She desired at last to raise their common experience to a loftier
level, to enjoy what she called a high-class treat. Their commerce had
been condemned for the most part to go forward in the streets, the
wintry, dusky, foggy streets, which looked bigger and more numerous
in their perpetual obscurity and in which everything was covered
with damp, gritty smut, an odour extremely agreeable to Miss Henning.
Happily she shared Hyacinth’s relish of vague perambulation and was
still more addicted than he to looking into the windows of shops,
before which, in long, contemplative halts, she picked out freely
the articles she shouldn’t mind having put up for her. He invariably
pronounced the objects of her selection hideous and made no scruple to
assure her she had the worst taste of any girl in the place. Nothing he
could say to her affronted her so much, for her pretensions in the way
of a cultivated judgement were boundless. Had not indeed her natural
aptitude been fortified, in the neighbourhood of Buckingham Palace
(there was scarcely anything they didn’t sell in the great shop of
which she was an ornament), by daily contact with the freshest products
of modern industry? Hyacinth laughed this establishment to scorn and
made the point that there was nothing in it from top to bottom that
a real artist would look at. She inquired with answering derision
if this were a description of his own few inches; but in reality she
was fascinated as much as she was provoked by his attitude of being
difficult to please, of seeing indescribable differences among the
smartest things. She had given herself out originally as very knowing,
but he could make her gape with doubts. When once in a while he pointed
out a commodity that he condescended to like (this didn’t happen often,
because the only shops in which there was a chance of his making such
a discovery were closed at nightfall) she stared and bruised him with
her elbow, declaring that if any one should give her such a piece of
rubbish she would sell it for fourpence. Once or twice she asked him to
be so good as to explain to her in what its superiority consisted—she
couldn’t rid herself of a suspicion that there might be something in
his judgement and was angry at not finding herself as positive as any
one. Then he would reply that it was no use attempting to tell her;
she wouldn’t understand and had better continue to admire the insipid
productions of an age that had lost the sense of fineness—a phrase she
remembered, proposing to herself even to make use of it on some future
occasion, but was quite unable to interpret.
When her companion demeaned himself in this manner it was not with
a view of strengthening the tie that united him to his childhood’s
friend; but the effect followed on Millicent’s side and the girl was
proud to think herself in possession of a young man whose knowledge
was of so high an order that it was inexpressible. In spite of her
vanity she was not so convinced of her perfection as not to be full of
ungratified aspirations; she had an idea it might be to her advantage
some day to exhibit a sample of that learning; and at the same time,
when, in consideration for instance of a jeweller’s gas-lighted
display in Great Portland Street, Hyacinth lingered for five minutes
in perfect silence and she delivered herself according to her wont at
such junctures, she was a thousand miles from guessing the perverse
sentiments that made it impossible for him to speak. She could long
for things she was not likely to have; envy other people for possessing
them and say it was a “regular shime”; draw brilliant pictures of what
she should do with them if she did have them; and pass immediately,
with a mind unencumbered by superfluous inductions, to some other
topic equally intimate and personal. The sense of privation with her
was often extremely acute; but she could always put her finger on
the remedy. With her fellow-sufferer the case was very different; the
remedy for him was terribly vague and inaccessible. He was liable to
moods in which the sense of exclusion from all he would have liked most
to enjoy in life settled on him like a pall. They had a bitterness, but
they were not invidious—they were not moods of vengeance, of imaginary
spoliation: they were simply states of paralysing melancholy, of
infinite sad reflexion, in which he felt how in this world of effort
and suffering life was endurable, the spirit able to expand, only in
the best conditions, and how a sordid struggle in which one should go
down to the grave without having tasted them was not worth the misery
it would cost, the dull demoralisation it would involve.
In such hours the great roaring indifferent world of London seemed to
him a huge organisation for mocking at his poverty, at his inanition;
and then its vulgarest ornaments, the windows of third-rate jewellers,
the young man in a white tie and a crush-hat who dandled by on his way
to a dinner-party in a hansom that nearly ran over one—these familiar
phenomena became symbolic, insolent, defiant, took on themselves to
make him smart with the sense that _he_ was above all out of it. He
felt, moreover, that there was neither consolation nor refutation in
saying to himself that the immense majority of mankind were out of
it with him and appeared to put up well enough with the annoyance.
That was their own affair; he knew nothing of their reasons or their
resignation, and if they chose neither to rebel nor to compare he
at least, among the disinherited, would keep up the standard. When
these fits were on our young man his brothers of the people fared,
collectively, very ill at his hands; their function then was to
represent in massive shape precisely the grovelling interests which
attracted one’s contempt, and the only acknowledgment one owed them
was for the completeness of the illustration. Everything which in a
great city could touch the sentient faculty of a youth on whom nothing
was lost ministered to his conviction that there was no possible good
fortune in life of too “quiet” an order for him to appreciate—no
privilege, no opportunity, no luxury to which he mightn’t do full
justice. It was not so much that he wanted to enjoy as that he
wanted to know; his desire wasn’t to be pampered but to be initiated.
Sometimes of a Saturday in the long evenings of June and July he made
his way into Hyde Park at the hour when the throng of carriages, of
riders, of brilliant pedestrians was thickest; and though lately,
on two or three of these occasions, he had been accompanied by
Miss Henning, whose criticism of the scene was rich and distinct, a
tremendous little drama had taken place privately on the stage of his
inner consciousness. He wanted to drive in every carriage, to mount
on every horse, to feel on his arm the hand of every pretty woman in
the place. In the midst of this his sense was vivid that he belonged
to the class whom the “bloated” as they passed didn’t so much as rest
their eyes on for a quarter of a second. They looked at Millicent, who
was safe to be looked at anywhere and was one of the handsomest girls
in any company, but they only reminded him of the high human walls,
the deep gulfs of tradition, the steep embankments of privilege and
dense layers of stupidity fencing the “likes” of him off from social
recognition.
And this was not the fruit of a morbid vanity on his part, or of a
jealousy that couldn’t be intelligent; his personal discomfort was
the result of an intense admiration for what he had missed. There
were individuals whom he followed with his eyes, with his thoughts,
sometimes even with his steps; they seemed to tell him what it was to
be the flower of a high civilisation. At moments he was aghast when he
reflected that the cause he had secretly espoused, the cause from which
M. Poupin and Paul Muniment (especially the latter) had within the last
few months drawn aside the curtain, proposed to itself to bring about
a state of things in which that particular scene would be impossible.
It made him even rather faint to think that he must choose; that he
couldn’t (with any respect for his own consistency) work underground
for the enthronement of the democracy and yet continue to enjoy in
however platonic a manner a spectacle which rested on a hideous social
inequality. He must either suffer with the people as he had suffered
before, or he must apologise to others, as he sometimes came so near
doing to himself, for the rich; inasmuch as the day was certainly near
when these two mighty forces would come to a death-grapple. Hyacinth
thought himself obliged at present to have reasons for his feelings;
his intimacy with Paul Muniment, which had now grown very great, laid
a good deal of that sort of responsibility upon him. Muniment laughed
at his reasons whenever he produced them, but appeared to expect him
nevertheless to have them ready on demand, and Hyacinth had ever a
desire to do what he expected. There were times when he said to himself
that it might very well be his fate to be divided to the point of
torture, to be split open by sympathies that pulled him in different
ways; for hadn’t he an extraordinarily mingled current in his blood,
and from the time he could remember wasn’t there one half of him always
either playing tricks on the other or getting snubs and pinches from
it?
That dim, dreadful, confused legend of his mother’s history, as regards
which what Pinnie had been able to tell him when he first began to
question her was at once too much and too little—this stupefying
explanation had supplied him first and last with a hundred different
theories of his identity. What he knew, what he guessed had sickened
and what he didn’t know tormented him; but in his illuminated ignorance
he had fashioned forth an article of faith. This had gradually emerged
from the depths of darkness in which he found himself plunged as a
consequence of the challenge he had addressed to Pinnie—while he was
still only a child—on the memorable day that had transformed the whole
face of his future. It was one January afternoon when he had come in
from a walk. She was seated at her lamp, as usual, with her work, and
had begun to tell him of a letter one of the lodgers had got describing
the manner in which his brother-in-law’s shop at Nottingham had been
rifled by burglars. He had listened to her story, standing in front
of her, and then by way of response had suddenly said to her: “Who was
that awful woman you took me to see ever so long ago?” The expression
of her white face as she looked up at him, her fear of such an attack
all dormant after so many years—this strange, scared, sick glance was
a thing he could never forget, any more than the tone, with her breath
failing her, in which she had repeated “That awful woman?”
“That woman in the prison years ago—how old was I?—who was dying and
who kissed me so, as I’ve never been kissed, as I never shall be again!
Who _was_ she, who WAS she?” Poor Pinnie, to do her justice, had made,
after she recovered her breath, a gallant fight: it had lasted a week;
it was to leave her spent and sore for ever after, and before it was
over Anastasius Vetch had been called in. At his instance she had
retracted the falsehoods with which she had previously tried to put
the boy off, and had made at last a confession and a report which he
was satisfied to believe as complete as her knowledge. Hyacinth could
never have told you why the crisis had occurred on such a day, why his
question had broken out at that particular moment. The strangeness
of the matter to himself was that the germ of his curiosity should
have developed so slowly; that the haunting wonder which now, as he
looked back, appeared to fill his whole childhood, should only after
so long an interval have crept up to the air. It was only of course
little by little that he had recovered his bearings in his new and more
poignant consciousness; little by little that he had reconstructed
his antecedents, taken the measure, so far as was possible, of his
heredity. His having the courage to disinter from the _Times_ in the
reading-room of the British Museum a report of his mother’s trial
for the murder of Lord Frederick Purvis, which was very copious, the
affair having been quite a _cause célèbre_; his resolution in sitting
under that splendid dome and, with his head bent to hide his hot
eyes, going through every syllable of the ghastly record, had been an
achievement of comparatively recent years. There were certain things
Pinnie knew that appalled him; and there were others, as to which
he would have given his hand to have some light, that it made his
heart ache supremely to find she was honestly ignorant of. He scarce
understood what sort of favour Mr. Vetch wished to make with him (as
a compensation for the precious part he had played in the business
years before) when the fiddler permitted himself to pass judgement
on the family of the wretched young nobleman for not having provided
in some manner for the infant child of his assassin. Why should they
have provided when it was evident they had refused absolutely to
recognise his lordship’s responsibility? Pinnie had to admit this
under Hyacinth’s terrible cross-questioning; she couldn’t pretend with
any show of evidence that Lord Whiteroy and the other brothers (there
had been no less than seven, most of them still living) had at the
time of the trial given any symptom of believing Florentine Vivier’s
asseverations. That was their affair; he had long since made up his
mind that his own was very different. One couldn’t believe at will, and
fortunately, in the case, he had no effort to make; for from the moment
he began to consider the established facts (few as they were and poor
and hideous) he regarded himself immutably as the son of the recreant
and sacrificed Lord Frederick.
He had no need to reason about it; all his nerves and pulses pleaded
and testified. His mother had been a daughter of the wild French
people—all Pinnie could tell him of her parentage was that Florentine
had once mentioned that in her extreme childhood her father, his gun
in his hand, had fallen in the blood-stained streets of Paris on a
barricade; but on the other side it took an English aristocrat to
account for him, though a poor specimen apparently had to suffice.
This, with its further implications, became Hyacinth’s article of
faith; the reflexion that he was a bastard involved in a remarkable
manner the reflexion that he was a gentleman. He was conscious he
didn’t hate the image of his father as he might have been expected
to do; and he supposed this was because Lord Frederick had paid so
tremendous a penalty. It was in the exaction of that penalty that the
moral proof for him resided; his mother wouldn’t have armed herself
on account of any injury less cruel than the passage of which her
miserable baby was the living sign. She had avenged herself because
she had been thrown over, and the bitterness of that wrong had been in
the fact that he, hopeless brat, lay there in her lap. _He_ was the one
properly to have been sacrificed: that remark our young man often made
to himself. That his judgement of the whole question was passionate and
personal and took little account of any disturbing conflict of evidence
is proved by the importance he attached for instance to the name by
which his mother had told poor Pinnie (when this excellent creature
consented to take him) that she wished him to be called. Hyacinth had
been the name of her father, a republican clockmaker, the martyr of
his opinions, whose memory she professed to worship; and when Lord
Frederick had insinuated himself into her confidence he had had reasons
for preferring to be known as plain Mr. Robinson—reasons, however,
into which, in spite of the light thrown upon them at the trial, it was
difficult after so many years to enter.
Hyacinth had never known of Mr. Vetch’s saying more than once to
Pinnie, “If her contention as regards that dissolute young swell was
true why didn’t she make the child bear his real name instead of his
false one?”—an inquiry which the dressmaker had answered, with some
ingenuity, by remarking that she couldn’t call him after a man she
had murdered, as one must suppose her unwilling to publish to every
one his connexion with a crime that had been so much talked about.
If Hyacinth had assisted at this little discussion it is needless
to say that he would have sided with Miss Pynsent; though that his
judgement was independently formed is proved by the fact that Pinnie’s
fearfully indiscreet attempts at condolence should not have made him
throw up his version in disgust. It was after the complete revelation
that he understood the romantic innuendoes with which his childhood
had been surrounded and of which he had never caught the meaning;
they having seemed but a feature of the general fact of the poor
woman’s professional life—so much cutting and trimming and shaping and
embroidering, so much turning and altering and doing-up. When it came
over him that she had for years made a fool of him to himself and to
others he could have beaten her for grief and shame; and yet before he
administered this rebuke he had to remember that she only chattered
(though she professed to have been extraordinarily dumb) about a
matter over which he spent nine-tenths of his own time in all gloomily
brooding. When she tried to console him for the horror of his mother’s
history by descanting on the glory of the Purvises and reminding him
that he was related through them to half the aristocracy of England he
felt her to be turning the tragedy of his life into a monstrous farce;
and yet he none the less continued to cherish the belief that he was
a gentleman born. He allowed her to tell him nothing about the family
in question, and his impracticability on this subject was one of the
reasons of the deep dejection of her later years. If he had only let
her idealise him a little to himself she would have felt she was making
up by so much for her grand mistake. He sometimes saw the name of his
father’s kin in the newspaper, but he then always cast the sheet away.
He had nothing to ask of them and wished to prove to himself that he
could ignore them (who had been willing to let him die like a rat)
as completely as they ignored him. A thousand times yes, he was with
the people and every possible vengeance of the people as against such
shameless egoism as that; but all the same he was happy to feel he had
blood in his veins that would account for the finest sensibilities.
He had no money to pay for places at a theatre in the Strand, Millicent
Henning having made it clear to him that on this occasion she expected
something better than the pit. “Should you like the royal box or a
couple of stalls at ten bob apiece?” he asked of her on a note of that
too uniform irony which formed the basis of almost all their talk.
She had replied that she would content herself with a seat in the
second balcony, in the very front; and as such a position involved
an expenditure still beyond his compass he waited one night on Mr.
Vetch, to whom he had already more than once had recourse in moments of
pecuniary embarrassment. His relations with the caustic fiddler were
of the oddest and much easier when put to the proof than in theory.
Mr. Vetch had let him know—long before this and with the purpose of
covering Pinnie to the utmost—the part he had played at the crisis of
that question of her captive’s being taken to call on Mrs. Bowerbank;
and Hyacinth, in the face of this information, had asked with some
sublimity what the devil the fiddler had had to do with his private
affairs. Their neighbour had replied that it was not as an affair of
his but as an affair of Pinnie’s he had considered the matter; and our
hero had afterwards let it drop, though he had never been formally
reconciled to so officious a critic. Of course his feeling on this
head had been immensely modified by the trouble Mr. Vetch had taken to
get him a place with old Crook; and at the period of which I write it
had long been familiar to him that the author of that benefit didn’t
care a straw what he thought of his advice at the dark hour and in
fact took a perverse pleasure in “following” the career of a youth put
together of such queer pieces. It was impossible to Hyacinth not to be
conscious that this projected attention was kindly; and to-day, at any
rate, he would have declared that nothing could have made up to him for
not knowing the truth, horrible as it might be. His miserable mother’s
embrace seemed to furnish him with an inexhaustible fund of motive, and
in the conditions that was a support. What he chiefly objected to in
Mr. Vetch was the betrayed habit of still regarding him as extremely
juvenile; he would have got on much better with a better recognition
of his being already a man of the world. The obscure virtuoso knew an
immense deal about society and seemed to know the more because he never
swaggered—it was only little by little you discovered it; but that was
no reason for his looking as if his chief boon in life was a private
diverting commentary on the conversation of his young friend. Hyacinth
felt that he gave considerable evidence of patience with this when
he occasionally asked his fellow-resident in Lomax Place to lend him
half-a-crown. Somehow circumstances had of old tied them together, and
though this partly vexed the little bookbinder it also touched him; he
had more than once solved the problem of deciding how to behave (when
the fiddler exasperated him) by simply asking of him some substantial
service. Mr. Vetch had never once refused. It was satisfactory to
Hyacinth to remember as much when knocking at his door late, after
allowing him time to come home from the theatre. He knew his habits:
he never went straight to bed, but sat by his fire an hour, smoking his
pipe, mixing a grog and reading some old book. Hyacinth could tell when
to go up by the light in his window, which he could see from a court
behind.
“Oh, I know I haven’t been to see you for a long time,” he said in
response to the remark with which his neighbour greeted him; “and I may
as well tell you immediately what has brought me at present—in addition
to the desire to ask after your health. I want to take a young lady to
the theatre.”
Mr. Vetch was habited in a tattered dressing-gown; his apartment smelt
strongly of the liquor he was consuming. Divested of his evening-gear
he looked to our hero so plucked and blighted as on the spot to
settle his claims in the event of a social liquidation; he too was
unmistakably a creditor. “I’m afraid you find your young lady rather
expensive.”
“I find everything expensive,” said Hyacinth as if to finish that
subject.
“Especially, I suppose, your secret societies.”
“What do you mean by that?” the young man asked with a fine stare.
“Why, you told me in the autumn that you were just about to join a few.”
“A few? How many do you suppose?” But our friend checked himself. “Do
you suppose if I had been serious I’d tell?”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” sighed Mr. Vetch. Then he went on: “You want to
take her to my shop, eh?”
“I’m sorry to say she won’t go there. She wants something in the
Strand: that’s a great point. She wants very much to see _The Pearl of
Paraguay_. I don’t wish to pay anything, if possible; I’m sorry to say
I haven’t a penny. But as you know people at the other theatres and
I’ve heard you say that you do each other little favours from place
to place, _à charge de revanche_, it occurred to me you might be able
to get me an order. The piece has been running a long time and most
people (except poor devils like me) must have seen it: therefore there
probably isn’t a rush.”
Mr. Vetch listened in silence and presently said: “Do you want a box?”
“Oh no; something more modest.”
“Why not a box?” asked the fiddler in a tone the youth knew.
“Because I haven’t the clothes people wear in that sort of place,—if
you must have such a definite reason.”
“And your young lady—has _she_ the clothes?”
“Oh, I daresay; she seems to have everything.”
“Where does she get ’em?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She belongs to a big shop; she has to be fine.”
“Won’t you have a pipe?” Mr. Vetch asked, pushing an old tobacco-pouch
across the table; and while the young man helped himself he puffed a
while in silence. “What will she do with you?” he finally asked.
“What will who do with me?”
“Your big beauty—Miss Henning. I know all about her from Pinnie.”
“Then you know what she’ll do with me!” Hyacinth returned with rather
a scornful laugh.
“Yes, but, after all, it doesn’t very much matter.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hyacinth.
“Well, now the other thing—what do they call it? the Subterranean?—are
you very deep in that?” the fiddler went on as if he had not heard him.
“Did Pinnie tell you also about that?”
“No, our friend Puppin has told me a good deal. He knows you’ve put
your head into something. Besides, I see it,” said Mr. Vetch.
“How do you see it, pray?”
“You’ve got such a speaking eye. Any one can tell, to look at you,
that you’ve taken some oath on bloody bones, that you belong to some
terrible gang. You seem to say to every one, ‘Slow torture won’t induce
me to tell where it meets!’”
“You won’t get me an order then?” Hyacinth said in a moment.
“My dear boy, I offer you a box. I take the greatest interest in you.”
They smoked together a while and at last Hyacinth remarked: “It has
nothing to do with the Subterranean.”
“Is it more terrible, more deadly secret?” his companion asked with
extreme seriousness.
“I thought you pretended to be a radical,” Hyacinth returned.
“Well, so I am—of the old-fashioned, constitutional, milk-and-water,
jog-trot sort. I’m not an exterminator.”
“We don’t know what we may be when the time comes,” Hyacinth observed
more sententiously than he intended.
“Is the time coming then, my dear young friend?”
“I don’t think I’ve a right to give you any more of a warning than
that,” smiled our hero.
“It’s very kind of you to do so much, I’m sure, and to rush in here at
the small hours for the purpose. Meanwhile, in the few weeks or months
or years, or whatever they are, that are left, you wish to crowd in
all possible enjoyment with the young ladies: that’s a very natural
inclination.” To which Mr. Vetch irrelevantly added: “Do you see many
foreigners?”
“Yes, a good many.”
“And what do you think of them?”
“Oh, all sorts of things. I rather like Englishmen best.”
“Mr. Muniment for example?”
“I say, what do you know about _him_?” Hyacinth asked.
“I’ve seen him at the Puppins’. I know you and he are as thick as
thieves.”
“He’ll distinguish himself some day very much,” said Hyacinth, who was
perfectly willing and indeed very proud to be thought a close ally of
a highly original man.
“Very likely—very likely. And what will _he_ do with you?” the fiddler
inquired.
Hyacinth got up; they looked at each other hard. “Do get me two good
places in the second balcony.”
Mr. Vetch replied that he would do what he could, and three days
afterwards he handed his young friend the coveted order. He accompanied
it with the injunction, “You had better put in all the fun you can, you
know!”