CHAPTER VII.
Ideala's notions of propriety were altogether unconventional. She never could be made to understand that it was not the proper thing to talk familiarly to any one she met, and discuss any subject they were equal to with them.
"It is good for people to talk, and natural, and therefore proper," she said. "If I can give pleasure to a stranger by doing so, or he can give pleasure to me, it would not be right to keep silent."
She carried this idea of her duty to her neighbour rather far sometimes.
I remember her telling me once about two old gentlemen she had travelled with the day before.
"The sun came in and bothered me, and one of them offered to draw the blind," she said, "and he remarked it was rather a treat to see the sun, we have so little of it now; and I said that was true, and told him how I pitied the farmers. I had to stay in my room the other day with a bad cold, and I amused myself watching one of them at work in some fields opposite. The state of his mind was expressed by his boots. On Monday the sun was shining, the air was mild, and it seemed as if we were going to have a continuance of fine weather, and the farmer appeared of a cheerful countenance, and his boots were polished and laced. On Tuesday there was an east wind, veering south, with showers, and his boots were laced, but not polished. On Wednesday there was frost, fog, and gloom, and they were neither laced nor polished. On Thursday there was a snowstorm, and he had no boots at all on; and after that I did not see him, and I wondered if he had committed suicide—in which case I thought the jury might almost have brought in a verdict of 'justifiable felo-de-se.' And when I told that story the other old gentleman shut his book, and began to talk too. And I said I thought the weather was much colder than it used to be, for I could remember wearing muslin dresses in May, and I could not wear them at all now; but I did not know if the change were in the climate or in myself—perhaps a little of both—though, indeed, I knew that, to a certain extent, it was in the climate, which had been very much altered in different districts by drainage, and cutting, or planting—altered for the better, however, as a rule. And one old gentleman had heard that before, but did not understand it exactly, so I explained it to him; and then I talked about changes of climate in general, and the formation of beds of coal, and the ice period, and sun-spots, and the theory of comets, and about my husband getting up to see the last one, and going out in a felt hat and dressing-gown with a bed-candle to look for it—and about that dream of mine, did I tell you? I dreamt the comet came into our drawing-room, and the leg of a Chinese table turned into a snake and snorted at it, and the comet looked so taken aback that I woke myself with a shout of laughter. And then we talked of popular superstitions about comets, and dreams, and ghosts— particularly ghosts, and I told a number of creepy stories, and one old gentleman pretended he didn't believe in them, but he did, and so did the other without any pretence; and we talked about Darwinism, and the nature of the soul, and Nihilism, and the state of society—and—and a few other things. And they were such dear delightful old gentlemen, and they knew such a lot, and were so clever; and one of them was a Railway Director, and the other couldn't let his farms, and was bothered about his pheasants, and wanted to have the trains altered to suit him. I should so like to meet them both again."
"And how long did all this take, Ideala?"
"Oh, some hours. I fancy their dreams would be rather confused last night," she added, naively.
"Poor old gentlemen!" said I.
This sociability and inclination to talk the matter out, and, I may say, a certain amount of innocence and lack of worldly wisdom into the bargain, betrayed her occasionally into small improprieties of conduct that were not to be excused, and would possibly not have been forgiven in any one but Ideala. But such things were allowed in her as certain things are allowed in certain people—not because the things are right in themselves, but because the people who do them see no harm in them. There are people, too, who seem to enjoy the privilege of making wrong right by doing it. Society, however, only accords this privilege to a limited and distinguished few.
When Ideala saw for herself that she had done an unjustifiable thing she was very ready to confess it. I always fancied she had some latent idea of making atonement in that way. It never mattered how much a story told against herself, nor how much malicious people might make of it to her discredit; she told all, inimitably, and with scrupulous fidelity to fact.
One day she was standing waiting for a train at the station at York, and in her absent way she fixed her eyes on a gentleman who was walking about the platform.
Presently he went up to her, and, without any apology or show of respect, remarked: "I am sure I have seen you before."
"Probably," Ideala rejoined, as if the occurrence were the most natural thing in the world, "but I do not remember you. Perhaps if I heard your name——?"
"Oh, I don't suppose you ever heard my name," he said.
"In that case I can never have known you," she answered, calmly. "I never know any one except by name. I suppose you are an Englishman?"
"Yes," he said, eagerly; "I am in the 5th——"
"Ah, I thought so," she interrupted, placidly. "Englishmen in the 5th, and some other regiments, are apt to have but the one idea——"
"And that is?"
"And that is a bad one."
He looked at her for a moment, and then, hat in hand, he made her a low bow, and left her without another word.
"I think he felt ill, and went to have some refreshment," she added, when she told me.
From what happened afterwards I am sure that at the time she had no idea of the real significance of the position in which she found herself placed on this occasion. But, as a rule, if she did or said the wrong thing, she became painfully conscious of the fact immediately afterwards—indeed, it was generally afterwards that she grasped the full meaning of most things. She was ready with repartee without being in the least quick of understanding; she had to think things over, and even then she was not sure to do the right thing next time.
"Mr. Graves is ten years younger than his wife," she told me once, "and only fancy what I said one day. It was in his studio, and she was there. I declared a woman could have no sense of propriety at all who married a man younger than herself—that no good could possibly come of such marriages—and a lot more. Then I suddenly remembered, and you can imagine my feelings! But what do you think I did? I went there the next year, and said the same thing again exactly!"
CHAPTER VIII.
When we were a small party of intimate friends, and Ideala was quite at her ease with us, it was pleasant to see her lolling, a little languidly as was her wont (for physically her energy was fitful), in the corner of a couch, looking happy and interested, her face, which was sad in repose, lit up for the time with amusement, as she quietly listened to our talk, and observed all that was going on around her. Even when she did not speak a word she somehow managed to make her presence felt, and, as a rule, she spoke little on these occasions. But sometimes we managed to draw her out, and sometimes she would burst forth suddenly of her own accord, with a torrent of eloquence that silenced us all; and even when she was utterly wrong she charmed us. Her chance observations were generally noteworthy either for their sense or their humour. It was only her sense of humour, I think, that saved her from being sentimental; but she gave expression to it in season and out of season, and would let it carry her too far sometimes, for she made enemies for herself more than once by the way she exposed the absurdity of certain things to the very people who believed in them. Every lapse of this kind caused her infinite regret, but the fault seemed incurable: she was always either repenting of it or committing it, although, having so many quirks of her own, she felt that she, of all people in the world, should have dealt most tenderly with the weaknesses of others.
She knew how narrowly she escaped being sentimental, and would often joke about her danger in that respect. "This lovely summer weather makes me sickly sentimental," she told me once. "I feel like the heroine of a three-volume novel written by a young lady of eighteen, and I think continually of him. I don't know in the least who he is, but that makes no difference. The thought of him delights me, and I want to write long letters to him, and make verses about him the whole day long. And he wants me to be good."
She had two or three pet abominations of her own, any allusion to which was sure to make her outrageous—false sentiment and affectation of any kind were amongst them. She had little habits, too, that we were all pleased to fall in with. Sitting in the corner of a couch, and of one couch in particular in every house, was one of these; and people got into the way of giving up that seat to her whenever she appeared. I think it would have puzzled us all to say why or wherefore, for she never said or looked anything that could make us think she wished to appropriate it; she simply took it as a matter of course when it was offered to her, and probably did not know that she invariably sat there. Ideala was a splendid horsewoman, and swam like a fish; but she was not good at tennis or games of any kind, and she did not dance, for a curious reason: she objected to be touched by people for whom she had no special affection. She even disliked to shake hands, and often wished some one would put the custom out of fashion. With regard to dancing I have heard her say, too, that she sympathised entirely with the Oriental feeling on the subject. She thought it delightful to be danced to, to lie still with a pleasant companion near her who would not talk too much, and listen to the music, and enjoy the poetry of motion coolly and at ease. "I love to see the 'dancers dancing in tune,'" she said; "but to have to dance myself would be as great a bother as to have to cook my dinner as well as eat it. I suppose it is a healthy amusement—indeed, I know it is when you take it as I do; for when all you people come down the morning after a dance with haggard eyes and no power to do anything, I am as fresh as a lark, and have decidedly the best of it."
She was not good at games because she was not ambitious. She did not care to have her skill commended, and was content to lose or win with equal indifference—so long as only the honour of the thing was involved; but when the stakes were more material she showed a vice of which she was quite conscious.
"I daren't play for money," she said to me. "I never have, and I have always said that I never will. All the women of my family are born gamblers. My mother has often told me that regularly, when she was a girl, the day after she received her allowance she had either doubled it or lost it all; and before she was twenty she hadn't a jewel worth anything in her possession—and my aunts were as bad. One of them staked herself one night to a gentleman she was playing with, and he won, and married her. Gambling was more the custom then than it is now, but for me it is as much in the air as if it were still the fashion. When there is any talk of play I feel fascinated, and when I see a pack of cards the temptation is so irresistible that I have often to go away to save my resolution."
Which made me think of a favourite quotation of Lessing's from Minna:—"Tout les gens d'esprit aiment le jeu à la folie."
CHAPTER IX.
Ideala's low esteem for "mere animal courage" was probably due to the fact that she possessed it herself in a high degree. Yet soon after I met her I began to suspect, and was afterwards convinced, that something in her manner which had puzzled me at first arose from fear. There was that in her life which made her afraid of the world, which would, had it guessed the truth, have pryed with curious eyes into her sorrow, and found an interest in seeing her suffer. The trouble was her husband. She rarely spoke of him herself, and I think I ought to follow her example, and say as little about him as possible. He was jealous of her, jealous of her popularity, and jealous of every one who approached her. He carried it so far that she scarcely dared to show a preference, and was even obliged to be cold and reserved with some of her best friends. I was a privileged person, allowed to be intimate with her from the first, partly because I insisted on it when I saw how matters stood, and partly because my position and reputation gave me a right to insist. I never had occasion to brave insults for her sake, but, like many others, I would have done so had it been necessary. Her friends were constantly being driven from her on one pretext or another. People would have taken her part readily enough had she complained, but complaint was contrary to her nature and her principles. Some, who suspected the truth, blamed her reticence; but I always thought it right, and on one occasion when we approached the subject indirectly I told her "Silence is best." I ought to have qualified the advice, for she carried it too far, and was silent afterwards when she should have spoken—that is to say, when it had become evident that endurance was useless and degrading.
She fought hard to preserve her dignity, and was determined that "as the husband is, the wife is," should not be true in her case. But he did lower her insensibly, nevertheless. As her life became more and more unendurable she became a little reckless in speech; it was a sort of safety-valve by means of which she regained her composure, and I soon began to recognise the sign, and to judge of the amount she had suffered by the length to which she afterwards went in search of relief, and the extent to which suffering made her untrue to herself.
As a rule, when with him, she was yielding, but she had fits of determination, too, when she knew she was right. One night, as they were driving home from a ball together, her husband suddenly declared that he would not allow her to be one of the patronesses of a fancy fair which was to be held for a charitable purpose, although she had already consented and he had made no objection at the time.
"But why may I not?" Ideala asked.
"Because I object. Do you hear? I will not have it, and you must withdraw."
"I must decline to obey any such arbitrary injunction," she answered, quietly.
He detained her on the doorstep until the carriage had driven round to the stables.
"Now, are you going to obey me?" he asked.
"Yes, if you give me a reason for what you require," she answered, wearily.
"Oh, you are obstinate, are you?" he rejoined, in a jeering tone. "Well, stay in the garden and think it over. Perhaps reflection will make you more dutiful. I shall tell your maid you will not want her to-night. When you have made up your mind you can ring." And so saying he walked into the house and shut the door upon her.
It was a summer night, but Ideala felt chilly with only a thin shawl over her ball dress. She walked about as long as she could, but fatigue overcame her at last, and she was obliged to lie down on one of the garden seats. She wrapped the train of her dress round her shoulders, and lay looking up at the stars. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers. The night was very still. Once or twice the rush of a passing train in the distance became audible; and the ceaseless, solemn, inarticulate murmur of the night was broken by a nightingale that sang out at intervals, divinely.
Ideala never thought of submitting; she simply lay there, waiting without expecting. The night air overcame her more and more with a sense of fatigue, but she could not sleep. She saw the darkness fade and the dawn appear, and when at last the servants began to move in the house she watched her opportunity and slipped in unobserved. She went to one of the spare rooms, undressed, rang, and got into bed. When the bell was answered she ordered a hot bath and hot coffee immediately. The maid supposed she had slept there, and seemed surprised; but as her mistress offered no explanation she could make no remark; and so the matter ended.
But I do not think Ideala suffered much on that occasion. Her strong young womanhood saved her somewhat—and there was a charm for her in the beauty of the night and the novelty of her position, which a less healthy organism would not have appreciated, had it been able to discover it—at such a time.
CHAPTER X.
Ideala had been married eight years, and two months after that night the long-delayed hope of her life, which she had begun to believe was beyond hope, was at last realised. Her child was a boy, and her joy in him is something that one is glad to have seen. But it was short-lived. I do not know if her husband were jealous of her happiness, or if he thought the child was more to her than he was, or if he were merely making a proposition, by way of experiment, which he never meant to carry into effect—probably the latter. At all events, he went to her one day when the child was about six weeks old, and told her he thought she must give up nursing him.
The mother's nature was up in arms in a moment. I suppose she had not quite regained her strength, for she had been very ill, and, being weak, she was excitable.
"I will not give my baby up! How can you think it?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, well," he answered, coolly, "just as you like, you know. But I should think you'd better—for the child's sake, at least."
"It isn't true. I don't believe it," she said, piteously.
"Ask the doctor, then;" and he sauntered out, smiling, and perhaps not dreaming that she would.
But "for the child's sake" had alarmed Ideala, and she sent for the doctor. It was hours before he could come to her, and, in the meantime, not knowing that her state of mind would affect the child, she had fidgeted and fretted herself into a fever, and when the doctor saw her, he could only confirm her husband's verdict.
"I am afraid you must give up nursing," he said. "You are in such a nervous state it will do the child harm. But he's such a fine fellow! He'll thrive all right—you needn't be frightened."
Ideala said nothing, but she sat in her own room night after night for a week, and heard the child crying for her, and could not go to him— and even when he did not cry she fancied she heard him still. I think as the milk slowly and painfully left her, her last spark of affection for her husband dried up too.
The child died of diphtheria some time afterwards, and in a little while, Ideala, who was then in her twenty-sixth year, returned to her old pursuits, and no one ever knew what she felt about it:
For, it is with feelings as with waters—
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb!
CHAPTER XI.
My widowed sister, Claudia, was one of Ideala's most intimate friends. She was a good deal older than Ideala, whom she loved as a mother loves a naughty child, for ever finding fault with her, but ready to be up in arms in a moment if any one else ventured to do likewise. She was inclined to quarrel with me because, although I never doubted Ideala's truth and earnestness (no one could), knowing her weak point, I feared for her. I thought if all the passion in her were ever focussed on one object she would do something extravagant—a prediction which Claudia, with good intent, rashly repeated to her once.
Claudia was mistress of my house, and she and I had agreed from the first that, whatever happened, we would watch over Ideala and befriend her.
My sister was one of the people who thought it would have been better for Ideala to have talked of her troubles. When I praised Ideala's loyalty, and her uncomplaining devotion to an uncongenial duty, Claudia said: "Loyalty is all very well; but I don't see much merit in a life- long devotion to a bad cause. If there were any good to be done by it, it would be different, of course; but, as it is, Ideala is simply sacrificing herself for nothing—and worse, she is setting a bad example by showing men they need not mend their manners since wives will endure anything. It is immoral for a woman to live with such a husband. I don't understand Ideala's meekness; it amounts to weakness sometimes, I think. I believe if he struck her she would say, 'Thank you,' and fetch him his slippers. I feel sure she thinks some unknown defect in herself is at the bottom of all his misdeeds."
"I don't think she knows half as much about his misdeeds as we do," I observed.
"Then I think it would be a charity to enlighten her," Claudia answered, decidedly. "One can't touch pitch without being defiled, and when it is too late we shall find she has suffered 'some taint in nature,' in spite of herself. Will you kindly take us to the Palace this evening? The Bishop wants us to go in after dinner, and Ideala has promised to come too."
Ideala was fastidious about her dress, and being in one of her moods that evening she teased Claudia unmercifully, on the way to the Palace, about a blue woollen shawl she was wearing. "A delicate and refined nature expresses itself by nothing more certainly than elegant wraps," she said, parodying another famous dictum; "and I should not like to be able to understand the state of mind a lady was in when she bought herself a blue woollen shawl; but I could believe she was suffering at the time from a temporary aberration of intellect—only, if she wore it afterwards the thing would be quite inexplicable." Claudia drew the wrap round her with dignity, and made no reply; then Ideala laughed and turned to me. "Certainly your friend," she said, alluding to a young sculptor who was staying with me, "can 'invest his portraits with artistic merit.' Claudia's likeness in the Exhibition is capital, and the fame of it is being noised abroad with a vengeance. But I think something should be done to stop the little newspaper-boy nuisance: the reports they spread are quite alarming."
"Ideala, what nonsense are you talking about sculptors and newspaper- boys?" Claudia exclaimed.
"I'll tell you," said Ideala. "There was a small boy with a big voice standing at the corner of the market-place this afternoon. He had a sheaf of evening papers under his arm, and was yelling with much enthusiasm to an edified crowd:—'Noose of the War! Hawful mutilation of the dead! Fearful collision in the Channel! Eighty-eight lives lost! Narrative of survivors! Thrilling details! Shindy in Parl'ment! Hirish members to the front again! 'Orrible haccident in our own town! The Lady Claudia's bust!'"
"Ideala, how dare you?"—but just then the carriage stopped, and we had to get out.
The good Bishop met us in the hall. Ideala positively declined to go upstairs when he asked her.
"It is too much trouble," she said, not seeing in her absence what was meant. "I would rather leave my things here."
"But I am afraid I must trouble you," the Bishop answered, in despair. "The fact is, my wife is not so well this evening, and she was afraid of the cold, and is staying in her own sitting-room."
The "sitting-room" was a snug apartment, warm, cosy, luxurious, and we found a genial little party of intimate acquaintances there when we arrived. Ideala's husband was not one of them. He did not take her out much at that time. Probably he was engaged in some private pursuit of his own, and insisted on her going everywhere alone to keep her out of the way. A little while before he would scarcely allow her to pay a call without him. But, as a rule, whatever his mood was, she did as he wished—and provoked him sometimes, I think, by her patient compliance; a little resistance would have made the exercise of his authority more exciting.
When we entered the sitting-room "an ominous silence feel on the group," which was broken at last by one of the ladies remarking that a kind heart was an admirable thing. Another agreed, and made some observations on the merits of self-sacrifice generally.
"But some people are not satisfied with merely doing a good deed," a gentleman declared, with profound gravity. "They think there is no merit in it if they do not suffer for it in some way themselves."
There was a good deal more of this kind of thing, and we were beginning to feel rather out of it, when presently the preternatural gravity of the party was broken by a laugh, and then it was explained.
Ideala had gone to a neighbouring town one day by train, and before she started a poor woman got into the carriage. The woman had a third-class ticket, but she was evidently ill, and when the guard came and wanted to turn her out, Ideala took pity on her, insisted on changing tickets, and travelled third class herself. The woman had been to the Palace, and described the incident to the Bishop's wife that morning, and she had just told her guests, wondering who the lady could have been, and they in turn had put their heads together and decided that there was no one in the community but Ideala who would have done the thing in that way.
"But what else could I have done?" she asked, when she saw we were laughing at her.
"Well, my dear," said the Bishop, who always treated her with the kind indulgence that is accorded to a favourite child, "you might have paid the difference for the woman, and travelled comfortably yourself, don't you know?"
Ideala never thought of that!
Presently the dear old Bishop nestled back in his chair, and with a benign glance round, which, his scapegrace son said, meant: "Bless you, my children! Be happy and good in your own way, but don't make a noise!" he sank into a gentle doze, and the rest of the party relapsed into trivial gossip, some of which I give for what it is worth by way of illustration. It shows Ideala at about her worst, but marks a period in her career, a turning-point for the better. She was seldom bitter, and still more rarely frivolous, after that night.
"Clare Turner will take none of the blame of that affair on his own shoulders," some one remarked.
"Mr. Clare Turner is the little boy who always said 'It wasn't me!' grown up," Ideala decided, from the corner of her couch. "He is a sort of two-reason man."
"How do you mean 'a two-reason man,' Ideala?"
"Well, he has only two reasons for everything; one is his reason for doing anything he likes himself, which is always a good one; and the other is his reason why the rest of the world should not do likewise, which is equally clear—to himself. He thinks there should be one law for him and another for everybody else. I don't believe in him."
"Nor I," said one of the gentlemen. "Underhand bowling was all he was celebrated for at school; he bowled most frightful sneaks all the time he was there."
"Talking about Clare Turner," Charlie Lloyd put in, "I've brought a new book of poems—author unknown. I picked it up at the station to-day. There's one thing in it, called 'The Passion of Delysle,' that seems to be intense; but I've only just glanced at it, and don't really know what it's like. Shall I read it?"
"Oh, do!" was the general exclamation, and we all settled ourselves to enjoy the following treat.
Charlie began softly:
O day and night! Oh day and night! and is this madness?
O day and night! O day and night! and is this joy?
Whence comes this bursting sense of life, and love, and gladness,
This pain of pleasure, perfected, without alloy?
Lo, flowing past me are the restless rivers,
Or swelling round me is the boundless sea;
Or else the widening waste of sand that quivers
In shining stretches, shuts the world from me—
Or seems to shut it, while I would that what it seems might be.
O day and night! O day and night! this mountain island,
This saintly shrine, this fort—I scarce know what 'tis yet—
This sand, or sea-girt, rocky, town-clad, church-crown'd highland,
This dull and rugged gem in golden deserts set,
Has some delicious, unknown charm to hold me,
To draw me to itself and keep me here;
The old grey walls, it seems, with joy enfold me—
Or is it I that make the dead stones dear,
And send the throbbing summer in my blood thro' all things near?
O day and night! O day and night! where else do flowers
Open their velvet lids like these to greet the light?
Or raise such sun-kissed lips aglow to meet cool showers?
Or cast more subtle scents abroad upon the night?
These trees and trailing weeds that climb the cliff-side steep,
The dusky pine trees, draped with wreaths of vine,
Make bowers where love might lie and list the sea-voice deep,
And drink the perfumed air, the light, like wine,
Which threads intoxication through these hot, glad veins of mine.
O day and night! O day and night! I sought this haven,
From place and power, and wealth I flew in search of rest;
They forced and bound me to a hard, detested craven,
Who mocked my loathing with his head upon my breast.
With deathless love I moaned for my young lover;
To make me great they drove him from my side,
And foully wrought with shame his name to cover—
My boy, my lord, my prince! In vain they lied!
But should I always suffer for their false, inhuman pride?
O day and night! O day and night! I left them flying,
I fled by day and night as flies the nomad breeze,
Across the silent land when light to dark was dying,
And onward like a spirit lost across the seas;
And on from sea and shore thro' apple-orchards blooming,
Till all things melted in a moving haze;
And on with rush and ring by tower and townlet glooming,
By wood, and field, and hill, by verdant ways,
While dawn to mid-day drew, and noon was lost in sunset blaze.
O day and night! O day and night! light once more waxing,
Still on with courage high, tho' strength was well-nigh spent;
Grim spectres of pursuit the wearied brain perplexing,
Fear-fraught, but ever met with spirit dedolent.
The landscape reeled, there came a sense of slumber,
And myriad shadows rose and wanned and waned,
And flitting figures, visions without number,
Took shape above the land till sight was pained,
And floated round me till at last the longed-for goal I gained.
O day and night! O day and night! with rest abounding,
The soothing sinking down on hard-earned holy rest,
With grateful ease that grew from all the calm surrounding,
A languid, dreamful ease, my soul became possessed.
The hoarse sea-wind comes soughing, sighing, singing,
Its constant message from the patient waves.
While high above cathedral bells were ringing,
Or falling voices chanted hymns of praise,
And all the land seemed filled with peace and promised length of days.
* * * * *
O day and night! O day and night! once, all unheeding,
By sun and summer wind with tender touch caressed,
I wandered where the strains, the sacred strains, were pleading,
And, kneeling in the fane, my thoughts to prayer addressed.
And softly rose the murmur'd organ mystery,
And swell'd around the colonnaded aisle,
Where smiled the pictured saints of holy history
On prostrate penitents who prayed the while:
I could not pray there, but I felt that God Himself might smile.
O day and night! O day and night! while I was kneeling
There came the strangest sense of some loved presence near;
A re-awakening rush of well-remembered feeling
Thrill'd thro' me, held me still, with vague expectant fear.
Half turn'd from me, there stood beside the altar,
Where incense-clouds nigh veiled him from my sight,
A fair-haired priest—my quicken'd heart-beats falter!
Or is he priest, or is he acolyte,
Or layman devotee who prays in novice robes bedight?
O day and night! O day and night! whence comes this feeling?
For all unreal seem day and night and life and death,
And all unreal the hope that sets my senses reeling,
And stills my pulse an instant, checks my lab'ring breath.
Yet louder rolls the mighty organ thund'ring.
And downward slopes a beam of light divine,
The perfumed clouds are cleft: he looks up wond'ring—
Looks up—what does he there before the shrine?
He could not give himself to God, for he is mine, is mine!
O day and night! O day and night! I go forth trembling,
He did not meet my eyes, he never saw my face.
My bosom swells with joy and jealousy resembling
A war of good and evil waged in a holy place.
No longer soft the day, the sun in splendour
Pours all his might upon this green incline;
I lie and watch the cirrus clouds surrender,
Their glowing forms to one hot kiss resign—
How could he give himself to God when he is mine, is mine?
O day and night! O day and night! beneath your glory
The crimson flood of life itself has turned to fire!
The rugged brows of those old rocks, storm-rent and hoary,
Are quivering in their grim surprise at my desire.
The mother earth, throbbing with pain and pleasure,
Would sink her voices for the languid noon,
But light airs wake a reckless madd'ning measure,
And wavelets dance and sparkle to the tune.
And mock the mocking malice of yon day-dimm'd gibbous moon.
* * * * *
O day and night! O day and night! a fisher maiden
Is wand'ring up the path to where unseen I lie;
She comes with some light spoil from off the shore beladen.
And softly singing of the sea goes slowly by.
And slowly rise great sun-tipped white cloud masses,
Sublimely still their shadows flit and flee:
How silently the work of nature passes—
The roll of worlds, the growth of flower and tree!
Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!
O day and night! O day and night! the hours rolling
Bring ev'ry one its change, its song, or chant, or chime:
Now solemnly their sounds a distant death-knell tolling.
And now the bells above beat forth the flight of time.
I lie, unconsciously each trifle noting,
The far-off sailors toiling on the quay,
Or o'er the sand a broad-wing'd sea-bird floating,
Or passing hum of honey-laden'd bee—
Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!
O day and night! O day and night! the scene surrounding
Grows dim and all unreal beneath the sunset glow;
And all the heat and rage pass into peace abounding,
I moan, I fear no more, but wait, while still tears flow.
The warm sweet airs scarce move the flowerets slender,
A pause and hush have settled on the sea,
A bird trills forth its love-song low and tender:
O bird rejoice! thy love and thou art free-
Angels of God in heaven! give him to me! give him to me!
* * * * *
O day and night! O day and night! ye knew it ever!
Ye saw it written in the world's first golden prime!
And smiled your giant smile at all my rash endeavour
To snatch the cup unfill'd from out the hand of Time.
He comes, O day and night! Spirits attending,
Swift formless messengers my ev'ry sense apprise!
He comes! the bright fair head o'er some old book low bending
Dear Lord, at last! his eyes have met my eyes—
Gleam of light goes quivering across the happy skies!
* * * * *
O day and night! O day and night! Love sits between us.
Far out the rising tide comas sweeping o'er the sand.
The murmurous pine trees lend their purple shade to screen us,
And breathe their fragrant sighs above the quiet land.
And, like a sigh, the sunset blaze is over,
The folding grey has veiled its colours bright;
While swift from view fade out the gulls that hover,
As round us sinks at last, on pinions light,
The dark and radiant clarity of the beautiful still night.
O day and night! O day and night! no words are spoken.
Such pleasant joy profound no words could well express:
His wand'ring fingers smooth my hair in silent token,
And all my being answers to the tender mute caress.
My head is resting on his breast for pillow,
And as by music moved my soul is thrill'd;
Flow on and clasp the land, O bursting billow!
O breezes, tell the mountains many-rill'd!
Our hearts now know each other, and our hope is all-fulfill'd.
O day and night! O day and night! no shadow crosses
This long'd-for solemn hour of all-forgetful bliss;
No chilling thought, or stalking dread arising, tosses
A poison'd drop of bitterness to spoil the ling'ring kiss:
No mem'ries past or future fears assailing—
As soon might doubt bedim the stars that shine!
Or souls released reach Paradise bewailing
The end of pain, and clemency divine:
The glorious present holds us: I am his and he is mine!"
* * * * *
O day and night! O day and night! and was it madness?
Lo! all is changing, even sky, and sea, and shore;
The heaving water ebbs itself away in sadness,
The waves receding sigh, "Delight returns no more!"
Far down the East the dawn is dimly burning,
Its first chill breath has shivered thro' my frame,
And with the light comes cruel Thought returning,
The air seems full of voices speaking blame;
Another day commences, but the world is not the same!
O day and night! O day and night! its rashes pass'd us,
We stand upon the brink and watch, the strong deep tide,
And shrink already from the howls that soon must blast us,
The world that sins unchidden, and the laws that would divide.
"O Love, they rest in peace whom ocean covers!"
One plunge, one clasp supernal, one long kiss!
Then downward, like those old Italian lovers.
Descend for ever through the long abyss,
And float together, happy, all eternity like this!
The charm of the reader's voice had held us spellbound, and the poem was well received; but after the usual compliments there was a pause, and then Ideala burst out impetuously: "I am sick of those old Italian lovers," she said; "they float into everything. Their story is the essence with which two-thirds of our love literature is flavoured. We should never have received them in society; why do we tolerate them in books? I like my company to be respectable even there; and when an author asks me to admire and sympathise with such people he insults me."
"They must be brought in, though, for the sake of contrast," somebody observed.
"They should be kept in their proper place, then," she answered. "You may choose what you please to point a moral, but for pity's sake be careful about what you use to adorn a tale."
"Moral or no moral," said the young sculptor, "I think a new poem of any kind a thing to be thankful for."
"And do you call that kind of thing new?" said Ideala. "I should say it was a fine compound of all the poems of the kind, and several other kinds, that have ever been written, with a dash of the peculiarly refined immorality of our own times, from which nothing is sacred; thrown in to make weight. Such writing,
Like a new disease, unknown to men,
Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd,
. . . . . . . . . . . and saps
The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse
With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young.
It is the feeling of the day accurately defined. Nobody sighs for love and peace now. The cry is for the indulgence of some fiery passion for an hour, and then, perdition!—if you like—since that is the recognised price of it."
"Our loves are more intense than they used to be," said the sculptor, sighing.
"Love!" Ideala answered. "Oh, do not desecrate 'the eternal God-word, love!' There is little enough of that in the business that goes by its name now-a-days. I am a lady—I cannot use the right word. But it is none the less the thing I mean because it calls blasphemously on God Almighty to help it to fulfil itself."
"Well," said Charlie Lloyd, deprecatingly, "I didn't offer this, you know, as an admirable specimen of what our day can produce. I told you I hadn't read it, and now that I have I don't suppose any one has offered it to the public as a serious expression of sentiment."
"You do not think people write books about what they really feel?" said Ideala. "I believe they do when the feeling is shameful. If you want to keep a secret, publish the exact truth in a book, and nobody will believe a word of it. I think people who publish such productions should be burned on a pile of their own works."
"The writer is young, doubtless," I said, apologetically. It gives one a shock to hear a woman say harsh things.
"He was evidently not too young to have bad thoughts," said Claudia, supporting her friend; "and he was certainly old enough to know better."
"He!" ejaculated Ideala. "It is far more likely to be she. Do you read the reviews? You will find that all the most objectionable books are written by women—and condemned by men who lift up their voices now, as they have done from time immemorial, and insist that we should do as they say, and not as they do."
"I am afraid you are right," said Charlie Lloyd. "So many of our best women—I mean the women who are likely to make most impression on the age—are going that way now."
"But what horrid things you say, Ideala," one of the ladies chimed in, "and you make everybody else say horrid things. That 'Passion of Delysle' is not a bit worse than Tennyson's 'Fatima'—and there's a lot more in it—that part about 'the roll of worlds,' you know, is quite grand."
"I always liked that idea," Ideala observed.
"And—and—" the lady continued, "where she looks at everything, you know. She was very properly seeking distraction, and found it for a moment in the contemplation of nature, and that softened her mood, so that when the inevitable rush of recollection comes and forces the thought of him back upon her, her feeling finds expression in a prayer —instead of—instead of—"
"A blasphemous remonstrance," Ideala put in. "Oh, I don't deny that there is just enough to be said in favour of all these things to make them sell—and this one has two unusual points of interest. It opens with a riddle, and the lady's lover is a priest, which gives an additional zest to the charm of wrong-doing, a sauce piquante for jaded appetites."
"Why do you call the opening verses a riddle?" said Charlie Lloyd.
"Because I fancy no one will ever guess what kind of a place it was—
This mountain island,
This saintly shrine, this fort—
I forget how it goes on."
"Oh, the description of the place is not bad," Charlie answered, after reading it over again to himself. "It would do for the Mont St. Michael in Normandy."
"Well, let that pass, then," said Ideala; "also the dear familiar 'subtle scents abroad upon the night.' But what does she mean by 'On with rush and ring'?"
"She means the train, obviously."
"What an outlandish periphrasis! And how about
The rugged brows of those old rocks, storm-rent and hoary,
Are quivering in their grim surprise?"
"That is a 'pathetic fallacy.' She is not speaking of the things as they were, but as they appeared to her excited fancy. She chronicles her own death, though——"
"So did Moses," said Ideala. "If you really want to justify 'The Passion of Delysle' I can help you. You see she was dreadfully badly treated by her friends, poor thing! and her marriage after all was no marriage, because she loved another man all the time; and your husband isn't properly your husband if you don't love him, love being the only possible sanctification—in fact, the only true marriage. And then her lover, thinking he had lost her, became a priest, and vows made under a misapprehension like that cannot be binding—it would be too much to expect us to suffer always for such mistakes. And then the world—but we all know how cruel the world is! And appearances were sadly against them, poor things! No one would ever have believed that they had stayed out all night to discuss their religious experiences. Suicide is shocking, of course; but still, when people are driven to it like that, we can only be sorry for them, and hope they will never do it again!" She nestled back more comfortably on her couch, and then continued in an altered tone: "But it is appalling to think of the quantity of machine-made verses like those that are imposed on the public year by year, verses the mere result of much reading and writing, without a scrap of inspiration in them, and as far removed from even schoolboy efforts of genius, as an oleograph is from an oil painting. Poets are as rare now as prophets, and inspiration has left us for our sins. I think any fairly educated one of us, with a tolerable memory and the habit of composition, could write that 'Passion of Delysle' again in half-an-hour."
"Oh, could they, though!" said Ralph, the son of the house. "I dare bet anything you couldn't do it yourself in twice the time."
"Dare you?" she answered, with a little smile. "Well, to adopt your elegant phraseology, Master Ralph, I bet I will produce the same story, with the same conclusion, but a different moral, in an hour—since you allow me twice the time I named—if I may be permitted to write it in blank verse, that is, and of course, with the understanding that what I write is not intended to be anything but mere versified prose."
"Done with you!" cried Ralph.
"Hush—h—h!" his mother exclaimed, deprecatingly. "Betting, and before the Bishop, too!"
"What the Bishop don't know will do him no harm, Ma," said the youth in a stage whisper. "Sit down, Ideala, and begin. It's ten minutes to ten now."
The Bishop slept serenely; conversation flagged; and Ideala wrote steadily for about three-quarters of an hour; then she gathered up the manuscript, rose from the table, and returned to her old seat.
"'The Passion of Delysle' has become 'The Choice,'" she said. "Will you read it for me, Mr. Lloyd? I think it should have that advantage, at least."
Charlie took the manuscript, and read:
Once on a time, not very long gone by,
A noble lady had a noble choice.
The daughter of an ancient house was she,
Beauty, and wealth, and highest rank were hers,
But love was not, for of a proud, cold race
Her people were, caring for nought but lands,
Riches, and power; holding all tender thoughts
As weakly folly, only fit for babes.
The lady learnt their creed; her heart seem'd hard—
She thought it so; and when the moment came
To choose 'twixt love, young love, and pride of place,
She still'd an unwonted feeling that would rise,
And saying calmly: "I have got no heart,
And love is vain!" she chose to be the wife
Of sinful age, corruption, and untruth,
Scorning the steadfast love of one who yearn'd
To win her from the crooked paths she trod,
And break the sordid chains that bound her soul,
And sweep the defiling dust of common thoughts
From out her mind, until it shone at last
With large imaginings of God and good.
She chose: no more they met: her life was pass'd
In constant round of pomp and proud display.
But when he went, and never more there came
The love-sad eyes to question and entreat,
The voice of music praising noble deeds,
The graceful presence and the golden hair,
She miss'd the boy; but scoff'd at first and said:
"One misses all things, common pets one spurn'd,
Good slaves and bad alike when both are gone,—
A small thing makes the habit of a life!"
But days wore on, and adulation palled.
She knew not what she lack'd, nor that she loath'd
The hollow semblance, the dull mockery,
Which she had gain'd for joy by choosing rank,
And money's worth, instead of peace and love.
Yet ever as the long days grew to months
More heavy hung the time, moved slower by.
And all things troubled her and gave her pain,
And morning, noon, and night the thought would rise,
And grew insistent when she would not hear:
"One loved me! out of all this crowd but one!
And he is gone, and I have driven him forth!"
Then in the silent solitude of night
An old weird story that she once had heard
Tormented her; a story speaking much
Of a rock-island on the Norman coast,
A mountain peak rising from barren sand,
Or standing sea-girt when the tide returns,
And beaten by the winds on ev'ry side,
With wall'd-in town, and castle on the height,
And high above the castle, strangely placed,
A grey cathedral with its summit tipp'd
By a gold figure of St. Michael crown'd,
With burnished wings and flashing sword that shone
A beacon in the sunset, seen for miles,
As tho' the Archangel floated in the air.
The castle and the church a sanctuary
And refuge were, to which men often fled
For rest or safety, finding what they sought.
And as the lady thought about the place,
A notion came that she would like to kneel
And pray for peace at that far lonely shrine.
The longing grew: she rested not nor slept.
And should she fly and leave her wretched wealth?
And if she fled she never could return;
Yet if she stay'd she felt that she should die.
So go or stay meant misery for her—
But misery is lessened when we move.
Yes, she would go! and then she laugh'd to think
Of the wild fury of her harsh old Lord
When he should wake one day and find her gone—
Laugh'd! the first time for long and weary months.
By Mont St. Michael, on the Norman coast,
A restless river, changing oft its course,
Flows sullenly; and racehorse-like the tide,
Which, going, leaves a wilderness of sand.
Comes rushing back, a foam-topp'd, wat'ry wall;
And those who, wand'ring, 'scape the quicksand's grip,
Are often caught and drown'd ere help can come.
But fair the prospect from the Mount when bright
The sunshine falls on Avranches far away,
A white town straggling o'er a verdant hill;
And on the tree-clad country toward the west,
On apple orchards, and the fairy bloom
Of feath'ry tam'risk bushes on the shore;
Whilst high above in silent majesty
Of hue and form the floating clouds support
The far-extending vault of azure sky
Such was the shrine the lady sought, and there
In mute appeal for what she lack'd she knelt,
Not knowing what she lack'd; but finding peace
Steal o'er her soul there as she faintly heard
The slow and solemn chanting of the priests,
The mild monotony of murmured prayers,
And hush of pauses when she seemed to feel
The heart she deem'd so hard was melting fast,
And listen'd to a voice within her say—
"Love is not vain! Love all things and rejoice!"
And found warm tears were stealing down her cheeks.
The mystery of love, of love, of love,
Of hope, of joy, of life itself, she felt;
The crown of life, which she had sacrificed
In scornful pride for lust of power and place.
The lady bow'd her head, and o'er her swept
A wave of anguish, and she knew despair.
"Could I but see him once again!" she moan'd,
"See him, and beg forgiveness, and then die!"
Did the Archangel Michael, standing there
Upon her left, in shining silver, hear?
Who knows? Her prayer was answer'd like a flash;
For at that moment, clear and sweet o'er all
The mingled music of the chanting choir,
There rose a voice that thrill'd her inmost soul:
It breathed a blessing; utter'd soft a prayer.
No need to look: and yet she look'd, and saw
A hooded monk before the altar kneel,
A graceful presence, tho' in sordid dress.
And as she gazed the cowl slipp'd back and show'd
(But dimly thro' the incense-perfumed cloud)
A pure pale face, a golden tonsured head,
And blue eyes raised to heaven. Then the truth
Was there reveal'd to her that he had left
The world to watch and pray for such as she.
Out of the castled-gate she hurried forth:
What matter'd where she went, to east or west?
What matter'd peasant's warning that the sand
Was shifting ever, and the rushing tide
Gave them no quarter whom it overtook?
'Twas death she courted, and with heedless step
Onward to meet it swift the lady fled.
Death is so beautiful at such a time,
When all the land in summer sunshine lies,
And lapse of distant waves breaks pleasantly
The silence with a soothing dreamy sound,
And danger seems no nearer than the sky,
He tempts us from afar with hope of rest.
She hurried on in search of death, nor heard
That eager footsteps followed where she went.
The voice that call'd her was not real, she thought,
But a sweet portion of a strange sweet dream—
For now the terrible anguish quickly pass'd,
And sense of peace at hand was all she felt.
"O stop!"
Ah! that was real. She turn'd and saw,
Nor saw a moment till she felt his grasp
Strong and determined on her rounded arm.
"Thou shalt not die!" he cried. "What madness this?"
"Madness!" she echoed: "nay, my love, 'tis bliss—
The first my life has known—to stand here still
With thee beside me, and to wait for death.
I know my heart at last, but all too late!
I may not love thee, I another's wife;
Thou mayst not love me, thou hast wedded heaven.
We cannot be together in this world;
I cannot live alone and know thee here.
And thou art troubled! I for beneath that garb
Thy heart beats ever hot with love for me;
For love will not be quell'd by monkish vows.
But all things change in death! so let us die
Thus, hand in hand, and so together pass,
And be together thro' eternity!"
There was a struggle in the young monk's breast;
He would not meet her pleading eyes and yield,
But gazing up to heaven prayed for strength,
Strength to resist, and guidance how to act,
For death like that with her was luring—sweet—
A strong temptation, but he must resist,
And strive to save and show her how to live.
"We cannot make hereafter for ourselves,"
He answered softly; "all that we can do
Is so to live that we shall win reward
Of praise, and peace, and happy life to come.
Thy duty lies before thee; so does mine.
Let each return, and toil and watch and pray,
Knowing each other's heart is fix'd on heaven.
And do the good we can; not seeking death
Nor shunning it, but living pure and true,
With conscience clear to meet our God at last,
And win each other for our great reward."
The moving music of his words sank deep
Her alter'd heart thrill'd high to holy thoughts.
"Be thou my guide," she said. "My duty now
Shall bring me peace; so shall I toil like thee
To win the love I yearn for in the end."
It might not be. The treach'rous, working sand
Already clutched their feet, and check'd their speed;
And dancing, sparkling, like a joyful thing,
A glitt'ring, glassy wall of foam-fleck'd wave
Towards them glided with that fatal speed
You cannot mark because it is so swift.
No use to struggle now: no time to fly!
He clasp'd her to him: "God hath will'd it thus.
Courage, my sister!" "Is this death?" she cried.
"Yes, this is death." "It is not death, but joy!"
And as she spoke the spot where they were seen
Became a wat'ry waste of battling waves:
While high above the summer sun shone on—
A passing seabird hoarsely shriek'd along!
All things were changed, with that vast change which makes
It seem as tho' nought else had ever been.
"Well done, Ideala!" said Ralph, patronisingly; "you certainly have a memory, and are quite as good at patchwork as the author of 'Delysle.' I could criticise on another count, but taking into consideration time, place, circumstances, and the female intellect, I refrain. That is the generous sort of creature I am. So, without expressing my own opinion further—except to remark that, though I don't think much of either of them, personally I prefer 'Delysle.' The other is wholesomer, doubtless, for those who like a mild diet. Milk and water doesn't agree with me. But I put it to the vote. Ladies and gentlemen, do you or do you not consider that this lady has won her bet?"
"Oh, won it, most decidedly!" we all agreed.
"By-the-by, what was the bet?" I asked.
"My Pa's gaiters against Ideala's blue stockings. I regret to say that circumstances over which I have no control"—and he glanced at the unconscious Bishop—"prevent the immediate payment of my debt—unless, indeed, he has a second pair;" and he left the room hurriedly as if to see.
He did not come back to us that evening, but I believe he was to be heard of later at the sign of the "Billiard and Cue."
"Well," said the young sculptor, returning to the old point of departure, "for my own part, I find much that is elevating in modern works."
"So do I," said Ideala; "I find much that raises me on stilts."
"But even that eminence would enable you to look over other people's heads and beyond."
"It would," she answered, "if human nature didn't desire a sense of security; but, as it is, when I am artificially set up, I find that all I can do is to look at my own feet, and tremble lest I fall. Modern literature stimulates; it doesn't nourish. It makes you feel like a giant for a moment, but leaves you crushed like a worm, and without faith, without love, without hope. It excites you pleasurably, and when you see life through its medium you never suspect that the vision is distorted. It makes you think the Iconoclast the greatest hero, and causes you to feel that you share his glory when you help him with your approval to overthrow all the images you ever cherished; but when the work of destruction is over, and you look about you once more with sober eyes, you find you have sacrificed your all for nothing. Your false guide fails you when you want him most. He robs you, and leaves you hungry, thirsty, and alone in the wilderness to which he has beguiled you. There is no need for new theories of Life and Religion; all we require is strength and courage to perfect the old ones. [Footnote: She quite changed her mind upon this subject eventually, and held that there was not only need of new theories, but good hope that we should have them.] What the mind wants is food it can grow upon, not stimulants which inflate it for a time with a fancied sense of power that has no real existence. But I have small hope for our nation when I think of the sparkling trash that the mind of the multitude daily imbibes and craves for. I mean our novels. What a fine affectation of goodness there is in most of them! And what a perfect moral is tacked on to them!—like the balayeuse at the bottom of a lady's dress; but, like the balayeuse, it is only meant to be a protection and a finish, and, however precious it may be, it suffers from contact with the dirt, and sooner or later has to be cut out and cast aside, soiled and useless. Some doggerel a friend of mine scribbled on one book in particular describes dozens of popular novels exactly:
O what a beautiful history!
Think what temptations they passed!
Each one more cruelly trying,
More tempting, indeed, than the last.
And what a lesson it teaches;
No passion from evil's exempted—
Whilst admiring the moral it preaches,
It makes you quite long to be tempted.
I agree with those who tell us that society is breaking up, or will break up unless something is done at once to stop the dissolution. We have no high ideals of anything. Marriage itself is a mere commercial treaty, and only professional preachers speak of it in other terms—and those young people, with a passion for each other, who are about to be united—a passion that dies the death inevitably for want of knowledge, and wholesome principle, and self-control to support it. Some of us like our bargains better than others, but you can judge of the estimation in which marriage is held when you see how much happiness people generally find in it. If men and women were kept apart, and made to live purely from their cradles, they would still scarcely be fit for marriage; yet any man thinks he may marry, and never cares to be the nobler or the better for it. And when you see that this, the only perfect state, the most sacred bond of union between man and woman, is everywhere lightly considered, don't you think there is reason in the fear that we are falling on bad times? Oh, don't quote the Romans to me, and the Inevitable. We know better than the Romans, and could do better if we chose. But we have to mourn for the death of our manhood! Where is our manhood? Where are our men? Is there any wonder that we are losing what is best in life when only women are left to defend it? Believe me, the degradation of marriage is the tune to which the whole fabric of society is going to pieces——"
"Eh, what!" exclaimed the Bishop, waking up with a start—"whole fabric of society going to pieces? Nonsense! When so many people come to church. And then look at all the societies at work for the—for the— ah—prevention of everything. Why, I belong to a dozen at least myself; the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and the Rational Dress Reform, for doing away with petticoats—no, by-the-by, it is my wife who belongs to that. But, at any rate, everything is being done that should be done, and you talk nonsense, my dear"—looking at Ideala severely— "because you don't know anything about it."
"The faults we are hardest on in others are those we are most conscious of in ourselves—perhaps because we know how easy it would be to conquer them," Ideala observed vaguely.
"Oh, come, now, my dear," said the Bishop, beaming round on all of us, "you must not believe what you hear about society being in such a bad state. I know idle people say so, and it is very wrong of them. Why, I never see anything wrong."
"Of course not," said Ideala. "We are all on our best behaviour before you."
The Bishop patted his apron good-humouredly. "Well, now, take yourself for example," he said. "I am sure you never do wrong—tell stories, you know, and that kind of thing."
"Haven't I, though!" she answered, mischievously. "Not that it was much use, for I always repented and confessed; and now I have abandoned the practice to the best of my ability. It is horrid to feel you don't deserve the confidence that is placed in you, Bishop, isn't it?"
"Ideala!" Claudia protested.
The Bishop looked puzzled.
"I can assure you I have suffered agonies of remorse because, in an idle moment, I deceived my cat—a big, comfortable creature, who used to come to me every day to be fed, and preferred to eat out of my hand. He was greedy, though, and snapped, and one day I offered him a piece of preserved ginger, and he dashed at it as usual, and swallowed it before he knew what it was. Then he just looked at me and walked away. He trusted me, and I had deceived him. It was an unpardonable breach of confidence, and I have always felt that I never could look that cat in the face again."
The Bishop smiled and sighed at the little reminiscence. "I think you are right, though, in one way, Ideala," he presently observed. "The powers of Light and Darkness are certainly having a hard fight for it in our day; but we have every reason to hope.
Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill."
"And, granted that the popular literature of the day is corrupt," the young sculptor put in, "and that the standard of society is being yearly lowered by it, still there is Art——"
"But there is so little of it," said Ideala; "I mean so little that elevates. Most of the subjects chosen are not worth painting; and what profit is there in contemplating a thing that is neither grand nor beautiful in itself, nor suggestive, by association, of anything that is grand or beautiful? The pictures one generally sees are not calculated to suggest anything to the minds that need suggestion most. The technical part may be good and gratifying to those who understand it, but that is the mere trade of the thing. We prefer to see it well done, of course, but if the canvas has nothing but the paint to recommend it, the artist might have saved himself the trouble of putting it on, for all the good it does or the pleasure it gives."
"Oh, Ideala, do you know nothing of the charm of colour?" asked a lady who painted.
"I do," said Ideala, "but I may be supposed to have enjoyed exceptional advantages. And it is hardly charm we want to elevate us. There will always be enough in all conscience to appeal to the senses. But there is an absence even of charm."
"Many a noble thought has been expressed in a coat of colour," said the lady.
"I know it has," Ideala answered; "and all best thoughts give pleasure. I have been so thrilled by a noble idea, well expressed, that I could do nothing but sit with closed eyes and revel in the joy of it. But if such an idea were placed before you, and you did not know the language in which it was written, what good would it do you? An uneducated person seeing a picture of a donkey in a field sees only a donkey in a field, however well it may be painted; and I fancy very exceptional ability would be required to make any of us think a grey donkey sublime, or believe an ordinary green field to be one of the Elysian."
"Talking about charm," the sculptor broke in, enthusiastically, "I suppose you haven't seen the new picture, 'Venus getting into the Bath?' That is a feast of colour, and realism, if you like! She is standing beside the bath with a dreamy look on her face. Her lovely eyes are fixed on the water. One arched and blue-veined foot is slightly raised as if the touch of the marble chilled her. Her limbs are in an easy attitude, and beautifully modelled. She is represented as a slight young girl, and the figure stands out in exquisite nudity from a background of Pompeian red, and the dark green of myrtles. With one hand she is holding aloft the masses of her rich brown hair—the attitude suggests the stretching of the muscles after repose; with the other"—but here his memory failed him. "What is she doing with her other hand?"
"Scratching herself!" slipped from Ideala, involuntarily, to her own horror and the delight of some. But she recovered herself quickly, and turning to the good Bishop, who was looking mildly astonished and much amused, she said: "There, my Lord, is an instance of the corrupt state of society in our own day. You see, even your restraining presence doesn't always keep us in order. I hope," she whispered to me, "I'm not going to be made the horrid example to prove the truth of all my theories."