the other hand, of being old – which is a sad drawback – and the crew and the sailing-master have been ‘paid off’, and sent home to England – which is additionally distressing. Still, if a new crew and a new sailing-master can be picked up here, such a beautiful creature (with all her drawbacks) is not to be despised. It might answer to hire her for a cruise, and to see how she behaves. (If she is of my mind, her behaviour will rather astonish her new master!) The cruise will determine what faults she has, and what repairs, through the unlucky circumstance of her age, she really stands in need of. And then it will be time to settle, whether to buy her outright or not. Such is Armadale’s conversation, when he is not talking of’ his darling Neelie’. And Midwinter, who can steal no time from his newspaper work, for his wife, can steal hours for his friend, and can offer them unreservedly to my irresistible rival, the new yacht.

  I shall write no more, to-day. If so ladylike a person as I am could feel a tigerish tingling all over her to the very tips of her fingers, I should suspect myself of being in that condition at the present moment. But, with my manners and accomplishments, the thing is, of course, out of the question. We all know that a lady has no passions.

  October 17th. – A letter for Midwinter this morning, from the slaveowners – I mean the newspaper-people in London – which has set him at work again harder than ever. A visit at luncheon-time, and another visit at dinner-time from Armadale. Conversation at luncheon about the yacht. Conversation at dinner about Miss Milroy. I have been honoured, in regard to that young lady, by an invitation to go with Armadale to-morrow to the Toledo, and help him to buy some presents for the beloved object. I didn’t fly out at him – I only made an excuse. Can words express the astonishment I feel at my own patience? No words can express it.

  October 18th. – Armadale came to breakfast this morning, by way of catching Midwinter before he shuts himself up over his work.

  Conversation the same as yesterday’s conversation at lunch. Armadale has made his bargain with the agent for hiring the yacht. The agent (compassionating his total ignorance of the language) has helped him to find an interpreter, but can’t help him to find a crew. The interpreter is civil and willing, but doesn’t understand the sea. Midwinter’s assistance is indispensable; and Midwinter is requested (and consents!) to work harder than ever, so as to make time for helping his friend. When the crew is found, the merits and defects of the vessel are to be tried by a cruise to Sicily, with Midwinter on board to give his opinion. Lastly (in case she should feel lonely), the ladies’ cabin is most obligingly placed at the disposal of Midwinter’s wife. All this was settled at the breakfast-table; and it ended with one of Armadale’s neatly-turned compliments, addressed to myself: ‘I mean to take Neelie sailing with me, when we are married. And you have such good taste, you will be able to tell me everything the ladies’ cabin
wants between that time and this.’

  If some women bring such men as this into the world, ought other women to allow them to live? It is a matter of opinion. I think not.

  What maddens me, is to see, as I do see plainly, that Midwinter finds in Armadale’s company, and in Armadale’s new yacht, a refuge from me. He is always in better spirits when Armadale is here. He forgets me in Armadale almost as completely as he forgets me in his work. And I bear it! What a pattern wife, what an excellent Christian I am!

  October 19th. – Nothing new. Yesterday over again.

  October 20th. – One piece of news. Midwinter is suffering from nervous headache; and is working in spite of it, to make time for his holiday with his friend.

  October 21st. – Midwinter is worse. Angry and wild and unapproachable, after two bad nights, and two uninterrupted days at his desk. Under any other circumstances he would take the warning, and leave off. But nothing warns him now. He is still working as hard as ever, for Armadale’s sake. How much longer will my patience last?

  October 22nd. – Signs, last night, that Midwinter is taxing his brains beyond what his brains will bear. When he did fall asleep, he was frightfully restless; groaning and talking and grinding his teeth. From some of the words I heard, he seemed at one time to be dreaming of his life when he was a boy, roaming the country with the dancing dogs. At another time he was back again with Armadale, imprisoned all night on the wrecked ship. Towards the early morning hours, he grew quieter. I fell asleep; and, waking after a short interval, found myself alone. My first glance round showed me a light burning in Midwinter’s dressing-room. I rose softly, and went to look at him.

  He was seated in the great ugly old-fashioned chair, which I ordered to be removed into the dressing-room out of the way, when we first came here. His head lay back, and one of his hands hung listlessly over the arm of the chair. The other hand was on his lap. I stole a little nearer, and saw that exhaustion had overpowered him, while he was either reading or writing – for there were books, pens, ink, and paper on the table before him. What had he got up to do secretly, at that hour of the morning? I looked closer at the papers on the table. They were all neatly folded (as he usually keeps them), with one exception – and that exception, lying open on the rest, was Mr Brock’s letter.

  I looked round at him again, after making this discovery, and then noticed for the first time another written paper, lying under the hand that rested on his lap. There was no moving it away without the risk of waking him. Part of the open manuscript, however, was not covered by his hand. I looked at it to see what he had secretly stolen away to read, besides Mr Brock’s letter – and made out enough to tell me that it was the Narrative of Armadale’s Dream.

  That second discovery sent me back at once to my bed – with something serious to think of.

  Travelling through France, on our way to this place, Midwinter’s shyness was conquered for once, by a very pleasant man – an Irish doctor – whom we met in the railway carriage, and who quite insisted on being friendly and sociable with us all through the day’s journey. Finding that Midwinter was devoting himself to literary pursuits, our travelling companion warned him not to pass too many hours together at his desk. ‘Your face tells me more than you think,’ the doctor said. ‘If you are ever tempted to overwork your brain, you will feel it sooner than most men. When you find your nerves playing you strange tricks, don’t neglect the warning – drop your pen.’4

  After my last night’s discovery in the dressing-room, it looks as if Midwinter’s nerves were beginning already to justify the doctor’s opinion of them. If one of the tricks they are playing him, is the trick of tormenting him again with his old superstitious terrors, there will be a change in our lives here before long. I shall wait curiously to see whether the conviction that we two are destined to bring fatal danger to Armadale, takes possession of Midwinter’s mind once more. If it does, I know what will happen. He will not stir a step towards helping his friend to find a crew for the yacht; and he will certainly refuse to sail with Armadale, or to let me sail with him, on the trial cruise.

  October 23rd. – Mr Brock’s letter has, apparently, not lost its influence yet. Midwinter is working again to-day, and is as anxious as ever for the holiday-time that he is to pass with his friend.

  Two o’clock. – Armadale here as usual; eager to know when Midwinter will be at his service. No definite answer to be given to the question yet – seeing that it all depends on Midwinter’s capacity to continue at his desk. Armadale sat down disappointed – he yawned, and put his great clumsy hands in his pockets. I took up a book. The brute didn’t understand that I wanted to be left alone; he began again on the unendurable subject of Miss Milroy, and of all the fine things she was to have when he married her. Her own riding horse; her own pony-carriage; her own beautiful little sitting-room upstairs at the great house, and so on. All that I might have had once, Miss Milroy is to have now – if I let her.

  Six o’clock. – More of the everlasting Armadale! Half an hour since, Midwinter came in from his writing, giddy and exhausted. I had been pining all day for a little music, and I knew they were giving Norma at the theatre here. It struck me that an hour or two at the opera might do Midwinter good, as well as me; and I said, ‘Why not take a box at the San Carlo to-night?’ He answered in a dull, uninterested manner, that he was not rich enough to take a box. Armadale was present, and flourished his well-filled purse in his usual insufferable way. ‘I’m rich enough, old boy, and it comes to the same thing.’ With those words, he took up his hat, and trampled out on his great elephant’s feet, to get the box. I looked after him from the window, as he went down the street. ‘Your widow, with her twelve hundred a year,’ I thought to myself, ‘might take a box at the San Carlo whenever she pleased, without being beholden to anybody.’ The empty-headed wretch whistled as he went his way to the theatre, and tossed his loose silver magnificently to every beggar who ran after him.

  Midnight. – I am alone again at last. Have I nerve enough to write the history of this terrible evening, just as it has passed? I have nerve enough, at any rate, to turn to a new leaf, and try.

  CHAPTER II

  THE DIARY CONTINUED

  We went to the San Carlo. Armadale’s stupidity showed itself, even in such a simple matter as taking a box. He had confounded an opera with a play, and had chosen a box close to the stage, with the idea that one’s chief object at a musical performance is to see the faces of the singers as plainly as possible! Fortunately for our ears, Bellini’s lovely melodies1 are, for the most part, tenderly and delicately accompanied – or the orchestra might have deafened us.

  I sat back in the box at first, well out of sight; for it was impossible to be sure that some of my old friends of former days at Naples might not be in the theatre. But the sweet music gradually tempted me out of my seclusion. I was so charmed and interested that I leaned forward without knowing it, and looked at the stage.

  I was made aware of my own imprudence, by a discovery which, for the moment, literally chilled my blood. One of the singers, among the chorus of Druids, was looking at me while he sang with the rest. His head was disguised in the long white hair, and the lower part of his face was completely covered with the flowing white beard, proper to the character. But the eyes with which he looked at me were the eyes of the one man on earth whom I have most reason to dread ever seeing again – Manuel!

  If it had not been for my smelling-bottle, I believe I should have lost my senses. As it was, I drew back again into the shadow. Even Armadale noticed the sudden change in me: he, as well as Midwinter, asked if I was ill. I said I felt the heat, but hoped I should be better presently – and then leaned back in the box, and tried to rally my courage. I succeeded in recovering self-possession enough to be able to look again at the stage (without showing myself) the next time the chorus appeared. There was the man again! ‘But to my infinite relief, he never looked towards our box a second time. This welcome indifference, on his part, helped
to satisfy me that I had seen an extraordinary accidental resemblance, and nothing more. I still hold to this conclusion, after having had leisure to think – but my mind would be more completely at ease than it is, if I had seen the rest of the man’s face, without the stage disguises that hid it from all investigation.

  When the curtain fell on the first act, there was a tiresome ballet to be performed (according to the absurd Italian custom), before the opera went on. Though I had got over my first fright, I had been far too seriously startled to feel comfortable in the theatre. I dreaded all sorts of impossible accidents – and when Midwinter and Armadale put the question to me, I told them I was not well enough to stay through the rest of the performance.

  At the door of the theatre, Armadale proposed to say good night. But Midwinter – evidently dreading the evening with me – asked him to come back to supper, if I had no objection. I said the necessary words – and we all three returned together to this house.

  Ten minutes’ quiet in my own room (assisted by a little dose of Eau-de-Cologne and water) restored me to myself. I joined the men at the supper-table. They received my apologies for taking them away from the opera, with the complimentary assurance that I had not cost either of them the slightest sacrifice of his own pleasure. Midwinter declared that he was too completely worn out to care for anything but the two great blessings, unattainable at the theatre, of quiet and fresh air. Armadale said – with an Englishman’s exasperating pride in his own stupidity, wherever a matter of Art is concerned – that he couldn’t make head or tail of the performance. The principal disappointment, he was good enough to add, was mine, for I evidently understood foreign music, and enjoyed it. Ladies generally did. His darling little Neelie—