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 MEMOIRS OF MY DEAD LIFE 
 
 
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 WORKS BY GEORGE MOORE 
 
 A MODERN LOVER. 
 
 A mummer's wife. 
 
 A DRAMA IN MUSLIN. 
 
 SPRING DAYS. 
 
 CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG MAN. 
 
 ESTHER WATERS. 
 
 ESTHER WATERS (Play). 
 
 CELIBATES. 
 
 EVELYN INNES. 
 
 SISTER TERESA. 
 
 MODERN PAINTING. 
 IMPRESSIONS AND OPINIONS. 
 
 THE LAKE. 
 
 THE STRIKE AT ARLINGFORD. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF MY DEAD LIFE. 
 
 HAIL AND FAREWELL : 
 I II III 
 
 AVE SALVE. VALE.
 
 Alemoirs 
 
 of My Dead Life 
 
 OF 
 
 ^alanteries , c/Keditation^ 
 
 and ^ememlrrance^ 
 Kjoliioquu^ or t^dvtce to (/overs ^ 
 
 ^ witA many mucel/anecu^^lecteons 
 en Virtiie Sf c/fCerit 
 
 George AIoore/yW^creHa/ZGAI. 
 
 JLOJSTDOJV' 
 
 Published hy \i^\t%^mQ:m, .
 
 London: William Etine.iuinn, 1921.
 
 MEMOIRS OF MY DEAD LIFE 
 
 Thw edition^ printed from hand-set 
 type on English hand-made paper, 
 is limited to one thousand and thirty 
 copies, of which one thousand are for 
 sale. 
 
 This is Xo ^.A..K.... 
 
 ^vv/ f^ApCvcn^'^—^
 
 EPISTLE DEDICATORY 
 
 My dear Gosse, 
 
 In the sunset of our lives we are 
 dedicating books to each other, and I am fortunate enough 
 to obtain from you a gathering of those delightful literary 
 essays which, for the past two years, have kept me looking 
 forward to the coming of Sunday, making Sunday for me 
 a day of solace and indulgence, when after breakfast I 
 fling myself into my armchair and open the Sunday Times. 
 
 In obtaining your acceptance of this book I am not less 
 fortunate than I was in your dedication to me of Books 
 on the Table, and I hope that our love of France and of 
 Paris, and the stories of our many French friends which 
 enliven these pages, will make plain to you that no other 
 book that I have written comes to you so naturally, so 
 amiably solicits the protection of your name, as this one. 
 
 It is not necessary, and it might even seem unbecoming, 
 for me to mention here all the French craftsmen whom 
 we have met and shaken hands with at the parting of the 
 roads, but there is one that it would be disgraceful for me 
 to omit to mention, MaUarme, our friend of many yeais, 
 one of the saints of literature, who during his life envied 
 no man, who spoke ill of none, and bore without resent- 
 ment or querulous words the contempt of many, who 
 knew how to accept poverty without complaining, and the 
 
 vii
 
 of a ssmU carde as kcs recMBpatsr. .\ik1 m>w, 
 kaew MiBiiT' panw— Wt, studs apart ■—mug 
 TTTT MMb as PMer wd JoIm did after tke 
 of J«s«& 
 
 I Ma wntHMT to To« fiwa Ckasf^, a Tflfai^ within a 
 
 Mie «r less of Valra, ^e bcv GaKW. wliftlwr pOgiiMS 
 
 coae m Mcreast^ waidbas. Thi^« vx?i^ condscted bf 
 
 Me Tcsfeerdar thro^k die Ibvest bj a pav^ Raman way 
 
 t» the SeiBC. We crossed the brid^ nndo- wiKk^e piexs 
 
 I «>eK OBce aeazir drowned, a caplal of 
 
 bost iffiet the boat ^at he had bo^h* 
 
 for tT<e h—Jitd fraacs> the price he l ec eiie d for L'Jprh 
 
 Ifitf ^n Fmmte. Had I not thrown mjsdf oole^ 
 
 mrr on the other side, and MaDanae not let -o tike 
 
 sheet tha held the sail, we shoaU hav^ ccne oirer. It 
 
 was with vr hat that the boat was bailed. 
 
 If I MRste this incident it is fcr that all thin^ T^lAtin^ 
 to Ma&anac, hewei^er tmial, are ande precioBS by bis 
 I had iMof of this as I iciited onr ftde adrentnre 
 
 to poHtoi^the exact paart 
 of thecncBtniwtedhthe accident b^eflns; ud, after 
 I conld icnacndier of h^a, we proceeded 
 with gni« s^^s aaid denManoar to the 
 
 He ilighlM.whoMi 
 
 iftis 
 thepi^Li'— ro^dthe 
 
 sat
 
 at we turned to kare Valrin ; tfae gesture 
 and I aaid, '-^ The imposztkn of hands," not to tfaem, bat to 
 iBTsdf, for I woald not distract tbdr tikoogfats froB tfe 
 bm^n master. 
 
 We retomed acroas tiie bridge and throng tiie fiirest 
 iq> the pared Boman vaj to the supper that awaited as at 
 Le Val Qiangis — a loag, low hoose, bk trair ■■I'fw iTe^, 
 the rooms ninning into each other, all orerioc^dng a stone 
 terrace, omaanented with flower Tases, and a lawn siielnng 
 oo either side of a groap of noUe trees, mder wliiefa a 
 statue stands. The doors q€ the great saloon open on to 
 the terrace, and the long table at which we sat breaking 
 bread, oar words hashed in resKflibcance of the master, 
 set me thinking again of old Galilee, addng mrseif if 
 perchance a blackbird whistled in a thidLet, or &om a tree 
 hard bv, when the compiiiior sopped with the stiai^er 
 thej met on their war to riiwiiiii 
 
 Ever TOUTS; 
 
 Geosge Moor£
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 WT WAS on hearing somebody hint that this volmne should 
 he adoiiied with a portrait of the author that a vision rose 
 before me of many bearded or moustached men, bald-headed 
 and pompous, of young men cast into pensive attitudes, book 
 in hand, of deep-bosomed matrons whose billonjy nakedness is 
 barely restrained from overfow in too brief bodices, of budding 
 spinsters exhibiting backbones to the last joint, beyond which 
 ike camera may not look tvithout indecency, for its eye is not 
 sensitive to colour or modelliiig ; it cannot stress or soften a 
 line, transpose, add to or omit ; it is without the ma^c of 
 touch, relating only the facts in front of it impartially, the 
 significant and the trivial, the ugly and the pretty. Imparti- 
 ally, I have said, but without attaining to the great impartiality 
 of N attire ; photography is finite, and whatever truth it is 
 capable of refecting is disparate and fragmentary ; if we 
 ham anything from a photograph it is an apprehension 
 of the ugly, for photography being strictly circumstantial, 
 the ugly is tiglier m the plate than in Nature. " Yet it is 
 proposed," I said, " that I should place my natural defects 
 at the mercy of a mechanism which registers only the casual 
 and unimportant." 
 
 On arriving home I began to consider the question anav, 
 and rising from my arm-chair, I said, " The photograph' s fat, 
 grey, unifoiin surfaces are repugnant to all who have become 
 aware that Art resides not in proportions and anatomy, but in 
 
 xi
 
 xu 
 
 touch. U'ilhoHt touch there can be no Art in painting, in 
 sculpture, in literature, in music or in printing; Art is not in 
 the brain, but in the hand, and Apollo s great gift is no longer 
 in our sercice; the machine has taken its place. Only in the 
 
 Sational Gallery " At the words "National Gallery;' the 
 
 great array of the lienaiisance came into my ken— Italy, 
 France, Germany, Holland— and I said, ''Man arose from 
 the ape gbrioudy, but it would seem that he is 7iow descending 
 whence he came, for tvithout our seme of AH man would be no 
 better;'' and I fell to thinking thai although it be true that 
 the gorilla and chimpanzee are disappearing, we need not 
 despair. " Their absence," I continued, " will be bid tem- 
 
 j)oran/ ; the jnissing link will soon be amongst us again " 
 
 / .stopped, brought to bay by a memory of the daguerreotypes 
 of old time, .sharp, clear, explicit portraits that Van Eyck 
 would have stopped to admire. 
 
 " The daguerreotype ivas a mechanism, it is true" I said, 
 " but it was a fine mechanism, almost beautiful, and it is now 
 buried among the handicrafts, of ivhich it was not one. Alas / 
 there is none amongst us now who can design a chair or a clock, 
 and we have to buy old tea-services. When these are all 
 broken ?" I asked, and my thoughts ttiming abruptly towards 
 the last Art movement in England — Pre-RaphaeUtisin — / 
 began to ponder on the meeting of Millais, Holman Hunt and 
 Rossetti in a studio in Newman Street in eighteen forty-nine, 
 till the remembrance of a photograph of a little boy in short 
 jacket and trousers, wearing a belt, whose portrait I had not 
 seen for quite half a century, interrupted my thoughts and 
 propelled me towards the wiiting-table. And having written 
 for it I forgot it till it arrived some weeks later in a box amid 
 so many various ivrappings that it seemed as if my hands 
 would never come upon the many-enfolded portrait. " A too 
 meticulous caretaker," I said, " who puts me past my patience." 
 At last the portrait came forth out of a cloud of tissue, delighting 
 my eyes and putting the thought into my mind that the old and
 
 XIU 
 
 the new pkotograpky differ as widely as Van Eyck and Kneller. 
 " Herein," I said, " is a fundamental likeness that the years 
 could not wipe away, hut in a modern photograph the likeness 
 is shadowy and evanescent, as it is in j)ortraits hy Kneller and 
 his fellow Lely ; " and then, stirred by a desire of tridh, I rang 
 for my servants, who recognised the little boy as the original 
 shoot from which I sprang. It was taken across to the apothe- 
 cary, who knew it, a7id afterwards to my publisher, who said, 
 " What a dear little hoy !" I answered him, " Yes, and it is 
 pleasing to think that I was once not as I am no7v." " Bid 
 why did you never think of this portrait before?" " Becatise 
 Providence kept it back in my mind, reserving it hy decree for 
 the hook that you are now publishing. This portrait will 
 prove valuable to you, for it will persuade the pnides into 
 reading the hook in the hope of discovering in the stories traces 
 of the dear little boy in the frontispiece ; he will be, I do asstire 
 you (if I may drop into the language of the journaUst), your 
 great asset, for on turning the pages to escape from some jarring 
 incideid or apophthegm, the prudes will come upon the portrait 
 agai7i, and of a certaijity the ?vinning features will bring belief 
 that the little boy must have fallen into evil company or been 
 neglected in his yoidh, for if he had been broiight up jjroperly 
 he would be quite diff^erent from his book — no, not his book, his 
 ascendant's book ; and fortified by the memory of the dear 
 little fellow {jvho followed the photographer into the dark room 
 in rvhich the plate was developed in baths filled tvith various 
 evil-smelling acids, and Ming over him while he tinted, passing 
 blue over the necktie and a touch of fesh coloiir over the face), 
 they will return to the book and in a differe^d mood. Without 
 a dotibt of it, Pawling, the portrait will make many fnends for 
 the hook." 
 
 We are always a-dream, from tottering childhood to tottering 
 old age, and that little boy, whose thumb is in his belt (put 
 there by the excellent photographer), was on his way in the 
 'sixties to a Catholic school, where he might have been made
 
 XIV 
 
 inlo a Utile Catholic if he had not lost his health from the had 
 food and the piercing draughts that ranged up and donm the 
 corridors and whirled in the classrooms. He was taken home 
 to recover, and when he returned to Oscott, some two years 
 Inter, he brought hack with him Shelley s poems for clandestine 
 reading, and the Jlowers in " The Sensitive Plant " that 
 
 " . . . . gaze in the stream's recess 
 Till they die of their own sweet loveliness" 
 
 helped him to withstand the pressure of Catholicism and gave 
 him courage to resist threats of foggings if he did not confess 
 his sins. In the influence of " Queen Mab '' he pleaded that 
 he had no sins to confess, hid this claim was regarded as an 
 untruth — no one heing without sin. He claimed the right, 
 however, to lay his case before the president, and was given 
 leave to nrite to his father. It would please me to tell here the 
 story of his father's journey from Ireland to inquire into his 
 son's Uick of belief in priests and their sacraments, but the 
 ston/ is related in " Hail and Farewell," and eschewing 
 paraphrase and quotation, I will return to the little boy who 
 stands bt/ the chair with his thumb in his belt, our budget 
 of information about him not being nearly exhausted. 
 
 I hnve to tell the reader that he was of an amiable and happy 
 disposition, a docile child, yet a ivilful one, for although 
 acquiescing in all that was said to hiin, he failed to deviate 
 from the path that Nature had set for him to follow, thereby 
 introducing into this prelude the momentous question of pre- 
 destination, on which the lightest and the weightiest minds have 
 pondered without being able to discover how Fate and Free 
 Will may " double up " under the Christian blanket. It 
 would seem that only this is clear, that everything is pre- 
 ordained or nothing, doctrines equally inaccessible to our 
 intelligence ; and turning to the photograph, we begin to 
 wonder why Nature should have given suck witty eyes to 
 George {eyes that mu,<it be fads, for the camera does not invent),
 
 XV 
 
 yet condemning him to he not only the last boy m his class, 
 hut in the last class in the school — in a word, the dunce of 
 his school. "■ George s case is really very alarming," the 
 president wrote to his father, and the letter contained the 
 admission that he did not know whether George could not or 
 would not learn. The reader is impatient for me to say 
 whether George "couldn't" or " woiildiit," and he'd have 
 from me a clear answer without subterfuge or evasion. The 
 little boy could learn anything he chose to learn, hut he was 
 quite unable to learn anything he had not himself chosen. 
 The reader would press me still further : " But did the little 
 boy wish to learn ? " Yes, but his desires for knowledge came 
 suddenly and departed suddenly, like a wind in and out of a 
 field. An alarming trait of character this is, and one that 
 has not been sufficiently investigated. Spelling he could not 
 master, and when he returned home, expelled for lack of belief 
 in the confessional and other things, his father shut Master 
 George up in a bedroom from mom to eve to learn spelling- 
 books by heart. After some months of experimentation in 
 spelling-books and dictations, George s father gave up the job 
 of his son's education, saying to his wife, " George is but a 
 chrysalis, and we do not know if he will develop into a moth or 
 a butter fy." But the memory of his own glotious schooldays 
 cornpelled George's father to intermittent efforts to cultivate 
 George's mind outside of the spelling-book, for when all hope 
 was dead in him that his son would ever realise in his mind 
 the shape of a word with such clearness as would allow him 
 to find it in the dictionary, he bethought himself of the artijice 
 of an occasional disparagement of Shelley's poetry — "It is 
 strange that you should admire mediocre verses " — and he put 
 Pope's Homer into George's haiids ; but George's ears were 
 deaf to rhymed couplets, and when he was not reading " The 
 B^volt of Islam" he was in the billiard-room practising 
 "Jennys," a stroke his father excelled in. In the midst of a 
 break of five or six the door opened and his father entered
 
 XVI 
 
 nntk a large volume in his hand. " Lay aside your cue" he 
 said, "and read Burke's speeches." But George's amiability 
 could not overcome his instinctive dislike of Burke ; Burke 
 was the proverbial straw, and he undertook instead to teach 
 his sisters' governess how to ride. His father acquiesced — in 
 despair, no doubt — but despite the relaxations of helping the 
 governess into the saddle and placing her foot in the stirrup, 
 the boy was conscious of being overshadotved by his father, and 
 he .sought his own individual life unconsciously, like a sapling 
 under the parent tree. He was unhappy in the strife, for he 
 loved his father; his father was always, and still is, the 
 intimate and abiding reality of his life, and the evening thai his 
 father started J or Ireland for the last time is qtdck among his 
 memories. George's father returned from the front door to 
 bid his son good-bye, and in obedience to a siulden impuUe 
 he took a sovereign oid of his pocket and put it into the 
 boy's hand, and tvefit away to his death resolute, for he had 
 come to see that his death was the only way to escape from his 
 embarrassments without injury to his family. In his letter to 
 his widow he speaks of the landscape that he loved, and I 
 can imagine him walking abotd the lake shores biddijig them 
 good-bye for ever. 
 
 His last letter was to his wife, and in it he tells her that if 
 she does not receive a message from him that she is to come 
 over by Monday evening's train, for there will be a great deal 
 to be done. George travelled over on Monday ?iight, tiyitig to 
 co7i.sole his mother, but that tvas- impossible, for she knew what 
 had happened, and the journey was a widow's in the first wild 
 paroxysm of her grief. George tells the story of his grief in 
 his book the " Confessions of a Young Mail," a7id how in the 
 midst of it he began to foresee his own life in Paris, ?vhither 
 he went two years after to learn to be a pai?der, failing in this 
 first ambition, succeeding, however, in losing a great deal of the 
 fragmentary knowkdge he possessed of the English language. 
 
 " But, my dear author," says the reader of this prelude,
 
 XVll 
 
 "you are he^nning to lose the thread of your argument. 
 Your argument, as I apprehend it, was that, having been 
 chosen by Nature for a literary career, the hoy's life was pre- 
 ordained. Yet you tell us of his gentle firmness not to learn 
 anything while he was at school, and that he was sent to Paris 
 to forget his small stock of English. The ways hy which 
 Nature leads her sheep back to the fold are no doubt devious, 
 but even Nature is not as illogical as you represent her. If 
 she wished to produce an English man of letters she would not 
 send him to Pans to forget English, surely. My dear author, 
 my belief i?i you fails me." 
 
 " In our under standiyig, dear reader. Nature's logic seems a 
 crooked thing, for our jnimls are finite ; but Nature's 7nind being 
 infinite, she had to take thought of the deeply-rutted road into 
 which English fiction had fallen, and to redeem mankind from 
 too great admiration of certaiii she could not do else than raise 
 up a Parsifal, one who should resist school education, be a per- 
 plexity to his father at home, indulge himself in the pleasures 
 of opera botiffe from seventeen to twenty-one, and go to Pans 
 to forget English. A virgin vwid, in fine, was needed, and 
 this could only be obtained by faring him forth into French 
 literature while holding him forbidden to acquire any deep 
 knowledge of the French language, providing iji this way 
 against the daiiger of the boy becoming a French writer. 
 Nature's foresight and versatility are indeed remarkable ; 
 she is indeed altogether remarkable, this great mother of ours, 
 as much i?iterested in her projects for star-quakes in the con- 
 stellation of Hercules as she is in schemes to release mankind 
 from its too great admiration of the Villager, the Sailor and 
 the Eunuch. A profligate and sinister comment mine will 
 seem on the ambiguities of our lives, one that will cause the 
 ink to foam in many ink-pots, so I will ask, by way of a 
 diversion, how it is that in an age that produces nothiiig and 
 attempts to revive all things, no one has bethought himself of a 
 7'evival of ancient photography ? We can tinderstand that the 
 b
 
 XVIU 
 
 large /inns are conlcnl with their profits in the grey, fiat charts, 
 viaps of humanity's features, but it's hard to guess why some 
 individual, some amateur sniffing ahout in search of celebrity 
 ami a little money, has not turned to the Encyclopaedias to 
 read up the processes of the ^fifties and 'sixties. In Londoti 
 there's a gang of women always ready to lend their support 
 to every artistic movement.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 xi 
 
 I. 
 
 SPRING IN LONDON . . . . 
 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 LUI ET ELLES .... 
 
 14 
 
 III. 
 
 FLOWERING NORMANDY . . . . 
 
 27 
 
 IV. 
 
 A WAITRESS 
 
 30 
 
 V. 
 
 THE END OF MARIE PELLEGRIN . 
 
 39 
 
 VI. 
 
 LA BUTTE 
 
 54 
 
 VII. 
 
 SPENT LOVE 
 
 60 
 
 VIII. 
 
 NINON'S TABLE D'hOTE . 
 
 80 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE LOVERS OF ORELAY 
 
 95 
 
 X. 
 
 IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 
 
 185 
 
 XI. 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE .... 
 
 207 
 
 XII. 
 
 BRING IN THE LAMP . . . . 
 
 218 
 
 XIII. 
 
 EUPHORION IN TEXAS . . 
 
 232 
 
 XIV. 
 
 SUNDAY EVENING IN LONDON 
 
 252 
 
 XV. 
 
 RESURGAM 
 
 261
 
 MEMOIRS OF MY DEAD LIFE 
 
 As I sit at my window on Sunday morning, lazily Spring in 
 watching the sparrows — restless black dots that London 
 haunt the old tree at the comer of King's Bench Walk — 
 I begin to distinguish a faint green haze in the branches 
 of the lime. Yes, there is green in the branches ; and 
 I'm moved by an impulse — the impulse of spring is in my 
 feet ; indiarubber seems to have come into the soles of my 
 feet, and I go forth to see London, thinking it delightful 
 to walk across Temple Gardens, to stop, for pigeons are 
 sweeping down from the roofs, to call a hansom, and 
 of all to notice, as I pass through the Strand, the sapling 
 behind St. Clement Danes, so exquisite is the quality of 
 the green on the smoke-black wall. 
 
 London can be seen better on Sundays than on week- 
 days ; lying back in a hansom, one is alone with London 
 and London is beautiful in this narrow street, celebrated 
 for licentious literature. The blue and white sky shows 
 above a seventeenth-century gable. A few moments after 
 we are in Drury Lane among a grim population that 
 the fine weather has enticed out of the courts and alleys. 
 Skipping-ropes are whirling everywhere and the children 
 hardly escape being run over, while coster girls, their 
 mothers, sit wrapped in shawls contentedly like rabbits 
 at the edge of a burrow, their fathers smoking pipes in 
 sullen groups, with eyes fixed on the closed doors of the 
 public-house. At the corner of the great theatre a vendor 
 of cheap ices is rapidly gathering the few spare pennies ot 
 
 B
 
 spring in the neij^hbourliootl. The hansom turns out of the lane 
 London j^^^^ ^|^g great thoroughfare ; a bright glow like the sunset 
 fills the roadway area, upon it a triangular block of masonry 
 and St. Giles' church rise, the spire aloft in the faint blue 
 delicate air, and I fall to thinking that spires are so 
 beautiful that they will outlast creeds, perhaps have ; 
 religion or no religion we must have spires, and in town and 
 country — spires showing between trees and rising out of 
 the city purlieus. 
 
 The spring tide is rising ; the almond-trees are in bloom, 
 and that one growing in an area spreads its Japanese-like 
 decoration upon the wall. The hedges in the time-worn 
 streets of Fitzroy Square light up — how the green runs 
 along! The spring is more winsome here than in the 
 country. One must be in London to see the spring. In 
 St. John's Wood one can see the spring from afar dancing, 
 haze and sun playing together like a lad with a lass. The 
 sweet air, how tempting it is ! and how exciting I It melts 
 on the lips in fond kisses, instilling a delicate gluttony 
 of life ; and it would be pleasant to see girls in these 
 gardens walking through shadowy alleys, lit here and there 
 by a ray, to see them walking hand in hand, catching 
 at branches, as girls do when dreaming of lovers. Alas ! 
 the gardens are empty of girls, but there are some daffodils ! 
 The flower is beautiful in profile, still more beautiful is 
 the starry yellow in full face ; and that antique flower 
 carries my mind back — not to Greek times, for the daffodil 
 has lost something of its ancient loveliness, reminding me 
 more of a Wedgwood than a Greek vase. 
 
 My nonsense thoughts amuse me ; I follow my thoughts 
 as a child follows butterflies ; and all this ecstasy in, and 
 about me, is the joy of health — my health and the health 
 of the world. This April day has set brain and blood on 
 fire and I cannot do else than ponder by this old canal! 
 It looks as if it had fallen into disuse, which is charming,
 
 for an abandoned canal is a perfect symbol of — I do not Spring in 
 know of what. A river flows or rushes^ even an artificial ^oi^<ioi^ 
 lake harbours water-fowl^ children sail their boats upon it ; 
 but this canal does nothing. 
 
 What is the blackness that I see approaching ? A boat ? 
 and coming to interrupt my pretty meditation. I feel 
 quite wretched. I had hoped that the last went by 
 twenty years ago. Here it comes with its lean horse, 
 the rope tightening and stretching, a great black mass 
 with ripples at the prow and a figure bearing against the 
 rudder. All the same it reminds me of my childhood ; 
 every child likes a canal and we all remember the wonder 
 with which we watched the smoke coming out of the 
 funnel. When my father asked me why I'd like to go 
 to Dublin better by canal than by railroad, I couldn't 
 tell him. Nor could I tell to-day why I love a canal. 
 Because the boats glide by like the days, and the toiling 
 horse is a symbol .'' How he strains, sticking his toes into 
 the path ! 
 
 There are visits to pay — of course women, always 
 women. Three hours pass, but at six I am free, and I 
 resume my meditations as the cab rolls through the old 
 brick streets that crowd round Golden Square ; streets 
 whose names we meet in old novels ; streets full of studios 
 where Hayden, Fuseli, and others of the rank historical 
 tribe talked art with a big A, drank their despair away, 
 and died wondering why the world did not recognise 
 their genius. Children are scrambling round a neglected 
 archway, striving to reach to a lantern of old time. The 
 smell of these dry faded streets is peculiar to London ; there 
 is something of the odour of the original marsh in the smell 
 of these streets ; it rises through the pavement and mingles 
 with the smoke. At the ebb of day fancy follows fancy, 
 image succeeds image till all is but a seeming, and mystery 
 envelops everything. The white Arch seems to speak to
 
 4 
 
 Spring in me and I would fain believe it has its secret to reveal. 
 
 London London wraps herself in mists ; blue scarves are falling — 
 trailing. London certainly has a secret ! Let me peer 
 into London's veiled face and read her secret. Let me 
 fix my thoughts and I shall deci])her — what ? I know not 
 what. Sometliing perhaps. But I cannot control my 
 thoughts, for I am absorbed in turn by the beauty of the 
 Marble Arch and the perspective of the Bayswater Road, 
 fading like an apparition amid the romance of great trees. 
 I turn away ; the wind thrills and obliges me to 
 walk rapidly ; the passage of my feet helps me to collect 
 my thoughts and I fall to thinking that I am indeed 
 fortunate to experience so much emotion in Hyde Park, 
 my less fortunate fellows having to go all the way to 
 Switzerland and to climb up Mont Blanc, to feel half 
 what I am feeling now, as I stand looking across the level 
 park watching a dusky sunset ; the last red bar of light 
 fades, and nothing remains but the grey park with the 
 - blue of the suburb behind it, flowing away full of mist 
 and people, dim and mournful, to the pallid lights of 
 Kensington. And the crowds are like strips of black 
 tape scattered here and there. By the railings the tape 
 has been wound into a black ball, and, no doubt, the peg 
 on which it is wound is some preacher promising human 
 nature deliverance from evil if it will forego the Spring- 
 time. But the Spring-time continues, despite the preacher 
 yonder ; under branches swelling with leaf and noisy with 
 sparrows he exhorts, but the spring is there too, exhorting 
 boys and girls, boys dressed in ill-fitting suits of broad- 
 cloth, daffodils in their buttonholes, and girls hardly less 
 coarse, creatures made for work, escaped for a while from 
 the thraldom of the kitchen, now doing the business of 
 the world better than the preacher ; servants of sacrosanct 
 spring. A woman in a close-fitting green cloth dress 
 passes me to meet a young man ; a rich fur hangs from
 
 her shoulders ; and they go towards Park Lane, towards Spring in 
 the wilful little houses with low balconies and pendant London 
 flower-baskets swinging in the areas. Circumspect little 
 gardens ! There is one, Greek as an eighteenth-century 
 engraving, and the woman in the close-fitting green cloth 
 dress, rich fur hanging from her shoulders, almost hiding 
 the pleasant waist, enters one of these. She is Park Lane. 
 Park Lane supper-parties and divorce are written in her 
 eyes and manner, and the old beau, walking swiftly lest 
 he should catch cold, his moustache clearly dyed, his 
 waist certainly pinched by a belt, he, too, is Park Lane. 
 And those two young men, talking joyously — admirable 
 specimens of Anglo-Saxons, slender feet, varnished boots, 
 health and abundant youth — they, too, are characteristic 
 of Park Lane. 
 
 It was once a simple country lane, a long while ago, it is 
 true, far back in the eighteenth century, and sometimes an 
 echo, no more than an echo, of the cottage of former days 
 seems to linger in the random architecture running to and 
 fro lawlessly into bow window and verandahed balcony, 
 just as the dog rose lingers in the magnificent Gloire de 
 Dijon ; and though one wouldn't think it, hearts have been 
 wrung in those wilful little houses — seemingly unsuitable 
 shelters for the deeper emotions of the twentieth century, 
 and tears were shed to my certain knowledge in one of 
 those nooky little drawing-rooms one night of June, when 
 summer breezes swelled the silken curtains forward with a 
 vague mysterious rustling and silences were accentuated 
 by the creaking of flower baskets swinging in the 
 verandah. 
 
 'If we were married we should be very happy,' she 
 said, 'for six months.' 'Only for six months?' I an- 
 swered, admiring her lawlessness. ' Is it then decreed 
 that I shall lose you ? ' and getting no answer to my 
 question I continued : ' it is decreed, certainly, that you
 
 Spring in shall not watch my back broadening as I lean over a table 
 London ^^riting novels. You have come into this life to shine in 
 society, to be a light, to form a salon and to gather clever 
 men round you. Elizabeth, you have a course and a 
 destination, even as I have.' Her round eyes were full 
 of interrogation, and always with this idea in my mind of 
 different courses and destinations, our love-story was lived 
 out in Paris and elsewhere. We spent a delicious morning 
 on the ramparts of the castle of Heidelberg ; we travelled 
 in Holland, seeing dykes and pictures, and when three 
 months later we returned to England, she hired at my 
 suggestion one of those wilful little houses beloved by 
 me, and for a month we sat together nearly every night 
 on that verandahed balcony. It was in one of those nooky 
 little drawing-rooms that our last love scene was enacted 
 in view of Chelsea shepherds and shepherdesses, happy in 
 their bowers ; we were agitated, not they, nor the moon 
 shining on a dusty park, just like a moon in a theatre. 
 The shadows, however, seemed to gather together and to 
 take form and to come close and to whisper that I should 
 never see her again. And looking into her round, grey 
 eyes I begged her to tell me of what she was thinking. 
 
 At the end of the book, reader, you will meet again this 
 beautiful girl in a last piece entitled " Resurgam." It 
 tells my journey to Ireland, how I went there with two 
 griefs in my heart, and you shall hear me remember and 
 meditate by the shores of a misted lake among a dim, half- 
 effaced people. A letter from her followed me to Lough 
 Carra, setting me thinking that it would be well for me, if 
 it were not ill, to hasten back to London to learn from her 
 what my future life was to be ; whether we were to be 
 estranged utterly or if our bodily relations were to be 
 continued, for had she not in the drawing-room behind 
 the verandahed balcony over yonder thrown herself at 
 my feet saying : * Now swear to me that whatever falls
 
 out we shall always be friends ' ? She said that, and not Spring In 
 
 T 1 
 
 casually but very earnestly, and impressed by her manner °" °" 
 I swore that nothing should undo or disturb our friendship ; 
 and her words and manner came back to me as I wandered 
 meditating and remembering, as I have said, about the 
 lake, asking myself if virgin husbands exist outside the 
 pages of a French novel. 'No doubt,' I said, 'they do, 
 but so much good fortune can hardly be my lot ; ' and my 
 mind was ill at ease, for I was going to meet her husband 
 as soon as I arrived in London. 
 
 It is extraordinary how we can be transported into the 
 past — in thought, everything is thought, all begins in 
 thought and all returns to thought. Life is so illusory 
 that it is hard to say whether we live in the past or 
 the present or the future. Thought veers like a vane, 
 and Lough Carra and the balcony are forgotten and I'm 
 thinking now of the day, of the very hour, almost of the 
 moment when I hailed the cab that took me to see her 
 on her return to London, and how from the time the cab 
 was called till it reached her door my thoughts ran on 
 asking if he would be there. If she would be so tactless 
 as to allow him to be there. And if he were there, what 
 should be my attitude .'' 
 
 My Elizabeth, now alas ! a married woman, I saw stand- 
 ing on the hearthrug. She said her husband had just 
 gone out in a vile temper and she talked gaily, but her 
 gaiety was fictitious, mayhap. I have often thought since 
 that I should have done well to have taken her in my 
 arms, ignoring her marriage altogether, which I think she 
 expected me to do, but one never knows. Of this, 
 however, I am certain, that there should be no parleying 
 on such occasions, and no talk about literature, only love 
 should be spoken of; we should plead our bodily love 
 of our beloved, ahvays extolling it as the noblest of 
 virtues, giving no heed to the phrase * Is this all you love
 
 Spring in me for?' a phrase heard by every lover, but never spoken 
 London ^j^i, conviction, for every woman knows deep down in 
 her heart that all her earthly existence is comprised in 
 man's love of her, and that if we were to withdraw our 
 love she would become instantly a thing half our size, 
 with sloping shoulders and wide hips and usually short- 
 legged. It is our love that clothes her in silk and fine 
 cambric and adorns her with laces, our love puts bracelets 
 upon her arms, ear-rings in her ears, pearls upon her neck 
 and too frequently diamonds in her hair, and if women 
 admire women it is our revelation that showed them to 
 themselves in those wonderful mirrors, Raphael, Rubens, 
 Shelley, Tourgueneff, Chopin. With the intellectual de- 
 tachment of genius we have carved our dreams of woman 
 in marble, built palaces for her and wonderful tombs. 
 Indeed have loved women so well that women should 
 forget to complain that there are fools among us who 
 chase them round the furniture, and remember that these 
 annoyances of love fallen into silliness are little compared 
 with the benefits they have received from love ; and I 
 think that it ill becomes them to praise sexual virtue, 
 which has cruelly enslaved them, turning them into 
 kitchen maids, laundresses, nuns or wives. Women had 
 a better apprehension of love when in olden days they 
 formed into processions and wound through flowery woods 
 to hang garlands on Pan's enormous sexuality. 
 
 How one's thoughts wander back and forth from that 
 balcony to ancient Thessaly, where a moment ago I was 
 lying by a dryad in a cavern, watching the stars shining 
 through the leaves. I would know what thought led me 
 to Thessaly, and what thought led me back to Elizabeth, 
 whom I should have taken in my arms when she returned 
 to London married and refrained from speaking of things 
 that did not interest her or me, of literature and music. 
 If I had been so wise she might have been my dryad
 
 9 
 
 mistress again, for she was certainly of dryad heredity. Spring in 
 
 Or was it that my luck failed me ? It might well be ■'-'O^^ion 
 
 that, and I fell to thinking of the coming and going of 
 
 our luck ; for there is luck in love as well as in cards, 
 
 times when we can do no wrong and times when we act 
 
 as if we were country loons in love for the first time. We 
 
 tumble suddenly into evil times and ask ourselves if we 
 
 are daft, as I did one Sunday afternoon ; for while driving 
 
 in a hansom through deserted streets towards Kensington, 
 
 she came towards me in another hansom, young and alert 
 
 (her baby was then two years old), her hair thicker, more 
 
 brilliant, more like real gold than ever, and as I stood 
 
 talking to her the thought passed that we were not far 
 
 from my house, and that nothing would be easier than 
 
 to ask her there to tea. But instead, reader, will you 
 
 believe me if I tell you that I asked her to go for a 
 
 drive . . . whither.^ Were you to guess for a thousand 
 
 years you could not guess my folly. I asked her to 
 
 come for a drive with me in the Fulham Road ! Why 
 
 the Fulham Road ? Because when luck is against us any 
 
 foolish thing may come into our heads, and all lovers who 
 
 have been driven out — there are always lovers wandering, 
 
 seeking readmission — will understand my mistake, though 
 
 no one else. I could tell other incidents equally odd, but 
 
 one more will be enough, for instead of asking her to stay 
 
 to luncheon when she came to see me, I took her to 
 
 a restaurant. A strange piece of stupidity, yet all are 
 
 guilty ; and over some such momentary alienation of the 
 
 brain a lover broods till at last he begins to ascribe his 
 
 failure to something outside of himself, so easy is it for 
 
 man to believe in the supernatural. 
 
 But while I was ascribing my failure to an evil providence, 
 she had begun to steal again into my life like the spring 
 into winter. The grey weather endures, but now and 
 then a slight rift in the clouds going by shows itself and
 
 10 
 
 Spring in we look forward to a fine evening. Neither the next day 
 London j^^^ jjj^ ^^^t may be fine, the weather may not seem to 
 improve, but the fine days are nearer than they were, and 
 we walk one morning into that delicious warmth which 
 comes suddenly on us about the end of March, a change 
 having come during the night into the wind. ' Yesterday 
 was winter, to-day is summer,' we cry ; and it was just 
 in this sudden way that my ill fortune shone out into 
 magnificent good fortune at the end of a day of great 
 depression, when all was grey within and bright in the 
 street. A letter came asking me to visit her in the 
 country, and I drove to the station delighted at the thought 
 of seeing her, but perplexed, for she seemed to have re- 
 ceded so far from me that while waiting for her I watched 
 a woman at the end of the platform, far away, whose long, 
 fashionable dust coat, hat and veil, proclaimed her as one 
 of a set of people so clearly that I said : ' She is the symbol 
 of a certain scheme of existence ; her gown and gait reveal 
 her ideas, tastes, occupations, habits, and friends,' where- 
 upon a little dream began in me of how pleasant it would 
 be to travel with her in the train, and with this desire a 
 little regret went by that I could wish to travel with any 
 one but Elizabeth, for whom I was waiting. This elegant 
 woman came nearer — Elizabeth and none other ! She was 
 travelling with friends, I could see that, but what one 
 never knows is one's luck ; her party filled one carriage 
 and seats were found for us, whether by accident or 
 Elizabeth's design I never knew, in a coupe. Summer 
 was coming in and gloriously, so we noticed that the 
 hedges were lighting up, and we may have spoken of the 
 springing of the corn in the fields, but the moment kept 
 in memory is when, to my surprise and joy, she allowed 
 my hand to remain on her knee. There is doubtless some- 
 thing memorable in the moment when a woman allows 
 your hand to rest upon her knee, and Elizabeth's words
 
 11 
 
 were : * Well, you've got me again and after all these Spring in 
 years.' London 
 
 Yes, truly summer had come in, April turned to May, 
 June to July and July is followed by the dusty month 
 of August. I like not August, for there is in August 
 neither perceptible growth nor decay. When August 
 turns to September we notice a chill in the morning air ; 
 it soon passes, however, and there are days in September 
 and October when summer seems to have come again, 
 but with the hue of death in its sunshine, and we think 
 of the lean blast lurking round the corner. A voice 
 breaks in upon my meditation ; the voice of a friend 
 ■warning me of my danger. 'A man,' he says, 'at your 
 age walking about draughty streets without an over- 
 coat ! ' The expression ' at your age ' is displeasing, never- 
 theless I button my frock coat and pursue my way 
 hurriedly, picking up as I go the thought that it is law- 
 lessness and not obedience that fires the imagination. 
 Every woman dreams of rape by a bandit chief, every 
 boy wants to be a pirate, and the season that attracts 
 us most is the lawless one, the spring season ; ' A spring 
 day,' I said, ' is more like her than anything else in the 
 world, and how like her this day has been ever since 
 I watched the burgeoning lime at the corner of King's 
 Bench Walk.' 
 
 But there is sadness in the spring ; the young do not 
 know how to satisfy their desires and the thoughts of 
 the middle-aged go back to springs long past, mine to 
 fifteen years ago, to an autumn spent in the Basque 
 country. Spring was within me then and autumn was 
 without me. Now the order is reversed. All the love 
 I received from her since the day we journeyed in the 
 coupe together has been richer, more resplendent mayhap, 
 than our earlier love ; but in the autumn sky there is 
 always a hue of death, and in the stillness a dread of the
 
 12 
 
 Spring in lean winter coming. Spring love is but tremor, laughter 
 London j^,,j .^ \[ii\q ecstasy; an autumn love is enriched with 
 memories ; and its fear of the lean winter coming exalts it. 
 In autumn at the fall of the leaf a man kneels at the bed- 
 side of his beloved like a Saint at the Sacred Table ; our 
 imagination sanctifies her, raises her ; she becomes trans- 
 figured ; and as I hasten along Park Lane I am transported 
 to the staircase of a London hotel, where I waited an 
 hour escaping down corridors at the sound of every 
 footstep. I waited till her maid left her room and a 
 low whistle sounded, the sign agreed upon. 
 
 Again I hear the soft sound of the door opening over 
 the velvet pile carpet, a memory that does not conflict 
 with an earlier memory of her, for it does not follow that 
 because a woman sometimes reminds one of a dryad that 
 she does not other times remind one of Boucher or 
 Fragonard, and that night Elizabeth seemed to me a very 
 Fragonard, a plump Fragonard maiden as she sat up in 
 bed reading, her gold hair in plaits and a large book in 
 her hand. I asked her what she was reading and might 
 have talked literature for a while, but throwing the vain 
 linen aside she revealed herself, and in that moment of 
 august nakedness I saw the eternal spirit shining through 
 her like a lamp hidden in an alabaster vase. 
 
 We find divinity according to the temperaments we 
 bring into the world. Some of us find it in laveh, some 
 in Christ, some in Buddha ; the temperament that I 
 brought into the world caused me to find divinity one 
 night in Elizabeth's bedroom, and it matters little, if at 
 all, how or where we find it so long as we find it. Love 
 is God. How often has this been said, and how well it 
 •vras said by Saint John of the Cross, who dared to speak 
 of concupiscence with God, thereby shocking his readers, 
 for few have understood that concupiscence with God-kind 
 should be the end of man's striving, just as concupiscence
 
 13 
 
 with human-kind has always been the noble ambition of Spring in 
 the Gods. Heathen and Christian revelation have but one London 
 story to tell, the love of a God for a mortal, and my story 
 only differs in this that it concerns the love of a mortal for 
 an immortal. 
 
 Seekers of divinity we all are in secret — in secret, for 
 a middle-aged man walking down Park Lane, buttoning 
 his frock coat lest he should catch cold, would be sent 
 to Bedlam were he to tell that one night in a London 
 hotel he discovered divinity in his mistress. Yet this 
 belief is not special to me, every man of worth holds it ; 
 it is far older and more prevalent than Christianity. It is 
 this belief that helps us to live and to bear the dread of 
 the lean wintry years when younger men will seek divinity 
 and find it in Helen and Maud and May. Younger men ! 
 Younger men are always about. It was only yesterday 
 that she spoke ot a young man who interested her. 
 October turns to November and I am but a faded flower 
 fallen from her nosegay. 
 
 A rose shut in a book 
 
 In which a pure man may not look. 
 
 Be this a conceit or a truth, I have thought enough 
 about her for one evening. Here is Piccadilly, and for- 
 getful of Elizabeth and of catching cold I stand at gaze, 
 thinking that Piccadilly has not yet grown vulgar, only a 
 little modern, a little out of keeping Avith the beauty of 
 the Green Park, remembering that it was my wont to 
 linger here some twenty years ago, Avatching the moon- 
 light between the trees with the shadows of the trees 
 floating over that beautiful dell, thinking of Wycherley's 
 comedy, " Love in St. James's Park." I think of it still, 
 and how in the days agone the Argyle Rooms, Kate 
 Hamilton's in Panton Street, and the Cafe de la Regence 
 were the fashion. 
 
 Paris drew me towards other pleasures, towards the
 
 14 
 
 Spring in Nouvelle Athcnes and the Elysee Montmartre ; and when 
 London j returned to London after an absence of ten years I found 
 a new London, a less English London. 
 
 II 
 
 Lui et 7\ /r Y WALK from Piccadilly to the Temple was unevent- 
 Elles IVl ful in thoughts as in incidents, and the steep ascent 
 
 to my chambers having been accomplished, I lighted my 
 lamp, stirred the fire, and throwing myself into an arm- 
 chair fell to thinking what book I should take from the 
 shelves to help the time away. 'Literary composition,' 
 I said, 'will wear the time away better than a book.* 
 'And the reader will be interested to hear,' whispered 
 a penetrating voice. 'By what right does the reader 
 question me ? ' I answered, and the voice continued, heed- 
 less of my interruption, ' The reader would like to be told 
 the state of your soul when — ' ' Elizabeth came into it ? ' 
 I cried. ' A seed falls,' the voice continued again, ' and 
 dies, another seed falls and dies, another, and another, 
 yea, even one hundred seeds will die where they fall if the 
 earth be not prepared to receive them. But it comes to 
 pass that a new seed falls in due time, which springs and 
 blossoms, and — ' To cut this homily short I replied, ' By 
 which I apprehend that the reader would like to hear, is 
 curious, mayhap, to hear, of her who preceded Elizabeth, 
 who prepared the way, who—' And the voice answered, 
 ' Yea, it is even so.' ' Is my mind then at the disposal of 
 the curious reader to ransack as it pleases him ? ' I asked, 
 and to this question the voice within me answered in quiet, 
 even tones that calmed my anger, 'The reader is thy 
 guest, and is therefore entitled to the same hospitality 
 as the guest to whom thou throwest open thy house from 
 Saturday till Monday.' 'And since my rarest wines.
 
 15 
 
 liqueurs and cigars, are free to my fleshly guest, can I Lui at 
 legitimately withhold any secret that may entertain a ^^^^® 
 spiritual guest ? ' I asked. 'A casuist in the highest degree, 
 on a parallel with Abelard or Arthur Balfour, thou art, 
 
 my Conscience. At first thy voice was strange to me, 
 but I have come to recognise it as thy voice. Conscience, 
 so I will ask thee, whose business it is to decide all nice 
 questions, if my last secret, my only secret, is to be 
 dragged out of me and exposed in the market-place ? For 
 my books are no better though the word " private " is 
 written over the door.' 'To the telling at once,' replied 
 my Conscience. ' But one word more, O Conscience ; 
 there are things that cannot be told truly, things that 
 cannot be explained to men, deeds that only God's vast 
 intelligence can measure, weigh, appreciate, and the secret 
 that thou demandest from me being of this sort and kind, 
 
 1 had reserved it for God's ear on the Judgment Day.' 
 * To the telling,' Conscience replied, * for since thou hast 
 chosen to wear thy heart, and all the hearts that thou 
 couldst collect, upon thy sleeve, thou must tell all or be 
 judged with the others.' ' Hard words, O my Conscience,' 
 and I began at once. 
 
 *It is many and many a year ago, something like 
 twenty-five, that a letter came to me telling that the 
 writer of a certain book would like to know if I thought 
 the story could be cast into dramatic form. Two 
 sentences caught my attention : " It is true that I have 
 not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but that doesn't 
 matter for the present," and " I may add that the book 
 I am sending has been entirely successful." Of the 
 second phrase I am not quite sure; of the sense, yes, 
 but the words, "has been entirely successful," do not 
 seem in the style of the writer. But I will leave them 
 and pass on to tell the reader, my guest, that it was a 
 disappointment to me to find a man's name at the bottom
 
 16 
 
 Lui et of the page, for I expected a woman's ; and so I answered 
 Elles ,jiy correspondent, Mark Anglewood, that I had found 
 in his book what is rare, style, but saw no chance of 
 any one bein^ able to turn the book into a play. And 
 with the posting of this letter Mark Anglewood passed 
 out of my thoughts, till Arthur Symons told me that 
 the author of the book in which I had found an engaging 
 style and much merriment of mind was a woman, and 
 a pretty one. His news, I confess, caused a little sinking 
 of the heart, for as I recalled the book and the letter 
 that accompanied it, I could not help seeing that I had 
 missed an excellent opjjortunity of securing an agreeable 
 companion, perhaps something more ; and with these 
 reasons uppermost in my mind a letter was sent next 
 day, apologising for my mistake, saying that if I had 
 been able to divine a woman in the syllables " Mark 
 Anglewood," my letter would have been written differ- 
 ently. " You may have forgotten all about the matter, 
 but I have just been told that you are not only a woman, 
 but a pretty woman, and this sets me thinking of one 
 of the sentences of your letter. You wrote, * I have 
 not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but that doesn't 
 matter for the present,' a phrase which seems to imply 
 that some months ago you wished to make my acquaint- 
 ance, and if you are still of the same mind (assuming 
 that you were once of this mind), it will give me much 
 pleasure to call upon you." ' 
 
 The lady, whose name was Agate, did not delay to 
 answer, and during the drive to a large and rich district 
 of mansions I wondered why she was at pains to write 
 that her assumed name had deceived others besides me 
 as to her sex. A gloomy and imposing street hers was, 
 and the number having been discovered with difficulty, I 
 was taken through a mansion into a drawing-room filled 
 with engravings of Dore pictures and marble statues.
 
 17 
 
 ' I am amid the family taste, doubtless/ I said, ' but Lui et 
 she must have a private sitting-room, for she couldn't EUes 
 write here.' 
 
 After waiting a few minutes the servant re-entered, 
 and invited me to follow him up many flights of stairs 
 to a somewhat formal sitting-room, reminding me of 
 Mark Anglewood's stiff, precise, artificial caligraphy. ' Is 
 her bedroom like her sitting-room?' I asked myself, 
 ' and is she like her room and her literary style ? ' She 
 was indeed like both ; an elaborately-dressed woman, 
 whose French gown did not keep the word "middle- 
 class" from rising up in my mind. Agate was "middle- 
 class and not a little common." The next descriptive 
 adjective that intruded itself was "dowdy," and as we 
 sat talking the woi'd returned to me, and I said, ' Dowdy 
 is the word we associate with a humdrum mind and 
 shapeless clothes of a past fashion. But her gowns are 
 the last novelties and her mind like new pins. Then why 
 did "dowdy" intrude itself into my first impression of 
 her r ' I asked myself as I returned home across the park. 
 In the two hours I spent with her, her name. Agate, 
 was mentioned, and I learnt that it was a nickname, not 
 a baptismal name ; she had partially chosen it herself. 
 Her real name was Mary, but nobody had ever thought 
 of calling her Molly, so she said. And my next visit 
 caused a new perplexity to arise in me, for I found her 
 so witty, so charming and so beautifully dressed (I was 
 now reconciled to her gowns) that I began to look 
 upon myself as a dolt, almost an idiot ; and sitting 
 alone in chambers, thinking of her, I asked myself how 
 such a word as "dowdy" could have come into my 
 mind, for were I to search for a word that represented 
 her less than any other word in the language, I should 
 have failed to find one more incompatible with her gifts 
 and her beauty than the word "dowdy."
 
 18 
 
 Lui ct The next morning I was handed a letter, precise and 
 E^'^* prim, asking me to come and see her ; it was followed by 
 other letters, and at the end of a fortnight of appoint- 
 ments I asked myself doubtfully if I were falling in love ; 
 1 could not believe that such a disaster could happen to 
 me, for I was thirty-eight and had passed through many 
 amiable exaltations of mind and body. 'Am I at last 
 going to fall a victim ? ' I said, and fell to considering 
 my condition, differentiating between loving and being 
 in love, for though I did not love Agate, there could be 
 hardly any doubt that I was in love with her. But how 
 was it that I had fallen in love with a woman who 
 at first sight struck me as common, middle-class, and 
 almost dowdy? Often I asked myself this question, 
 M-ithout, however, being able to get an answer, and 
 once more I relinquished myself to the consideration 
 of my mistake. It was by the mei-est luck that I saved 
 myself at the last moment from taking Agate into 
 my confidence ; so interesting and instructive did the 
 psychology of my mistake seem to me to be that I 
 think I once got as far as to confess to her that my love 
 was not at first sight, but at second sight, a confession 
 that I perceived did not altogether please her. My 
 account of her and of myself in this love-story would be 
 incomplete — it would be untruthful — if I omitted to say 
 that suspicions often crossed my mind that she was 
 fooling me, but the facts were against this explanation 
 of her conduct, for a woman does not spend four hours 
 a day with a man for the somewhat sterile pleasure of 
 fooling him. 
 
 By some word or letter, sometimes even by acts, 
 she would dissipate suspicions, I might almost say the 
 belief, that my courtship would bring me to her bed. To 
 be quite truthful, she hinted in the beginning that sex 
 relations did not appeal to her, but such hints are
 
 19 
 
 so common among women that one attaches no real Lui et 
 significance to the confession^ or interprets it in an ^^^^s 
 opposite sense, that sex relations are the one thing of 
 interest to them. No one's talk turned oftener on the 
 subject of sex than Agate's ; she admitted sex to be her 
 subject ; her brain was certainly possessed of it, and 
 though sometimes it seemed about to descend from her 
 brain when we returned from the theatre in the family 
 brougham, I Avas not sure that our relations would 
 become less and less restrained ; and after leaving her 
 a reactionary current of mind threw me often upon the 
 memory of a story she had once told of a professor in 
 some University who had loved her. It is now a little 
 blurred, but I can remember her telling me that he had 
 a mistress. Agate believed her to be a good girl, but 
 a creature of the body, whereas she. Agate, was the 
 spiritual mistress for whom the man put aside his natural 
 mistress, and the end of the story was the man's suicide 
 with the meeting of the two Avomen in his rooms ; whether 
 the dead man was there at the time or not I have 
 forgotten, remembering only that the natural mistress, 
 who returned to the man in his need after Agate's 
 desertion, spoke her mind plainly, making it known to 
 Agate that her virtue was more like vice than anything 
 else. ' Were you his mistress } ' I asked ; to which Agate 
 answered, 'No, I wasn't his mistress; I couldn't live 
 with a man unless I thought I was going to have a 
 child by him ' — words that compelled a deep consideration 
 of Agate upon me, for her intelligence, though keen and 
 bright as a new pin, was not enough to evoke the soul 
 of a selfless woman and put it into words, making it 
 plain as her words made it. Balzac or Tourgueneft might 
 have done it by the power of the imagination, but not 
 Agate ; she was speaking out of herself, which was all 
 she knew.
 
 20 
 
 Lul et Annate was ashamed of her people ; she knew them to 
 EHes ^g commonplace and middle-class, and her whole life 
 was an attempt to escape from them. She kept them 
 out of my sight month after month, and I knew very- 
 little of the great house except her prim sitting-room, 
 till one day she said, ' I have spared you my fomily as 
 much as possible.' But she was giving a great dinner- 
 party and from it she could hardly exclude me — her people 
 would ask questions — so I was asked, and at this enter- 
 tainment I made the acquaintance of a cousin, a pretty, 
 fair-haired woman, who was carrying at the time. Agate 
 called her a little wanton, and I wondered why, for the 
 woman was her cousin, and one day, meeting her in the 
 street, we walked a little way together, and the talk 
 turned upon Agate ; the fair cousin was curious, of course, 
 to know what my relations Avith Agate were, and to lead 
 me into some confession she began to tell me all she 
 knew of Agate, saying that though she might change 
 her dress three times a day to capture a man from another 
 woman, it was vanity that compelled her. ' She is all 
 head,' said the little blonde lady, 'there is nothing of 
 her below the neck. Among women she makes a 
 mockery of love, of the act, you know what I mean .'' ' 
 I said that I did, and fell to thinking of what Agate had 
 once said to me, ' I can't live without men's society; if I 
 am deprived of it for about a week I begin to wilt.' 
 
 A soul so unnatural as Agate's cannot be analysed, but 
 in an incident we may catch a glimpse of it if the teller of 
 the incident have the skill which allowed Jean Jacques 
 to reveal much about men and women that had never 
 been published before. Only in his telling do ugly in- 
 cidents acquire the beauty of Parian marble, and he and 
 he only would be able to relate how an old friend, seeing 
 us walking in a picture gallery together, had recognised 
 Agate at sight as her enemy and turned faint. Jean
 
 21 
 
 Jacques' pen would reveal more than a simple aspect of Lui et 
 the subject, and I do not doubt that he would interpret 
 the exquisite relish with which Agate enjoyed the pain 
 she had given, and the pleasure it was to her to include 
 in the letter she addressed to me the same evening (she 
 wrote every evening) : ' Is your friend in love ? ' I think 
 that I hated Agate for a moment, for I knew the woman 
 she spoke slightingly of to be a true friend, and when I 
 asked her what she thought of Agate, she said, ' A mean 
 little mind, with a taste for intrigue.' Her summary of 
 Agate's character found an echo in my heart, but I could 
 not break with Agate ; and as the spring weather went by 
 I fell more and more in love with her, seeing her every 
 day for some four or six hours, lunching with her, dining 
 with her, supping with her, walking, talking, aestheticising, 
 and enjoying many afternoons at Dorking in her company, 
 sitting on the warm hillside immersed in love of her while 
 she planned some new refinement of cruelty. 
 
 Agate was rich in little inventions ; we explored 
 museums, studying masterpieces together, and in the 
 Queen's Hall listened to Wagner (those were the great 
 Wagnerian days) till it seemed to us one evening as we 
 walked out of the concert-room into a pleasant sunset in 
 Portland Place that we could not do else than go to 
 Bayreuth to hear " The Ring " in its entirety. To share 
 "The Ring" with Agate seemed to me a sublime thought, 
 and the journey to Bayreuth to furnish a parallel to 
 Georges Sand's celebrated journey to Venice with Alfred 
 de Musset. 
 
 Agate was willing, the tickets were taken, but as the 
 day of departure approached I began to notice that when 
 the word " Bayreuth " was mentioned a perplexed look 
 came into her face. Agate never was perplexed, I am 
 misinterpreting her, and will say instead that her face 
 darkened and that her manner, never very real, became
 
 22 
 
 Lui et more and more artificial during the performance of a play 
 Elles at the St. James's. At Gunter's I could hardly doubt that 
 something was upon her mind, and maybe I pressed her 
 to confide in me as we drove round Berkeley Square. It 
 cost her an effort to get the words out, but she got them 
 but, 'I don't think I want to see you any more.' They 
 awoke a miserable pain in me, and though I did not 
 believe them to represent more than a casual mood, 
 like any other lover I begged her to tell me that the 
 estrangement was temporary, in view of divorce proceed- 
 ings or some other untoward circumstance ; but all the 
 way to the Marble Arch Agate persisted in her determina- 
 tion not to see me any more, and it was not till we came 
 to the Bayswater Road that she relented enough to come 
 into tlie park to talk it over, raising a slight objection, 
 however, ' I am afraid it is wet underfoot.' ' It is not 
 raining,' I answered, and called to the driver to pull up 
 the glass. 
 
 The park lay pressed down by a leaden sky, with great 
 green trees stark and dripping in the spare twilight. 
 Nobody was about, and we walked up and down the long 
 walk many times, she listening to my pleading, to all that 
 the foolish lover says on such occasions, myself cutting, 
 let it be admitted, a somewhat ridiculous figure. At last 
 my stunned brain awoke, and I saw she was enjoying my 
 grief as she might a little comedy of her own invention, 
 conscious of her prettiness in black crepe de Chine with a 
 hat to match. We were walking towards Kensington, I 
 on her right on the side next the railings, and the ill- 
 repressed smile that I caught sight of under her hat cast 
 me out of myself; a great self quake it was, and my left 
 foot, flinging itself forward, hit her nearly in the centre of 
 her backside, a little to the right. She uttered a cry, and 
 I met her look, which curiously enough was not of detesta- 
 tion, for lack of perception was not Agate's failing ; and I
 
 23 
 
 think she took pride in the fact (I know she did later) Lui et 
 that her power over me should have caused me to put off EUes 
 all conventions and to have become^ as it were, another 
 George Moore. 
 
 But this rapid glance into Agate's mind passed away, 
 engulfed, lost sight of, in an instinctive, almost animal, 
 desire to escape from myself, from grinding thoughts, vain 
 hopes, recriminations, soul searchings, during the long 
 night; and being no wine-bibber I bethought myself of 
 another woman, it didn't matter Avho, somebody to speak 
 to. At the Alhambra I should find her. So I went 
 thither, and picking out the face that seemed the kindest 
 spent part of the night with her. My bed-fellow divined 
 my misfortune, or seemed to, though nothing of it was 
 related to her, and I began to wonder, betweenwhiles, if 
 she sympathised with me and was sorry for me, or whether 
 she resented being picked up and taken for an anodyne. 
 But is it not always so ? Are not all and sundry seeking 
 anodynes in each other ? A face rises out of the darken- 
 ing years of one who left her house to find somebody in 
 the street to talk to ; 'It doesn't matter, nothing matters 
 now, I am done for,' she said, and her tears made it clear 
 to me that I was for that night a makeshift anodyne. 
 
 ' A change of scene, of language, and of friends, may 
 cure me,' I said, awaking from the dazed stupor in which 
 I sat all day in chambers, unable to fix my attention, all 
 things indifferent to me. ' A change of scene, of language, 
 and of friends,' I said, rousing myself enough to wander to 
 the window. ' Paris may cure me,' and I went thither, to 
 meet unexpectedly, among the crowds that the courtyard 
 of a great cosmopolitan hotel collects, the woman whom I 
 met whilst walking in a picture gallery with Agate. She 
 asked me if I had seen Agate lately and I gave some con- 
 ventional answer ; and I think that we went to the Bois 
 de Boulogne and rowed out to the island. Does the lake
 
 24 
 
 Lui et contain an island ? My memory clings to a comer in a 
 ^^^^* wood by the water's edge, but is the corner in an island ? 
 I do not know, and it doesn't matter. Enough it is to say 
 that in such a corner we lay among tall grasses under trees, 
 she talking of Agate, and I lacking strength to put the 
 subject aside, lest she should guess the truth ; a vain fear, 
 for it must have been clear to her that I was a very sick 
 man indeed, and the talk turning on the last time we 
 met, in the picture gallery, I asked her how it was that 
 she read Agate through at first sight. 'A woman,' she 
 answered, 'knows all that concerns her.' 
 
 I marvelled at this instinctive knowledge, and perceiving 
 that I had brought my sickness with me I returned to 
 London, my thoughts forever asking if my pain would 
 pass from me and if I should ever enjoy again my own 
 light-hearted life, mine before I met Agate. Human 
 nature is so complex that, though I longed to be cured of 
 my love sickness, I did not regret the past, not even the 
 kick, for she deserved it, and were the past undone so 
 that it might be lived over again, the kick would be 
 repeated, even if a moment were given to me to consider 
 the act. 'It was inevitable,' I said, 'part of the world's 
 history,' and I lost sight of all things but the track of my 
 boot on the black crepe de Chine. ' Even a pre-sensation 
 of my miserable suffering would not have stopped me,' I 
 cried, starting from my chair and, going to the window, 
 stood there unsuspicious that my cure was coming towards 
 me and that I should find it on the terrace outside over- 
 looking the river in the Savoy Hotel, whither I must go 
 at once, having forgotten to order dinner for the friends 
 who were dining with me the next day. 
 
 We like to think of a Weaver, and since the threads of 
 every destiny are in his woof I must fain believe that he 
 sent Elizabeth to me ; and if this be so, and I cannot think 
 else, I am thankful to him for the gracious gown he
 
 25 
 
 ordered her to wear that day, a grey and pink shot silk Lui et 
 which I should have asked her to give me before she cast EHes 
 it away, for it would have been a pleasant object in my 
 wardrobe to look upon when my spirit was slack, though 
 it never can be slack again as it was the day that I met 
 Elizabeth, the day that she came forward in the restaurant 
 in fine health, high spirits, blonde hair and tiny hands, to 
 insist that I must remain to luncheon wuth her, and inci- 
 dentally, Avith her company. Only such impulsiveness as 
 hers could have overcome my reluctance, for I was minded 
 to return to my writing, the only cure for my sickness. 
 She must have divined it, and her kind heart must have 
 told her that she could cure it, or it may have been that 
 some book of mine stirred her imagination. 
 
 Balzac omitted, if my memory does not fail me, to 
 remark that a man loves in the first instance through the 
 eye ; his eye must be pleased, though not necessarily 
 by beauty (perfection carries its own imperfection) ; a 
 strangeness wins a woman brighter triumphs than regular 
 features, and a special turn of mind longer triumphs than 
 good sense. For though won by the eyes in the first 
 instance, a man welcomes notable talents in his mistress, 
 those that nature has given her and those with which his 
 imagination has endowed her. These are condiments 
 which he sucks slowly, at his leisure, whereas a woman 
 loves through her imagination rather than through her 
 eyes, transforming hunchbacks into stalwart heroes, a 
 matter of psychology that sets me thinking of a girl w^ho 
 married in the middle of her beautiful youth a clever little 
 man of four feet six inches (not tall enough to sit on a 
 chair at table) without perceiving that she was marrying a 
 dwarf ' I never noticed his height,' she answered her 
 family, who protested against the alliance, 'but now you 
 mention it I see that he is somewhat short.' 
 
 The innocency of the remark is touching, and we may
 
 26 
 
 Lui et look upon it as sublime if we like, or found a moral 
 Elles Joctrine upon it, one that should be included in every 
 lover's handbook, but which would not avail him if it 
 were ; for though many will understand the theory, none 
 will be able to put it into jiractice, that if we wish to 
 retain our mistresses' love we must never come down from 
 the pedestals on which they have placed us, saying, ' I 
 am weary of my pedestal, let me come down, dear 
 mistress, and be the carpet under thy feet.' The tempta- 
 tion to tui-n himself into a carpet on which his mistress 
 rests, if she does not wipe her feet, has proved the undoing 
 of many a love-story, for the devout lady is very soon 
 bored, and turning away goes to another altar to worship 
 new divinity, which her imagination has exalted out of 
 common clay and which she believes represents her final 
 desire, that which she has been seeking always. 
 
 So is the tale told, and in telling it I am relating my 
 own story always. For the first six months I was in love 
 with Agate retrospectively, and Elizabeth was determined 
 at all costs to rout her rival, and when at the end of 
 six months Agate was in the dust, I, alas, was weary of 
 my pedestal and came down from it to perceive the 
 ■weariness that would have overtaken Saint Teresa if God 
 had come down from the altar and kissed and handled her. 
 She confesses as much in her own biography, imploring 
 pardon for her own infidelity to the Son, the Father having 
 won her over for a time, but only for a time. 
 
 Elizabeth was a constant but unfaithful mistress ; in her 
 own words she ' liked not continuity,' but was willing to 
 pick up a thread again ; and I forgave her certain caprices 
 and take pleasure in remembering that I outlived them 
 all, and that when my poor little reel was empty, when 
 there was no more thread to unwind, a great love passed 
 into a perfect friendship as beautifully and serenely as 
 summer passes into a still autumn, in which all the
 
 27 
 
 sufFei'ing that she caused me (and she caused me a good Lui et 
 deal, for she was terribly egotistical at times) is forgotten, ^^^^* 
 and I remember only the divine recompenses, some of 
 which have been related in a preceding chapter. Even 
 Agate has come to be forgiven ; I should have written 
 pardoned, and on this truer word I fall to thinking that 
 she prepared the way for the greater love, and served me 
 as Rosalind served Romeo. 
 
 Ill 
 
 PARIS DRAWS me still and though the hour was that Flowering 
 stupid hour, seven in the morning, I walked gaily up Normandy 
 the grey platform of the Gare du Nord, my head filled 
 with memories of the sea, remembering it as a blue plain 
 without beginning or end on which the ship threw a little 
 circle of light, moving always like life itself, with darkness 
 before and after. And whilst walking up the platform I 
 recalled the moment before we began to steam into the 
 long winding harbour in the dusk, for against the green 
 sky, along the cliff's edge a line of broken paling had 
 zigzagged ; one star shone in the dawning sky, one reflec- 
 tion wavered in the tranquil harbour and there was no 
 sound except the splashing of paddle-wheels, nor wind 
 enough to take the fishing-boats out to sea. The boats 
 rolled in the tide, their sails only half filled, and from the 
 deck of the steamer we watched the strange crews, wild- 
 looking men and boys leaning over the bulwarks ; and I 
 remembered, too, how I had sought for the town amid 
 the shadow but failed to trace it, yet knew it was there 
 smothered in the dusk under the green sky, every street 
 leading to the cathedral and every one crossed by flying 
 buttresses, the round roof disappearing amid chimney- 
 stacks. A curious pathetic town is Dieppe, full of nuns 
 and pigeons, old gables and strange dormer windows. In
 
 28 
 
 Flowering courtyards wliere French nobles once assembled fish was 
 Normandy ^^gj^g so](] ^JiHe we watched the green sky widening, the 
 town coming into outline slowly, so slowly that only a few 
 roofs were visible when we were called upon to take our 
 seats in the train. We moved along the quays into the 
 suburbs and then into a quiet garden country of little 
 fields and brooks and hillsides breaking into cliffs. The 
 fields and the hills were still shadowless and grey and 
 even the blossoming orchards seemed sad — all things are 
 sad at dawn. But what shall I say of their beauty when 
 the first rose clouds api)eared above the hills ? That there 
 is no such journey in the Avorld as the journey from 
 Dieppe to Paris on a fine May morning. Nobody forgets 
 his first glimpse of Rouen Cathedral in the diam^ond air, 
 the branching river and the tall ships anchored in the 
 deep current. We were dreaming of the cathedral long 
 after we had left Rouen behind us, and when we awoke 
 from our dream we were in the midst of a flat green 
 country, the river winding about islands and through fields 
 in which stand solitary poplar-trees, formerly haunts of 
 Corot and Daubigny. We saw the spots where they set 
 their easels — that slight rise with the solitary poplar for 
 Corot' s, that rich river bank and shady backwater for 
 Daubigny' s. 
 
 Soon after the first weir came into sight, and then 
 the first hay-boat. At every moment the river seemed 
 more serene, more gracious; it passed its arms about a 
 flat, green-wooded island on which there is a rookery ; 
 and sometimes we saw it ahead of us, looping up the 
 verdant landscape as if it were a gown, running through 
 it like a white silk ribbon, and over yonder the green 
 gown disappearing in fine muslin vapours, drawn about 
 the low horizon. And not for a moment did we weary 
 of this landscape. We were sorry when the first villa 
 appeared. Another and then another showed between
 
 29 
 
 the chestnut-trees in bloom ; and there were often blue Flowering 
 
 vases on the steps and sometimes lanterns in metal work Normandy 
 
 hung from wooden balconies. The shutters were not open 
 
 when the train went by, those heavy French sliutters 
 
 that we all know so well, and that give the French houses 
 
 such a look of comfort, of ease, of long tradition. The 
 
 aspect ot a street strikes us if we remember Paris, and I 
 
 said, ' Is it possible that we are passing through Asnieres ? ' 
 
 The name flitted past, and I was glad I had recognised 
 
 Asnieres, for at the end of that very long road is the 
 
 restaurant where we dined long ago, and between it and 
 
 the bridge is the hal where we danced. And it was there 
 
 that I saw the beautiful Blanche D'Antigny surrounded 
 
 by her admirers. It was there she sat by the side of the 
 
 composer of the musical follies which she sang — in those 
 
 days I thought she sang enchantingly, for those were 
 
 the days of L'CEil Creve and Chilperic. She once 
 
 passed under the chestnut-trees of that dusty little bal 
 
 de hanlieue with me by her side, proud of being with 
 
 her. She has gone and Julia Baron has gone ; Hortense 
 
 has outlived them all. She must be very old, eighty-five 
 
 at least. It would be wonderful to hear her sing, ' Mon cher 
 
 amant, je te jure,' in the quavering voice of eighty-five; 
 
 it would be wonderful to hear her sing it, for she doesn't 
 
 know how wonderful she is : the old light of love requires 
 
 an interpreter, and she has had many ; many great poets 
 
 have voiced her decadence and decay. 
 
 Not five minutes from that hal was the little house in 
 which Herve lived, and to which he used to invite us to 
 supper ; and where, after supper, he used to play to us 
 the last music he had composed. We listened, but the 
 public would listen to it no longer. Sedan had taken 
 all the tinkle out of it, and the poor compositeur toque 
 never caught the public ear again. We listened to his 
 chirpy scores, believing that they would revive that old
 
 30 
 
 Flowering nervous fever which was the Empire when Hortense 
 Normandy took the Empire for a springboard^ and Paris cried 
 out, 'Cascade ma fille, Hortense;, cascade.' The great 
 Hortense Schneider, the great goddess of folly, used to 
 come hither to sing the songs which were intended 
 to revive her triumphs. She was growing old then, her 
 days were over, and Herve's day was over. Vainly did 
 he pile parody upon parody ; vainly did he seize the 
 conductor's bdtoii ; the days of their glory were gone and 
 now Asnieres itself is forgotten ! The ballroom has been 
 pulled down, and never again will an orchestra play a 
 note of these poor scores ; even their names are un- 
 known. A few bars of a chorus of pages came back 
 to me, remembered only by me, all are gone, like 
 Hortense and Blanche and Julia. 
 
 But after all I am in Paris. Almost the same Paris ; 
 almost the same George Moore, my senses awake as 
 before to all enjoyment, my soul as enrapt as ever in 
 the divine sensation of life. Once my youth moved 
 through thy whiteness, O City, and its dreams lay down 
 to dream in the freedom of thy fields ! Years come and 
 years go, but every year I see city and plain in the happy 
 exaltation of spring, and departing before the cuckoo, 
 while the blossom is still bright on the bough, it has 
 come to me to think that Paris and May are one. 
 
 IV 
 
 A Waitress T^EELING THAT he would never see Scotland again, 
 -*- Stevenson wrote in a preface to Calrioiia : ' I see 
 like a vision the youth of my father, and of his father, 
 and the whole stream of lives flowing down there far 
 in the north, Avith the sound of laughter and tears, to 
 cast me out in the end, as by a sudden freshet, on these
 
 31 
 
 ultimate islands. And I admire and bow my head before A Waitress 
 the romance of destin}'.' Very good, very good indeed, 
 cry I ; but does not this sentence read as if it were 
 written in the stress of some effusive febrile emotion, 
 as if he wrote while still pursuing his idea ? And so 
 it reminds us of a moth fluttering after a liglit. But 
 however vacillating, the sentence contains some pretty 
 clauses, and it will be remembered though not perhaps 
 in its original form. We shall forget the daughter 
 and the tears ' and the ' sudden freshet,' and a simpler 
 phrase will form itself in our memories. The emotion 
 that Stevenson had to express transpires only in the 
 words, ^romance of destiny, ultimate islands.' For who 
 does not feel his destiny to be a romance, and who does 
 not admire the ultimate island whither his destiny will 
 cast him ? Giacomo Cenci, whom the Pope ordered to 
 be flayed, no doubt admired the romance of destiny that 
 laid him on his ultimate island, a raised plank, so that 
 the executioner might conveniently roll up the skin of 
 his belly like an apron. And a hare that I once saw 
 beating a tambourine in Regent Street looked at me so 
 wistfully that I am sure puss admired in some remote 
 way the romance of destiny that had taken her from the 
 woodland and cast her upon her ultimate island — in this 
 case a barrow. But neither of these strange examples 
 of the romance of destiny seems to me more wonderful 
 than the destiny of a wistful Irish gix-1 whom I saw serving 
 drinks to students in a certain ultimate cafe in the Latin 
 Quarter, and she, too, no doubt, admired the destiny 
 Avhich had cast her out, ordaining that she should die 
 amid tobacco smoke, serving drinks to students, enter- 
 taining them with whatever conversation they desired. 
 
 Gervex, Mademoiselle D' A vary, and I, went to this 
 cafe after the theatre for half an hour's distraction. I 
 thought that the place seemed too rough for Mademoiselle
 
 S2 
 
 A Waitress D'Avary, but Gervex said that we should find a quiet 
 corner, and we happened to choose one in charge of a 
 thin, delicate girl, a girl touched with languor, weakness, 
 and a grace wliich interested and moved me : her cheeks 
 were thin, and the deep grey eyes were wistful as a 
 drawing by Rossetti, and her waving brown hair fell over 
 the temples, looped up low over the neck after the poet's 
 fashion. The two women looked at each other, one 
 woman healthful and rich, the other poor and ailing; so 
 it were easy to guess that the thought that passed across 
 their minds was why life had come to them so differently. 
 But first I must tell who was Mademoiselle D'Avary, and 
 how I came to know her. I had gone to Tortoni, a once 
 celebrated cafe' at the corner of the Rue Taitbout, the 
 dining-place of Rossini. When Rossini had earned an 
 income of two thousand pounds a year, it is recorded that 
 he said, 'Now I've done with music, it has served its 
 turn, and I'm going to dine every day at Tortoni's,' 
 Even in my time Tortoni was the tryst of the world 
 of art and letters ; every one was there at five o'clock, 
 and to Tortoni I went the day I arrived in Paris to make 
 known the fact that I was back in Paris ajjain. Tortoni 
 was a sort of publication, and there I discovered a young 
 man, one of my oldest friends, a painter of talent (he had 
 a picture in the Luxembourg), who seized me by the 
 hand, and with voluble eagerness told me that I was the 
 person he was seeking : he had heard of my coming and 
 had sought me in every cafe from the Madeleine to 
 Tortoni. I learnt from him that he had been seeking me, 
 for he wished to ask me to dinner to meet Mademoiselle 
 D'Avary. We were to fetch her in the Rue des 
 Capucines. I write the name of the street, not because 
 it matters to my little story in what street she lived, 
 but because the name is an evocation. Those who like 
 Paris like to hear the names of the streets, and the long
 
 33 
 
 staircase turning closely up the painted walls^ the brown A Waitress 
 
 painted doors on the landings^ and the bell-rope, are 
 
 evocative of Parisian life ; and Mademoiselle D'Avary is 
 
 hei'self an evocation, for she was an actress of the Palais 
 
 Royal. My friend, too, is an evocation ; for he is one 
 
 of those whose pride is not to spend money upon women, 
 
 whose theory of life is that ' If she likes to come round 
 
 to the studio when one's work is done, nous pouvons faire 
 
 la fete ensemble.' But however defensible this view of 
 
 life may be, and there is much to be said for it, I thought 
 
 that he might have refrained from saying, when I looked 
 
 round the drawing-room admiring it — a draAving-room 
 
 furnished with sixteenth-century bronzes, Dresden figures, 
 
 etageres covered with silver ornaments, three drawings by 
 
 Boucher — Boucher in three periods — a French Boucher, 
 
 a Flemish Boucher, and an Italian Boucher — that I 
 
 must not think that any of these things were presents 
 
 from him, and from saying when she came into the 
 
 room that he did not give her the bracelet on her ai-m. 
 
 It seemed to me in slightly bad taste that he should 
 
 remind her that he made no presents, for his remark 
 
 clouded her joyousness, and I could see that she was not 
 
 so happy at the thought of going out to dine with him 
 
 as she had been. 
 
 It was chez Foyot that we dined, an old-fashioned 
 restaurant still free from the new taste that likes walls 
 painted white and gold, electric lamps and fiddlers. 
 After dinner we went to see a play next door at the 
 Odeon, a play in which shepherds spoke to each other 
 about singing brooks, and stabbed each other for false 
 women, a play diversified with vintages, processions, wains 
 and songs. During the entr'actes Gervex paid visits in 
 various parts of the house, leaving Mademoiselle D'Avary 
 to make herself agreeable to me, which was easy to do, 
 for I dearly love to walk by the perambulator in which 
 
 D
 
 3i 
 
 A Waitress Love is wheeling a pair of lovers. After the play he said, 
 * Allons boire un bock/ and we turned into a cafe furnished 
 with tapestries and oak tables, and old-time jugs and 
 Medici gowns, a cafe in which a student occasionally 
 caught up a tall bock in his teeth, emptied it at a 
 gulp, and after turning head over heels, walked out 
 without having smiled. Mademoiselle D'Avary's beauty 
 and fashion drew the eyes of all the students. She wore 
 a flower-enwoven dress, and from under the large hat 
 her hair showed dark as night ; and her Southern skin 
 filled with rich tints, yellow and dark green where the 
 hair turned to down on the neck ; the shoulders drooped 
 into opulent suggestion in the lace bodice ; and to me 
 it was interesting to compare her ripe beauty with the 
 pale deciduous beauty of the waitress. Mademoiselle 
 D' A vary sat, her fan widespread across her bosom, her 
 lips parted, her small teeth showing between her red 
 lips, and the waitress sat, her thin arms leaning on the 
 table, joining very prettily in the conversation, betraying 
 only in one glance that she was reading success and failure 
 in herself and Mademoiselle D'Avary. And so immersed 
 was I in their contrasted lives that it was some time before 
 my ear caught an accent, and when heard it was difficult 
 to trace it to any country. At last I heard an unmistakable 
 English intonation, and said : — 
 
 ' But you're English.' 
 
 ' I'm Irish. I'm from Dublin.' 
 
 And thinking of a girl reared in Dublin conventions, 
 but whom the romance of destiny had cast upon this 
 ultimate caf6, I could not do else than to ask her how 
 she had found her way hither, and was told that she left 
 Dublin when she was sixteen to come to Paris to take 
 a situation as nursery governess. She told me that she 
 went with the children to the Luxembourg Gardens and 
 met a student who The rest of the story is easily
 
 35 
 
 guessed. He had no money to keep her, so she had to A Waitress 
 come to this cafe to earn her Hving. 
 
 ' It doesn't suit me, the tobacco smoke makes me 
 cough. But one must hve.' One lives to die, she like 
 another, thought I, and sat looking at her. She must 
 have guessed what was passing in my mind, for she told 
 me that one lung was gone, and that the doctor had 
 advised her to go away South. 
 
 Seeing that Gervex and Mademoiselle D'Avary were 
 engaged in conversation, I leaned forward and gave all my 
 thoughts to this wistful Irish girl, so charming in her 
 phthisis, in her red Medici gown, with long rucked sleeves. 
 I offered her drink, for to do so was the custom of the 
 place, but she said that drink harmed her. Perhaps I 
 would not mind paying for a piece of beefsteak instead. 
 She was ordered to eat raw steak ! and I have only to 
 close my eyes to see her going over to the corner of 
 the cafe to cut a piece which she said she would eat 
 before going to bed, in about two hours' time. 
 
 ' I should like to take you South and attend upon 
 you.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid you would grow weary of nursing me. And 
 I should be able to give you very little in return for your 
 care, for the doctor says I'm not to love any one.' 
 
 We must have talked for some time, for it was like 
 waking out of a dream when Gervex and Mademoiselle 
 D'Avary started to their feet to go, and seeing how 
 interested I was, he laughed, saying to Mademoiselle 
 D'Avary that it would be kind to leave me with my new 
 friend. His pleasantry jarred, and though I should like 
 to have remained, I followed them into the street, where 
 the moon was shining over the Gardens. As I have said 
 before, I dearly love to walk by a perambulator in which 
 Love is wheeling a pair of lovers : but it is sad to find 
 oneself alone on the pavement at midnight. I ought to
 
 36 
 
 A Waitress have gone back to the cafe, but I wandered on, thinking 
 of the girl I had seen, and of her certain death, for she 
 could not live many months in that cafe, of that I was 
 sure. We all want to think at midnight, when the city 
 looks like a black Italian engraving under the moon; 
 poems come to us as we watch a swirling river ; and not 
 only the idea of a poem came to me that night, but on the 
 Pont Neuf the words began to sing together, and I jotted 
 down the first lines before going to bed, and all the next 
 day was passed in composition. 
 
 We are alone ! Listen, a little while. 
 And hear the reason why your weary smile 
 And lute-toned speaking are so very sweet. 
 And how my love of you is more complete 
 Than any love of any lover. They 
 Have only been attracted by the grey 
 Delicious softness of your eyes, your slim 
 And delicate form, or some such other whim 
 The simple pretexts of all lovers ; — I 
 For other reason. Listen whilst I try 
 To say. I joy to see the sunset die 
 As the world turns in pale tranquillity, 
 Leaving the heavens a melancholy calm 
 Of quiet colour chaunted like a psalm. 
 In mildly modulated phrases ; thus 
 Your life shall fade like a voluptuous 
 Vision beyond the sight, and you shall die 
 Like some soft evening's sad serenity. . . . 
 I would possess your dying hours ; indeed 
 My love is worthy of the gift, I plead 
 For them. Although I never loved as yet, 
 Methinks that I might love you ; I would get 
 From out the knowledge that the time was brief. 
 That tenderness, whose pity grows to grief.
 
 37 
 
 And grief that sanctifies, a joy, a charm A Waitress 
 
 Beyond all other loves, for now the arm 
 
 Of Death is stretched to you-ward, and he claims 
 
 You as his bride. Maybe my soul misnames 
 
 Its passion ; love perhaps it is not, yet 
 
 To see you fading like a violet, 
 
 Or some sweet thought, would be a very strange 
 
 And costly pleasure, far bej'ond the range 
 
 Of formal man's emotion. Listen, I 
 
 Will choose a country spot where fields of rye 
 
 And wheat extend in rustling yellow plains. 
 
 Broken with wooded hills and leafy lanes. 
 
 To pass our honeymoon ; a cottage where 
 
 The porch and windows are festooned with fair 
 
 Green leaves of eglantine, and look upon 
 
 A shady garden where we'll walk alone 
 
 In the autumn sunny evenings ; each will see 
 
 Our walks grow shorter, till to the orange-tree. 
 
 The garden's length, is far, and you will rest 
 
 From time to time, leaning upon my breast 
 
 Your languid lily face. Then later still 
 
 Unto the sofa by the window-sill 
 
 Your wasted body I shall carry, so 
 
 That you may drink the last left lingering glow 
 
 Of evening, when the air is filled with scent 
 
 Of blossoms ; and my spirits shall be rent 
 
 The while with many griefs. Like some blue day 
 
 That grows more lovely as it fades away. 
 
 Gaining that calm serenity and height 
 
 Of colour wanted, as the solemn night 
 
 Steals forward you will sweetly fall asleep 
 
 For ever and for ever ; I shall weep 
 
 A day and night large tears upon your face. 
 
 Laying you then beneath a rose-red place 
 
 Where I may muse and dedicate and dream
 
 38 
 
 A Waitress \'olumes of poesy of you ; and deem 
 
 It happiness to know that you are far 
 From any base desires as that fair star 
 Set in the evening magnitude of heaven. 
 Deatli takes but little^ yea, your death has given 
 Me tliat deep peace, and immaculate possession 
 Which man may never find in earthly passion. 
 
 Good poetry, of course not, but good verse, well turned 
 every line except the penultimate. The elision is not a 
 happy one, and the mere suppression of the "and" does 
 not produce a satisfying line. 
 
 Death takes but little, Death I thank for giving 
 Me a remembrance, and a pure possession 
 Of unrequited love. 
 
 And mumbling the last lines of the poem, I hastened 
 to the cafe near the Luxembourg Gardens, wondering 
 if I should find courage to ask the girl to come away to 
 the South and live. And in fear that I should and in fear 
 that I should not I hurried ; it was the idea rather than the 
 deed itself that tempted me ; for the soul of a poet is not 
 that of Florence Nightingale. I was truly sorry for this 
 wistful Irish girl, and was hastening to her, I knew not 
 why ; not to show her the poem — the very thought was 
 intolerable, as I often said on my way to her cafe. 'Why 
 then am I going to her ? ' I asked myself in vain, saying, 
 ' for I am not going to take her away to the South — surely 
 not.' All the same I hastened over the bridge and along 
 the quay Voltaire, feeling, I suppose, in some blind way, 
 that my quest was in my own heart. She was not in the 
 cafe, and sitting down at one of her tables I waited. But 
 she did not come, and when I asked the student bv me if 
 he knew the English girl in charge of these tables, he 
 said he did, and told me that only a transfusion of blood
 
 39 
 
 could save her ; and he described how blood could be A Waitress 
 
 taken from the arm of a healthy man and passed into 
 
 the veins of the almost bloodless. ' If he does not cease 
 
 to speak of blood I shall faint,' I said, and I heard some 
 
 one say, ' You're very pale.' ' But can nothing be done ? ' 
 
 I asked, and he answered that it would be difficult to 
 
 find a man to give his blood, and that the operation would 
 
 not be likely to save her; practically nothing could be 
 
 done. He ordered some brandy for me, and I returned 
 
 home thinking of her. 
 
 Twenty years have passed, and I am thinking of her 
 again. Poor little Irish girl ! Cast out in the end by a 
 sudden freshet on an ultimate cafe. Poor little heap of 
 bones ! And I bow my head and admire the romance of 
 destiny which ordained that I, who only saw her once, 
 should be the last to remember her. Perhaps I should 
 have forgotten her had it not been that I wrote a poem, 
 a poem which I now inscribe and dedicate to her nameless 
 memory. 
 
 OCTAVE BARRES liked his friends to come to his The end 
 studio, and it became the habit of the few who o^ Marie 
 believed in his talent to drop in during the afternoon ; ° 
 
 and little by little I fairly knew every picture, every 
 sketch. But one never knows everything that a painter 
 has done, and one day, coming into the studio, I caught 
 sight of a full-length portrait which I had never seen 
 before. ' It was in the back room turned to the wall,' he 
 said. ' I took it out thinking that the Russian prince who 
 ordered the Pegasus decoration might buy it,' and he 
 turned away, not liking to hear my praise of it ; for it 
 neither pleases a painter to hear his early works praised 
 nor abused. ' I painted it before I knew how to paint,'
 
 40 
 
 The end a^j standing before me, his palette in his hand, he 
 
 of Marie 
 Pcllegrin 
 
 expounded his new aestheticism : that up to the beginning 
 of the nineteenth century all painting had been done fii'st 
 in monochrome and then glazed, and what we know as 
 solid painting was invented by David. One day in the 
 Louvre he perceived something in Delacroix, something 
 not wholly satisfactory, and this something set him think- 
 ing. It was Rubens, however, who revealed the secret ! 
 It was Rubens who taught him how to paint ! On being 
 pressed he admitted that there was danger in retracing 
 one's steps, in beginning one's education over again ; but 
 what help was there for it, since painting was not taught 
 in the schools ? 
 
 I had heard all he had to say before, and could not 
 change my belief that every man must live in the idiom 
 of his time, be it good or bad. It is easy to say that we 
 must only adopt Rubens' method and jealously guard 
 against any infringement on our personality ; but in art 
 our personality is determined by the methods we employ, 
 and Octave's portrait interested me more than the Pegasus 
 decoration, or the three pink Venuses holding a basket of 
 flowers above their heads. The portrait was crude and 
 violent, but so was Octave Barres ; and he painted this 
 portrait when he was a pupil of Manet's, and he painted 
 it well, the methods of Manet being in agreement with 
 his temperament. We are all impressionists to-day, we 
 are eager to note down what we feel and see, and the 
 carefully prepared rhetorical manner of Rubens was as 
 incompatible with Octave's temperament as the manner 
 of John Milton is with mine. Thei*e was a thought of 
 Goya in the background, in the contrast between the 
 grey and the black, and there was something of Manet's 
 simplifications in the face, but these echoes were faint, 
 nor did they matter, for they were of our time. In 
 looking at his model he had seen and felt ; he had noted
 
 41 
 
 something harshly, crudely, but he noted it ; and to The end 
 
 do this is after all the main thing. His sitter had ^^^^^''.^^ 
 
 Pelle&rin 
 inspired him. The word ' inspired ' offended him ; I with- 
 drew it ; I said that he had been fortunate in his model, 
 and he admitted that to see that thin, olive-complexioned 
 girl with fine delicate features and blue-black hair lying 
 close about her head like feathers — she wore her hair as a 
 blackbird wears his wings — compelled one to paint ; and 
 after admiring the face I admired the black silk dress he 
 had painted her in, a black silk dress covered with black 
 lace, the grey pearls in her ears, and those upon her neck. 
 At first I was interested in the quality of the painting, 
 so different from Octave's present painting, but the soul 
 afloat in the painting appealed to me and so intimately 
 that I forgot the picture and began to think of her, 
 unable to associate her with any of the women one usually 
 met in Barres' studio, a studio beloved by women ; all he 
 stumbled upon he invited, and they began to assemble 
 there about four in the afternoon, playing the piano, 
 singing, talking about the painters they had sat to, 
 showing us their shoes and garters, and he, heeding them 
 hardly at all, walking to and fro thinking of his new 
 painting, an archaic painting, as I have said, achieved by 
 a system of glazing. I often wondered if his appearance 
 counted for anything in his renunciation of modern 
 methods, for he did not look like a modern man, but 
 like a sixteenth-century baron ; his beard and his broken 
 nose and his hieratic air contributed to the resemblance. 
 He wore his jersey as if it were a coat of mail. Even in 
 his choice of a dwelling he seemed to avoid the modern, 
 finding a studio in a street the name of which no one had 
 ever heard before, a studio hidden behind great crumbling 
 walls, in the middle of a plot of ground overgrown with 
 cabbages, which he sometimes gathered for a soup, for 
 Octave was always, as he would phrase it, ' dans une
 
 42 
 
 The end d^che ([-pouvantable.' All the same he managed to keep 
 
 of Marie ^ thoroucrhbred horse in the stable at the end of the 
 
 P 11 ' 
 
 rciiegnn gjjj.jgjj^ ^j^j ^l^jg horse was saddled as soon as the light 
 
 began to fail. ' Mes amis et mes amies,' he would say, 
 * je regrette, mais mon cheval m'attend.' 
 
 We all went out to see him mount, and many of the 
 women thought, I am sure, that he looked like a Centaur 
 as he rode away. 
 
 ' But who was the olive-complexioned girl ? ' 1 asked 
 myself, my thoughts dwelling upon her face as they might 
 on a Virgin by Raphael ; and remembering that Octave 
 had taken out the portrait in the hopes that the Russian 
 who ordered the Pegasus might buy it, the thought struck 
 me that she might be the Prince's mistress. What might 
 her history be.'' And burning to hear it, I wearied of 
 Octave's seemingly endless chatter about his method of 
 painting, all of which I had heard many times before, but 
 I listened to it all again, and to propitiate him regretted 
 that the picture was not painted in his present manner, 
 ' for there are good things in the picture/ I said, ' and the 
 model — ^j'ou seem to have been lucky with your model.' 
 
 ' Yes, she was nice to paint from, but it was difficult to 
 get her to sit. A concierge s daughter — you wouldn't think 
 it, would you ? ' My astonishment amused him, and he 
 began to laugh. * You don't know her ? ' he said. * That 
 is Marie Pellegrin,' and when I asked him where he had 
 met her he told me, at Alphonsine's ; but I did not know 
 where Al})honsine's was. 
 
 ' I'm going to dine there to-night to meet her ; she's 
 going back to Russia with the Prince. Sacre noni ! half- 
 past five, and I haven't washed my brushes yet ! She has 
 been staying in the Quartier Breda on her holiday.' In 
 answer to a question, what he meant by going to the 
 Quartier Breda for a holiday, he said : — 
 
 *ril tell you all about that in the carriage.'
 
 43 
 
 But no sooner were we in the carriage than he remem- The end 
 bered that he must leave word for a woman who had of Marie 
 promised to sit to him^ and swearing that a message would ° 
 
 not delay us for more than a few minutes he directed the 
 coachman. The carriage stopped. ' Deuxieme au-dessus 
 de I'entresol/ cried the concierge, and we were shown into 
 a drawing-room into which the lady ran from her bedroom, 
 wrapping herself as she ran in a peignoir to discuss the 
 sitting in the middle of a polished parquet floor. When 
 the discussion was finished and we were back in the carriage, 
 he remembered another appointment, and more notes were 
 scribbled in the lodges of the concierges, reminding me of 
 Marshall in the Confessions of a Young Man. Between- 
 whiles Octave told me all he knew of the story of Marie 
 Pellegrin, who I said could not be of the Montmartre kin ; 
 but Octave assured me that she was the daughter of a 
 concierge on the Boulevard Exterieur and had run away 
 from home at fifteen to dance at the Elysee Montmartre. 
 
 Sa jupe avait des trous, 
 Elle airaait des voyous, 
 lis ont des yeux si doux. 
 
 But one day a Russian prince caught sight of her, and 
 built her a palace in the Champs Elysees. Such was her 
 story Octave Barres averred as we drove to Alphonsine's 
 — a bare outline, which he would have filled in with 
 interesting detail if the stopping of the carriage had not 
 interrupted his narrative. ' Here we are,' he said, seizing 
 a bell hanging on a jangling wire. The green door in 
 the crumbling wall opened, and I saw an undersized 
 woman with two cats purring about her legs, and her 
 portrait, a life-sized caricature drawn by Octave including 
 her cats, faced me from the whitewashed wall of the 
 hencoop. Underneath it he had written, ' lis viennent 
 apres le mou.'
 
 44 
 
 The end Her garden was a gravelled space, over which a tent 
 of Marie }^aj i^ge^ stretched from wall to wall. A waiter in a 
 cl egnn ^.jjj.gaj|jjjj.g gyi|. ^f ijia^k laid the tables (there were two), 
 placing bottles of wine in front of each knife and fork, 
 and bread in long sticks at regular intervals. He was 
 constantly disturbed by the ringing of the bell, and had 
 to run to the door to admit the company. Here and 
 there I recognised faces that I had already seen in the 
 studio : Clementine, who last year was studying the part 
 of Elsa and this year was singing, ' La femme de feu, la 
 cui, la cui, la cuisiniere,' in a cafe chantant, and Marguerite 
 B^Ton, who had just retreated from Russia — a disastrous 
 campaign hers was said to have been ; but the greater 
 number of the guests were hors concours. Alphonsine's 
 garden was to the aged courtesan what Chelsea Hospital 
 is to the aged soldier. ' A sort of human garden full of 
 the sound and colour of October,' I said and fell to think- 
 ing, what interest the woman whose portrait I had seen 
 in Barres' studio could find in the women about me. I 
 passed them all in review, but search as I would I could 
 not find among them a friend for Marie nor a lover among 
 the men — in neither of the two stout middle-aged men 
 with large whiskers, who had probably once been stock- 
 brokei's ; nor in the withered journalist whom I heard 
 speaking to Octave about a duel he had fought recently ; 
 nor in the little sandy Scotchman whose French Avas not 
 understood by the women and whose English was nearly 
 unintelligible to me ; nor in the man who looked like a 
 head-waiter — Alphonsine's lover. He had been a waiter, 
 and he told us with the air of Napoleon describing Waterloo 
 that he had 'created' a certain fashionable cafe on the 
 Boulevard. Several men entered not one of whom I could 
 attribute to Marie. And Octave continued to speak of 
 her with indifference ; she had interested him to paint, 
 and now he hoped she would get the Russian to buy her
 
 46 
 
 picture. ' She's not here/ I said. ' She'll be here pre- The end 
 sently/ Octave answered^ and he went on talking to of Mane 
 Carmen, a fair, pretty woman whom I saw every night at ^ ^S ^ 
 the Rat Mort, and to another whom I saw every morning 
 in the Rue des Martyrs in a grey dressing-gown, market- 
 ing, a basket on her arm. But it was not till the soup- 
 plates were being taken away that I saw a young woman 
 dressed in black coming across the garden. 
 
 It was she, Marie Pellegrin, and so like her portrait 
 that she seemed to have walked out of it, as the saying is, 
 in black silk and white lace, her hair worn swathed about 
 her shapely little head as in the portrait. She was her 
 portrait and something more, for Octave had omitted her 
 smile, a wayward, sad little smile in keeping with her grave 
 face, and in keeping, too, with her voice, as melancholy 
 and sweet as a robin's chitter. She sat at the end of the 
 table, the centre of a group of women, and I noticed that 
 she sometimes forgot what she was saying, and amused by 
 her own absent-mindedness, she picked up the thread of 
 her thought amid low, sad laughter. Her beauty brought 
 a little mist into my eyes, and I lost sight of her, or very 
 nearly, and I went on eating mechanically till at last the 
 dinner came to an end, and so suddenly that before I 
 knew it was over we were rising from table. 
 
 As we went towards the house where coffee was being 
 served, Marie asked me if I played cards, but I excused 
 myself, saying that I would prefer to sit and look at her ; 
 and just then a thin woman with red hair, who had arrived 
 at the same time as Marie, and who sat next her at dinner, 
 was introduced to me, and I was told that she was Marie's 
 intimate friend, and that the two lived together whenever 
 Marie returned to Montmartre. She was known as La 
 Glue; her real name was Victorine. She had sat for 
 Manet's picture of Olympe, but that was years ago. The 
 face was thinner, but I recognised the red hair and the
 
 46 
 
 The end brown eyes, small eyes set closely, reminding one of de^ 
 of Marie peUts veires de cognac. Her sketch-book was being passed 
 Pcllegrin ^^^^^^ jj^j jjg jj- Q-^T^ie into my hands I noticed that she 
 did not wear stays and was dressed in old grey woollen. 
 She lit cigarette after cigarette, and leaned over Marie 
 with her arm about her shoulder, advising her what cards 
 to play. The game was ecarte, and in a little while I saw 
 that Marie was losing a great deal of money, and a little 
 later I saw La Glue trying to persuade her away from the 
 card-table. 
 
 'One more deal.' That deal lost her the last louis she 
 had placed on the table. ' Some one will have to pay my 
 cab,' she said. 
 
 We were going to the Elysee Montmartre, and Alphon- 
 sine lent her a couple of louis, pour passer sa soiree, and 
 we all went away in carriages, the little horses straining 
 up the steep streets ; the plumes of the women's hats 
 floating over the carriage hoods. Marie was in one of the 
 front carriages, and was waiting for us on the high steps 
 leading from the street to the hal. 
 
 ' It's my last night,' she said, ' the last night I shall see 
 the Elysee for many a month.' 
 
 ' You'll soon be back again ? ' 
 
 ' You see, I have been offered five hundred thousand 
 francs to go to Russia for three years. Fancy, three years 
 without seeing the Elysee,' and she looked round as an 
 angel might look upon Paradise out of which she is about 
 to be driven. ' The trees are beautiful,' she said, * they're 
 like a fairy tale ' ; and that is exactly what they were like, 
 rising into the summer darkness, unnaturally green above 
 the electric lights. In the middle of a circle of white 
 globes the orchestra played upon an estrade, and every 
 one whirled his partner as if she were a top. ' I always 
 sit in the angle,' she said, and was about to invite me to 
 come and sit with her, when her attention was distracted
 
 47 
 
 from me by voices cheering and voices whispering : The end 
 * That's Marie Pellegrin.' The dancers flocked at her °f Marie 
 approach, her waiter began to draw aside tables and chairs, 
 and in a few minutes she was sitting under her trees, she 
 and La Glue together, Marie distributing absinthe, brandy, 
 and cigarettes, unsuspicious of the idea that was taking 
 shape and that suddenly formed into a procession headed 
 by the manager, bearing a basket of flowers. On Marie's 
 acceptance of the flowers a great cheer went up, and 
 afterwards many voices were heard crying : * Vive Marie 
 Pellegrin, la reine de I'Elysee.' 
 
 The music began again, and the people rushed to see 
 a quadrille where two women were kicking off men's 
 hats ; and while watching them I heard that a display 
 of fireworks was being arranged by special request, the 
 news having got about that this was her last night at the 
 Elysee. It was not long after that a swishing sound was 
 heard and the rocket rose high into the dark midnight 
 sky ; the star fell a little way, then burst, changing from 
 turquoise blue to ruby red, the falling fire beautiful as 
 the colour of flowers, roses and, of all, tulips whilst Marie, 
 my eyes never left her, stood watching, lost in ecstasy, till 
 the last sparks vanished. 
 
 * Doesn't she look like my picture ? ' said Octave. 
 
 * You seemed to have divined her soul.' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. ' I'm not 
 a psychologist, I am a painter. But I must get a word 
 with her,' and with a carelessness that was almost inso- 
 lence, he pushed his way into the crowd, calling to her. 
 His indifference to her charm put me past my patience 
 and I walked through the crowd asking myself if he 
 had always been so indifferent. In a little while they 
 returned. 
 
 * I'll do my best,' I heard her say, and she ran back to 
 join her companions. •
 
 48 
 
 The end ' I suppose you've seen enough of the Elysee ? ' 
 
 of Marie ^ Ah ! qu'elle est johe ce soir ; et elle fera joliment 
 
 Pcllegr.n „,^,eher le Russe.' 
 
 Octave did not notice that he had said anything to jar 
 my feehngs ; he was thinking of his portrait, and presently 
 he said tliat he was sorry she was going to Russia. 
 
 ' I should like to begin another portrait, now that I have 
 learned to paint.' 
 
 ' Do you think she'll go to Russia ? ' 
 
 * Yes, she'll go there ; but she'll come back one of these 
 days, and I'll get her to sit again. It is extraordinary how 
 little is known of the art of painting ; the art is forgotten. 
 The old masters did perfectly in two days what we spend 
 weeks fumbling at. In two days Rubens finished his 
 grisaille, and the glazing was done with certainty, with 
 skill, with ease in half an hour! He could get more 
 depth of colour with a glaze than any one can to-day, 
 however much paint is put on the canvas. The old 
 masters had method, now there's none. One brush as 
 well as another, rub the paint up or down, it doesn't 
 matter so long as the canvas is covered. Manet began it, 
 and Cezanne has— well, filed the petition: painting is 
 bankrupt.' 
 
 I listened to him a little wearily, for I had heard all he 
 was saying many times before, but Octave always talked of 
 what was uppermost in his mind, and this evening he 
 wanted to talk of painting, not of Marie, and I was glad 
 when we came to the spot where our ways parted. 
 
 *You know that the Russian is coming to the studio 
 to-morrow ; I hope he'll buy the portrait.' 
 
 ' I hope he Avill,' I said. ' I'd buy it myself if I could 
 afford it.' 
 
 ' I'd prefer you to have something I have done since, 
 unless it be the woman you're after. But one minute. 
 You're coming to sit to me the day after to morrow ? '
 
 4^ 
 
 ' Yes/ I said, ' I'll come.' The end 
 
 'And then I'll be able to tell you if he has bought the o^ Marie 
 
 Pellegrin 
 picture. 
 
 Three days afterwards I asked Octave on the threshold 
 
 if he had sold the portrait ? He told me nothing was 
 
 definitely settled yet. Soon after we heard that Marie 
 
 had gone to St. Petersburg with the Prince, and this 
 
 was the last news I had of her for many months. But 
 
 a week rarely passed without something happening to 
 
 remind me of her. One day a book of travels in Siberia 
 
 opened at a passage telling how a boy belonging to a 
 
 tribe of Asiatic savages was taken from his deserts, where 
 
 he lay deserted and dying, and brought to Moscow. 
 
 The gentleman who found him adopted and educated him, 
 
 and the reclaimed savage became in time a fashionable 
 
 young man about town, betraying no trace of his origin till 
 
 he met one of his tribe come to Moscow to sell skins. 
 
 The smell of the skins awakened a longing for the 
 
 desert in the reclaimed savage, who fell into melancholy 
 
 moods that his adopted father tried to overcome with 
 
 presents of money. Neither money nor affection soothed 
 
 his homesickness ; he disappeared, and was not heard of 
 
 for years, until one day a cai-avan came back with the news 
 
 of a civilised man among the savages. He had betrayed 
 
 himself by speaking French, but on being questioned he 
 
 denied any knowledge of French, saying that he had 
 
 never been to St. Petersburg, and did not wish to go there. 
 
 What was this story, I asked myself, but the story of Marie 
 
 Pellegrin, who, when weary of Russian princes and palaces, 
 
 returned for her holiday to the Quartier Breda ? 
 
 A few days afterwai-ds I heard in Barres' studio that 
 
 she had escaped from Russia ; and that evening I went to 
 
 Alphonsine's to dinner, hoping to see her. But none was 
 
 there except Clementine and the two stockbrokers ; and I 
 
 waited eagerly for news of her, not liking to mention her 
 
 E
 
 50 
 
 The end name, and the dreary dinner was nearly over before her 
 of Marie name was mentioned. She was ill, very ill, but not dying, 
 Pellegrm ^^^^ Alphonsine gave me her address. She lived higher 
 up on the same side as the Cirque Fernando, nearly facing 
 the Elysee Montmartre. The number I could inquire out, 
 she said, and I went away in a cab up the steep and stony 
 Rue des Martyrs, noticing the cafe and then the brasserie, 
 and a little higher up the fruitseller and the photographer, 
 for when the mind is at stress one notices the casual. 
 The first house we stopped at happened to be the right 
 one, the concierge said, 'the fourth floor,' and as I went 
 upstairs I thought of La Glue, of her untidy dress and her 
 red hair, and a moment after she asked me into an 
 unfurnished drawing-room. 
 
 ' She's talking of going to the Elysee to-night. There 
 are three or four of us here. You know them. Clementine 
 Poutier and Marguerite Byron ? ' She mentioned some 
 other names that I did not remember, and opening a door, 
 cried, ' Marie, here's a visitor for you, a gentleman from 
 Alphonsine's. You know, dear, the Englishman, Octave 
 Harris' friend.' 
 
 She gave me her hand, and I held it a long while. 
 'Comme les Anglais sont gentils. Des qu'on est 
 
 malade ' 
 
 I don't think Marie finished the sentence, if she did I 
 did not hear her; but I remember quite well that she 
 spoke of my distaste for cards. 
 
 'You didn't play that night at Alphonsine's when I 
 lost all my money. You looked at Victorine's drawings. 
 She has done some better ones. Go and look at them, 
 and let's finish our game. Then I'll talk to you. So 
 you heard about me at Alphonsine's.'' They say I'm very 
 ill, don't they.'' But now that I've come back I'll soon 
 get well. I'm always well in Montmartre, amn't I, 
 Victorine } ' ' Nous ne sommes pas installes encore,' Marie
 
 51 
 
 said, referring to the scarcity of furniture, and to the The end 
 clock and candelabra which stood on the floor. But °^ Marie 
 if there were too few chairs, there was a good deal of 
 money and jewellery among the bed-clothes ; and Marie 
 toyed with this jewellery during the games. She wore 
 large lace sleeves, and the thin arms showed delicate and 
 slight when she raised them to change her ear-rings. 
 Her small beauty, fashioned like an ivory, contrasted 
 with the coarse features about her, and the little nose 
 with beautifully shaped nostrils, and of all the mouth, 
 fading at the ends into faint indecisions. Every now and 
 then a tenderness came over her face. ' Octave,' I said to 
 myself, ' saw the essential in her; he had painted herself — 
 her soul as well as her body, though he denied it twenty . 
 times a day.' Marie's soul rose up like a water-flower in 
 her eyes, and then the soul sank out of sight, and 1 saw 
 another Marie, tme griie, playing cards with five others 
 from Alphonsine's, losing her money and her health. A 
 bottle of absinthe stood on a beautiful Empire table that 
 her prince had given her, and Bijou, Clementine's little 
 dog, slept on an embroidered cushion. The little bitch 
 was going to have puppies, and whilst stroking her silky 
 coat, thinking of her coming trouble, I heard Clementine's 
 voice raised above the others, and heard her say that the 
 cards had not been fairly dealt. La Glue told Clementine 
 that she was not wanted — 'qu'elle ferait bien de de- 
 barrasser les planches,' a vulgar phrase that her coarse 
 voice made seem still more vulgar. I heard further ac- 
 cusations, and among them the plaintive voice of Marie 
 begging of me not to believe what they said. The women 
 caught each other by the hair, tore at each other's faces, 
 Marie raised herself up in bed and fell back crying. For 
 a moment it seemed as if they were going to sit down 
 to cards again, but suddenly everybody snatched her own 
 money and then everybody snatched at the money within
 
 52 
 
 The end her reach ; and, calling each other thieveSj they struggled 
 
 of Marie through the door, and down the staircase at last, followed 
 
 e egnn ^^ Bijou, who, conceiving suddenly that she was about to 
 
 be left behind, jumped from her chair and ran after her 
 
 mistress. 
 
 ' Help me to find my brooch,' Marie said, and I saw her 
 faint hands turning over the bed-clothes. Some jewellery 
 was missing, a brooch and some pearls as well as all her 
 money. She fell back among the pillows unable to speak, 
 and very soon the little lace handkerchief was soaking. 
 In answer to my questions I learnt that the stolen money 
 was paid to her by a fournisseur in the Quartier for her 
 garniture de cheminee, and of this money, two thousand 
 francs, only a few francs were found among the bed- 
 clothes, enough, she said, ' Pour passer ma soiree.' She 
 begged me to go to the dressmaker to inquire for the 
 gown that had been promised for ten o'clock, saying, 
 ' I shall be at the Elysee by eleven. Au revoir, an revoir, 
 cher canir ! Let me rest a little now. I shall see you 
 to-night. You know where I sit, in the left-hand corner ; 
 they always keep those seats for me.' 
 
 Her eyes closed, she was soon asleep, and her calm 
 and reasonable sleep reminded me of her agitated and 
 unreasonable life ; and looking at her, at this poor butter- 
 fly lying all alone, robbed by her friends and associates, 
 I remembei'ed that, having found a few francs amid the 
 bed-clothes, overlooked by them, she had said : ' Assez 
 pour passer ma soiree.' 
 
 The Prince might be written to ; but he, no doubt, was 
 weary of her inability to lead a respectable life, and knew 
 that if he were to send her money, it would go whither 
 his last gift had gone. * If she ends selling fried potatoes 
 on the streets it will be her own fault,' he would say. 
 But would such a decadence be her fault ? Octave would 
 answer, ' Qu'est-ce que cela peut nous faire, une fille plus
 
 53 
 
 ou moins fichue. Ah si je pouvais reussir un peu dans ce The end 
 sacre metier ! ' ' His talk was always superficial, but his °f Marie 
 picture of her is something more than mere sarcasm,' I ° 
 
 said to myself, and fell to thinking of her intention to go 
 to the Elysee. 
 
 It was just six o'clock, she wanted her dress by ten, so 
 I must hasten away to the dressmaker at once ; it might be 
 wiser not — she lay in bed peaceful and beautiful ; at the 
 Elysee she would be drinking absinthe and smoking cigar- 
 ettes until three in the morning. But I had promised and 
 she would not forgive me if I did not redeem my promise. 
 
 The dressmaker said that Madame Pellegrin would 
 have her dress by nine, and at half-past ten I was at 
 the Elysee waiting for her, walking round the gravel 
 path, wearying of the unnatui'al green of the chestnut 
 leaves and of the high kicking in the quadrilles. Now 
 and then there would be a rush of people, and then 
 the human tide would disperse again under the trees 
 among the zinc chairs and tables, for the enjoyment of 
 books and cigars. I noticed that Marie's friends spent 
 that evening in the angle under the tall trees ; but they 
 did not call me to drink with them, for they suspected that 
 I knew whence came the money they were spending. 
 
 After waiting for an hour or more, I left the place 
 discontented, thinking that in spite of my admonitions the 
 dressmaker had disappointed her, or that the cause of her 
 absence might be a sudden flow of blood. I would inquire 
 in the morning, but remembering suddenly that I was 
 breakfasting with Octave, and sitting to him in the after- 
 noon, I decided to put off my inquiries till the evening. 
 We were in the middle of the sitting, when we heard 
 footsteps on the stairs. 
 
 ' Only some women,' he said ; ' I've a mind not to open 
 the door.' 
 
 ' But do,' I said, for I felt sure they were Marie's
 
 54 
 
 The end friends. It was so, and they had come with the news 
 
 of Marie t-j^j^^- ghe had been found dead on her balcony, dressed in 
 
 ^* '" the gown that had just come home from the dressmaker. 
 
 I hoped that Octave would not try to pass the matter off 
 
 with some ribald jest, and I was surj^rised at his gravity. 
 
 'Even Octave,' I said, 'refrains, on ne blague pas la viort,' 
 
 'What I don't understand is the balcony,' he said. 
 ' What was she doing on the balcony ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose she went out to look at the fireworks ; they 
 begin about eleven.' 
 
 It was one of the women who had spoken, and we stood 
 subdued and silent, gazing at her picture. 
 
 VI 
 
 driv( 
 continuously unfolding, prospect after prospect. 
 
 La Butte ' I ^0-MORROW I shall drive to breakfast, seeing Paris 
 
 green swards, white buildings, villas engarlanded ; to-day 
 I drive to breakfast through the white torridities of 
 Rue Blanche, seeing the back of the coachman growing 
 drowsier : it would have rounded off into sleep long ago, 
 had it not been for the great paving-stones that swing 
 the vehicle from side to side in the Rue Blanche ; 
 and feeling that the poor little fainting animal would 
 not be able to climb the Rue Lepic, to draw me to 
 the Butte, I dismissed the carriage, half out of pity, 
 and a wish to study the Rue Lepic, so typical is it of the 
 upper lower classes. In the Rue Blanche there are 
 portes-cochcres, but in the Rue Lepic the narrow doors, 
 partially grated, open on narrow passages, at the end 
 of which, squeezed between the wall and the stairs, 
 are small rooms where concierges sit, en camisole, amid 
 vegetables and sewing. The wooden blinds flung back on 
 the faded yellow walls reveal a strip of white bed-curtain 
 and a heavy middle-aged woman looking into a tin pail
 
 55 
 
 in which a rabbit lies steeping ; her man, a cobbler, sits La Butte 
 hammering in the window, and the smell of leather follows 
 the passenger for several steps. A few doors up the street 
 a girl sits trimming a bonnet. The girl is pale with the 
 exhausting heat. At the corner of the next street there 
 is a marchand de vins. Opposite a dirty little charhonnier 
 stands in front of a little hole which he calls his boutique. 
 A group of women in discoloured peignoirs and heavy 
 carpet slippers go by with baskets on their arms. Every- 
 where traces of meagre and humble life, but nowhere 
 the demented wretch so common in our London streets 
 — the man with bare feet, the furtive and frightened 
 creature, gnawing a crust and drawing a black, tattered 
 shirt about his consumptive chest. 
 
 The asphalt is melting, the reverberation of the stones 
 intolerable, my feet ache and burn. At the top of the 
 street I enter a still poorer neighbourhood, a still steeper 
 street, but so narrow that the shadow has already begun 
 to draw out on the pavements. At the top of the street 
 is a stairway, and above the stairway a grassy knoll, and 
 above the knoll a windmill lifts its black and motionless 
 arms. For the mill is now a mute ornament, a sign for 
 the Bal du Moulin de la Galelte. 
 
 As the street ascends it grows whiter, and at the Butte 
 it is empty of everything except the white rays of noon. 
 Some bygone architecture attracts my attention, a dilapi- 
 dated facade and broken pillars ; and standing in the 
 midst of ruined gardens, circled by high walls crumbling 
 and white, and looking through a broken gateway, I see 
 a fountain splashing, but nowhere inhabitants that corre- 
 spond to these houses — only a workwoman, a grisette 
 and a child crying in the dust. But grand folk must at 
 some time have lived here, and I fell to wondering if the 
 hill-top had once been country. 
 
 On my left an iron gateway swinging on rusty hinges
 
 56 
 
 La Butte leads on to a large terrace, at the end of which is a row 
 of houses, and it is in one of these houses that my friend 
 lives. As I pull the bell I think that the pleasure of 
 seeing him is worth the ascent, and my thoughts float 
 back over the long time I have known Paul, From the 
 beginning of our lives, that is to say since we began to 
 write. The servant comes to the door with a baby in her 
 arms, another baby ! and tells me that Monsieur et Madame 
 are gone out for the day. No breakfast, no smoke, no talk 
 about literature, only a long walk back through the roast- 
 ing sun — cabs are not found at these heights. It is no 
 consolation to be told that I should have written and 
 warned them I was coming. But I must rest, and ask 
 leave to sit down. Ah, here is the servant bringing wine 
 and a siphon. She tells me that the study is better to sit 
 in than the front room, which is true, for in the front room 
 the white rays pierce through the chinks, and lie like SAvord- 
 blades along the floor, A kindly girl, I thank her, for the 
 study is pleasant and the wine so refreshing that I begin 
 to notice that the house is built on the sheer hillside. 
 Fifty feet — more than that — a hundred feet under me are 
 gardens caught somehow in the hollow of the hill, and 
 planted with trees, tall tx'ees, for swings hang out of them, 
 else I should not know they were tall. From this window 
 they look like shrubs, and beyond the houses that sur- 
 round these gardens Paris spreads over the plain, a dim 
 reddish mass, like a gigantic brickfield, and far away a 
 line of hills, and above them a sky as pale and faint as the 
 blue ash of a cigarette. 
 
 I cannot look upon this city without emotion ; it has 
 been my life, for did I not come hither in my youtli like a 
 lover, relinquishing myself to Paris, never extending once 
 my adventure beyond Bas Meudon, Ville d' Avray, Fontaine- 
 bleau, thereby acquiring a fatherland more true because 
 deliberately chosen than the one birth impertinently
 
 57 
 
 imposed ? Un pays ami is truly a delicate delight — a country La Butte 
 where we may go when daily life is becoming too daily, 
 sure of finding there all the sensations of home, plus those 
 of irresponsible caprice. In Montmartre I find a literature 
 that is mine without being wholly mine, a literature that 
 is like an exquisite mistress, in whom I find consolation for 
 all the commonplaces of life ! The comparison is true, for 
 although I know these French folk better than all else in 
 the world, they must ever remain my holiday rather than 
 my daily life. It is strange that this should be so, for in 
 truth I know them as they live their lives from hour to 
 hour. There is Paul. I know the habitual colour and 
 every varying shade of his mind, yet I may not make him 
 the hero of a novel. I know when he rises and how long 
 he takes to dress, and what he wears. I know the break- 
 fast he eats, and the streets down which he passes — their 
 shape, their colour, their smell. I know exactly how life 
 has come to him, and how it has affected him, and 
 remember the day I met him in London ! He came to 
 London to meet une petite ferviiere, with whom he had 
 become infatuated when he went to Normandy to finish 
 his novel. They were married in London, and this is their 
 abode. Yonder is the salle-a-manger, furnished with a nice 
 sideboard in oak, and six chairs to match ; on the left 
 is their bedroom, and the baby's cot was a present from 
 le grand, le cher et illustre maitre. 
 
 Paul and Mrs. Paul struggle out of the bed-clothes about 
 twelve ; they loiter over breakfast and over les petits verves. 
 Some friends come in, and about four Paul begins to write 
 his article, which he finishes or nearly finishes before 
 dinner. The twain loiter over dinner until it is time for 
 Paul to take his article to the newspaper, and he loiters in 
 the printing office or the cafe till his proof is ready, and 
 when that is corrected he loiters in the many cafes of 
 the Faubourg Montmartre, smoking interminable cigars.
 
 58 
 
 La Butte finding his way back to the Butte between three and four in 
 the morning. Paul is fat and of an equable temperament. 
 He believes in naturalism all the day, particularly after 
 breakfast, over les petUs verres. He never said an unkind 
 word to any one or of any one, and I am sure never 
 thought one. In the olden days he was fond of grisettes, 
 but since he married he has thought of none but his wife. 
 // ccrit des choses raides, but no woman ever had a better 
 husband. And now you know him as well as I do. Here 
 are his own books : The End of Lucie Pellegrin, the story 
 that I have just finished writing. How is this ? the reader 
 asks, and I answer that I undertook to write one of Paul's 
 stories, the best he ever wrote, because when I spoke to 
 him of Marie Pellegrin, he was surprised to hear her name 
 was Marie ; he thought it was Lucie, and then I learnt 
 that he had never been to Alphonsine's, and had told her 
 story as he had picked it up from the women who turned 
 into the Rat Mort at midnight for a soupe a Voignon. It 
 was a pity, he said, that I was not in Paris when he was 
 writing it, for I could have told him her story more 
 sympathetically than the women in the Rat Mort, sup- 
 plying him with many pretty details that they had not 
 noticed or had forgotten. It would have been easy for 
 me to have done this, for Marie Pellegrin is enshrined in 
 my memory like a miniature in a case. I press a spring, 
 and I see the beautifully shaped little head, the pale olive 
 face, the dark eyes, and the blue-black hair. Marie 
 Pellegrin is really part of my own story, and that is why 
 I have no scruple about telling it : to entertain any 
 would be absurd. I was her friend ; 1 watched by her 
 death-bed and am thereby her natural historian. Who 
 will not accept my title to her story as valid } and who 
 will not acquit me of plagiarism .'' 
 
 I see the Rougon-Macquart series, each volume pre- 
 sented to him by the author, Goncourt, Huysmans,
 
 59 
 
 Duranty, Ceard, Maupassant, Hennique, etc., in a word, La Butte 
 the works of those with whom I grew up, those who tied 
 my first literary pinafore round my neck. But here are 
 Les Moralites Legendaires by Jules Laforgue, and Les 
 Illuminations by Rimbaud. Paul has not read these books ; 
 they were sent to him, I suppose, for review, and put 
 away on the bookcase, all uncut. 
 
 And this sets me thinking that one knows very little 
 of any generation except one's own. True that I know 
 a little more of the symbolists than Paul, for I am the 
 youngest of the naturalists, the eldest of the symbolists. 
 The naturalists affected the art of painting, the sym- 
 bolists the art of music ; and since the symbolists there 
 has been no artistic manifestation — the game is played 
 out. When Huysmans and Paul and myself are dead, 
 it will be as impossible to write a naturalistic novel as 
 to revive the megatherium. Where is Hennique } And 
 when Monet is dead it will be as impossible to paint an 
 impressionistic picture as to revive the ichthyosaurus. A 
 little world of ideas goes by every five-and-twenty years, 
 and the next that emerges will be incomprehensible to 
 me, as Monet was to Corot. . . . \^'as the young genera- 
 tion knocking at the door of the Opera Comique last 
 night? If the music was the young generation, I am 
 sorry for it. A friend was with me, and he left, but for 
 different reasons : he suffered in his ears ; it was my in- 
 telligence that suffered. Why, I asked him, did the flute 
 play the chromatic scale when the boy said, ' II faut que 
 cela soit un grand navire ' ? and why were all the 'cellos in 
 motion when the girl answered, ' Cela ou bien tout autre 
 chose ' ? I suffered because of the divorce of the orchestra 
 and singers, uniting, perhaps, at the end of the scene. 
 The singers spoke through the music, their voices moving 
 up and down, it is true, league after league of it. A 
 chord is heard in Lokeng?in to sustain Elsa's voice, a
 
 60 
 
 La Butte motive is lieard to attract attention to a certain part of 
 the story^ and when Ortrud shrieks out the motive of the 
 secret at the church door^ the method may be criticised 
 as crude, but the crudest melodrama is better than this 
 sickly wandering from grey to mauve. But maybe I shall 
 think differently one of these days, and while pondering 
 on the music of the younger generation, remembering the 
 perplexity it had caused me, the voice of a vagrant singing 
 on the other side of the terrace reaches me : — 
 
 Moi, je m'en fous, Je reste dans mon trou, 
 
 and I say, ' I hear the truth in the mouth of the vagrant 
 minstrel, one who possibly has no trou wherein to lay his 
 head.' ' Et mon aussi, je reste dans mon trou, et mon trou 
 est assez beau pour que j'y reste, car mon trou est ' — Richard 
 Wagner. My trou is the Ring — the Sacrosanct Ring. 
 Again I fall to musing. The intention of Liszt and 
 Wagner and Strauss was to write music. However long 
 Wotan might ponder on Mother Earth, the moment comes 
 when the violins begin to sing, and then the spring uncloses 
 in the orchestra and the lovers fly to the woods ! . . . 
 
 The vagrant continued his wail, and forgetful of Paul, 
 forgetful of all things but the philosophy of the minstrel 
 of the Butte, I picked my way down the tortuous streets 
 repeating : — 
 
 Moi, je m'en fous, Je reste dans mon trou. 
 
 VII 
 
 Spent Love T AM going to see dear and affectionate friends. The 
 J- train would take me to them, that droll little chemm 
 de fer de ceinlure, but it seems a pity to miss the Gare 
 St. Lazare, its Sunday morning tumult of Parisians start- 
 ing with their mistresses and their wives for a favourite 
 suburb. I never run up these wide stairways leading to
 
 61 
 
 the great wide galleries full of bookstalls (charming yellow Spent Love 
 notes), and pierced with little wickets painted round with 
 blue, without experiencing a sensation of happy light- 
 ness — a light-headedness that I associate with the month 
 of May in Paris. But the tramway that passes through 
 the Place de la Concorde goes as far as Passy, and though 
 I love the droll little chemin de fer de ceinture, I love this 
 tramway better, for it speeds along the quays between the 
 Seine and the garden of the Champs Elysees, through 
 miles of chestnut bloom. The roadway is chequered 
 nearly all the way with shadows of chestnut leaves, and 
 in a faint delirium of the senses I catch at a bloom, 
 cherish it for a moment, and cast it away. The plucky 
 little steamboats are now making for the landing-places, 
 stemming the current. I love this sprightly river better 
 than the melancholy Thames, along whose banks satur- 
 nine immoralities flourish like bulrushes ! Behold the 
 white architecture, the pillars, the balustraded steps, the 
 domes in the blue air, the monumented swards! Paris, 
 like all pagan cities, is full of statues. A little later we 
 roll past parks secluded within high walls. At last the 
 streets of Passy begin to appear, mean streets, like London 
 streets. I like them not ; but the railway station is jolly, 
 a little railway station like a house of cards under toy 
 trees, with the train steaming out into a country like the 
 season's millinery. 
 
 It is pleasant to notice everything in Paris : the flymen 
 asleep on their box-seats, the little horses dozing beneath 
 the chestnut-trees, the bloused workmen leaning over a 
 green-painted table in an arbour, drinking wine at sixteen 
 sous the litre, the villas of Auteuil, rich woodwork, rich 
 iron railings. The summer hushes about villas engar- 
 landed. Auteuil is like a flower, its petals opening out to 
 the kiss of the air, its roots feeling for way among the rich 
 earth. Thoughts come unbidden in France, my thoughts
 
 62 
 
 Spent Love sing together, and I hardly know what they are singing. 
 My thoughts are singing like the sun ; do not ask me 
 their meaning; they mean as much and as little as the 
 sun that I am part of— the gay sun of France that I shall 
 enjoy for thirty days, for May takes me to Paris and of 
 all to the dear and affectionate friends who await me at 
 Auteuil. June takes me away from them. But June is 
 far away, and there is the villa amid the engarlanding 
 trees, and my friend, dressed in pale yellow, in front of his 
 easel, the sunlight playing through the foliage, leaping 
 through the rich, long grass. A little girl of four, his 
 model, sits among the rhododendrons, her frock and cap 
 impossibly white under the great, gaudy greenery. 
 
 Year after year the same affectionate welcome, the same 
 spontaneous welcome in this garden of rhododendrons and 
 chestnut bloom. I would linger in the garden, but I may 
 not, for breakfast is ready et il nefaut pas fair e manquer la 
 messe a Madame. La messe ! How gentle the word is, 
 much gentler than our word, mass, and it shocks us hardly 
 at all to see an old lady going away in her carriage pour 
 entendre la messe. Religion purged of faith is a pleasant, 
 almost a pretty thing. Some fruits are better dried than 
 fresh ; religion is such a one, and religion, when nothing 
 is left of it but the pleasant, familiar habit, may be 
 defended, for were it not for our habits life would be 
 unrecorded, it would be all on the flat, as we would say 
 if we were talking about a picture, without perspective. 
 Our habits are our stories, and tell whence we have come 
 and how we came to be what we are. There, quite a 
 pretty exordium ; but I have no time to think the matter 
 out, for here is the doctor lifting his skull-cap, and with 
 the beautiful dignity that comes of goodness of heart. His 
 goodness is a pure gift, existing independent of formula, a 
 thing in itself, like Manet's painting. It was Degas who 
 said, 'A man whose profile no one ever saw,' and the
 
 63 
 
 aphorism reminds us of the beautiful goodness that floats Spent Love 
 over his face, a light from Paradise. But why from Para- 
 dise ? Pai-adise is an ugly ecclesiastical invention, and 
 angels are an ugly Hebrew invention. It is unpardonable 
 to think of angels in Auteuil ; an angel is a prig compared 
 to the dear doctor. An angel has wings, and so has this 
 admirable chicken, a bird that was grown for the use of 
 the table, produced like a vegetable. A dear bird that 
 was not allowed to run about and weary itself as our 
 helpless English chicken is ; it lived to get fat without 
 acquiring any useless knowledge or desire of life ; it became 
 a capon in tender years, and then a pipe was introduced 
 into its beak and it was fed by machinery until it could 
 hardly walk, till it could only stagger to its bed, and there 
 it lay in happy digestion until the hour came for it to be 
 crammed again. So did it grow without knowledge or 
 sensation or feeling of life, moving gradually, peacefully, 
 towards its predestined end — a delicious repast I What 
 better end, what greater glory than to be a fat chicken ? 
 The carcases of sheep that hang in butchers' shops are 
 beginning to horrify the conscience of Europe. To cut a 
 sheep's throat is an offensive act, but to clip out a bird's 
 tongue with a long pair of scissors made for the purpose is 
 genteel. It is true that the bird beats its wings for a few 
 moments, but we must not allow ourselves to be disturbed 
 by a mere flutter of feathers. Man is merciful, and saved 
 the fowl from life. The fowl grew like an asparagus! 
 And talking of asparagus, here ai-e some from Argenteuil 
 thick as umbrellas and so succulent ! A word about the 
 wine. French red wines in England always seem to taste 
 like ink, but in France they taste of the sun. Melons are 
 better in June — that one comes, no doubt, from Algeria. 
 It is, however, the kind I like best, the rich, red melon 
 that one eats only in France; a thing of the moment, 
 unrememberable ; but the chicken will never be forgotten ;
 
 64 
 
 spent Love twenty years hence I shall be talking of a chicken, that 
 in becoming a fat chicken acquired twenty years of 
 immortality — which of us will acquire as many ? 
 
 As we rise slowly from table the doctor calls me into 
 his study : he would give me a cigar before he bids me 
 good-bye ; and having lighted it I follow my friend to 
 the studio at the end of the garden, to that airy drawing- 
 room which he has furnished in pale yellow and dark 
 blue. On the walls are examples of the great modern 
 masters — Manet and Monet. That view of a plain by 
 Monet flows like a Japanese water-colour : the horizon 
 evapoi-ating in the low light, the spire of a church still 
 visible in tiie haze. But look at the celebrated Leqon de 
 Danse by Degas. A dancer descends the spiral staircase ; 
 her legs only are visible and the staircase cuts the picture 
 in twain. On the right is the dancing master ; something 
 has gone wrong, for he holds out his hands in entreaty ; a 
 group of dancers are seated on chairs in the foreground ; 
 their mothers cover their shoulders with shawls — good 
 mothers, anxious for their daughters' welfare, for their 
 advancement in life. 
 
 This picture betrays a mind curious, inquisitive and 
 mordant ; and that plaid shawl is as unexpected as an 
 adjective of Flaubert's. A portrait by Manet hangs close 
 by, large, permanent and mysterious as Nature. Degas is 
 more intellectual, but how little is intellect, compared with 
 a gift like Manet's. Yesterday I was in the Louvre, and 
 when wearied with examination and debate — I had gone 
 there on a special errand — I turned into the Salle Carree 
 for relaxation, and there wandered about, waiting to be 
 attracted. Long ago the Mona Lisa was my adventure, 
 and I remember how Titian's "Entombment" enchanted 
 me ; another year I delighted in the smooth impartiality 
 of a Terburg interior ; but this year Rembrandt's portrait 
 of his wife held me at gaze. The face tells of her woman's
 
 65 
 
 life, her woman's weakness, and she seems conscious of Spent Love 
 
 the burden of her sex, and of the burden of her own 
 
 special lot — she is Rembrandt's wife, a servant, a satellite, 
 
 a watcher. The emotion that this picture awakens is 
 
 almost physical. It gets at you like music, like a sudden 
 
 breath of perfume. When I approach, her eyes fade into 
 
 brown shadow, but when I withdraw they begin to tell 
 
 her story. The mouth is no more than a little shadow, 
 
 but it speaks a wistful tenderness ! The colour of the face 
 
 was got with white, faintly tinted with bitumen ; in the 
 
 cheeks some rose madder comes through the yellow, that 
 
 is all. She wears a fur jacket, but the fur was no trouble 
 
 to Rembrandt ; he did not strive for realism. It is fur, 
 
 and fur is enough. Grey pearls hang in her ears ; she 
 
 wears a brooch ; a hand at the bottom of the picture passes 
 
 out of the frame. Chin and hand and arm are moulded 
 
 without display of knowledge, as Nature moulds. The 
 
 picture seems as if it had been breathed upon the canvas. 
 
 Did not a great poet once say that God breathed into 
 
 Adam ? Even so it is here. The other pictures seem dry 
 
 and insignificant, when compared with this portrait, and, 
 
 of all, a certain literary celebrity whose tedious smile I 
 
 once heard excused on the ground that she is only smiling 
 
 at the nonsense she hears talked about her. Her witty 
 
 apologist was not Pater, who described her smile as 
 
 mysterious, an adjective that writers welcome when they 
 
 are not clear as to what they wish to say : hesitating 
 
 would be better. But why trouble to find an adjective 
 
 to express something that all the world is weary of.^ 
 
 The Mona Lisa is a sort of riddle, an acrostic, a poetical 
 
 decoction, a ballade, a rondel, a villanelle or ballade 
 
 with double burden, a sestina. And being literature in 
 
 .intention rather than painting, she has drawn round her 
 
 many poets, inspiring many mediocre verses, for which 
 
 ■we must forgive her for the sake of her passage some 
 
 F
 
 66 
 
 Spent Love five-and-twenty years ago (I am not good at dates) out 
 of a mysterious misuse of oil paint into the immortality 
 of Pater's prose. Degas is wilting already, and year after 
 year he will continue to wither, until one day some great 
 prose writer will arise and transfer his spirit into its proper 
 medium — literature. The Mona Lisa and the Le^on de 
 Danse are intellectual pictures, they were painted with 
 the brains rather than with the temperaments, and what 
 is any intellect compared with a gift like Manet's ! 
 Leonardo made roads, Degas makes witticisms. 1 heard 
 one yesterday that delighted me far more than any road 
 would, for I have given up bicycling. Somebody was 
 saying he did not like Daumier, and Degas preserved 
 silence for a long while. ' If you were to show Raphael 
 a Daumier,' he said at last, ' he would admire it, he would 
 take off his hat, but if you were to show him a Cabanel, 
 he would say with a sigh, " That is my fault ! " ' 
 
 My reverie is broken by the piano ; my friend is playing, 
 and it is pleasant to listen to music in this airy studio. 
 But there are women waiting for me, and I must see 
 the women whom I see every time I go to Paris. Too 
 much time has already been spent in the studio — I 
 must go. 
 
 But whither shall I go ? My thoughts strike through 
 the little streets of Passy, measuring the distance between 
 Passy and the Arc de Triomphe. For a moment I think 
 that I might sit under the trees and watch the people 
 returning from the races. Were she not dead I might 
 stop at her little house in the fortifications among the 
 lilac-trees. There is her portrait by Manet on the wall, 
 the very toque she used to wear. How wonderful the 
 touch is ; and while thinking of the extraordinary handi- 
 craft, I fall to thinking of his studio at the moment when 
 a tall fair woman, Mary Laurant, entered it-^the daughter 
 of a peasant, and the mistress of all the great men of that
 
 67 
 
 time — perhaps I should have said of all the distinguished Spent Love 
 men, I used to call her toute la lyre. 
 
 The last time I saw her we talked about Manet, and she 
 told me that every year she took the first lilac to lay upon 
 his grave. Is there, I wonder, one of her many lovers 
 who foregoes an idle hour to lay flowers on her grave ? 
 What stays in our memory of her was her pleasure in 
 life, and her desire to get all the pleasure, and her con- 
 sciousness of her desire to enjoy every moment of her 
 life. Evans, the great dentist, settled two thousand a 
 year upon her, and how angry he was one night on meet- 
 ing Manet on the staircase. In order to rid herself of 
 the American she invited him to dinner, intending to 
 plead a sick headache after dinner, saying that she must 
 lie down. As soon as her guest was gone she took off the 
 peignoir which hid her ball dress, and signed to Manet, 
 who was waiting at the street corner, with her handker- 
 chief. But as they went downstairs together whom 
 should they meet but the dentist qui avail ouhlie ses carncts. 
 Evans was so disappointed at meeting his beautiful but 
 deceitful mistress that he didn't visit her again for thi*ee 
 or four days, but his anger mattered nothing, for another 
 lover had settled two thousand a year upon Mary ; and 
 having now four thousand a year to spend, she devoted 
 herself to the love and conversation of those who wrote 
 books and music, and painted pictures. 
 
 We humans are more complicated than animals ; we 
 love through the imagination, at least the imagination 
 stimulates the senses, acting as a sort of adjuvant. The 
 barmaid falls in love with No. 1, because he wipes a 
 glass better than No. 2, and Mary fell in love with Coppee 
 on account of his sonnet le lys, and she grew indifferent 
 when he wrote poems like " La nourrice " or " Le petit 
 epicierde Montrouge qui cassait le sucre avec melancolie." 
 And it was when this love-story was at wane that I became
 
 68 
 
 spent Love a competitor. But one day Madame Albazi came to 
 Manet's studio, a si)lendid creature in a carriage drawn 
 by Russian horses from the Steppes, so she said ; but 
 who can tell whether a horse comes from the Steppes or 
 from the horse-dealers? Nor does it matter when the 
 lady is so extraordinarily attractive that she inspires the 
 thought — a mistress for Attila ! That is not exactly how 
 Manet saw her ; but she looks like that even in his 
 pastel. In it she holds a tortoiseshell fan spread across 
 her bosom, and it was on one of the sticks of the fan 
 that he signed his name, for a great painter always 
 knows where to sign his pictures, and he never signs 
 twice in the same place. She had come to tell Manet 
 that she could not sit that day, she was going to the 
 Bois, and after some conversation she asked me and a 
 young man who happened to be in Manet's studio at the 
 time to go there with her, and we went thither, drawn by 
 the Russian horses, the young man and I pondering which 
 the Comtesse would choose for her lover. We played 
 hard for her ; but that day I was wiser than he ; I let him 
 talk and recite poetry, and jingle out all the aphorisms 
 that he had been collecting for years, feeling his witticisms 
 were in vain. 
 
 It was at the corner of the Rue Pontiere that we got 
 rid of him. Some days afterwards she sat to Manet. The 
 pastel now hangs in the room of a friend of mine : I bought 
 it for him, for the picture of a woman one knows is never 
 so agreeable a companion as the picture of a woman one 
 has never seen. One's memory and the painter's vision 
 are in conflict, and I like to think of the long delicate 
 nose, and the sparkling eyes, and a mouth like red fruit. 
 The pastel once belonged to me, it used to hang in my 
 rooms, for with that grace of mind which never left him, 
 Manet said one day, ' I always promised you a picture,' 
 and searching among the pastels that lined the wall he
 
 69 
 
 turned to me saying, ' Now I think that this one comes to Spent Love 
 
 you by right.' When I fled from Paris hurriedly and left 
 
 my things to be sold, the Comtesse came to the sale and 
 
 bought her picture. She sold it years afterwards to a 
 
 picture-dealer, tempted by the price that Manet's pictures 
 
 were fetching, and hearing that it was for sale, I bought 
 
 it, as I have said, for a friend of mine. I have told 
 
 the whole story, forgetting nothing except that it was 
 
 years afterwards, when I had written ' Les Confessions 
 
 d'un jeune Anglais' in the Revue Indipoidante, that Mary 
 
 Laurant asked me — oh ! she was very enterprising, she 
 
 sent the editor of the Revue to me ; an appointment was 
 
 made, and I found her sitting with Dujardin in a garden. 
 
 ' Now, my dear Dujardin, you must go.' 
 
 Mary was beautiful, but she liked her lovers to admire 
 her wit, and when I asked her why she did not leave 
 Evans, the great dentist, after he had made the settle- 
 ment, she said, 'That would be a base thing to do, I 
 content myself by deceiving him,' and then, while discuss- 
 ing the difficult question of lovers, she said, ' I am not 
 a woman, quon trousse dans un jai'din,' a phrase difficult 
 to render in English, one that a French professor might 
 set for translation in an examination paper ; and I am 
 baffled for the moment. 'Why not "truss" or "un- 
 truss " ? ' cries somebody, and while the professor ponders 
 what answer he will make to this pertinent question, I 
 will tell that Mary's garden was a nook at the fortifica- 
 tions, hidden among lilac-bushes, and that on the occasion 
 of this visit to her house the thought came into her mind 
 that she would like to show me her bedroom, whither 
 we went, and where we remained talking, myself un- 
 certain whether to take her in my arms or refrain. A 
 young man of thirty should be sure of himself always, but 
 he is not ; and we strained to keep the conversation going 
 till Mary wearied, and with a touch of annoyance in her
 
 70 
 
 Spent Love voice said, ' I don't think I'll detain you any longer in 
 my bedroom.' At these words my heart misgave me 
 altogether ; I felt that I was a fool, yet I did not take 
 her in my arms. Was it shyness that held me back ? 
 Yes, and something else. My admiration for Mary was 
 carried over from the days in Manet's studio, and in 
 ten years some of our admiration for a woman's beauty 
 passes out of the body into the mind : love is easily 
 intellectualised, I give all the reasons, and in giving 
 them one after the other I approach the true reason. 
 Mary was guilty of an indiscretion when she said that 
 she was expecting Mallarme (whom I knew to be her 
 present lover), and the thought of the little man starting 
 forth joyously from his grubby little flat in the Rue de 
 Rome was an unpleasant one. I could think of her only 
 in connection with Mallarme ; the thought of waiting to 
 receive him after the betrayal contributed to my irre- 
 solution that afternoon, and, returning to the garden, 
 we continued an aimless conversation until he arrived, 
 bringing with him a pastr3^ The pastry jarred, and 
 rejoicing in my abstinence, I bethought myself of them 
 eating their dinner, falling little by little out of conceit 
 with an adventure that I desired ardently once — ten years 
 ago. . . . Mary and Mallarme accompanied me to the 
 station, and next day she wrote asking me to come and 
 see her ; but when I arrived her servant said that she had 
 gone on to the Pavilion d'Armenonville and that I was to 
 meet her there. ' My lyre to replace Mallarme's ! ' I said, 
 and gave up the pursuit of this beautiful woman regretfully. 
 A year after she had fallen in love with a young musician, 
 to whom she left all the dentist's money. 
 
 My thoughts run upon women ; women are the legiti- 
 mate objects of men's thoughts. While we sit in smoking- 
 rooms boring each other with the words " demonetization 
 of silver" on our lips, other words are in our hearts.
 
 71 
 
 Woman is man's serious occupation, and to make a start Spent Love 
 
 once more into the almost unknown country of sincerity, 
 
 I will confess that we forget women for a little while 
 
 when we are thinking about Art, but only for a while ; all 
 
 else is trivial, especially Brahm's music, which my friend 
 
 is now trying to play, and I fall to thinking which of 
 
 the women I have known in years past would interest 
 
 me most to visit. 
 
 At the end of this late spring day my walk from Passy 
 to the Champs Elysees will be crowded with meditations 
 and memories, unexpected and yet familiar sights starting 
 my thoughts, swards and poplars, villas within tall iron 
 railings, flower vases on either side of the high steps — 
 les perrons ; how evocative the word is of Paris, and Paris 
 is in itself an evocation of France. France, from the 
 northern strait to the Mediterranean, is animated by the 
 antique spirit ; the Pagan spirit is everywhere, France has 
 never lost it, and a more beautiful day for seeing Paris 
 can hardly be imagined. All the way to the Champs 
 Elysees I shall walk, my mind alert as my step, discovering 
 symbols everywhere, my real thought, however, set on one 
 little hillside, a line of houses, eight or nine, close by the 
 Arc de Triomphe, the most ordinary in the avenue. For 
 she liked the ordinary, and I have often wondered what 
 was the link of association ? Was it no more than her 
 blonde hair drawn up from the neck, her fragrant skin, or 
 her perverse subtle senses ? It was something more, it 
 must have been, for I like to recall the rustle of a flowered 
 dress she wore as she moved, drifting like a perfume, 
 passing from her frivolous bedroom into a room without 
 taste, stiff and middle-class, notwithstanding the crowns 
 placed over the tall portraits. In one corner there hangs 
 a picture of two children. Georgette is the fairer ; in 
 her pale eyes and thinly-curved lips there is a mixture 
 of yearning and restlessness, and as the child was so the
 
 72 
 
 Spent Love woman is. Georgette has lived to paper one entire wall 
 of her bedroom with trophies won on the battlefields of 
 ardently danced cotillons. The other child is of a stricter 
 nature, and even in the picture her slightly darkened 
 ringlets are less wanton than her sister's. Her eyes are 
 more pensive, and no oracle Avas needed to predict children 
 for one and cotillon favours for the other. 
 
 It was once customary to me to sit on her bedroom 
 balcony reading, talking, or watching the sky growing 
 pale beyond Mont Valerien, the shadow drifting and 
 defining and shaping the hill. In hours like the present, 
 dreaming in a studio, we remember those who deceived us, 
 those who made us suffer, and in these hours faces, frag- 
 ments of faces, rise out of a past, the line of a bent neck, 
 the whiteness of a hand ; and the eyes. I remember her 
 eyes. One day in an orchard, in the lush and luxuriance of 
 June, her husband walked in front with a friend. 1 pleaded. 
 ' You can kiss me now,' she said, raising her pale eyes. But 
 her husband was in front, a thick-set man, and there 
 was a brook. I foresaw an unpleasant struggle : confess 
 and be done with it ! — I confess that I didn't dare to kiss 
 her then, and I don't think she ever forgave me that lack 
 of courage. It is, of course, very silly to spend the afternoon 
 thinking of such rubbish ! It would be silly if it were not of 
 such rubbish that our lives are made. Grey hair has not 
 begun to appear yet in the blonde, it will never turn grey, 
 but she was shrivelling a little the last time I saw her last 
 year, and at her age a year counts for double. But if I 
 don't go to her this year I shall go next. 
 
 In imagination I go past her house, thinking of a man 
 she used to talk about, ' the man she left her 'ome for ' ; 
 that is how the London street girl would Avord it. One 
 who had lately been the centre of a disgraceful scandal, a 
 sordid but characteristic end for the Don Juan of the 
 nineteenth century. Or it may be that she loved the big.
 
 bearded man whose photograph she once showed me — the Spent Love 
 man who killed himself for not having enough money to 
 live as he wished to live. That was her explanation. I 
 think she had to pay some money to the dead man's rela- 
 tions for her letters. She liked dark, rough men who 
 looked as if they could carry trunks, or she liked women. 
 She once said to me^ ' Girls make better lovers than men.' 
 It was twenty years ago since she tui'ned round on me in 
 the gloom of her brougham unexpectedly, and it was 
 as if some sensual spirit had come out of a world of 
 perfume and lace. These sensual American women are 
 like orchids, and who would hesitate between an orchid 
 and a rose ? 
 
 In imagination I have descended the Champs Elysees, 
 and have crossed the Place de la Concorde, and the 
 Seine is flowing past just as it flowed when the workmen 
 were building Notre Dame. A thousand years ago and 
 a thousand years hence men will stand as I am standing 
 to-day, watching its current, thinking of little blonde 
 women, and the shudder they can send through the 
 flesh. The Reverend Donne has it that certain ghosts 
 do not raise the hair, but the flesh ; mine do more 
 than that, for they set me thinking of yesterday and of 
 to-morrow, and the great fact that the time comes when 
 desire wilts and dies, and then I remember that the 
 sexual interest never dies. 
 
 We take pleasure in thinking in middle life of those we 
 enjoyed in youth, and she, of whom I am thinking, lives 
 far away in the Latin Quarter, in an ill-paven street that 
 used to throw my carriage from side to side ! The con- 
 cierge is the same, a little thicker, a little heavier ; she 
 always used to have a baby in her arms, now there are no 
 more babies ; her children, I suppose, have grown up and 
 have gone away. At the foot of the stairs there was a 
 darkness, and I used to run up those stairs in great haste
 
 74 
 
 Spent Love to the fourth floor ; the bell still tinkles in memory's ears 
 and her rooms are present in my imagination — formal 
 rooms hers were, with richly-bound volumes on the tables 
 that looked as if they had never been opened. Even the 
 studio was formal. She only kept one servant, a little, 
 red-headed girl, and seeing this girl back again after 
 an absence of many years, I asked Lizzie for her story, 
 and learnt that she had gone away to be married, and 
 after ten unfortunate vears had retui'ned to her old 
 mistress, to this demure, discreet and sly New Englander, 
 who must have had many lovers, but I know nothing of 
 her except her sensuality, for she had to let me into that 
 secret. 
 
 She was a religious woman, a devout Pi'otestant, and 
 thinking of her my thoughts are carried across the sea, 
 and I am in the National Gallery looking at Van Eyck's 
 picture, studying the grave sensuality of the man's face — 
 he speaks with uplifted hand like one in a pulpit, and the 
 gesture and expression tell us as plainly as if we heard him 
 that he is admonishing his wife (he is given to admonition), 
 he is telling her that her condition — her new pregnancy — 
 is an act of the Divine Will. She listens, but how curi- 
 ously ! with a sort of partial comprehension afloat upon 
 her face, more of the guinea-pig than of the rabbit type. 
 The twain are sharply differentiated, and one of the 
 objects of the painter seems to have been to show us how 
 far one human being may be removed from another. The 
 husband is painfully clear to himself, the wife is happily 
 unconscious of herself. Everything in the picture sug- 
 gests order; the man's face tells a mind the same from 
 day to day, from year to year, the same passions, the same 
 prayers ; his apparel, the wide-brimmed hat, the cloak 
 falling in long straight folds, the peaked shoon, are an 
 habitual part of him. We see little of the room, but every 
 one remembers the chandelier hanging from the ceiling
 
 75 
 
 reflected in the mirror opposite. These reflections have Spent Love 
 lasted for three hundred years, they are the same to-day 
 as the day they were painted, and so is the man ; he lives 
 again, he is a type that Nature never wearies of repro- 
 ducing, for I suppose he is essential to life, and this 
 sober Flemish interior expresses my mistress's character 
 almost as well as her own apartments. I always experi- 
 enced a chill, a sense of formality, when the door was 
 opened, and while I stood waiting for her in the prim 
 drawing-room, in which there was not much light, for 
 heavy curtains clung about the windows, and tapestries 
 covered the walls. In the passage there were oak chests, 
 and you can imagine, reader, this woman waiting for me 
 by an oak table, a little ashamed of her thoughts, but 
 unable to overcome them. Once I heard her playing the 
 piano, and it struck me as an affectation. As I let my 
 thoughts run back things forgotten emerge. Here comes 
 one of her gowns ! a dark-green, the very same olive-green 
 as the man's cloak. She wore her hair short like a boy's, 
 and though it ran all over her head in little curls, it did 
 not detract at all from the New England type, the woman 
 in whose speech Biblical phraseology still lingers. Lizzie 
 was a miraculous survival of the Puritans who crossed the 
 Atlantic in the Mayjloiver and settled in New England. 
 Paris had not changed her. She was le grave Puritan du 
 tableau ; the reader will notice that I write le grave Pziritan, 
 for of his submissive, childlike wife there was nothing in 
 Lizzie except her sex. As her instinct was in conflict 
 with her ideals, her manner was studied ; she never fell 
 into confidence, so in a sense we remained always strangers. 
 It is when lovers tell their illusions and lonelinesses that 
 they know each other ; the fiercest spasm tells us little, and 
 it is forgotten, whereas a simple confidence is remembered 
 years afterwards, and brings a lost love before us though she 
 be undergi'ound, or a thousand miles away. Lizzie was not
 
 76 
 
 Spent Love confidential : lier soul she kept to herself, if she had one. 
 All the same she was a true, real woman, and a clever 
 woman, and that is why I pay her the homage of an 
 annual visit. 
 
 Our conversation is often laboured, there are awkward 
 and painful pauses, and during these pauses we sit looking 
 at each other, thinking no doubt of the changes that time 
 has wrought. One of her chief charms was her figure — 
 one of the prettiest I have ever seen ; she still retains a 
 good deal of its grace ; but she shows her age in her 
 hands ; they have thickened at the joints, and they were 
 such slender hands. Last year she spoke of herself as 
 an old woman, and the remark seemed to me disgraceful 
 and useless, for no man cares to hear a woman whom 
 he has loved call herself old ; why draw attention to 
 one's age when one does not look it? and last year she 
 looked astonishingly young for fifty-five ; that was her age, 
 she said. She asked me my age ; the question was un- 
 pleasant, and before I was aware of it I told a lie, and as it 
 seemed to me that she knew I had lied to her, I took up 
 my hat to go. But she asked me if I would care to see 
 her husband ; ' Of course, of course,' and we found the 
 old man alone in his studio, looking at an engraving under 
 the light of the lamp, much more like a picture than any 
 of his paintings. She asked him if he remembered me, 
 and he rose, muttering something, and to help him I 
 mentioned that I had been one of his pupils. The dear 
 old man said of course, and that he would like to show me 
 his pictures, but Lizzie said — I suppose it was nervousness 
 that made her say it, but it was a strangely tactless 
 
 remark — ' I don't think, dear, that Mr. cares for your 
 
 pictures.' However celebrated a ntian may be, it is morti- 
 fying to hear that somebody, however humble the person 
 may be, does not care fur his art. I saved the situation, 
 however. It is not always that one thinks of the right
 
 77 
 
 words at the right moment^ but it would be hard to Spent Love 
 
 improve on tlie admonition that she did me a wrong, that, 
 
 like every one who liked axi;, I had changed my opinion 
 
 many times, but after many wanderings had come back to 
 
 the truth ; and in order to deceive the old man I spoke 
 
 of Ingres, saying that I had never failed in that love, 
 
 adding, after a faint pause, ' And how could I love Ingres's 
 
 pictures without loving yours, Sir ? ' The old man 
 
 answered, forgetful of his own high position, 'We may 
 
 both like Ingres, but it is not probable that we like 
 
 the same Ingres.' I said I did not know any Ingres I 
 
 did not admire, and asked him which he admired, and 
 
 we had a pleasant conversation about the Apotheosis 
 
 of Homer, and the pictures in the Musee de Montauban. 
 
 Then the old man said, ' I must show Mr. my 
 
 pictures. I must show him my Virgin,' and he explained 
 that the face of the Infant Jesus was not yet finished. 
 
 It was wonderful to see this old man, who must have 
 been nearly eighty, taking the same interest in his 
 pictures as he took fifty years ago. Some stupid reader 
 will think, perchance, that it mattered forsooth that I 
 had once loved his wife. But how could such a thing 
 matter.? Think for a moment, dear reader, for all 
 readers are dear, even the stupidest, and you will see 
 that you are still entangled in conventions and preju- 
 dices. Do you think, dear reader, that she and I should 
 have dropped on our knees and confessed } No, you 
 can't think anything so stupid, for had -we done so, he 
 would have thought us two rude j^eople, with a taste 
 for popular literature. It is pleasanter to think what 
 will happen to her when he dies. Will she return to 
 Boston .'' If not, shall I ever see her again .'' Last year 
 I vowed that I would never return and I think it would 
 please her as well if I stayed away. When I am not by 
 her she is with me, but in the same room, amid the
 
 78 
 
 Spent Love familiar furniture, we are divided by the insuperable 
 years and to retain her I must send her away. Now 
 where did I read of a man who sent his mistress away 
 so that his possession might be more complete? Or is 
 the idea mine ? It cannot be, for I am without a wish 
 to write it, and far more attractive to me is a sort of 
 fieau Brummel of the emotions going every year to 
 Paris to spend a day with each of his mistresses. 
 
 There was Madame . The name is in itself 
 
 beautiful, characteristically French, and it takes me 
 back to the middle centuries, to the middle of France, 
 for I always thought that that tall woman, who spoke 
 so quickly and so sincerely, dealing out her soul rapidly 
 as one might cards, must have come from the very heart 
 of France ; like Balzac, who came from Tours ; by her 
 side one was really in France ; and, as her lover, one 
 lived through every circumstance of a French love-story. 
 My story fell on those years when she lived in what is 
 called in Paris an hotel — a house that had its own 
 concierge ; and shameful though it was, I liked certainly 
 to hear the man say, 'Oui, monsieur, Madame la Marquise 
 est chez elle.' And it is flattering, no doubt, to wait for 
 a Marquise in a boudoir stretched with blue silk under 
 a Louis XVI. crystal chandelier, to hear her say, ' I'm 
 afraid you're thinking a great deal of me,' leaning her 
 hands as she spoke the words over the back of the 
 chair, making it easy for me to take them and to 
 murmur over them, ' Beautiful hands,' and for her to 
 answer, ' Hands that have not done any kitchen work 
 for at least five hundred years.' 
 
 The drawing-room opened on to a great conservatory 
 that almost filled the garden, and the Marquise used to 
 receive there, but I've forgotten who was her lover 
 when the last f^te was given and what play was acted, 
 only that the ordinary guests lingered over the light
 
 79 
 
 refreshments, scenting the supper, and that to get rid Spent Love 
 of them our orders were to bid the Marquise good-night 
 ostentatiously and to creep round, gaining the bedrooms 
 by the servants' staircase, and to hide ourselves. It 
 was very exciting for a young man, and as soon as the 
 uninvited guests could delay no longer and were gone, 
 the supper-tables were laid for a repast and a revelry 
 that was to last all night. Shall I ever forget the 
 moment when the glass roof of the conservatory began 
 to turn blue, or the shrilling of the awakening spar- 
 rows, or how haggard we all were when we bade our 
 hostess good-morning } Not till eight o'clock did we 
 leave her, and that fete was paid for with the remnant 
 of the poor Marquise's fortune. Afterwards she was 
 very poor, and Suzanne, her daughter, went on the 
 stage and discovered a certain talent for acting which 
 has been her fortune to this day, and to-night I will go 
 to the Vaudeville to see her. But for my adventure 
 
 there should be seven visits ; Madame would make 
 
 a fourth ; I hear that she is losing her sight, and lives 
 in a chateau built in the time of Louis XIII., with high- 
 pitched roofs and many shutters, and formal gardens^ 
 with balustrades, fish-ponds, and des charniilles, and to 
 walk in an avenue of clipped limes with a woman who is 
 nearly blind, and talk to her of the past, would be indeed 
 an adventure far 'beyond the range of formal man's 
 
 emotion.' Madame interrupted our love-story. She 
 
 would be another — that would be five — and I shall think 
 of two more during dinner. But now I must be moving 
 on ; and hearing the last notes trickle out — somebody 
 has been playing the prelude to Tristan — I say, ' Another 
 day has gone by in meditation on art and women. 
 To-morrow I shall again meditate on art and women, 
 and will inquire for her at the stage door after the per- 
 formance, and if she cannot see me she will make an
 
 80 
 
 Spent Love appointment, for she would like to talk about her mother 
 and the old days in the Rue de Londres, and the day after 
 I shall be occupied Avith what I once heard dear old 
 M'Cormac, Bishop of Gal way, describe in his sennon as 
 "the degrading passion of Moave."" 
 
 VIII 
 
 D'hote 
 
 Ninon's 'nr^HE DAY lies in sultry languor. A warm night 
 Table JL breathes upon the town, and in the exhaustion 
 
 of light and hush of sound life strikes sharply on the 
 ear and brain. 
 
 It was early in the evening when I returned home, 
 and, sitting in the window, I read till surprised by the 
 dusk ; and when my eyes could no longer follow the 
 printed page, holding the book between finger and 
 thumb, my face resting on the other hand, I looked out 
 on the garden, allowing my heart to fill with dreams. 
 The book that interested me dealt with the complex 
 craft of the Low Countries — a book written by a painter. 
 It has awakened in me memories of all kinds, heart- 
 rending struggles, youthful passion, bitter disappoint- 
 ments ; it has called into mind a multitude of thoughts 
 and things, and wearied with admiring many pictures 
 and arguing with myself, I am now glad to exchange 
 my book for the gentle hallucinations of the twilight. 
 
 I see a line of leafage drawn across the Thame.s, but 
 the line dips, revealing a slip of grey water with no 
 gleam upon it. Warehouses and a factory chimney rise 
 ghostly and grey, and so cold is that grey tint that it 
 might be gotten with black and white ; the warmth oi 
 umber is hardly needed. Behind the warehouses and 
 the factory chimney the sky is murky and motionless, 
 but higher up it is creamy white, and there is some
 
 81 
 
 cloud movement. Four lamps, two on either side of the Ninon's 
 
 Table 
 D'h6te 
 
 factory chimney, look across the river; one constantly ^ ^ 
 
 goes out — always the same lamp — and a moment after 
 it springs into its place again. Across my window a 
 beautiful branch waves like a feather fan, the only part 
 of the picture worked out in detail, and I watch its 
 soft and almost imperceptible swaying, tempted to count 
 the leaves. Below it, and a little beyond it, between 
 it and the river, night gathers in the gardens ; and 
 there, amid serious greens, passes the black stain of a 
 man's coat, and, in a line with the coat, in the beauti- 
 fully swaying branch, a belated sparrow hops from twig 
 to twig, awakening his mates in his search for an easy 
 perch. In the sharp towers of Temple Gardens the 
 pigeons have gone to sleep in the cotes under the conical 
 caps of slate. 
 
 The gross, jaded, uncouth present has slipped from 
 me as a garment might, and I see the past like a little 
 show, struggles and heartbreakings of old time, and 
 watch it with the same indifferent curiosity as I would 
 the regulated mimicry of a stage-play. Pictures from 
 the past come and go without an effort of will; many 
 are habitual memories, but the Comtesse Ninon de 
 Calvador rises to the surface of my mind, out of the 
 depths where she lay submerged for fifteen years — a 
 large brunette, whose unstayed bosom filled a blue peignoir 
 as she bent over a dark, broad-shouldered young man 
 at work on a picture of advanced impressionism in her 
 boudoir on the day when, instructed by Augusta Holmes, 
 I went to call on her with a great posy, it being her 
 birthday. Her young man moved into a corner so 
 that I might better admire his picture of a railway 
 station painted in pink and yellow dots. He was a little 
 too plainly her lover, and it was no surprise to me to 
 hear during the course of the evening that he was looked 
 
 G
 
 82 
 
 Ninon's at askance, for even in Montmartre it was regarded as 
 Table ^ dishonour to allow the lady with whom you lived to 
 pay for your dinner. Villiers de L'Isle Adam, who had 
 once been Ninon's lover, answered the reproaches levelled 
 against him for having accepted too largely of her hospitality 
 with * Que de bruit pour quelques cotelettes ! ' and his trans- 
 gressions were forgiven him for the sake of the quip which 
 seemed to summarise the moral endeavour and difficulties 
 of the entire quarter. 
 
 In Villiers' day Ninon was a young woman ; but in my 
 day she was interested in the young generation, keeping 
 friends, however, with all her old lovers, never denying 
 them her board, though they liad lost all thought of her 
 bed. 
 
 The impressionist's indignation against Villiers was 
 amusing to hear, and his charge that Villiers had squan- 
 dered a great part of Ninon's fortune was met by a 
 once famous quip : 'The young man talks like the concierge 
 in my story of " Les demoiselles de Bienfillatre." ' Poor 
 Villiers was not much to blame ; for it was part of 
 Ninon's temperament to waste her money on literature 
 and art, and the canvases round the room testified that 
 she spent a great deal on modern painting. Ninon 
 certainly had once been a rich woman ; rumour credited 
 her with spending fifty thousand francs a year, and in 
 her case rumour said no more than the truth, for it 
 would require at least that to live as she lived, keeping 
 open house to all the literature, music, painting, and 
 sculpture done in the Quarter. At first sight her hos- 
 pitality seems unreasonable, but when w-e ponder we 
 see that it conforms to the rules of all hospitality. 
 There must be a principle of selection, and the question 
 comes, Avere the 7-ates she entertained less amusing than 
 the people we meet in Grosvenor Square or the Champs 
 Elys^es .^ For a friend to introduce his friend is common
 
 83 
 
 practice in all society, but at Ninon's there was a restriction Ninon's 
 
 which I never met elsewhere : no friend could bring z^^, 
 
 ... .u D'hote 
 another unless the newcomer was a rate — in other 
 
 words, unless he had written music or verse, or painted 
 
 or carved, in a style so eccentric that it did not appeal 
 
 to the taste of the ordinary public ; inability to reach 
 
 the taste of the general public was the criterion that 
 
 prevailed in the Rue le Moine. 
 
 The windows of Ninon's boudoir opened upon the 
 garden, and on my expressing surprise at its size and its 
 large trees, she gave me permission to investigate ; and 
 I walked about the pond, interested in numerous ducks 
 and cats, and in companies of macaAvs and cockatoos that 
 climbed down from their perches, till I came upon a badger 
 and her brood, but at my approach they disappeared 
 into an enormous excavation. Behind the summer-house 
 I came upon a bear asleep, and not far off some chained 
 apes strove hard to gain my attention, which I yielded 
 to them till I heard Augusta Holmes singing her opera ; 
 singing all the different parts — soprano, contralto, tenor, 
 and bass. 
 
 At that time we were all talking about her, and I 
 was standing by the window listening, when Ninon's 
 cat suddenly misconducted herself. I raised the window, 
 but the ventilation did not prove enough, and a company 
 of women came forth in flowered gowns, and scarves about 
 their shoulders, \Vith them was a poet who compared the 
 darkening sky to a blue veil with a gold beetle upon it. 
 One of the women brought a guitar with her, and again 
 Augusta's voice streamed up through the stillness, till, 
 compelled by the beauty of the singing, we drew nearer ; 
 and as the composer sang her songs, attitudes grew more 
 abandoned, hands fell pensively, and among the half-seen 
 faces I caught sight of a woman of exceeding fairness who 
 Ninon remembered Avas a cousin of hers, one Avhom she
 
 84 
 
 Ninon's liad not seen for many years, but how Clare had discovered 
 Table jjei- j^ ^.jjg j^yg \q Moine she could not tell me. Some- 
 bod}' whispered that she was the wife of a rich silk 
 merchant at Tours, which added to the mystery, and later 
 in the evening the lady took me into her confidence, 
 confessing that slie had never been in artistic society 
 before, and begged me to be kind enough to point out 
 the celebrities present to her, and to tell her why they 
 were celebrated. 
 
 ' Who is he who slouches towards the pond, that one 
 wearing grey trousers and a black jacket ? — oh ! ' 
 
 My companion's exclamation was caused by a new sight 
 of Verlaine ; he walked his hat in his hand (the evening 
 being warm), and the great bald skull, hanging like a cliff 
 over eyebrows shaggy as furze-bushes, frightened her. 
 We continued to watch him. ' How bored he seems ; and 
 why does he walk apart like that, speaking to nobody ? 
 Does he look upon us as too stupid .'' ' my companion 
 asked, and almost at the same moment Verlaine caught 
 sight of me, and coming forward he engaged us in con- 
 versation, remarking, as one might say, 'it is a fine 
 evening ' : ' If I were in love with a young girl or with 
 
 a young man ' A look of alarm spread over my 
 
 companion's face, and drawing me aside she whispered, 
 ' You must not leave me alone with him.' Her manner 
 was so abrupt that I was afraid Verlaine would take 
 offence, but the spell of boredom was upon him, and so 
 acutely that to lift it he set himself to frighten my 
 companion (whom he recognised, no doubt, as a pro- 
 vincial) still further, succeeding very well by the elation 
 of an adventure that had befallen him at Crotoy. ' II se 
 trouva,' said he, 'que j'attendais une correspondance de 
 trains au Crotoy, une ville de pecheur ; et ayant une demi- 
 heure a perdre je me suis dirige vers la ville. En 
 revenant, sur le pont, j'ai rencontre le chef de gare, un
 
 85 
 
 bel homme, une barbe noire, j usque la. Eh bien, il en Ninon's 
 etait . . . c'etait epatant.' As soon as he was out ot'^^"]^^ 
 hearing my companion inquired eagerly who that horrible 
 man was. ' Is he a priest ? I mean was he ever a priest ? ' 
 *Noj but he believes in priests, which is worse. He is the 
 poet Verlaine, the singer of the sweetest verses in the 
 French language. His is a sort of chattering song like a 
 robin's. The robin confesses his little soul ft-om a twig; 
 his song is but a tracery of his soul, and with the same 
 simplicity Verlaine traces his, without troubling to inquire 
 if what he traces is good or ill. A lecher, a crapulous and 
 bestial fellow at times, at other times a poet, a visionary, 
 the only poet that Catholicism has produced since Dante. 
 And the small thin man over yonder, with hair growing 
 thickly low down on his forehead, is Huysmans, the 
 apologist of that fifteenth-century monster, Gilles de Rais, 
 the prototype, so it is said, of the nursery tale of Blue- 
 beard. Huysmans speaks of the white soul of the Middle 
 Ages, and in about two years hence all the young men in 
 England will be speaking of the white soul of the Middle 
 Ages, without the least idea what it means, which is not 
 surprising, for it means notliing whatever. Verlaine has 
 spoken of himself as a mediaeval Catholic, but as he has 
 not cut the throats of many little boys, it may be doubted 
 if his soul be as white as Gilles's. He does not stop to 
 argue, like his mediaeval ancestor, about God's grandfather 
 (St. Anne's husband) ; he abandons himself to the Chui'ch 
 as a child to a fairy tale ; the mediaeval sculptors have 
 represented her attired very prettily in cloaks with long 
 folds, they have put graceful crowns upon her head, and 
 Verlaine likes these things; they inspire him to write, he 
 feels that belief in the Church is part of himself, and his 
 poetical genius is to tell his own story ; he is one of the 
 great soul-tellers. From a literary point of view there is 
 a good deal to be said in favour of faith when it is not
 
 D'hote 
 
 86 
 
 Ninon's joined with practice ; acceptation of dogma shields one 
 Table from controversy ; Verlaine's allegiance allows him to con- 
 centrate himself entirely upon things ; it weans him away 
 from ideas — the curse of modern literature — and makes 
 him a sort of divine vagrant living his life in the tavern 
 and in the hospital. It is only those who have freed 
 themselves from all prejudice that get close to life, who 
 get the real taste of life — the aroma as from a wine that 
 has been many years in bottle. Sometimes he thinks he 
 might have written a little more poetry^ and he sighs, but 
 he quickly recovers. "After all, I have written a good 
 many volumes, and what would art be without life, without 
 love .'' " And from such a soul we get verse always win- 
 some, delicate, slender as the birch-tree, elegiac like it ; a 
 lake poet, a suburban lake not far from a casino. What 
 makes me speak about the lake is that I once thought 
 these verses : — 
 
 Ton ame est un lac d'amour 
 Dont mes pensers sont les cygnes. 
 Vois comme ils font le tour . . . 
 
 were Verlaine's. The first two lines are well enough, but 
 the third betrays a common, and of all an unmelodious 
 mind : everybody might have written them ; but Verlaine's 
 verses are always his own ; even when they are without 
 poetry they are within the versification that haunts in an 
 ear that hears a song in French verse that no French poet 
 ever heard before, a song ranging from the ecstasy of the 
 nightingale to the robin's little homily. 
 
 Oui, c'etait par un soir joyeux de cabaret, 
 Un de ces soirs plutot trop chauds ou Ton dirait 
 Que le gaz du plafond conspire a notre perte 
 Avec le vin du zinc, saveur naive et verte. 
 On s'amusait beaucoup dans la boutique et on 
 Entendait des soupirs voisins d'accordeon
 
 87 
 
 Que ponctuaient des pieds frappant presque en cadence. Ninon's 
 
 Quand la porte s'ouvrit de la salle de danse Xf, x 
 
 n -, . < ., ,^ . D hote 
 
 Vomissant tout un flot dont toi, vers ou j etais, 
 
 Et de ta voix qui fait que soudain je me tais, 
 
 S'il te plait de me donner un ordre peremptoire. 
 
 Tu t'ecrias " Dieu, qu'il fait chaud ! Patron, a boire ! " 
 
 ' She was from Picardy ; and he tells of her horrible 
 accent, and in elegy number five he continues the con- 
 fession, telling how his well-beloved used to get drunk. 
 
 Tu fis le saut de. . . . Seine et, depuis morte-vive, 
 Tu gardes le vertige et le gout du neant.' 
 
 ' But how can a man confess such things ? ' my com- 
 panion asked me, and we stood looking at each other in 
 the midst of the gardens until an ape, cattling prettily, 
 ran towards me and jumped into my arms, and looking 
 at the curious little wizened face, the long arms covered 
 with hair, I said : — 
 
 ' Verlaine has an extraordinary power of expression, and 
 to be ashamed of nothing but to be ashamed, is his genius, 
 just as it was Manet's. It is to his shamelessness that we 
 owe his most beautiful poems, all written in garrets, in 
 taverns, in hospitals — yes, and in prison.' 
 
 ' In prison ! But he didn't steal, did he ? ' and the 
 merchant's wife looked at me with a frightened air, 
 and I think her hand went towards her pocket. 
 
 ' No, no ; a mere love-story, a dispute with Rambaud 
 in some haunt of vice, a knife flashed, Rambaud was 
 stabbed, and Verlaine spent three years in prison. As 
 for Rambaud, it was said that he repented and renounced 
 love, entered a monastery, and digged the soil somewhere 
 on the shores of the Red Sea for the grace of God. But 
 these hopes proved illusory ; only Verlaine knows where 
 he is, and he will not tell. The last certain news we had 
 of him was that he had joined a caravan, and was wandering
 
 88 
 
 Ninon's somewhere into the desert, but Verlaine, preferring civilised 
 Table savagerv, remains in Paris,— living in thieves' quarters, 
 getting drunk, writing beautiful poems in the hospitals, 
 coming out of hospitals and falling in love with drabs. 
 
 Dans ces femmes d'ailleurs je n'ai pas trouve I'ange 
 
 Qu'il eut fallu pour remplacer ce diable, toi ! 
 
 L'une, fille du Nord, native du Crotoy, 
 
 Etait rousse, mal grasse et de prestance molle ; 
 
 Elle ne m'adressa guere qu'une parole 
 
 Et c'etait d'un petit cadeau qu'il s'agissait. 
 
 L'autre, pruneau d'Agen, sans cesse croassait. 
 
 En revanche, dans son accent d'ail et de poivre, 
 
 Une troisieme, recemment chanteuse au Havre, 
 
 AfFectait le dandinement des matelots 
 
 Et m' . . . enguelait comme un gabier tan9ant les flots, 
 
 Mais portrait beau vraiment, sacredie, quel dommage. 
 
 La quatrieme etait sage comme une image, 
 
 Chatain clair, peu de gorge et priait Dieu parfois : 
 
 Le diantre soit de ses sacres signes de croix ! 
 
 Les seize autres, autant du moins que ma memoire 
 
 Surnage en ce vortex, contaient toutes I'histoire 
 
 Connue, un amant chic, puis des vieux, puis "I'ilot" 
 
 Tantot bien, tantot moins, le clair cafe falot 
 
 Les terrasses I'ete, I'hiver les brasseries 
 
 Et par degres I'humble trottoir en theories 
 
 En attendant les bons messieurs compatissants 
 
 Capables d'un louis et pas trop repoussants 
 
 Quorum ego parva pars erim, me disais-je. 
 
 Mais toutes, comme la premiere du cortege, 
 
 D^s avant la bougie eteinte et le rideau 
 
 Tire n'oubliaient pas le "mon petit cadeau." 
 
 'In the verses I have just quoted, you remember, he 
 says that the fourth was chaste as an image, her hair 
 was pale brown, she had scarcely any bosom, and
 
 89 
 
 prayed to God sometimes. He always hated piety when Ninon's 
 it interfered with his pleasure, and in the next verse he ^^°^^ 
 says, "The devil take those sacred signs of the Cross." ' 
 
 ' But do you know any of these women ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; we all know the terrible Sara, who beats him 
 occasionally.' 
 
 The merchant's wife asked if she were here. 
 
 'No, Ninon will not receive her. In spite of Ninon's 
 orders he brought her once, but she was so drunk that she 
 could not get beyond the threshold, and Ninon's lover, the 
 man you saw painting the steam-engines, was charged to 
 explain to the poet that Sara's intemperance made her 
 conspicuous in general society. " I know Sara has her 
 faults," he murmured in reply to argument. " I know she 
 has her faults," he repeated, " and so have others. We all 
 have our faults, and as you will not have Sara, my place 
 will be vacant in the future." Hunger has brought him 
 back at last.' 
 
 ' And who is that hollow-chested man ? How pathetic 
 he looks with his goat-like beard.' 
 
 ' That is the celebrated Cabaner. He will tell you, if 
 you speak to him, that his father was a man like Napo- 
 leon, only more so. He is the author of many aphorisms : 
 " that three military bands would be necessary to give 
 the impression of silence in music." He is one of the 
 features of the Nouvelle Athenes ; he is there every 
 night, and will tell you that his ballad of "The Salt 
 Herring " is written in a way that perhaps Wagner would 
 not understand, but which Liszt would.' 
 
 ' Is his music ever played ? Does it sell ? How does he 
 * live ? Not by his music, I suppose "? ' 
 
 'Yes, by his music, by playing waltzes and polkas in 
 the Avenue de la Motte Piquet. His earnings are five 
 francs a day, and for thirty-five francs a month he has a 
 room where the disinherited heirs of art — the frequenters
 
 90 
 
 Ninon's of these gardens — sleep. His room is furnished — ah, you 
 Table sliould see it ! If Cabaner wants a chest of drawers he 
 buys a fountain, and he broke off the head of the Venus 
 de Milo, saying that he could henceforth admire her 
 without being troubled by any recollections of the people 
 lie meets in the streets. I could talk to you for hours 
 about his unselfishness, his love of art, his strange music, 
 and his stranger poems, for his music accompanies his own 
 verses.' 
 
 ' Is he too clever for the public, or not clever enough .'' ' 
 
 ' You're asking me the question we've been asking 
 ourselves for the last ten years. . . . The man fumbling 
 at his shirt-collar over yonder is the celebrated Villiers de 
 L'Isle Adam.' 
 
 And I remember how it pleased me to tell this simple- 
 minded woman all I knew about Villiers. 
 
 'He has no talent whatever, only genius, and that is 
 why he is a rate,' I said. 
 
 But the woman was not so simple as I imagined, and 
 one or two questions she put to me led me to tell her 
 that Villiers' genius only appeared in streaks like gold in 
 quartz. 
 
 ' The comparison is an old one, but there is no better 
 one to explain Villiers, for when he is not inspired his 
 writing is very like quartz.' 
 
 ' His great name ' 
 
 ' His name is part of his genius. He chose it, and it 
 has influenced his writings. Have I not heard him say, 
 " Car je porte en moi les richesses st6riles d'un grand 
 nombre de rois oublies " } ' 
 
 ' But is he a legitimate descendant } ' 
 
 ' Legitimate in the sense that he desired the name more 
 than any of those who ever bore it legitimately.' 
 
 At that moment Villiers passed by me, and I introduced 
 him to her, and very soon he began to tell us that his
 
 91 
 
 Eve had just been published, and the success of it was Ninon's 
 great. Table 
 
 T-VJl A. 
 
 * On m'a dit hier de passer a la caisse. L' edition est 
 epuisee, vous voyez — il parait, la fortune est venue . . . 
 meme a moi.' 
 
 But Villiers was often tiresomely talkative about trifles, 
 and as soon as I got the chance I asked him if he were 
 going to tell us one of his stories, reminding him of one I 
 had heard he had been telling lately in the brasseries about 
 a man in quest of a quiet village where he could get 
 rest. Had he written it ? No, he had not written it yet, 
 but now that he knew I liked it he would rise earlier 
 to-moiTow. Some one took him away from us, and I had 
 to tell my companion the story. 
 
 ' Better,' I said, ' he should never write it, for half of it 
 exists in his voice and in his gestures, and every year he 
 gets less and less of himself onto the paper. One has to hear 
 him tell his stories in the cafe — and none did he tell better 
 than the story he was about to tell us when that stupid 
 fellow broke in upon us — how a man, recovering from a 
 long illness, is advised by his doctor to seek rest in the 
 country, and how, seeing the name of a village on the 
 map that touches his imagination, he takes the train, 
 feeling certain that he will find an Arcadian simplicity. 
 But the village he catches sight of from the carriage 
 window is morose and lonely, and Avorse than the arid 
 plain are the human beings he sees at the station ; they 
 peer into his face and handle his luggage so suspiciously 
 that he begins to think them robbers and assassins in 
 disguise. He would escape, but he dare not, for on his 
 way to the village he perceives that he is being followed, 
 and to test his suspicions he asks the villagers if they can 
 direct him to a lodging. His request leaves no doubt in 
 their minds that he is an anarchist, and that his trunks 
 are full of material for the manufacture of bombs. So
 
 92 
 
 Ninon's they dog his steps to the farmhouse whither they have 
 Table directed him, to tell their fears to the farmer and his 
 wife. Villiers can improvise the consultations in the 
 caf6 at midnight, but when morning comes he cannot 
 write, his brain is empty. You must come some night 
 to the Nouvelle Athenes to hear him tell how sure 
 the hinds are that the house is going to be blown up, and 
 how they sit in consultation, their fears increasing as 
 the night advances, till the silence above them bodes 
 no good, and they begin to ascend the stairs, their foot- 
 steps filling the heart of the wretched convalescent with 
 terror. As he sits up in bed listening to the ascending 
 sounds great drops of sweat collect on his forehead. 
 Villiers can suggest the sound of feet on the creaking 
 stairs, and the terror of the man piling furniture against 
 the door, and the terror of those outside who, when they 
 break into the room, find a dead man. You must come to 
 the Nouvelle Athenes to hear Villiers tell his story. I'll 
 meet you there to-morrow night. . . . Will you dine with 
 me ? ' 
 
 The merchant's wife hesitated. She promised to come, 
 and she came ; but she did not prove an interesting mis- 
 tress ; why, I cannot remember, and I am glad to put her 
 out of my mind, for I want to think of the blonde poet 
 whom we heard reciting verses, under the aspen, in which 
 one of the apes had taken refuge, whose fair hair I can 
 see floating about his shoulders, his thin nose, his pale 
 eyes, one always a little bloodshot. Didn't somebody 
 once describe him as a sort of sensual Christ? He, too, 
 was after the merchant's wife ; and to win her he selected 
 her as the subject of his licentious verses — reassure 
 yourself, reader, licentious merely from the point of 
 view of prosody. 
 
 Ta nuque est de santal sur les vifs frissons d'or, 
 Mais c'est une autre que j'adore.
 
 93 
 
 The merchant's wife, foi-getful of me, charmed by the Ninon's 
 poet, by the excitement of hearing herself made the sub- ^^r']^ 
 ject of a poem, drew nearer. Strange, is it not, that I 
 should remember a few words here and there ? 
 
 II m'aime, un peu, beaucoup. Selon I'antique rit 
 Elle effeuille la Marguerite. 
 
 The women still sit, circlewise, as if enchanted, the 
 night inspires him, and he improvises trifle after trifle. 
 Ah, could I remember the serenade to the moon. 
 
 Lune bleme et sans aureole, 
 Avec les langueurs d'une creole. 
 '\''ous revez . . . 
 
 But I can only remember Cabaner's salt herring. 
 
 He came along holding in his hands dirty, dirty, dirty, 
 
 A big nail pointed, pointed, pointed. 
 
 And a hammer heavy, heavy, heavy. 
 
 He propped the ladder high, high, high 
 
 Against the wall white, white, white. 
 
 And went up the ladder high, high, high, 
 
 To place the nail pointed, pointed, pointed, 
 
 Against the wall — toe ! toe ! toe ! 
 
 He tied to the nail a string long, long, long. 
 
 And at the end of it a salt herring dry, dry, dry. 
 
 Then letting fall the hammer heavy, heavy, heavy, 
 
 He descended the ladder high, high, high. 
 
 Picked up the hammer and went away, away, away. 
 
 Since then at the end of the string long, long, long, 
 
 A salt herring dry, dry, dry. 
 
 Has swung slowly, slowly, slowly. 
 
 Now I have composed this story simple, simple, simple. 
 
 To infuriate serious people, people, people. 
 
 And to make little children laugh, laugh, laugh.
 
 94 
 
 Ninon's This was the libretto on wliich Cabaner wrote music 
 Table i ^\^^^ Wagner would not understand^ but which Liszt 
 ° ^ would.' Dear, dear Cabaner, how well I can see thy 
 goat-like beard, and the ape who broke his chain earlier 
 in the evening. We could not persuade him to leave the 
 tree, and the brute seemed somehow determined that we 
 should not hear. Mendis chattered till midnight, and the 
 cocks began answering each other, all the way down and 
 along and across the violet suburb. So loud was their 
 shrilling that I awoke, surprised to find myself sitting at 
 my window in King's Bench Walk. A moment ago I was 
 in Madame Ninon de Calvador's garden, and every whit as 
 much as I am now in King's Bench Walk. 
 
 As I sit looking into the darkness, I remember Villiers, 
 arriving when dinner was half over ; fumbling at his shirt- 
 collar, and apologising for being late, he assured us he 
 had dined and that his friend whom he introduced to us 
 as a man of genius had dined too ; and being short of 
 plates that evening, one was snatched away from a cat 
 and given to Villiers' friend instead of to Villiers, who 
 would not have minded, but Villiers' friend did, and to 
 emphasise his disgust he struck the table with his fist, 
 and received the explanations offered to him with wrath, 
 saying, ' Eh bien, je casse tout.' He wrote an article 
 in the Gil Bias entitled ' Ninon's Table D'hote,' from 
 Avhich piece of literature she learned that the world viewed 
 her hospitality as folly, and that her efforts to benefit the 
 arts and the artists only provoked mirth. Somebody told 
 me this story : who I cannot tell, for it is all long, long 
 ago. But it seems to me that I remember hearing that 
 it was this article that killed her. 
 
 My thoughts return to Ninon's garden, explicit in my 
 memory in every detail — a tree taking shape upon the 
 dawning sky, the hairy ugliness of the ape in its branches, 
 and along the grey grass a waddling squad of the ducks
 
 95 
 
 betaking themselves to the pond, a poet talking to a Ninon's 
 merchant's wife, Madame de Calvador leaning on a lover's T^r[^ 
 arm, and had I a palette I could make a picture out of 
 that dusky suburb. Had I a pen I could write verses 
 about these people of old time, but it is better to sit 
 by my window enjoying what remains of the mood and 
 the memory. The mood has nearly passed, the desire for 
 action is approaching. I would give much for another 
 memory like the one going by, but memory may not be 
 beckoned, and my mind is dark now, dark as that garden. 
 The swaying, fan-like bough by my window is nearly 
 one mass of green ; the last sparrow has fallen asleep, 
 and I hear nothing but a horse trotting in the Strand. 
 
 IX 
 
 I HAD come a thousand miles — rather more, nearly The Lovers 
 fifteen hundred — in the hope of picking up the °^ Otehy 
 thread of a love-story that had fallen into tangles and 
 knots and been broken off abruptly. A strange mis- 
 adventure ; for Doris had given a great deal of 
 herself while denying me much, so much that at last, 
 in despair, I fled from a one-sided love-affair ; too one- 
 sided to be borne any longer, at least by me. But it was 
 difficult to fly from her pretty, inveigling face, delightful 
 and winsome as the faces one finds on the panels of the 
 early German masters, panels painted in pale tints, the 
 cheeks touched with carmine in the midst of rose bowers. 
 Who was that master who painted cunning virgins in rose 
 bowers ? The master of Cologne, I think. But no matter, 
 for Doris's hair was darker than the hair of those virgins, 
 a rich gold hair, a mane of hair growing luxuriously, the 
 golden note continued in the eyebrows, in the pupils of 
 the eyes, in the freckles along her little nose, so firmly and
 
 96 
 
 The Lovers beautifully modelled about the nostrils. Nor was there 
 ofOrelay ^y^j. ^ more lovely or afFeetiouate mouth, weak and 
 beautiful as a flower, and the long curving hands were 
 delightful to hold. There is her portrait, dear reader, 
 prettily and truthfully painted by me, the portrait of a 
 girl I left one afternoon in London, more than seventeen 
 years ago, tliat I lost sight of, I thought, for ever, alas ! 
 But she had lived on in regret, the subject of many 
 meditations : Was she married ? and if so, was she happy > 
 Why did she not write to me ? and why, of all, did I not 
 write to her } But if our love-story had run smooth there 
 would be no regret, and without regret life would be 
 all on the flat. Regret is like a mountain-top from which 
 we survey our dead life, a mountain-top on which we pause 
 and ponder, and very often, looking into the twilight, we 
 ask ourselves whether it would be well to send a letter or 
 some token. She and I had agreed that a few bars of 
 Schumann's melody, "The Walnut-Tree," should be sent 
 in case of an estrangement, and the one who received it 
 should at once hurry to the side of the other and all differ- 
 ence be healed. But this token was never sent by me, 
 perhaps because I did not know how to scribble the 
 musical phrase ; and pride perhaps kept her from sending 
 it ; in any case five years are a long while, and she seemed 
 to have died out of my life altogether ; but one day the 
 sight of a woman who had known her brought her before 
 my eyes, and I asked if Doris were married. The woman 
 could not tell me ; she had not seen her for many years ; 
 they, too, were estranged, and I went home saying to 
 myself, ' Doris must be married. Is she happy married ? 
 Has she a baby ? O shameful thought ! ' Dost remember, 
 reader, how Balzac, when he came to the last page of 
 Massimilla Dojii, declared that he dared not pursue 
 the story to the end. One word, he says, will suffice 
 for the worshippers of the ideal : ' Massimilla Doni was
 
 97 
 
 expecting.' And then, in a passage that is pleasanter The Lovers 
 
 to think about than to read — for whenever he speaks °^ ^Jreiay 
 
 about art Balzac is something of a sciolist — we learn that 
 
 the ideas of many great artists^ painters and sculptors 
 
 escaped from their niches and their frames and gathered 
 
 weeping round Massimilla's bed. My portrait of Doris 
 
 should convince thee, reader, that it would be as disgraceful 
 
 for Doris to be " expecting " as it was for Massimilla Doni. 
 
 I like to think of all the peris, the nymphs, the sylphs, 
 
 the fairies of ancient legend, all her kinsfolk gathering 
 
 about her bed, deploring her condition, regarding her 
 
 as lost to them. Were such a thing to happen I should be 
 
 kneeling in spirit certainly with them ; and feeling, just as 
 
 Balzac did about Massimilla Doni, that it was indeed a 
 
 sacrilege that Doris should be " expecting," or even 
 
 married. I wrote, omitting, however, to tell her why I 
 
 had suddenly resolved to break silence, sending only a 
 
 little note, a few words, that I was sorry not to have 
 
 heard of her for so long a time, a little commonplace 
 
 note, relieved perhaps by a touch of wistfulness, of regret. 
 
 And this note was sent by a messenger duly instructed 
 
 to ask for an answer. The answer was that the lady was 
 
 away, but the letter would be forwarded to her. * She is 
 
 not married,' I thought ; ' were she married her name 
 
 would be sent to me. Perhaps not.' Other thoughts 
 
 came into my mind, and I did not think of her again for 
 
 the next two days, not till a long telegram was put into 
 
 my hand. Doris ! It had come from her, and it had come 
 
 more than a thousand miles, 'regardless of expense,' I 
 
 said ; ' this telegram must have cost her ten or twelve 
 
 shillings at the least.' She was delighted to hear from 
 
 me; she had been ill, but was better now, and the 
 
 telegram concluded with the usual 'Am writing.' The 
 
 letter that arrived two days afterwards was like herself, 
 
 full of impulse and affection ; but it contained one phrase 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 The Lovers which put black misgiving into my heart. In her descrip- 
 of Orelay tjon of her illness and her health, which was returning, 
 and how she had come to be staying in this far-away 
 Southern town, she alluded to its dulness, saying that if I 
 came there virtue must be its own reward. ' Stupid of 
 her to speak to me of virtue,' I muttered, ' for she must 
 know well enough that it was her partial virtue that had 
 separated us and caused the long estrangement.' So I sat 
 pondering, trying to discover if she applied the phrase to 
 herself or to the place where she was staying. How could 
 it apply to the place .'' All places would be a paradise 
 
 if 
 
 And at the close of a long December evening I wrote 
 
 a letter, the answer to which would decide whether I 
 should undertake the long journey. * The journey back 
 will be detestable,' I muttered, and taking up the pen 
 again I wrote, ' Your letter contains a phrase which fills 
 me with dismay : you say, " Virtue must be its own 
 reward," and this would seem that you are determined 
 to be more aggressively Platonic than ever. Doris, this 
 is ill news indeed ; you would not have me consider it 
 good news, would you ? ' 
 
 Other letters followed, but I doubt if I knew more of 
 Doris's intentions when I stepped into the train than I 
 did when I sat pondering by my fireside, trying to dis- 
 cover her meaning when she wrote that vile phrase, 
 * Virtue must be its own reward.' But somehow I seemed 
 to have come to a decision, and that was the main thing. 
 We act obeying a law deep down in our being, and 
 remembering my Spinoza I said on the way to the 
 station : ' If the stone rolling down the hill were to 
 become conscious, it would think it was rolling itself,' 
 and immediately after fell to thinking that Doris's pretty 
 face might be pretty no longer. Yet she could not have 
 changed much. She had said in her letter that in ten
 
 99 
 
 minutes we should be talking just as in old time. Even The Lovers 
 so, none but madmen travel a thousand miles in search of °^ Urelay 
 a pretty face. And the madman that is in us all was 
 propelling me, or it was the primitive man who crouches 
 in some jungle of our being. Of one thing I was sure, 
 that I was no longer a conventional citizen of the nine- 
 teenth century ; I seemed to have met myself somewhere, 
 in some book or poem or opera, and on stepping on 
 board the Dover packet I began to identify myself with 
 the heroes of ancient legend — Menelaus or Jason — which ? 
 The colour of Helen's hair isn't mentioned in either the 
 Iliad or the Odyssey, but Jason's quest was a golden fleece ; 
 so was mine, and delighted to find my life at last in- 
 corporate in the great tradition, I began to look forward 
 to the journey, almost without dismay, though nothing 
 wearies me so much as a long journey in the train. 
 
 Twenty-five years before I started with the intention of 
 long travel, but the train journey from Calais to Paris 
 wearied me so much that I rested in Paris for eight years, 
 to return home to settle some financial embarrassments, 
 and during those eight years I often thought of Italy, but 
 a journey of sixteen or seventeen or eighteen hours always 
 seemed so much like what purgatory must be, that Italy 
 never tempted me enough to undertake it. A companion 
 would be of no use ; for who can talk for fifteen or sixteen 
 hours } and while debating whether the journey to Plessy 
 should be undertaken, my will rose and sank like the 
 tide. But evei-ything, pleasure and pain alike, is greater 
 in imagination than in reality — there is always a reaction, 
 and having anticipated more than mortal weariness in 
 the train, the first hours did not seem to lag. Indeed, 
 it seemed that I had been in the train only a little 
 while when it stopped, yet Laroche is more than an 
 hour from Paris, quite a countryside station, and it seems 
 strange, too, that le Cote d'Azur should stop there. That
 
 100 
 
 The Lovers was the grand name of the train that I was travelling 
 of Orelay j^y Think of any English company running a train and 
 calling it " The Azure Shore " ! Think of going to Euston 
 or to Charing Cross, saying you are going by " The Azure 
 Shore" ! So long as the name of this train endures, it 
 is impossible to doubt that the French mind is more 
 picturesque than the English, and nobody need wonder 
 why the French school of painting, etc. 
 
 A fruit-seller cried his wares along the platform, and 
 as breakfast was being prepared on board the train I 
 bethought myself that a basket of French grapes would 
 pass the time, for the grapes that grow in the open air are 
 not like the leathery hot-house grapes filled with lumps 
 of glue that we eat in England. On quests like mine 
 one has to resort to many various little expedients. The 
 grapes were decaying ; only the bunch on the top was 
 eatable ; and it was not worth eating, and I began to 
 think that the railway company's attention should be 
 directed to the fraud. 'The directors of the railway 
 think that the passenger should examine the quality 
 of the grapes offered to him before purchasing,' would 
 be the company's answer to my letter : a letter to 
 the papers was out of the question, for French papers 
 are not like ours — they do not print all the letters 
 that are sent to them, and I meditated that the French 
 public has no means of ventilating its grievances ; a 
 misfortune, no doubt, but not such a misfortune as it 
 seems, when one reflects on how little good a letter 
 addressed to the public press does in the way of remedy- 
 ing abuses in England. 
 
 I don't think we stopped again till we reached Lyons, 
 and all the way there I sat at the window looking at the 
 landscape — the long, long plain that the French peasant 
 cultivates unceasingly, remembering that all the money 
 that was lost in Panama came out of that plain, and
 
 101 
 
 all the money invested in Russian bonds — five milliards. The Lovers 
 We passed through Champagne, or a corner of it, mayhap °^ Orelay 
 whither Zola went to study the French peasant before 
 he wrote La Terre. The master's name carried me back 
 to an evening when Huysmans, with that benevolent 
 malice so characteristic of him, said that the stint of 
 Zola's investigation was going out for a drive in a 
 carriage with Madame Zola. 
 
 The primitive man that had risen out of some jungle 
 
 of my being did not view this immense and highly 
 
 cultivated plain with kindly eyes. It seemed to him 
 
 to differ little from the town, so utterly was Nature 
 
 dominated by man and portioned out. On a subject like 
 
 this one can meditate for a long time, and I continued 
 
 to meditate till roused by the stopping of the train. We 
 
 were at Lyons at last, and the tall white-painted houses 
 
 reminded me of Paris — Lyons, as seen from the windows 
 
 of le Cote d' Azur at the end of a grey December day might 
 
 be Paris. The same sky, sloppy and greasy ; and the 
 
 train happening to stop at a height from which I could 
 
 look down a side street, I decided, after inspection, that 
 
 Lyons was more provincial than Paris, and I fell to 
 
 thinking of the great silk trade and the dull minds of 
 
 the merchants, of their dinner-parties, their wives and 
 
 mistresses. I noticed everything, but there was so little 
 
 to notice that I wrote out a telegram and ran Avith it to the 
 
 office, for Doris did not know what train I was coming by, 
 
 and it would be pleasant to meet her lovely face among a 
 
 crowd of strangers. My foot was on the footboard when 
 
 the guard blew his whistle, and lying back in my seat 
 
 I bethought myself of the catastrophe that had nearly 
 
 overtaken me. But I had escaped it somehow, and 
 
 resettling myself in my seat I said, ' Now let us study 
 
 the landscape, for such an excellent opportunity may 
 
 never occur again.'
 
 102 
 
 The Lovers The long plain, cultivated with tedious regularity, that 
 of Orelay ^y^ }jjjd been passing through before we came to Lyons, 
 flowed on field after field ; it seemed as if we should never 
 reach the end of it, and looking on those same fields, 
 for they were the same, I said to myself, ' If I were an 
 economist that plain would interest me, but since I got 
 Doris's letter I am primitive man, and he abhors the 
 brown and the waving field, and "the spirit in his feet" 
 leads him to some grassy glen where he follows his flocks, 
 listening, perchance, to the song of the wilding bee in the 
 gorse. That plain must breed a soulless race ; peasants 
 going forth at dusk to plough, and turning home at dusk 
 to eat, procreate and sleep.' At last a river appeared, 
 flowing amid sparse and stunted trees and reeds, a great 
 wide sluggish river with low banks, flowing so slowly that 
 it hardly seemed to flow at all. A few rooks flopped past, 
 but rooks are hardly M'ilding birds ; we saw one crow, and 
 I thought of a heron rising slowly out of one of the reedy 
 islands ; and I liked to think of a poacher picking up a 
 rabbit here and there ; hares must have almost disappeared, 
 even the flock and the sh?phei*d are seldom seen in the 
 corn-growing land. France is not as picturesque a country 
 as England ; Normandy alone seems to have pasturage, 
 and the shepherd survives only along the banks of the 
 Seine. Picardy, though a swamp, never conveys an idea 
 of the wild ; and the middle of France, which I looked 
 at for the first time, shocked me, for primitive man, as 
 I have said, was uppermost in me, and I turned away 
 from the long plain, 'dreary,' I said, 'uneventful as a 
 boarding-house.' 
 
 But it is a long plain that has no hill in it, and when I 
 looked out again the whole range of the Esterelles came 
 into view, with a jagged end projecting over the valley, 
 showing against what remained of the sunset, one or two 
 bars of dusky red, disappearing rapidly amid heavy clouds
 
 103 
 
 massing themselves as if for a storm, and soon after night The Lovers 
 closed over the landscape. ' Henceforth/ I said, ' I shall °^ Ureuy 
 have to look to my own thoughts for amusement/ and in 
 my circumstances there was nothing reasonable for me to 
 think of but Doris, especially of the moment when I 
 should catch sight of her on the platform. So I fell to 
 thinking of her, and must have been dreaming, for the 
 voice of the guard, crying out, ' Dinner is served,' awoke 
 me with a start. 
 
 It is said to be the habit of my countrymen never to 
 drop into conversation with strangers in the train, but I 
 doubt if that be so. Everything depends on the tact of 
 him who first breaks silence ; if his manner inspires con- 
 fidence in his fellow-traveller he will receive such answers 
 as will carry the conversation on for a minute or two, 
 and in that time both will have come to a conclusion 
 whether the conversation should be continued or ended. 
 A pleasant little book might be written about train 
 acquaintances, but I am writing the quest of a golden 
 fleece, and may not allow myself further deflection in the 
 narrative. All the same I must tell of the two whom I 
 met at dinner on board le Cote d'Azur, a man and his 
 wife, the woman a typical Frenchwoman, pleasant and 
 agreeable, of the upper middle classes, whose conventions 
 and prejudices were so plainly written into her face, 
 her hands, voice, dress and mien, that a glance was 
 enough. Her husband's accent told me he was French ; 
 but when he took off" his hat it was plain that he had come 
 from the tropics — Algeria, I thought, and was not sur- 
 prised to hear that he had lived in the desert since he was 
 fourteen, ' Almost a Saharian,' I said, and during dinner, 
 and long after dinner, we were talking of the difference 
 between the Oriental races and the European. He spoke 
 the Tunisian patois and wrote the language of the Koran, 
 which is understood all over the Sahara and the Soudan,
 
 104 
 
 The Lovers as well as in Mecca. What interested me, perhaps even 
 of Orelay uiore than the language question, was the story of the 
 enlargement of his estate by the discovery of two Roman 
 wells ; ' for in ancient times/ he said, ' there were not three 
 oases, but one. The wells to which these owed their 
 existence were destroyed by the Numidians to save them- 
 selves from the Saracens, who were following them ; ' and 
 I learnt from him that all the desert lying between the 
 three could be brought into cultivation if the government 
 decided to spend the necessary money. All the ancient 
 wells could be rediscovered, he was convinced. As soon as 
 I was weary of Plessy, he begged of me to take the boat 
 from Marseilles, and spend some time with him in the wild. 
 'Visitors,' he said, 'are rare. You'll be welcome, and 
 the railway will take you Avithin a hundred miles of my 
 house ; the last hundred miles will be accomplished on the 
 back of a dromedary, and I shall send you a fleet one and 
 an escort.' * Splendid,' I answered. ' I see myself arriving 
 sitting high up on the hump gathering dates — I suppose 
 there are date-palms where you are ? Yes ? — and wearing 
 a turban and a bournous.' 'Would you like to see my 
 bournous ? ' he said, and opening his valise he showed me 
 one that filled me with admiration, and I remembered how, 
 when I was a little child, I insisted on wearing a turban 
 and going out for a ride on a pony, flourishing a Damascus 
 blade which my father had brought home from the East. 
 I have always thought this fantasy part of my character. 
 It must be so, for it awoke in me twenty years afterwards ; 
 and it was with difficulty that I restrained myself from 
 asking my travelling companion if I might wear his bour- 
 nous in the train. All this is twelve years ago, and I have 
 not yet gone to visit him in his oasis, but how many times 
 have I done so in my imagination, seeing myself arriving 
 on the back of a dromedary, crying out, ' Allah ! Allah I 
 And Mahommad is his prophet ! '
 
 105 
 
 But though one can go on thinking year after year The Lovers 
 about a bournous, one cannot talk for more than two or °* vJrelay 
 three hours about one ; and though I looked forward to 
 spending at least a fortnight with my friends, and making 
 excursions in the desert, finding summer, as Fromentin 
 says, ches lui, I was glad to say good-bye to him and his 
 wife at Marseilles. I was still far from the end of my 
 journey, and so weary of talk that at first it was doubtful 
 whether it would be worth while to engage again in 
 conversation, but a pleasant gentleman came into my 
 carriage, and he required but little encouragement to tell 
 me his story. His beginnings were humble, but he was 
 now a rich merchant, he said. The first steps are the 
 interesting ones, and I should be able to tell his story 
 here if his little girl had not wearied of her mother, who 
 was in the next carriage, and come to sit on her father's 
 knee. Her hair hung about her shoulders just as Doris's 
 did five years ago, taking the date from the day that I 
 journeyed in quest of the golden fleece. A winsome child, 
 as I recall her to mind, with a little fluttering smile about 
 her lips and a curious intelligence in her eyes. She said 
 that she was tired, but had not been ill, and her father 
 told me that long train journeys produced the same 
 effect on her as a sea journey. She spoke with a pretty 
 abruptness, and went away suddenly, I thought for good, 
 but returned half an hour afterwards looking a little faint, 
 I thought, green about the mouth, and smiling less 
 frequently. But one cannot memorise all one's travelling 
 companions completely, and these must have left me some- 
 where between Marseilles and Plessy, for after bidding 
 me good-bye they said that I should be at Plessy in about 
 two hours and a half, but must be sure to change at the 
 next station, for which information I thanked them out of 
 a great weariness of spirit, for this lag end of my journey 
 dragged itself out beyond my patience. Plessy is a difficult
 
 106 
 
 The Lovers place to get at ; and while waiting for the confounded 
 of Orelay correspondence, which was late, I seemed to lose heart, 
 and nothing seemed to matter, not even Doris. But these 
 are momentary capitulations of the intellect and the 
 senses, and when I saw her pretty face on the platform I 
 congratulated myself again on my wisdom in having sent 
 her the telegram. How much pleasanter it was to walk 
 with her to the hotel than to walk there alone ! ' She is,' 
 I said to myself, 'still the same pretty girl whom I so 
 bitterly reproached for selfishness in Cumberland Place 
 five years ago.' To compliment her on her looks, to tell 
 her that she did not look a day older — a little thinner, a 
 little paler, that was all, but the same enchanting Doris — 
 was the facile inspiration of the returned lover. And we 
 walked down the platform talking, my talk full of gentle 
 reproof : Why had she waited up .'' There was a reason. 
 ' She is going to tell me,' I said, ' that I may not come to 
 her hotel.' A fool's act was the sending of that telegram, 
 for it was it that brought her to the station to tell that it 
 was impossible for her to allow me to stay at her hotel. 
 But to argue about details with a woman, to get angry, is 
 a thing that no one versed in the arts of love does, not 
 after twenty-five. 
 
 We are in the hands of women always ; it is they who 
 decide, and our best plan is to accept the different hotel 
 without betraying disappointment, or as little as possible. 
 But we had not seen each other for so long that we could 
 not part at once, and Doris said that I must come to her 
 hotel and eat some supper. But I had dined on board 
 the train, and all she could persuade me to have was a 
 cup of chocolate. We talked for an hour, and then I left 
 her, with a little melancholy in my heart, for after all I 
 might not win Doris. ' Heavens ! what have I let myself 
 in for } Platonic afternoons and evenings in hotel sitting- 
 rooms,' I said, 'and the moon looks coldly down the
 
 107 
 
 street.' There was sleep for me that night; sleep must The Lovers 
 have come quickly ; so great was the refreshment I ^ ^Jrelay 
 experienced in the morning when my eyes opened and, 
 looking through mosquito curtains (themselves symbols of 
 the South), were delighted by the play of the sunlight 
 flickering along the flower-papered wall. The impulse in 
 me was to jump out of bed at once and to throw open 
 les croisees. And what do you think I saw ? Tall palm- 
 trees in a dim, alluring atmosphere, and beyond them a 
 blue sea almost the same tone as the sky. And what did 
 I feel .'' Soft perfumed airs moving everywhere, rascally 
 little airs that carried over (in my imagination) the intoxi- 
 cating odour of a woman's breasts bathing in the sea. But 
 why should such sweet scents and visions assail one, cruelly 
 disappointed last night, and mayhap no more than an 
 innocent victim decreed by fate to enjoy only in dreams ? 
 I closed my eyes, for at the moment Venus seemed to rise 
 from the sea and come into my bedroom. 
 
 Forgive my sensuousness, dear reader; remember that 
 it was the first time I breathed the soft Southern air, the 
 first time I saw palm- and orange-trees ; remember, too, 
 that I am a poet, a modern Jason in search of a golden 
 fleece. ' Is this the garden of the Hesperides ? ' I asked 
 myself, for nothing seemed more unreal than the golden 
 fruit hanging like balls of yellow worsted among dark 
 and sleek leaves, reminding me of the fruit I used to see, 
 when I was a child, under glass shades in lodging-houses ; 
 but I knew that I was looking upon orange-trees, and 
 that the golden fruit growing amid the green leaves was 
 the fruit I used to pick from the barrows when I was a 
 boy; the fruit of which I ate so much in boyhood that 
 I cannot eat it any longer; the fruit whose smell we 
 associate with the pit of a theatre ; the fruit that women 
 never weary of, high and low. It seemed to me a wonder- 
 ful thing that at last I should see oranges growing on
 
 108 
 
 The Lovers trees ; and I was so happy that morning that I could 
 of Orelay j^^^ jh,^^. •^vonder at my happiness, and seeking for a cause 
 for it, I stumbled on the reflection that perhaps, after all, 
 happiness is no more than a faculty for being surprised. 
 The valet de chnmhre brought in my bath, and while I 
 bathed and dressed I meditated on the luck of him who 
 in middle age can be astonished by a blue sky, and still 
 find the sunlight a bewitchment. But who would not 
 be bewitched by the pretty sunlight that finds its way 
 into the gardens of Plessy ? Moreover, I knew I was 
 going to walk Avith Doris by a sea blue as any drop- 
 curtain, and as she came towards me, her parasol aslant, 
 she seemed to be but a figure on a drop-curtain. ' Are 
 we not all figures on drop-curtains, and is not all drop- 
 curtain, and La Belle Hel^ne perhaps the only true 
 reality ? ' Amused by the idea of Jason or Paris or 
 Menelaus in Plessy, I asked Doris what music was played 
 by the local orchestra, and she told me it played "The 
 March of Aida " every evening. ' On the cornet,' I said, 
 understanding at once that the mission of Plessy was to 
 redeem one from the dailiness of existence, from Hebrew 
 literature and its concomitants, bishops, vicars and curates ; 
 all these, especially bishops, are regarded as being serious, 
 whereas French novels and their concomitants, pretty 
 girls, are supposed to represent the trivial side of life. A 
 girl becomes serious only when she is engaged to be 
 married ; the hiring of the house in which the family is 
 reared is regarded as serious — in fact all prejudices are 
 serious ; every deflection from the normal, from the herd, 
 is looked upon as trivial ; and I suppose that this is right : 
 the world could not do without the herd nor could the 
 herd do without us — the eccentrics who go to Plessy in 
 quest of a golden fleece instead of putting stoves in the 
 parish churches (stoves and organs are always regarded 
 as devilishly serious, and they are). Once I had a con-
 
 109 
 
 versation with my archbishop about the Book of Daniel, The Lovers 
 and were I to write out his lordship's erudition I might °^ Orelay 
 even be deemed serious enough for a review in the Church 
 Gazette, which sets me thinking that we have spent a 
 great deal too much money already on Palestinian folklore, 
 and that the bill will provoke our descendants — or should 
 it be our ascendants ? — to laughter. Do we descend from 
 or ascend from? Another hard question I'm putting, as 
 hard a one as the first : why should Matthew, Mark, Luke 
 and John be regarded as more serious than pretty Doris's 
 fluent conversation, or the melancholy twilight of his 
 lordship's cathedral as more serious than the pretty 
 Southern sunlight glancing along the seashore, lighting 
 up the painted houses, and causing Doris to shift her 
 parasol ? A splendid article might be written on the 
 trivial side of seriousness, but discussion is always trivial, 
 and I shall be more serious in trying to recall the graceful 
 movement of her waist, and the enframing of her face 
 within a parasol. It is true that almost every face is 
 pretty against distended silk full of sunlight and shadow, 
 but Doris's ! Memling himself never designed a more 
 appealing little face. ' But Memling's monasticism is 
 incompatible with this fabled sea,' I said, 'and those 
 red hills reaching out into that blue bay. Her grace 
 is Ionian, as her name tells,' and walking beside her in 
 search of a restaurant it seemed to me that life was often 
 strangely kind, even generous, or else by some inadvert- 
 ence, mistake, or oversight, I was receiving more than 
 my due ; to speak more precisely, that I would receive 
 
 certainly more than my due if 
 
 ' Why, yonder is the restaurant,' she said, flinging up 
 her parasol, 'built at the end of those rocks.' Life was 
 kindling, crackling, and I spoke with a lump in my 
 throat of the first swallows, saying, 'The flocks Avill be 
 here in three weeks.' ' Plessy will be full of us in three
 
 110 
 
 The Lovers weeks/ slie said. * We shall not be here/ I answered, 
 of Orelay my emotion cut short, or nearly, by the bill of fare. 
 
 We were the first arrivals at Plessy, and had the 
 restaurant to ourselves, the waiters and cooks giving us 
 all their attention. W^ould we have breakfast in the glass 
 pavilion ? How else shall I describe it ? for it seemed 
 to be all glass. The scent of the sea came through the 
 window, and as I looked across the bay Doris's beauty 
 seemed to shrink, * overframed,' I said, 'by the vast dim 
 beauty of the bay and hills. Doris, dear, forgive me if 
 I am looking at this bay instead of you, but I've never 
 seen anything like it before,' and feeling I was doing 
 very poor justice to the emotions I was experiencing, I 
 said, ' Is it not strange that all this is at once to me 
 new and old ? I seem, as it were, to have come into 
 my inheritance.' 
 
 ' Your inheritance ! Am I not ' 
 
 * Dearest, you are. Say that you are my inheritance, 
 my beautiful inheritance. And how many years have I 
 waited for it ! ' As I took her in my arms she caught 
 sight of the waiter, and turning from her I looked across 
 the bay, my desire dying in the infinite sweetness blowing 
 across the sea. 
 
 ' Azure hills, not blue ; hitherto I have only seen 
 blue.' 
 
 ' They're blue to-day because there is a slight mist, but 
 they are in reality red.' 
 
 ' A red-hilled bay,' I said, ' and all the slopes flecked 
 with the white sides of villas.' 
 
 ' Peeping through olive-trees.' 
 
 ' Olive-trees, of course. I have never yet seen the olive; 
 the olive begins at Avignon or thereabouts, doesn't it .'' It 
 was dark night when we passed through Avignon.' 
 
 ' You'll see very few trees here ; only olives and 
 ilex.'
 
 Ill 
 
 ' The ilex I know, and there is no more beautiful tree The Lovers 
 than the ilex. of Orelay 
 
 Were not the crocuses that grew 
 
 Under that ilex-tree 
 As beautiful in scent and hue 
 
 As ever fed the bee ? 
 
 A mere statement, but all is in statement.' 
 
 ' The scent,' she said, * that followed us this morning as 
 we walked through the gardens came from a eucalyptus - 
 tree hanging over a garden wall ; the wind carried its scent 
 after us.' 
 
 The arrival of the waiter with hors d'ceuvres distracted 
 our attention from the olive-tree to its fruit. I rarely 
 touch olives, but that morning I ate many. Should we 
 have mutton cutlets or lamb ? Doris said the Southern 
 mutton was detestable, and as we decided to eat lamb, 
 an idea came into my head, and it was this, that I had 
 been mistaken about Doris's beauty. Hers was not like 
 any face that one may find in a panel by Memling. She 
 was like something, but I could not lay my thoughts on 
 the century that had foreseen her beauty nor the name of 
 the artist that had emphasised it. 
 
 'A sail would spoil the beauty of the bay,' I said when 
 the waiter brought in the coffee, and left us — we hoped 
 for the last time. ' But how much more beautiful the bay 
 is without a sail — why, I cannot tell,' and taking hands 
 and going to the window we sat looking across the 
 dimness. 
 
 * Why do you wish the bay sailless ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' A great galley rowed by fifty men would look well 
 under the curl of the headland. The bay is antiquity, 
 and all the morning while talking to you a memory, or 
 a shadow of a memory, has fretted in my mind like a fly 
 in a pane. Now I know why I have been expecting a
 
 112 
 
 The Lovers nymph to rise out of those waves during breakfast. For 
 of Orelay ^ thousand years men believed that nymphs came up on 
 those rocks, and that satyrs and their progeny might be 
 met in the woods and on the hillsides. Only a thin varnish 
 has been passed over these beliefs. One has only to look 
 down into that blue sea- water to believe that nymphs swim 
 about those rocks ; and when we go for a drive among those 
 hillsides we must keep a sharp look-out for satyrs. Now 
 I know why I like this country. It is heathen. Those 
 mountains are different from the shambling Irish hills 
 from whence I have come ! And you, Doris, you might 
 have been dug up yesterday, though you are but two-and- 
 twenty. You are a thing of yester age, not a bit like the 
 little Memling head which I imagined you to be like when 
 I was coming here in the train, nor like anything done by 
 the Nuremberg painters. You are a Tanagra figure, and 
 one of the finest. In you I read all the winsomeness of 
 antiquity. But I must look at the bay now, for I may 
 never see anything like it again ; never have I seen 
 anything like it before. Forgive me ; remember that 
 three days ago I was in Ireland, the day before yesterday 
 I was in England, yesterday I was in Paris. I have come 
 out of the greyness of the North. When I left Paris all 
 was grey, and when the train passed through Lyons a grey 
 night Avas gathering ; now I see no cloud anywhere. You 
 have been looking at the bay for the last three weeks, 
 and cannot apprehend my admiration ; la Cote d'Azur has 
 become to you only palms and promenades. To me it is 
 still antiquity. I shall always associate you with that bay. 
 You will always be beautiful as long as I live, but Plessy 
 may lose her beauty in a few days. Let me enjoy it 
 while I may.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I shall not outlast Plessy.' 
 ' Yes, you will, for you are the same Doris, hardly a day 
 older than you were when I saw you walk across the room
 
 113 
 
 to the piano in your white dress, your gold hair hanging The Lovers 
 over your shoulders. It has darkened a little, that is all.' °^ Urelay 
 
 ' It is provoking you should see me when I am thin. I 
 wish you had seen me last year, when I came from the 
 rest cure. I went up more than a stone in weight. Every 
 one said that I didn't look more than sixteen. I know I 
 didn't, for all the women were jealous of me.' As I sat 
 watching the dissolving line of the horizon, lost in a dream, 
 I heard my companion say : — 
 ' Of what are you thinking ? ' 
 
 ' I'm thinking of something that happened long ago 
 in that very bay.' 
 
 ' Tell me about it ' ; and her hand sought mine for a 
 moment. 
 
 ' Would you like to hear it } I'd like to tell it, but it's 
 a long, long story, and to remember it would be an effort. 
 The colour of the sea and the sky is enough ; the warmth 
 of the sunlight penetrates me ; I feel like a plant ; the 
 only difference between me and one of those palm- 
 trees ' 
 
 '^I am sure those poor palms are shivering. There is 
 not enough heat here for them ; they come from the 
 South, and you come from the North.' 
 
 'I suppose that is so. They grow, but they don't 
 flourish here. But my mood is not philanthropic; I 
 cannot pity even a palm-tree at the present moment. 
 See how my cigar smoke curls and goes out ! It is 
 strange, Doris, that I should meet you here, for somp 
 
 years ago it was arranged that I should come here ' 
 
 ' With a woman } ' 
 
 ' Yes, of course. Could it be else t Our lives are woven 
 along and across with women. Some men find the reality 
 of their lives in women, others, as we were saying just 
 now, in bishops.' 
 
 'Tell me about the woman who asked you to come
 
 11-t 
 
 The Lovers here ? Did you love her ? And what prevented you from 
 of Orelay coming here with her ? ' 
 
 ' It is one of the oddest stories — odd only because it is 
 like myself, for every character creates its own stories ; 
 we are like spools, and each spool fills itself up with a 
 different-coloured thread. The story, such as it is, began 
 one evening in Victoria Street at the end of a long day's 
 work. A letter began it. She wrote asking me to dine 
 with her, and her letter was most welcome, for I had 
 no plans for that evening. Have you experienced that 
 curious dread of life which steals through the twilight.'' 
 It had just laid its finger on my shoulder when the bell 
 rang, and I said, " My visitor is welcome, whoever she or 
 he may be." The visitor would have only spent a few 
 minutes with me, but Gertrude's letter promised a long 
 and pleasant evening. She wrote : " I have not asked 
 any one to meet you, but you will not mind dining alone 
 with me. I hope you will be able to come, for I want to 
 consult you on a matter about which I think you will be 
 able to advise me." As I dressed I wondered what she 
 could have to propose, and with my curiosity enkindled 
 I walked to her house. The evening was fine — I remember 
 it — and she did not live far from me ; we were neighbours. 
 You see I knew Gertrude pretty well, and I liked her. 
 There had been some love passages between us, but I had 
 never been her lover ; our story had got entangled, and as 
 I went to her I hoped that this vexatious knot was to be 
 picked at last. To be Gertrude's lover would be a 
 pleasure indeed, for though a woman of forty, a natural 
 desire to please, a witty mind and pretty manners, kept 
 her young ; she had all the appearance of youtli ; and 
 French gowns and underwear that cost a little fortune 
 made her a woman that one would still take a pleasure in 
 making love to. It would be pleasant to be her lover for 
 many reasons. There were disadvantages, however; for
 
 115 
 
 Gerti'ude, though nevei* vulgar herself, liked vulgar things. The Lovers 
 
 Her friends were vulgar ; her flat, for she had just left her °* '-'reiajr 
 
 husband, was opulent, over-decorated ; the windows were 
 
 too heavily curtained, the electric light seemed to be 
 
 always turned on, and as for the pictures — we won't talk 
 
 of them, for Gertrude herself was one of them, a salon 
 
 picture. But no, I'll not be unjust to Gertrude, who was 
 
 gifted with a pretty cooing manner and straight hips, from 
 
 which white dresses hung gracefully, especially when she 
 
 came forward, shedding an odour of orris root, with such 
 
 words in her mouth as : " Sit by me and tell me what you 
 
 have been doing." Nor could one say for certain that her 
 
 advances were studied.' 
 
 ' Probably studied and spontaneous, both,' Doris said. 
 ' I see you appreciate, but you always could appreciate.' 
 'And to make amends for the familiarity of pressing 
 your hand to her bosom she would say, " I hope you will 
 not mind dining alone with me," and immediately would 
 propound a little theory that two is company, and three 
 is a county council, unless indeed the three consist of 
 two men and one woman, for a woman cannot be said 
 to be happy except when she is talking to two men, 
 woman being at heart a polyandrist.' 
 
 ' Doris, you know me so well that you can invent my 
 women.' 
 
 'Yes, I think I can. You have not changed, and I 
 have not forgotten, though we have not seen each other 
 for five years ; and now go on, tell me more about 
 Gertrude.' 
 
 ' Well, sitting beside her on the sofa ' 
 
 ' Under the shaded electric light,' interrupted Doris. 
 
 ' — I tried to discover the reason of her invitation to 
 
 dinner ; for she had said in her letter that she wished to 
 
 talk to me about some matter on which she thought I 
 
 could advise her. Was Gertrude going to ask me to
 
 116 
 
 The Lovers lend her money ? If so, the loan would be a heavy one, 
 ot Urelay niore than I could afford to lend. That is the advantage 
 of knowing rich people ; when they ask for money they 
 ask for more than one can afford to lend, and one can 
 say with truth, " Were I to lend you five hundred pounds, 
 I should not be able to make ends meet at the end of the 
 year." But Gertrude was not of the borrowing kind. I 
 pressed her to tell me, and just before the servant came 
 into the room she turned round, saying that she had 
 sent for me for she wished to speak to me about a yacht. 
 Imagine my surprise. "To speak to me about a yacht ! " 
 I said. " Now if it had been about a picture." 
 
 ' A moment after, the servant announced that dinner 
 was ready, and I had to wait for her story till he left the 
 room. She wished to visit Greece and the Greek Islands, 
 but she did not dare to travel in Greece alone for six 
 months. It was difficult to find a man who was free and 
 whom one could trust. She thought she could trust me, 
 and remembering that I had once liked her, she said : 
 " Perhaps you do still, and you will not bore me by 
 claiming rights over me. I don't mind your making 
 love to me, but I don't like rights. You know what 
 I mean. You will not pursue me when we return 
 to England. You know what I have suffered from such 
 pursuits ; you know all about the last." A woman will 
 sometimes paint her portrait in a single phi-ase ; not 
 paint, but indicate in half a dozen lines her whole moral 
 nature, and Gertrude exists in the words I have quoted 
 just as God made her. And now I have to tell you about 
 the pursuit. When Gertrude mentioned it I had forgotten 
 it ; a blankness came into my face, and she said, " Don't 
 you remember.'^" "Of course, of course," I answered. 
 
 ' One day after lunch Gertrude, getting up, had walked 
 unconsciously towards me, and quite naturally I took her 
 in my ai-ms, and when I had told her how much I liked
 
 117 
 
 her, and the pleasure I took in her company, she promised The Lovers 
 
 to meet me at a hotel in Lincoln ; but two days before °^ Urelay 
 
 the trysting day she sent for me, and told me that she 
 
 would have to send me away. I was overcome, for I liked 
 
 Gertrude, and a long hour Avas spent begging of her to 
 
 tell why she had come to this determination. One says 
 
 unjust things, one accuses a woman of cruelty, asking her 
 
 if she likes to play with a man as a cat plays with a 
 
 mouse. But Gertrude, though she seemed distressed at 
 
 my accusations, refused to give me any explanation of her 
 
 conduct ; tears came into her eyes — they seemed like 
 
 genuine tears — and it was difficult to believe that she had 
 
 taken all this trouble merely to arrive at this inexplicable 
 
 and most disagreeable end. Months passed by without 
 
 my hearing anything of Gertrude, till one day she sent 
 
 me a little present, and in response to a letter she invited 
 
 me to come to see her in the country. Whilst walking 
 
 through some beautiful woods in Berkshire she told me 
 
 the reason why she had not gone to Lincoln. A Pole 
 
 whom she had met at the gambling-tables at Monte Carlo 
 
 was pursuing her, threatening that if he saw her with any 
 
 other man he would murder her and her lover. This 
 
 tale seemed incredible, but when she entered into details, 
 
 there could be no doubt that she was telling the truth, 
 
 for had she not on one occasion very nearly lost her life 
 
 through this man .'' They were in Germany together, she 
 
 and the Pole ; he had locked her up in her room without 
 
 food for many hours, and coming in suddenly he pressed 
 
 the muzzle of a pistol against her temple and pulled the 
 
 trigger. Fortunately, it did not go off. " It was a very 
 
 near thing," she said ; " the cartridge was indented, and 
 
 I made up my mind that if things went any further, I 
 
 should have to tell my husband." "But things can't go 
 
 further than an indented cartridge," I answered, "not in 
 
 this world. What you tell me is terrible " ; and we talked
 
 118 
 
 The Lovers for a long time, walking about the woods, fearing that the 
 of Orelay p^jg niight spring from behind every bush, the pistol in 
 his hand. But he did not appear ; she evidently knew 
 where he was, or had made some compact with him. And, 
 at the close of the day, I drove througli the summer 
 evening, not having got anything from Gertrude except a 
 promise that if she should find herself free she would send 
 for me. Weeks and months went by, during which I saw 
 Gertrude occasionally ; you see, love-stories, once they get 
 entangled, remain entangled ; that is what makes me fear 
 that we shall never be able to pick the knot that you have 
 tied our story into. Misadventure followed misadventure. 
 It seems to me that I behaved very stupidly on many 
 occasions ; it would take too long to tell you how, when 
 I met her at the theatre, I did not do exactly what I 
 should have done ; and on another occasion how I happened 
 to be seriously unwell, and so on, and so on, until, resolved 
 to bring matters to a crisis, Gertrude sent me this invi- 
 tation to dinner ; and we left the dining-room talking of 
 the yacht she had hired — the schooner, the captain, the 
 crew, everything for six months. I could not accept her 
 hospitality for so long a time. Gertrude was the richer, 
 but at least a third of the upkeep of the yacht must come 
 out of my pocket. 
 
 'The prospect of a six months' cruise among the Greek 
 Islands kindled my imagination, and while listening to 
 Gertrude I was often in spirit far away, landing perchance 
 at Cyprus, exalted at the prospect of visiting the Cyprians' 
 temple ; or perchance standing with Gertrude on the deck 
 of the yacht watching the stars growing dim in the east ; 
 the sailors would be singing at the time, and out of the 
 ashen moonlight a wind would come, and again we would 
 hear the ripple of the water parting as the jib filled and 
 drew the schooner eastward. I imagined how, half an 
 hour later, an island would appear against the golden sky.
 
 119 
 
 a lofty island lined with white buildings, perchance ancient The Lovers 
 
 fanes. " What a delicious book my six months with Ger- °^ Orelay 
 
 trude will be ! " I said as I walked home, and the title of 
 
 the book was an inspiration, " An Unsentimental Journey." 
 
 It was Gertrude's own words that had suggested it. Had 
 
 she not said that she did not mind my making love to 
 
 her, but she did not like rights ? and I imagined how every 
 
 evening when the lover left her the chronicler would sit 
 
 recording his impressions, hearing the water lapping against 
 
 the vessel's side. Very often he would continue writing 
 
 until the pencil dropped from his hand, for an immediate 
 
 note-taking would be necessary, so fugitive are impressions, 
 
 and his feelings, emotions, their waxing and their waning 
 
 he would observe as an astronomer observes the course of 
 
 a somewhat erratic star, and his descriptions of himself 
 
 and of her would be interwoven with descriptions of 
 
 the seas across which Menelaus had gone after Helen's 
 
 beauty — beauty, the noblest of man's quests. 
 
 * For once Nature seemed to me to put into the hands 
 of the artist a subject perfect in its every part ; the end 
 especially delighted me, for I had no difficulty in imagining 
 our good-byes at Plymouth or Portsmouth or Hull, wherever 
 we might land. " Well, Gertrude, good-bye. We have 
 spent a very pleasant six months together ; I shall never 
 forget our excursion. But this is not a rupture ; I may 
 hope to see you some time during the season .'' You will 
 allow me to call about tea-time ? " And she would answer, 
 ''Yes, you may call. You have been very nice." Each 
 would turn away sighing, conscious of a little melancholy 
 in the heart, for all partings are sad ; but at the bottom 
 of the heart there would be a sense of relief, of gladness — 
 that gladness which the bird feels when it leaves its roost : 
 there is nothing more delicious pei'haps than the first beat 
 of the wings. I forget now whether I looked forward 
 most to the lady or to the book. The book would have
 
 120 
 
 The Lovers been wonderful ; I could not have the book without the 
 of Orelay lady, and if the winds had been more propitious, I might 
 have written a book that would have compared favourably 
 with eighteenth-century literature, for the eighteenth 
 century was cynical in love : while making love to a 
 woman a gallant would often consider a plan for her 
 
 subsequent humiliation. Goncourt ' 
 
 ' But, dear one, finish about the yacht.' 
 
 'Well, it seemed quite decided that Gertrude and I 
 
 were to go to Marseilles to meet the schooner ; but the 
 
 voyage from the Bay of Biscay is a stormy and a tedious 
 
 one ; the weather was rough all the way, and she took 
 
 a long time to get to Gibraltar. She passed the strait 
 
 signalling to Lloyd's ; we got a telegram ; everything was 
 
 ready ; my yachting clothes had come from the tailors, 
 
 shoes from the shoemaker, and quantities of things from 
 
 here, there and everywhere ; but after that telegram no 
 
 neAvs came, and one evening Gertrude told me she was 
 
 beginning to feel anxious ; the yacht ought to have arrived 
 
 at Marseilles. Three or four days passed, and then we 
 
 read in the paper — the Evening Standard, I think it was — 
 
 that the Ring-Dove, a large schooner, had sunk off the coast 
 
 while making for the Bay of Plessy. Had she passed that 
 
 point over yonder, no doubt she would have been saved ; 
 
 all hands were lost, the captain, seven men, and my book.' 
 
 ' Good Heavens, how extraordinary ! And -what became 
 
 of Gertrude ? Were you never her lover ? ' 
 
 'Never. We abstained while waiting for the yacht. 
 Then she fell in love with somebody else ; she married 
 her lover ; and now he deplores her ; she found an 
 excellent husband, and died in his arms.' 
 
 At every moment I expected Doris to ask me how it 
 was that, for the sake of writing a book, I had consented 
 to go away for a six months' cruise with a woman whom 
 1 didn't love. But there was a moment when I loved
 
 121 
 
 her — the week before Lincoln. Whether Doris agreed The Lovers 
 
 tacitly that my admiration of Gertrude's slender flanks °^ Urelay 
 
 and charm of manner and taste in dress justified me in 
 
 agreeing to go away with her, I don't know ; she did 
 
 not trouble me with the embarrassing question I had 
 
 anticipated. 'Tis strange that people never ask the 
 
 embarrassing questions one foresees.'' She asked instead 
 
 with whom I had been in love during the past five 
 
 years, and this, too, embarrassed me, though not as much 
 
 as the other question would have done. To say that 
 
 since I had seen Doris I had led a chaste life, would 
 
 be at once incredible and ridiculous. And sighing a 
 
 little, I spoke of an attachment that had lasted many 
 
 years which had come to an end at last ; and fearing 
 
 that Doris would ask if it had come to an end through 
 
 weariness, it seemed well to add that the lady had a 
 
 daughter growing up, and that it was for the gii'l's sake 
 
 we agreed to bring our love-story to a close. We had, 
 
 however, promised to remain friends. Doris's silence 
 
 embarrassed me a little, for she didn't ask any questions 
 
 about the lady and her daughter ; and it was hard to 
 
 tell from her manner whether she believed that this 
 
 lady comprised the whole of my love life for the last 
 
 five years, and if she thought I had really broken with 
 
 her. It seemed to me wise to keep my eyes averted 
 
 from Doris, and then I began to feel that her disbelief 
 
 mattered little, so long as it did not prejudice my chances, 
 
 and fell to thinking that under a sky as blue and amid 
 
 Nature poetical as a drop-curtain one's moral nature dozes. 
 
 Yet there is an English church at Plessy, but really ! 
 
 Dear little town, town of my heart, where the local 
 
 orchestra plays "The March of Aida" and "La Belle 
 
 Helene"! If I could inoculate you, reader, with the 
 
 sentiment of the delicious pastoral, you would understand 
 
 why, all the time I was at Plessy, I looked upon myself
 
 122 
 
 The Lovers as a hero of legend, whether of the Argonauts or the siege 
 of Orelay of Troy matters little. Returning from Mount Ida after 
 a long absence, after presenting in imagination the fairest 
 of women with the apple, I said : — 
 
 ' You asked me whom I had been in love with ; now 
 tell me, with whom have you been in love ? ' 
 
 ' For the last three years I have been engaged to be 
 married.' 
 
 ' And you are still engaged } ' 
 
 She nodded, her eyes fixed on the blue sea, and I said, 
 laughing, that it was not of a marx-iage or an engagement 
 to be mai-ried that I spoke, but of the beautiful irrepressible 
 caprice. 
 
 ' You wouldn't have me believe that no passion has 
 caught you and dragged you about for the last five years, 
 just as a cat drags a little mouse about } ' 
 
 ' It is strange that you should ask me that, for that is 
 exactly what happened.' 
 ' Really ? ' 
 
 ' Only that I suffered much more than any mouse ever 
 suffered.' 
 
 ' Doris, tell me. You know how sympathetic I am ; 
 you know I shall understand. All things human interest 
 me. If you have loved as much as you say, your story 
 
 will I must hear it.' 
 
 ' Why should I tell it ? ' and her eyes filled with tears. 
 * I suffered horribly. Don't speak to me about it. What 
 is the good of going over it all again ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, there is good ; much good comes of speaking ; 
 if this love-story is over, if there be no possibility of 
 reviving it, tell it, and in telling the bitterness will pass 
 from you. Who was this man .'' How did you meet him ? ' 
 ' He was a friend of Albert's. Albert introduced him.' 
 * Albert is the man you are engaged to ? The old 
 story, the very oldest. Why should it always be the
 
 ]S3 
 
 friend ? There are so many other men, but it is always The Lovers 
 the friend who attracts.' And I told Doris the story of °^ Orelay 
 a friend who had once robbed me, and my story had 
 the effect of drying her tears. But they began again 
 as soon as she tried to tell her own story. There could 
 be no doubt that she had suffered. Things are interesting 
 in proportion to the amount of ourselves we put into 
 them ; Doris had clearly put all her life into this story ; 
 a sordid one, it may seem to some, a story of deception 
 and lies, for of course Albert was deceived as cruelly as 
 many another good man. But Doris must have suffered 
 deeply, for at the memory of her sufferings her face 
 streamed with tears. As I looked at her tears I said, 
 'It is strange that she should weep so, for her story 
 differs nowise from the many stories that blot the happi- 
 ness of men and women. She will tell me the daily and 
 beautiful story of lovers forced asunder by fate, and this 
 spot is, no doubt, a choice one in which to hear her story.' 
 On raising my eyes I admired once again the drooping 
 shore and the serrated line of mountains sweeping round 
 the bay, bathed in colour intense as musk ; and when my 
 thoughts returned to Doris, I could see she was wholly 
 immersed in her own sorrow. 
 
 'As soon as you knew you loved him, you resolved to 
 see him no more?' 
 
 Doris nodded. 
 
 ' You sent him away before you yielded to him .'' ' 
 
 She nodded, and looking at me through tears that 
 made her eyes seem still more beautiful, she told me 
 that they had both felt that it was impossible to deceive 
 Albert. 
 
 ' We resisted till flesh and blood could bear it no 
 longer.' 
 
 All love-stories are alike in this ; they all contain what 
 the reviewers call " sordid details." But if Tristan had not
 
 124 
 
 The Lovers taken advantage of King Mark's absence on a hunting- 
 of Orelay expedition, the world would have been the poorer of a 
 great love-story ; and what, after all, does King Mark's 
 happiness matter to us — a poor passing thing, whose Ufa 
 was only useful in this, that it gave us an immortal love- 
 story ? And if Wagner had not loved Madame Wesendonck, 
 and if Madame Wesendonck had not been unfaithful to 
 her husband, we should not have had Tnstan. Who then 
 would, for the sake of Wesendonck's honour, destroy the 
 score of Tnstan ? Nor is the story of Tristan the only- 
 one, nor the most famous. There is also the story of 
 Helen, If Menelaus' wife had not been unfaithful to 
 him, the world Avould have been the poorer of the greatest 
 of all poems, the Iliad and the Odyssey. Dear me, when 
 one thinks of it one must admit that art owes a good 
 deal to adultery. Children are born of the marriage, 
 stories of the adulterous bed, and the world needs both — 
 stories as well as children. Even my little tale would not 
 exist if Doris had been a prudent maiden, nor would it 
 have interested me to listen to her that day by the sea, 
 if she had nought to tell me but her unswerving love for 
 Albert. Her story is not what the world calls a great 
 story, and it would be absurd to pretend that if a short- 
 hand writer had taken it down his report would compare 
 with the stories of Isolde and Helen, but I heard it from 
 her lips, and her tears and her beauty replaced the 
 language of Wagner and of Homer ; and so well did they 
 do this, that I am not sure that the emotion I experienced 
 in listening to her was less than that which I have 
 experienced before a work of art. 
 
 ' Do you know ? ' she began — * perhaps you don't, perhaps 
 you've never loved enough to know the anxiety one may 
 feel for the absent. We had been together all day once, 
 and when we bade each other good-bye we agreed that 
 we should not see each other for two days, till Thursday ;
 
 125 
 
 but that night in bed an extraordinary desire took hold of The Lovers 
 me to know what had become of him. I felt I must hear °^ Orelay 
 from him ; one word would be enough. But we had 
 promised. It was stupid, it was madness, yet I had to 
 take down the telephone, and when I got into com- 
 munication, what do you think the answer was ? — " Thank 
 God you telephoned. I've been walking about the room 
 nearly out of my mind, feeling that I should go mad if 
 the miracle did not happen."' 
 
 'If you loved Ralph better than Albert ' 
 
 'Why didn't I give up Albert? Albert's life would 
 have been broken and ruined if I had done that. You 
 see he has loved me so many years that his life has 
 become centred in me. He is not one of those men who 
 like many women. Outside of his work nothing exists 
 but me. He doesn't care much for reading, but he reads 
 the books I like. I don't know that he cares much about 
 music for its own sake, but he likes to hear me sing just 
 because it is me. He never notices other women ; I don't 
 think that he knows what they wear, but he likes my 
 dresses, not because they are in good taste, but because 
 I wear them. One can't sacrifice a man like that. What 
 would one think of oneself? One would die of remorse. 
 So there was nothing to be done but for Ralph to go away. 
 It nearly killed me.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid I can give you no such love ; my affection 
 for you will prove very tepid after such violent emotions.' 
 
 ' I don't want such emotions again : I could not bear 
 them, they would kill me ; even a part would kill me. 
 Two months after Ralph left I was but a little shadow. 
 I was thinner than I am now, I was worn to a thread, 
 I could hardly keep body and skirt together, as the 
 saying is.' 
 
 We laughed at Doris's little joke ; and we watched it 
 curling and going out like a wreath of cigarette smoke.
 
 126 
 
 The Lovers ' But did you get no happiness at all out of this great 
 
 of Orelay jove ? ' 
 
 ' We were happy only a very little while.' 
 ' How long ? ' ' 
 
 Doris reflected. 
 
 ' We had about six weeks of what I should call real 
 happiness, the time while Albert was away. When he 
 came back the misery and remorse began again. I had 
 to see him — not Albert, the other — every day ; and Albert 
 began to notice that I was different. W^e used to go out 
 together, we three, and at last the sham became too great, 
 and Albert said he could not stand it any longer. " I 
 prefer you should go out with him alone, and if it be for 
 your happiness I'll give you up." ' 
 
 * So you nearly died of love ! Well, now you must live 
 for love, liking things as they go by. Life is beautiful 
 at the moment, sad when we look back, fearful when we 
 look forward ; but I suppose it's hopeless to expect a little 
 Christian like you to live without drawing conclusions, 
 liking things as they go by, as the nymphs do. Dry those 
 tears ; forget that man. You tell me it is over and done. 
 Forget everything but the blue sky and sea and that my 
 happiness would be to put the past out of your mind, to 
 close your eyes to the future. I want you to eat and to 
 sleep a great deal, and to get fatter, and to dream, and 
 to read Theocritus, so that when we go to the mountains 
 we shall be transported into antiquity. You must forget 
 Albert and him who made you unhappy — he allowed you 
 to look back and forwards.' 
 
 ' I think I deserve some happiness ; you see, I have 
 sacrificed so much.' 
 
 At these words my hopes rose — shall I say like a 
 balloon out of which a great weight of ballast has been 
 thrown ? — and so high did they go that failure seemed 
 like Rossetti's little feather swimming in the gulf below.
 
 127 
 
 'She "deserves some happiness,"' I said, 'and intends, I The Lovers 
 
 think^ to make me her happiness.' Her words could bear °^ ^relay 
 
 no other interpretation ; she had spoken certainly without 
 
 thought, instinctively ; Albert was away ; why should she 
 
 not take the happiness that I offered her? Would she 
 
 understand that it was one thins: to deceive Albert if he 
 
 were with her, and another if he were a thousand miles 
 
 away ? Moreover, were we not by the Mediterranean ? 
 
 A sufficient excuse ; and with Albert a thousand miles 
 
 away it would be so easy for her to love me. She had said 
 
 there Avas no question of her marrying anybody but Albert, 
 
 To be unfaithful is not to be inconstant : an argument 
 
 which I would use if I found that I had misunderstood 
 
 her ; but for the moment I did not dare to inquire further, 
 
 for it would be painful to hear I had misunderstood her. 
 
 But lest she might guess the cause of my silence, I said, 
 
 not being able to think of anything more plausible : — 
 
 ' You spoke, didn't you, of going for a drive } ' 
 
 ' We were speaking of happiness, but if you'd like to 
 go for a drive, let us go, for there's no happiness like 
 driving.' 
 
 ' Isn't there ? ' 
 
 She pinched my arm, and with a choking sensation in 
 the throat I asked her if I should send for a carriage. 
 
 'There will be time for a short drive before the sun- 
 setting. You said you admired the hills — one day we will 
 go to a hill town, to Florae, a beautiful town, delightfully 
 placed among the hills, but we must start early in the 
 morning, for the climb is a long one — a long winding 
 road. But we might go as far as the point you have been 
 admiring all the morning. You want to see the ilex-trees.' 
 
 'My dear, I want to see you.' 
 
 ' Well, you're looking at me. Come, don't be disagree- 
 able.' 
 
 ' Disagreeable, Doris ! I never felt more kindly in my
 
 1S8 
 
 The Lovers life, and am still wondering at the strange luck that has 
 of Orelay brought us together, and in such a well-chosen spot ; no 
 other would have pleased me as much.' 
 
 ' Now why do you like the landscape ? Tell me.' 
 
 ' I cannot think of the landscape, Doris : I'm thinking 
 of you, of what you said just now.' 
 
 ' What did I say > ' 
 
 ' You said — I tried to remember the words at the time, 
 but I have forgotten them, so many thoughts have passed 
 through my mind since — you said — how did you word it .'' — 
 after having suffered as much as you did, some share of 
 happiness ' 
 
 ' No, I didn't say that ; I said, having sacrificed so much, 
 I thought I deserved a little happiness.' 
 
 'So she knew what she was saying,' I said to myself. 
 'Her words were not casual,' but not daring to ask her 
 if she intended to make me her happiness, I spoke about 
 the landscape. ' You ask me why I like the landscape ? 
 Because it leads my thoughts back to nymphs and satyrs, 
 to those fortunate times when men wandering in woods 
 caught sight of a white breast between the leaves, and 
 could henceforth love no mortal woman. The disease was 
 known as nympholej)sy, and it was fairly common, so it 
 would seem.' 
 
 ' I'll not bring you to the mountains. Some peasant 
 girl ' 
 
 ' Fie ! Doris, I have never liked peasant girls. My 
 antiquity is eighteenth-century. But, Doris, good Heavens! 
 what ghostly trees are these .'' only white trunks and 
 branches.' 
 
 ' I think they are called plantains.' 
 
 ' You are guessing. I must ask the coachman. Coach- 
 man, what trees are these ? ' 
 
 'I think, sir, they are called plantains.' 
 
 ' You only think. Stop and I'll ask the passers-by.'
 
 129 
 
 ' Sont des plantains, Monsieur,' The Lovers 
 
 ' Well, I told you so/ Doris said, laughing. of Orelay 
 
 Beyond this spectral avenue, on either side of us there 
 were fields, and Doris murmured : — 
 
 * See how flat the country is, to the very feet of the 
 hills, and the folk working in the fields are pleasant to 
 watch.' 
 
 I declared that I could not watch them, nor could you, 
 reader, if you had been sitting by Doris, and had come 
 away from months of long toil. 
 
 ' My dear, my dear, remember that we are in an open 
 carriage.' 
 
 * What do those folks matter to us .'' ' 
 ' My dear, if I don't like it ? ' 
 
 'To see you and not possess you, not to hold your 
 face in my hands just as one holds a vase, is ' 
 
 ' Is what ? ' 
 
 'A kind of misery. I long to possess you. Fancy 
 my disappointment if, on digging among these moun- 
 tains, I were to find a beautiful vase, and some one were 
 to say, "You may look at it, but not touch it." ' 
 
 ' Do you love me as well as that .'' ' she answered, some- 
 what moved, for my words expressed a genuine emotion. 
 
 ' I do indeed, Doris.' 
 
 ' We might get out here. I want you to see the view 
 from the hill-top.' 
 
 And telling the driver that he need not follow us, 
 to stay and rest his panting horse, we walked on, myself 
 thinking only of kissing Doris. Even 'empty kisses are 
 sweet,' I said, quoting Theocritus. She did not answer, and 
 I had perforce to notice how the road bent round the 
 shoulder of the hill to enter the village in the dip between 
 the hills, a double line of houses — not much more — facing 
 the sea, a village where we might go to have breakfast. 
 After leaving the village the road doubled round some rocks 
 
 K
 
 130 
 
 The Lovers and disappeared behind a group of trees, and when it 
 of OreJay reappeared it was ascending the hills in front of us, to enter 
 another village — this time a hill village — and so on around 
 the coast of Italy. Even with the thought of Doris's kisses 
 in my mind, I could admire the road and the curves of the 
 bay and the colour, as beautiful as a Barbizon, for the 
 twilight was gathering the sea and sky into one tone, or 
 what seemed to be one tone. 
 
 * You wanted to see olive-trees — those are olives.' 
 'So those are olives! Do I at last look upon olives?' 
 ' Are you disappointed ? ' 
 
 ' Yes and no. The white gnarled trunk makes even the 
 young trees seem old. The olive is like an old man with 
 skimpy legs. It seems to me a pathetic tree. One does 
 not like to say it is ugly, it is not ugly, but it would be 
 puzzling to say wherein lies its charm, for it throws no 
 shade, and is so grey — nothing is so grey as the olive. I 
 like the ilex better.' 
 
 Where the road dipped there was a group of ilex-trees, 
 and it was in their shade that I kissed Doris, and the 
 beauty of the trees helps me to appreciate the sentiment 
 of those kisses, and the kisses to remember that road and 
 a passage in Theocritus. Doris — her very name suggests 
 antiquity, so it was well that she was kissed by me under 
 ilex-trees ; true that I had kissed her before, but that 
 earlier love-story has not found a chronicler, and probably 
 it never will. I like to think that the beauty of the ilex 
 is answerable, perhaps, for Doris's kisses — in a measure. 
 Her dainty grace, her Tanagra beauty, seemed to haniionise 
 with that of the ilex, for there is an antique beauty in this 
 tree that we find in none other. Theocritus must have 
 composed many a poem beneath it. It is the only tree 
 that the ancient world could have cared to notice ; and if 
 it were possible to carve statues of trees, I am sure that 
 the ilex is the tree sculptors would choose. The beech
 
 131 
 
 and the birch^ all the other trees, only began to be beauti- The Lovers 
 ful when men invented painting. No other tree shapes °^ Orelay 
 itself out so beautifully as the ilex, lifting itself up to the 
 sky so abundantly and with such dignity — a very queen in 
 a velvet gown is the ilex-tree ; and we stood looking at 
 the group, admiring its glossy thickness, till suddenly the 
 ilex-tree went out of my mind, and I thought of the lonely 
 night that awaited me. 
 
 'Doris, dear, it is more than flesh and blood can bear. 
 My folly lay in sending the telegram. Had I not sent it 
 you wouldn't have known by what train I was coming ; 
 you would have been fast asleep in your bed, and I 
 should have gone straight to your hotel.' 
 
 ' But, darling, you wouldn't compromise me. Every 
 one would know that we stayed at the same hotel.' 
 
 'Dearest, it might happen by accident, and were it 
 to happen by accident what could you do } ' 
 
 ' All I can say is that it would be a most unfortunate 
 accident.' 
 
 ' Then I have come a thousand miles for nothing. This 
 is worse than the time in London when I left you for your 
 strictness. Can nothing be done } ' 
 
 ' Am I not devoted to you ? We have spent the whole 
 day together. Now I don't think it's at all nice of you 
 to reproach me with having brought you on a fool's 
 errand.' And we quarrelled a little until we reached 
 the carriage. Doris was angry, and when she spoke 
 again it was to say, 'If you are not satisfied you can 
 go back. I'm sorry. I think it's most unreasonable that 
 you should ask me to compromise myself.' 
 
 'And I think it's unkind of you to suggest that I 
 should go back, for how can I go back .^ * 
 
 She did not ask me why — she was too angry at the 
 moment — and it was well she did not, for I should have 
 been embarrassed to tell her that I was fairly caught. I
 
 132 
 
 The Lovers had come a thousand miles to see her, and could not 
 ot Urelay g^y. j ^^^g going to hop into le Cote d'Azur again because 
 she would not let me stay at her hotel, for the misery 
 of the return journey would be unendurable. No, there 
 was nothing to do but to wait, and hope that life, which 
 is always full of accidents, would favour us ; for Doris was 
 clearly anxious that an opportunity should occur, only she 
 did not wish to compromise herself. Better think no 
 more about it. Ah, if we could cease thinking life would 
 be easier and less interesting. 
 
 There were many little things which helped the time 
 away, else Plessy would have been accursed. Doris went 
 every evening to a certain shop to fetch two eggs that 
 had been laid that morning, for it was necessary that she 
 should eat two eggs beaten up with milk between the 
 fii'st and second breakfast, and it was amusing to pick 
 my way through the streets, carrying her eggs back to 
 the hotel for her. She dined with me at my hotel, and 
 after dinner she sang, and when she had played many 
 things that she used to play to me in the old days, it was 
 time for her to go to bed, and I accompanied her back to 
 her hotel. 
 
 ' Good-night,' she said, and I wended my lonely way, 
 asking myself if I had said anything that would prejudice 
 my chances of winning her, if I had omitted to say any- 
 thing that might have inclined her to yield. One lies 
 awake at night thinking of the mistakes one has made, 
 breaking out suddenly with ' Good Heavens ! how stupid 
 it was of me not to have used a certain argument. It 
 might have been well to have spoken more tenderly, 
 displaying a more Christian spirit, omitting all that talk 
 about nymphs, dryads, fauns and satyrs.' Alas ! in the 
 heat of the moment we say more than we intend, though 
 it is quite true that, as a rule, it is well to insist that 
 there is no such thing as our lower nature, that every-
 
 133 
 
 thing about us is divine. So constituted are we that the The Lovers 
 mind accepts the convention, and what we have to do °^ Orelay 
 is to keep to the convention, just as in opera. Singing 
 appears natural so long as the characters do not speak. 
 Once they speak they cannot go back to music ; the con- 
 vention has been broken. As in Art, so it is in life. Tell 
 a woman that you have no dreams beyond the perfect 
 circle of her breast, and she will give herself to you 
 unconscious of sin. 
 
 I must have fallen asleep thinking of these things, and 
 have slept soundly, for I remembered nothing until the 
 servant knocked, not even that before parting Doris had 
 arranged that I was to call an hour earlier than usual 
 at her hotel. I was to be there at half-past ten, for we 
 were going to drive to Florae, and while I dressed, and 
 in the carriage going thither, I cherished the hope that 
 perhaps I might be able to persuade Doris into a private 
 room. A reason would be hard to find, for the public 
 room would be empty, and crowds of waiters would 
 gather about us like rooks, each trying to entice us 
 towards his table. 
 
 The village of Florae is high up among the hills, built 
 along certain ledges of rock overlooking the valley, and 
 going south in the train one catches sight of many towns 
 like it built among mountain declivities, hanging out like 
 nests over the edge of precipices, showing against red 
 backgrounds. These mediaeval towns were built, no doubt, 
 in these strange places because of the security that the 
 hill-top gives against raiders. One can think of no other 
 reason, for it is hard to believe that in the fifteenth 
 century men were so captivated with the picturesque 
 that for the sake of it they would drag every necessary 
 of life several hundred feet above the plain, probably 
 by difficult paths — the excellent road that wound along 
 the edge of the hills, now to the right, now to the left.
 
 134 
 
 The Lovers looping itself round every sudden ascent like a grey ribbon 
 of Orelay round a hat, did not exist when Florae was built. On 
 the left the ground shelves away into the valley, down 
 towards the sea, and olives were growing along all these 
 hillsides, and above us were olive-trees, with here and 
 there an orange orchard, the golden fruit shining among 
 the dark leaves. We were interested in this picturesque 
 country, and would have observed it closely if we had not 
 been so eager about each other. Every now and again 
 some sudden aspect interrupted our conversation : the 
 bay, as it swept round the carved mountains, looking in 
 the distance more than ever like an old Italian picture 
 of a time before painters began to think about values 
 and truth of effect, when the minds of men were con- 
 cerned only with beauty, as mine was, for every time 
 I looked at Doris it occurred to me that I had never 
 seen anything prettier, and not only her face, but her 
 talk still continued to enchant me. She was always so 
 eager to tell me things, that she must interrupt, and 
 these interruptions were so delightful that I identified 
 them with her, and so closely that I can remember how 
 our talk began when we got out of the suburbs. The 
 sun was shining, and Doris asked me to hold her parasol 
 for her ; but the road zigzagged so constantly that I 
 never shifted the parasol in time, and a ray would catch 
 her just in the face, adding perhaps to the freckles — 
 there were a few down that little nose, which was always 
 pleasant to look upon. By the last villa was a eucalyptus- 
 tree, and as we passed it Doris began one of those little 
 confessions that one hears only from a woman one is 
 making love to, or it may be that we only remember them 
 when we are in love. Be this as it may, it delighted me 
 to hear Doris say, ' This is the first time I have ever lived 
 alone, that I have ever been free from questions. It was 
 a pleasure to remember suddenly, as I was dressing, that
 
 135 
 
 no one would ask me where I was going, that I was just The Lovers 
 
 like a bird, free to spring off the branch and to fly. At °^ vJrelay 
 
 home there are always people round one : somebody is in 
 
 the dining-room, somebody is in the drawing-room ; and 
 
 if one goes down the passage with one's hat on there 
 
 is always somebody to ask, "Where are you going?" and 
 
 if you say you don't know, they say, " Are you going 
 
 to the right or to the left, because if you are going to 
 
 the left I should like you to stop at the apothecary's to 
 
 ask " ' 
 
 ' Family life,' I said, ' degrades the individual, and is 
 only less harmful than socialism because one can escape 
 from it, . . . But, Doris, you're not ill ! You are looking 
 better.' 
 
 ' I was weighed this morning, and I have gone up two 
 pounds. You see, I am amused, and a woman's health 
 is mainly a question whether she is amused — whether 
 somebody is making love to her.' 
 
 ' Making love I Doris, dear, there is no chance of 
 making love to anybody here. That is the only fault 
 I find with the place ; the sea, the bay, the hill towns, 
 everything I see is perfect in every detail, only the 
 essential is lacking. I was thinking, Doris, that for the 
 sake of your health we might go and spend a few days 
 at Florae' 
 
 ' My dear, it would be impossible. Everybody would 
 know that I had been there.' 
 
 ' Maybe, but I don't agree. However, I am glad that 
 you have gone up two pounds. I am sure that what you 
 need is mountain air. The seaside is no good at all for 
 nerves. I have a friend in Paris who suffers from nerves 
 and has to go every year to Switzerland to climb the 
 Matterhorn.' 
 
 ' The Matterhorn ! ' 
 
 'Well, the Matterhorn or Mont Blanc. Last year I
 
 136 
 
 The Lovers wrote asking him why I should not have written — I have 
 of Orelay forgotten what — and he answered, " Avec mes pieds sur 
 des glaciers je ne puis m'arreter pour vous expliquer 
 les trois passes." ' 
 
 Doris laughed and was interested, for I had introduced 
 her some years ago to the man who had written this letter ; 
 and then we discussed the fiissent and the eussent ete, 
 and when our knowledge of the French Grammar was 
 exhausted we returned to the point whence we had come, 
 whether it was possible to pass three days in the hotel at 
 Florae — in the interests of her health, of course. 
 
 ' It may be that what I need is mountain air. Plessy 
 lies very low and is very relaxing.' 
 
 'Very.' 
 
 But though I convinced her that it would have been 
 better for her cure if she had gone to Florae, I could do 
 nothing to persuade her to pass three days with me in the 
 inn there, and as we drove up through the town the only 
 hope that remained in my mind was that she might be 
 persuaded to breakfast in a private room. But the length 
 of the dining-room dismayed me : numberless immaculate 
 tablecloths, and a great array of waiters anxious to break 
 the monotony of their day — ' Waiting,' I said, ' for the 
 swallows that will soon arrive from the north,' and 
 whispered, ' Shall we breakfast in a private room ? ' 
 
 * No ! I wouldn't dare to go into a private room before 
 all these waiters.' 
 
 My heart sank again, and when Doris said, ' Where 
 shall we sit?' I answered, 'Anywhere,' for I was hungry, 
 and a box of sardines, a plate of butter, and the prospect 
 of an omelette and a steak, put all thoughts of Doris for 
 the moment out of my head, which was a good thing, for 
 we babbled on, and the pleasure which each took in 
 talking and hearing the other talk became noticeable to 
 ourselves.
 
 137 
 
 ' I didn't interrupt you just now, I thought it would The Lovers 
 be cruel, for you were enjoying yourself so much/ said °^ Orti^y 
 Doris, laughing. 
 
 'Well, I promise not to interrupt the next time — you 
 were in the midst of one of your stories.' 
 
 It was not long before she was telling me another story, 
 for Doris was full of stories. She observed life as it went 
 by, and could recall what she had seen. Our talk had 
 gone back to years before, to the evening when I first saw 
 her cross the drawing-room in a white dress, her gold hair 
 hanging over her shoulders ; and in that moment, as she 
 crossed the room, I had noticed a look of recognition 
 in her eyes ; the look was purely instinctive ; she was not 
 aware of it herself, but I could not help understanding it 
 as a look whereby she recognised me as one of her 
 kin. I had often spoken to her of that look, and we liked 
 speaking about it, and about the time when we became 
 friends in Paris. She had written asking me to go to see 
 her and her aunt, and I found them in a strange little 
 hotel, just starting for some distant suburb, going there to 
 buy presents from an old couple, dealers in china and 
 glass, from whom, Doris's aunt explained, she would be 
 able to buy her presents fifty per cent, cheaper than 
 elsewhere. It took us hours to get to that old, forgotten 
 quarter, to the old quaint street where they lived, and it 
 was like going back to the Middle Ages to see the two old- 
 world Jews who read the Talmud among glass and china. 
 
 'Let me tell you,' cried Doris, 'what happened. The 
 old man died two years ago, and his wife, who had lived 
 with him for forty years, could not bear to live alone, so 
 what do you think she did ? She sent for her brother-in- 
 law ' 
 
 * To marry him .'' ' 
 
 *No, not to marry him, but to talk to him about her 
 husband. You see, this couple had lived together for so
 
 138 
 
 The Lovers many years that she had become ingrained, as it were, 
 of Orelay j^ the personality of her late husband, her habits had 
 become his habits, his thoughts had become hers. The 
 story really is very funny,' and Doris burst out laughing, 
 and for some time she could not speak for laughing. 
 ' I am sorry for the poor man,' she said at last. 
 ' For whom .'' For the brother-in-law ? ' 
 ' Yes ; you see, he is a dyspeptic, and he can't eat the 
 dishes that his brother liked, but the wife can't and 
 won't cook anything else.' 
 
 ' In other words,' I said, ' the memory of brother Esau 
 is poisoning brother Jacob.' 
 'That is it.' 
 
 ' What a strange place this world is ! ' And then 
 my mind drifted back suddenly. ' Oh, Doris, I'm so 
 unhappy, I wish I had never come to Plessy.' 
 
 'Now, now, have a little patience. Everything comes 
 right in the end.' 
 
 *We shall never be alone.' 
 * Yes, we shall. Why do you think that ? ' 
 'Because I can't think of anything else.' 
 'W^ell, you must think of something else. We're going 
 to the factory where they make perfume, and I'm going 
 to buy a great many bottles of scent for myself, and 
 presents for friends. We shall be able to buy the perfume 
 twenty-five per cent, or fifty per cent, cheaper.' 
 
 'Don't you think we might go to see the pictures? 
 There are some in a church here.' 
 
 On inquiry we heard that they had been taken away, 
 and I followed Doris through the perfume factory. Very 
 little work was being done, only a few old women were 
 stirring caldrons, and I listened wearily, for it did not 
 interest me in the least, particularly at that moment, 
 to hear that the flowers were laid upon layers of grease 
 which absorbed the perfume, and that the grease was
 
 139 
 
 got rid of by means of alcohol. The workrooms were The Lovers 
 cold and draughty, and the choice of what perfumes we °^ Orelay 
 Avere to buy took a long time. At last Doris decided 
 that she would prefer three bottles of this, three of that, 
 four of these, two of those, and five of heliotrope. 
 
 ' And you like it, don't you, dear .^ ' 
 
 ' Yes, but what does it matter Avhat I like ? ' 
 
 ' Now, don't be cross. Don't look so sad.' 
 
 ' 1 don't mind the purchase you made for your friends, 
 but the purchase of heliotrope is really too cynical.' 
 
 ' Cynical .^ Why is it cynical ? ' 
 
 ' Because, dear, it is evocative of you, of that slender 
 body moving among fragrances of scented cambrics, and 
 breathing its own dear odour. Why do you seek to 
 torment me ? ' 
 
 ^ But, dear one ' 
 
 I was not to be appeased, and sat gloomily in the 
 corner of the carriage away from her. But she put out 
 her hand, and the silken palm calmed my nervous 
 irritation, and as the evening was growing chilly, I 
 asked Doris if I might tell the coachman to stop his 
 horses and raise the hood of the carriage. But every 
 moment Doris reminded me that people were passing, 
 and once she threw me off her into the corner of the 
 carriage, where I fell to thinking that it would be 
 unkind to leave her, for she was not very strong, and 
 required somebody to look after her. As I was debating 
 the question in my mind, Doris said : — 
 
 ' You don't mind, dear, but before we go back to the 
 hotel, I have a visit to pay.' 
 
 She had made many acquaintances among the elderly 
 spinsters who lived in the different hotels en jjensiofi, and 
 who would go away as soon as the visitors arrived, to 
 seek another "resort" where the season had not yet 
 commenced, and where they could be boarded and bedded
 
 140 
 
 The Lovers for ten francs a da}-. She had introduced me to Miss 
 
 of Orelay Tubbs and Miss Whitworth ; we were dining with them 
 
 that night, for Doris was urgent in her explanation of 
 
 the circumstances which compelled us to dine with them 
 
 at least once. 
 
 ' But as we're going to spend the evening with them, I 
 don't see the necessity ' 
 
 'Of course not, dear, but you haven't forgotten that 
 you promised to go to see the Formans with me ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Forman dined with us last night,' I answered. 
 
 ' But her mother was not able to come,' Doris replied. 
 * I know they are very trite and conventional, but that 
 is not their fault, it is how they were brought up. You 
 will be nice to them, won't you ? for they were very kind 
 to me before you came, when I was all alone. They 
 don't know anything about singing, but what does that 
 matter ? ' were her last words, and the carriage stopped 
 at the gate immediately after. 
 
 No form of human life that has ever come under my 
 notice seemed so drab and insignificant as the life of this 
 mother and daughter, but as a volume would be needed 
 to bring it into view, I will pass on, saying only that it 
 was a relief when Mrs. Forman asked Doris to sing. ' She 
 will sing them everything she thinks they would like 
 to hear,' I said, which she did; and when we rose to 
 leave Mrs. Forman said, ' It's kind indeed of you to sing 
 to us, an old woman and a middle-aged woman, and I 
 hope you'll come to see us again, both of you.' ' What 
 should bring me to see them again ? ' I asked myself, 
 as I tried to get Doris away, for she lingered about 
 the doorway with them, making plans, asking them to 
 come to see her when they came to England, telling 
 them that if her health required it and she came to Plessy 
 again she would rush to see them. ' Why should she 
 rattle on like that about the Formans, knowing well that
 
 141 
 
 we shall never see them again ? ' I thought. Mrs. Forman The Lovers 
 insisted that her daughter should accompany us to the °^ Orelay 
 gate, and all the vi^ay there Doris begged of Miss Forman 
 to come to dine with us ; for we were dining with 
 friends of hers, Miss Tubbs and Miss Whitworth ; it 
 would be so nice if she would come too. I offered up 
 a prayer that Miss Forman might refuse, and she did 
 refuse many times; but Doris was so pressing that she 
 consented ; but when we got into the carriage a thought 
 struck her. 'No,' she said, 'I cannot go, for the dress- 
 maker is coming this evening, and mamma is very par- 
 ticular about her gowns ; she hates any fulness in the 
 waist ; the last time the gown had to go back — you 
 must excuse me.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, dear, good-bye,' I heard Doris crying, and I 
 said to myself, ' How kind she is ! ' 
 
 'Now, my dear, aren't you glad that you came to see 
 them ? Aren't they nice ? Isn't she good ? And you 
 like goodness.' 
 
 ' Dear Doris, I like to discover your kind heart. You 
 cannot have forgotten my saying to you that your pretty 
 face was dependent upon your intelligence, and it is in a 
 measure, but I have now to revise that judgment. I 
 cannot but think now that some of its beauty, a third 
 perhaps, is dependent on your heart, for I'm always 
 catching you out in acts of kindness. Your two blind 
 women, what has become of them ? ' 
 
 ' So you haven't forgotten them. You used to say that 
 it was wonderful that a blind woman should be able to get 
 her living.' 
 
 ' Of course it is. It has always seemed to me extraordi- 
 nary that any one should be able to earn his living.' 
 
 ' You see, dear, you have not been forced to get yours, 
 and you do not realise that ninety per cent, of men and 
 women have to get theirs.'
 
 142 
 
 The Lovers ' But a blind woman I To rise in the morning in the 
 of Orelay knowledge that one has to go out to earn enough money 
 to pay for her dinner ; think of it ! Getting up in the 
 dark knowing that she must earn four, five, ten shilhngs a 
 day, wliatever it is. Every day the problem presents itself, 
 and she always in the dark.' 
 ' Do you remember her story ? ' 
 
 ' I think so. She was once rich, wasn't she ? In fairly 
 easy circumstances, and lost her fortune. It all went away 
 from her bit by bit. Don't tell me, for it is all coming 
 back to me, how Fate in the story as you told it seemed 
 like a black shadow stretching out a paw, grabbing some 
 part of her income again and again, till the last farthing 
 was taken. Even then Fate was not satisfied, and your 
 friend must catch the smallpox and lose her eyes. But as 
 soon as she was well she decided to come to England and 
 learn to be a masseuse. I suppose she didn't want to stop 
 in Australia, where she was known. How attractive 
 courage is ! And where shall we find an example of 
 courage equal to that of this blind woman coming to 
 England to learn to be a masseuse, and bearing with her 
 life in the dark, going out to her work every day to earn 
 her dinner, very often robbed by the girl who led her 
 about ? ' 
 
 ' How well you remember, dear ! ' 
 
 'Of course I do. Now, how was it? There was some 
 sort of a love-story in this blind woman's life, not the 
 conventional sentimental story which never happens, but 
 a hint, a suggestion, of that passion which takes a hundred 
 thousand shapes, finding its way even to a blind woman's 
 life. Now don't tell me ; it's all coming back to me. 
 Something about a student who lived in the same house as 
 she did ; a very young man. They made acquaintance on 
 the stairs, and became friends ; but it was not with him 
 she fell in love, but with a pal who came to share his
 
 143 
 
 rooms, an older man with serious tastes, a great classical The Lovers 
 scholar, who used to read Greek tragedies aloud to her °^ Orelay 
 in the evening. I wonder if she expected him to marry 
 her ? ' 
 
 'No, she knew he couldn't marry her, but that made no 
 difference.' 
 
 'He was a doctor, wasn't he, who went out to Africa, 
 and no sooner did he arrive there than he caught a fever, 
 and the poor blind masseuse didn't hear anything of her 
 loss for a long time, for her friend upstairs was afraid to 
 come down to tell her.^ But at last the truth could be 
 hidden from her no longer. How tragedy follows its 
 victims, never leaving them I ' 
 
 ' Claiming always.' 
 
 ' And now she sits alone in the dark, for it is easier to 
 bear her solitude than the company of the pious people 
 who would read to her if she would listen to the Bible. 
 The charitable always want their money's worth. I only 
 see her, of course, through your description, but if I see 
 her truly, she was one of those who loved life, and life 
 took everything from her ! ' 
 
 'Do you remember the story of the other blind 
 woman } ' 
 
 'Yes and no, only vaguely. She was a singer, wasn't 
 she ? ' Doris nodded. ' And I think she was born blind, 
 or lost her sight when she was three or four years old. 
 You described her to me as a tall, handsome woman with 
 dark crinkly hair, and a mouth like red velvet.' 
 
 ' I don't think I said like red velvet, dear.' 
 
 ' What then made me think of red velvet ? Because 
 you told me she had love affairs. Why not .^ and how 
 wonderful to have a love affair with an unseen lover, like 
 Psyche, but Judith would not have been silly like Psyche. 
 She would not have opened her eyes. For only those the 
 blind love remain gods, always young.'
 
 144 
 
 The Lovers 'Ah, the blind are very sensitive, much more so than 
 of Orelay ^g are.' 
 
 ' Perhaps.' 
 
 * I think Judith would have known the difference 
 between a young man and a middle-aged. There was 
 little she didn't know.' 
 
 ' I daresay you're right. Without sight life is more 
 intense and more vague. The sufferings of the blind are 
 not ours. When Judith's lover is not speaking to her he is 
 away ; she is unable to follow him, and sitting at home she 
 imagines him in society surrounded by others who are not 
 blind. She doesn't know what eyes are, but she imagines 
 them like — what .'' I haven't thought of her much lately, 
 but I used to think of her when you told me the story, as 
 standing on a platform in front of the public, calm as a 
 Caryatid. She must have had a beautiful voice to have 
 been able to get an engagement, a difficult thing to do in 
 any circumstances — but in hers ! And when her voice 
 began to fail her she must have suffered, for her voice 
 was her one possession, the one thing that distinguished 
 her from others, the one thing she knew herself by, her 
 personality as it were. She didn't know her face : she 
 only knew herself when she sang, then she became an 
 entity, as it were. Teaching couldn't recompense her 
 for what she had lost, however intelligent her pupils 
 might be, or however well they paid her. How did she 
 lose her pupils .'' ' 
 
 'I don't think there was any reason. She lost her 
 pupils in the ordinary way ; she was unlucky. As you 
 were just saying, it was more difficult for her to earn her 
 living than for those who could see ; and Judith is no 
 longer as young as she was : she isn't old, she is still a 
 handsome woman ; but in a few years ... If old age 
 pensions are to be granted they surely ought to be 
 granted to blind women.'
 
 145 
 
 ' Yes, I remember the sentiment, only I am a little The Lovers 
 confused about the facts. You wrote a number of letters °^ ^relay 
 — how was it ? ' 
 
 ' I felt that the thing to do was to get an annuity for 
 Judith ; I couldn't afford to give her one myself, so 
 after a great deal of trouble I got into communication 
 with a rich woman who was interested in the blind.' 
 
 ' You are quite right, that was it. You must have 
 written dozens of letters.' * 
 
 ' Yes, indeed ; and all to no purpose. Judith knew the 
 trouble I was taking, but the dread of the long evenings 
 by herself began to prey upon her nerves, and she went 
 off to Peckham to marry a blind man — quite an elderly 
 man ; he was over sixty. He taught music, like her ; 
 but though he only earned forty or fifty pounds a year, 
 still she preferred to have somebody to live with than the 
 annuity.' 
 
 ' But I don't see why she should lose her annuity.' 
 ' Don't you remember, dear, that the charitable woman 
 drew back ? not from any sordid motive, because she 
 regretted her money, but for a fixed idea : she had 
 learned from somebody that blind people shouldn't marry, 
 and she didn't feel herself justified in giving her money 
 to encouraging such marriages.' 
 
 *Was there ever anything so extraordinary as human 
 nature } Its goodness, its stupidity, its cruelty ! The 
 woman meant well ; one can't even hate her for it ; it 
 was just a lack of perception, a desire to live up to 
 principles. That is what sets every one agog, trying to 
 live up to principles, abstract ideas, as if truth were not 
 a poor wandering comet for ever seeking an abode, and 
 never finding one on earth nor yet in heaven.' 
 
 'You always liked those stories, dear. You said that 
 you would write them.' 
 
 'Yes, but I'm afraid the pathos is a little deeper than I
 
 146 
 
 The Lovers could reach ; only TourguenefF could write them. But 
 of Orelay here we are at the Dogs' Home.' 
 
 ' Don't talk like that — it's unkind.' 
 
 * I don't mean to be unkind, but I have to try to realise 
 things before I can appreciate them.' 
 
 It did not seem in keeping that these two little 
 spinsters. Miss Tubbs and Miss Whitworth, should pay for 
 our dinners, but Doris said it was their wish to entertain 
 us. Miss Tubbs asked me *what wine I would drink. 
 , And in a moment of inadvertence I said ' Vin Ordinaire,' 
 
 forgetting that the two shillings the wine would cost 
 would probably mean that Miss Tubbs would very likely 
 have to go without her cup of tea at five o'clock next day, 
 so that her expenditure should not exceed her limit, and 
 thinking how difficult life must be on the slippeiy rocks 
 of incomes of one hundred and fifty a year, my heart went 
 out to the poor little gentlefolk, roving from one boarding- 
 house to another, seeking the cheapest. Poor little 
 gentlefolk, the odds-and-ends of existence, the pence and 
 threepenny-bits of human life ! 
 
 The evening Avore away, myself talking literature to a 
 company of a dozen or more spinsters, all plain and elderly, 
 who, when they had heard enough about the Renaissance, 
 asked Doris to sing. Inadequate remarks about music and 
 about the other arts are as common in London drawing- 
 rooms as in hotels, and life in these winter resorts would not 
 have seemed to me so small and insignificant had not Doris 
 possessed herself to the uttermost of me. Wherever human 
 beings collect there is always to be found somebody of 
 interest, but when one's interest is centred in one woman 
 everybody else becomes an enemy ; and I looked upon all 
 these harmless spinsters as my enemies, and their proposals 
 for excursions, and luncheons, and dinners caused me much 
 misgiving. A love affair hangs upon a gossamer thread, 
 one cannot be too careful, a woman's jealous tongue or the
 
 147 
 
 arrival of some acquaintance might bring about a catas- The Lovers 
 trophe, and that is why I tried to persuade Doris away from °^ ^relay 
 her friends. 
 
 One afternoon I said to her^ ' I'm afraid I can't go to 
 see Miss Tubbs this evening. Can't we devise something 
 else to pass the afternoon away ? ' 
 
 As she could think only of another excursion to Florae, 
 we took counsel of the waiter, who advised us to visit 
 Carlaen Gardens, the property of a gentleman kind enough 
 to throw them open to the public twice a week. Gardens 
 find little favour with me — now and again an old English 
 garden, but the well-kept hoi'ticultural is my abhorrence, 
 and my heart sank when the coachman drew up his horses 
 in front of a tall wrought-iron gate twenty feet high, with 
 a naked pavilion behind it, and a woman seated at a table 
 with a cash-box in front of her, who took a franc apiece, 
 and told us that the money was to be devoted to a charitable 
 purpose, and that we were now free to wander down a 
 gravel walk, twenty feet wide, branching to the right and 
 the left, along a line of closely-clipped shrubs, with a 
 bunch of tall grasses here and a foreign fir there. 'A 
 painter,' I said to Doris, 'would close his eyes,' and we, 
 being artists, would do well to turn into one of the external 
 walks overlooking the sea. 'Even here,' I continued, 'the 
 neighbourhood of those variegated shrubberies has spoiled 
 the sea for me. I cannot forget them.' Doris laughed, 
 and I began to wonder if she knew how detestable they 
 were. 
 
 'It is delightful to be here with you, Doris, but the 
 sunlight is not enough for me, and now I must tell you 
 that yesterday I was sorely tempted to go down to that 
 bay to join the nymphs. Don't ask me if I believe that I 
 should find a nymph to love me ; one doesn't know what 
 one believes, I only know that I am unhappy.' 
 
 ' But why, dear, do you allow yourself to be unhappy .''
 
 148 
 
 The Lovers Look at that lizard. He desires nothing but what he 
 of Orelay j^^s got, light and warmth. Look at him.' 
 
 'And, Doris, would you like me to be as content as 
 that lizard — to desire nothing more than light and 
 warmth ? ' 
 
 Doris turned her eyes upon me, and her eyes seeming 
 more beautiful even than the sunlight, I said : — 
 
 ' If I don't become part of the great harmony, I must 
 ifie.' 
 
 ' But you do kiss me,' Doris answered wilfully, ' when the 
 evening turns cold and the coachman puts up the hood of 
 the carriage.' 
 
 ' Wilful Doris ! Pretty puss cat ! ' 
 
 ' I'm not a puss cat ; I'm not playing with you, dear. 
 I feel the strain of these days ; but you wouldn't have me 
 tell you to stay at my hotel and to compromise myself 
 before all these people .'' ' 
 
 ' These people ! Those boarding-houses are driving me 
 mad ! That Miss Forman ! ' 
 
 ' I thought you liked her. You said, " She is good and 
 simple, without pretensions, interested in her mamma." 
 And that is enough, according to yesterday's creed. You 
 were never nicer than you were yesterday, speaking of 
 her (I remember your words) : you said, " The life of the 
 heart is a deeper life than that of the intellect." Do you 
 recant ? ' 
 
 *No, I recant nothing; only yesterday's truth is not 
 to-day's. One day we are attracted by goodness, another 
 day by beauty ; and beauty has been calling me day after 
 day : at first the call was heard far away, like a horn in the 
 woods, but now the call has become more imperative, and 
 all the landscape is musical. Yesterday, standing by those 
 ancient ruins, it seemed to me as if I had been transported 
 out of my present back to my original nature of two 
 thousand years ago. The sight of those ancient columns
 
 149 
 
 quickened a new soul within me ; or I may say dis- The Lovers 
 interred a soul that had been overlaid, almost buried. The °^ ^relay 
 dead are never wholly dead ; their ideas live in us, and in 
 England I could not appreciate you as I do here ; and the 
 fault, if there be one, is chargeable to antiquity, which has 
 taken hold of me, risen out of the earth and claimed me. 
 Thy clothes I would put away ' 
 
 ' Don't you like my hat ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I like it, but I am thinking of the Doris that 
 lived two thousand years ago ; she did not wear a hat. 
 It is not only the beauty of your face that I desire, but 
 all your beauty : the pink breast flowers, the pretty fore- 
 arms, the belly so daintily designed, the round thighs, the 
 well-jointed knees, the long calves, the sloping ankles, the 
 thin, white feet. In those curved hands and thin trans- 
 parent fingers with long red nails I see the nymph in my 
 imagination, though I may never see her with mortal 
 eyes.' 
 
 ' Why should you not see me, dear ? ' 
 
 'I have begun to despair. All these boarding-houses 
 and their inhabitants jar the spirit that this landscape has 
 kindled within me. I want to go away with you where 
 I may love you as the faun loved the nymph, for it is 
 quite true that you remind me of antiquity, and in a way 
 that I cannot explain, though it is quite clear to me.' 
 
 ' But you do possess me, dear ? ' 
 
 ' No, Doris, not as I wish. You know very well what 
 I mean by possession, the possession of sight and of touch 
 and of scent, and if I do not go away with you, Doris, 
 where I can possess you wholly, this journey will be a 
 bitter memory that will endure for ever. We must think, 
 Doris, not only of the day that we live, but of the days in 
 front of us ; we must store our memories as the squirrel 
 his nuts, we must have a winter hoard ; and if some way 
 be not found out of this dilemma, I shall remember you
 
 150 
 
 The Lovers as a collector recalls a vase which a workman handed 
 
 of Orelay {.q },Jjq ^^^ which slipped and was broken, or like a vase 
 
 that was stolen from him ; I cannot find a perfect simile, 
 
 at least not at this moment ; my speech is imperfect, but 
 
 you will understand.' 
 
 'Yes, I understand, I think I understand.' 
 
 'If I do not get you, it will seem to me that I have 
 lived in vain.' 
 
 ' But, dear one, things are not so bad as that. We need 
 not be in Paris for some days yet, and though 1 cannot ask 
 you to my hotel, there is no reason why ' 
 
 ' Doris, do not raise up false hopes.' 
 
 'I was only going to say, dear, that it does not seem 
 to me necessary that we should go straight back to 
 Paris.' 
 
 ' You mean that we might stop somewhere at some old 
 Roman town, at Aries in an eighteenth-century house. 
 Oh, Doris, how enchanting this would be ! I hardly dare 
 to think, lest ' 
 
 ' Lest what, dear ? Lest I should deceive you ? ' 
 
 There was a delicious coo in her voice, the very love 
 coo which cannot be imitated any more than the death- 
 rattle ; and exalted and inspired by her promise of herself, 
 of all herself, I spoke in praise of the eighteenth century, 
 saying that it had loved antiquity better than the nine- 
 teenth, and had reproduced its spirit. 
 
 ' Is it not strange that, in the midst of reality, artistic 
 conceptions always hang about me ? But shall I ever 
 possess you, Doris .^ Is it my delicious fate to spend 
 three days with you in an old Roman town .'' ' 
 
 'There is no reason why it shouldn't be. Where shall 
 it be ? ' 
 
 ' Any town would be enough with you, Doris ; but let 
 us think of some beautiful place ; ' and looking across the 
 bay into the sunset, many old Roman towns rose up before
 
 151 
 
 my eyes, classic remains mingling with media?val towers. The Lovers 
 
 cathedral spires rising over walls on which Roman sentries °^ ^Jrelay 
 
 had once paced. We could only spend our honeymoon 
 
 in a town with a beautiful name — a beautiful name was 
 
 essential — a name that it would be a delight to remember 
 
 for ever after. Rocomadour imitated too obviously the 
 
 sound of sucking doves, and was rejected for that reason. 
 
 Cahor tempted us, but it was too stern a name ; its Italian 
 
 name, Devona, appealed to us ; but, after all, we could 
 
 not think of Cahor as Devona. And for many reasons 
 
 were rejected Armance, Vezelay, Oloron, Correz, Valat, 
 
 and Gedre. Among these, only Armance gave us any 
 
 serious pause. Armance ! A long evening was spent 
 
 with L' Indicateiir des Chemins de fer before us. ' Armance ! ' 
 
 I said, interrupting Doris, who was telling me that we 
 
 should lose our tickets by le Cote d' Azur. For in Doris's 
 
 opinion it was necessary that we should leave Plessy by 
 
 le Cote d'Aziir. Her friends would certainly come to the 
 
 station to see her off. ' That is a matter of no moment,' 
 
 I said. 'At Marseilles we can catch an express train as 
 
 fast, or nearly as fast, as le Cote d'Azur. It will take us 
 
 to Armance in a few hours, and if ' 
 
 She asked me if Armance were a village or a town, and 
 I answered, ' What matter } ' — for everywhere in France 
 there are good beds, good food and good wine — ay, and 
 omelettes. We should do very well in any village. But 
 suddenly two names caught my eye, Orelay and Verlan- 
 court, and we agreed that we preferred either of these 
 names to Armance. 
 
 ' Which name shall give shelter to two unfortunate 
 lovers flying in search of solitude .'' ' 
 
 'Orelay is a beautiful name.' 
 
 ' Orelay it shall be,' I said. ' Orelay is but a few hours 
 from Marseilles. In a few hours ' 
 
 ' You quite see, dear, that I could not travel all the way
 
 152 
 
 The Lovers to Paris — a journey of at least twenty-four hours would 
 of Orelay ^j]] j^e, and I'm not strong ; nothing tires me more than 
 railway travelling. We must stop somewhere. Why not 
 at Orelay ? ' 
 
 As this history can have but one merit, that of absolute 
 truth, I confess that the subterfuge whereby Doris sought 
 to justify herself to herself, delighted me. Perhaps no 
 quality is more human than that of subterfuge. She might 
 unveil her body — I was living in the hope of seeing her 
 do so ; but she could not completely unveil her soul. We 
 may only lift a corner of the veil, and whosoever would do 
 more displays but a skeleton, for where there is no 
 subterfuge there is no life. 
 
 This story will be read, no doubt, by the young and 
 the old, the wise and the foolish, by the temperate and 
 the intemperate, but the subject-matter is so common to 
 all men that it will interest every one, even ecclesiastics — 
 every one except certain gentlemen residing chiefly in 
 Constantinople, whose hostility to the lover on his errand 
 is so well known, and so easily understandable, that I 
 must renounce all hope of numbering them among the 
 admirers of my own or Doris's frailty. But happily these 
 gentlemen are rare in England, though it is suspected 
 that one or two may be found among the reviewers on 
 the staff of certain newspapers ; otherwise how shall 
 we account for the solitary falsetto voices in the choir 
 of our daily and weekly press, shouting abstinence from 
 the house-tops ? But with the exception of these few 
 critics every one will find pleasure in this narrative ; even 
 in aged men and women enough sex is left to allow them 
 to take an interest in a love-story ; in these modern days, 
 when a book wanders, I may be able to count upon an 
 aged Mother Abbess to be, outwardly perhaps a dis- 
 approving, but at heart a kind reader. This book may 
 earn me her prayers, and through them heaven may be
 
 153 
 
 opened to me. I count upon the ascetic male and female The Lovers 
 more than upon any other class for appreciation, for the °^ Urelay 
 imagination of those who have had no experience in love 
 adventures will enkindle, and they will appreciate, perhaps 
 more intensely than any other, the mental trouble that a 
 journey to Orelay with Doris would entail, and after reading 
 they will pray for us both. 
 
 It would take nearly five hours, according to the time- 
 table, to get from Marseilles to Orelay ; and these five 
 hours Avould wear away in conversation with Doris, in 
 talking to her of every subject except the subject upper- 
 most in our mind. 1 should have kept a notebook, just 
 as 1 had arranged to do when I thought I was going 
 on the yachting excursion among the Greek Islands with 
 Gertrude ; but, having no notes, I must appeal to the 
 reader's imagination. I must ask him to bear in mind 
 the week of cruel abstinence I had endured, and to take 
 it into his consideration ; a reader must meet the author 
 half-way, and you, dear, dear reader, can see me, if you try 
 (in your mind's eye, of course), walking about the corridors, 
 seeking the guard, asking every one I meet : — 
 
 * How far away are we now from Orelay .f* ' 
 
 'Orelay.'' Nearly two hours from Orelay.' 
 
 Our heavy luggage had been sent on to Paris. We 
 had with us a number of dressing-cases and bags, and the 
 guard, who promised to take them out of the carriage for 
 us, might not arrive in time. To find ourselves in Orelay 
 without luggage ! Impossible. So I went in search of 
 the guard, and sought him — how many times? — up and 
 down the long length of the train. You can see me, 
 reader, can you not ? walking about the train, imagining 
 all kinds of catastrophes — that the train might break 
 down, or that it might not stop at Orelay ; or, a still 
 more likely catastrophe, that the young lady might 
 change her mind. What if that were to happen at the
 
 1.54 
 
 The Lovers last moment ! Ah, if that were to happen I should 
 of Urelay have perchance to throw myself out of the train, unless 
 peradventure I refrained for the sake of writing the story 
 of a lover's deception. The transitional stage is an in- 
 tolerable one, and I wondered if Doris felt it as keenly, 
 and every time I passed our carriage on my way up and 
 down in search of the guard, I stopped a moment to study 
 her face as she sat with her eyes closed, perhaps dozing. 
 How prosaic of her to doze on the way to Orelay ! Why 
 was she not as agitated as I .'' 
 
 And the question presented itself suddenly : Do women 
 attach the same interest to love adventures as we do .'' 
 Do women ask themselves as often as we do if God, 
 the Devil, or Calamitous Fate will intervene between 
 us and our pleasure ? Will it be snatched out of our 
 arms and from our lips ? Perhaps never before — only once, 
 in any case — did I experience an excitement so piercing as 
 I experienced that day. As I write the sad thought floats 
 past that such expectations will never be my lot again. 
 The delights of the moment are behind me, but those of 
 memory await me, and the old have a joy that the youths do 
 not know — recollection. TourguenefF said that, omitting 
 to add that without memory we should not have known 
 ourselves or others. We should have lived like the 
 animals. How sad ! 
 
 This is a point on which I would speak seriously to every 
 reader, especially to my young readers ; for it is of the first 
 importance that all should select adventures that not only 
 please them at the moment, but can be looked back upon 
 with admiration, and for which they can offer up a mute 
 thanksgiving. My life would not have been complete, a 
 corner-stone would have been lacking, if Doris had not 
 come to Orelay with me, for without her I should not have 
 known the perfect beauty which abides in antiquity. 
 Without more, as the lawyers say, we will return to Doris.
 
 155 
 
 I asked her if she had been asleep ? No, she had not The Lovers 
 
 slept, but to keep her eyes closed rested her. The °^ Orelay 
 
 sunlight fatigued her. The word "fatigue" awakened 
 
 forebodings which I did not dare to utter even to myself, 
 
 and to hide from her what was passing in my mind I 
 
 tried to invent some conversation. Orelay — what a lovely 
 
 name it was ! Did she think the town would vindicate 
 
 or belie its name ? She smiled faintly and said her 
 
 fatigue would pass when she stepped out of the train, 
 
 and there was some consolation in the thought that her 
 
 health would not allow her to go further than Orelay 
 
 that day. 
 
 We decided to stay at the Hotel des Valois. One oi 
 the passengers had spoken to me of this hotel ; he had 
 never stayed there himself, but he believed it to be an 
 excellent hotel. But it was not his recommendation that 
 influenced me, it was the name — the Hotel des Valois. 
 How splendid ! And it was pleasant to find that the 
 porters and the station-master were agreed that the 
 Hotel des Valois was as good as any other. So every- 
 thing up to the present had turned out well, but if the 
 Hotel des Valois should prove unworthy of its name, 
 all that went before would be worthless. At first sight 
 it was disappointing. The courtyard was insignificant, 
 only saved by a beautiful ilex-tree growing in one corner. 
 A moment after I noticed that the porch of the hotel 
 was pretty and refined — a curious porch it was, giving the 
 hotel for a moment the look of an eighteenth-century 
 English country house. The windows were numerous, with 
 small panes, and one divined the hall beyond the porch. 
 The hall delighted us, and I said to Doris, as we passed 
 through, that the hotel must have been a nobleman's 
 house some long while ago, when Orelay had a society of 
 its own, perhaps a language, for in the seventeenth or 
 the eighteenth century, Proven9al or some other dialect
 
 J 56 
 
 The Lovers must have been written or spoken at Orelay, We admired 
 of Orelay the galleries overlooking the hall, and the staircase leading 
 to them. We seemed to have been transported into 
 the eighteenth century; the atmosphere was that of a 
 Boucher, a provincial Boucher perhaps, but an eighteenth- 
 century artist, for all that. The doves that crowd round 
 Aphrodite seemed to have led us right. We foresaw a 
 large hushed bedroom with an Aubusson carpet in the 
 middle of a parquet floor, writing-tables in the corners of 
 the room or in the silken-curtained windows — the room 
 that befitted my love of Doris, a room as large as a drawing- 
 room, furnished like a drawing-room, with sofas and arm- 
 chairs that we could draw round the fire, for part of my 
 pleasure was to live in the intimacy of her dressing and 
 her undressing. Is not love composed in a large measure 
 of desire of intimacy, and if the affection that birds experi- 
 ence in making their nests be not imitated, love descends 
 to the base satisfaction of animals who meet in obedience 
 to an instinct and separate as soon as the instinct has been 
 served. Birds understand love better than all animals, 
 except man. Who has not thought with admiration of the 
 weaver-birds, and of our own native wren ? But the 
 rooms that were offered to us corresponded in nowise with 
 those that we imagined the doors of the beautiful galleries 
 would lead us into. The French words chambre jneuhlee 
 will convey an idea ot the rooms we were shown into ; for 
 do not the words evoke a high bed pushed into the corner, 
 an eider-down on top and a tall dusty window facing the 
 bed with skimpy red curtains and a vacant fireplace .'' 
 There were, no doubt, a few chairs — but what chairs ! 
 The voluptuous dream I had cherished of sitting with 
 Doris before a beautiful eighteenth-century chimney-piece, 
 talking to her and watching her the while as she prepared 
 herself for the night — looking on at the letting down of 
 her hair and the brushing of it — a woman versed in the
 
 157 
 
 art of love prepares herself for bed so imperceptibly that The Lovers 
 
 any attempt to indicate a stage in her undressing breaks °^ ^relay 
 
 the harmony ; for there is a harmony in the way she passes 
 
 from the moment when she sits in her evening dress 
 
 playing with her bracelets to the moment when she drops 
 
 her nightgown over her head and draws her silk stockings 
 
 off her legs, white as milk, kicking her little slippers aside 
 
 before she slips over the edge and curls herself into the 
 
 middle of a bed broad as a battlefield — all the voluptuous 
 
 dream that I cherished fell before the sight of those high 
 
 beds ; the entire fabric of my love, the nest in which we 
 
 should enjoy it, the fluttering of pinions and the sensation 
 
 of soft scents and delicate linen, were swept away. 
 
 The scene was at once tragic and comic. It was of 
 vital importance to Doris and myself to find a bedroom in 
 which we could love each other, and we were astonished 
 at the indifference of the waiter : an old man, short and 
 thick, slow on the feet from long service, and so com- 
 pletely enveloped in an enormous apron that one saw 
 only the ends of his trousers and his head — the strangest 
 ever seen, for there was not a hair upon it ; he was bald 
 as an egg, and his head was the shape of an egg, and the 
 colour of an Easter egg, a pretty pink all over. His eyes, 
 like a ferret's, were small and restless and watery ; a 
 long nose, a straight drooping chin, and a thick provincial 
 accent that amused me. 
 
 ' Have you no other rooms .'' ' 
 * Nous n'avons que cela.' 
 
 I quote his words in the language in which they were 
 spoken, for I remember how brutal they seemed to us. 
 Nous n'avons que cela will always be to me as pregnant 
 with meaning as the famous to be or not to be. For it 
 really amounted to that. I can see Doris standing by me, 
 charming, graceful as a little Tanagra statuette, seemingly 
 not aware of the degradation that the possession of her
 
 158 
 
 The Lovers love would mean in such a room as that which we stood 
 ot UreJay jjj . ^j^^ j ^Jijuk I can honestly say that I wished we 
 had never come to Orelay, that we had gone straight 
 on to Paris, or it were better even to sacrifice her love 
 than that it should be degraded by vulgar circumstances ; 
 and without fear of exaggeration I may say that my 
 honeymoon had come to seem to_me what the black 
 mass must seem to the devout Christian — an abominable 
 blasphemy. 
 
 * The rooms will look better/ Doris said, ' when fires 
 have been lighted, and when our bags are unpacked. A 
 skirt thrown over the arm of a chair furnishes a room.' 
 
 Taking her hands in mine I kissed them, and was almost 
 consoled ; but at that moment my eyes fell upon the beds, 
 and I said : — 
 
 ' Those beds ! Oh, Doris, those beds ! yours is no better 
 than mine.' 
 
 Women are always satisfied, or they are kind, or they 
 are wise, and accept the inevitable without a min-mur. 
 
 'Dearest, ask the waiter to bring us some hot water.' 
 
 I did so, and while he was away I paced the room, 
 unable to think of anything but the high bed ; it was 
 impossible to put out of my sight the ridiculous spectacle 
 of a couple in a nightgown and pyjama-suit climbing into 
 it. The thought of Doris and myself lying under that 
 eider-down, facing the tall window, with nothing to shut 
 out the light but the vulgar lace curtains, pursued me, 
 and I paced the room till the pink waiter returned with 
 two jugs ; and then, feeling very misei-able, I began to 
 unpack my bag, without getting further than the removal 
 of the brushes and comb ; Doris unpacked a few things, 
 and she washed her hands, and I thought I might wash 
 mine ; but before I had finished washing them I left the 
 dreadful basin, and going to Doris with dripping hands 
 I said : —
 
 159 
 
 ' There is very little difference in the rooms. Perhaps The Lovers 
 yoii would like to sleep in mine ? ' °f Orelay 
 
 ' I can see no difference. 1 think I'll remain where 
 lam.' 
 
 Which room she slept in may seem insignificant to the 
 reader, but this is not so, for had we changed rooms this 
 story would never have been written. I can see myself 
 even now walking to and fro like a caged animal vainly 
 seeking for a way of escape. My adventure reminds me 
 very much of the beginning of a romantic novel in which 
 the wind blows aside a tapestry, discovering a secret door. 
 The room lacked tapestry, but my eyes fell suddenly 
 on a crumpling in the wall-paper. 'A door,' said I, 
 unlatched it, and pushing through it I descended two 
 steps, and lo ! found myself in the room of my heart's 
 desire : a large, richly- coloured saloon with red silk 
 damask curtains hanging from carved cornices, and falling 
 into such folds that the proportions of the windows and 
 the walls were enhanced. The walls were stretched with 
 silk of a fine romantic design, the dominant note of which 
 was red, to match the curtains. A curious old clock on 
 the marble chimney-piece, amid branching candelabra, 
 struck the hour, and I said, ' That clock reminded lovers 
 of the wasting hours many times — no one knows how 
 many, and very soon it will perform the same sad office 
 for us. A beautiful room in its proportions and its 
 colour,' I continued, and seeing another door ajar I 
 went through it, to discover a bedroom likewise in red, 
 with two beds facing each other. The beds were high, 
 it is true, and a phrase from a letter I had written to 
 Doris, " aggressively virtuous," rose up in my mind as 
 I looked upon them. But the curtains hung well from 
 les dels de lit (one cannot say cieux de lit, I suppose) — 
 the English word is, I think, tester. 'This room is far 
 from the bedroom of my dreams,' I muttered, 'but a la
 
 160 
 
 The Lovers rigueur ga peut marcher.' And pursuing my quest a little 
 of Orclay further, I came upon a spacious bedroom with two windows 
 looking out on the courtyard — a room which would have 
 satisfied the most imaginative lover, a room worthy of the 
 adorable Doris. A great bed, wide and low, 'like a 
 battlefield, as our bed should be,' I said, for the lines of 
 the old poet were running in my head : — 
 
 Madame, shall we undress you for the fight ? 
 The wars are naked that you make to-night. 
 
 And, looking upon it, I stood there like one transfigured, 
 filled with a great joy; for the curtains, hanging from 
 a srraceful tester like a crown, would have satisfied the 
 painter Boucher. He rarely painted bedrooms. I do 
 not remember any at this moment; but I remember 
 many by Fragonard, and Fragonard would have said : 
 * I have no fault to find with that bed.' The carpet was 
 not Aubusson, but it was nevertheless a finely-designed 
 carpet, and its colour was harmonious ; the sofa was 
 shapely enough, and the Louis XVL armchairs were 
 filled with deep cushions. I turned to the toilet-table, 
 fearing it might prove an incongruity, but it was in 
 perfect keeping with the room, and I began at once to 
 look forward to seeing it laid out with all the manifold 
 ivories and silver of Doris's dressing-case. 
 
 Imagine my flight, dear reader, if you can, back to 
 Doris, Avhom I had left trying to make the best of that 
 miserable square room, more like a prison cell than a 
 bedroom. 
 
 ' What is the matter, dearest ? ' she asked. 
 
 But without answering her I said, 'Give me your 
 hand,' and led her, as a prince leads his betrothed in a 
 fairy tale, through the richly-coloured saloon, lingering 
 a moment for her to admire it, and then I took her 
 through my room, the double-bedded room, saying, 'AH
 
 161 
 
 this is nothing ; wait till you see your room.' And Doris The Lovers 
 paused, overcome by the beauty of the bed, of the °^ Orelay 
 curtains falling from the tester gracefully as laburnum 
 or acacia branches in June. 
 
 'The rooms are beautiful, but a little cheerless.' 
 ' Doris, Doris, you don't deserve to lie there ! The 
 windows, of course, must be opened, fresh air must be 
 let in, and fires must be lighted. But think of you and 
 me sitting here side by side talking before our bed-time.' 
 And fires were lighted quickly by servants who came in 
 bearing candelabi'a in their hands, and among them, 
 and with Doris by my side, I imagined myself a prince, 
 and rightly, for who is a prince but he who possesses 
 the most desirable thing in the world in circumstances 
 the most delectable ? And what circumstance is more 
 delightful than sitting in a great shadowy bedroom, 
 watching the logs burning, shedding their grateful heat 
 through the room, for the logs that were brought to us, 
 as we soon discovered, were not the soft wood grown for 
 consumption in Parisian hotels ; the logs that warmed 
 our toes in Orelay were dense and hard as iron, and 
 burned like coal, only more flagrantly, and very soon the 
 bareness of the room disappeared. A petticoat thrown 
 over a chair, as Doris said, gives an inhabited look to 
 a room at once ; and the contents of her dressing-case, 
 as I anticipated, took the room back to one hundred 
 years ago, when some great lady sat there in a flowered 
 silk gown before one of those inlaid dressing-tables, filled 
 with pigments and powders and glasses. 
 
 There was one of those tables in the room, and I drew 
 it from the corner, raised its lid, the lid with the looking- 
 glass in it, for I liked to furnish it with a multitude 
 of things for bodily use — the various sponges : the flat 
 sponge for the face, the round sponge for the body, and 
 the many little sponges ; all the scissors, and the powder 
 
 M
 
 162 
 
 The Lovers for the nails, phials of scent, the soft silks, the lace 
 
 or Orclay scarves, the long silk night-gown, soon to droop over her 
 
 shoulders. My description by no means exhausts the 
 
 many things she })i*oduced from her dressing-case and 
 
 bags, nor would the most complete catalogue convey 
 
 an impression of Doris's cleanliness of her little body ! 
 
 One would have to see her arranging her things, with 
 
 her long curved hands and almond nails carefully cut — 
 
 they were her immediate care, and many powders and 
 
 ointments and polishers were called into requisition. 
 
 Some reader will cry that all this is most unimportant, 
 
 but he is either hypocritical or stupid, for it is only with 
 
 scent and silk and artifices that we raise love from an 
 
 instinct to a passion. 
 
 Not only must a mistress be careful of herself, and 
 spend many hours upon herself when her maid is not 
 with her, but a man must consider in what apparel he 
 approaches his mistress. There are still, I believe, some 
 married men in our far northern islands who go into 
 their wives' bedrooms wearing flannel or jaeger night- 
 shirts. Fie upon such things ! I have always pitied 
 women a little, for they are obliged to take us — well, as 
 a woman once said to me, and she was an artist in these 
 matters, 'We have to take you as you are.' 
 
 This was five-and-twenty years ago, before pyjamas 
 were invented — benedictive garments that redeem us 
 from the shame of the nightshirt. Pyjamas are without 
 doubt the great redemption ; and if the quality of the 
 silk and its colour be carefully chosen, and the silk cords 
 and the tassels be tied to advantage, and a pocket be 
 worn at the breast, a man (garbed by Hope Brothers, 
 Regent Street) may enter a lady's room without loss 
 of dignity. I had overlooked my clothes with great 
 care before leaving London, seeing that many different 
 suits, the most finely-coloured, were among my luggage ;
 
 163 
 
 and many an evening at Plessy I had looked at these^ The Lovers 
 sighing, thinking that I might never wear them for °^ vJrelay 
 Doris's pleasure and admiration, and now in Orelay my 
 thoughts went back to my pyjamas. I had told the 
 valet de chainhre at Plessy, an excellent fellow, but some- 
 what stupid, who looked after me at my hotel, which 
 suits he was to put into my suit-case ; and remembering 
 my very words well, I jumped to my feet so suddenly 
 that Doris asked me what was the matter, why I was 
 going. 
 
 ' I'm only going to unpack, dear.' 
 
 In a few minutes I returned — how well do I remember 
 that moment! — looking, she said, like one to whom a 
 catastrophe had happened. Perhaps the word catastrophe 
 will seem an exaggeration, though a greater misfortune 
 could hardly have fallen upon a lover, for not only did 
 the valet de chambre forget to put in the special pyjamas 
 that I had indicated — he had put no pyjamas in at all. 
 
 ' How am I to go into your room to-night, dear ? ' 
 
 Doris did not answer, and I sat like one overwhelmed, 
 not able yet to fully realise the misfortune that had befallen 
 us. At last, getting up, I walked across the room, and 
 stopping suddenly I said, 'I believe that Schopenhauer 
 was right, Doris, for surely the sum of our pains exceeds 
 the sum of our pleasures. The hawk that eats the sparrow 
 does not get as much pleasure out of his meal as the 
 sparrow gets pain from being devoured. That dear little 
 body,' I said, taking her in my arms, 'that delicious face — 
 who appreciates it more than I do } — but when I think of 
 the week of agony that I suffered at Plessy, the torment 
 that I endured in the railway train, the blank disappoint- 
 ment that fell upon me when we were shown into those 
 bedrooms— never shall I forget the disappointment, for I 
 foresaw it all as it would have been if we had remained 
 there '
 
 164 
 
 The Lovers 'But, dearest, we didn't remain there.' 
 
 ^relay .-^j^ accident discovered these rooms, and another 
 
 accident has rendered these rooms almost accursed.' 
 
 * It's verj' unlucky,' Doris said, ' that the valet de chamhre 
 overlooked the pyjamas. Have you searched well in your 
 suit-case ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I have turned it all out. There are no pyjamas. 
 The only chance is that I might buy some in Orelay. 
 The shops may not be closed yet, if we went out at 
 once.' 
 
 'I'm afraid,' Doris answered, 'that you'll not find any 
 pyjamas in Orelay.' 
 
 'Not like those that I told the idiot to put into my 
 dressing-case ; I know that well enough. You think the 
 rough things that the shops supply here would be worse 
 than none ? Perhaps.' 
 
 We had ordered dinner for half-past seven, and Doris 
 said as we walked through the hall, ' You'd better leave 
 word that we shall not be back till eight o'clock.' 
 
 As we went through the narrow dark streets of Orelay, 
 through which the cold night wind was blowing, I 
 observed that Doris was clad too lightly ; she had only 
 the summer things that she wore at Plessy, and I begged 
 of her to draw her cloak tightly round her. 
 
 ' Here is a shop,' I said, and in we went. ' Madame, 
 have you got any pyjamas } ' 
 
 'No, we have no pyjamas. We don't keep them,' 
 answered a matronly woman, and Doris said as we hurried 
 away to another shop that she looked as if we had asked 
 for something indecent. The same answer befell us shop 
 after shop, down the long street, each one advising us to 
 try the next, till at last there were no more to try. 
 
 'There is only one place,' said a pretty young woman 
 who seemed to have divined our misfortune and to 
 sympathise with us, 'where you can get pyjamas in
 
 165 
 
 Orelay. Turn down the street by the church and follow The Lovers 
 it till you come to the Place [I've forgotten the name], °^ Oxdzy 
 and at the corner you will see a shop Les Elegants; if 
 they have no pyjamas there you had better buy a night- 
 shirt, sir.' 
 
 ' Thank you, thank you.' Doris and I hurried away in 
 quest of Les Elegants ; we walked half a mile, stopping 
 now and then at small shops. ' Have you got pyjamas ? ' 
 ' No, we don't keep them, only nightshirts.' At last 
 appeared the welcome letters Les Elega7its, and we 
 addressed ourselves to the young man in attendance, who 
 told us that the last he had he returned to the makers, 
 there being no demand for pyjamas in Orelay. 
 
 ' Alas ! Doris, we have fallen upon a moral town ! — high 
 beds and nightshirts.' 
 
 'But, sir, may I not offer you a silk nightshirt.'' We 
 have some very pretty ones.' 
 
 I looked at Doris. 
 
 ' We might see them,' she said ; * this is a pretty stripe,' 
 and she examined the quality carefully with her long 
 fingers, which I have already mentioned were slender and 
 curved, and while she was examining the nightshirts I 
 tried to discover from the shopman how it was there was 
 no demand for pyjamas. W^ere there no young men in 
 Orelay who declined to enter a lady's room in a night- 
 shirt } The shopman looked at me doubtfully, and 
 answered that no doubt there were some, but les datidies 
 sent to Paris for their underwear. 
 
 ' I think, dear, that this nightshirt ' 
 
 * Yes, yes, Doris, better, a little better than nothing.' 
 
 As we raced home through the ill-paved streets of 
 Orelay, the houses black about us, falling into rapid 
 perspectives against the sky, the dome of the cathedral 
 showing now and again, Doris said, ' I am sure that 
 pyjamas are looked upon as mortal sins in Orelay, and
 
 166 
 
 The Lovers silk nightshirts with pink stripes, price ten francs, as 
 of Orelay venial, perhaps ; meriting, however, a long term in 
 purgatory.' 
 
 * No doubt you are right/ and we ran on again, 
 tossing ideas from one to the other. I remember telling 
 Doris that everything unusual is considered immoral — 
 nor should we be surprised that this is so, the original 
 meaning of the word being unusual. The moralists are 
 better grammarians than they think, for it would be 
 correct to say that broken weather is immoral weather, 
 though I doubt if one would be understood. At that 
 moment the sight of a marchcmd d' aiitiqidte interrupted our 
 conversation, and going into the shop we spent some time 
 hunting for a present for Doris. When we left the shop 
 the ideas VvC had abandoned so hurriedly returned to us, 
 and we remembered how in Western Europe it is con- 
 sidered moral for a woman to exhibit her bosom in the 
 evening — the reason why women wear low dresses is ap- 
 parent enough (' Doris, dear, aren't we funny creatures ? ') — 
 whereas in the East a woman would be considered a very 
 frivolous person if she uncovered her bosom in the day- 
 time, to say nothing of the evening ; but she may uncover 
 her feet, for it is customary to do so. ' So you see, Doris, 
 dear, that grammar is an abiding rock standing in the 
 midst of ethical quicksands.' 
 
 ' Do you think, then,' said Doris, ' that what we have 
 agreed to look upon as a sin to-day was once regarded as 
 meritorious ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; and will again. 
 
 'Do you know,' she said suddenly, 'that I have often 
 heard mother tell that drawers were not worn by women 
 in England until they were brought into fashion by the 
 Empress Eugenie.' 
 
 ' Who,' cried I, ' invented the crinoline, which could not 
 be worn without long drawers reaching to the ankle in
 
 167 
 
 our gusty climate. And this gave the moralist and the The Lovers 
 theologian their chance of discussing a congenial subject. °^ Urelay 
 And how they must have enjoyed the discussion ! Prurient 
 folk/ I muttered, and my anger rising rapidly, I did not 
 regain my temper till we reached the hotel. 
 
 * I am longing/ said Doris, ' to see that beautiful red 
 drawing-room with all the candelabra lighted and half a 
 dozen logs blazing on the hearth. It is extraordinary 
 how cold it is in the street.' 
 
 To procure an impartial mind, bodily ease is necessary, 
 and we sat on either side of a splendid fire warming our 
 toes ; and when completely thawed I was prone to admit 
 that the hostility which the Empi'ess's drawers had met 
 with in England was not so superficial as it seemed at first 
 sight, for the English people are essentially Christian, and 
 in declaring that drawers were immoral, public feeling 
 was only expressing — crudely if you will, but still ex- 
 pressing — the belief that lies at the root of all Christianity: 
 that refinement is in itself sinful, and all that conduces to 
 refinement is dangerous. At the bottom of his heart 
 every Christian feels, though he may not care to admit it 
 in these modern days, that every attempt to make love a 
 beautiful and pleasui'able thing is a return to paganism. 
 In the eyes of the moralist and theologian how much 
 superior to either is the astrologer. The only excuse for 
 man's love of woman is that without it the world would 
 come to an end. But why they should consider the end of 
 the world a misfortune, I have never been able to find out, 
 for if their creed be a true one, the principal use of this 
 world is to supply hell with fuel. Very few indeed may 
 hope to get to heaven. 
 
 ' But France is not a Christian country, and yet, you see, 
 the high bed has not become extinct,' said Doris. 
 
 ' Ideas die slowly. Pyjamas are still regarded as a 
 capital luxury ' The nightcap has disappeared, it is true.
 
 168 
 
 The Lovers even in Orelay, but the nightshirt remains, alas ! alas 
 Urelay a^d I opened my parcel and produced the garment. 
 ' Love is dressed ridiculously, made to look like a zany. 
 I would that I had bought a nightcap ; it's a pity to weai* 
 the nightshirt without the cap.' 
 
 ' I am thankful you didn't/ Doris murmured under her 
 breath. 
 
 ' I don't know ; it is better to look awful than to look ugly.' 
 
 ' You would look awful, dear.' 
 
 ' Doris, I should like to see 3-ou in a nightcap and one 
 of those lorig frilled nightgowns of our grandmothers that 
 one sees in pictures.' 
 
 'I wonder how I should look/ Doris answered, with 
 that gravity which always comes into a woman's face 
 when the talk turns on what she is to wear. 
 
 * Of what are you thinking, dear } ' she asked suddenly. 
 
 ' Only of the nightcap, but it is late ; I suppose we 
 should find the shops closed ; moreover, we might not 
 be able to get one in Orelay. Besides, Doris, the night- 
 cap would lead to a return to the old custom of sleeping 
 together. When the nightcap was in vogue love was 
 cribbed, cabined, and confined, if I may quote Shakespeare, 
 within the limits of a four-post bed, and the time for love 
 was regulated as near to midnight as may be ; and after 
 the love-feast the married couple were expected to turn 
 round to sleep, perchance to pray.' 
 
 Doris's opinion on this point, whether lovers should 
 sleep together, Avas not easily ascertained. Women are 
 conservative, and old customs appeal to them. 
 
 ' I have never slept with any one in my life ; de cela au 
 moins je tins vierge.' 
 
 'Now you are quoting from Les Confessions (Tun Jeime 
 Anglais.' 
 
 ' One never changes. Did I say that ? I had forgotten. 
 But since writing that confession I have been informed by
 
 169 
 
 the erudite in love that my abstinence has, no doubt, lost The Lovers 
 me a great deal ; all my friends tell me so. I have been °^ OreJay 
 told, and by one who should know, that he who has not 
 waked up in the morning with his beloved, to see the sun- 
 light in the window, and to hear the birds in the vine, 
 does not know the rapture and the enchantment of lovers' 
 intimacy.' 
 
 As I confided my friend's opinion to Doris the firelight 
 played over her face and hair, and I perceived for the first 
 time what it must be to see the sleeping face beside me, 
 lying in the disordered gold of long thick hair. And 
 Doris, who was doubtless feeling a little tired, sat looking 
 into the fire. Her attitude encouraged reverie ; dream 
 linked into dream, till at last the chain of dreams was 
 broken by the entrance of the pink waiter bringing in our 
 dinner. In the aftei'noon I had called him an imbecile, 
 which made him very angry, and he had explained that he 
 was not an imbecile, but if I hurried him he lost his head 
 altogether. Of course one is sorry for speaking rudely to 
 a waiter ; it is a shocking thing to do, and nothing but 
 the appearance of the bedroom we were shown into would 
 excuse me. His garrulousness, which was an irritation in 
 the afternoon, was an amusement as he laid the cloth and 
 told me the bill of fare ; moreover, I had to consult him 
 about the wine, and I liked to hear him telling me, in his 
 strong Southern accent, of a certain wine of the country, 
 as good as Pommard and as strong, and which would be 
 known all over the world, only it did not bear transportation. 
 Remembering how tired we were, and the verse : — 
 
 Quand on boit du Pommard, on devient bon, on aime. 
 On devient aussi bon que le Pommard lui-meme, 
 
 came to my tongue, and we drank, hoping that the wine 
 would awaken us. But the effect of that strong Southern 
 wine seemed to be more lethargic than exhilarating.
 
 170 
 
 The Lovers and when dinner was over and we had returned to our 
 <Jrelay seats by the fireside we were too weary to talk, and too 
 nervous. 
 
 'The hour has come, Doris,' I said, with a choking 
 sensation in my throat, and I seemed to be trembling in 
 my very entrails ; she, too, seemed nervous. ' It is time 
 to go to our room. We are both tired. Why should we 
 sit up any longer ? ' 
 
 I have told how I looked forward to the intimacy of the 
 fire in Doris's bedroom, to sitting by it with her, seeing 
 her undo her hair, unloose her bodice, seeing her kick her 
 velvet slippers aside, draw her silk stockings off her legs 
 white as milk, and twist herself into the great bed wide as 
 a battlefield. It is rarely that things fall out exactly as 
 we imagine them, but in this instance they did. I have 
 told of the disappointment we experienced on seeing the 
 rooms that were offered to us, and then of the loss of 
 my pyjamas ; but the fears of the lover were not ended 
 yet. The great fear lest the eagerness of his desire should 
 undermine his bodily strength was upon me ; and had not 
 Doris proved all that I had imagined her to be, my fate 
 might have been a sad one. She was not a Tanagra 
 figure, a sketch in clay, but a finished marble ; she was 
 tine Jille en marhre, but not at all une fille de marbre ; 
 and, all preliminaries over, I went in unto her. Saved ! 
 Saved ! by her beauty from the misfortune dreaded by 
 all lovers. 
 
 It is with regret that I cannot tell her beauty in 
 every intimate detail, for what is so well worth telling 
 as beauty? — the beauty of a woman's arms when she 
 opens them to you, the most beautiful movement in the 
 world but one, and the pretty movement of the hips when 
 she rolls herself over like a puss cat — a lovely thing 
 to see and to brood upon. Women are aware of their 
 beauty, just as cats are ; and men are aware of their
 
 171 
 
 ugliness. Mine was a sore trouble to me in that fine The Lovers 
 bed with Doris beside me. ' It is beauty and the beast/ °^ t)relay 
 I said. But she didn't seem to see me as I saw myself; 
 and, like Pilate, I asked myself, ' What is truth ? ' but 
 will not intrude my meditation on the reader, who will be 
 more interested to hear that one remembers everything 
 better than the moment of ecstasy — the colour of the 
 rooms, their shapes, the furniture, all is seen by me to-day 
 as truly as if the reality were before me ; the very wood 
 we burned in the great fireplace, the shape of one log, 
 how it fell into ashes at one end, leaving a great knotted 
 stump at the other, the moving of the candles into shadowy 
 places so that the light should not fall upon our eyes — all 
 these details are remembered, only the moment of ecstasy 
 is forgotten. It is a pity that this is so. But I can recall 
 the moment when I stood at the foot of the bed bidding 
 her good-night, for the moment comes when all lovers 
 must part, unless indeed they are married folk " who 
 occupy the same room." The occupation of the same 
 room, one of the most important questions in love's 
 economy, was being treated when the pink waiter brought 
 in our dinner ; and the reader will remember that I was 
 telling Doris how those learned in love had told me that 
 he who has not waked up in the morning with his beloved, 
 seeing the sunlight in the window, hearing the bii'ds in 
 the vine, does not know the rapture of love, the enchant- 
 ment of its intimacy. The sympathetic reader will not 
 have forgotten this avowal, and his instinct leaping for- 
 ward, he will have seen me standing triumphant on the 
 summit of all earthly love ; therefore the admission that, 
 feeling myself falling asleep, I bade Doris good-night at 
 the foot of the bed, will cast him into the slough of despond, 
 from which my subsequent narrative, however lively, may 
 fail to lift him. But thousrh I did not realise the sacred 
 moment at Orelay which, with the music of harps.
 
 172 
 
 The Lovers Wagner depicts when Siegfried's kiss awakes Brunnhilde 
 of Orelay — i learned, nevertheless, at Orelay that my friend who 
 said I was but a novice, a mere acolyte in Love's service, 
 was not wholly wrong in his criticism of my life, tor 
 waking suddenly after sleeping for some hours, I heard 
 Doris trying the liandle of my door. I called to ask her if 
 she were seeking anything. She said there was no clock 
 in her room, but there was one on my chimney-piece, and 
 it seemed so kind of her to come to my room that I could 
 not keep myself from asking her to come into my bed, 
 and finding her nothing loth I took her in my arms, 
 telling her that I had never seen a woman so early in 
 the morning before. This confession pleased her, for 
 she did not wish our love to be sullied with memories 
 of other women ; and that morning she shed such delight 
 about me that I sought her the following morning in her 
 room, and that visit, too, is remembered, though it is 
 less distinct in my mind than her visit to my room, and 
 when I left her to dress myself she came running in 
 to tell me something she had forgotten to tell me, and 
 our intimacy was completed as she sat watching me while 
 I shaved, laughing, for it was absurd that she should 
 always have something to say to me. No sooner was she 
 gone than something awoke in my mind, too, something I 
 had unfortunately forgotten to say, and I had to lay down 
 my razor and to beg of her to let me open the door, 
 though she was in her bath. 
 
 I know a statue of a woman leaning forward wiping 
 her thighs, and that was the movement I discovei'ed 
 Doris in. The statue is not a stupid thing, but it lacks 
 much, and all it lacks I perceived in Doris, an exquisite 
 elegance that set me thinking of Fragonard, for Fragonard 
 realised what a little thing a woman is compared with a 
 man, and this was just the idea that Doris conveyed ; her 
 great mass of hair made her look smaller than she really
 
 173 
 
 was, her head seemed too large for her body, yet this The Lovers 
 
 seeming — for it was no more than a seeming — did not ° ^^^^^y 
 
 detract from her beauty ; she was as charming as if she 
 
 had looked the regulation seven-and-a-half heads, for she 
 
 was a Fragonard — an eighteenth-century bedfellow. She 
 
 bade me away, saying that nobody had seen her in her 
 
 bath before. She did not like it ; no, she did not like it ! 
 
 And thinking how charming were these subterfuges, how 
 
 little love would be without them, I heard her calling, 
 
 saying that she would be with me in ten minutes, that 
 
 I was to ring and tell the waiter to bring up our first 
 
 breakfast. 
 
 The coffee and the rolls and butter were ready before 
 Doris, and the vexation of seeing the breakfast growing 
 cold was recompensed by the pleasure of teasing her, 
 urging her to pass her arms into her dressing-gown, to 
 come as she was, it did not matter what she had on 
 underneath. The waiter did not count ; he was not a 
 man, he was a waiter, a pink creature, pinker than any- 
 thing in the world, except a baby's bum, and looking very 
 like that. 
 
 ' Hasten, dear, hasten ! ' I cried, returning to the saloon 
 to engage in chatter with the old provincial, my English 
 accent contrasting strangely with his. In Plessy I had 
 heard all accents, Swiss, German, Italian ; in Plessy there 
 was plenty of Parisian accent, and I remembered telling 
 a Parisian flower-woman, whose husband was a Savoyard, 
 that I declined to believe any more in the Southern 
 accent, ' C'est une blague qu'on m'a faite ' ; but at Orelay 
 I discovered the true accent, and listened to the old 
 waiter, who was asking me for my appreciation of the 
 wine we had drunk last night when Doris entered in a 
 foamy white dressing-gown. 
 
 ' You liked the wine, dear, didn't you .'' He wants to know 
 if we'll have the same wine for twelve-o'clock breakfast.'
 
 174 
 
 The Lovers ' Dear me, it's eleven o'clock now/ Doris answered, and 
 
 of Orclay she looked at the waiter. 
 
 ' Monsieur and Madame will go for a little walk ; 
 perhaps you would like to breakfast at one ? ' 
 
 We agreed that we could not breakfast before one, 
 and our waiter suggested that a visit to the cathedral 
 would fill up the time pleasantly and profitably ; but 
 Doris, when she had had her coffee, wanted to sit on my 
 knee and to talk to me ; and then there was a piano, and 
 she wanted to play me some things, or rather I wanted 
 to hear her. But the piano was a poor one ; the notes 
 did not come back, she said, and we talked for some 
 hours without perceiving that the time was passing. 
 After lunch the waiter again inquired if we intended to 
 go for a little walk ; and invited us to visit the cathedral. 
 ' It would do Monsieur and Madame good.' 
 * The walk or the cathedral ? ' we inquired, and, a little 
 embarrassed, the old fellow began to tell us that he had 
 not been to the catliedral for some years, but the last 
 
 _ time he was there he had been much impressed by the 
 
 darkness. It was all he could do to find his way from 
 pillar to pillar ; he had nearly fallen over the few kneeling 
 women who crouched there listening to the clergy inton- 
 ing Latin verses. According to his account, there were 
 no windows anyAvhere except high up in the dome. And 
 leaning his hands on the table, looking like all the waiters 
 that ever existed or that Avill ever exist, his apron reach- 
 ing nearly to his chin, upheld by strings passed over the 
 shoulders, he told us that it was impossible to see what 
 was happening in the chancel ; but there had seemed to 
 be a great number of clergy seated in the darkness at 
 the back, for one heard voices behind the tall pieces of 
 furniture singing Latin verses ; terminations in " us," here 
 and there a "noster," words ending in "e," with the 
 organ always coming in a little late.
 
 175 
 
 ' My good man/ I said, ' your description leaves nothing The Lovers 
 to be desired. Why should I go to the cathedral unless °^ t)relay 
 to verify your impressions? I am sure the service is 
 exactly as you describe it, and I would not for the world 
 destroy the picture you have evoked of those forgotten 
 priests intoning their vespers in the middle of the granite 
 church behind a three-branched candlestick.' 
 
 The poor man left the room very much disconcerted, 
 feeling, Doris said, as if he had lost one of the forks. 
 
 * Thank Heaven that matter is done with— a great 
 weight is off my mind.' 
 
 'But there is the museum. You would like to see 
 that ? ' said Doris, and a change came into my face. 
 
 'Well, Doris, the waiter has told us that there is a 
 celebrated study by David in the museum, " The Nymph 
 of Orelay." ' 
 
 ' But, dear one, am I not your nymph of Orelay ? ' and 
 Doris slipped on her knees and put her arms about me. 
 ' Will I not do as well as the painted creature in the 
 museum .'' ' 
 
 ' Far better,' said I, ' far better. Now we are free, 
 Doris, freed from the cathedral and the museum, and all 
 to-morrow belongs to us, and we may pass it in bed if 
 we like.' 
 
 ' And so we will,' said Doris meditatively ; and I looked 
 forward to an interesting and instructive day in Doris's 
 bed, to gathering many precious memories of her beauty, 
 thereby combining aesthetics with hygienics, for neither 
 caught a cold in Orelay, a thing easy to do when a mistral 
 is blowing. It was not till the following evening that we 
 remembered our bags, ' Which need packing,' I said. 
 * Time is always on the wing, Doris. To-morrow morning 
 we leave Orelay.' 
 
 'And leaving by train,' Doris said regretfully. 'Would 
 we were going away in a carriage ! '
 
 176 
 
 The Lovers 'There is no reason why we should not drive/ and 
 of Orelay j stopped packing my bag, and stood looking at her 
 with a half-folded nightshirt in my hands. 
 
 ' Ah, that nightshirt ! ' and she laughed. 
 
 ' What shall I do with it ? ' 
 
 ' You wouldn't part with it ? You'll keep it in remem- 
 brance of Orelay.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I would not have it fall on other backs,' and 
 looking at the cream silk, faintly striped with pink, it 
 seemed to me that it was not so ugly a garment after all. 
 ' It will always remind me of these rooms, where we shall 
 never be again. Doris, is it not sad ? We have spent 
 three such days here and three such nights that one does 
 not know which was the pleasantest. Dear God, how 
 thankful we ought to be that Thou didst differentiate 
 between man and woman ! What a dismal place the 
 world would have been without sex — all its romance 
 and folly.' 
 
 * I wonder if we should have stayed three days if we 
 had not discovered these rooms .'' Dear one, I think I 
 should not have meant so much to you in those humbler 
 rooms : you attach much importance to these cornices 
 and hangings.' 
 
 ' I should have loved you always, Doris, but I think 
 I can love you better here,' and with our bags in our 
 hands we wandered from the bedroom into the drawing- 
 room and stood admiring its bygone splendour. ' Doris, 
 dear, you must play me " The Nut-Bush." I want to hear 
 it on that old piano. Tinkle it, dear, tinkle it, and don't 
 play " The Nut-Bush " too sentimentally, nor yet too gaily.' 
 
 ' Which way will you have it } ' she said ; ' " as a true 
 love's truth or a light love's art ?" ' 
 
 ' I would have it dainty and fantastic, as Schumann 
 wrote it.' 
 
 * With a hint of loneliness in it .'' '
 
 177 
 
 ' That is it/ I cried, ' that is the right time to play it in, The Lovers 
 ■without stress on either side. . . . No, you mustn't leave ^^ OrtUy 
 the piano, Doris. Sing me some songs. Go on singing 
 Schumann or Schubert. They were the singing-birds of 
 the 'fifties. Sing "The Lotus-flower" or "Moonlight." 
 I love their romantic sentimentalities : orange gardens, 
 south winds, a lake with a pinnace upon it.' 
 
 ' With a nightingale singing in a dark wood by a lonely 
 shore,' she replied. 'That is how they felt, how they 
 dreamed.' 
 
 And resigning herself to my humour she sang song after 
 song, till at last, awaking from a long reverie of music and 
 old association of memories, I said, 'Play me a waltz, 
 Doris; I would hear an old-time waltz played in this 
 room ; its romantic flourishes will evoke the departed 
 spirits,' and very soon, sitting in my chair with half-closed 
 eyes, it seemed to me that I saw crinolines faintly gliding 
 over the floor, and white-stockinged feet, sloping shoulders 
 and glistening necks with chignons — swan-like women, 
 and long- whiskered cavaliers wearing peg-top trousers and 
 braided coats dancing or talking with them. . . . The 
 music suddenly stopped, and Doris said : — 
 
 ' If we are to catch our train we must go on with 
 our packing.' 
 
 ' You mustn't talk to me of trains,' and overcome 
 with a Schumann-like longing and melancholy I took 
 her in my arms. No Chelsea or Dresden figure was ever 
 more dainty, gayer or brighter. She was Schumann and 
 Dresden, but a Dresden of an earlier period than Schumann ; 
 but why compare her to anything.^ She was Doris, the 
 very embodiment of her name. 
 
 ' Ah, Doris, why are we leaving here ? Why can't we 
 remain here for ever ? ' 
 
 ' Why, indeed,' she said ; ' I feel the charm of those 
 old stately rooms as much as you do. Why, indeed, 
 
 N
 
 178 
 
 The Lovers are we leaving ? But, dearest, we have missed the 
 of Orelay ^^31^.' 
 
 The pink waiter came up, I promised to hasten, but 
 my love of Doris delayed us unduly, and we arrived at 
 the station only to hear that the train had gone away 
 some ten minutes before. The train that left was the 
 only good train in the day, and missing it had given us 
 another [twenty-four hours in Orelay ; but Doris was 
 superstitious. * Our three days are done,' she said ; ' if 
 we don't go to-day we ^hall go to-morrow, and to go 
 on the fourth day Avould be unlucky. And what shall we 
 do meanwhile ? The spell is broken. We have left our 
 hotel and must take a carriage, and drive to the next 
 station. The sun is shining, and the country is beautiful,' 
 she pleaded, *we saw it from the railway, a strange red 
 country, grey with olives, ohve orchards extending to the 
 very foot of the mountains, and mingling with the pine- 
 trees descending the slopes.' 
 
 * The slopes ! ' I said, ' the precipitous sides of that high 
 rock ! Shall I ever forget it .^ — beginning like the tail of a 
 lion and rising up to the sky, towering above the level 
 landscape like a sphinx.' 
 
 ' The drive would be delightful ! ' 
 
 ' It would be a continuation of the romance of the 
 old Empire drawing-room. A post-chaise ! If we could 
 discover one.' 
 
 Sometimes Nature seems to conspire to carry out an 
 idea, and though no veritable post-chaise of old time was 
 discovered in the coach-house behind the courtyard in 
 which the ilex-trees flourished, it was our lot to catch 
 sight of a carriage some twenty-five or thirty years old, 
 a cumbersome old thing, hung upon C-springs, of the 
 security of which the coachman seemed doubtful. He 
 spoke disparagingly, telling us that the proprietor had 
 been trying to sell it, but no one would buy it, so heavy
 
 179 
 
 was it on the horses' hocks, and so out of fashion that The Lovers 
 he didn't care to drive it. The coachman's notions of °^ Orelay 
 beauty did not concern us, but Doris dreaded lest one 
 of the wheels should come off. On examination it was 
 found to be roadworthy, and I said to Doris as I helped 
 her into it : — 
 
 'If it be no post-chaise, at all events ladies wearing 
 crinolines have sat inside it, that is certain, and gentle- 
 men wearing peg-top trousers with braid upon them. 
 Good God, Doris, if you were to wear a crinoline I should 
 love you beyond hope of repentance. When I was a boy 
 every one wore white stockings ; I had only heard of 
 black ones, and I always hoped to meet a lady wearing 
 black stockings, and now my hope is to meet one wearing 
 white.' 
 
 'We might have searched the town for a crinoline and 
 a pair of white stockings.' 
 
 'Yes, and I might have discovered a black silk stock. 
 I wonder how I should have looked in it. Doris,' I said, 
 ' we have missed the best part of our adventure. We 
 forgot to dress the part we are playing — the lovers of 
 Orelay, think of it.' 
 
 Who will disagree with me when I say that no adventure 
 is complete unless it necessitates an amount of ceremonial, 
 the wearing of wigs, high bodices, stockings and breeches ? 
 Every one likes to disguise himself, whether for a masque- 
 rade ball or to be enrolled in some strange order. Have 
 you, reader, ever seen any one enrolled in any of these 
 orders? If you have, you will excuse the little comedy 
 and believe it to be natural — the comedy that Doris and 
 I played in the old carriage driving from Orelay to 
 Verlancourt, where we hoped to breakfast. 
 
 We could hardly speak for excitement. Doris thought 
 of how she would look in a crinoline, and I remembered 
 the illustrations in an early edition of Balzac of which I
 
 180 
 
 The Lovers am the happy possessor. How cliarming the men looked 
 ot Urelay jjj |.|jg tight trousers and the black stockings of the period ; 
 and crossing my legs I followed with interest the line of 
 my calf, for I remembered somebody doing so in Les 
 Illusions Perdues. She and I lay back among our cushions, 
 thinking which story in "The Human Comedy" was 
 the most applicable to our case ; and the only one we 
 could think of was Madame Bargeton, a provincial blue- 
 stocking, who left Angouleme for Paris with Lucien de 
 Rubempre. There were no railways in the 'forties ; they 
 must have travelled in a post-chaise. Yes, I remember 
 their journey — faintly, it is true, but I remember it. 
 Madame Bargeton was a woman of five-and-thirty at 
 least, Doris was much younger, and Lucien was only 
 one-and-twenty. The names of the people of the Comedy 
 and of the people they met at the theatre and in the 
 Tuileries Gai-dens — Rastignac, Madame D'Espard, the 
 Duchess of Chaulieu, Madame de Rochefide and Canalis — 
 carried my mind back from crinolines and white stockings, 
 from peg-top trousers and braided coats, to the slim trousers 
 that were almost breeches, and to the high-breasted gowns 
 of the Restoration. Our mothers and fathers wore the 
 crinolines and the peg-top trousers, and our grandfathers 
 the tight trousers and the black silk stocks, and the 
 remembrance of these costumes filled me with a tender- 
 ness that I could not subdue. Doris's mood was the same 
 as mine, it was plain upon her face. 
 
 We were thinking of that subject which interested men 
 before history began — the mutability of human things, the 
 vanishing of generations. Young as she was, Doris was 
 thinking of death ; nor is it the least extraordinary she 
 should, for as soon as any one has reached the age of 
 reflection the thought of death may come upon him at any 
 moment, though he be in the middle of a ballroom, or 
 lying in the arms of his mistress. If the scene be a
 
 181 
 
 ballroom he has only to look outside, and the night will The Lovers 
 remind him that in a few years he will enter the eternal °^ Urelay 
 night ; or if the scene be a bedroom, the breast of his 
 mistress may perchance remind him of another whose 
 breast was equally beautiful and who is now amid the 
 earth ; lesser things Avill suffice to recall his thoughts from 
 life to death — a rose-petal falling on a marble table, a dead 
 bird in the path as he walks in his garden. And after the 
 thought of death the most familiar thought is the decay of 
 the bodily vesture. The first grey hair may seem to us an 
 amusing accident, but very few years will pass before 
 another and yet another appear, and if these do not 
 succeed in reminding us that decay has begun, a black 
 speck on a tooth cannot fail to do so ; and when we go to 
 the dentist to have it stopped, we have begun to repair 
 artificially the falling structure. The activity of 3'outh 
 soon passes, and its slenderness. I remember still the 
 shock I felt on hearing an athlete say that he could no 
 longer run races of a hundred yards ; he was half a second 
 or a quarter of a second slower than he was last year, I 
 looked at him, saying, ' But you are only one-and-twenty,' 
 and he answered, ' Yes, that is it.' A football player, I 
 believe, is out of date at eight-and-twenty. Out of date ! 
 What a pathos there is in the words — out of date ! Suranne, 
 as the French say. How are we to render it in English ? 
 By the beautiful but artificial word "Yester-year"? Yester- 
 year, perhaps, for a sorrow clings about it ; it conveys a 
 sense of autumn, of "the long decline of roses." There 
 is something ghostlike in the out-of-date. The land- 
 scape about Plessy transported us back into antiquity, 
 making us dream of nymphs and dryads, but the gilt 
 cornices and damask hangings and the salon at Orelay 
 set us dreaming of a generation ago, of the youth of 
 our parents. Ancient conveys no personal meaning, but 
 the out-of-date transports us, as it were, to the stern of
 
 182 
 
 The Lovers the vessel, throws us into a mournful attitude ; we lean 
 
 of Orelay quj. heads upon our hands and, looking back, we see the 
 
 white wake of the vessel, with shores sinking in the 
 
 horizon and the crests of the mountains passing away into 
 
 the clouds. 
 
 And while musing on these abstract questions raised 
 by my remark that we had not managed our adventure 
 properly, since we had forgotten to provide ourselves with 
 proper costumes, the present suddenly thrust itself upon 
 me. ' Good God,' I said to Doris, ' let us look back, for Ave 
 shall never see Orelay again ! ' and she from one window, 
 and I from the other, saw the spires of Orelay for the last 
 time. We could not tear ourselves away, but fortunately 
 the road turned ; Orelay was blotted out from our sight 
 for ever, and we sank back to remember that a certain 
 portion of our lives was over and done, a beautiful part of 
 our lives had been thrown into the void, into the great 
 rubble-heap of emotions that had been lived through, that 
 are no more. 
 
 ' Of -what are you thinking, dear } You have been far 
 away. This is the first time we have been separated, and 
 we are not yet five miles from Orelay.' 
 
 ' Five miles ! Ah, if it were only five ! ' 
 
 We did not speak for a long time, and watching the 
 midday sun, I thought that peradventure it was not further 
 from us than yesterday. Were I to say so to Doris she 
 would answer, ' It will be the same in Paris,' but if she did 
 it would be the first falsehood she had told me, for we 
 both knew that things are never the same — things change, 
 for better or worse, but they change. 
 
 This last sentence seems to me somewhat trite, and if I 
 were to continue this story any further, my pen would run 
 into many other superficial and facile observations, for my 
 mind is no longer engrossed with the story. I have it in 
 mind no longer, and sit asking myself whether we drove
 
 183 
 
 into Verlancourt and breakfasted there or drove all the way The Lovers 
 to Paris with relays of horses. A moment of reflection is °^ Urel-'^y 
 enough : we breakfasted at Verlancourt, and when we 
 asked the coachman after breakfast if he would care to 
 go on to Paris with us, he raised his eyes, ' The carriage 
 
 is a very old one. Monsieur ' Doris and I laughed, 
 
 for, truth to tell, we were so abominably shaken that we 
 were glad to exchange the picturesque old coach of our 
 fathers' generation for the train. 
 
 These stories are memories, not inventions, and an 
 account of the days I spent in Paris would interest no- 
 body ; all the details are forgotten, and invention and 
 remembrance do not agree any better than the goat and 
 the cabbage. So, omitting all that does not interest 
 me — and if it does not interest me how can it interest 
 the reader? — I will tell merely that my adventure with 
 Doris was barren of scandal or unpleasant consequences. 
 Her mother, a dear unsuspicious woman — whether her 
 credulity was the depth of folly or the depth of wisdom, 
 I know not ; there are many such mothers, my blessing 
 be upon them ! — took charge of her daughter, and Doris 
 and her mother returned to England. I am afraid that 
 when I confess that I did not speak to Doris of marriage 
 I shall forfeit the good opinion of my reader, who will, 
 of course, think that a love-story with such an agreeable 
 creature as Doris merited a lifetime of devotion ; but 
 I pray the reader to discover an excuse for me in the 
 fact that Doris told me when we were in Plessy that there 
 was no question of her marrying any one but Albert, remind- 
 ing me that she had sacrificed the great love of her life in 
 order that she might remain constant to Albert. Is it to 
 be expected, then, that having done that, she would put • 
 Albert aside and throw her lot in with mine } She might 
 have done this ; men and women act inconsequently. 
 Having on one occasion refused to drop the mutton-chop
 
 184 
 
 The Lovers for the shadoAv, on the next occasion they would drop it 
 of Orelay f^j. ^.j^^ shadow of the shadow ; but Doris was made of 
 sterner stuff, and some months afterwards she Avrote me 
 a steady sensible little letter, telling me that she was going 
 to be married, and that it seemed to her quite natural that 
 she should marry Albert. Years have passed away, and 
 nothing has happened to lead me to believe that she has 
 not proved a true and loving wife. Albert has always told 
 me that he found all the qualities in her which he had 
 foreseen from the first time he looked upon her pretty, 
 sparkling face. Frown not, reader, accuse me not of 
 superficial cynicism ! Albert is part of the world's inheri- 
 tance. You may be Albert yourself, every one has been or 
 will be Albert ; Albert is in us all, just as I am in you all. 
 Doris, too, is in you, dear lady, who sit reading my book — 
 Doris my three-days mistress at Orelay, and Doris the 
 faithful spouse of Albert for twenty years in a lonely 
 London suburb. 
 
 Study and boudoir would like to know if Doris had 
 any children. About two years afterwards I heard that 
 she was "expecting." The word came up spontaneously 
 in my mind, perhaps because I had written it in the 
 beginning of the story. Reader, )ou will remember in 
 Massimilla Doni how Balzac, when he came to the last 
 pages, declares that he dare not tell the end of the 
 adventure ; one word, he says, will be enough for the 
 worshippers of the ideal — Massimilla Doni was " expect- 
 ing." I have not read the story for many years, but it 
 lives in me, and when I began to write this story I 
 turned to the last paragraph to find myself soon baffled 
 by certain grammatical obscurities, or what seemed to me 
 such. I seemed to understand and to admire* it all till 
 I came to the line that ' les peuplades de cent cathedrales 
 gothiques (which might be rendered as the figured company 
 of a hundred Gothic cathedrals), tout le peuple des figures qui
 
 185 
 
 brisent leur forme pour venir a vous, artistes comprehensifs, The Lovers 
 
 toutes ees angeliques filles incorporelles accoururent autour °^ Orelay 
 
 du lit de Massimilla, et y pleurerent!' The riddle is why 
 
 statues should break their forms (forrne, I suppose, should 
 
 be translated Dioukl) — break their moulds — the expression 
 
 seems very inadequate — break their moulds " in order to go 
 
 to you, great imaginative artists." How could they break 
 
 their moulds or their forms to go to the imaginative artists, 
 
 the mould or the form being the gift of the imaginative 
 
 artists ? I should have understood Balzac better if he had 
 
 said that the statues escape from their niches, and the 
 
 Madonnas and the angels from their frames, to gather 
 
 round the bed of Massimilla to weep. Balzac's idea seems 
 
 to have got a little tangled, or maybe I am stupid to-day. 
 
 However, here is the passage : — 
 
 ' Les peris, les ondines, les fees, les sylphides du vieux 
 temps, les muses de la Grece, les vierges de marbre de la 
 Certosa di Pavia, le Jour et la Nuit de Michel Ange, 
 les petits anges que Bellini le premier mit au bas des 
 tableaux d'eglise, et que Raphael a faits si divinement au 
 bas de la vierge au donataire, et de la madone qui gele 
 a Dresde, les delicieuses filles d'Orcagna, dans I'egiise 
 de San-Michele a Florence, les choeurs celestes du tombeau 
 de Saint Sebald a Nuremberg, quelques vierges du Duomo 
 de Milan, les peuplades de cent cathedrales gothiques, tout 
 le peuple des figures qui brisent leur forme pour venir a 
 vous, artistes comprehensifs, toutes ces angeliques filles 
 incorporelles accoururent autour du lit de Massimilla, et 
 y pleurerent.' 
 
 X 
 
 THERE WAS a time when my dream was not In the 
 literature, but painting ; and I remember an Luxembourg 
 
 .... . . ^ 1 n Gardens 
 
 American givmg me a commission to make a small copy
 
 186 
 
 In the of Ingres' " Perseus and Andromeda," and myself sitting 
 
 Luxembourg ^^^ ^ high stool in the Luxembourg, trying to catch the 
 
 Gardens riiii ii^-i 
 
 terror of the head tiirown back, ot the arms widespread, 
 
 chained to the rock, and the beauty of the foot, advanced 
 
 to the edge of the wave. The poor thing is in some 
 
 Western state, maybe where people are ignorant enough 
 
 to accept it as a sketch for the original picture. But why 
 
 am I thinking of it at all ? Only for that a more interesting 
 
 memory hangs upon it. 
 
 After working all one morning, I left the museum 
 feeling half satisfied with my drawing, but dreading the 
 winged monster that awaited me after lunch. In those 
 days I was poor, though rich for the Quarter, and moved 
 in a society of art students who used to meet for breakfast 
 in a queer little cafe, the meal costing about a shilling. 
 On my return from this cafe soon after twelve — I break- 
 fasted early that morning — I remember how, overcome by 
 a sudden idleness, I loitered in the Gardens to watch the 
 birds and the sunlight, and they seemed to understand 
 each other so well that I threw myself on a bench and 
 began to wonder if there was anything better in the world 
 worth doing than to sit in an alley of clipped limes smoking, 
 thinking of Paris and of myself. 
 
 Every one, or nearly every one, except perhaps the 
 upper classes, whose ideas of Paris are the principal 
 boulevards — the Rue de Rivoli, the Rue de la Paix — 
 knows the Luxembourg Gardens ; and watching April at 
 play and listening to water trickling from a vase that 
 a great stone Neptune held in his arms at the end of the 
 alley, my thoughts turned on a certain palace, now a 
 museum, rarely visited, whither I had gone a week ago 
 with Mildred, but finding that she had never heard of 
 Madame de Sevigne, and did not care whether she had 
 lived in this palace or another, I spoke to her of the 
 Place des Vosges, telling that it had once been the
 
 187 
 
 habitation of the old French nobiHty. As I spoke, its colour In the 
 
 rose up before my eyes, pretty tones of yellow and brown A-j^uxembourg 
 
 brick, with wrought-iron railings, high-pitched roofs, and 
 
 tall clustered chimneys. I tried to remember if there 
 
 were any colonnades ; and failing, fell to thinking how 
 
 the mind of a nation shapes itself like rocks, by a process 
 
 of slow accumulation, and that it takes centuries to gather 
 
 together an idea so characteristic as the Place des Vosges. 
 
 One cannot view it — I cannot, at least — without thinking 
 
 of the great monarchal centuries, and of the picturesque 
 
 names which I have learned from Balzac's novels and from 
 
 the history of France. In his Etude de Catherine de Medicis, 
 
 Balzac speaks of Madame de Sauve, who must have lived 
 
 in the Place des Vosges. Monsieur de Montresser might 
 
 have occupied a flat on the first floor. Le Comte Bouve- 
 
 rand de la Loyere, La Marquise d' Osmond, Le Comte de 
 
 Coetlogon, La ISIarquise de Villefranche, and Le Due de 
 
 Cadore, and many other names rise up in my mind, but I 
 
 Avill not burden this story with them. I suppose the strict 
 
 righteousness would be to find out who had lived in the 
 
 Place des Vosges ; but the search, I am afraid, would 
 
 prove tedious, and perhaps not worth the trouble, for if 
 
 none of the bearers of the names I have mentioned lived 
 
 in the Place des Vosges, it is certain that others bearing 
 
 equally noble names lived there. 
 
 'Its appearance, Mildred, is the same to-day as it was 
 in the seventeenth century, but it is now inhabited by 
 the small tradespeople of the Quarter ; the last great 
 person who lived there was Victor Hugo, whose house 
 has been converted into a museum ; the most interesting 
 relics of the great poet are stored there.' 
 
 My enthusiasm enkindled in her enough interest to get 
 her consent to come with me. She was far from being 
 the ideal companion for such sentimental prowling as 
 mine, but that day I could not forgo a companion. And
 
 188 
 
 In the after La Place des Vosges we visited Notre Dame together, 
 
 Luxembourg ^jjg quays, and the old streets of L'Isle de la Cite, but 
 Mildred lacked the historical sense, I am afraid, for as 
 we returned in the glow of the sunset, when the monu- 
 mcnted Seine is most beautiful, I heard her say, on 
 awaking from what seemed a long meditation, that Paris 
 wasn't bad for an old city ; and it was the memory 
 of this somewhat harsh remark that caused a smile to 
 light up my lips as I looked down the dark green alley 
 through which the April sunlight flickered. 
 
 ' Absurd girl,' I said, and might have gone on thinking 
 about her if my attention had not been distracted from 
 her by the beauty of a line of masonry striking across 
 the pale spring sky, tender as a faded eighteenth-century 
 silk, only the blue was young, like a newly-opened flower. 
 And it seeming to me that I could detect great designs 
 for groups and single figures in the clouds going by, I 
 compared this vapouiy sculpture with the marbles on 
 the roofs. In every angle of the palace there are statues, 
 and in every corner of the Gardens one finds groups or 
 single figures. Ancient Rome had sixty thousand statues 
 — a statue for every thirty- three or thirty -four inhabitants ; 
 the proportion of statues to the people is not so great in 
 Paris, but no city has had so many since antiquity ; and 
 that is why Paris reminds me always of the great days 
 when this world was the only world. 
 
 In the Luxembourg Gardens we lean over the balus- 
 trades, and fall to dreaming, and dreams follow us down 
 the long avenues of clipped limes, and around the shapely 
 stone basins, every one monumented in some special way ; 
 in the Luxembourg Gardens we ascend stately flights of 
 steps absorbed by the beauty about me, and we stop to 
 ponder when we turn into the rocky hills and come upon 
 a lonely nymph or a Neptune pouring water from a vase. 
 Vague nostalgias and nympholipsies entice us, assail us in
 
 189* 
 
 the Luxembourg Gardens. At last we find ourself by In the 
 
 Carpeau's and Fremiet's fountain, which, after long admira- Luxembourg 
 
 1, Tx- . -1 Oardens 
 
 tion, we leave to stroll to W atteau s statue, appropriately 
 
 placed in a dell, among greenswards like those he loved to 
 
 paint. 
 
 As I was thinking these thoughts, a pleasant voice 
 interrupted my meditations. * I thought I should find 
 you in the museum painting,' it said, 'but here you are, 
 Idling in this pretty alley, and in the evening you'll tell 
 us you've been working all day.' ' Will you come for 
 a walk ? ' I replied, thinking that the Gardens might 
 interest her, and, if they did not, the people we should 
 meet could not fail to amuse her. We were near the 
 time to see the man who had taught the sparrows to 
 take bread from his lips, and it seeming to me not 
 unlikely that Mildred would like to see the little birds 
 hopping about his feet, I led her whither he was to 
 be found usually. If we had luck we might meet 
 Robin Hood, for in those days a man was wont to 
 wander in the Gardens wearing the costume of the 
 outlaw of Sherwood Forest, armed with a bow and arrows, 
 with which, it was said, he had killed many sparrows. 
 We might even meet a man in the beautiful chain 
 armour of the thirteenth century, sitting on a bench 
 eating his lunch, his helmet beside him — a model, no 
 doubt, come from the studio for the lunch-hour, or 
 maybe an exalte or a fumiste ; a very innocent fumiste, 
 if he were one, not one of the Quarter certainly, for 
 €ven the youngest among us would know that it would 
 take more than a suit of armour to astonish the frequenters 
 of the Gardens. 
 
 The day I walked in the Luxembourg Gardens with 
 Mildred we met none of the celebrities, but on coming 
 ■down a flight of steps we came upon an old man and 
 his wife, an aged couple, nearly seventy years of age.
 
 190 
 
 In the playing football^ and the gambols of this ancient pair 
 
 Luxembourg jj^ ^]jg pretty April sunlight were pathetic to watch. I 
 called Mildred's attention to them, telling her that in 
 another part of tlie Gardens three old women came to 
 dance ; they, too, were celebrities in a way ; but seeing 
 that Mildred was not interested, I took the first oppor- 
 tunity to talk of something else. She was more inter- 
 ested in the life of the Quarter, in le hal Biillier, in 
 stories of gnsettes and students. At that moment she 
 was considering a student who passed, his slim body 
 buttoned tightly in a long frockcoat, with just the 
 same interest as she had given to each man on board 
 the boat a week ago, as we crossed from Folkestone to 
 Boulogne. 
 
 I noticed her the moment I got on board ; her quiet, 
 neat clothes were unmistakably French, though not the 
 florid French clothes Englishwomen so often buy and 
 wear so badly. The stays she had on I thought must 
 be one of those little ribbon stays with very few bones, 
 and as she walked up and down she kept pressing her 
 leather waistband still more neatly into its place, looking 
 first over one shoulder and then over the other, reminding 
 me of a bird, so quick were her movements, and so alert. 
 She was not exactly pretty : her lips were thin, her mouth 
 too tightly closed, the under-lip almost disappearing, her 
 eyes sloped up very much at the corners, and her eye- 
 brows were black, and they nearly met. 
 
 The next time I saw her she was beside me at dinner 
 — we had come by chance to the same hotel, a small 
 hotel in the Rue du Bac. Her mother was with her, an 
 elderly sedate Englishwoman, to whom the girl talked 
 very affectionately : ' Yes, dearest mamma ' ; ' No, dearest 
 mamma.' She had a gay voice, though she never seemed 
 to laugh or joke ; but her face had a sad expression, and 
 she sighed continually. After dinner her mother went to
 
 191 
 the piano and played, with a great deal of accent and In the 
 noise, the "Brooklyn Cake- Walk." Garrm^'''^ 
 
 'We used to dance that at Nice. Oh, dear mamma, 
 do you remember that lovely two-step ? ' 
 
 Her mother nodded and smiled, and began playing a 
 Beethoven sonata, but she had not played many bars 
 before her daughter said : — 
 
 ' Now, mamma, don't play any more ; come and talk 
 to us.' 
 
 I asked her if she did not like Beethoven ; she 
 shrugged her shoulders ; an expression of irritation came 
 into her face. She either did not want to talk of 
 Beethoven then, or she had not the wit to form any 
 opinion about him, and, judging from her interest in 
 the "Brooklyn Cake- Walk," I said: — 
 
 ' The Cake-Walk is gayer, isn't it } ' 
 
 The sarcasm seemed lost upon her ; she sat looking 
 at me with a vague expression in her eyes, and I 
 found it hard to say whether it was indifference or 
 stupidity. 
 
 'Mildred plays Beethoven beautifully. My daughter 
 loves music. She plays the violin better than anybody 
 you ever heard.' 
 
 ' Then she must play very well indeed, for I've heard 
 Sarasate and ' 
 
 'If Mildred would only practise,' and she pressed her 
 daughter to play something for me. 
 
 ' I haven't got my keys, they're upstairs ; no, mamma, 
 don't bother, I'm thinking of other things.' 
 
 Her mother went back to the piano and continued the 
 sonata. Mildred looked at me, shrugged her shoulders, 
 and then turned over the illustrated papers, saying they 
 were stupid, and I learned from her that she liked the 
 Continent much better than England. English clothes 
 were detestable. She had met some nice Englishmen,
 
 192 
 
 In the but Yankees — oh, Yankees I There was one at Biarritz, 
 
 Luxembourg j)q you know Biarritz ? No, nor Italy, Italians are nice, 
 aren't they ? There was one at Cannes. 
 
 'Don't think I'm not interested in hearing about 
 pictures, because I am, but I must look at your ring, it's 
 so like mine. This one was given to me by an Irishman, 
 who said the curse of Moreen Dhu would be upon me if I 
 gave it away,' 
 
 ' But who is Moreen Dhu .'' I never heard of her.' 
 
 'You mustn't ask me; I'm not a bit an intelligent 
 woman. People always get sick of me if they see me 
 two days running.' 
 
 ' I doubt very much if that is true. If it were, you 
 wouldn't say it.' 
 
 ' Why not ? I shouldn't have thought of saying it if 
 it wasn't true,' 
 
 Next evening at dinner I noticed that she was dressed 
 more carefully than usual ; she wore a cream-coloured 
 gown with a cerise waistband and a cerise bow at the side 
 of her neck. I noticed, too, that she talked less ; and 
 that after dinner she seemed anxious, I could not help 
 thinking that she was searching for an excuse to send her 
 mamma to bed, 
 
 ' Mamma, dear, won't you play us the Impassionata } ' 
 
 ' But, Milly, dear, you know quite well that I can't play 
 it,' All the same Mildred insisted, and mamma was not 
 allowed to leave the piano till she had played her entire 
 repertoire. She was playing something of Sidney Smith's 
 when the door opened, and a man's face appeared for a 
 second, and, remembering Mildred's interest in men, I 
 said : — 
 
 'Did you see that man,'' What a nice, fresh-looking 
 young man ! ' 
 
 She put her finger on her lip, and wrote on a piece of 
 paper : —
 
 193 
 
 'Not a word. He's my betrothed, and mother doesn't In the 
 know he's here. She doesn't approve ; he hasn't a bean. Luxembourg 
 Thank you, mamma, thank you, you played that sonata 
 very nicely.' 
 
 ' Won't you play, my dear ? ' 
 
 ' No, mamma, dear, I'm feeling rather tired ; we've had 
 a long day.' 
 
 And the two bade me good-night, leaving me alone in 
 the sitting-room to finish a letter. I had just reached the 
 signature Avhen she came in, looking very agitated, even a 
 little frightened. 
 
 ' Isn't it awful } ' she said. ' I was in the dininff-room 
 with my young man, and the waiter caught us kissing. I 
 had to beg of him not to tell mamma. He said, " Foi de 
 gentilhomme," so I suppose it's all right.' 
 
 ' Why not have your intended in here ? I'm going to 
 bed.' 
 
 ' Oh no, I wouldn't think of turning you out. I'll see 
 him in my bedroom — it's safer, and if one's conscience is 
 clear it doesn't matter what people say.' 
 
 A few days afterwards, as I was slinging my paint-box 
 over my shoulder, I heard some one stop in the passage, 
 and speaking to me througli the open door she said : — 
 
 'You were so awfully decent the other night when 
 Donald looked in. I know you will think it cheek — I am 
 the most impudent woman in the world — but do you mind 
 my telling mamma that I am going to the Louvre with you 
 to see the pictures } You won't give me away, will you } ' 
 
 ' I never split on any one.' 
 
 ' My poor darling ought to go back. He's away from 
 the office without leave, and he may get the sack; but 
 he's going to stay another night. Can you come now.? 
 Mamma is in the salon. Come just to say a word to her 
 and we will go out together. Donald is waiting at the 
 corner.' 
 
 o
 
 194 
 
 In the Next morning, as I was shaving, I heard a knock at my 
 
 Luxembourg ^^^j. 
 Gardens . r . / » 
 
 ' Oh, I beg your pardon, but I didn't want to miss you. 
 I'll wait for you in the salon.' 
 
 When I came downstairs she showed me a wedding 
 ring. She had married Donald, or said she had. 
 
 ' He came to my room last night. Oh, I am tired. I 
 did have a fluffy night, and now mamma wants me to go 
 shopping with her. Can't you stay and talk to me .'' and 
 later on we might sneak out together and go somewhere. 
 Are you painting to-day ? ' 
 
 ' Well, no, I'm going to a museum a long way from 
 here. I have never seen Madame de Sevigne's house.* 
 
 ' Who is she ? ' 
 
 ' The woman who wrote the famous letters.* 
 
 ' I am afraid I shall only bore you, because I can't talk 
 about books.' 
 
 ' You had better come ; you can't stay in this hotel 
 by yourself all the morning.' 
 
 There was some cause why she could not go out with 
 Donald that morning, and the reader perhaps remembers 
 that I told her I was going to visit Madame de Sevigne's 
 house (the reader doubtless remembers that we visited 
 not only Madame de Sevigne's house, but also Victor 
 Hugo's in the Place des Vosges, and perhaps her remark, 
 as we returned home in the evening along the quays, 
 that ' Paris wasn't bad for an old city,' has not yet slipped 
 out of the reader's memory) ; but the reader has not been 
 given any reason for the indifference with which I treated 
 Mildred, ' treating her,' I said, when we returned to her 
 hotel after our little outing, 'casually, like a stray dog.* 
 As I sat smiling over our acquaintanceship, it amused me 
 to remember that I had spoken to her of Madame de 
 Sevigne's letters and Jean Jacques Goujon's sculpture, of
 
 195 
 
 old Paris, people and things that she had never heard of In the 
 
 and could not take an interest in. I was not certain Luxembourg 
 
 ■whether she amused or bored me, and allowed two days 
 
 to pass without seeking her. On the third day, as I sat 
 
 in admiration in the Luxembourg Gardens, beguiled from 
 
 my work by the pretty April sunlight and the birds in the 
 
 pleached alley (I have spoken already of these, but they 
 
 are worth a second mention), a thought of Mildred sprang 
 
 into my mind, a sudden fear that I might never see her 
 
 again ; and it was just when I had begun to feel that I 
 
 would like to walk about the Gardens with her that I heard 
 
 her voice. These coincidences often occur, yet we always 
 
 think them strange, almost providential. The reader 
 
 knows how I rose to meet her, and how I asked her to 
 
 come for a walk in the Gardens. And having now made 
 
 up some arrears of story, I will tell that, at Mildred's 
 
 request, we turned in the direction of the museum, for, 
 
 thinking to propitiate me, Mildred suggested I should take 
 
 her there ; I did not like to refuse, though I feared some 
 
 of the pictures and statues might distract me from the 
 
 end I now had in view, which was to find out if Donald 
 
 had been her first lover, and if her dear little mamma 
 
 suspected anything. 
 
 ' So your mother knows nothing about your marriage ? ' 
 ' Nothing. He ought to go back, but he's going to 
 stay another night. I think I told you. Poor dear little 
 mamma, she never suspected a bit. Donald has the room 
 next mine. He was asleep in my bed this morning when 
 the maid brought in the hot water. But she won't say 
 anything.' 
 
 As we walked to the museum I caught glimpses of 
 what Donald's past life had been, learning incidentally 
 that his father was rich, but Donald was considered a 
 ne'er-do-well. He had gone away to sea when he was 
 sixteen, and had been third mate on a merchant-ship.
 
 196 
 
 In the a boot-black in an hotel in America, and just before he 
 
 Luxembourg came to Paris he had fought a drunken stoker and won a 
 
 Gardens n n j 
 
 purse 01 nve pounds. 
 
 She asked me which were the best pictures, but could 
 not keep her attention fixed, and her attempts to remem- 
 ber the names of the painters were pathetic. 'Ingres, 
 did you say '^ I must try to remember. Puvis de 
 Chavannes ? What a curious name ! but I do like his 
 picture. He has given that man Donald's shoulders,' she 
 said, laying her hand on my arm, and stopping me before 
 a picture of a young naked man sitting amid some grey 
 rocks, with grey trees and a grey sky. The young man 
 in the picture had dark curly hair, and Mildred said 
 she would like to sit by him and put her hands through 
 it. ' He has got big muscles just like Donald. I like 
 a man to be strong ; I hate a little man, and Donald is 
 over six feet. Donald's chest is covered with hair and 
 his legs and arms are all rough. Lovely ! Last night 
 we stood side by side before the glass without a stitch 
 on. I did look a little tot beside him, and it is jolly 
 to put one's hand into a shaggy chest. I wonder why 
 I speak to you like this ; I never dared to speak to a man 
 like this before, but you're so sympathetic. And some- 
 how I feel that you've had a good time yourself; you 
 wouldn't be so sympathetic if you hadn't.' 
 
 We wandered on, talking of love and lovers, our con- 
 versation occasionally interrupted, for however interested 
 I was in Mildred, and I was very much interested, the 
 sight of a picture sometimes called my attention away 
 from her. When we came to the sculpture-room it 
 seemed to me that Mildred was more interested in sculp- 
 ture than in painting, for she stopped suddenly before 
 Rodin's " L'age d'airain," and I began to wonder if her 
 mind were really accessible to the beauty of the sculptor's 
 art, or if her interest were entirely in the model who had
 
 197 
 
 posed before Rodin. Sculpture is a more primitive art In the 
 
 than painting ; sculpture and music are the two primitive Luxembourg 
 
 . , . . .Gardens 
 
 arts, and they are therefore open to the appreciation ot 
 
 the vulgar — at least that is how I tried to correlate 
 
 Mildred with Rodin, and at the same moment the thought 
 
 rose up in my mind that one so interested in sex as 
 
 Mildred was could not be without interest in art. For 
 
 though it be true that sex is antecedent to art, art was 
 
 enlisted in the service of sex very early in the history 
 
 of the race, and has, if a colloquialism may be allowed 
 
 here, done yeoman service ever since. Even in modern 
 
 days, notwithstanding the invention of the telephone and 
 
 the motor-car, we are still dependent upon art for the 
 
 beginning of our courtships. To-day the courtship begins 
 
 by the man and woman sending one another books. 
 
 Before books were invented music served the purpose of 
 
 the lover. For when man ceased to capture woman, he 
 
 went to the river's edge and cut a reed and made it inta 
 
 a flute and played it for her pleasure ; and when he had 
 
 won her with his music, he began to take an interest 
 
 in the tune for its own sake. That Donald would make a 
 
 good model for Pan, I had no doubt. From all I had heard 
 
 of him he seemed to be the god himself returned to earth, 
 
 if he had ever really left it. The shaggy god seemed 
 
 more in the key than Rodin's dream of a slender boy, 
 
 and that boy, too, swaying like a lily in some ecstasy of 
 
 efflorescence. Yet Mildred seemed to admire them both, 
 
 and equally. 
 
 * The only fault I find with him is that he is not long 
 enough from the knee to the foot, and the thigh seems 
 too long. I like the greater length to be from the knee 
 to the foot, rather than from the knee to the hip. Now, 
 have I said anything foolish ? ' 
 
 ' Not the least. I think you are right. I prefer your 
 proportions. A short tibia is not pretty.'
 
 198 
 
 In the ' I am sure some Italian boys are long from the knee to 
 
 Luxembourg ^jjg ankle/ and a look of i-everie came into her eyes. ' I 
 don't know if I told you that we are going to Italy next 
 week ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, you told me.' 
 
 ' But I haven't told you how I made Donald's acquaint- 
 ance/ and turning her back on the statue, she began to 
 tell me how she and her mother were once livinsr in a 
 boarding-house in the same square in which Donald's 
 father lived ; they used to walk in the square, and 
 one day, as she was running home trying to escape a 
 shower, he came forward with his umbrella. That was in 
 July, a few days before she went away to Tenby for a 
 month. It was at Tenby that she became intimate with 
 Toby Wells, who succeeded for a time in putting Donald 
 out of her mind. ' Toby's mother was there, and we used 
 to send the two mammas off for a drive, and have the 
 dining-room all the afternoon to ourselves.' 
 
 ' But you like Donald much better than Toby ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I do ; he came here to marry me. Oh yes, 
 I've forgotten all about Toby. You see, I met Donald 
 when I went back to London.' ' When you Avent back to 
 London,* I repeated, and listened to her account how 
 she and Donald used to hire rooms in different parts of 
 the town in order that they might not be traced. 
 
 ' Donald used to have to walk sometimes round Pimlico 
 to find a suitable lodging. I always told him to get one, 
 if possible, over a milliner's shop. We used to meet twice 
 a week, and in a month or two all the lodgings in Blooms- 
 bury were exhausted, for we never went twice to the 
 same place. We often spent half-days together. At 
 twelve I arrived in a hansom, and I stopped till five. 
 Once the tray was on the floor ; we had forgotten it ; the 
 room was dark, and I jumped out of bed, and put my foot 
 into the marmalade. But do look at that woman's back ;
 
 199 
 
 see where her head is. I wonder what made Rodin put a In the 
 woman in that position ? ' Luxembourg 
 
 She looked at me, and there was a look of cui-ious 
 inquiry in her face. Overcome with a sudden shyness, I 
 hastened to assure her that the statue was '* La Danaide." 
 Rodin often introduces a trivial voluptuousness into 
 art ; his sculpture may be sometimes called I' article de 
 Paris ; it is occasionally soiled by the sentiment of which 
 Gounod was the first exponent. 
 
 ^ Did you ever see a picture called '' Vertige " — a woman 
 lying back on a sofa, and a man behind the sofa leaning 
 over kissing her? Donald says I shut my eyes to be 
 kissed, just like that.' 
 
 ' I see you're full of remembrance of last night. Clearly 
 this is not a day to walk about a picture gallery with you. 
 Come, let us sit down, and we'll talk about lighter things, 
 about lovers. You won't mind telling me ; you know you 
 can trust me. Come, how many lovers have there been 
 before Donald .'' ' 
 
 ■^Oh, well, dozens. But I don't believe a man thinks 
 any the worse of you for having done it, and I'm always 
 quite honest. I admitted to Donald that there had been 
 two . . . but of course I've been a devil. It happened 
 first when I was sixteen. A friend of my brother's, a 
 hunting friend, used to ride every day to see us ; and he 
 did look nice in his hunting-breeches and coat ; he used 
 to kiss me — of course I liked that, and one day it happened 
 in the loft. . . . Oh, it was hot in that hay ! After that 
 we more than did it.' 
 
 ^ And how did that love-affair end "i * 
 
 ' He had to go away, and of course there were others.' 
 
 ' And every time you fancy you are in love .'' ' 
 
 ' Oh, bless you, no ! I have a gi-eat fancy for Donald, 
 more than I've ever liad. But it is a feeling that goes off.' 
 
 ' One of these days you will meet a man who will absorb
 
 200 
 
 In the you utterly, and all these passing passions will wax to one 
 
 Luxembourg passion that will know no change.' 
 
 Gardens , r^ .^i . i -, t j » 
 
 ' Do you think so ? I wonder, 
 
 * Do you doubt it ? ' 
 
 'I don't think any one man could absorb me, no one 
 man could fill my life.' 
 
 ' Not even Donald ? ' 
 
 ' Donald is wonderful ; he takes me by the shoulders, 
 and drawing me to him, he cries, "Oh, don't speak to 
 me, don't speak," and sometimes he is like a wild Indian. 
 Do you remember that morning, a few days after we 
 arrived ? ' 
 
 ' Your wedding night .'* ' 
 
 * Yes, my wedding night.' 
 
 We are interested in any one who is himself or herself, 
 and this girl was certainly herself and nothing but herself. 
 Travelling about as she did, with her quiet, respectable 
 mother, who never suspected anything, she seemed to 
 indicate a type — type is hardly the word, for she was an 
 exception. Never had I seen any one like her before, her 
 frankness and her daring : here at least was one who had 
 the courage of her instincts. She was man-crazy, if you 
 will, but now and then I caught sight of another Mildred 
 Avhen she sighed ; when that little dissatisfied look appeared 
 in her face, another Mildred only floated up for a moment, 
 like a water-flower or weed on the surface of a stream. 
 
 'I've had some awful frights. And I'd rather marry 
 any one than have a baby without being married. Some- 
 times I pray, I get so frightened, and I tell God if I get 
 safe off" this time I'll never do it again. But somehow I 
 always do. You know I do mean to be a good girl. I 
 think one ought to be good. But really, if you read the 
 
 Bible Oh, must you go? — it has been such a relief 
 
 talking things over with you. Shall I see you to-night? 
 There is no one else in the hotel I can talk to, and
 
 201 
 
 mamma will play the piano, and when she plays Beethoven In the 
 it gets upon my nerves.' Luxembourg 
 
 , / , 1 , -. Gardens 
 
 * You play the violm, don t you r 
 
 ' Yes, I play,' and that peculiar sad look which I had 
 begun to think was characteristic of her came into her 
 face, and I asked myself if this sudden misting of expres- 
 sion should be ascribed to stupidity or to a sudden thought 
 or emotion. ' I am sorry you're not dining at the hotel.' 
 
 ' I am sorry too ; I'm dining with students in the 
 Quarter ; they would amuse you.' 
 
 ' I wish I were a grisette.' 
 
 ' If you were I would take you with me. Now I rhust 
 say good-bye ; I have to get on with my painting.' 
 
 That night I returned to the hotel late, and went away 
 early in the morning. But the next day she came upon 
 me again in the Gardens, and as we walked on together 
 she told me that Donald had gone away. 
 
 'He was obliged to return, you see; he left the office 
 without leave, and he had only two pounds, the poor 
 darling. I don't know if I told you that he had to borrow 
 two pounds to come here ? ' 
 
 ' No, you omitted that little fact. You see, you are so 
 absorbed in yourself that you think all these things are as 
 interesting to everybody else as they are to you.' 
 
 ' Now you're unkind,' and she looked at me reproach- 
 fully. ' It is the first time you have been unsympathetic. 
 If I talked to you it was because I thought my chatter 
 interested you. Moreover, I believed that you were a 
 little interested in me, and I have come all this Avay ' 
 
 These little ebullitions of temper were common in 
 Mildred, and I knew that the present one would soon 
 pass away, and that the passing might be accomplished 
 as rapidly as possible I spoke to her of Donald. 
 
 'I don't want to talk about him. You have offended 
 me.'
 
 202 
 
 In the 'I'm soiTy you are leaving Paris, Mildred. This is the 
 
 Luxembourg beautiful month. How pleasant it is here — a soft diffused 
 
 Gardens ^^armth in the air, the sunlight flickering like a live thing 
 
 in the leaves, and the sound of water dripping at the end 
 
 of the alley. But you don't answer. Come, tell me why 
 
 you brouglit your fiddle-case ^ ' 
 
 ' I brought it on the chance of meeting you. I thought 
 you might like to hear me play. We are going away 
 to-morrow morning. I can't play in that hotel, in that 
 stuffy little room ; mamma would want to accompany me. 
 One can do anything one likes here; no one pays any 
 attention to anybody else,' and she pointed with her 
 parasol to a long, thin poet, with hair floating over his 
 shoulders, who Avalked up and down the other end of the 
 alley reciting his verses. 
 
 * Perhaps your playing will interrupt him.' 
 
 ' Oh, if he doesn't like it he'll move away. But I don't 
 want to play ; I can't play when I'm out of humour, and 
 I was just in the very humour for playing until your 
 remark about ' 
 
 ' About what ? ' 
 
 ' You know very well,' she answered. 
 
 And we pursued our little quarrel, neither one of lovers 
 nor of friends (on my side a purely literary quarrel), till it 
 was interrupted by the sight of two women, at the end of 
 the sunlit alley, advancing and retiring in and out of the 
 shine and shade, sometimes stopping to strike an attitude 
 in keeping with the rhythms of the eighteenth-century 
 dance that a third sister (it was now plain to me that the 
 three were sisters) played on a fiddle whilst leaning against 
 a tree and while she danced, for sometimes she joined her 
 sisters in a few steps. 
 
 ' They are the dancers of whom the Quarter is talking,' 
 I said. 'Come, Mildred, let us watch the dancers who 
 seem to be celebrating the morning.'
 
 203 
 
 ' I know that gavotte/ she answered, ' and will play for In the 
 them if they'll let me.' Luxembourg 
 
 The addition of Mildred's fiddle was not perceived at 
 first, and after a few bars the younger sister, recognising 
 Mildred's playing as better than her own, handed her 
 fiddle to a bystander, and the gavotte proceeded, the 
 three old ladies bowing and pointing their toes with 
 grace and courtesy. 
 
 ' But with what intention, and who are they } ' I asked 
 myself, and sinking on a bench, I began to dream a suit- 
 able story for them, saying to myself that they were the 
 remnant of a noble family declining into poverty for a 
 long while. No money coming into the family, each 
 generation was poorer than the last, till the very last, 
 the dancers, could not do else than pray for God's help. 
 It seemed to me that I could hear them praying together, 
 the elder sisters in a group on their knees, the youngest 
 striving to devise some mode whereby they might earn a "* 
 
 living. ' It cannot be the lot of our family,' she said, ' to 
 end in mendicancy. We shall have to go forth from this 
 great house ; we shall have to leave it, but not to beg.' 
 The elder sisters did not believe, but the day they divided 
 their last crusts the one to whom faith was given came 
 upon an old letter. ' I told you,' she said, ' that we should 
 be saved, that God in His great mercy would not turn us 
 out into the streets to beg. This letter contains instruc- 
 tions how the gavotte used to be danced when our 
 ancestors lived in the Place des Vosges.' 
 
 'But what help to us to know the true step of the 
 gavotte ? ' cried the elder sister. 
 
 * A great deal,' the youngest answered gravely ; ' I can 
 play the fiddle, and we can all learn to dance ; we'll 
 dance the gavotte in the Luxembourg Gardens when- 
 ever it is fine, the true gavotte, as it was danced when 
 Madame de Sevigne drove up in a painted coach drawn
 
 204 
 
 In the by six horses, and entered tlie courtyard of her hotel, 
 
 Luxembourg decorated with bas-reliefs by Jean Gouion.' 
 (jardens '' 
 
 This is the story that I dreamed as I sat on the bench 
 
 listening to the notes, no longer like dead leaves rustling 
 
 along a pathway, without accent, without rhythm, but 
 
 tripping gay and pretty as the spring-time herself, Mildred 
 
 bringing out the contrast between the detached and the 
 
 slurred notes, the music going under her bow to the 
 
 rhythm of old time, evocative of the wigs, the swords, the 
 
 bows, the gallantry I How sedate ! How charming ! How 
 
 well she understood it, and how well the old women 
 
 danced to it, and how delighted every one was ! She 
 
 played on until the old women, unable to dance any more, 
 
 sat down to listen to her, and after trying some few things 
 
 which I did not know, I heard her playing a piece of 
 
 music which I could not but think I had heard before — in 
 
 church ! Beginning it on the low string, she poured out 
 
 the long, long phrase that never seems to end, so stern 
 
 and so evocative of Protestantism that I could not but 
 
 think of a soul going forth on its way to the Judgment 
 
 Seat, telling perforce as it goes how it has desired and 
 
 sought salvation, pleading almost defiantly. But Mildred 
 
 could not appreciate such religious exaltation, yet it Avas 
 
 her playing that had inspired the thought in me. Had 
 
 she been taught to play it ? Was she echoing another's 
 
 thought.^ Her playing did not sound like an echo; it 
 
 seemed to come from the heart, or out of some unconscious 
 
 self, an antenatal self that in her present incarnation only 
 
 emerged in music, borne up by some mysterious current 
 
 to be sucked down by another. 
 
 She played on and on, never certain what she was going 
 
 to play next ; and then, as if moved by a new mood, she 
 
 began to play a very simple, singing melody, interrupted 
 
 now and again, so it seemed to me, by little fluttering 
 
 confessions. I seemed to see a lady in white, at the close
 
 205 
 
 of day, in a dusky boudoir, one of Alfred Stevens' women. In the 
 only much more refined, one whose lover has been Luxembourg 
 unfaithful to her, or maybe a woman who is weary of 
 lovers, and knows not what to turn her mind to, hesi- 
 tating between the convent and the ballroom. Ah, the 
 beautiful lament — how well Mildred played it ! — followed 
 by the slight crescendo, and then the return of the soul 
 upon itself, bewailing its weakness, confessing its follies in 
 elegant, lovely language, seemingly speaking in a casual 
 way, yet saying such profound things, profound even as 
 Beethoven. 'The form is different,' I said, 'more light, 
 more graceful, seemingly move superficial, but just as deep, 
 for when we go to the bottom of things all things are deep, 
 one as deep as another, just as all things are shallow, one 
 as shallow as another ; for have not mystics of every age 
 held that things exist not in themselves, but in the eye 
 that sees and the ear that hears ? ' 
 
 A crowd collected to hear her, for she was playing out 
 of the great silence that is in every soul, in that of the 
 light-o'-love as well as the saint, and she went on playing, 
 apparently unaware of the number of people she was 
 gathering about her. 
 
 ' You play beautifully ; why did you say you didn't like 
 Beethoven ? ' 
 
 'I didn't say I didn't like Beethoven; you know very 
 well mamma can't play the Impassionata.' 
 
 * Why aren't you always like this ? ' 
 
 * I don't know. One can't always be the same. I feel 
 differently when I play ; the mood only comes over me 
 sometimes ; I used to play a great deal, I only play 
 occasionally now, just when I feel like it.' 
 
 We walked through the alleys by the statues, seeing 
 them hardly at all, thinking of the music. 
 
 * I must be getting back,' she said. ' You see, I've 
 got to pack up ; mamma can't do any packing ; I've
 
 206 
 
 In the to do hers for her. I hope we shall meet again some 
 
 Luxembourg (Jay.' 
 
 ' What good would it be ? I only like you when you're 
 playing, and you're not often in the mood.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry for that ; perhaps if you knew me better ' 
 
 * Now you're married, and I suppose Donald will come 
 to Rome to fetch you } ' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't think he'll be able. He has got no 
 money.* 
 
 ' And you'll fall in love with some one else ? ' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps so ; I don't feel that I ever coiild again 
 after this week.' Stopping suddenly in front of a hosier's 
 shop, she said, 'I like those collars, they have just come 
 out, those turned-down ones. Do you like them as well 
 as the great high stand-up collars about three inches 
 deep? When they were the fashion men could hardly 
 move their heads.' Then she made some remarks about 
 neckties and the colour she liked best — violet. * Yes, 
 there's a nice shade of violet. Poor Donald ! He's so 
 handsome. I'd like to give him six pairs of silk drawers ; 
 he only has one pair, and he had dreadful boots, poor 
 darling.' 
 
 After the hosier's shop she spoke no more about music, 
 but a great deal about Donald ; his name was upon her 
 lips all the way down the Rue du Bac. ' Forget Donald,* 
 I said, 'and speak to me of Mozart, Scarlatti, Chopin, but 
 no more about Donald.' ' I can't speak about music,' she 
 answered, ' I can only play it — sometimes,' and she ran up 
 the stairs of the hotel, possessed completely by a Mildred 
 that I was not a little weary of She asked her mother to 
 play the " Brooklyn Cake-Walk," and she danced ' the 
 lovely two-step ' as she had learned at Nice for my enjoy- 
 ment. I noticed that she looked extraordinarily comic as 
 she skipped up and down the room. The line of her chin 
 deflected, and that always gives a slightly comic look to a
 
 207 
 
 face. She came downstairs with me, and, standing at the In the 
 
 hotel door, she said, ' I want to tell you something that j^uxembourg 
 
 1 T 1 1 T . ..1 T Gardens 
 
 happened yesterday, when I was out with mamma. It 
 
 was in Cook's. When we went in I saw a Yank — oh, 
 so nicely dressed ! Lovely patent leather boots, and I 
 thought, ' Oh, dear, lovely man, he'll never look at me.' 
 But presently he did, and he made me a sign, just a little 
 one, with his tongue, you know. Then he took out his 
 card-case and folded up a card, and put it on the ledge 
 behind him, and gave me a look and moved away. So I 
 walked over and took it up. Mamma never saw, but the 
 clerks did, and I'm afi-aid I got very red. He has a flat in 
 the Avenue de I'Opera ; he must be rich. When I got 
 home I wrote to him. I said that, as I saw he was an 
 American, I would forgive his extraordinary behaviour, 
 that had so much surprised me. I was leaving Paris to- 
 morrow for Rome, and if by any chance his lines should 
 ever fall in that direction, c/o Thomas Cook would always 
 find me, and then signed my name — but, of course, he'll 
 never come.' 
 
 I have reported Mildred's story truthfully at a particu- 
 lar moment of her life. Those who travel meet people 
 now and again whose individuality is so strong that it 
 survives. Mildred's has survived many years, and I have 
 written this account of it because it seems to me to throw 
 a gleam into the mystery of life, without, however, doing 
 anything to destroy the mystery. 
 
 XI 
 
 T T WAS in the vastness of Westminster Hall that I A Remem- 
 "*• saw her for the first time — saw her pointed face, France 
 her red hair, her brilliant teeth. The next time was 
 in her own home — a farmhouse that had been rebuilt and
 
 208 
 
 A Remem- was half a villa. At the back were wheat-stacks^ a noisy 
 brance thrashing-machine, a pigeon-cote ; and from the stables 
 the great farm horses seemed to be always going to their 
 work on the downs or returning from it amid jangle of 
 harness and cries of yokels. In a garden planted with 
 variegated firs she tended her flowers all day ; and in 
 the parlour, where we assembled in the evening, her 
 husband smoked his pipe in silence ; the young ladies, 
 their blonde hair hanging down their backs, played 
 waltzes ; she alone talked ; her conversation was effusive, 
 her laughter abundant and bright. I had only just 
 turned eighteen, and was deeply interested in religious 
 problems, and one day I told her the book I carried 
 in my pocket, and sometimes pretended to study, was 
 Kant's Critique of Pure Reaso7i. My explanation of the 
 value of the work did not seem to strike her, and her 
 manifest want of interest in the discussion of religious 
 problems surprised me, for she passed for a religious 
 woman, and I failed to understand how mere belief 
 could satisfy any one. One day in the greenhouse, 
 whither I had wandered, she interrupted some allusion to 
 the chapter entitled, " The Deduction of the Categories," 
 Avith a burst of laughter, and declared that she would 
 call me Kant. The nickname was not adopted by the 
 rest of the family — another was invented which appealed 
 more to their imagination — but she held to the name 
 she had given me, and during the course of our long 
 friendship never addressed me by any other. 
 
 There was no reason why I should have become the 
 friend of these people. We were opposed in character 
 and temperament, but somehow we seemed to suit. 
 There was little reflection on either side ; certainly 
 there was none on mine ; at that time I was incapable 
 of any ; my youth was a vague dream, and my friends 
 were the shadows in the dream. I saw and understood
 
 209 
 
 them only as one sees and understands the summer A Remem- 
 clouds when, lying at length in the tall grass, one °^^^^^ 
 watches the clouds curl and uncurl. In such mood, 
 visit succeeded visit, and before I was aware, the old 
 Squire, who walked about the downs in a tall hat, died, 
 and my friends moved into the family place, distant 
 about a hundred yards — an Italian house, sheltered 
 among the elms that grew along the seashore. And 
 in their new house they became to me more real than 
 shadows ; they were then like figures on a stage, and 
 the building of the new wing and the planting of the 
 new garden interested me as might an incident in a 
 play ; and I left them as I might leave a play, taking 
 up another thread in life, thinking very little of them, 
 if I thought at all. Years passed, and after a long 
 absence abroad, I met them by chance in London. 
 
 Again visit succeeded visit. My friends were the 
 same as when I had left them ; their house was the 
 same, the conduct of their lives was the same. I do not 
 think I was conscious of any change until, one day, 
 walking with one of the girls in the garden, a sensation 
 of home came upon me. I seemed always to have 
 known these people ; they seemed part and parcel of 
 my life. It was a sudden and enchanting awaking of 
 love; life seemed to lengthen out like the fields at 
 dawn, and to become distinct and real in many new 
 and unimagined ways. Above all, I was surprised to 
 find myself admiring her who, fifteen yeai-s ago, had 
 appeared to me not a little dowdy. She was now fifty- 
 five, but such an age seemed impossible for so girl-like 
 a figure and such young and effusive laughter. I was, 
 however, sure that she was fifteen years older than when 
 I first saw her, but those fifteen years had brought each 
 within range of the other's understanding and sympathy. 
 We became companions. I noticed what dresses she wore,
 
 210 
 
 A Rcmem- and told her which I hked hev best in. She was only 
 
 brance cross with me when I surprised her in the potting-shed 
 
 wearing an old bonnet, out of which hung a faded poppy. 
 
 She used to cry, ' Don't look at me, Kant. I know I'm 
 
 like an old gipsy woman.' 
 
 ' You lookvcharming/ I said, ' in that old bonnet.' 
 She put down the watering-can and laughingly took 
 it from her head. 'It is a regular show.' 
 
 * Not at all. You look charming when working in 
 the greenhouse ... I like you better like that than 
 Avhen you are dressed to go to Brighton.' 
 
 ' Do you .''... I thought you liked me best in my 
 new black silk.' 
 
 ' I think I like you equally well at all times.' 
 
 We looked at each other. There was an accent of 
 love in our friendship. 'And strange, is it not,' I said, 
 * I did not admix'e you half as much when I knew you 
 first .>' 
 
 ' How was that ? I was quite a young woman then.' 
 
 * Yes,' I said, regretting my own words ; ' but, don't 
 you see, at that time I was a mere boy — I lived in a 
 dream, hardly seeing what passed around me.' 
 
 'Yes, of course,' she said gaily, 'you were so young 
 then, all you saw in me was a woman with a grown-up 
 son.' 
 
 Her dress was pinned up, she held in her hand the 
 bonnet which she said made her look like an old gipsy 
 woman, and the sunlight fell on the red hair, now 
 grown a little thinner, but each of the immaculate teeth 
 was an elegant piece of statuary, and not a wrinkle 
 was there on that pretty, vixen-like face. Her figure 
 especially showed no signs of age, and if she and her 
 daughters were in the room it was she I admired. 
 
 One day, while seeking through the store-room for a 
 sheet of brown paper to pack up a book in, I came across
 
 211 
 
 a pile of old Atkeiiaeuins. Had I happened upon a set A Remem- 
 of drawings by Raphael I could not have been more 
 astonished. Not one, but twenty copies of the Athenmims 
 in a house where never a book was read. I looked at the 
 dates — three-and-thirty years ago. At that moment she 
 was gathering some withering apples from the floor. 
 
 ' Whoever/ I cried, ' could have left these copies of the 
 Athenceinn here ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, they are my Athenceums,' she said. * I always used 
 to read the Athe7ioeum when I was engaged to be married 
 to Mr. Bartlett. You must have heard of him — he wrote 
 that famous book about the Euphrates. I was very 
 fond of reading in those days, and he and I used to talk 
 about books in the old garden at Wandsworth. It is all 
 built over now.' 
 
 This sudden discovery of dead tastes and sympathies 
 seemed to draw us closer together, and in the quietness 
 of the store-room, amid the odour of the apples, her face 
 flushed with all the spirit of her girlhood, and I understood 
 her as if I had lived it with her. 
 
 'You must have been a delightful girl. I believe if 
 I had known you then I should have asked you to 
 marry me.' 
 
 'I believe you v.ould, Kant. ... So you thought that 
 because I never read books now that 1 had never read 
 any ? You have no idea how fond of books I was once, 
 and if I had married Mr. Bartlett I believe I should have 
 been quite a blue-stocking. But then Dick came, and my 
 father thought it a more suitable match, and I had young 
 children to look after. We were very poor in those days ; 
 the old Squire never attempted to help us.' 
 
 At this time I seemed to be always with my friends ; I 
 came to see them when I pleased, and sometimes I stayed 
 a week, sometimes I stayed six months ; but however long 
 my visit, they said it was not long enough. The five-
 
 2iS 
 
 A Remem- o'clock from London brought me down in time for dinner, 
 brancc ^^jj j used to run up to my room just as if I were a 
 member of the family. If I missed this train and came 
 down by the six-o'clock, I found them at dinner, and then 
 the lamplight seemed to accentuate our affectionate in- 
 timacy, and to pass round the table shaking hands with 
 them all was in itself a peculiar delight. On one of these 
 occasions, missing her from her place, I said, ' Surely you 
 have not allowed her to remain till this hour in the 
 garden ? ' 
 
 I was told that she was ill, and had been for the last 
 fortnight confined to her room. Several days passed ; 
 allusion to her illness became more frequent ; and then I 
 heard that the local doctor would accept the responsi- 
 bility no longer, and had demanded a consultation with a 
 London physician. But she would not hear of so much 
 expense for her sake, and declared herself to be quite 
 sufficiently well to go to London. 
 
 The little pony carriage took her to the station, and 
 I saw her in the M'aiting-room wrapped up in shawls. 
 She was ashamed to see me, but in truth the disease had 
 not changed her as she thought it had. There are some 
 who are so beautiful that disease cannot deform them, 
 and she was endowed with such exquisite life that she 
 Avould turn to smile back on you over the brink of the 
 grave. 
 
 We thought the train was taking her from us for ever, 
 but she came back hopeful. Operation had been pro- 
 nounced unnecessary, but she remained in her room many 
 days before the medicine had reduced her sufficiently to 
 allow her to come downstairs. Nearly a month passed, 
 and then she appeared, looking strangely well, and every 
 day she grew better until she regained l>er girlish figure 
 and the quick dance of movement which was a grace and 
 a joy in the silent peacefulness of the old house. Her
 
 213 
 
 grace and lightness were astonishing, and one day, coming A Remem- 
 down dressed to go in the carriage, she raced across the France 
 hbrary, opened her escritoire, hunting through its in- 
 numerable drawers for one of the sums of money which 
 she kept there wrapped up in pieces of paper. 
 
 ' How nice you look ! You are quite well now, and 
 your figure is like a girl of fifteen.' 
 
 She turned and looked at me with that love in her face 
 which an old woman feels for a young man who is some- 
 thing less and something more to her than her son. As a 
 flush of summer lingers in autumn's face, so does a sensation 
 of sex float in such an affection. There is something 
 strangely tender in the yearning of the young man for the 
 decadent charms of her whom he regards as the mother of 
 his election, and who, at the same time, suggests to him 
 the girl he would have loved if time had not robbed 
 him of her youth. There is a waywardness in such an 
 affection that formal man knows not of. 
 
 I remember that day, for it was the last time I saw her 
 beautiful. Soon after we noticed that she did not quite 
 recover, and we thought it was because she did not take 
 her medicine regularly. She spent long hours alone in 
 her greenhouse, the hot sun playing fiercely on her back, 
 and we supplicated — I was the foremost among her sup- 
 plicators — that she should not carry the heavy flower-pots 
 to and fro, nor cans of water from the tank at the bottom 
 of the garden, and to save her I undertook to water her 
 flowers for her. But she was one of those who would do 
 everything herself, who thought that if she did not shut 
 the door it was not properly shut. She was always speak- 
 ing of her work. ' If I leave my work,' she would say, 
 ' even for one week, everything gets so behindhand that 
 I despair of ever being able to make up the arrears. The 
 worst of it is that no one can take up my work where 
 I leave off.' And as she grew worse this idea developed
 
 214 
 
 A Remem- until it became a kind of craze. At last, speculating on 
 brance the strength of our friendship, I told her her life belonged 
 
 to her husband and children, and that she had no right to 
 squander it in this fashion. I urged that with ordinary 
 forbearance she might live for twenty years, but at the 
 present rate of force-expenditure she could not hope to 
 live long. I spoke brutally, but she smiled, knowing how 
 much I loved her ; and, looking back, it seems to me she 
 must have known she could not be saved, and preferred to 
 give the last summer of her life entirely to her flowers. 
 It was pathetic to see her, poor moribund one, sitting 
 through the long noons alone, the sun beating in upon 
 her through the fiery glass, tending her flowers. I re- 
 member how she used to come in in the evenings 
 exhausted, and lie down on the little sofa. Her hus- 
 band, with an anxious, quiet, kindly look in his eyes, 
 used to draw the skirt over her feet and sit down at her 
 feet, tender, loving, soliciting the right to clasp her hand, 
 as if they had not been married thirty years, but were 
 only sweethearts. At that time we used all to implore 
 her to allow us to send for the London doctor, and I 
 remember how proud I was when she looked up and said, 
 ' Very well, Kant, it shall be as you wish it,' I remember, 
 too, waiting by the little wood at the corner of the lane, 
 where I should be sure to meet the doctor as he came up 
 from the station. The old elms were beautiful with green, 
 the sky was beautiful with blue, and we lingered, looking 
 out on the fair pasturage where the sheep moved so 
 peacefully, and with the exquisite warmth of the summer 
 sun in our flesh, we talked of her who was to die. 
 ' Is it then incurable ? ' 
 
 ' There is no such thing as cure. . . . We cannot create, 
 we can only stimulate an existent force, and every time 
 we stimulate we weaken, and so on until exhaustion. 
 Our drugs merely precipitate the end.'
 
 215 
 
 ' Then there is no hope ? ' A Remem- 
 
 ' I'm afraid not.' ^^^"^^ 
 
 ' Can she live for five years ? ' 
 
 ' I should think it extremely improbable. 
 
 ' What length of life do you give her } ' 
 
 •You are asking too much. ... I should say about 
 a year.' 
 
 The doctor passed up the leafy avenue and I remained 
 looking at the silly sheep, seeing in all the green land- 
 scape only a dark, narrow space. That day I saw her 
 for the last time. Slie was sitting on a low chaii-, very 
 ill indeed, and the voice, weak, but still young and pure, 
 said, 'Is that you, Kant? Come round here and let me 
 look at you.' Amid my work in London, I used to 
 receive letters from my friends, letters telling me of the 
 march of the disease, and with each letter death grew 
 more and more realisable, until her death seemed to 
 stand in person before me. It could not be much longer 
 delayed, and the letter came which told me that ' Mother 
 was not expected to live through the winter.' Soon 
 after came another letter, ' Mother will not live another 
 month ' ; and this was followed by a telegram, ' Mother 
 is dying ; come at once.' 
 
 It was a bleak and gusty afternoon in the depth of 
 winter, and the Sunday train stopped at every station, 
 and the journey dragged its joggling length of four hours 
 out to the weary end. The little station shivered by an 
 icy sea, and going up the lane the wind rattled and beat 
 my face like an iron. I hurried, looking through the 
 trees for the lights that would shine across the park if 
 she were not dead ; welcome indeed to my eyes were 
 the gleaming yellow squares, and slipping in the back 
 way, and meeting the butler in the passage, I said, ' How 
 is she ? ' 
 
 ' Very bad indeed, sir.'
 
 216 
 
 A Remem- She did not die that night, nor the next, nor yet the 
 brance next, and as we waited for death, slow but sure of foot, 
 ' to come and take what remained of her from us, I 
 thouglit often of the degradation that these lingering 
 deaths impose upon the watchers, and how they force 
 into disgraceful prominence all that is animal in us. For 
 however great our grief may be, we must eat and drink, 
 and must even talk of other things than the beloved one 
 whom we are about to lose. For we may not escape from 
 our shameful nature, and eating and drinking we com- 
 mented on the news that came hourly from the sick-room, 
 'Mother will not live the week.' A few days after, 
 ' Mother will hardly get over Sunday ' ; and the following 
 week, ' Mother will not pass the night.' Lunch was the 
 meal that shocked the most, and I often thought, 'She 
 is dying upstairs while we are eating jam tarts.' 
 
 One day I had to ride over the downs for some letters, 
 and when, on my return, I walked in from the stables, 
 I met her son. He was in tears, and sobbing he said, 
 ' My dear old chap, it is all over ; she is gone.' 1 took 
 his hand and burst into tears. Then one of her daughters 
 came downstairs and I was told how she had passed away. 
 A few hours before she died she had asked for a silk 
 thread ; for she always passed a silk thread between her 
 beautiful teeth before sleeping. Her poor arms were 
 shrunken to the very bone and were not larger than a 
 little child's. Haggard and over-worn, she was lifted up, 
 and the silk was given to her, and the glass was held 
 before her, but her eyes were glazed with death, and she 
 fell back exhausted. Then her breathing grew thicker, 
 and at last, and quite suddenly, she realised that she was 
 about to die ; and looking round wildly, not seeing those 
 who were collected about her bed, she said, ' Oh, to die 
 when so much remains undone. How will they get on. 
 without me ' '
 
 217 
 
 I helped to write the letters, so melancholy, so cou- A Remem- 
 ventional, and expressing so little of our grief, and while trance 
 the girls sat weaving wreaths for the dead, wreaths and 
 letters of sympathy arrived. The girls went upstairs 
 where the dead lay, and when they returned they told 
 me how beautiful their mother looked. And during those 
 dreadful days, how many times did I refuse to look on her, 
 dead ! My memory of her was an intensely living thing, 
 and I could not be persuaded to sacrifice it. We thought 
 the day would never come, but it came. There was a 
 copious lunch, cigars were smoked, the crops, the price 
 of lambs, and the hunting, which the frost had much 
 interfered with, were alluded to furtively, and the con- 
 versation was interspersed with references to the excellent 
 qualities of the deceased. I remember that the weather 
 was beautiful, full of pure sunlight, with the colour of 
 the coming spring in the face of the heavens the day the 
 funeral procession wound along the barren sea road, 
 the lily-covered coffin on a trolley, drawn by the estate 
 labourers. That day every slightest line and every colour 
 of that bitter, barren coast impressed themselves on my 
 mind, and I saw, more distinctly than I had ever done 
 before, the old church with red-brown roofs and square 
 dogmatic tower, the forlorn village, the grey undulations 
 of the hills, whose ring of trees showed aloft like a plume. 
 In the church the faces of the girls were discomposed 
 with grief, and they wept hysterically in each other's 
 arms. The querulous voice of the organ, the ugly hymn, 
 and the grating voice of the aged parson standing in 
 white surplice on the altar steps were so hard to bear 
 that I closed my eyes and shut out the sight of old men, 
 white-haired and tottering, impelled by senile curiosity, 
 pressing forward to look into her grave. 
 
 The crowd dispersed quickly; the relatives and the 
 friends of the deceased, as they returned home, sought
 
 218 
 
 A Remem- those who were most agreeable and sympathetic, and 
 brance matters of private interest were discussed. Those who 
 
 had come from a distance consulted their watches, and an 
 apology to life was implicit in their looks, and the time 
 they had surrendered to something outside of life evidently 
 struck them as being strangely disproportionate. The 
 sunlight laughed along the sea, and the young corn was 
 thick in the fields ; leaves were beginning in the branches, 
 larks rose higher and higher, disappearing in the pale air, 
 and as we approached the woods the amoi*ous cawing of 
 the rooks reminded us that she would never hear the 
 pleasant sounds of the spring-time again, and that our 
 lives would not be the same. And dropping behind the 
 chattering crowd that in mourning weed wended its way 
 through the sad spring landscape, I thought of her whom 
 I had loved so long, and of memory as a shrine where we 
 can worship without shame, of friendship, and of the pure 
 escape it offers us from our natural instincts ; I remembered 
 that there is love other than that which the young man 
 offers to her he would take to wife, and I knew how much 
 more intense and strangely personal was my love of her 
 than the love which that day I saw the world offering to 
 its creatures. 
 
 XII 
 
 Bring in TT^OR MANY days there has not been a wind in the trees, 
 the Lamp A and the landscape reminds me of a somnambulist — 
 the same silence, the same mystery, the same awe. The 
 thick foliage of the ash never stirs ; even the fingery leaves 
 hanging out from the topmost twigs are still. The haw- 
 thorns growing out of a tumbled wall are turning yellow 
 and brown, the hollyhocks are over, the chrysanthemums 
 are beginning. Last night a faint pink sky melted into 
 the solemn blue of midnight. There were few stars ;
 
 219 
 
 Jupiter, wearisomely brilliant, sailed overhead ; red Mars Bring in 
 hunir above the horizon under a round, decorative moon, the Lamp 
 The last days of September I and every day the light dies 
 a few minutes earlier. At half-past five one perceives a 
 chilliness about one's feet ; no doubt there is a touch of 
 frost in the air ; that is why the leaves hang so plaintively. 
 Without a doubt there is a touch of frost in the air, and 
 that is why one is tempted to put a match to the fire. It 
 is hard to say whether one feels cold, or whether one 
 desires the company of the blaze. Tea is over, the dusk 
 gathers, and the brute Despondency lurks in the corners. 
 At the close of day, when one's work is ovei", benumbing 
 thoughts arise in the study and in the studio. Think of a 
 painter of architecture finishing the thirty-sixth pillar — 
 there are forty-three — the dusk has interrupted his labour, 
 and an ache begins in his heart as he rises from the easel. 
 Be his talent great or little, he must ask himself who will 
 care should he leave the last seven pillars unfinished? 
 Think of the writer of stories ! Two, three, or four more 
 stories are required to make up a requisite number of 
 pages. The dusk has interrupted his labour, and he rises 
 from his writing-table asking who will care whether the 
 last stories are written or left unwritten ? If he write 
 them his words will run green for a season, mayhap bloom 
 like the lilac, but only to blacken and die like lilac- 
 blooms, and the flowers he deemed immortal will be 
 discovered to be briefer than the rose. 'Why should it 
 be otherwise ? ' he asks, ' for stories are often briefer even 
 than the men who write them, and are certainly born for 
 no other end than to be forgotten. In twenty years, in 
 five, perhaps in a week, I may be among the gone, sooner 
 than the flowers in my garden ; so wherefore do I rue that 
 these strings of words will not be read by men always ? 
 We are being forgotten day by day, and our stories are 
 less than we. A perplexing riddle, life is ; it comes to us
 
 220 
 
 Bring in we know not whence, and goes we know not whither ; 
 
 the Lamp a^d ^-g are always lamenting, if not for ourselves, for our 
 stories.' And having vented the melancholy that arises 
 every day at the decline of light in words that men have 
 been thinking and speaking since the beginning, he will 
 try to remember the years gone by, and his own life will 
 seem to him hardly more real than the day's work on the 
 easel if he be a painter, at the writing-table if he be a 
 writer. He will seem to himself like a horse going i-ound 
 and round a well ; the horse is pumping water — water is 
 necessary ; but art, even if the work be good enough to be 
 called art, is not needed. Whosoever he may be, proof is 
 not wanting that the world can do Avell without his work. 
 But however sure he may feel that that is so — and in the 
 hours I describe it seems sure indeed — he will have to 
 continue his labour ; man was born to labour, as the oldest 
 texts say ; he must continue to drive his furrow to the end 
 of the field, otherwise he would lie down and die of sheer 
 boredom, or go mad. He asks himself why he became a 
 maker of idols — ' An idol-maker, an idol-maker,' he cries, 
 ' who can find no worshippers for his wares ! Better the 
 sailor before the mast or the soldier in the field.' His 
 thoughts break away, and he begins to dream of a life of 
 action. It would be a fine thing, he thinks, to start away 
 in a ship for South America, where there are forests and 
 mountain ranges almost unknown. He has read of the 
 wild shepherds of the Pampas, so inured to horseback that 
 they cannot walk a mile without resting ; and sitting by 
 the fire at the end of the autumn day, he can see them 
 galloping through the long grass of the Pampas, whirling 
 three balls attached by leathern thongs. The weapon is 
 called the bolas, and flying through the air it encircles the 
 legs of the guanaco, bringing it to the earth. But if he 
 went to America, would he find content in a hunter's 
 life.^ Can the artist put by his dreams.^ They would
 
 221 
 
 follow him, and sitting by the camp-fire in the evening, he Bring in 
 would begin to think how he might paint the shadow or ^"" 1-iamp 
 tell the uncouth life of those who sit around him eating of 
 jerked meat. No, there is nothing for him but to follow 
 the furrow ; he will have to write stories till his brain 
 fades or death intervenes. And what story shall he write 
 to complete his book .'' — since it must be completed, it 
 forming part of the procession of things. A sound of 
 church bells is in the still air, sounds of peace and long 
 tradition, and he likes to listen, thinking of the hymns 
 and the homely sermon of the good minister. Shall he 
 get up and go ? Perhaps the service would soothe his 
 despondency ; but there is not courage enough in his 
 heart. He can do no more than strike a match ; the fire 
 lights up. It is one of those autumn afternoons with just 
 that touch of frost in the air which makes a fire welcome, 
 and as he crouches in his arm-chair the warmth soothes 
 the spirit and flesh, and in the doze of the flesh the spirit 
 awakes. What ! is the story coming now .'' Yes ; it is 
 foi'ming independently of his will, and he says, 'Let it 
 take shape.' And the scene that rises up in his mind is a 
 ballroom ; he sees women all a-row, delicate necks and 
 arms of young girls, and young men in black collected 
 about the doorways. Some couples are moving to the 
 rhythm of a languorous waltz, a French imitation of 
 Strauss, a waltz never played now — forgotten, perhaps, 
 by everybody but him ; a waltz he heard twenty long 
 years ago, and ever since it has lain forgotten in his 
 brain, but now he hears it all ; never before was he able 
 to remember that coda, and it comes with a scent of 
 violets in it — the perfume of a little blonde woman who 
 dreams as she dances with the young man blonde as 
 herself. Let it be that the choice was made by her 
 rather than by him, and let her wear crepe de Chine, with 
 perhaps a touch of white somewhere, and a white frill
 
 222 
 
 Bring in about her neck. Let her be a widow whose husband 
 the Lamp ^[^^ six months after marriage, six months ago. Let her 
 Iiave come from some distant part of the Avorld, from 
 America — Baltimore will do as well as any other, perhaps 
 better, for the dreamer by the fireside has no faintest 
 notion whether Baltimore lies in the middle of a plain or 
 surrounded by mountains, whether it be built of marble or 
 brick or stone. Let her come from Baltimore, from some 
 prettily-named street — Cathedral Street — there must be a 
 Cathedral Street in Baltimore. The sound of the church 
 bells in the air no doubt led the dreamer to choose 
 Cathedral Street for her to live in. The dance would 
 have to be an informal one, some little dance that she 
 might come to though her husband was only dead six 
 months, and the two together would pass between the 
 different groups, sliding forward and back, avoiding the 
 dancer here, and reappearing from behind a group of 
 French men and women bumping up and down, hammering 
 the floor, the men holding the women as if they were 
 guitars. An American widow dances, her hand upon her 
 partner's shoulder, fitting herself into him, finding a nook 
 between his arm and side, and her head is leaned upon his 
 shoulder. She follows his every step ; when he reverse 
 there is never a hitch or jolt ; they are always going to the 
 same rhythm. How delicious arc these moments of sex 
 and rhythm, and how intense if the woman should take a 
 little handkerchief, edged with black, and thrust it into 
 her partner's cuff with some little murmur implying that 
 she M'ishes him to keep it. To whomsoever these things 
 happen life becomes a song. A little event of this kind 
 lifts one out of the humdrum of material existence. I 
 suppose the cause of our extraordinaiy happiness is that 
 one is again, as it were, marching in step ; one has dropped 
 into the Great Procession and is doing the great Work 
 actively. There is no denying it, that m these moments
 
 223 
 
 of sex one does feel more conscious than at any other time Bring in 
 of rhythm, and, after all, rhythm is joy. It is rhythm ^^^ Lamp 
 that makes music, that makes poetry, that makes pictures ; 
 what we are all after is rhythm, and the whole of the 
 young man's life is going to a tune as he walks home, to 
 the same tune as the stars are going over his head. All 
 things are singing together. And he sings as he passes 
 the concierge s lodge, pitying the poor couple asleep, for 
 what do they know of love ? — humble beasts unable to 
 experience the joy of rhythm. Exalted, he goes upstairs ; 
 he is on rhythm bent, words follow ideas, rhymes follow 
 words, and he sits at his writing-table, and drawing forth 
 a sheet of paper he writes. A song moves within him, a 
 fragrant song of blonde hair and perfume — the hand- 
 kerchief inspires him, and he must get the rondel perfect, 
 a rondel, or something like a rondel, which he will read 
 to her to-morrow, for she has appointed to meet him — 
 where .^ No better place for lovers than the garden of 
 L'Eglise de la Trinite. His night passes in shallow sleep ; 
 but his wakings are delicious, for at every awaking he 
 perceives a faint odour of violets. He dreams of blonde 
 hair and how carefully he will dress himself in the 
 morning. Would she like him better in his yellow or his 
 grey trousers } Or should he wear a violet or a grey 
 necktie ? These are the questions that are important ; 
 and what more important questions are there for a young 
 man of twenty-five going to meet a delicious little Dresden 
 figure, with blonde hair and forget-me-not eyes, in the 
 garden of L'Eglise de la Trinite ? He knows she will 
 come, only he hopes not to be kept too long waiting, and 
 at ten o'clock he is there for sure, walking up and down, 
 watching the nursemaids and the perambulators drawn 
 up in the shade. On another occasion he might have 
 looked at the nursemaids, but this day the prettiest is 
 plain-featured ; they are but the ordinary bread of
 
 224 
 
 Bring in existence, and to-day he is going to partake of more 
 the Lamp exquisite fare. He hopes so, at least, and the twenty 
 years that have gone by have done nothing to obhterate 
 the moment when he saw her walk across the gravelled 
 space, a dainty little woman with blonde hair, dressed in 
 black, coming to her appointment. The dreamer sees 
 her and her lover going together out of the garden. He 
 follows them down the street, hearing them talking, 
 trying to decide where they shall go to breakfast. To 
 take her to a Parisian restaurant would be a common 
 pleasure. He is bent on taking her to the country. 
 Both want to sit on the warm grass and kiss each other, 
 peradventure. All souls dream of the country when they 
 are in love ; and she would hear him tell her that he loves 
 her under the shade of trees. She is Chloe, and he is 
 whomsoever was Chloe's lover. Whither are they going .-* 
 Are they going to Bougival ? Many things may be said 
 in its favour, but he has been there ; and he has been to 
 Meudon ; he would go with her to some place where he 
 has never been before, and where perchance he will never 
 be again. Vincennes .'' The name is a pretty one, and it 
 lures him. And thither they go, arriving about eleven 
 o'clock, a little early for breakfast. 
 
 The sun is shining, the sky is blue, white clouds are 
 unfolding, like gay pennants they seem to him. He is 
 glad the sun is shining — all is omen, all is oracle. Her 
 poem is in his pocket ; he must read it to her, but where .'' 
 Yonder is some rough grass ; he will read it under the 
 bushes ; and they regret the laziness of the bushes in 
 coming into thick leaf, for lovers think that this world is 
 made only for lovers, that love is of serious account, and 
 the object of all music and poetry, of pictures and sculp- 
 ture, is to incite love, to praise love, to make love seem 
 the only serious occupation. And Vincennes, its trees 
 and its white clouds lifting themselves in the blue sky,
 
 225 
 
 was regarded that day by these lovers as a very suitable Bring in 
 setting for their gallantries. the Lamp 
 
 The dear little woman sits — the dreamer can see her 
 on the warm grass — hidden as well as she can, screening 
 herself behind some bushes, the black crepe dress hiding 
 her feet, or pretending to hide them, WTiite stockings 
 were the fashion ; she wears white stockings ; and how 
 pretty and charming they look in the little black shoes ! 
 The younger generation now only knows black stockings ; 
 the charms of white are only known to the middle-aged. 
 But the young man must read her his poem. He wants 
 her to hear it because the poem pleases him, and because 
 he feels that his poem will aid him to her affections. And 
 when she asks him if he has thought of her during the 
 night, he has to answer that her violet-scented hand- 
 kerchief awoke him many times, and that the wakings 
 were delicious. What time did he go to bed ? Very late, 
 for he sat up writing a poem to her telling of the beauty 
 of her blonde hair. 
 
 Lady, unwreath thy hair. 
 That is so long and fair. 
 May flowers are not more sweet 
 Than the shower of loosened hair 
 That will fall around my feet. 
 Lady, unwreath thy hair. 
 That is so long and fair. 
 
 The golden curls they paint 
 Round the forehead of a saint 
 Ne'er glittered half so bright 
 As thy enchanted hair. 
 Full of shadow, full of light. 
 Lady, unwreath thy hair. 
 That is so long and fair.
 
 226 
 
 Bring in Lady, unwreath thy hair, 
 
 the Lamp That is so long and fair, 
 
 And weave a web of gold 
 
 Of thy enchanted liair. 
 
 Till all be in its hold. 
 
 Lady, unwreath thy hair, 
 
 That is so long and fair. 
 
 ' Do let me see your poem. It is charming. But what 
 do you mean by " enchanted hair " ? Is it that my hair 
 has enchanted you .'' " And weave a web of gold "... 
 " Unwreath " — do you mean unloose my hair ? ' 
 
 ' Dame, tressez vos cheveux blonds 
 lis sont si lourds, ils sont si longs. 
 
 It doesn't go well into French ! ' 
 
 * I don't understand French, but I like your poem in 
 English. Do you know, I like it very much.' 
 
 It is easy to obtain appreciation for poetry in such 
 circumstances. Horace's best ode would not please a 
 young woman as much as the mediocre verses of the 
 young man she is in love with. It is well that it should 
 be so, and this is the dreamer's criticism of life as he 
 sits lost in shadow, lit up here and there by the blaze. 
 He retraces in memory the warmth of the grass and the 
 scattered bushes, and tries to remember if he put his 
 hand on her white ankle while she was reading the poem. 
 So far as he can remember he did, and she checked him 
 and was rather cross, declaring, just like the puss cat, that 
 he must not do such things, and that she would not have 
 come out with him had she thought he was going to 
 misbehave himself in that way. But she is not really 
 angry with him. Could she be with him who wrote that 
 her hair was enchanted ? And what concern is it of hers 
 that the phrase was borrowed from another poet ? Her
 
 227 
 
 concern is that he should think her hair enchanted, and Bring in 
 her hands go up to it. The young man prays her to ^^^ Lamp 
 unloose it, to let it fall about her shouldei's, saying that he 
 must be paid for his poem, and the only payment he will 
 accept is to see her hair unwreathed. 
 
 'But I cannot "unwreath" my hair on the common. 
 Is there no other payment ? ' and she leans a little for- 
 ward, her eyes fixed upon him. The dreamer can see 
 her eyes, clear young eyes, but he cannot remember her 
 mouth, how full the lips were or how thin ; ah, but he 
 remembers kissing her ! On such a day a young man 
 kisses his young woman, and it may be doubted if the 
 young Avoman would ever go out with him again if he 
 refrained, the circumstances being as I describe. But 
 the lovers of Vincennes have to be careful. The lady 
 Avith the enchanted hair has just spied a middle-aged 
 gentleman with his two sons sitting on a bench at a little 
 distance. 
 
 ' Do be quiet, I beg of you. I assure you he saw us.' 
 
 ' If he did it would matter little ; he would remember 
 his young days, before his children were born. Moreover, 
 he looks kindly disposed.' 
 
 Later the lovers address themselves to him, for time 
 wears away even with lovers, and the desire of breakfast 
 being upon them, the kindly disposed gentleman tells 
 them the way to the restaurant. He insists even on 
 walking part of the way with them, and they learn from 
 him that the restaurant has only just been opened for the 
 season ; the season is not yet fairly begun, but no doubt 
 they will be able to get something to eat, an omelette 
 and a cutlet. 
 
 Now the accomplished story-teller would look forward 
 to this restaurant ; already his thoughts would fix them- 
 selves on a cabinet partiaiUer, and his fancy, if he were a 
 naturalistic writer, would rejoice in recording the fact
 
 228 
 
 Bring in that the mirror was scrawled over with names of lovers, 
 the Lamp ^j^j j^g would select the ugliest names. But, dear reader, 
 if you are expecting a cabinet particulier in this story, and 
 an amorous encounter to take place therein, turn the 
 page at once, for this story contains nothing that will 
 shock your — shall I say your prudish susceptibilities ? 
 When the auburn-haired poet and the corn-coloured 
 American lunched at Vincennes they chose a table by 
 the window in the great saloon lined with tables. It 
 overlooked a lake island, and the morning sun was shining 
 through tall saplings. The eyes of the lovers admired the 
 scene, and they admired, too, the pretty reflections, and the 
 swans moving about the island. The accomplished story- 
 teller cx'ies, ' But if there is to be no scene in the restaurant, 
 how is the story to finish } ' Why should stories finish ? 
 And would a sensual ending be a better end than, let us 
 say, that the lovers are caught in a shower as they leave 
 the restaurant ? Such an accident might have happened : 
 nothing is more likely than a shower at the end of April 
 or the beginning of May, and I can imagine the lovers of 
 Vincennes rushing into one of the concierge's lodges at the 
 gates of the villas. 
 
 ' For a few minutes,' they say ; ' the rain will be over 
 soon.' 
 
 But they are not long there when a servant appears 
 carrying three umbrellas ; she gives one to Marie, one to 
 me, she keeps one for herself. 
 
 'But who is she.'' You told me you knew no one at 
 Vincennes.' 
 
 ' No more I do.' 
 
 ' But you must know the people who live here ; the 
 servant says that Monsieur (meaning her master) knows 
 Monsieur (meaning you).' 
 
 'I swear to you I don't know anybody here; but let's 
 go, it will be rather fun.'
 
 229 
 
 ' But what shall Ave say in explanation ? Shall we say Bring in 
 
 5 . the Lamp 
 
 we re cousins r ^ 
 
 * Nobody believes in cousins ; shall we say we're husband 
 
 and wife ? ' 
 
 The dreamer sees two figures ; memory reflects them 
 like a convex mirror, reducing them to a tenth their 
 original size, and he sees them clearly, and he follows 
 them through the rain up the steps of the villa — to the 
 perron, an explicit word that the English language lacks. 
 The young man continues to protest that he never was at 
 Vincennes before, that he knows no one living there, and 
 they are both a little excited by the adventure. Who can 
 be the owner of the house ? A man of ordinary tastes, it 
 would seem, and while waiting for their host the lovers 
 examine the Turkey carpet, the richly upholstered sofas 
 and chairs. 
 
 A pretty little situation, from which an accomplished 
 story-teller could evolve some playful imaginings. The 
 accomplished story-teller would see at once that le hon 
 bourgeois et sa dame and the children are learning English, 
 and hei-e is an occasion of practice for the whole family. 
 The accomplished story-teller would see at once that the 
 family must take a fancy to the young couple, and in 
 his story the rain must continue to fall in such torrents 
 as would prevent the lovers from returning to Paris. 
 Why should they not stay to dinner.^ After dinner the 
 accomplished story-teller would bring in a number of 
 neighbours, and set them dancing and singing. It is 
 easy to suppose that la bourgeoise was " at home " that 
 evening. If so ,the young couple would sit in a distant 
 corner oblivious to all but their own sweet selves, le 
 bourgeois et sa dame watching them with interest, deeming 
 it a kindness to keep the secret that there were no trains 
 after twelve. At last, when the lovers determined that 
 they must depart, le bourgeois and la bourgeoise would
 
 230 
 
 Bring in tell them that the last train left an hour ago, and that 
 the Lamp there was no possibility of returning to Paris that night. 
 A pretty little situation, one that might with advantage 
 be placed on the stage — on the French stage. A pretty, 
 although a painful dilemma for a young woman to 
 find herself in, particularly when she is passionately in 
 love with the young man, ' Bitterly,' the accomplished 
 story-teller would say, 'did the young widow regret the 
 sacrifice to propriety she had made in allowing her young 
 man to pass her off as his wife.' The accomplished story- 
 teller would then assure his reader that the pretty American 
 had acted precisely as a lady should act under the cir- 
 cumstances. But not being myself an accomplished story- 
 teller, I will not attempt to say how a lady should act in 
 such a situation, and it would be a fatuous thing for me 
 to suggest that the lady was passionately in love. The 
 situation that my fancy creates is ingenious ; and I regret 
 it did not happen. Nature spins her romances differently ; 
 and I feel sure that the lovers returned from Vincennes 
 merely a little fluttered by their adventure. The reader 
 would like to know if any appointment was made to meet 
 again; if one was made it must have been for the next 
 day or the next, for have we not imagined that the young 
 widow's passage was already taken ? Did she not tell 
 that she was going back to America at the end of the 
 week ? ' In a few days the Atlantic will be between us,' 
 he answered, and this fact made them feel very sad, for 
 the Atlantic is a big thing and cannot be ignored, par- 
 ticularly in love affairs. It would have been better for 
 the poet if he had accepted the bourgeois invitation to 
 dinner ; friends, as I suggested, might have come in, an 
 impromptu dance might have been arranged, or the rain 
 might have begun again — something would certainly have 
 happened to make them miss the train ; and they would 
 have been asked to stay the night. The widow did not
 
 231 
 
 speak French, the young man did ; he might have Bring in 
 arranged it all with the bourgeois et sa dame, and the ^^^ ijamp 
 dear little widow might never have known her fate — 
 
 happy fate ! — until the time came for them to go to 
 their room. But he, foolish fellow, missed the chance 
 the rain gave him, and all that came of this outing was 
 a promise to come back next year, and to dance the 
 Boston with him again ; meanwhile he must wear her 
 garter upon his arm. Did the suggestion that she should 
 give him her garter come from her or from him? Was 
 the garter given in the cab when they returned from 
 Vincennes, or was it given the next time they met in 
 Paris.'' To answer these questions would not help the 
 story ; suffice it to say that she said that the elastic would 
 last a year, and when she took his arm and found it upon 
 it, she would know that he had been faithful to her. 
 There was the little handkerchief which she had given 
 him, and this he must keep in a drawer. Perhaps some 
 of the scent M'ould survive this long year of separation, 
 
 1 am sure that she charged him to write a letter to the 
 steamer she had taken her passage in, and, careless fellow ! 
 instead of doing so he wrote verses, and the end of all 
 this love affair, which began so well, would be an angry 
 letter bidding him good-bye for ever, saying he was not 
 worthy because he had missed the post. All this happened 
 twenty years ago : perhaps the earth is over her charming 
 little personality, and it will be over me before long. 
 Nothing endures ; life is but change. What we call 
 death is only change — death and life always overlapping, 
 mixed inextricably, and no meaning in anything, merely 
 a stream of change in which things happen. Sometimes 
 the happenings are pleasant, sometimes unpleasant, and 
 in neither the pleasant nor the unpleasant can we detect 
 any purpose. Twenty long years ago, and there is no 
 hope, not a particle.
 
 232 
 
 Bring in I have come to the end of my mood, an ache in my 
 the Lamp heart brings me to my feet, and looking round, I cry 
 
 out, ' How dark is the room ! Why is there no light ? 
 
 Bring in the lamp.' 
 
 XIII 
 
 Euphorion * T) ^^^G IN the lamp, Agnes,' I said, 'and quickly.' 
 m Texas JJ ^nd to myself as soon as she had left the room 
 I said, ' Alas ! She'll linger in the pantry, leaving me 
 in this grey dusk, which pervades the room like a 
 phantom,' And afraid to look round, I sat in my chair, 
 thinking; for the dusk had started me thinking that it 
 were stupid to retain any longer, for the sake of their 
 beauty, my old-time lamps. A key winds up the nourish- 
 ing oil with a gurgle, but the men who understood the 
 delicate mechanism of these lamps are dead ; mine are 
 never in perfect repair, and the process of lighting them 
 seems to be beyond the scope of Agnes's mind, for the 
 fact, simple though it seems, has never been fully grasped 
 by her, that after winding up the lamp she must wait 
 till the oil overflows the burner before laying the match 
 to the wick. ' Ah, here she is ! ' And I began to put 
 questions to her, gradually eliciting the truth : Cook had 
 wound the lamp for her, so there would be no danger 
 of finding myself in the dark. 
 
 It is unfortunate to happen upon so imperfect an 
 intelligence as Agnes's, but everybody has faults, we 
 must always remember that ; and with an easy mind 
 I watched a yellow-haired, robust young woman, with 
 enormous hips and narrow shoulders, draw grey curtains 
 across the tall, narrow windows. The long folds seemed 
 to me to be in keeping with the urn-shaped lamps ; and 
 in a room now lighted by fire and lamp I lay back 
 in my arm-chair and tried to pick up the Ihread of
 
 233 
 
 my memories, catching up an adventure at Vincennes, Euphorion 
 
 whither I had gone with a pretty woman at the end of ^" Texas 
 
 the 'seventies, when white stockings were still modish. 
 
 A garter and a lace handkerchief were treasured by me 
 
 for many years, and the three letters that she wrote to 
 
 me ; but in those days no order was kept among my 
 
 papers, so nothing remains of her but a name, a name 
 
 which she may have changed. It seems strange that I 
 
 should remember her address all through these years — 
 
 17 Cathedral Street, Baltimore. But if the street has 
 
 been pulled down, nothing remains of her. Baltimore 
 
 is too large a town to be cherished among one's personal 
 
 recollections. Besides, I have never been there. If I 
 
 had gone to Baltimore I might have married her, and 
 
 if I had married her my life would have been quite 
 
 different. I might have gone into business. What is 
 
 Baltimore celebrated for? And what has become of 
 
 Marie Bruguere ? Irrelevant questions of this kind 
 
 elderly gentlemen are prone to ask themselves in the 
 
 hour before dinner, when the parlourmaid has brought 
 
 the lamp and drawn the curtains. And while considering 
 
 which I should choose, were it given to me again to 
 
 choose a life of love or of literature, my eyes roved 
 
 over the pictures hanging upon the walls, the cabinets 
 
 against the walls, and the tables and chairs spaced over 
 
 the pale roses and florid architecture of Aubusson. It 
 
 seemed to me that a chair hid a beautiful flower, and 
 
 some- finely designed sprays, but to remove the chair 
 
 would interrupt my dream. 'And chairs we must have,' 
 
 I said, 'though they interrupt the perfect enjoyment 
 
 of an Aubusson carpet.' 
 
 And having delivered myself of this little homily I set 
 myself to thinking that perhaps she lay under an incised 
 stone, and of the certain dispersal of all my beautiful 
 furniture at Christie's in a few years — in a very few
 
 234 
 
 Euphorion years. My eye fell languid on the delicate proportions 
 
 in Texas Qf ^ certain cabinet, 'in whose drawers/ I said, 'are 
 
 stored many dozen letters, and, alas ! not one from her 
 
 who once lived in Cathedral Street.' She wrote few 
 
 and Gabrielle wrote many ; her letters are all there — 
 
 all but the first, long letters of four and six and eight 
 
 pages, in which she tells everything, lifts every veil. I 
 
 remember her writing : ' You must make no apologies ; 
 
 that you are middle-aged is one of your recommendations. 
 
 1 really don't like young men ; and that you write books 
 
 is your best quality, since they are beautiful. We shall 
 
 speak much of Evelyn Innes. The next day we shall 
 
 meet in a museum, the next in a Jiacre, and we shall take 
 
 a lovely drive, and the last day you shall come to see 
 
 me . . . You will like me very much, of course, because 
 
 you could not dislike one of your own women. But I 
 
 am very tall, and if you are not, it will irritate you.' 
 
 'How evocative,' I said, 'are those words of small, 
 witty eyes, blonde hair, and some freckles. She writes 
 like one whose voice is low. If I knew German I should 
 detect her distinctly unprotestant, soft, South-German 
 accent. Still more evocative is the letter in which she 
 tells me that I must inscribe myself in the visitors' book 
 as Mr. Dayne from London, and write to her as soon as 
 I am rested. " We will talk of Evelyn Innes," she says in 
 that letter, and, no doubt, if I had indulged the erethism 
 of this exquisite Viennese, we should have talked of 
 Evelyn Innes, one of the most powerful literary aphro- 
 disiacs ever written . . . though it be little else. "As 
 soon as you are rested you will send me a little note, in 
 which you will tell me the number of your room, and 
 a quelle heure you expect me. I then shall come at 
 once. How nice it will be ! I shall stay an hour and a 
 half, and even if we are a little disappointed, we shall 
 laugh a great deal, because it is amusing when a lady
 
 235 
 
 comes to see a gentleman she has never seen before. Euphorion 
 Have you ever heard of such a funny thing ? " ' '" ^ ^^** 
 
 A great lump of coal crumbled into ashes, and while 
 throwing another on the fire, I reflected that the post-bag 
 had never carried a more delightful invitation ; to which, 
 alas ! I had not responded. And ever since I have been 
 asking myself why I did not go to her. Was it because 
 she revealed herself too completely in her letter, body and 
 soul ? Be this as it may, I did not rush to the adventure, 
 but began, instead, a comedy in which Lewis Davenant 
 persuades Sebastian Dayne to go to Vienna and win 
 Gabrielle's love if he can. And it is now too late to go to 
 her ; I might as well ask her to wear one of her old hats 
 as to love me now. Emily, too, was sacrificed to literature. 
 In her case I feared to meet an elderly spinster who would 
 extend a sisterly hand, saying : ' I understand you, you 
 understand me ; let us go under the willows and weep.' 
 But she was not a i spinster. Like Gabrielle, she was 
 moved to write to me after reading Evelyn Iniies, and her 
 story trickles through a long correspondence, carefully 
 tied up in packets and tucked away in a drawer in that 
 Sheraton book-case. A pathetic story, hers seems to be, in 
 this hour of firelight and memory. Every man's memory 
 is a mirror of dead ladies. Emily came to Europe in her 
 'teens, and perforce we read the word " Fate " when she 
 writes that she came from Australia to learn singing at 
 Leipzig, and sat opposite her future husband the first day 
 she took her place at table d'hote. She thought she had 
 never seen anybody that she liked less, and vowed, between 
 the soup and fish, if she had known such a man was to sit 
 opposite her she would have had her dinner in her room. 
 But we cannot escape our Fate, and, despite her reluct- 
 ance, the man opposite carried her away to Frankfort, 
 where she has lived ever since, and where she has been 
 moulded like a plant by her environment, never using her
 
 236 
 
 Euphorion English except in her letters to me, yet keeping it in its 
 in Texas purity, and telling me in a somewhat formal style that for 
 years she was loved by a young German, whom she met 
 every summer in a small town in Bavaria. She was then 
 a Roman Catholic, with a sense of sin in her heart, and 
 one day, on her way to her lover, her conscience troubled 
 her so grievously that she stopped at a church, and, seeing 
 an old priest, she entered his confessional and confessed 
 much weakness of the flesh to him. ' If I am on my way 
 to my lover,' she said, ' it is to tell him that I'll see him no 
 more.' ' My daughter/ he answered, ' you had better not 
 go to your lover.' 
 
 The road to the railway station lay through a wood, 
 and she had felt that out of that wood must come a sign, 
 a miraculous manifestation which would give her strength 
 to resist temptation. But the wood was silent, nothing 
 stirred in the trees, and at every station she detei*mined 
 to take the next train back, till at last she could stand the 
 strain no longer, and jumped out at a little wayside station. 
 But her lover was waiting there for her, his impatience 
 having sent him to meet her half-way ; and from that 
 moment she knew that no divinity could prevent her from 
 doing what she felt sure was both her wish and her will. 
 Some phrases in her letter rose up in my mind : ' I can 
 conceive no more perfect union than ours was, satisfying, 
 as it did, every desire of soul, mind and body ; in all the 
 years that it lasted we never had a quarrel, not even the 
 slightest misunderstanding; it all seemed to grow more 
 beautiful from day to day, until even I, sceptic at heart, 
 began to believe in the everlastingness of love.' 
 
 But one day her lover confessed to her that his con- 
 science had awakened, and that he must begin a new life. 
 ' He was a man,' she wrote, ' without any religious convic- 
 tions at all ; but now it appeared to him, all at once, that 
 he was leading an immoral life, and with this conviction
 
 237 
 
 there seemed to be born in him the wish for the legitimate Euphorion 
 
 joys of a bourgeois existence/ for after she had given him '" Texas 
 
 his freedom he married a pretty Italian governess. It 
 
 was at the end of her happiness, after reading of Evelyn 
 
 Jnnes, that she wrote asking me to come to Frankfort ; but 
 
 as I was not able to go, she went to the little Bavarian 
 
 town where once she had been very happy, ' and where, 
 
 freed from the cares and thoughts of home, she now 
 
 meditates and remembers,' I said, Mike myself in this 
 
 chair. Eveiy year,' I added, 'she will struggle back to 
 
 that little town, but the summer will come when she will 
 
 lack strength to return there, preferring to remember its 
 
 streets and fields by her own fireside.' 
 
 I only just escaped meeting her ; for when I was in 
 Munich for the festival it seemed but a mere politeness to 
 write suggesting that she should come to me or that I 
 should go to her, but she discovered an excuse for not 
 meeting me. ' You ask what is the matter } ' she wrote. 
 * Well, the naked truth is that I have had a severe attack 
 of some liver complaint, and have burnt myself so badly 
 with a hot-water bag that I am only able to hang on my 
 garments any sort of way. I am sure you don't want to 
 meet such a woman. There would be no disappointment 
 for me, of that I'm sure ; whereas you, as a man, look for 
 other qualities in a woman. You cannot, if you would, 
 ignore the physical side of the question except in one way 
 — ^by avoiding the woman, by not seeing her, letting the 
 imagination paint her picture.' A sincere woman. It is 
 months since I have heard from her ; and it may well be 
 that I shall never hear from her again, and it may be that 
 we might have had some happy moments together if she 
 had not waited till her lover had married the Italian 
 governess. Surmise, surmise ! But she was certainly 
 right to avoid seeing me when I was in Munich. All the 
 same, it was a pity not to have seen her, and I am sorry
 
 238 
 
 Euphorion that I did not go to the inn at Toelz without warning her, 
 in Texas putting down a false name in the visitors' book. It would 
 have been amusing to have made her acquaintance casually 
 in the dining-room^ and to have gone for walks with her 
 and sat with her under the same trees as she had sat 
 under with her lover, and wheedled her into telling me all 
 about him. A comedy unfolded in the fire, and presently 
 another face rose up in my mind : the straight nose and 
 clear eyes of an American poetess who did not fear that I 
 might be disillusioned, for after a long correspondence she 
 sent me some snapshots that a girl friend had taken of her 
 while bathing in some brook in the Andes ; and as these 
 suggested a model that the sculptor of the Venus de Milo 
 would have implored a sitting from, her letter inviting me 
 to come to see her in Paris some two years later was 
 welcomed. Here was the chance of seeing in the flesh 
 one of those ladies who admired my writings, and I went 
 to Paris, and we met — a single meeting with these last 
 . words, ' And now I cease to be a naked woman for you ' 
 — one immemorial afternoon in Paris, and since then no 
 letter or poem. Nothing. 
 
 A sudden recollection propelled me out of my chair, 
 and I sought her letters among the heaps in the Sheraton 
 book-case ; but there were too many for reading that 
 evening, and coming upon a single letter in a strange 
 handwriting, I said, 'And from whom can this he? But 
 the handwriting is not altogether strange. I have seen 
 it before. I have had three or four letters from her, but 
 not more.' And returning to my chair I determined not 
 to yield to the temptation to solve the difficulty by taking 
 the letter out of the envelope, and sat for a long time 
 looking into the fire. At last I cried out, ' It is she ! ' 
 And my thoughts drifted away from the oath given ten 
 years ago to the moment Avhen Agnes, my parlourmaid, 
 came into the room with a letter in her hand, saying that
 
 239 
 
 it had just been sent round from the Shelbourne Hotel. Euphorion 
 The writer mentioned that she had come from Texas. '" ^ ^^^^ 
 'A sufficiently romantic origin/ I muttered — '"And I 
 have come to Europe in the hope of making your ac- 
 quaintance." A little more abrupt than the usual letter/ 
 I said. ' One thing, however, distinguishes her from the 
 others. The others have proposed trysts, but this woman 
 has come to me. She is within a few yards, almost within 
 a stone's throw, on the other side of the Green — in 
 the prosaic Shelbourne Hotel. But she has come from 
 Texas.' And a great desire entered into my heart to see 
 the lady who had wi-itten so simply, telling me that she 
 had come from Texas, and that one of her objects in 
 coming to Europe was to see me. It had been my pride 
 never to accept trysts from correspondents, but I had gone 
 to Paris, and the distance that Honor had come exceeded 
 by tenfold the journeys that the others had invited me to 
 undertake. Texas was many thousand miles away, and 
 seized, perhaps, by the magnetism of the abyss over which 
 my literature had flown, it began to seem to me that it 
 would be mean and cowardly to refuse to see her. 
 * Insipid, trite, and cowardly I shall for ever be in my 
 
 own eyes if I ' A sudden desire to see this lady 
 
 from Texas caught me in the throat, and ringing the 
 bell for my parlourmaid, I spoke to her with much 
 gravity, lest she should understand the purpose of her 
 errand. 
 
 'You know, Agnes, that a great many people come 
 here to see me on literary business, and the lady who sent 
 this letter from the Shelbourne has come probably for an 
 interview. My time is valuable just at present, and cannot 
 be wasted on answering stupid questions ; or it may be 
 that she has come to see me about the serial or dramatic 
 rights of my books. I want you to go to the Shelbourne, 
 and if she should strike you as an intelligent and
 
 240 
 
 Euphorion sprightly woman, who is not likely to bore me, give 
 in Texas ]^qy this letter, I have noticed that you are a good judge 
 of character, and her appearance will tell you much. 
 A good description of her is what I should like; you 
 will be a better judge than I. She will not be able to 
 take you in ! ' 
 
 ' And if she's an old woman, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Then tell her I am leaving town and am very sorry. 
 Of course, it will be a pity, Agnes, for she has come many 
 thousands of miles, fi-om Texas.' 
 
 ' I have always heard, sir, that ladies from Texas are 
 very rich.' 
 
 Her remark surprised me, so cheerfully was it spoken, 
 and I watched her as she went down the pavement, 
 evidently pleased at finding herself engaged in a romantic 
 enterprise, one in which it is a pleasure to relate that 
 she rose above herself, for on hearing that the lady was 
 in, she said she would take the note upstairs herself. She 
 was taken up in the lift. The lady answered : ' Come 
 in,' and I remembered, smilingly, Tiow I hearkened to 
 Agnes's description of the lady's full shoulders, with a 
 plait of yellow hair falling over them. ' She had her 
 dress off, sir, and I don't think she can be more than 
 five- or six-and-twenty. She just glanced at the letter 
 and said that it would be all right.' During dinner Agnes 
 continued to babble from behind my chair of to-morrow's 
 visitor, and re-crossing my legs before the blazing fire 
 after dinner, I ruminated the pleasures of yester-age ; 
 myself at the window waiting for my visitor was a dim 
 picture, but myself running to the front door to open it to 
 her was distinct, like looking into a mirror. Her first 
 words are still loud in my ear, and my own words asking 
 her to come upstairs. I followed her, thinking that Monet's 
 flooded meadows, with willows rising out of the mist, would 
 help us to get over the first five minutes. But her thoughts
 
 241 
 
 were too intent on her purpose for her to consider my Euphorion 
 pictures^ and she sank into a chair and sat, nervous and ^^ ^ ^^^^ 
 perturbed, looking at the pale roses and the purple archi- 
 tecture of the Aubusson carpet. I tried Chelsea china, 
 but she admitted that she had never considered whether 
 Bow was merely a rougher kind of Chelsea, and we did 
 not get more than three minutes' conversation out of the 
 harpsichord in the next room ; Purcell's Golden Sonata 
 was a failure, and I remembered how I had said to myself, 
 ' Let us try literature,' and calling her attention to the 
 original edition of The Human Comedy in the book-case, I 
 took down a volume. 
 
 'Your books,' she said, 'have meant more to me than 
 any other writer.' 
 
 To put her at her ease I asked her which work she 
 preferred, expecting her to say Evelyn Innes, but it was 
 Sister Teresa that had awakened her interest in me, and 
 with curiosity quickening every moment in my visitor, 
 I begged her to tell me her story, and learnt that she 
 had decided to become a nun when she was eighteen, and 
 had passed through the novitiate and taken the white veil 
 before she discovered that she had no vocation for religion. 
 It was difficult to bring her to speak of the convent, 
 and lest I might annoy her by pursuing the subject too 
 assiduously, I contented myself with remarking that the 
 greatest romance of all is when a man or woman says in 
 early life, ' I will abjure life ; I will forswear it and put 
 my faith in Heaven.' An angry sourness in her voice 
 announced that her hatred of the convent had deepened 
 considerably since she left it, and to soften her temper, I 
 added : ' Or else when, after the novitiate, or after taking 
 the vows, the nun or monk says, " This life is not for me," 
 and crosses the threshold of the convent into the open air, 
 and walks into the fields and hearkens to the little birds 
 singing in the shaws.' My little exordium did not seem to 
 
 R
 
 242 
 
 Euphorion interest her as I hoped it would ; she merely muttered that 
 in Texas gi^g hated to remember that two good years of her life 
 were wasted among nuns. 
 
 ' We will speak of something else/ I said ; * but re- 
 member it was Sisiei- Teresa that you liked more than 
 any other book.' 
 
 I should have liked to verify my foreseeing through 
 her, but she would not talk of the convent, and all I 
 could gather was that she held it in detestation. So 
 my imagination began at once to weave an intrigue with 
 a priest, but rejecting this very simple hypothesis as 
 unlikely, and clinging to the hope that a vague sense 
 of sex had led her out of it, I reminded her that it had 
 been said that God only gets the women that men do 
 not want, to which aphorism she made but little answer ; 
 whereupon it became plain to me that my endeavour 
 should be to produce inveigling talk, laying stress on 
 the fact that our life can only be given to us for one 
 thing — to live it ; the first of our instincts is sex, there- 
 fore for a woman to love a man and to sacrifice herself 
 is her duty, just as a man's duty is to sacrifice himself for 
 a woman. My efforts were rewarded : she seemed to 
 welcome the turn the conversation was taking ; her face 
 became animated, she listened, pleased for a while, and 
 then her face clouded, and shyly she confessed to me that 
 she had be'en attracted to men since she had left the 
 convent. She even hinted at a love-story — an ordinary 
 one it seemed to be ; she had discovered him to be 
 unworthy in time. 
 
 ' But I cannot speak of that. Why do you ' 
 
 It was necessary, I felt, to change the conversation, 
 and the plains of Texas started up in my mind, with 
 endless cowboys scurrying for ever after wild cattle, and 
 I invited her to tell me if she had whirled a lasso or 
 enwound the hind legs of a heifer with a bolas. But
 
 243 
 
 the sum of her knowledge of Texas was Austin — a Euphorion 
 disappointing admission I felt it to be, having conceived '" ^ ^^*^ 
 Texas as plains with huts out of which men emerged to 
 spring on horses and fire revolvers. But instructed by 
 my visitor, I learnt that Austin is a large town. She 
 and her sisters, after finding themselves destitute, had 
 dealt in general goods until they had possessed themselves 
 of another fortune. Our talk became pleasant suddenly, 
 and I learnt that my visitor's name was Honor, and that 
 neither of her two sisters was endowed with any remark- 
 able intelligence ; one was a good saleswoman, but a bad 
 buyer. Her second sister was a great trial, and it was 
 partly on account of her second sister that she decided 
 to leave the business and spend the money she had made 
 on a visit to Europe. It took a long time to entice her 
 out of her reserve, and it was at the end of a long talk 
 regarding the folly of wasting one's life piling up 
 money, that I learnt that Honor was not married. The 
 reason she gave me for her celibacy seemed a little trite, 
 and I began to dread a moralist. 'Once,' she said, *a 
 woman decides to marry she must think of the children 
 she may bring into the world.' 'The store,' I dared to 
 suggest as a career for the children that might come, a 
 suggestion which seemed to displease her amazingly, and 
 I heard her say that for a Avoman to throw herself into the 
 arms of a man for her pleasure, and bring children into 
 the world infirm in mind and body, was reprehensible. 
 She admitted that she desired intellectual companionship : 
 she could not love a stupid man, and in a primitive place 
 like Texas a woman who chose to have a child except in 
 wedlock would be misunderstood. Nor had she seen a 
 man in Texas worthy to be the father of her child. The 
 child she desired was an exceptional child, a man of 
 talent, a painter, a poet, a musician. 
 
 ' A musician ! ' I cried, and we spoke of The Ring, but,
 
 2-1,4 
 
 Euphorion despite my praise of it, she inclined more to literature 
 in Texas than to music. 
 
 ' Have you ever met a man of letters who ' 
 
 It is not unlikely that this sentence was never finished, 
 if it were I have forgotten how it ended, but remember 
 well how strained and difficult the convei'sation became. 
 We began to pick our words, myself asking timorously if 
 a potential father for her son had ever taken shape in 
 her mind. She raised her eyes to mine, and then, like 
 one speaking out of her deeper self, stirred a little 
 by a sudden thought, a wind upon the water, she said : — 
 
 ' I have never thought of anybody definitely, only that 
 I would like to give Texas a literature ; and when 1 read 
 your books * 
 
 ' You thought of me ? ' 
 
 She had paid me the compliment of thinking of me as a 
 possible father for her son, as a man who was likely to 
 beget a son who would give a literature to Texas ; and 
 my curiosity now enkindled as it had never been before, 
 and as it will never be again, I asked her how the idea of 
 giving Texas a literature worthy of its name had come to 
 her, and if her knowledge of me was purely literary, 
 acquired from reading my books. 
 
 ' You didn't know, for instance, that my age might 
 preclude the possibility ' 
 
 She answered quite simply that she had thought a 
 great deal on that question before setting out for 
 Europe, and then, speaking with still greater diffidence, 
 I said : — 
 
 ' But you must have asked yourself if you would find 
 a man in me whose ajipearance was not too distasteful, 
 a distaste which you might not be able to overcome, 
 despite the desire to render a great service to your 
 country.' 
 
 ' I often thought of that on board the steamer.'
 
 245 
 
 Another question had to be put^ the most delicate of all, Euphorion 
 and I said :— •" Texas 
 
 'Am I to understand that my appearance is not 
 distasteful to you ? ' 
 
 'No, I don't think you distasteful.' 
 
 At these words a certain imminence seemed to come 
 into the room, and we sat silent, myself seeking for 
 words with desperate eagerness and not finding any, all 
 seemed inadequate. To thank her for her good opinion 
 of me could not do else than to exhibit me in a prosaic 
 light. I must cross the room boldly and kiss her or plead 
 a pressing engagement, a daring expedient and a vulgar 
 one in ordinary circumstances, but our circumstances were 
 not ordinary. 'AH things considered, it isn't likely that 
 she will refuse,' I said to myself, and it was in a hopeful 
 mood that I rose out of my chair. But she rose out of 
 hers at the same moment, and lifting her face, which 
 seemed young and beautiful (I say seemed, for she stood 
 with her back to the light), she extended a frank and 
 fearless hand. 
 
 ' I must be going now. I'm afraid I have taken up a 
 great deal of your valuable time, and I thank you very 
 cordially for having received me.' 
 
 ' But I hope I shall have the pleasure of receiving you 
 again. I am engaged this evening, but I shall be pleased 
 if you will come to dinner to-morrow night.' 
 
 ' I shall be delighted to dine with you.' 
 
 And upon these words she passed gracefully and with 
 dignity out of the room, leaving me asking myself whether 
 the strange fortune that had befallen me were for good or 
 evil. ' She is an American, right enough,' I answered. ' But 
 why did she make application to me rather than to Mere- 
 dith, Swinburne, Yeats, Henry James, or Gosse .'' Gosse 
 is the leading spirit of the English academy, and his love 
 for literature is pure and disinterested ; he could not
 
 246 
 
 Euphorion refuse to Something in my writings must have ap- 
 
 in Texas pealed to her. Not my style, nor the subjects I choose, 
 but a certain pervading intimacy which I do not seek, but 
 of which I am conscious. And that is why I was chosen 
 instead of Gosse. A very strange and original episode, no 
 doubt, one that a writer of tact would place in the fifteenth 
 century — 1430, or thereabouts ; perhaps some hundreds of 
 years further back — a story quite out of keeping with the 
 genius of the twentieth century. It would be quite all 
 right if the lady had sent me one of my books to write 
 her name in ; and quite all right if she had brought me 
 the manuscript of a novel and begged me to advise her 
 about the plot. She might have even gone further and 
 come here with an idea for a play or a story and invited 
 my collaboration. But to come here and invite my col- 
 laboration in A thought like hers rises high above 
 
 the base conventionalities and the tawdry desires of the 
 ordinary man and woman who merely seek gratifications 
 pecuniary or sexual. We do not know the motive that 
 prompted Bettina to go to Goethe. The nearest thing in 
 literature to my own case is to be found in The Coiifessions, 
 when Madame de Warens takes Jean Jacques into the 
 garden and confides to him that he has arrived at man's 
 estate. She does not solicit his favours, but just proposes 
 herself in amiable fashion, telling him that he need not 
 hurry himself to come to a decision. She gives him eight 
 days to consider it, and the few lines in which he describes 
 the episode are perhaps the most truly original in litera- 
 ture. But the episode, so marvellously presented in The 
 Confessions, presents no analogy to my own case. Madame 
 Warens is a widow, whereas Honor might be a virgin. If 
 the unconventional errand she had come to Europe upon 
 be not taken into account, there was nothing to lead me 
 to suppose she was not, and I had invited her to dine with 
 me to-morrow. In the circumstances dinner meant . . .
 
 247 
 
 ' Good Heavens 1 ' I cried. ' What have I not let myself Euphorion 
 in for ? A woman whom I have never seen or heard of ^" ^ ^^^* 
 before, with whose appearance I am but imperfectly 
 acquainted. She certainly struck me as young and at- 
 tractive, but the morning was dark, there was some fog 
 in the street, she wore a large hat, and sat all the time 
 with her back to the light. True, it was I who had 
 indicated that chair to her. But why did she get up to 
 go the moment I crossed the room ? She must have 
 guessed that I rose to kiss her. But, after all, if her 
 desire to give a literature to her country be a real one, 
 she must know that a kiss is preliminary to the literature.' 
 
 A hundred different decisions formed in my mind and 
 melted into nothingness — a sudden need to see my 
 ajjent, an attack of influenza. Innumerable letters were 
 composed ; one was written, but it was not sent. And 
 while all this mental torment was spending itself, I was 
 sustained by my natural and inveterate desire of the 
 strange, the odd, the bizarre. All my other love affairs 
 were commonplace compared to this one, a literary love 
 par excellence, to which the loves of Musset and George 
 Sand were shallow and without perspective, love-stories 
 in two dimensions ; whereas this is one in three, and if 
 Texas is considered, in four. With such thoughts did I 
 while away the hours that divided us, and as the hour 
 approached, the pangs of hope grew tenser ; a hundred 
 times I asked myself if I had made myself clear ; and I 
 was about to send over to the Shelbourne to inquire, 
 when she arrived, beautiful beyond my expectations — 
 la symphonie en hlanc majeur en personjie. As not one of 
 Gautier's similes occurred to me on seeing her, I will 
 not quote, but will try to recall' instead the sensations 
 that her snow-coloured forehead awakened in me, a fore- 
 head round and high, with pale gold curls about it, and a 
 flush of the tenderest rose breaking through the snow of
 
 248 
 
 Euphorion her cheeks. Her eyes were the palest blue, yet it seemed 
 in 1 exas ^q j^e that I had never seen blue eyes before, and during 
 dinner I watched her snow-coloured hands, lit with pink, 
 almond-shaped nails, while seeking to save the conversation 
 from dropping, a difficult task, for Agnes hardly ever left 
 the room. My visitor seemed to speak from the Alpine 
 altitudes. Now and again a pleasant smile floated over 
 her wonderful face, and her remarks, though simple, were 
 never trivial or silly, 'A little unbending,' I said to 
 myself, and began to doubt the evidence of my ears. 
 Seeing her eating and talking to me so calmly, it seemed 
 impossible to believe that yesterday she had asked me to 
 enable her to give a literature to Texas. It would be too 
 much to hope that she would undertake the good office of 
 breaking the ice herself and, feeling myself deplorably 
 unequal to the task, I followed her upstairs. It seemed 
 impossible to believe that she would ever submit herself 
 to human love. She seemed so much beyond and above 
 it. Perhaps she was ignorant of human love, and believed 
 that a child could be produced by spells and incantations. 
 The five minutes in the drawing-room before Agnes 
 brought up the coffee were an agony, and when she did 
 bring it up she took an incredible time to hand it round. 
 At last the door closed behind her. A dryness came into 
 my throat. It seemed to me that I could never think of 
 anything to say again. The floor seemed to slide beneath 
 my feet when I tried to walk across the room, and several 
 times I changed my chair. My eyes were all the time 
 fixed on the beautiful white forehead. After all, it could 
 not shock her — offend her too utterly and absolutely — if I 
 were to lean over and kiss her on the point of her shoulder. 
 That was how she would like me to break the ice ; but 
 instead of kissing her immaculate forehead, I stood by her 
 talking of the pictures in which I had seen her face. 
 ' There is Bronzino.'
 
 249 
 
 She raised her seraphic eyes to mine, and my talk died Euphorion 
 in my throat. But fortunately my hand dropped on her i" Texas 
 knee. She withdrew her knee instantly, and I seemed to 
 myself an incredible ruffian, and was about to apologise for 
 my hand when her look changed. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon/ she said, * for withdrawing my 
 knee. You see I replace it. I don't want you to think 
 me a little fool.' 
 
 Well, the dread moment was over and passed, and 
 she seemed to become suddenly interpenetrated with a 
 wonderful tenderness, not love, as we use the word, but 
 some deep feeling of union and sense of destiny and duty 
 seemed to animate her — a feeling easier to attribute to a 
 Hindoo than to a Northern woman. But next evening in 
 the drawing-room as I rose from my chair to go to her she 
 almost rushed forward to meet me, and a few minutes 
 after she was kneeling in my black satin arm-chair, her 
 face leaned against the back, a beautiful pose, showing 
 her pale golden hair drawn up into a knot and fastened 
 with a large tortoiseshell comb, polished so highly that 
 I could see myself in it as I bent over, and, drawing her 
 face up to mine, tasted the nectar of her tongue. 
 
 Manet's white is the rarest, he alone can endow the 
 breast blossom with a pink that shames a peony, but 
 Manet's white is mundane, and Honor's whiteness always 
 seemed benedictive and immortal. Bronzino's Venus is 
 whiter than sea-foam, but she is vain and frivolous. 
 Francesca attained to a saintly whiteness, and as we 
 walked through the hot September night to her hotel. 
 Honor became intimately associated in my mind with 
 the genius of that painter. 
 
 ' You'll allow me to come to see you again ? ' she said, 
 stopping at the corner of the Green. 
 
 ' But why do you ask ? Is it because you doubt, or 
 have you not been well received ? '
 
 250 
 
 Euphorlon 'I'll not pretend that the evenings I spend with you 
 in Texas are not agreeable, and you will forgive me if my thoughts 
 are always a little ahead.' 
 
 ' But, Honor, literature was but a pretext in enchanting 
 fantasy.' 
 
 ' Besides, I must not interrupt your work.' 
 
 Her seriousness perplexed me, and looking back on the 
 episode after many years, it does not seem to me that 1 
 met her more than seven or eight times during the six 
 weeks she spent in Dublin — ten times at the most. Once 
 there was an interval of a week and, alarmed, I sent 
 round to the Shelbpurne to inquire, receiving in reply a 
 gracious note that she would be glad to dine with me. 
 Once, and only once, did I persuade her to go for a walk. 
 She wished to see the Dublin mountains, and we went out 
 Rathfarnham way and wandered about the banks of the 
 Dodder river, and returned home talking of the old farm- 
 house we had seen, built out of great cut-stone some two 
 hundred and fifty years ago. She stayed later that evening 
 than was her wont, and it was then that I perceived that, 
 however much I might strain her in my arms, we were 
 apart. Something wider than the Atlantic divided us. 
 Only once, when she came to bid me good-bye, did she 
 seem to descend into the area of human feelings. 
 
 ' I am sorry to leave you, for you have been throughout 
 very kind, the very man that I had expected from your 
 books.' 
 
 ' But it is not true that you are leaving me .'' ' And, 
 frightened by her calm eyes, I added : * It is not true that 
 I shall never kiss these snow-coloured hands again ? ' 
 
 'There is no reason Avhy you should kiss them now,' 
 she answered, withdrawing her hands. ' Why make this 
 parting more difficult ? Why force me to speak words 
 that hurt me to speak .^ The end for which we met is 
 accomplished.'
 
 251 
 
 ' All the more reason that I should insist on retaining Euphorion 
 you.' ^" '^^^^5 
 
 ' You wouldn't have me sacrifice the mission that 
 brought me here for the emotion of a moment ? ' 
 
 ' Of a moment ! ' 
 
 'You're not sure that you will think to-morrow as you 
 do to-day. Even so, it is certain that sooner or later 
 you will think differently. If you had not known how 
 to sacrifice certain emotional moments so that you might 
 follow this path that Fate had traced for you, I should 
 not be here to-day. You would have me believe that 
 it would be as well if I had never come ? But I know 
 you are merely trying to think that you are sorry you 
 ever saw me, and that I have blighted your life. You 
 will return to your writing to-morrow. You love it better 
 than you can ever love me, and your heart would fail 
 you if I were to throw aside my furs and say : " I'll 
 stay." You would despise me. Yes, yes, I should be- 
 come in your eyes the mere traditional woman without 
 a mission, career, or destination.' 
 
 It seems to me that I remember her speech perfectly, 
 and her smooth musical voice still haunts in my ears 
 when the room is lighted by firelight and lamp. 
 
 'The seed must never know whence it came,' she 
 said. 'We must both sacrifice something for our child. 
 I am sacrificing the common respect of society in Texas, 
 and you must forgo all knowledge of your boy. Your 
 name has been too intimately associated with art and 
 literature. Swear.' 
 
 ' I swear,' and we spent our last evening crooning 
 names over the fire in Ely Place, for it was necessary to 
 discover a name that would go with Honor's surname. 
 At last one flamed up in my mind — a name more likely 
 to inspire painting than poetry. 
 
 ' But how do you know our child will be a boy ? '
 
 252 
 
 Euphorion Always sure of herself, she smiled and Avent away, 
 in Texas and this letter announcing his birth is all I have. Were 
 it not for this letter her visit might have been a dream 
 of yester-night. 
 
 'And now I'll doze an hour in this comfortable arm- 
 chair, and dream that I am on my way to Texas to seek 
 out Honor and her boy.' 
 
 XIV 
 
 Sunday T% /TARRIED FOLK always know, only the bachelor 
 Evening in iVJ. asks, ' Where shall I dine ? Shall I spend two 
 °" °" shillings in a chop-house, or five in my club, or ten at 
 the Cafe Royal ? ' , For two or three more shillings one 
 may sit on the balcony of the Savoy, facing the spectacle 
 of evening darkening on the river, with lights of bridge 
 and wharf and warehouse afloat in the tide. Married 
 folk know their bedfellows; bachelors, and perhaps 
 spinsters, are not so sure of theirs : this is a side issue 
 which we will not pursue ; an allusion to it will be 
 enough to bring before the reader the radical difference 
 between the lives of the married and the unmarried. 
 Oh, married ones, from breakfast to six only do our lives 
 resemble yours ! At that hour we begin to experience 
 a sense of freedom and, I confess it, of loneliness. It 
 is true that life is essentially a lonely thing, and the 
 married and the unmarried differ only in this, that we 
 are lonely when we are by ourselves, and they are lonely 
 when they are togethei*. 
 
 At half-past six the bachelor has to tidy up after the 
 day's work, to put his picture away if he be a painter, 
 to put his writings away if he be a writer, and then the 
 very serious question comes, with whom shall he dine ? 
 His thoughts fly through Belgravia and Mayfair, and 
 after whisking round Portman Square, and some other
 
 253 
 
 square in the northern neighbourhood, they soar and go Sunday 
 away northward to Regent's Park, seeking out somebody f-^ening in 
 living in one of these stately terraces who will ask him 
 to stay to dinner. At So-and-so's there is always a round 
 of beef, and cold chicken-pie, whereas What-do-you-call- 
 them's begin with soup. But the food is not of much 
 consequence ; an interesting conij)any is his search. 
 
 It was last week that I realised, and for the first 
 time, how different was the life of the married from the 
 unmarried. The day was Sunday, and I had been writing 
 all day, and in the hush that begins , about six o'clock 
 I remembered that I was without a dinner engagement. 
 The cup of tea I generally take about half-past four 
 had enabled me to do another hour's work, but a little 
 after six sentences refused to form themselves, a little 
 dizziness began in the brain, and the question not only 
 ' Where shall I dine .'' ' but ' Where shall I pass the hour 
 before dinner ? ' presented itself. The first thing to do 
 was to dress, and while dressing I remembered that I 
 had not wandered in St. James's Park for some time, 
 and that that park had fascinated me since boyhood. 
 St. James's Park and the Green Park have never been 
 divided in my admiration of their beauty. The trees 
 that grow along the Piccadilly railings are more beautiful 
 in St. James's Park, or seem so, for the dells are well 
 designed. The art of landscape gardening is more akin 
 to the art of a musician than to that of a painter ; it 
 is a sort of architecture with colour added. The formal 
 landscape gardening of Versailles reminds us of a tragedy 
 by Racine, but the romantic modulations of the green 
 hills along the Piccadilly areas are as enchanting as Haydn. 
 There was a time when a boy used to walk from Brompton 
 to Piccadilly to see, not the dells, but the women going 
 home from the Argyle Rooms and the Alhambra, but 
 after a slight hesitation he often crossed from tlte
 
 254. 
 
 Sunday frequented to the silent side, to stand in admiration of the 
 
 Evening in ^yhite rays of moonlight stealing between the trunks of the 
 London ^, 
 
 trees. Ihe trees grow so beautifully about these mounds, 
 
 and upon the mounds, that it is easy to fill the inter- 
 spaces with figures from Gainsborough's pictures, ladies 
 in hoops and powdered hair, elegant gentlemen wearing 
 buckled shoes, tail-coats, and the swords which made them 
 gentlemen. Gainsborough did not make his gentlemen 
 plead — that was his insular coldness, whereas Watteau's 
 ladies put their fans to their lips archly, asking the pleading 
 lover if he believes all he says, knowing well that his 
 vows are only part of the gracious entertainment. But 
 why did not the great designer of St. James's Park build 
 little Greek temples — those pillared and domed temples 
 which give such grace to English parks } Perhaps the 
 great artist who laid out the Green Park was a moralist 
 and a seer, and divining the stream of ladies that come 
 up from Brompton to Piccadilly, he thought — well, Avell, 
 his thoughts were his own, and now the earth is over 
 him, as Rossetti would say. 
 
 Five-and-twenty years ago the white rays slanted 
 between the tree-trunks, and the interspaces lengthened 
 out, disappearing in illusive lights and shades, and, as- 
 cending the hill, the boy used to look over the empty 
 plain, wondering at the lights of the Horse Guards shining 
 far away like a village. Perhaps to-night, about midnight, 
 I may find myself in Piccadilly again, for we change very 
 little ; what interested us in our 3'outh interests us almost 
 to the end. St. James's Park is perhaps more beautiful in 
 the sunset — there is the lake, and, led by remembrance of 
 some sunsets I had seen on it, I turned out of Victoria 
 Street last Sunday, taking the eastern gate, my thoughts 
 occupied with beautiful Nature, seeing in imagination the 
 shapes of the trees designing themselves grandly against 
 the sky, and the little life of the ponds— the ducks going
 
 255 
 
 hither and thither, every duck intent upon its own business Sunday 
 and its own desire. I was extremely fortunate, for the Evening in 
 effect of liffht in the Green Park was more beautiful last 
 Sunday than anything I had ever seen ; the branches 
 of the tall plane-trees hung over the greensward, the 
 deciduous foliage hardly stirring in the pale sunshine, 
 and my heart went out to the ceremonious and cynical 
 garden, artificial as eighteenth-century couplets. Wild 
 Nature repels me ; and I thought how interesting it was 
 to consider oneself, to ponder one's sympathies ; our 
 antipathies are not quite so interesting to consider, but 
 they are interesting too, in a way, for they belong to 
 oneself, and self is man's main business ; all outside of self 
 is uncertain, all comes from self, all returns to self; and 
 the reason I desired St. James's Park last Sunday was 
 surely because it is part of me, not that part known to my 
 friends — our friends understand only those margins of 
 themselves which they discover in us; we are never 
 understood, and it has always been one of my sorest 
 regrets that I never met anybody who discovered for 
 himself or herself that I loved trees better than flowers, 
 or was much interested in the fact when, in despair, I 
 called attention to it. 
 
 I watch trees and never weary of their moods — solemn, 
 silent and strangely green in the long, rainy days, feverishly 
 excited when a breeze is blowing — like frivolous girls in 
 fine weather. And in their decline they are beautiful, 
 more beautiful than flowers, and I shall never forget last 
 Sunday's loveliness, the long branches hanging out of the 
 tall, stately plane-trees like plumes ; in the hush of sound 
 and decline of light the droop of the deciduous foliage 
 spoke like a memory ; I seemed to hear eighteenth- 
 century voices, and turned aside from a certain glade, 
 Watteau having painted it. But in what picture ? It is 
 difficult to say, so easily do his pictures flow one into the
 
 256 
 
 Sunday other, always the melancholy of festival, the pain in the 
 Evening in heart, the yearning for the beyond which all suffer whose 
 business in life is to wear painted or embroidered dresses, 
 and to listen or to plead with this for sole variation, that 
 they who listen to-day will plead to-morrow — a literaiy 
 painter who divined the soitow of them who sit under 
 colonnades, always playing some part, great or small, in 
 love's comedy, listening to the murmur of the fountain, 
 watching a gentleman and lady advancing and bowing, 
 bowing and retiring, dancing a pavan on a richly-coloured 
 carpet. 
 
 As the twilight gathered under the plane-trees my 
 vision became more mixed and morbid, and I hardly 
 knew if the picture I saw was the one in the Dulwich 
 Gallery, or the " Assemblee dans un Pare " in the Louvre, 
 the gallants and the ladies by the waterside, and the 
 blue evening showing through the tall trees. The picture 
 before me was like that picture, only the placing of the 
 trees and the shelving of the greensward did not admit of 
 so extended a composition. A rough tree-trunk, from which 
 a great branch was broken or lopped off, stood out suddenly 
 in very nineteenth-century naturalness, awaking the ghost 
 of a picture which I recognised at once as Corot. Behind 
 the tree a tender, evanescent sky, pure and trans- 
 parent as the very heart of a flower, rose up, filling the 
 park with romance, and as the sunset drooped upon the 
 water my soul said, ' The lake ! ' Ah, the pensive shadow 
 that falls from the hills on either side of "the lake," 
 leaving the middle of the picture suffused with a long 
 stream of light, narrowing as it approached the low 
 horizon. But the line of the trees on the hither side of 
 this London lake was heavier than the spiritual trees in 
 the picture entitled, " By the Water-side," and there was 
 not anywhere the beauty of the broken birch that leans 
 over the lake in " Le Lac de Garde." And then I thought
 
 257 
 
 of "The Ravine," for the darkening island reminded me Sunday 
 of the hillside in the picture. But the St. James's Park Evening in 
 sky lacked the refined concentration of light in " The ^^"^^'^ 
 Ravine/' so beautifully placed, low down in the picture, 
 behind some dark branches jutting from the right, the 
 difference between Nature and Corot striking me as 
 greater than the difference between a true and a false 
 Corot — not that there is anything untrue in Nature, only 
 Nature lacks personality, and is therefore often a little 
 vulgar, especially in her sunsets, as Whistler remarked. 
 
 So did I chatter to myself as I walked towards the 
 bridge, that dear bridge, thrown straight as a plank across 
 the lake, with numerous water-fowl collected there, a 
 black swan driving the ducks about, snatching more than 
 his due share of bread, and little children staring stolidly, 
 afraid of the swan, and constantly reproved by their 
 mothers for reasons which must always seem obscure to 
 the bachelor. A little breeze was blowing, and the ducks 
 bobbed like corks in the waves, keeping themselves in 
 place with graceful side-strokes of their webbed feet. 
 Sometimes the ducks rose from the water and flew round 
 the trees by Queen Anne's Mansions, or they fled down 
 the lake with outstretched necks, like ducks on a Japanese 
 fan, dropping at last into the water by the darkening 
 island, leaving behind long silver lines, which the night 
 instantly obliterated — an impression of passing away, of 
 the effacement of individual life. 
 
 One sighs, for it is even so that life passes, sunrise 
 after sunrise, moonlight upon moonlight, evening upon 
 evening, and we like May-flies on the surface of a stream, 
 no more than they, for all our poets and priests. 
 
 The clock struck seven, reminding me of the dinner- 
 hour, and that I should have to dine alone that evening. 
 To avoid dining alone I should have left St. James's Park 
 earlier, but if I had not lingered I should have missed 
 s
 
 258 
 
 Sunday an exquisite hour of meditation, and meditations are as 
 livening in necessary to some as absinthe is to others. A little 
 incident was, however, wanting — a meeting with one 
 whom one has not seen for a long time, a man or a 
 woman, it would, not matter which, a peg whereon to 
 hang the description of the dusk among the trees. I 
 walked in hope, almost in expectation, but nothing 
 happened till I reached the threshold of St. James's 
 Street, when a young man, a painter, one whose pictures 
 interested me sometimes, appeared, and we went to a 
 restaurant to talk art. 
 
 'After dinner,' I said, 'we will get the best cigars and 
 walk about the Circus. Every Sunday night it is crowded ; 
 we shall see the women hurrying to and fro on love's 
 quest. The warm night will bring them all out in white 
 dresses, and a white dress in the moonlight is compelling. 
 Don't you like the feather boas reaching almost to the 
 ground } I do. Lights-of-love going about their business 
 interest me extraordinarily, for they, and the tinkers and 
 gipsies, are the last that remain of the old world when 
 outlawry was common. Now we are all socialists, more 
 or less occupied with the performance of duties which get 
 everybody's approval. Methinks it is a relief to know 
 that somebody lives out of society, obedient to his instinct. 
 I like all this London, this midnight London, when the 
 round moon rises above the gracious line of Regent Street, 
 and flaming Jupiter soars like a hawk, following some quest 
 of his own — we on our little, he on his greater quest.' 
 
 The night was hot and breathless, like a fume, and 
 upon a great silken sky the circular and sonorous street 
 wheeled like an amphitheatre. I threw open my light 
 overcoat, and seizing the arm of my friend, I said : — 
 
 'He reminds me of a Turk lying amid houris. The 
 gnawing, creeping sensualities of his phrase — his one
 
 259 
 
 phrase — how descriptive it is of the form and whiteness Sunday 
 of a shoulder, the supple fulness of the arm's muscle, the livening in 
 brightness of eyes increased by kohl ! Scent is burning 
 on silver dishes, and through the fumes appear the sub- 
 dued colours of embroidered stuffs and the inscrutable 
 traceries of bronze lamps.' Or, maybe, the scene passes 
 on a terrace overlooking a dark river. Behind the domes 
 and minarets a yellow moon dreams like an odalisque, her 
 hand on the circle of her breast ; and through the torrid 
 silence of the garden, through the odour of over-ripe fruit 
 and the falling sound thereof, comes the melancholy 
 warble of a fountain. Or is it the sorrow of lilies rising 
 through the languid air to the sky ? The night is blue and 
 breathless ; the spasms of the lightning are intermittent 
 among the minarets and the domes; the hot, fierce fever 
 of the garden waxes in the almond scent of peaches, and 
 the white odalisques advancing, sleek oracles of mood. He 
 reminds me of the dark-eyed Bohemian who comes into a 
 tavern silently, and, standing in a corner, plays long, wild, 
 ravishing strains. I see him not, I hardly hear him, my 
 ■ thoughts are far away ; my soul slumbers, desiring only 
 that the spell laid upon me may not be broken. But 
 I feel his dark eyes upon me, and little by little, in 
 spite of my will, my senses awake ; a strange germination 
 is in progress within me ; thoughts and desires that I 
 dread, whose existence in myself I was not aware of, 
 whose existence in myself I would fain deny, come swiftly 
 and come slowly, and settle and absorb and become part 
 of me. Fear is upon me, but I may not pause ; I am 
 hurried on ; repudiation is impossible ; supplication and 
 the wringing of hands are vain ; God has forsaken me ; 
 my worst nature is uppermost. I see it floating up from 
 the depths of my being, a viscous scum. But I can do 
 nothing to check or control. God has forsaken me. I 
 am the prey to that dark, sensual-eyed Bohemian and
 
 260 
 
 Sunday his abominable fiddle ; and seizing my bank-notes, my 
 Evening in g^i^j ^^d my silver, I throw him all I have. I bid him 
 cease, and fall back exhausted. Give me The Ring, give 
 me The Ring. Its cloud palaces, its sea-caves and forests, 
 and the animality therein, its giants and dwarfs and 
 sirens, its mankind and its godkind — it is surely nearer 
 to life ! Or let me go into the meadows with Beethoven, 
 and listen to the lark and the blackbird ! We are nearer 
 life lying by a shady brook, hearing the quail in the 
 meadows and the yellow-hammer in the thicket, than 
 we are now, under this oppressive sky. This street 
 is like Klingsor's garden ; here, too, are flower maidens 
 — patchouli, jessamine, violet. Here is the languorous 
 atmosphere of Parsifal. Come, let us go ; let us seek 
 the country, the moon-haunted dells we shall see through 
 Piccadilly railings. Have you ever stood in the dip of 
 Piccadilly and watched the moonlight among the trees, 
 and imagined a comedy by Wycherly acted there, a goodly 
 company of gallants and fine ladies seated under the trees 
 watching while late ones continue to arrive in painted 
 sedan-chairs. Now all are in their places, and the chair- 
 bearers have gathered into a group at a little distance. 
 
 ' My dear friend, you're talking so much that you don't 
 see those who are passing us ; that girl, she who has just 
 turned to look back, favours heliotrope ; it is delicious still 
 upon the air ; she is as pretty a girl as any that ever came 
 in a sedan-chair to see a comedy by Wycherly. The 
 comedy varies very little : it is always the same comedy, 
 and it is always interesting. The Circus in a sultry 
 summer night under a full moon is very like Klingsor's 
 garden. Come, if you be not Parsifal.'
 
 261 
 
 XV 
 
 1WAS IN London when my brother wrote telling me Resurgam 
 that mother was ill. She was not in any immediate 
 danger, he said, but if a change for the worse were to take 
 place, and it were necessary for me to come over, he would 
 send a telegram. A few hours after a telegram was 
 handed to me. It contained four words. Come at once. — 
 Maurice. ' So mother is dying,' I muttered to myself, and 
 I stood thoughtless, foreseeing myself taken into her room 
 by a nurse, and given a chair by the bedside, foreseeing a 
 hand lying outside the bed which I should have to hold 
 until I heard the death-rattle and saw her face become 
 quiet for ever. 
 
 This was my first vision, but in the midst of my packing 
 I remembered that mother might linger for days ; the dear 
 friend who lies in the churchyard under the Downs lingered 
 for weeks ; every day her husband and her children saw 
 her dying under their eyes : why should not this mis- 
 fortune be mine ? I know not to what God, but I prayed 
 all night in the train, and on board the boat ; I got into 
 the train at the Broadstone praying. But to the journey. 
 How shall I tell it ? The third part must have been the 
 most painful, so clearly do I remember it ; the curious 
 agony of mind caused by a sudden recognition of objects 
 long forgotten — ^a tree or a bit of bog land. The familiar 
 country carried my thoughts hither and thither through 
 my childhood. My thoughts ranged like the swallows; 
 the birds had, no doubt, just arrived, and in swift elliptical 
 flights they hunted for gnats along the banks of the old 
 weedy canal. That weedy canal along which the train 
 travelled took my thoughts back to the very beginning of 
 my life, when I stood at the carriage window and plagued 
 my father and mother with questions regarding the life of
 
 262 
 
 Resurgam the barges passing up and down. And it was the sudden 
 awakenings from these memories that were so terrible ; 
 the sudden thrust of the thought that I was going west- 
 ward to see my mother die, and that nothing could save 
 her from death or me from seeing her die. 'Nothing,' I 
 said, 'can save me unless I get out at the next station,' 
 and I imagined myself taking a car and driving any- 
 whither, far from Moore Hall. But for such an act I 
 would be looked upon as a madman : ' One is bound on 
 a wheel,' I muttered, and I began to think that men 
 under sentence of death must often wonder why they 
 were selected especially for such a fate, and the mystery, 
 the riddle of it all, must be perhaps the greatest part of 
 their pain ; and of all if the morning be beautiful. The 
 morning I journeyed to Mayo was one of the most beauti- 
 ful I had ever seen, and I often caught myself seeking 
 a picturesque expression to describe it (we may not tether 
 our thoughts). It seemed to me that the earth might be 
 compared to an egg, it looked so warm under a white 
 sky, soft as the breast-feathers of a dove. This sudden 
 appearance of literature at bay made me feel that I 
 wanted to kick myself A moment afterwards I found 
 myself meditating on the difficulty of keeping my thoughts 
 fixed on any one subject for] any length of time ; and 
 at the end of this meditation I fell back, wondering, 
 asking myself if it were really my lot to watch by my 
 mother's deathbed ; and then it struck me that I seemed 
 to have become a mere mentality, a buzz of thought, 
 and for an image it behoved me to think of a fly climbing 
 and falling back, buzzing, and climbing again. ' Never,' I 
 said to myself, ' have I been more than a fly buzzing in a 
 glass dome. But who made the glass dome ? and why was 
 it made? The cruelty of Nero outdone,' I said. 
 
 In such sore perplexity, questions from anybody would 
 be intolerable, and I shrank back into the corner of the
 
 263 
 
 carriage whenever a passer-by reminded me, however Resurgam 
 vaguely, of anybody I had ever known, and the mental 
 strain increased mile after mile, the names of the stations 
 becoming more and more familiar as the train proceeded 
 into the western country. At Roscommon I was trying to 
 remember how many there were before we arrived at 
 Claremorris, the station at which I was going to alight, 
 for the train did not stop at Balla. An hour later, 
 mayhap, the train slackened, the porter cried out ' Bally- 
 haunnis,' the next would be Claremorris, and I watched 
 every field, foreseeing the long road, myself on one side of 
 the car, the driver on the other ; a two hours' drive in 
 silence or in talk — ^in talk, for he might be able to tell me 
 about my mother, if the news of her illness had reached as 
 far as Claremorris. 
 
 At the public-house where I went to get a car I made 
 inquiries, but nothing was known. My mother must have 
 fallen ill suddenly — of what .'' I had not heard she was 
 ailing ; I did not remember her to have been ill. The 
 car came, and we drove through the summer weather up 
 and down the starveling roads of Mayo till at last some 
 trees reminded me that we were close to Ballyglass, and 
 my thoughts wandered away to the long road on the other 
 side of the hill, and I saw there (for do we not often see 
 things in memory as plainly as if they were before us .'') 
 the two cream-coloured ponies, Ivory and Primrose, that 
 mother used to drive, and the phaeton, and myself in it, a 
 little child in frocks, anxious above all things to see the 
 mail-coach go by. For a great sight it was to see it go by, 
 with mail-bags and luggage, the guard blowing a horn, the 
 horses trotting splendidly, the lengthy reins swinging, 
 and the driver, his head leaned a little on one side to save 
 his hat, a grey beaver, from being blown away. The great 
 event of those years was the day that we went to Bally- 
 glass, not to see the coach go by, but to get into it, for in
 
 264 
 
 Resurgam those days the railway stopped at Athenry. That was the 
 day I saw the canal, and heard with astonishment that 
 there was a time long ago, no doubt in my father's youth, 
 when people went to Dublin in a barge. And on awaking 
 from these memories I saw that not more than two and a 
 half miles lay between me and Moore Hall. * In half an 
 hour more I shall know whether she be alive or dead,' 
 I said, ' and I watched the horse trotting, interested in his 
 shambling gait, or not at all interested in it — I do not 
 knoAv which. On occasions of great nervous tension one 
 observes everything ; now it was a wood, a while aftei*- 
 wards somebody's farmyard, later on a line of cottages, 
 another wood, and then one of my own gate lodges. An 
 old sawyer lives in it now — looking after it for me ; and I 
 hoped that the wheels of the car would not bring him out, 
 for it would distress me to see him. 
 
 The firs in the low-lying land had grown a little within 
 the last thirty years, but not much. We came to the 
 bridge ; we left it behind us ; we reached the gate lodge 
 and entered the drive ; the woods that I knew so well 
 unfolded before me. Good Heavens ! how terrible was 
 all this resurrection ! The present hides the past ; but 
 there are times when the present does not exist at all, 
 when every mist is cleared away, and the past confronts 
 us in naked outline. The little hill at the beginning of 
 the drive is but a little hill, but to me it is much more, so 
 intimately is it associated with all the pains and troubles 
 of childhood. All this part was once a fairyland to me ; 
 now it is but a thin reality, a book which I have read, and 
 the very thought of which bores me, so well do I know 
 it. There is the lilac-bush ! I used to go to it with my 
 mother thirty years ago at this time of year, and we 
 returned home with our hands full of bloom. Two more 
 turnings and we should be within sight of the house ! 
 This is how men feel when condemned to death. I am
 
 265 
 
 sure of it. The two beautiful laburnums on the crest of Resurgam 
 the hill are now mere wreckage, I saw, and asked the 
 driver to urge his horse up the hill, for I saw some 
 peasants about the steps of the hall door ; they were 
 waiting, no doubt, for news, or perhaps they had news, 
 ' We have bad news for you,' they cried in the wailing 
 tones of the West. 
 
 *Not altogether bad news,' I said to myself; 'my 
 mother is dead, but I have been saved the useless pain, 
 the torture of spirit I should have endured if I had arrived 
 in time.' China roses used to grow over the railings, 
 and I noticed a few blooms as I ran up the high steps, 
 asking myself why I could not put the past behind me : 
 for if ever there was a time to live in the present, this 
 was one ; but never was the present further from me 
 and the past clearer than when I opened the hall door 
 and stood in the hall, paved with grey stones and painted 
 grey and blue. Three generations had played in it; 
 in that corner I learned to spin my first top, and I 
 kept on trying, showing a perseverance that amazed my 
 father. He said, ' If George shows as much perseverance 
 in other things as he does in the spinning of a top he 
 will not fail.' He used to catch me trying and trying 
 to spin that top when he came downstairs on his way 
 to the stables to see his beloved racehorses ' And that 
 is the very chair,' I said, 'on which he put his hat and 
 gloves.' In those days tall hats were worn in the country, 
 and it was the business of his valet to keep them well 
 brushed, and I remembered how the little old man used 
 to watch me, objecting in a way to my spinning my top 
 in the hall, fearful lest I should overturn the chair on 
 which the hat stood : sometimes that did happen, and 
 then, oh dear ! 
 
 In search of somebody I opened the drawing-room door. 
 My sister was there, weeping for our mother, who died
 
 266 
 
 Resurgam that morning. We are so constituted that we demand 
 outward signs of our emotions, especially of grief ; we are 
 doubtful of its genuineness unless it is accompanied by 
 sighs and tears ; and that, I suppose, is why my sister's 
 tears were welcomed by me, for, truth to tell, I was a 
 little shocked at my own insensibility. This was stupid 
 of me, for I knew through experience that we do not 
 begin to suffer immediately after the accident ; everything 
 takes time, grief as well as pain. But in a moment so 
 awful as the one I am describing, one does not reflect, one 
 falls back on the convention that grief and tears are in- 
 separable as fire and smoke. If I could not weep, it were 
 well that my sister could, and I accepted her tears as a 
 tribute paid to our mother's goodness — a goodness which 
 never failed, for it was instinctive. It even seemed to me 
 a pity that Nina had to dry her eyes so that she might tell 
 me the sad facts — when mother died, of her illness, and 
 the specialist who had not arrived in time. I learned 
 that some one had blundered — not that that mattered 
 much, for mother would not have submitted to an 
 operation. 
 
 While listening to her, I unwittingly remembered how 
 we talked of the dear woman whose funeral I described 
 in the pages entitled "A Remembrance." We used to talk, 
 her daughters and her son and her husband and I talked 
 of her who Avas dying upstairs — we were greatly moved, I 
 at least appreciated my love of her — yet our talk would 
 drift from her suddenly, and we would speak of indifferent 
 things, or maybe the butler would arrive to tell us lunch 
 was ready. How these incidents jar our finer feelings ! 
 they seem to degrade life, and to such a point that we 
 ai'e ashamed of living, and are tempted to regard life 
 itself as a disgrace. 
 
 I foresaw that the same interruptions, the same divaga- 
 tions would happen among ourselves, in the square
 
 267 
 
 Georgian house standing on a hill-top overlooking a long Resurgam 
 
 winding lake, as had happened among my friends in the 
 
 Italian house under the Downs amid bunches of evergreen 
 
 oaks. And I had not to wait long for one of these 
 
 unhappy divagations. My sister had to tell me who was 
 
 staying in the house : an aunt was there, my mother's 
 
 sister, and an uncle, my mother's brother, was coming 
 
 over next day. It is easy to guess how the very mention 
 
 of these names beguiled us from what should be the 
 
 subject of our thought. And the room itself supplied 
 
 plenty of distractions : all the old furniture, the colour of 
 
 the walls, the very atmosphere of the room took my 
 
 thought back to my childhood. The sofa on which my 
 
 sister was sitting had been broken years ago, and I 
 
 unwittingly remembered how it had been broken ; it had 
 
 been taken away to a lumber-room ; somebody had had 
 
 it mended. I began to wonder who bad done this — 
 
 mother most likely, she looked after everything. I have 
 
 said that I had just arrived after a long journey. My 
 
 sister could not do else than to speak of lunch, and we 
 
 went into the dining-room, and in the middle of the meal 
 
 my brother came in, looking so very solemn that I began 
 
 to wonder if he had assumed the expression he thought 
 
 appropriate to the occasion — I mean if he had involuntarily \ 
 
 exaggerated the expression of grief he would naturally 
 
 wear. We are so constituted that the true and the false 
 
 overlap each other, and so subtly that no analysis can 
 
 determine where one ends and the other begins. I 
 
 remembered how the relatives and the friends on the day 
 
 of the funeral in Sussex arrived, each one with a very 
 
 grave face, perchance interrupting us in the middle of 
 
 some trivial conversation ; if so, we instantly became grave 
 
 and talked of the dead woman sympathetically for a few 
 
 minutes ; then, on the first opportunity, and with a feeling 
 
 of relief, we began to talk of indifferent things ; and with
 
 268 
 
 Resurgam every fresh arrival the comedy was re-acted. And return- 
 ing from the past to the present^ I listened to my brother, 
 who was speaking of the blunder that had been made : 
 how a wrong doctor had come down owing to — the fault 
 was laid upon somebody, no matter upon whom ; the 
 subject was a painful one, and might well have been 
 dropped, but he did not dare to talk of anything but our 
 mother, so we all strove to carry on the conversation as 
 long as possible. But my brother and I had not seen 
 each other for years, he had come back from India after 
 a long absence ; nor do I think I had seen my sister since 
 she was married, and that was a long while ago ; she had 
 had children, and it was the first time I saw her in her 
 middle age. We were anxious to ask each other questions, 
 to hear each other's news, and we were anxious, too, to 
 see the landscape that we had not seen, at least not 
 together, for many years ; we were tempted by the soft 
 sunlight floating on the lawn, by an afternoon full of mist 
 and sun, and I said to myself, ' Mother died certainly on 
 the most beautiful day ever seen, the most winsome, the 
 most white, the most wanton, as full of love as a girl in a 
 lane who stops to gather a spray of hawthorn on a wedding 
 day,' and then I fell to thinking why death should come 
 to any one on such a bride-like day, and immediately after 
 thought myself a fool for expecting Nature to prepare a 
 decoration that would accord with our moods. 
 
 We cannot escape from the ancient savagery, though 
 we know that Nature cares for us not at all, that our 
 sufferings concern her not in the least, for our instincts 
 go back to the time when the sun stood still and angels 
 were about. My brother was, no doubt, struck by the 
 contrast of the day and the event. But he did not speak 
 his thoughts ; no one dares to speak such thoughts, for 
 they are the primal substance of which we are ashamed, 
 deeming it too common for speech, unless we are poets
 
 269 
 
 or peasants. The day moved like a bride from afternoon Resurgam 
 to evening, arrayed in white lace and blossom, with a 
 small spray of yew in the poesy, unseen by all but us. 
 I could think of something better were I to set my mind 
 to the task, but that is how I thought on the day that 
 I walked on the lawn with my brothers, ashamed and yet 
 compelled to talk of what our lives had been during the 
 years that separated us. 
 
 How could one be overpowei'ed with grief amid so 
 many distracting circumstances } Everything I saw was 
 at once new and old. I had come among my brother and 
 sister suddenly, not having seen them, as I have said, for 
 many years ; this was our first meeting since childhood, 
 and we were assembled in the house where we had all 
 been born. My eyes were drawn to the way the ivy had 
 grown all over one side of the house, and I noticed the 
 disappearance of one of the hollies on the lawn and a gap 
 in the woods — these things were new ; but the lake that I 
 had not seen since a little child I did not need to look at, 
 so well did I know how every shore was bent, and the place 
 of every island. My first adventures began on that long 
 yellow strand, and I did not need to turn my head to see 
 it, for 1 knew that trees intervened ; and I knew every 
 twisting path through the woods. That yellow strand 
 speckled with tufts of rushes was my first playground. 
 But when my brother proposed that we should walk 
 there, I found some excuse. Why go ? the reality would 
 destroy the dream ; but I did not speak my thoughts for 
 shame of them. What reality could equal my memory 
 of the firs where the rabbits burrowed, of the drain where 
 we fished for minnows, of the long strand with the lake 
 far away in summer-time ? How well I remember that 
 yellow sand, hard and level in some places as the floor 
 of a ballroom. The water there is so shallow that our 
 governess used to allow us to wander at will, to run on
 
 270 
 
 Resurgam ahead in pursuit of a sandpiper. The bird would fly- 
 round with httle cries, and we were often certain it was 
 wounded ; perhaps it pretended to be wounded in order 
 to lead us away from its nest. We did not think it 
 possible to see the lake in any new aspect, yet there it 
 lay as we had never seen it before, so still, so soft, so 
 grey, like a white muslin scarf flowing out, winding past 
 island and headland. The silence was so intense that one 
 thought of the fairy-books of long ago, of sleeping woods 
 and haunted castles ; there were the castles on islands 
 lying in misted water, faint as dreams. Now and then 
 a chaffinch uttered a piercing little chatter from the 
 branches of the tall larches, ending defiantly, and ducks 
 talked in the reeds, but their talk was only a soft 
 murmur, hardly louder than the rustle of the reeds now 
 in full leaf. The shadows of reed and island seemed fixed 
 for ever as in a magic mirror — a mirror that somebody had 
 breathed upon, and, listening to the little gurgle of the 
 water about the limestone shingle, one seemed to hear 
 eternity murmuring its sad monotony. 
 
 The lake curves inland, forming a pleasant bay among 
 the woods ; there is a sandy spit where some pines have 
 found root-hold, and they live on somehow, despite the 
 harsh sallies of the wind in winter. Along the shore dead 
 reeds lie in rows three feet deep among the rushes ; had 
 they been placed there by hand they could not have been 
 placed with more regularity ; and there is an old cart- 
 track, with hawthorns growing out of a tumbled wall. 
 The hillside is planted ; beautiful beeches and hollies at 
 one end, and at the other some lawny interspaces with 
 tall larches swaying tasselled branches, shedding faint 
 shadows and odours. A path leads through the wood, 
 and under the rugged pine somebody has placed a seat, a 
 roughly-hewn stone supported by two upright stones. For 
 some reason unknown to me this seat always suggested,
 
 271 
 
 even when I was a child, a pilgrim's seat. I suppose the Resurgam 
 suggestion came from the knowledge that my grand- 
 mother used to go every day to the tomb at the end of 
 the wood where her husband and sons lay, and whither 
 she was taken herself long ago^ when I was in frocks ; and 
 twenty years after, my father was taken there. 
 
 What a ceaseless recurrence of the same things I A 
 hearse will appear again in a few days, perhaps the same 
 hearse, the horses covered up with black, made to look 
 ridiculous with voluminous weed, the coachman no better 
 than a zany, the ominous superior mute directing the 
 others with a wand ; there will be a procession of relatives 
 and friends, all wearing crepe and black gloves, and most 
 of them thinking how soon they can get back to their 
 business. 
 
 Fearing premature burial (a very common fear), my 
 mother had asked that her burial should be postponed 
 until a natural change in the elements of her body should 
 leave no doubt that life no longer lingered there. And 
 the interval between her death and her burial I spent 
 along the lake's shore. The same weather continued day 
 after day, and it is impossible for me to find words to 
 express the beauty of the grey reflection of the islands and 
 the reeds, of the faint evanescent shores floating away, dis- 
 appearing in the sun-haze, of the silence about the shores, 
 a kind of enchanted silence, interrupted, as I have said, 
 only by the low gurgle of the water about the limestone 
 shingle. Now and then the song of the chaffinch would 
 break out, ending always with the same defiant little 
 flourish. 'A silence that seems to come out of the very 
 heart of things ! ' I said, and stopped to listen, like one at 
 the world's end, and then walked en through the rushes, 
 tussocked grass and juniper-bushes that grew along the 
 edge of the wood, wondering at the silence and the 
 emptiness ; only once interrupted by some wood-gatherers.
 
 272 
 
 Resurgam poor women, bent under bundles of fagots. And think- 
 ing that perchance I knew them — they were evidently 
 from the village ; if so, I must have known them when 
 I was a boy — I was suddenly seized by an unaccountable 
 dread or a shyness, occasioned, no doubt, by the sense of 
 the immense difference that time had effected in us : they 
 were the same, but I was different. The books I had 
 pondered and the pictures I had seen had estranged me 
 from them, simple souls that they were ; and the con- 
 sciousness of the injustice of the human lot made it a pain 
 to me to look into their eyes. So I was glad to be able 
 to pass behind some bushes, and to escape into the wood 
 without their perceiving me. 
 
 And coming upon pleasant interspaces, pleasanter even 
 than those that lingered in my memory, I lay down, for 
 though the days were the first days of May, the grass 
 was warm, the tasselled branches of the tall larches were 
 swinging faintly in a delicious breeze, bringing the words 
 of the old Irish poet to my mind, ' the wood is like a harp 
 in the hands of a harper.' To see the boughs, to listen 
 to them seemed enough delight, and I began to admire 
 the low sky, full of cotton-like clouds, and the white flower 
 that was beginning to light up the little leaves of the 
 hedgerow. It must have been the May-flower that drew 
 down upon me a sudden thought of the beloved girl lost 
 to me for ever. My mother's death had closed that 
 wound a little, but in a moment all my grief reappeared, 
 the wound gaped again, and it was impossible to staunch 
 the bleeding. 
 
 A man cannot lament two women at the same time, and 
 only a month ago the most beautiful thing that had ever 
 appeared in my life, an idea which I knew from the first I 
 was destined to follow, appeared to me, and stayed with 
 me for a while, and passed from me — a love it was in 
 which all the partial loves of my youth seemed to find
 
 273 
 
 expression. Who shall tell the mystery of love that time Resurgam 
 cannot change ? What word conveys it, fate ? Millions 
 of women have blonde, thick hair, and eyes grey and blue 
 by turns, and small shapely breasts are common, but she 
 had power to exalt my senses, making me feel I was more 
 intensely alive when she was by me than I was when she 
 was away. She was that tingle of life which we are 
 always seeking, and which to retain we must lose. On a 
 day such as I am telling, the whiteness of the lake, seen 
 through the swaying branches of the larches, could not 
 do else than remind me of her mystery, but the melancholy 
 line of mountains wandering down the southern sky was 
 not like her at all, and I cared to dwell only upon what 
 was like her. But from too deep thinking of her a mad- 
 ness crept up behind the eyes, and in it the thought came 
 and went that it were an exquisite despair to know that I 
 should never possess her sweet personality again, never 
 again hold her dainty oval face in my hands, so that I 
 might better steep myself in her eyes, and that all the 
 intimacy of her person was now but a memory never to 
 be renewed by actual sight and touch. In these moments 
 of passionate memory one experiences real grief, a pang 
 that has not found expression in art except in Niobe ; 
 even that concentration of features is more an expression 
 of despair than grief. And it was the grief that this girl 
 inspired that prevented me from mourning my mother 
 as I should like to have mourned her, as she was 
 worthy of being mourned, for she was a good woman, 
 her virtues shone with more admirable light year after 
 year. And had I lived with her, had I been with her 
 during the last years of her life, her death would have 
 come upon me with a sense of personal loss, I should have 
 mourned her the day she died as I shall mourn her in 
 London, when the fire is sinking, and the sweetness of 
 memory steals by me, and I realise what I lost in losing 
 
 T
 
 274 
 
 Rcsurgam her. We do not grieve for the dead for that they have 
 been deprived of the pleasures of this life (if this life be a 
 pleasure), but for our own loss of them. But who would 
 impugn such selfishness ? It is the best we have, it is our 
 very selves. Think of a mistress's shame if her lover were 
 to tell her that he loved her for charity's sake ; she would 
 hate him for such altruism, and turn her face from him 
 for a while until perchance some desire of possession would 
 send her back to him. 
 
 We are always thinking of ourselves directly or indirectly. 
 I was thinking of myself when shame prevented me from 
 going to meet the poor wood-gatherers ; they would not 
 have thought at all of the injustice of having been left to 
 the labour of the fields while I had gone forth to enjoy 
 the world; they would have been interested to see me 
 again, and a few kind words would have made their load 
 seem easier on their backs. But, called back by an un- 
 expected connection of ideas, I began to consider that 
 injustice is undoubtedly a part of our human lot, for we 
 may only grieve passionately for the casual, or what seems 
 the merely casual ; mayhap for that the ultimate law is 
 hidden from us ; I am thinking now of her who comes 
 suddenly into our lives, tempting us with colour fugitive 
 as that of a flower, luring us with light as rapid as the 
 light shed from the wings of a dove. Why, I asked 
 myself, as I lay under the larches, are we to mourn 
 transitory delight so intensely, why should it possess 
 us more entirely than the sorrow that we experience 
 for her who endured the labour of child-bearing, who 
 suckled us perchance at her breast, whose devotion to 
 us was unceasing, and Avho grew kindlier and more 
 divorced from every thought of self as the years went 
 by .-* From injustice there can be no escape, not a particle. 
 At best we can, indeed we must, acquiesce in the fact 
 that the only sorrow to be found in our hearts for aged
 
 275 
 
 persons is a sort of gentle sorrow, such as the year itself Resurgam 
 
 administers when we come home, our hands full of the 
 
 beautiful single dahlias that the Dutchmen loved, bound 
 
 up with sprays of reddening creepers, along the sunny 
 
 roads over which the yellow beeches lean pathetically, sad, 
 
 it would seem, even as we are for the year gone by. But 
 
 we do not grieve passionately; our hearts do not break. 
 
 Then, again, we cannot grieve as the conventions would 
 
 have us grieve — in strange dress ; the very fact of wearing 
 
 crepe and black gloves alienates us from our real selves ; 
 
 we are no longer ourselves, we are mummers engaged in 
 
 the performance of a masque, I could have mourned my 
 
 mother better without crepe. ' Nothing has been invented 
 
 anything so horrible as the modern funeral,' I cried out. 
 
 A picture of the hearse and the mutes rose up in my 
 
 mind, and it was at that very moment that the song of 
 
 the chaffinch broke out again, and just above my head, 
 
 in the larches — an ugly, shrilling song of about a dozen 
 
 notes, ending, as I have said, with a defiant little flourish. 
 
 'What bird can it be,' I cried out, 'that comes to 
 
 interrupt my meditations ? ' and rising to my feet, I 
 
 tried to discover it amid the branches of the tree under 
 
 which I had been lying. It broke out again in another 
 
 tree a little further away, and again in another. I 
 
 followed it, and it led me round the wood towards the 
 
 hilltop to the foot of the steps, two short flights; the 
 
 second flight, or part of it at least, has to be removed 
 
 when the vault is opened. It consists, no doubt, of a 
 
 single chamber, with shelves along either side ; curiosity 
 
 leads few into vaults not more than a hundred years 
 
 old ; above the vault is the monument, a very simple 
 
 one, a sort of table built in, and when ray father was 
 
 buried a priest scrambled up, or was lifted up by the 
 
 crowd, and he delivered a funeral oration from the top 
 
 of it.
 
 276 
 
 Resurgam That day the box edgings were ti-ampled underfoot, 
 and all the flowers in the beds. My mother, perhaps, 
 cared little for flowers, or she did not live here long 
 enough to see that this garden was carefully tended ; 
 for years there were no children to come here for a 
 walk, and it was thought sufficient to keep in repair the 
 boundary wall, so that cattle should not get in. No trees 
 were cut hei-e when the woods were thinned, and the 
 pines and the yews have grown so thickly that the place 
 is overshadowed ; and the sepulchral dark is never lifted 
 even at mid-day. At the back of the tomb, in the wood 
 behind it, the headstones of old graves show above the 
 ground, though the earth has nearly claimed them ; only 
 a few inches show above the dead leaves ; all this hill- 
 side must have been a graveyard once, hundreds of years 
 ago, and this ancient graveyard has never been forgotten 
 by me, because of something that happened long ago 
 when I was a little child. The mystery of the wood 
 appealed to my curiosity, but I never dared to scramble 
 over the low wall, till one day, leaving my governess, 
 who was praying by the tomb, I discovered a gap 
 through which I could climb. My wanderings were 
 suddenly brought to an end by the appearance, or the 
 fancied appearance, of somebody in a brown shawl or 
 dress — a woman, I thought it must be. She seemed to 
 float along the ground, and I hurried back, falling and 
 hurting myself severely in my hurry to escape through 
 the gap. So great was my fear that I spoke not of my 
 hurt to my governess, but of the being I had seen, 
 beseeching her to come back ; but she would not come 
 back, and this fact impressed me and I said to myself, 
 ' If she didn't believe somebody was there she'd come 
 back.' The fear of the woman in the brown shawl 
 endured for long afterwards, and I used to beg of her
 
 277 
 
 not to cross the open space between the last shift of Rcsurgam 
 the wood and the tomb itself. We can re-live in imagi- 
 nation an emotion already experienced, and everything 
 I had felt when I was a child about the mysterious 
 hollows in the beechwood behind the tomb and the old 
 stone there, and the being I had seen clothed in a brown 
 cloak, I could re-live again, but the wood enkindled no 
 new emotion in me. Everything seemed very trivial — 
 the steps leading to the tomb, the tomb itself, the 
 boundary wall ; and the enchanted wood was now no 
 more than an ordinary wood with a few time-worn 
 stones showing through the dead leaves. Marvels never 
 cease ; in youth the external world is the marvel, later 
 our inner life ; and that day it was my continuity from 
 childhood to manhood that was marvellous to my under- 
 standing. The seeing of the ghost might be childish 
 fancy — a way of explanation; but how explain the 
 change in the wood? Was its mystery also a dream, 
 an imagination? Which is the truth — that experience 
 robs the earth of its mysteiy, or that we have changed 
 so that the evanescent emanations which in old time 
 we were aware of, and which sometimes used to take 
 shape, are still there, only our eyes are no longer 
 capable of perceiving them ? May not this be so ? — 
 for as one sense develops, another declines. The 
 mystic who lives on the hillside in the edge of a cave, 
 pondering eternal rather than ephemeral things, obtains 
 glimpses, just as the child does, of a life outside this 
 life of ours. Or do we think these things because man 
 will not consent to die like a plant? and wondering 
 if a glimpse of another life had once been vouchsafed 
 to me when my senses were more finely wrought, I 
 descended the hillside and lay in the shadow of the 
 tasselled larches, trying to convince myself that I had
 
 278 
 
 Resurgam not hoped to see the brown lady, if it were a lady 
 I had seen, bending over the stones of the old burial- 
 ground. 
 
 One day the silence of the woods was broken by the 
 sound of a mason's hammer, and on making inquiry from 
 a passing workman — his hodman probably — I learned that 
 on opening the vault it had been discovered that there 
 was not room for another coffin. But no enlargement 
 of the vault was necessary ; a couple of more shelves was 
 all that would be wanted for many a year to come. His 
 meaning was not to be mistaken — when two more shelves 
 had been added there would be room for my brothers, 
 myself, and my sister, but the next generation would 
 have to order that a further excavation be made in the 
 hill, or look out for a new burial-ground. He stood 
 looking at me, and I watched for a moment a fine young 
 man whose eyes were pale as the landscape, and wondered 
 if he expected me to say that I was glad that things 
 had turned out very well. . . . The sound of the mason's 
 hammer got upon my nerves, and feeling the wood to be 
 no longer a place for meditation, I wandered round the 
 shore as far as the old boat-house, wondering how it was 
 that the words of a simple peasant could have succeeded 
 in producing such a strange revulsion of feeling in me. 
 No doubt it was the intensity with which I realised the 
 fact that we are never far from death, none of us, that 
 made it seem as if I were thinking on this subject for 
 the first time, for as soon as we reach the age of reflection 
 the thought of death is never long out of our minds. It 
 is a subject on which we are always thinking. We go 
 to bed thinking that another day has gone, that we are 
 another day nearer our graves. Any incident suffices to 
 remind us of death. That very morning I had seen two
 
 279 
 
 old blue-bottles huddled together in the corner of a pane, Resurgam 
 
 and at once remembered that a term of life is set out for 
 
 all things, a few months for the blue-bottle, a few years 
 
 for me. We forget how we thought twenty years ago, 
 
 but I am prone to think that even the young meditate 
 
 very often upon death ; it must be so, for all their books 
 
 contain verses on the mutability of things, and as we 
 
 advance in years it would seem that we think more and 
 
 more on this one subject, for what is all modern literature 
 
 but a reek of regret that we are but bubbles on a stream ? 
 
 I thought that nothing that could be said on this old 
 
 subject could move me, but a boy from Derryanny had 
 
 brought home to me the thought that follows us from 
 
 youth to age better than literature could have done ; he 
 
 had exceeded all the poets, not by any single phrase, it 
 
 was more his attitude of mind towards death (towards 
 
 my death) that had startled me, and as I walked along 
 
 the shore I tried to remember his Avords. They were 
 
 simple enough, no doubt, so simple that I could not 
 
 remember them, only that he had reminded me that 
 
 Michael Malia, that was the mason's name, had known 
 
 me since I was a little boy ; I do not know how he got 
 
 it out ; I should not have been able to express the idea 
 
 myself, but without choosing his words, without being 
 
 aware of them, speaking unconsciously, just as he breathed, 
 
 he told me that if my heart were set on any particular 
 
 place I had only to tell Michael Malia and he would keep 
 
 it for me ; there would be a convenient one just above 
 
 my grandfather when they got the new shelf up ; and he 
 
 mentioned that he had heard it said that we were both 
 
 writers. I thanked him, and fell to thinking that he had 
 
 * taken it out of me ' as perhaps no poet had ever done, 
 
 and I vowed never to forget him as I saw him going away 
 
 stolidly through the greenwood, his bag of lime on his back.
 
 280 
 
 Resurgam And sitting down in front of the tranquil lake, I said, 
 ' In twenty or thirty years I shall certainly join the others 
 in that horrible vault ; nothing can save me/ and again 
 the present slipped away from me, and my mind became 
 again clear as glass ; the present is only subconscious ; 
 were it not so we could not live. I have said all this 
 before, and again I seemed to myself like a fly crawling 
 up a pane of glass, falling back, buzzing, and crawling 
 again. Every expedient that I explored proved illusory, 
 every one led to the same conclusion that the dead are 
 powerless. 'The living do with us what they like,' I 
 muttered, and I thought of my Catholic relations, every 
 one of Avhom believes in the intervention of priests and 
 holy water, the Immaculate Conception, the Pope's 
 Indulgences, and a host of other things which I could 
 not remember, so great was my anguish of mind at the 
 thought that my poor pagan body should be delivered 
 helpless into their pious hands. I remembered their faces, 
 I could hear their voices — that of my brother, whom I 
 shall always think of as a strayed cardinal rather than as a 
 colonel ; I could see his pale eyes, moist with faith in the 
 intercession of the Virgin — one can always tell a Catholic 
 at sight, just as one can tell a consumptive. The curving 
 lake, the pale mountains, the low shores, the sunlight and 
 the haze contributed not a little to frighten me ; the 
 country looked intensely Catholic at that moment; my 
 thoughts swerved, and I began to wonder if the face of a 
 country takes its character from the ideas of those living 
 in it. ' How shall I escape from that vault ? ' I cried out 
 suddenly. Michael Malia's hodman had said that they 
 might place me just above my grandfather, and my 
 grandfather was a man of letters, an historian whose histories 
 I had not read, and in the midst of the horror my probable 
 burial inspired in me, I found some amusement in the
 
 281 
 
 admission that I should have liked the old gentleman Resurgam 
 whose portrait hung in the dining-room to have read my 
 novels, and began to speculate on what the author of 
 a history of the French Revolution ^ would think of 
 Esther Waters. The colour of the chocolate coat he wears 
 in his picture fixed itself in my mind's eye, and I began to 
 compare it with the colour of the brown garment worn by 
 the ghost I had seen in the wood. Good Heavens, if it 
 were his ghost I had seen ! 
 
 And listening to the lapping of the lake water, I 
 imagined a horrible colloquy in that vault. It all came 
 into my mind, his dialogue and my dialogue. ' Great 
 God I ' I cried out, ' something must be done to escape,' 
 and my eyes were strained out on the lake, upon the 
 island on which a Welshman had built a castle. I saw all 
 the woods reaching down to the water's edge, and the 
 woods I did not see I remembered ; all the larch-trees 
 that grew on the hillsides came into my mind suddenly, 
 and I thought that a great pyre might be built out of 
 them. No trees had been cut for the last thirty years ; 
 I might live for another thirty ; what grand timber there 
 would then be to build a pyre for me, a pyre fifty feet high, 
 saturated with scented oils, and the body of me lying on 
 the top of it with all my books (they would make a nice 
 pillow for my head) ; the ancient heroes used to be laid 
 with their arms beside them ; their horses were slaughtered 
 so that their spirits might be free to serve them in the 
 aerial kingdoms they had gone to inhabit. My pyre 
 should be built on the island facing me, its flames would 
 be seen for miles and miles, the lake would be lighted up 
 by it, and my body would become a sort of beacon fire — 
 the beacon of the pagan future awaiting Old Ireland ? 
 Nor would the price of such a funeral be anything too 
 
 ^ Still luipublished.
 
 282 
 
 Resurgam excessive — a few hundred pounds perhaps, the price of a 
 thousand larches and a few barrels of scented oil and the 
 great feast, for while I was roasting, my mourners should 
 eat roast meat and drink wine and wear gay dresses — the 
 men as well as the women ; and the gayest music would 
 be played, selections from the " Marriage of Figaro," and 
 the fine music from the " Valkyrie," to bring the evening 
 to a close, but I am improvising a selection, which is a 
 thing that requires careful thought. It would be a fine 
 thing indeed if such a funeral — I hate the word — such 
 a burning as this could be undertaken, and there is no 
 reason why it should not be, unless the law interdicts 
 public burnings of human bodies. My face clouded and 
 my soul too ; I grew melancholy as the lake, as the 
 southern mountains that wander down the sky, plaintive 
 as Irish melodies, for the burning I dreamed of so finely 
 might never take place. I might have to fall back on the 
 Public Crematorium in England — in Ireland there is no 
 Crematorium — Ireland lingers in the belief in the resur- 
 rection of the body. ' Before I decide,' I said to myself, 
 * what my own funeral shall be, I must find out what 
 funeral liberties the modern law and Christian morality 
 permit the citizen,' and this I should not be able to 
 discover until I returned to Dublin. 
 
 It was by the side of dulcet Lough Cara that I began 
 to imagine my interview with the old family solicitor, 
 prejudiced and white-headed as the king in a certain kind 
 of romantic play, a devout Catholic, who would certainly 
 understand very little of my paganism, but I should catch 
 him on two well-sharpened horns : whether he should be 
 guilty of so unbusiness-like an act as to refuse to make a 
 will for theological reasons, or to do a violence to his 
 conscience by assisting a fellow-creature to dispose of his 
 body in a way that would give the Almighty much trouble
 
 283 
 
 to bring about the resurrection of the body in the valley of Resurgam 
 Jehoshaphat. The embarrassment of the family solicitor 
 would be amusing, and if he declined to draw up my 
 will for me, there would be plenty of other solicitors 
 who would not hesitate to drav/ up whatever will I was 
 minded to make. In order to secure the burial of my 
 body, my notion was to leave all my property, lands, 
 money, pictures and furniture, to my brother, Colonel 
 Maurice Moore, on the condition that I should be burnt 
 and the ashes disposed of without the humiliation of 
 Christian rites ; that if the conditions that the inheritance 
 carried with it Avere so disagreeable to Colonel Maurice 
 Moore that he could not bring himself to see that the 
 disposal of my remains was carried out according to my 
 wishes, my property, lands, money, pictures and furniture, 
 should go to my brother, Augustus Moore ; that in the 
 event of his declining to carry out my wishes regarding 
 the disposal of my remains, all my property should go to 
 my brother, Julian Moore ; that if he should refuse to 
 carry out my wishes regarding the disposal of my remains, 
 all the said property should go to my friend, Sir William 
 Eden, who would, I felt sure, take a sad pleasure in giving 
 effect to the wishes of his old friend. A will dra\vn up on 
 these lines would secure me against all chance of being 
 buried with my ancestors at Kiltoon, and during the next 
 two days I pondered my own burning. My brother might 
 think that he was put to a good deal of expense, but he 
 would not fail me. He had taken off my hands the dis- 
 agreeable task of seeing the undertakers and making 
 arrangements for the saying of Masses, etc., arrangements 
 which Avould be intensely disagreeable to me to make, so 
 I had plenty of time to think out the details of my 
 burning, and I grew happy in the thought that I had escaped 
 from the disgrace of Christian burial — a disgrace which
 
 284 
 
 Rcsurgam was never^ until the last two days, wholly realised by me, 
 but which was nevertheless always suspected. It was the 
 dread of Kiltoon, no doubt, that inspired the thought of 
 death from which in late years I had never seemed able 
 to escape ; and being of the romantic temperament, I 
 could not forgo, but loosed my imagination on the 
 burning I imagined and the vision that had come to 
 me : a pyre at least fifty feet sending forth a heat so 
 intense that the mourners would have to take to the 
 boats. A fine spectacle it would be, if the law would 
 allow it, but there was a law against the burning of 
 human remains, and I might have to fall back on the 
 Public Crematorium. But Avherever and however I was 
 burnt I should have to decide what I would wish to be 
 done with the ashes, and in a moment of happy inspiration 
 I conceived the idea of a Greek vase, and began to recall 
 to mind all the Greek vases I had seen. All are beautiful, 
 even the Roman Greek ; these are sometimes clumsy and 
 heavy, but the sculpture is finely designed and executed. 
 Any Greek vase, I decided, would satisfy me, providing, of 
 course, that the relief represented Bacchanals dancing, 
 and nearly every Greek vase is decorated in this way. 
 The purchase of the vase would be an additional expense ; 
 no doubt I was running my heir in for a good deal of 
 money — it is becoming more and more difficult to buy 
 original Greek sculpture ! — and in a moment of posthumous 
 parsimony my thoughts turned to a copy of a Greek vase 
 in granite, granite being more durable than marble. It was 
 delightful to take a sheet of paper and a pencil and to 
 draw all that I remembered of the different vases, differ- 
 ent riots of lusty men carrying horns of wine, intermingled 
 with graceful girls dancing gracefully, youths playing on 
 pipes, and amidst them fauns, the lovely animality of the 
 woods, of the landscape ages, when men first began to
 
 285 
 
 milk their goats, and when one man out of the tribe, more Resurgam 
 pensive, more meditative than the others, went down to 
 the river's bank and cut a reed and found music within it. 
 The vase I remembered best has upright handles springing 
 from the necks of swans. It stands about two feet high, 
 perhaps a little more, and its cavity should be capable of 
 containing all that remains of me after my burning. None 
 would have thought, from the happy smile upon my lips, 
 that I Avas thinking of a Grecian urn and a little pile 
 of white ashes. 'O death, where is thy sting?' I 
 murmured, and the pencil dropped from my hand, for I 
 could only remember partially the youth who danced 
 next to an impulsive maiden, his left arm about her 
 shoulder. 'But she is more impulsive than he,' I said, 
 and immediately fell to thinking if the source of his 
 wistfulness was another girl or a poem that he loved 
 better than his partner in the dance. Little by little 
 many of the figures in the saturnalia returned to me, 
 for the sculpture was so well done that the years had 
 only dimmed my memory, and as it cleared I saw the 
 girl dancing, her right arm extended, her left bent, 
 upholding a scarf. The figure continued to disclose 
 itself in memory : a beautiful placing of the breasts, 
 and of all, the architecture of the belly, so perfect in 
 design that it seemed as if the girl must have been 
 before the sculptor as he worked. ' Ingres and Antiquity 
 alone knew how to simplify,' I cried. ' How exquisite I ' 
 I said, ' is that thigh, how well it advances ! And we 
 poor moderns have lived upon that beauty now well- 
 nigh two thousand years ago. But how vainly we have 
 tried to imitate that drapery, flowing about the ankles 
 like foam breaking on the crest of a wave.' A slender 
 youth stands next ; his shoulders are raised, for the 
 pipes are to his lips, his feet are drawn close together.
 
 286 
 
 Resurgam and by him a satyr dances wildly^ clashing cymbals as 
 he dances. He is followedj I think — it is hard to say 
 whether this be a recollection of another vase, or whether 
 tlie figure is included in the same group — by a faun, 
 tempting the teeth and claws of a panther with a bunch 
 of grapes. 
 
 It was this winsome faun that decided me to choose 
 this vase as the repository of my ashes, and to enjoin 
 in the will that I should make as soon as I returned 
 to Dublin that the best sculptor available should be 
 employed to make a copy of it. But my will must not 
 be too complicated, else it might be contested. All that 
 is not common can easily be argued to be madness by a 
 loquacious lawyer before a stupid jury. For who except 
 a madman, asks the lawyer, would trouble to this extent 
 as to what shall be done with his remains? Everybody 
 in the court agrees with him, for every one in court is 
 anxious to prove to his neighbour that he is a good 
 Christian. Everything is convention, and lead coffins 
 and oak coffins cannot be held as proof of insanity, because 
 men believe still in the resurrection of the body. Were 
 the Pharaohs insane ? Was the building of the Great 
 Pyramid an act of madness ? The common assurance is 
 that it matters nothing at all what becomes of our re- 
 mains, yet the world has always been engaged in setting 
 up tombs. It is only those pretty satyrs who do not 
 think of tombs. Satyrs wander away into some hidden 
 place when they feel death upon them. But poor 
 humanity desires to be remembered. The desire to be 
 remembered for at least some little while after death 
 is as deep an instinct as any that might be readily 
 named, and our lives are applied to securing some little 
 immortality for ourselves. What more natural than that 
 every one should desire his death and burial to be, as
 
 287 
 
 it were, typical of the ideas which he agreed to accept Resurgam 
 during life? What other purpose is served by the con- 
 secration of plots of ground and the erection of crosses? 
 In this, at least, I am not different from other people: 
 if I am anxious about my burning, it is because I would 
 to the last manifest and express my ideas, and neither 
 in my prose nor verse have I ever traced out my thoughts 
 as completely or as perfectly as I have done in this order 
 for my tomb. One trouble, however, still remained upon 
 my mind. Where should the vase be placed? Not in 
 Westminster Abbey. Fie upon all places of Christian 
 burial ! A museum inspires lofty thoughts in a few ; 
 Goncourt speaks of the icy admiration of crowds. The 
 vase might stand in the stone hall, and in the very 
 corner where I learned to spin my top. But sooner 
 or later a housemaid would break it. The house itself 
 will become the property of another family, and the 
 stranger will look upon the vase with idle curiosity, 
 or perhaps think it depressing to have me in the 
 hall. An order for my removal to a garret might be 
 made out. 
 
 The disposal of the vase caused me a great deal of 
 anxiety, and I foresaw that, unless I hit upon some idea 
 whereby I could safeguard it from injury for ever, my 
 project would be deprived of half its value. As I sat 
 thinking I heard a noise of feet suddenly on the staircase. 
 ' They are bringing down my mother's coffin,' I said, and 
 at that moment the door was opened and I was told that 
 the funeral procession was waiting for me. My brother, 
 and various relatives and friends, were waiting in the hall; 
 black gloves were on every hand, crepe streamed from 
 every liat, ' all the paraphernalia of grief,' I muttered ; 
 'nothing is wanting.' My soul revolted against this 
 mockery. 'But why should I pity my mother? She
 
 288 
 
 Resurgam wished to lie beside her husband. And far be it from me 
 to criticise such a desire I ' 
 
 Tlie coffin was lifted upon the hearse. A gardener of 
 old time came up to ask me if I wished there to be any 
 crying. I did not at first understand what he meant; 
 he began to explain, and I began to understand that he 
 meant • the cries with which the Western peasant follows 
 his dead to the grave. Horrible savagery ! and I ordered 
 that there was to be no keening, but thi-ee or four women, 
 unable to contain themselves, rushed forward and began a 
 keen. It was difficult to try to stop them. I fancy that 
 every one looked round to see if there were any clouds in 
 the sky, for it was about a mile and a half to the chapel ; 
 ■we would have to walk three miles at least, and, if it 
 rained, we should probably catch heavy colds. We thought 
 of the damp of the wood, and the drip from the melancholy 
 boughs of yew and fir growing about that sepulchre on the 
 hillside. But there was no danger of rain ; Castle Island 
 lay in the misted water, faint and grey, reminding me 
 of whatj a fine burial I might have if the law did not 
 intervene to prevent me. And as we followed the strag- 
 gling grey Irish road, with scant meagre fields on either 
 side — fields that seemed to be on the point of drifting into 
 marshland — past the houses of the poor people, I tried to 
 devise a scheme for the safeguarding of the vase. But 
 Rameses the Second had not succeeded in securing his 
 body against violation ; it had been unswathed ; I had 
 seen his photograph in the Strand ; and where he failed, 
 how should I succeed ? 
 
 Twenty priests had been engaged to sing a Mass, and 
 whilst they chanted, my mind continued to roam, seeking 
 the unattainable, seeking that which Rameses had been 
 unable to find. Unexpectedly, at the very moment when 
 the priest began to intone the Pater Noster, I thought ot
 
 289 
 
 the deep sea as the only clean and holy receptacle for the Resurgam 
 vase containing my ashes. If it were dropped where the 
 sea is deepest, it would not reach the bottom, but would 
 hang suspended in dark moveless depths where only a few 
 fishes range, in a cool, deep grave " made without hands, in 
 a world without stain," surrounded by a lovely revel of 
 Bacchanals, youths and maidens, and wild creatures from 
 the woods, man in his primitive animality. But nothing 
 lasts for ever. In some millions of years the sea will begin 
 to wither, and the vase containing me will sink (my hope 
 is that it will sink down to some secure foundation of 
 rocks to stand in the airless and waterless desert that the 
 earth will then be). Rameses failed, but I shall succeed. 
 Surrounded by dancing youths and maidens, my tomb 
 shall stand on a high rock in the solitude of the extinct 
 sea, of an extinct planet. Millions of years will pass away, 
 and the earth, after having lain dead for a long winter, as 
 it does now for a few weeks under frost and snow, will, 
 with all other revolving planets, become absorbed in the 
 sun, and the sun itself will become absorbed in greater 
 suns, Sirius and his like. In matters of grave moment, 
 millions of years are but seconds ; billions convey very 
 little to our minds. At the end of, let us say, some billion 
 years, the ultimate moment towards which everything 
 from the beginning has been moving, will be reached ; 
 and from that moment the tide will begin to flow out 
 again, the eternal dispersal of things will begin again ; 
 suns will be scattered abroad, and in tremendous sun- 
 quakes planets will be thrown off; in loud earthquakes 
 these planets will throw off moons. Millions of years will 
 pass away, the earth will become cool, and out of the 
 primal mud life will begin again in the shape of plants, 
 and then of fish, and then of animals. It is like madness, 
 but is it madder than Palestinian folklore.'' and I believe 
 u
 
 290 
 
 Resurgam that billions of years hence, billions and billions of years 
 hence, I shall be sitting in the same room where I sit now, 
 writing the same lines that I am now writing : I believe 
 that again, a few years later, my ashes will swing in the 
 moveless and silent depths of the pacific ocean, and that 
 the same figures, the same nymphs, and the same fauns 
 will dance around me again. 
 
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