IN THE SEASON
Women, especially politicians, are (or rather were, until the Revolt)
accustomed to the publicity of photographs, illustrated papers,
paragraphs in society papers, and to the curiosity with which people
stare after them wherever they show themselves. They used to like it.
Men, who were, on the other hand, taught to respect modest retirement
and that graceful obscurity becoming to the masculine hand which carries
out the orders of the female brain, shrank from such notoriety. It was a
curious sensation for young Lord Chester to feel, rather than to see and
to hear, the people pointing him out, and talking about him.
'Courage!' whispered the Professor. 'You will have to encounter a great
deal more curiosity than this before long. Above all, do not show by any
sign or change of expression that you are conscious of their staring.'
This was at the Royal Academy. The rooms were crowded with the usual
mob, for it was early in June. There were the country ladies--rosy, fat,
and jolly--catalogue and pencil in hand, dragging after them husbands,
brothers, sons--ruddy, stalwart fellows--who wearily followed from room
to room,--ignorant of art, and yet unwilling to be thought
ignorant,--flocking to any picture which seemed to contain a story or a
subject likely to interest them, such as a horse, or a race, or a match
of some kind, and turning away with a half-conscious feeling that they
ought to rejoice in not liking the much-praised picture, instead of
being ashamed of it, so unlike a horse did they find it, so unfaithful a
representation of figure or of action. There were artistic ladies with
their new fashion of dress and pale languid airs, listlessly exchanging
the commonplace of the fashionable school; there were professional
ladies, lawyers, and doctors, 'doing' all the rooms between two
consultations in an hour; there were schoolgirls from Harrow, yawning
over the Exhibition, which it was a duty they owed to themselves to see
early in the season, unless they could get tickets, which they all
ardently desired, for the fortnight's private view; there were shoals of
men in little parties of two and four, escorted by some good-natured
uncle or elderly cousin. The crowd squeezed round the fashionable
pictures; they passed heedlessly before pictures of which nobody talked;
they all tried to look critical; those who pretended to culture searched
after strange adjectives; those who did not, said everything was pretty,
and yawned furtively; the ladies whispered remarks to each other, with a
quick nod of intelligence; and they received the feeble criticism of the
men with the deferent smile due to politeness, or a half-concealed
contempt.
This year there were more than the usual number of pictures--in fact,
the whole of the five-and-twenty rooms were crowded. Fortunately, they
were mostly small rooms, and it was remarkable that the same subjects
occurred over and over again. 'The same story,' said the Professor,
'every year. No invention; we follow like sheep. Here is Judith slaying
Holofernes'--they were then in the Ancient History Department--'here is
Jael slaying Sisera; here are Miriam and Deborah singing their songs of
triumph; here is Joan of Arc raising the siege of Orleans,--all exactly
the same as when I was a girl forty years ago and more. Ancient History,
indeed! What do they know about Ancient History?'
'Why do you not teach them, then, Professor?' asked Lord Chester.
'I will tell you why, my lord, in a few weeks,--perhaps.'
There were a great many altar-pieces in the Sacred Department. In these
the Perfect Woman was depicted in every attitude and occupation by which
perfection may best be represented. It might have been objected, had any
one so far ventured outside the beaten path of criticism, that the
Perfect Woman's dress, her mode of dressing her hair, and her ornaments
were all of the present year's fashion. 'As if,' said the Professor, the
only one who did venture, 'as if no one had any conception of beauty and
grace except what fashion orders. Sheep! sheep! we follow like a flock.'
The pictures were mostly allegorical: the Perfect Woman directed
Labour--represented by twenty or thirty burly young men with implements
of various kinds; this was a very favourite subject. Or she led Man
upwards. This was a series of pictures: in the first, Man was a rough
rude creature, carrying a club with which he banged something--presumably
Brother Man; he gradually improved, until at the end he was depicted as
laying at the altar of womanhood flowers, fruit, and wine, from his own
husbandry. By this time he had got his beard cut off, and was smooth
shaven, save for a pair of curly moustaches; his dress was in the
fashion of the day; his eyes were down-dropped in reverential awe; and
his expression was delightfully submissive, pious, and _béate_. 'Is it,'
asked Lord Chester, 'impossible to be religious without becoming such a
creature as _that_?'
Again, the Perfect Woman sat alone, thinking for the good of the world.
She had a star above her head; she tried, in the picture, not to look as
if she were proud of that star. Or the Perfect Woman sat watching, in
the dead of night, in the moonlight, for the good of the world; or the
Perfect Woman was revealed to enraptured man rising from the waves, not
at all wet, and clothed in the most beautifully-fashioned and most
expensive modern garments. These two rooms, the Sacred and the Ancient
History Departments, were mostly deserted. The principal interest of the
Exhibition was in the remaining three-and-twenty, which were devoted to
general subjects. Here were sweetnesses of flower and fruit, here were
lovely creamy faces of male youth, here were full length figures of
athletes, runners, wrestlers, jumpers, rowers, cricket-players, and
others, treated with delicate conventionality, so that the most
successful pictures represented man with no more expression in his face
than a barber's block, and the strongest young Hercules was figured with
tiny hands or fingers like a girl's for slimness, for transparency, and
for whiteness, and beautifully small feet; on the other hand, his calves
were prodigious. In fact, as was always maintained at the Academy
dinner, the Exhibition was the great educator of the people in the sense
of beauty. To know the beautiful, to recognise what should be
delightful, and then take joy in it, was given, it was said, only to
those women of culture who had been trained by a course of Academy
exhibitions. Here men, for their part, who would never otherwise rise
beyond the phenomenal to the ideal, learned what was the Perfect
Man--the Man of woman's imagination. Having learned, he might go away
and try to resemble him. Women who could not feel, unhappily, the full
sense of the beautiful, might learn from these models into what kind of
man they should shape their husbands.
'The drawing of this picture,' said the Professor aloud, before a
picture round which were gathered a throng of worshippers--for it was
painted by a Royal Academician of great repute--'is inaccurate. Did one
ever see a man with such shoulders, and yet with such a waist and such a
hand? As for the colouring, it is as false as it is conventional; and
look at the peach-like cheek and the feeble chin! It is the flesh of a
weakly baby, not of a grown man and an athlete.'
There were murmurs of dissent, but no one ventured to dispute the
Professor's opinion; and indeed most of the bystanders had already
recognised Lord Chester, and were staring at the hero of so much talk.
'He is better-looking,' he overheard one schoolgirl whispering to
another, 'than the fellow on the canvas, isn't he?'
The 'fellow on the canvas' was, in fact, the Ideal Man. He was meant by
the artist to represent the noblest, tallest, strongest, straightest,
and most dexterous of men. He carried a cricket-bat. It would have been
foolish to figure him with book, pencil, or paper. Art, literature,
science, politics, all belonged to the other sex. Only his strength was
left to man, and that was to be expended by the orders of the superior
sex, who were quite competent to exercise the functions for which they
were born--namely, to think for the world.
Of course, all the artists were women. Once there was a man who,
assuming a female name, actually got a picture exhibited in the Academy.
He was a self-taught man it was afterwards discovered; he had never been
in a studio; he had never seen a Royal Academy. He painted an Old Man
from nature. There was a faithful ruggedness about his work which made
artists scoff, and yet brought tears to the eyes of country girls who
knew no better. When the trick was discovered, the picture was taken
down and burnt, and the wretched man--who was discovered in a little
country cottage, painting two or three more in the same style--went mad,
and was locked up for the rest of his days. Presently Lord Chester grew
tired of the pictures and of the staring crowd. 'I have seen enough,
Professor, if you have. They are all exactly like those of last
year--the gladiators, and the runners, and all. Are we always to go on
producing the same pictures?'
'I suppose so,' she replied. 'They say that the highest point of art has
been reached. It would be a change if we were only to deteriorate for a
few years. Meanwhile, one is reminded of the mole, who was asked why he
did not invent another form of architecture.'
'What did she reply?'
'He, not she, my lord, replied that science could go no further; and so
he goes on building the same shaped hill.'
The crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs of the Academy and made a
lane for Lord Chester quite to his carriage. It was a crowd of the best
people in England, composed of ladies and gentlemen. Yet was it no
insignificant sign of the times that many a handkerchief was waved to
him, that all hats were lifted, and that one girl's voice was heard
crying, 'Young men for young wives!' at which there was a general murmur
of assent.
In the evening there were the usual engagements of the season, beginning
with a lecture on the Arrival at the Highest Level. The lecturer--a
young Oxford woman--was learned and eloquent, though the subject was, so
to speak, wellnigh threadbare. Yet the discontent of the nation was so
great, that it was necessary continually to raise the courage of the
people by showing that if the Ministries failed, it was only because the
right Cabinet had not yet been found. On this night, however, no one
listened. All eyes were turned to the young lord, who, it was everywhere
stated, had announced his rebellious intention not to obey the law if
Lady Carlyon's appeal went against her. The men whispered; the elderly
ladies assumed airs of virtuous indignation; the younger ones looked at
each other and laughed.
Then there was a dance, at which Lord Chester was seen, but only for a
quarter of an hour, because the rush made by all the girls who could get
an introduction for his name on their cards was almost unseemly. The
Professor therefore took him home.
In the Park the next afternoon, at the theatre in the evening, the same
curiosity of the multitude. Indeed the play, as happened very often in
those days, was entirely neglected. Glasses were levelled at Lord
Chester's box; the whole audience with one consent fell to talking among
themselves; the actors went on with the piece unregarded, and the
curtain fell unnoticed.
Perhaps the perfection of the drama was the thing on which the new
civilisation chiefly prided itself, unless, indeed, it was the
perfection of painting and sculpture already described. The old
tragedies, in which women played the secondary part, were long since
consigned to oblivion. The old style of farce, which was simply brutal,
raising laughter by the representation of situations in which one or
more persons are made ridiculous, was absolutely prohibited; the once
favourite ballet was suppressed, because it was below the dignity of
woman to dance for the amusement of the people, and because neither men
nor women wished to see men dancing; the comic man naturally disappeared
with the farce, because no one ever wrote anything for him. It was
resolved, after a series of letters and discussion in the _Academy_, the
only literary paper left--it owed its continued existence to the
honourable associations of its early years--that laughter was for the
most part vulgar; that it always rudely disturbed the facial lines; that
to make merriment for others was quite beneath the notice of an educated
woman; and that the drama must be severe, and even austere--a school for
women and for men. Such it was sought to make it, with as yet
unsatisfactory results, because the common people, finding nothing to
laugh at, came no more to the theatre; and even the better class, who
wanted to be amused, and were only instructed, ceased to attend.
When, therefore, the curtain fell, the scanty audience rushed to the
doors of the house, and there was something very much like a
demonstration, a report of which, the Professor felt with pleasurable
emotion, could not fail to be carried to the Duchess.
The next day there came a letter to Lady Boltons--who was still confined
to her room with gout--from no less a person than the Duchess of
Dunstanburgh, suggesting that the publicity thrust upon Lord Chester
through the unconstitutional action of his cousin might produce an
injurious effect upon a mind so young. In other words, her Grace was
already sensible of the sympathy which was growing up for what was
believed to be a love affair, cruelly blighted by herself. If Lord
Chester was kept in retirement until the case was decided, he would,
perhaps be forgotten. As for Lady Carlyon, the Duchess rightly judged
that the sympathy which one woman gets from another in such cases is
generally scant.
No doubt she was right, but unfortunately she was too late. The young
Earl had been seen everywhere; his story, much altered and improved, was
in everybody's mouth; his likeness was in all the shop windows, side by
side with that of Lady Carlyon, or, as if to give emphasis to the
difference between the two suitors, he was placed with the Duchess on
his left and Lady Carlyon on his right. The young men envied him because
he was so rich, so handsome, and so gallant; the young ladies looked and
sighed. He was nearer the Ideal Man than any they had ever seen; his
bold and daring eyes struck them with a kind of awe, which they thought
was due to his rank, ignorant of the manhood in those eyes, which
attracted and yet daunted them. They bought his photograph by thousands,
and spent their leisure hours, or even the hours of study, when they
ought to have been 'mugging bones,' or drawing contracts, or reading
theology, in gazing upon that remarkable presence. Older ladies--those
who had established positions and could think of marriage--wished that
such young men were within their reach; and very old ladies, looking at
the photograph with admiring eyes, would wag their heads, and tell their
grandsons how their grandfather, dead and gone, had been just such
another as Lord Chester--so handsome, so strong, so brave, and yet
withal the most dutiful and obedient of husbands. They did not explain
how the virtue of submission was compatible with such frank and fearless
eyes.
The mischief, therefore, was done. So far as the sympathies of the
people were concerned, Constance could rest content. There remained,
however, the House.
Lord Chester appeared no more in public. He went to none of the
cricket-matches and athletics which made the season so lively; nor was
he seen at any balls or dinners; nor did he ride in the Row. He was kept
in almost monastic seclusion, a few companions only being invited to
play tennis on his own lawns. But the Professor was with him
constantly--Lady Boltons continuing to be laid up with her gout--and
they had long talks in the gardens, sitting beneath the shade of the
trees, or walking on the lawns. During these conversations the young man
would clench his fist and stamp his foot with rage; or his eyes would
kindle, and he would stretch out his right hand as if moved beyond
control. And he became daily more masterful, insomuch that the women
were afraid of him, and the men-servants--whom he had cuffed until they
respected him--laughed, seeing the dismay of the women. Never any man
like him! 'Why,' said the butler, a most respectable old lady, 'if he
goes on like this, he'll be like the Duchess of Dunstanburgh herself.
She'll have a handful, whichever o' their ladyships gets him. Beer, my
lord? At twelve o'clock in the morning! It isn't good for your lordship.
Better wait--oh dear, dear! Yes, my lord, in one minute.'
One afternoon, towards the end of June, a little party had been made up
for his amusement. It consisted of half a dozen young men of his own
age, and a few ladies whose age more nearly approached that of the
Professor. The young men played one or two matches of tennis, changed
their flannels for morning dress, and joined the ladies at afternoon
tea. The one topic of conversation possible at the moment was forbidden
in that house: it was, of course, that of the great Appeal, and how some
said that the Countess wanted it pushed on, so as to take advantage of
the public sympathy, and the Duchess wanted it delayed, so as to give
this feeling time to cool down; but the Duchess had sworn by everything
dear to her that she would marry the young lord whether the House gave a
decision in her favour or not; how Lady Carlyon declared that she would
carry him off under the very nose of the Duchess; with a thousand other
_canards_, rumours, little secrets, whispers on the best authority, and
so forth. As, of course, that could not be entered upon in Lord
Chester's own house, the afternoon was dull to the ladies. They pumped
the Professor artfully, but learned nothing. She was enthusiastic in her
praises of her pupil, but was reticent about his previous relations, if
any, with either of his suitors; nor would she reveal anything, if she
knew anything, about his inclinations--if he had any preference. As for
his character, she spoke openly; he was certainly,--well, say
masterful--that could not be denied--in a way which would be unbecoming
in a man below his rank; as for his religion, no one could more truly
love and revere the Perfect Woman than did Lord Chester; as for his
abilities, they were far beyond the common: and for his reading, 'I have
always considered,' said the Professor, 'his rank as of more importance
than his sex; and though I have, perhaps, given him a wider and deeper
education than is generally considered prudent for the masculine brain,
I believe it will be found, in the long-run, a course productive of
great good. In fact,' she whispered, 'I believe that Lord Chester is a
man likely to be the father of daughters, illustrious not only by their
birth, but also by their strength of intellect and force of character.'
'No man,' said one of the guests--one of those persons who always know
how to find the right commonplace at the right time,--'no man can have a
more worthy object of ambition. To sink himself in the family, to work
for them, to reproduce his own virtues in their higher feminine form in
his own daughters,--I hope his lordship will obtain this happiness.'
'But he can't,' cried another--one of those persons who always say the
wrong things,--'he can't if he marries the Duc--'
'Hush!' said the Professor. 'My dear madam, we were talking, I think,
about Lord Chester's character. Yes, he is in many respects a most
remarkable young man.'
'But is he,' asked another lady, 'is he quite--are you sure of what you
say, Professor, about his orthodoxy?'
Professor Ingleby smiled. All smiled, indeed, because her own faith had
been greatly suspected, as everybody knew.
'As sure,' she said, 'as I am of my own. Oh! I know what wicked people
have hinted at Cambridge. But wait; have patience; I will before long
prove my religious convictions, and satisfy the world once for all, in a
way that will perhaps astonish, but certainly convince everybody, what
my faith really is, and how truly orthodox--and I will answer for my
pupil.'
Then the young men appeared, and they began to talk about the games over
their tea. Presently they pressed Lord Chester to sing. No one had a
better voice, or sang with greater expression. He refused at first, on
the ground of being tired of the words of all his songs, but gave way
and sang, with a laughing protest at the sentiment of the song and the
inanity of the words, the following ballad, just then popular:--
'Through sweet buttercups, through sweet hay
Rolled in swathes by the southern wind;
Side by side they wended their way;
The sloping sun on their faces lay,
And dragged long shadows behind.
'Eighteen he, and stalwart to see;
Muscles of steel and a heart of gold.
Cheeks hot-burning, and eyes down-dropped,--
What did he think when she suddenly stopped,
And gave him her hand--to hold?
'She was but thirty; her lands around
Lay with orchards and cornfields spread;
Meadow and hill with the sunlight crowned,
Wealth and joy without stint or bound,
And all for the lad she would wed!
'He listened in silence, as young men should,
While she pictured the life to come;
In tangled copse, in the way of the wood,
With new spring flowers and old leaves strewed,
She spoke of a love-lit home.
'Only a year: and the hay again
Lies in swathes, like the weed on the shore;
Lone he wanders with troubled brain,
Crying, "When will she come again?"
Poor fool; for she comes no more.
Forgotten her troth; and broken her oath;
His love will return no more.
'The air is not bad,' said the singer, when he had finished, rising from
the piano,' but the words are ridiculous. As if he were likely to care
for a woman eighteen years his senior!'
These words fell among them like a bomb. There was a dead silence. No
one dared raise her eyes except the Professor, who looked up in warning.
Presently an old gentleman, who had been half asleep, shook his head and
spoke.
'The songs are all alike now. A young fellow gets made love to, and is
engaged, and then thrown over. Then he breaks his heart: In real life he
would have called for his horse and galloped off his disappointment.'
'Come, Sir George,' said the Professor, 'you must allow us a little
sentiment--some belief in man's heart, else life would be too dull. For
my own part, I find the words touching and true to nature.'
'How would it do?' asked Lord Chester, smiling, 'to invert the thing?
Could we have a ballad showing how a young lady--she must be
young--pined away and died for love of a man who broke his promise?'
They all laughed at this picture, but the young men looked as if Lord
Chester had said something wonderful in its audacity. Most certainly,
thought the Professor, his words would be quoted in all the clubs that
very day. And what--oh! what would the Duchess say? And although she had
no legitimate power over the ward of Chancery, she could do what she
pleased with the Chancellor.
There was one young fellow present, a certain Algy Dunquerque, who
entertained an affection for Lord Chester amounting almost to worship.
No one was like him; none so strong, so dexterous, so good at games; no
one so clever; no one so audacious; no one so gloriously independent.
They were talking together in a low whisper, unregarded by the ladies,
who were talking loudly.
'Algy,' said Lord Chester, 'you said once that you would come to me if
ever I asked you, and stand by me as long as I asked you. Are you still
of the same mind?'
'That kind of promise holds,' said Algy. 'What shall I do?'
'Be in readiness.'
'I am always ready. But what are you going to do? Shall we run away
together?'
'Hush! I do not know,--yet. All that a desperate man can do.'