TO MAKE HIM HAPPY
'Shall we discuss Mr. Feilding any longer?' Armorel asked, with a
little impatience. 'It really seems as if we had nothing to talk about
but the perfections of this incomparable person.' It was in the
evening. Armorel had discovered, already, that the evenings spent at
home in the society of her companion were both long and dull; that
they had nothing to talk about; that Zoe regarded every single
subject from a point of view which was not her own; and that both in
conversation and in personal intercourse she was having a great deal
more than she desired of Mr. Alec Feilding. Therefore, she was
naturally a little impatient. One cannot every evening go and sit
alone in the study: one cannot play the violin all the evening: and
one cannot reduce a companion to absolute silence.
Zoe, who had been talking into the fire from her cushions, turned her
fluffy head, opened her blue eyes wide, and looked, not reproachfully
but sorrowfully and with wonder, at a girl who could hear too much
about Alec Feilding.
'Let me talk--just a little--sometimes--of my best friend, Armorel,
dear. If you only knew what Alec has been to me and to my lost
lover--my Jerome!'
'Forgive me, Zoe. Go on talking about him.'
'How quiet and cosy,' she murmured, in reply, 'this room is in the
evening! It makes one feel virtuous only to think of the cold wind and
the cold people outside. This heaven is surely a reward for the
righteous. It is enough only to lie in the warmth without talking. But
the time and the place invite confidences. Armorel, I am going to
repose a great confidence in you--a secret plan of my own. And you are
so very, very sympathetic when you please, dear child--especially when
Effie is here--I wonder if she is worth it?--that you might spare me a
little of your sympathy.'
'My dear Zoe'--Armorel felt a touch of remorse--she had been
unsympathetic--'you shall have all there is to spare. But what kind of
sympathy do you want? You were talking of Mr. Feilding--not of
yourself.'
'Yes--and that is of myself in a way. I know you will not
misunderstand me, dear. You will not imagine that I am--well, in love
with Alec, when I confess to you that I think a very great deal about
him.'
'I never thought so, at all,' said Armorel.
Zoe's eyes opened for a moment and gleamed. It was a doubtful saying.
Why should not she be in love with Alec, or Alec with her? But Armorel
knew nothing about love.
'When a woman has loved once, dear,' she murmured, 'her heart is gone.
My love-passages,' she put her handkerchief to her eyes--to some women
the drawing-room is the stage--'my love-story, dear, is finished and
done. My heart is in the grave with Jerome. But this you cannot
understand. I think so much of Alec--first, because he has been all
goodness to me; and, next, because he is so wonderfully clever.'
'Talk about him, Zoe, as long as you please.'
'If he had been an ordinary man,' she went on, 'I should have been
equally grateful, I suppose. But there it would have ended. To be
under a debt of gratitude to such a man as Alec makes one long to do
something in return. And, besides, there are so very, very few good
men in the world that it does one good only to talk about them.'
'I suppose that Mr. Feilding is really a man of great genius,' said
Armorel. 'I confess he seems to me rather ponderous in his talk--may I
say, dull? From genius one expects the unexpected.'
'Dull? Oh, no! A little constrained in his manner. That comes from his
excessive sensibility. But dull?--oh, no!'
'He seemed dull at the theatre last night.'
'It was a curious coincidence meeting him there, was it not?'
'I thought you must have told him that you were going.'
'No, no; quite a coincidence. And he so seldom goes to a theatre. The
badness of the acting, he says, irritates his nerves to such a degree
that it sometimes spoils his work for a week. And yet he is actually
going to bring out a play himself. There is a paragraph in the paper
about it--his own paper. Give it to me, dear; it is on the sofa. Thank
you.' She read the paragraph, which we already know. 'What do you
think of that, Armorel?'
'Isn't it rather arrogant--about good men turning out good work?'
'My dear, genius can afford to be arrogant. True genius is always
impatient of small people and of stupidities. It suffers its contempt
to be seen, and that makes the stupidities cry out about arrogance.
Even the most stupid can cry out, you see. But think. He is going to
add a new wreath to his brow. He is already known as a poet, a
novelist, a painter, an essayist, and now he is to become a dramatist.
He really is the cleverest man in the whole world.'
Armorel expressed none of the admiration that was expected. She was
wondering whether, if Mr. Feilding had not been quite so clever, he
might not have been quite so heavy and didactic in conversation. Less
clever people, perhaps, are more prodigal of their cleverness, and
give away some of it in conversation. Perhaps the very clever want it
all for their books.
'I said I would give you his poems,' Zoe continued. 'I bought the book
for you--the second series, which is better than the first. It is on
the piano, dear; that little parcel, thank you.' She opened the parcel
and disclosed a dainty little volume in white and gold. It was
illustrated by a small etching of the poet's head for a frontispiece.
It was printed in beautiful new type on thick paper--the kind called
hand-made--the edges left ragged. There were about a hundred and
twenty pages, and on every two pages there was a single poem. These
were not arranged in any order or sequence of thought. They were all
separate. The poet showed knowledge of contemporary manners in serving
up so small a dish of verse. Fifty or sixty short poems is quite as
much as the reader of poetry will stand in these days.
Armorel turned over the pages and began to read them. Strange! How
could a man so ponderous, so pompous in his conceit, so dogmatic, so
self-conscious, write such pretty, easy-flowing numbers? The metres
fitted the subject; the rhymes were apt, the cadence true, the verses
tripped light and graceful like a maiden dancing.
'How could such a man,' she cried, 'get a touch so light? It is truly
wonderful.'
'I told you so, dear. He is altogether wonderful.'
She went on reading. Presently she cried out, 'Why! he writes like a
woman. Only a woman could have written these lines.' She read them
out. 'It is a woman's hand, and a woman's way of thinking.'
'That shows his genius. No one except Alec--or a woman--could have
said just that thing in just that manner.'
Armorel closed the volume. 'I think,' she said, 'that I like a man to
write like a man and a woman like a woman.'
'Then,' said Zoe, 'how is a novelist to make a woman talk?'
'He makes his women talk like women if he can. But when he speaks
himself it must be with the voice of a man. In these poems it is the
poet who speaks, not any character, man or woman.'
'You will like the poems better as you read them. They will grow upon
you. And you will find the poet himself--not a woman, but a man--in
his verses. It helps one so much to understand the verses when you
know the poet. I think I could almost understand Browning if I had
ever known him. Think of Alec when you read his verses.'
'Yes,' said Armorel, still without enthusiasm.
'You said we were talking about nothing else, dear,' Zoe went on. 'I
talk so much of him because I respect and revere him so much. I have
known Alec a long time'--she lay back with her head turned from her
companion, talking softly into the fire, as if she was communing with
herself. 'He is, though you do not understand it yet, a man of the
most highly strung and sensitive nature. The true reason why he talks
ponderously--as you call it, Armorel--is that he is conscious of the
traps into which this very sensitiveness of his may lead him: for
instance, he may say, before persons unworthy of his confidence,
things which they would most likely misunderstand. It is simply wicked
to cast pearls before swine. A poet, more than any other man, must be
quite sure of his audience before he gives himself away. I assure you,
when Alec feels himself alone with his intimates--a very little
circle--his talk is brilliant.'
'We are unlucky, then,' said Armorel, still without enthusiasm.
'Another thing may make him seem dull. He is always preoccupied,
always thinking about his work: his mind is overcharged.'
'I thought he was always in society--a great diner-out?'
'He is. Society brings him relief. The inanities of social
intercourse rest his brain. Without this rest he would be crushed.'
'I see,' said Armorel, coldly.
'Then there is that other side of him--of which you know nothing. My
dear, he is constantly thinking of others. His private life--but I
must not tell too much. Not only the cleverest man in London, but the
best.'
Armorel felt guilty. She had not, hitherto, looked upon this phoenix
with the reverence which was due to so great a creature. Nay, she did
not like him. She was repelled rather than attracted by him. She liked
him less every time she met him. And this was oftener than she
desired. Somehow or other, they were always meeting. On some pretext
or other he was always calling. And certainly for the last few days
Zoe was unable to talk about anything else. The genius, the greatness
of this man seemed to overwhelm her.
'And now, my dear,' she went on, still talking about him, 'for my
little confidences. I have a great scheme in my head. Oh! a very great
scheme indeed.' She turned round and sat up, looking Armorel full in
the face. Her eyes under her fluffy hair were large and luminous, when
she lifted them. Oftener, they were large but sleepy eyes. Now they
were quite bright. She was wide awake and she was in earnest. 'I have
spoken to no one but you about it as yet. Perhaps you and I can manage
it all by ourselves.'
'What is it?'
'You and I, dear, you and I, we two--we can be so associated and bound
up in the life of the poet-painter as to be for ever joined with his
name. Petrarch and Laura are not more closely connected than we may be
with Alec Feilding, if you only join with me.'
'First tell me what it is--this plan of yours.'
'It is nothing less than just to relieve him, once for all, from his
business cares.'
'Has he business cares?'
'They take up his precious time. They weigh upon his mind. Why should
such a man have any business at all to look after?'
'Well, but,' said Armorel, refusing to rise to this tempting bait,
'why does such a man allow himself to have business cares, if they
worry him?'
'It is the conduct of his journal, my dear.'
'But other authors and painters do not conduct journals. Why should
he? I believe that successful writers and artists make very large
incomes. If he is so successful, why does he trouble about managing a
paper? That is certainly work that can be done by a man of inferior
brain.'
'You are so matter-of-fact, dear. The paper is his own, and he thinks,
I suppose, that nobody but himself could edit the thing. Leave poor
Alec one or two human weaknesses. He may think this, and yet make no
allowance for his own shrinking and sensitive nature.'
Certainly Armorel had seen no indications in this poet-painter of the
shrinking nature. It was very carefully concealed.
'Of course,' Zoe continued, 'you hardly know him. But his genius you
do know. And the business worries that are inseparable from a journal
are a serious hindrance to his higher work. Believe me, dear, even if
you do not understand why it should be so.'
'I can very well believe it--I only ask why Mr. Feilding alone, among
authors and painters, should hamper himself with such worries.'
'Well, dear--there they are. And I have formed a plan--Oh!'--she
clasped her hands and opened her eyes wide--'such a plan! The best and
the cleverest plan in the world for the best and the cleverest man in
the world! But I want your help.'
'What can I do?'
'I will tell you. First of all. You must remember that Alec is the
sole proprietor, as well as the editor of this journal--_The Muses
Nine_. It is his property. He created it. But the business management
of the paper worries him. My plan, Armorel--my plan'--she spoke and
looked most impressive--'will relieve him altogether of the work.'
'Yes--and how do I come into your plan?'
'This way. I have found out, through a person of business, that if he
would sell a share--say a quarter, or an eighth--of his paper he would
be able to put the business part of it into paid hands--the people who
do nothing else. Now, Armorel, we will buy that share--you and I between
us will buy it. You shall advance the whole of the money, and I will pay
you back half. The price will be nothing to you. That is, it will be a
great deal, because the investment will be such a splendid thing, and
the returns will be so brilliant. You will increase your income
enormously, and you will have the satisfaction'--she paused, because,
though she was herself more animated, earnest, and eloquent with voice
and eyes, and though she threw so much persuasion into her manner, the
tell-tale face of the girl showed no kindling light of response at
all--'the satisfaction,' she continued, 'of feeling that such a help to
Literature and Art will make us both immortal.'
Armorel made no reply. She was considering the proposition coldly, and
it was one of those things which must be considered without
enthusiasm.
'As for money,' Zoe continued, with one more attempt to awaken a
responsive fire, 'I have found out what will be wanted. For three
thousand five hundred pounds we can get this share in the paper. Only
three thousand five hundred pounds! That is no more than one thousand
seven hundred and fifty pounds apiece! I shall insist upon having my
share in the investment, because I should grudge you the whole of the
work. As for the returns, I have been well advised of that. Of course,
Alec is beyond all paltry desire for gain, and he might ask a great
deal more. But he leaves everything to his advisers--and oh! my dear,
he must on no account know--yet--who is doing this for him.
Afterwards, we will break it to him gradually, perhaps, when he has
quite recovered from the worries and is rested. If we think of
returns, ten, twenty, even fifty per cent. may be expected as the
paper gets on. Think of fifty per cent.!'
'No,' said Armorel. 'Let us, too, be above paltry desire for gain. Let
those who do want more money go in for this business. If your advice
is correct, Mr. Feilding can have no difficulty at all in selling a
share of the paper. People who want more money will be only too eager
to buy it.'
'My dear child, everybody wants more money.'
'I have quite enough. But why do you ask me to join you, Zoe? I do not
know Mr. Feilding, except as an acquaintance. He is, I dare say, all
that you think. But I do not find him personally interesting. And
there is no reason why I should pretend to be one of the train who
follow him and admire him.'
'But I want you--I want you, Armorel.' Zoe clasped her hands and
lifted her eyes, humid now. But a woman's eyes move a girl less than a
man. 'I want you, and none but you, to join me in this. We two alone
will do it. It will be such a splendid thing to do! Nothing short of
the rescue of the finest and most poetic mind of the day from sordid
cares and worries. Think of what future ages will say of you!'
Armorel laughed. 'Indeed!' she said. 'This kind of immortality does
not tempt me very much. But, Zoe, it is really useless to urge me. I
could not do this, if I would. And truly I would not if I could; for I
made a promise to Mr. Jagenal, when I came of age the other day, that
I would not lend or part with any money without taking his advice; and
that I would not change any of his investments without consulting him.
I seem to know, beforehand, what he would say if I consulted him about
this proposal.'
'Then, my dear,' said Zoe, lying back in her cushions and turning her
face to the fire, 'let us talk about the matter no more.'
She had failed. From the outset she felt that she was going to fail.
The man had had every chance. He had met the girl constantly: she had
left him alone with her: but he had not attracted her in the least.
Well: she confessed, in spite of his cleverness, Alec had somewhat of
a wooden manner: he was too authoritative; and Armorel was too
independent. She had failed.
Armorel, for her part, remembered how her lawyer had warned her on the
day when she became twenty-one and of age to manage her own affairs:
all kinds of traps, he told her, are set to catch women who have got
money in order to rob them of their money: they are besieged on every
side, especially on the sides presumably the weakest: she must put on
the armour of suspicion: she must never--never--never--here he held up
a terrifying forefinger--enter into any engagement or promise, verbal
or in writing, without consulting him. The memory of this warning made
her uneasy--because it was her own companion, the lady appointed by
her lawyer himself, who had made the first attempt upon her money.
True, the attempt was entirely disinterested. There would be no gain
to Zoe even if she were to accede: the proposal was prompted by the
purest friendship. And yet she felt uneasy.
As for the disinterested companion, she wrote a letter that very
night. She said: 'I have made an attempt to get this money for you. It
has failed. It was hopeless from the first. You have had your chance:
you have been with the girl often enough to attract and interest her:
yet she is neither attracted nor interested. I have given her your
poems: she says they ought to be the work of a woman: she likes the
verse, but she cares nothing about the poet. Strange! For my own part,
I have been foolish enough to love the man, and to care not one brass
farthing about his work. Your poems--your pictures--they all seem to
me outside yourself, and not a part of you at all. Why it is so I
cannot explain. Well, Alec, you planted me here, and I remain till you
tell me I may go. It is not very lively: the girl and I have nothing
in common: but it is restful and cosy, and I always did like comfort
and warmth. And Armorel pays all the bills. What next, however? Is
there any other way? What are my lord's commands?'