old-world seat, with its covering of faded brocade. I can see you
now, in the semi-darkness of a room where the only lamp centres its
softened light on you--an incomparable picture in a charming setting.
You do not speak; you are holding in your hand a small white card,
and you slowly tear it in two, and then again and again. There is
something in your face, some strange glory that is not of any outward
light, nor yet inspired by that enchanted vision so lately seen. It is
a transfiguration, a light from within, like the blush that dyes the
clouds above a waveless sea, at the dawn of an Eastern morning. Still
you speak no word, but the tiny fragments of that card are now so small
that you can no longer divide them, and some drop from your hands upon
the floor.
I picked them up--afterwards--did I not?
XVI
OF DEATH, IN FICTION
It is delightful to have some one to talk to with whom it is not
necessary to think always before one speaks, to choose every word, to
explain every thought--some one, in fact, who has sympathy enough not
to be bored with the discussion of a subject that deals neither with
gossip nor garments, and intelligence enough to understand what is
implied as well as what is said. I have done a good deal of desultory
reading lately, mostly modern English and French fiction, and I cannot
help being struck by the awkward manner in which authors bring their
stories to a conclusion. It so very often happens that a book begins
well, possibly improves as the plot develops, becomes even powerful as
it nears the climax, and then--then the poor puppets, having played
their several parts and done all that was required of them, must be
got rid of, in order to round off the tale, to give finality, and
satisfy the ordinary reader’s craving for “full particulars.” This
varnishing and framing and hanging of the picture is usually arrived
at by marrying or slaying some principal character; the first is a
life, and the last a death, sentence. Thus the reader is satisfied,
and often the story is ruined; that is, if skilful drafting and true
perspective are as necessary to a good picture as artistic colouring
and the correct disposition of light and shade. But is the reader
satisfied? Usually, yes; occasionally, no. In the latter case the book
is closed with a strong sense of disappointment, and a conviction that
the writer has realised the necessity of bringing down the curtain on
a scene that finishes the play, and leaves nothing to the imagination;
so, to secure that end, he has abandoned truth, and even probability,
and has clumsily introduced the priest or the hangman, the “cup of
cold poison,” or the ever-ready revolver. The effect of the charming
scenery, the pretty frocks, the artistic furniture, and “the crisp and
sparkling dialogue,” is thus spoilt by the unreal and unconvincing
_dénouement_.
It seems to me--“to my stupid comprehension,” as the polite Eastern
constantly insists--that this failure is due to two causes. First,
most fiction is founded on fact, and the writer has, in history, in
the newspapers, in his own experience or that of his friends, met with
some record or paragraph, some adventure or incident, that has served
for the foundation of his story; but, unless purely historical, he has
been obliged to supply the last scene himself, because in reality there
was none, or, if there was, he could not use it. In our own experience,
in that of every one who has seen a little of the world, have we not
become acquainted with quite a number of dramatic, or even tragic
incidents, that have scarred our own or others’ lives, and would make
stories of deep interest in the hands of a skilful writer? But the
action does not cease. The altar is oftener the fateful beginning than
the happy ending of the drama; and, when the complications fall thick
upon each other, there is no such easy way out of the _impasse_ as that
provided by a little prussic acid or a bullet. They are ready to hand,
I grant you, but they are not so often used in life as in fiction. I
have known a man walk about, with a revolver in his pocket, for three
days, looking for a suitable opportunity to use it upon himself, and
then he has put it away against the coming of a burglar. When it is not
yourself, but some one else, you desire to get rid of, the prospect
is, strange to say, even less inviting. Thus it happens that, in real
life, we suffer and we endure, the drama is played and the tragedy is
in our hearts, but it does not take outward and visible form. So the
fiction--whilst it is true to life--holds our interest, and the skill
of the artist excites our admiration; but the impossible climax appeals
to us, no more than a five-legged cow. It is a _lusus naturæ_, that is
all. They happen, these monstrosities, but they never live long, and it
were best to stifle them at birth.
Pardon! you say there is genius. Yes, but it is rare, and I have not
the courage to even discuss genius; it is like Delhi and the planets,
a long way off. We can only see it with the help of a powerful glass,
if indeed then it is visible. There is only one writer who openly lays
claim to it, and the claim seems to be based chiefly on her lofty
disdain for adverse criticism. That is, perhaps, a sign, but not a
complete proof, of the existence of the divine fire.
But to return to the humbler minds. It does happen that real lives are
suddenly and violently ended by accident, murder, or suicide, and there
seems no special reason why fictitious lives should be superior to such
chances. Indeed, to some authors, there would be no more pleasure in
writing novels, without the tragic element as the main feature, than
there is for some great billiard exponents to play the game with the
spot-stroke barred. I would only plead, in this case, that the accident
or the suicide, to be life-like, need not be very far-fetched. In
murder, as one knows, the utmost licence is not only permissible but
laudable, for the wildest freaks of imagination will hardly exceed the
refinements, the devilish invention, and the cold-blooded execution of
actual crimes. I remember you once spoke scornfully of using a common
form of accident as a means of getting rid of a character in fiction;
but surely that is not altogether inartistic, for the accidents that
occur most commonly are those to which the people of romance will
naturally be as liable as you or I. It is difficult to imagine that
you should be destroyed by an explosion in a coal-mine, or that I
should disappear in a balloon; but we might either of us be drowned, or
killed in a railway accident, under any one of a variety of probable
circumstances. Again, in suicide, the simplest method is, for purposes
of fiction, in all likelihood the best. Men usually shoot themselves,
and women, especially when they cannot swim, seek the water. Those
who prefer poison are probably the swimmers. It is a common practice
in fiction to make the noble-minded man who loves the lady, but finds
himself in the way of what he believes to be her happiness (that is,
of course, some other man), determine to destroy himself; and he does
it with admirable resolution, considering how cordially he dislikes
the rôle for which he has been cast, and how greatly he yearns for
the affection which no effort of his can possibly secure. I cannot,
however, remember any hero of fiction who has completed the sacrifice
of his life in a thoroughly satisfactory manner, for he invariably
leaves his body lying about, where it is sure to attract attention,
and cause great distress to the lady he designs to oblige. That is
thoughtless; and those who really mean to prove their self-denial
should arrange, not only to extinguish their lives, but to get rid of
their bodies, so that there may be as little scandal and trouble to
their friends as possible. I have always felt the sincerest admiration
for the man who, having made up his mind to destroy himself, and
purchased a revolver with which to do the deed, settled his affairs,
moved into lodgings quite close to a cemetery, wrote letters to the
coroner, the doctor, and the undertaker, giving them in each case the
exact hour at which they should call on their several errands, paid
all his debts, left something to indemnify his landlady, and more than
enough for funeral expenses, and then shot himself. That, however, was
not a character in fiction, but a common mortal, and there was no lady
in the case.
I am sure there are many people who would be greatly obliged to me
for inviting attention to these matters, if only they could get it
in print, to lie about on the table with the page turned down at the
proper place. Nothing is more common than the determined suicides who
live to a green old age for want of a book of instructions. These
people weary their friends and acquaintances by eternally reiterated
threats that they will destroy themselves, and yet, however desirable
that course may be, they never take it. This novel and brilliant idea
first comes to them in some fit of pique, and they declare that they
will make an end of themselves, “and then perhaps you will be sorry.”
They are so pleased with the effect caused by this statement, that,
on the next favourable opportunity, they repeat it; and then they go
on and on, dragging in their wretched threat on every possible and
impossible occasion, especially in the presence of strangers and the
aged relatives of themselves or the person they want to get at, until
mere acquaintances wish they would fulfil their self-imposed task and
cease from troubling. It is almost amusing to hear how these _suicides
déterminés_ vary, from day to day or week to week, the methods which
they have selected for their own destruction--poison, pistols,
drowning, throwing themselves out of window or under a train--nothing
comes amiss; but, when they wish to be really effective, and carry
terror into the hearts of their hearers, they usually declare either,
that they will blow their brains out, or cut their throats. The vision
of either of these processes of self-extinction, even though remote and
unsubstantial, is well calculated to curdle the blood. That, as a rule,
is all that is meant; and, when you understand it, the amusement is
harmless if it is not exactly kind. “Vain repetitions” are distinctly
wearying, even when they come from husbands and wives, parents or
children; the impassioned lover, too, is not altogether free from the
threat of suicide and the repetition of it. In all these cases it
would be a kindness to those who appear weary of life, and who weary
others by threatening to put an end to it, if they could be persuaded,
either to follow the example of the man who, without disclosing his
intentions, took a room by the gate of the cemetery, or, if they
don’t really mean it, to say nothing more about it. Therefore, if
ever you are over-tried in this way, leave this letter where it will be
read. The weak point about the prescription is that it is more likely
to cure than to kill. However, I must leave that to you, for a good
deal depends on how the remedy is applied. The size of the dose, the
form of application, whether external or internal, will make all the
difference in the world. I do not prescribe for a patient, but for a
disease; the rest may safely be left to your admirable discretion;
but you will not forget that a dose which can safely and advisedly be
administered to an adult may kill a child.
XVII
A HAND AT ÉCARTÉ
I wrote to you of death in fiction, and, if I now write of death in
fact, it is partly to see how far you agree with an opinion that was
lately expressed to me by a man who is himself literary, and whose
business it is to know the public taste in works of fiction. We were
discussing a book of short stories, and he spoke of the author’s
success, and said he hoped we might have a further instalment of
similar tales. I ventured to suggest that the public must be rather
nauseated with horrors, with stories of blood and crime, even though
they carried their readers into new surroundings, and introduced them
to interesting and little-described societies. My companion said,
“No, there need be no such fear; we like gore. A craving for horrors
pervades all classes, and is not easily satisfied. Those who cannot
gloat over the contemplation of carcasses and blood, revel in the
sanguinary details which make them almost spectators in the real or
imaginary tragedies of life. The newspapers give one, and some writers
of fiction the other; there is a large demand for both, especially now
that the circle of readers is so rapidly widening amongst a class that
cannot appreciate refinements of style, and neither understands nor
desires the discussion of abstract questions. Therefore give us,--not
Light, but--Blood.”
I wonder what you think. If I felt you had a craving for horrors I
could paint the pages scarlet; for I have been in places where human
life was held so cheap that death by violence attracted little notice,
where tragedies were of daily occurrence, and hundreds of crimes,
conceived with fiendish ingenuity and carried out with every detail
calculated to thrill the nerves and tickle the jaded palate of the
most determined consumer of “atrocities,” lie hidden in the records
of Courts of Justice and Police Offices. Any one who compares the
feelings with which he throws aside the daily paper, as he leaves the
Underground Railway, or even those with which he closes the shilling
shocker in more favourable surroundings, with the sense of exaltation,
of keen, pulse-quickening joy that comes to him after reading one
page in the book of Nature--after a long look at one of its myriad
pictures--would, I think, hesitate to confess to a great hankering
for a perpetual diet of blood. It is not the dread of appearing to be
dissipated, but the certainty that there is better health, and a far
more intense pleasure, in the clear atmosphere of woods and hills, of
river and sea, than in the shambles.
Sewers are a product of civilisation in cities, but they are not
pretty to look at, and I cannot appreciate a desire to explore their
darksome nastiness while we may, if we choose, remain in the light
and air of heaven. London slums are daily and nightly the scenes of
nameless horrors, but it may be doubted whether a faithful and minute
description of them, in the form of cheap literature, does more good
than harm.
That is by way of preface. What I am going to tell you struck me,
because I question whether a tragedy in real life was ever acted with
details that sound so fictional, so imaginary, and yet there was no
straining after effect. It was the way the thing had to be worked out;
and like the puzzles you buy, and waste hours attempting to solve, I
suppose the pieces would only fit when arranged in the places for which
they were designed by their Maker.
A long time ago there lived, in one of the principal cities of Italy, a
certain marchese, married to a woman of great beauty and distinguished
family. She had a lover, a captain of cavalry, who had made himself an
Italian reputation for his success in love-affairs, and also in the
duels which had been forced upon him by those who believed themselves
to have been wronged. The soldier was a very accomplished swordsman
and equally skilful with a pistol, and that is possibly the reason why
the husband of the marchesa was blind to a state of affairs which at
last became the scandal of local society. The marchesa had a brother, a
leading member of the legal profession; and when he had unsuccessfully
indicated to his brother-in-law the line of his manifest duty, he
determined to himself defend his sister’s name, for the honour of
an ancient and noble family. The brother was neither a swordsman nor
a pistol-shot, and when he undertook to vindicate his sister’s
reputation he realised exactly what it might cost him. The position
was unbearable; the _cafés_ were ringing with the tale; and, if her
husband shirked the encounter, some man of her own family must bring
the offender to book and satisfy the demands of public opinion.
Having made up his mind as to the _modus operandi_, the brother sought
his foe in a crowded _café_, and in the most public manner insulted him
by striking him across the face with his glove. A challenge naturally
followed, and the choice of weapons was left with the assailant. He
demanded pistols, and, knowing his own absolute inferiority, stipulated
for special conditions, which were, that the combatants should stand
at a distance of one pace only, that they should toss, or play a game
of _écarté_ for the first shot, and that if the loser survived it, he
should go as close to his adversary as he pleased before discharging
his own weapon. Under the circumstances, the soldier thought he could
hardly decline any conditions which gave neither party an advantage,
but no one could be found to undertake the duties of second in a duel
on such terms. Two friends of the principals agreed, however, to stand
by with rifles, to see that the compact was not violated; and it was
understood that they would at once fire on the man who should attempt
foul play.
It was, of course, imperative that the proceedings should be conducted
with secrecy, and the meeting was arranged to take place on the
outskirts of a distant town, to which it was necessary to make a long
night journey by rail. In the early dawn of a cold morning in March,
the four men met in the cemetery of a famous monastery, that stands
perched on a crag, overlooking the neighbouring city, and a wide
vale stretching away for miles towards the distant hills. A pack of
cards was produced, and, with a tombstone as a table, the adversaries
played one hand at _écarté_. The game went evenly enough, and rather
slowly, till the brother marked four against his opponent’s three.
It was then the latter’s deal; he turned up the king and made the
point, winning the game. A line was drawn, the distance measured, the
pistols placed in the duellists’ hands, and the two friends retired
a few yards, holding their loaded rifles ready for use. The word was
given, and the brother stood calmly awaiting his fate. The soldier
slowly raised his pistol to a point in line with the other’s head,
and, from a distance of a few inches, put a bullet through his brain,
the unfortunate man falling dead without uttering a sound or making a
movement.
The officer obtained a month’s leave and fled across the border into
Switzerland, but, before the month was up, public excitement over the
affair had waned, and the gossips were busy with a new scandal. Their
outraged sense of propriety had been appeased by the sacrifice of the
dead, and the novel and piquant circumstances which accompanied it. As
for the intrigue which had led to the duel, that, of course, went on
the same as ever, only rather more so.
XVIII
THE GENTLE ART OF VEERING WITH THE WIND
To-day I received a letter from you. I have read it twice, and, though
it contains eight pages of closely written lines, there is not one
word in it that would show that I am any more to you than the merest
acquaintance. For weeks I have anxiously awaited this letter; plans, of
the utmost importance to me, depended upon the answer you would give
to a question I had put; and my whole future, at least that future
which deals with a man’s ambitions, would, in all probability, be
influenced by your reply. I asked you--well, never mind what--and you,
being entirely free to write what you mean and what you wish, say that
it is a point on which you cannot offer advice; but you tell me that
you have given up reading and taken to gardening, as you find it is
better for you! Have you ever read the story of Zadig? If you have, you
will perhaps remember how his wife, Azora, railed against the newly
made widow whom she found gardening. I have no prejudices of that kind,
and, in my case, no one’s nose is in danger of the razor; but still I
think I may not unreasonably feel somewhat aggrieved.
Do not believe that I could ever wish to remind you of what you have
forgotten, or wish to forget. I only want to know what is real and what
is counterfeit, and you alone can tell me. I may ask this, may I not?
It is not that I may presume to judge you, or from any wish to gratify
an impertinent curiosity, but that I may be saved from imagining what
is not, and, while torturing myself, possibly even distress you. I find
it hard to reconcile this letter of yours with others I have received,
and if that sounds to you but a confession of my stupidity, I would
rather admit my want of intelligence and crave your indulgence, than
stand convicted of putting two and two together and making of them
twenty-two. If you tell me there is no question of indulgence, but that
quite regular verbs have different moods, that present and past tenses
are irreconcilable, and, of the future, no man knoweth--I shall have my
answer.
You do not write under the influence of winter. I cannot charge myself
with any offence against you. Nay, God knows that all my thoughts and
all my efforts are but to do you honour. If I have misread your earlier
letters, if I have been unduly elated by such kind words as you have
sent me, it is the simplest thing in the world to undeceive me and
show me the error of my ways. Are you only _souffrante_, and may I
disregard the chilling atmosphere of your present missive, remembering
the tender sympathy of voice, of eye, of hand, in the rapturous days of
a cherished past?
It seems as natural to some people to love to-day, and to be almost
strangers to-morrow, as that we should revel in a flood of light when
the moon is full, and grope in darkness when the goddess of night is no
longer visible. The temperament that makes this possible is fortunately
rare, so much so that it creates an interest in the observer. I have
never seen it in man, but I have in woman; and one realises that then
it is better to be a spectator than an actor in what is never a farce,
and may easily develop into tragedy. Imagine such a woman of very
unusual personal attractions: great beauty of face and figure united
to a high intelligence and extreme charm of manner; witty, ambitious,
courageous, full of high thoughts and endowed with all the advantages
that wealth can add to personal gifts. Deep in a nature that is
strangely complex, and capable of the most opposite extremes, suppose
there is implanted, amongst many other feelings, a passionate yearning
to be understood, and to be loved with a love that would shrink from
nothing to prove the greatness of its devotion. Here you have a
being capable of what seem the strangest contradictions, and not the
least startling of these may be a rare, but absolute and passionate,
self-abandonment, under the influence of certain circumstances
which strongly appeal to the senses. Overcome by intoxication of
sound, colour, and magnetism, every moral and conventional muscle
suddenly relaxes, and, the violence of the forces released, is wild
and uncontrolled, because of the firm determination by which they
are habitually bound. To-morrow, in the cold grey light of day, the
slow-working mind of man is absolutely bewildered by what he sees
and hears. He comes, dominated by an exalted passion, enthralled by
a vision of ecstasy through which he sees, imperfectly, the people
about him, only “men as trees walking”; reserving his thoughts and
perceptions of surrounding objects till he shall again gaze upon that
face which seems to him to have opened the door of life with the key
of a boundless love. Still dazed by the memories of last night, he
enters the presence of his beloved, and experiences a shock, such as a
swimmer might feel, if floating, half-entranced, in some tropic sea, he
suddenly hit against an iceberg.
Sometimes, even, influenced by surroundings, maddened by the
whisperings of a southern night, passed in a place where she breathes
an atmosphere impregnated with the romance of centuries, the lonely
soul of the woman, hungering for sympathy and communion, will seize a
pen and write, “Come to me; I want you, for you understand; come, and I
will give you happiness.” Before the letter has been gone one day, on a
journey that may take it to the ends of the earth, the writer’s mood
has changed, and she has forgotten her summons as completely as though
it had never been written. When the missive reaches its destination,
the recipient will be wise to curb his impetuosity, and realise that
his opportunity is long since dead and buried.