When the eager young soul starts out unaided to solve the riddle of
life, it meets with many paradoxes that admit of no solution, and many
sordid simplicities that only unfamiliarity made it regard as enigmas.
Despair in the one instance and disgust in the other not unfrequently
drive it into a hopeless pessimism, in which inaction seems to be the
least pain. Or else the soul bruises itself in vain against the mocking
bars, shrinks in loathing from the disveiled corruption, and flies back
to the unavailing aids that it spurned aforetime. It is cast in the
valley of the shadow of death which only the stout-hearted can pass
through unshaken.
The multitude stands by the formulas that profess to solve the eternal
problem. It follows them blindly, like the schoolboy who cares not
whether they are right or wrong, or whether the answer is conclusive. So
long as there is an answer of some sort its mind is easy. But there are
earnester inquirers whom these formulas do not satisfy--who see that
they are followed for their own sake, that they never can lead to any
conclusions. The soul, now of a people, now of an individual, rebels;
it rejects the formulas; it starts from the first principles of being,
asserting fiercely its individuality, its inalienable right to seek
after truth according to its own methods. These are prejudiced. All
great action must be. Because a system is rotten and incomplete the
perfervid spirit judges that every factor must be false. It misses the
fact that every great human system contains elemental truths of vital
importance, without which it must fall in its struggle. And at last,
when the forces of endeavour are well nigh spent, it finds the key
of the great enigma inwrapped in a greater one still, in the eternal
tragedy of things.
It was with this burning protest against formulas that Clytie entered
into the world. They had been presented to her in their smug complacency
as solving all mysteries human and divine. She had seen them worshipped
as fetiches, and her soul revolted against the futile idolatry. She was
too young to examine them carefully, to see that the sacrosanctity of
some was miserably justified by human experience. She spurned them all,
and she plunged into the waters of Life, a rudderless bark in search of
the unknown.
She spent two years in study at the Slade School in University College,
living under the protection of her aunt, who had a house in Russell
Square. The training was severe and at times irksome. But she learned
strict academical rules of drawing, in spite of her repugnance to the
stern coldness of the antique. After her term of hard training was
over she went for a year into a painter's studio and learned colour and
painting from the live model.
They were years of probation, as Clytie well knew, and they brought her
lessons in self-restraint, both in art and in the conduct of life. Her
aunt, Miss Davenant, was shrewder and broader-minded than her brother,
having lived more in the whirl of humanity, but the formulas of
Durdleham were ranged as household gods upon her hearthstone, and
Clytie, out of pure self-interest, was bound to show them outward
respect. To compensate, however, for this, Clytie found in her student
life many experiences, as she had found during her continental trip,
with which she could fill her heart without violating her aunt's Lares
and Penates.
She seldom went to Durdleham. She had an odd feeling that she was in
disgrace there for having wished to leave it. Besides, both Mrs. Blather
and Janet, as is the inconsequent way of such women, spoke tauntingly
of her gay life in town, and contrasted it enviously with their country
dulness. And then, too, her father was always querulous, complaining,
not of her absence from home, but of her dissimilarity to her sisters.
“My dear papa,” she said one day, “I could no more be like them than
they could be like me.”
“You might if you had tried,” said the old man.
Clytie looked hopelessly out of window. What possible reply could be
made?
The happiest, most expansive hours that Clytie spent during these three
years were in Harley Street with the Farquharsons. At first her aunt was
rather averse to a continuance of the intimacy. Although she had kept
up a visiting acquaintance with the Farquharsons since their return from
Switzerland, and liked them both personally, she was conscious of an
unfamiliar atmosphere in their house. The instinctive shrinking from the
unknown made her seek to draw Clytie back with her towards the security
of her own accustomed circle. But eventually, when she saw that the
girl, to whom she had grown sincerely attached, found real happiness
in going to Harley Street, she withdrew her tentative restrictions
altogether. Perhaps she read deeper into the girl's heart than either
was conscious of, and realised that in the Farquharsons' society
Clytie found a relief from the strain of everyday life with her, which
otherwise might have been unbearable.
The conditions of the household in Harley Street were favourable to the
development of unceremonious intimacy. Mrs. Farquharson herself was bred
in that strange London world we call Bohemia. Her father, long since
dead, had been a journalist, a hack story-writer, a maker of plays,
sometimes editor of a smart weekly, at others acting manager of a
provincial company. Like most men of his type he spent his money as fast
as he earned it, and when work came to a temporary standstill drew upon
the prospects of his next success. His daughter Caroline had grown up in
cheerful familiarity with this hand to mouth, makeshift existence. She
had been called upon so often from her earliest childhood to condone the
faults of her father and those of his intimates, who were men of much
the same mould as himself, that a general habit of indulgence became
natural to her. Folly seemed so inherent a quality in humanity that not
to smile tolerantly, even though reprovingly, upon it was with her an
impossibility. The lowering of moral tone that might have resulted from
this mental attitude, and from a continuance of the same conditions of
life, was prevented by her early marriage with a man of assured income
and position. Her father died shortly afterwards and her connection
with the seamy side of Bohemianism was thoroughly broken off. But the
ingrained habits of freedom and carelessness still remained. She could
never learn to be methodical, systematic. She had an inherited dread
of account-books, household rules, fixed hours for meals, and appointed
places for every domestic article. It was fortunate for her that she had
married a man who worshipped her, and himself shared her distaste for
rigidly organised life. His means had placed him beyond the necessity
of working for his livelihood, and so the free life in a home where he
could work, idle, eat, and receive his friends at any hour of the day or
night was as much to his own taste as to that of his wife.
It was impossible that such a house should not possess a charm for those
to whom the Farquharsons gave their friendship. The absence of
formality encouraged expansiveness and individuality. There was a tacit
understanding that one had a right not only to oneself, but to the
appreciation of oneself by the host and hostess. It was this that Clytie
had felt during her first visit, and it attracted her more and more to
them as time went on. Gradually the house became a second home to her,
and Mrs. Farquharson a friend such as she had never known before. She
could go to her for strength and comfort during her fits of depression
when the time seemed out of joint, and she did not in the least seem
called upon to set it right. The restraints of strict draughtsmanship,
academic modelling and grouping, chafed her as her simple arithmetic had
done at school. She longed to throw them off and to plunge back into her
old artistic wilfulnesses. But these occasions generally coincided with
fresh sensations of restraint in her home life, and she was wise enough
to appreciate the fact.
During this period an incident occurred in her life, giving it fresh
colour and helping her to realise herself more fully. Her girlhood had
been far removed from the lax sphere of idle flirtation in which many
girls are brought up. The young men of Durdleham, who might have been
attracted towards her by her beauty, were frozen by her scarcely veiled
impatience at their society.
The dominant impulse towards active search after life had swayed her
to the exclusion of any less powerful motive, and it had scarcely
yet occurred to her that her personality might interest and possibly
influence others. She was too absorbed in her work, in her dimly
shadowed yet ever-haunting plans for the future, in the individualities
round her, in the foretaste of that full sense of living, in the
stirring objectivity of London life, to dwell at all earnestly on
subjective matters and to devote much attention to self-analysis. It is
only when the question, “How do others affect me?” ceases to interest
that the other question, “How does my personality affect others?” begins
to assume a paramount importance. The possibility of a man falling in
love with her was a factor as yet absent from her scheme of practical
life.
She learned that such an event had occurred from Mrs. Farquharson. She
had gone to her one Monday morning, depressed, out of tune, to seek
consolation.
“Oh, why am I not a man?” she exclaimed petulantly. “Why can't I live by
myself, go where I like, and see what I want to see?”
Her friend laughed good-humouredly.
“You want to do too much at once, my dear. The world's your oyster, as
ancient Pistol said, and you would force it open with one wrench. As
for wishing to be a man, you are by no means original. Lots of girls
say that, but when they grow older they think it's just as well for them
that they are women.”
“What on earth's the good of being a _woman?_” asked Clytie, with rather
unnecessary emphasis.
One of her studio companions had asked her to join a party at a theatre,
and her aunt had demurred on the ground that ladies ought not to go to
that particular house. It showed a certain knowledge of the world on
the old lady's part, but Clytie did not realise it, and although she
accepted the decision with good grace, it fretted her. These trivial
things fret even the wisest amongst us quite as much as the important
ones do.
Mrs. Farquharson did not reply, but continued placidly her usual Monday
morning's occupation of putting her music in order, while Clytie watched
her from the long rocking-chair where she was sitting, her hands clasped
behind her head.
“What's the good of being a woman when one has to pass half one's life
shut up in darkness? It's bad enough being a human being as it is, and
having to sleep the other half.”
“How old are you, my dear?” asked Mrs. Farquharson, looking at a song.
“You know,” replied Clytie. “Twenty.”
“Then how would you like to be a young man of twenty--or even
two-and-twenty? How would you like to be young Beaumont, for instance?
Do you think he knows so very much more than you do?”
“He's such a boy,” said Clytie.
“And you, my dear, are such a girl,” said Mrs. Farquharson, coming up
behind her chair and smoothing her cheeks. “But you are many years older
than he is--and likely to remain so. Do you know why we women like to
be women? Because we see so many things that men would give the eyes of
their heads to know. Hasn't it ever struck you that we are familiar with
a side of life that is almost forever hidden from men? And as for that
particular side that men have exclusively to themselves, it is neither
very pretty nor comfortful.”
“I suppose that is why men stop talking when one goes into the
smoking-room,” said Clytie. “You hear shouts of laughter outside the
door, and you think they must be having an awfully good time, and when
you appear in the doorway they seem to pull themselves together, and one
or two always look red and sheepish.”
“I should advise you to read the story of Bluebeard,” said Mrs.
Farquharson.
“You are just as bad as the rest,” cried Clytie, half laughing and half
vexed. “I never thought it of you. That's what I have always been told:
Never try to find out what you don't know. Always remain in a state
of blissful ignorance. Men are superior beings, and a good little girl
ought to accept her position with meekness.”
“I could a tale unfold,” said her friend, “but I won't. It is too early
for you. If you want to make experiments on your own account there is
young Beaumont for you. He will tell you the sum total of his knowledge
in ten minutes.”
“Do you know, I like him,” said Clytie, leaving the main track of the
conversation. “He always looks so clean, and his clothes fit him so
well, and he is so serviceable. He always seems to be trying to make
the best of himself, since God has done so little for him. And it's very
plucky of him to try to improve on the Almighty.”
“I would not like him too much.”
“Why?”
“My poor Clytie! You haven't even got the elements of woman's knowledge
yet. Can't you see why Beaumont wears those very chaste ties and those
wonderfully shiny boots, and does errands all over London for you? Oh,
dear!”
“Do you mean that he----?”
Mrs. Farquharson looked at her quizzically and nodded.
“Therefore I would not like him too much.”
Obeying a first impulse, Clytie burst out laughing. It seemed so
ridiculous. Beaumont was a good-looking, fresh-faced young fellow of
two-and-twenty, a distant relation of the Farquharsons, and a habitué of
the house. She had met him there many times and had begun to feel quite
friendly towards him. Besides, he had fetched and carried for her in the
most useful way. She had never thought of his falling in love with her.
As he was the last man she herself would have thought of falling in love
with, she found the event ludicrous.
She stopped laughing suddenly, and crimsoned to her hair; then rushed
impulsively up to Mrs. Farquharson, and put her arm round her waist.
“I am sorry; forgive me. What must you think of me! I could not help it,
indeed I couldn't. You put me in such a new light before myself. And,
dear Mrs. Farquharson, I do so want you to see the best side of me.”
“My dear girl,” said her friend, “you don't suppose that with your face
and your nature you are going to pass through life without having men
falling in love with you! You see what a lot you have to learn. You
want to have a man's experiences before you have passed through the
elementary ones of a woman.”
“And Mr. Beaumont--what shall I do?”
“Oh! don't fret yourself about him. He will get over it. He has no end
of this sort of thing to go through before his life is up. It will
do him good.” Clytie had not much time to map out any fixed plan of
treatment of her would-be lover, for he met her an afternoon or two
afterwards outside University College, where he had been waiting
for her, and pleaded that she would walk a little way up towards the
Regent's Park, as the afternoon was fine.
Clytie looked at him and hesitated.
“Only just a little way. I have something I must tell you.”
“Perhaps you had best never tell it,” said Clytie.
The red-waistcoated gate porter behind them beamed on them smilingly. He
had seen something of youthful love in his professional career.
“I must, whatever happens,” replied the young fellow. “I know it's wrong
to ask you to walk in the street with me, but I don't know when I shall
get another chance.”
“I don't see anything wrong about it,” said Clytie. “I will go with you
wherever you wish.”
So they wandered up Gower Street and the Euston Road into the park, and
there, for the first time in her life, Clytie heard a man confess his
love for her and ask her to marry him. He was only a boy after all, but
he was in great earnest. Clytie felt humbled, almost guilty, and yet a
great, unknown pleasure thrilled through her. Although she knew that the
sooner and more summarily the interview was brought to an end the better
for both herself and him, she could scarcely resist the temptation of
allowing him to pour out the fulness of his boyish love for her.
She suddenly found herself listening to the sound but not the meaning
of his words, her senses filled with the sweetness of the new sensations
and the pure May sunlight that flooded the trees and the gay flower-bed
opposite the bench where they were sitting. Then she realised her
situation, and in a few kind words, harder to speak than she would have
expected, dismissed him.
And that was the end of the matter. He went off whither young men in his
predicament generally betake themselves, and Clytie returned slowly home
to Russell Square.
When she had reached her own room she went deliberately up to the glass
and scanned her features. Then she laughed a strange, contented little
laugh, and taking off her hat and gloves, went downstairs to tea. She
had advanced several steps along the road to knowledge.
Three years! How quickly they passed! How sure yet dimly working were
their influences! If they were years of probation and self-restraint for
Clytie, they also brought with them softening influences. Hitherto her
life had been one of revolt and harsh, crude judgments that had turned
away friendship and had left her solitary. Mutual misconception and
misunderstanding had crushed sisterly love. Her heart had never been
touched by real affection. Now she had friends, real ones, in the
Farquharsons whom she could love for their own sakes, and pleasant,
sympathetic ones in her companions at the Slade School and at the
studio. She learned, too, the sweetness of active protection and
helpfulness. Her aunt, though somewhat stronger-fibred than the rest of
the Davenants, possessed their essential physical characteristics.
Her health, which had been failing for some years, gradually gave way
altogether. During the few months of her last illness she depended
entirely upon Clytie for care and tenderness. It was a new, strange
experience for the girl. She learned to love the faded elderly lady
who bore her sufferings so calmly, so cheerfully. Both Mrs. Blather and
Janet offered to come and nurse her, but Miss Davenant would have none
but Clytie. If this period of selflessness and sacrifice had lasted, who
knows what sweet effacement of individuality might have resulted? Who
knows into what channels of pity and sublime endeavours of mercy the
girl's full, ardent nature might have been directed? But the high gods
had ordained otherwise. Miss Davenant died, and Clytie again found
herself with the unknown destiny before her that had to be worked out
unaided.
It was only after the first outburst of grief that she realised this
fully. She had gone back to Durdleham, with a new range of feelings
freshly revealed. Her sisters she found were gentle, quiet women like
her aunt, narrower perhaps, with thin currents of old prejudice still
running through them, but still lovable and sympathetic in her sorrow.
They welcomed her back like a lost sheep to the fold. Never had her home
life seemed so peaceful, comfortful; London was scarcely mentioned, and
her sisters agreed between themselves that Clytie's absence from home
was an episode of the past, never to recur.
But time wears and effaces the deepest intaglio of impression, even that
of a young girl's first knowledge of death and eternal loss. Gradually
the quietude of eventless life, as the need for it wore away, grew
wearisome, oppressive, and the old restless cravings began to gnaw at
her heart. The breach that death had closed slowly widened again,
so gradually that not till it was fully appreciable did the sisters
recognise it. The formulas seemed narrower, more lifeless than ever. She
had viewed dimly the potentialities of life, and her soul burned within
her with a fiercer hunger. Almost against her will she revolted finally.
“What is this that Janet has been telling me,” said Mrs. Blather one
morning, “about your wanting to go back to London? You cannot be in
earnest, Clytie?”
Clytie looked at her sister rather sadly, tears springing into her eyes.
“You have been very good to me since I have come back, Gracie, and I
have learned to love you more than I did before--much more. But can't
you understand, dear, that if I am to go on loving you I must go away?”
“I can't see it at all,” replied Mrs. Blather. “If we have got on so
nicely together these last few months, why can't we continue? Janet and
I are willing to give you all in our power to make you happy.”
“Ah! but don't you see that what I want is out of your power to give?”
said Clytie. “Don't think I am wicked and ungrateful. If a man wants
five pounds, he is grateful to anyone who gives him one; but that does
not lessen his need of the other four. Now the other four pounds are not
to be got in Durdleham, Gracie, and I must have them.”
“You should learn content, Clytie,” said her sister. “We have all to put
up with our lot in life.”
Clytie checked an impulse of impatience at the platitude, and answered
with great gentleness of voice and manner:
“This is not my lot in life, dear. It is quite different. You and Janet
can bear it, because your natures crave this tranquillity. Mine craves
movement, excitement, strange faces. Oh, Gracie, it is no use talking--I
must go away, or I shall begin to hate Durdleham as I used to do. There
is nothing for me to do here. I am too bad for it, perhaps. I don't
know. I can't explain it to you; you have never felt it.”
“My dear Clytie, that is all nonsense,” said Mrs. Blather, who prided
herself, above all things, on being a woman of common sense. “As a
matter of fact, you can't go to London, because you would have no one to
live with, and you would only have your hundred a year to support you,
as papa has lost a great deal of money lately and can hardly afford
to give you an allowance. When your aunt was alive it was a different
thing. The whole idea of going to live alone in London is silly. So
there's an end of it.”
Mrs. Blather went on with her sewing, with mingled feelings of content
at having done her duty and disappointment in the failure of promise of
reform in Clytie. She would have judged her sister mercifully had she
been able. She was naturally a gentle woman, full of kindness. But her
canons of duty would not allow her to encourage or condone wilfulness,
caprice, and a tendency to wrong-doing. She earnestly believed it was
for Clytie's good to stay in Durdleham. The girl's wider needs she could
not understand.
Clytie turned from the hearthrug, where she had been standing, to the
drawing-room window, and looked out blankly at the rain. Her young face
was set rather hard; her lips quivered a little; her heart beat quicker
than usual. A struggle was taking place within her--the struggle between
the girl and the woman. She felt that the great moment of her life had
come. She must choose. Which should it be: the dazzling light with its
weird shadows of things unseen, or the gray, easeful glimmer in which
the familiar realities cast no shadow? Which should it be: daughterly
duty and maidenly retirement, or the sundering of home ties forever and
going out, one woman, to battle with the world?
She turned away from the window at last and called to her sister. The
latter looked up and was filled with foreboding as she saw the girl's
pale face.
“Yes. What is the matter, Clytie?”
“I have made up my mind, Gracie,” she said a little huskily. “I am going
to London to live by myself. I can share lodgings with one of the girls
I know at the Slade School. There will be no difficulty. I can earn
money; I have already earned a little. As for mamma's money, I am of age
now, and it is my own to do what I like with it--as you and Janet do.
Let this be an end of the discussion, Gracie. I am going.”