XI

But neither Apollo nor Buddha could help or save me. One in his

exquisite balance of body, a skylark-like song of eternal beauty, stood

lightly advancing; the other sat in sombre contemplation, calm as a

beautiful evening. I looked for sorrow in the eyes of the pastel--the

beautiful pastel that seemed to fill with a real presence the rich

autumnal leaves where the jays darted and screamed. The twisted columns

of the bed rose, burdened with great weight of fringes and curtains,

the python devoured a guinea-pig, the last I gave him; the great white

cat came to me. I said all this must go, must henceforth be to me an

abandoned dream, a something, not more real than a summer meditation. So

be it, and, as was characteristic of me, I broke with Paris suddenly,

without warning anyone. I knew in my heart of hearts that I should never

return, but no word was spoken, and I continued a pleasant delusion with

myself; I told my _concierge_ that I would return in a month, and I left

all to be sold, brutally sold by auction, as the letter I read in the

last chapter charmingly and touchingly describes.

Not even to Marshall did I confide my foreboding that Paris would pass

out of my life, that it would henceforth be with me a beautiful memory,

but never more a practical delight. He and I were no longer living

together; we had parted a second time, but this time without bitterness

of any kind; he had learnt to feel that I wanted to live alone, and had

moved away into the Latin quarter, whither I made occasional

expeditions. I accompanied him once to the old haunts, but various terms

of penal servitude had scattered our friends, and I could not interest

myself in the new. Nor did Marshall himself interest me as he had once

done. To my eager taste, he had grown just a little trite. My affection

for him was as deep and sincere as ever; were I to meet him now I would

grasp his hand and hail him with firm, loyal friendship; but I had made

friends in the Nouvelle Athènes who interested me passionately, and my

thoughts were absorbed by and set on new ideals, which Marshall had

failed to find sympathy for, or even to understand. I had introduced him

to Degas and Manet, but he had spoken of Jules Lefèbvre and Bouguereau,

and generally shown himself incapable of any higher education; he could

not enter where I had entered, and this was alienation. We could no

longer even talk of the same people; when I spoke of a certain

_marquise_, he answered with an indifferent "Do you really think so"?

and proceeded to drag me away from my glitter of satin to the dinginess

of print dresses. It was more than alienation, it was almost separation;

but he was still my friend, he was the man, and he always will be, to

whom my youth, with all its aspirations, was most closely united. So I

turned to say good-bye to him and to my past life. Rap--rap--rap!

"Who's there?"

"I--George Moore."

"I've got a model."

"Never mind your model. Open the door. How are you? what are you

painting?"

"This; what do you think of it?"

"It is prettily composed. I think it will come out all right. I am going

to England; come to say good-bye."

"Going to England! What will you do in England?"

"I have to go about money matters, very tiresome. I had really begun to

forget there was such a place."

"But you are not going to stay there?"

"Oh, no!"

"You will be just in time to see the Academy."

The conversation turned on art, and we æstheticised for an hour. At last

Marshall said, "I am really sorry, old chap, but I must send you away;

there's that model."

The girl sat waiting, her pale hair hanging down her back, a very

picture of discontent.

"Send her away."

"I asked her to come out to dinner."

"D--n her.... Well, never mind, I must spend this last evening with

you; you shall both dine with me. _Je quitte Paris demain matin,

peut-etre pour longtemps; je voudrais passer ma dernière soirèe avec mon

ami; alors si vous voulez bien me permettre, mademoiselle, je vous

invite tous les deux à diner; nous passerons la soirèe ensemble si cela

vous est agrèable_?"

"_Je veux bien, monsieur_."

Poor Marie! Marshall and I were absorbed in each other and art. It was

always so. We dined in a _gargote_, and afterwards we went to a

students' ball; and it seems like yesterday. I can see the moon sailing

through a clear sky, and on the pavement's edge Marshall's beautiful,

slim, manly figure, and Marie's exquisite gracefulness. She was

Lefèbvre's Chloe; so every one sees her now. Her end was a tragic one.

She invited her friends to dinner, and with the few pence that remained

she bought some boxes of matches, boiled them, and drank the water. No

one knew why; some said it was love.

I went to London in an exuberant necktie, a tiny hat; I wore large

trousers and a Capoul beard; looking, I believe, as unlike an Englishman

as a drawing by Grévin. In the smoking-room of Morley's Hotel I met my

agent, an immense nose, and a wisp of hair drawn over a bald skull. He

explained, after some hesitation, that I owed him a few thousands, and

that the accounts were in his portmanteau. I suggested taking them to a

solicitor to have them examined. The solicitor advised me strongly to

contest them. I did not take the advice, but raised some money instead,

and so the matter ended so far as the immediate future was concerned.

The years that are most impressionable, from twenty to thirty, when the

senses and the mind are the widest awake, I, the most impressionable of

human beings, had spent in France, not among English residents, but

among that which is the quintessence of the nation, not an indifferent

spectator, but an enthusiast, striving heart and soul to identify

himself with his environment, to shake himself free from race and

language and to recreate himself as it were in the womb of a new

nationality, assuming its ideals, its morals, and its modes of thought,

and I had succeeded strangely well, and when I returned home England was

a new country to me; I had, as it were, forgotten everything. Every

aspect of street and suburban garden was new to me; of the manner of

life of Londoners I knew nothing. This sounds incredible, but it is so;

I saw, but I could realise nothing. I went into a drawing-room, but

everything seemed far away--a dream, a presentment, nothing more; I was

in touch with nothing; of the thoughts and feelings of those I met I

could understand nothing, nor could I sympathise with them: an

Englishman was at that time as much out of my mental reach as an

Esquimaux would be now. Women were nearer to me than men, and I will

take this opportunity to note my observation, for I am not aware that

any one else has observed that the difference between the two races is

found in the men, not in the women. French and English women are

psychologically very similar; the standpoint from which they see life is

the same, the same thoughts interest and amuse them; but the attitude of

a Frenchman's mind is absolutely opposed to that of an Englishman; they

stand on either side of a vast abyss, two animals different in colour,

form, and temperament;--two ideas destined to remain irrevocably

separate and distinct.

I have heard of writing and speaking two languages equally well: this

was impossible to me, and I am convinced that if I had remained two more

years in France I should never have been able to identify my thoughts

with the language I am now writing in, and I should have written it as

an alien. As it was I only just escaped this detestable fate. And it was

in the last two years, when I began to write French verse and occasional

_chroniques_ in the papers, that the great damage was done. I remember

very well indeed one day, while arranging an act of a play I was writing

with a friend, finding suddenly to my surprise that I could think more

easily and rapidly in French that in English; but with all this I did

not learn French. I chattered, and I felt intensely at home in it; yes,

I could write a sonnet or a ballade almost without a slip, but my prose

required a good deal of alteration, for a greater command of language is

required to write in prose than in verse. I found this in French and

also in English. When I returned from Paris, my English terribly corrupt

with French ideas and forms of thought, I could write acceptable English

verse, but even ordinary newspaper prose was beyond my reach, and an

attempt I made to write a novel drifted into a miserable failure.

Here is a poem that Cabaner admired; he liked it in the French prose

translation which I made for him one night in the Nouvelle Athènes:--

We are alone! Listen, a little while,

And hear the reason why your weary smile

And lute-toned speaking is so very sweet,

And how my love of you is more complete

Than any love of any lover. They

Have only been attracted by the gray

Delicious softness of your eyes, your slim

And delicate form, or some such other whim,

The simple pretexts of all lovers;--I

For other reason. Listen whilst I try

To say. I joy to see the sunset slope

Beyond the weak hours' hopeless horoscope,

Leaving the heavens a melancholy calm

Of quiet colour chaunted like a psalm,

In mildly modulated phrases; thus

Your life shall fade like a voluptuous

Vision beyond the sight, and you shall die

Like some soft evening's sad serenity...

I would possess your dying hours; indeed

My love is worthy of the gift, I plead

For them. Although I never loved as yet,

Methinks that I might love you; I would get

From out the knowledge that the time was brief,

That tenderness, whose pity grows to grief,

And grief that sanctifies, a joy, a charm

Beyond all other loves, for now the arm

Of Death is stretched to you-ward, and he claims

You as his bride. Maybe my soul misnames

Its passion; love perhaps it is not, yet

To see you fading like a violet,

Or some sweet thought away, would be a strange

And costly pleasure, far beyond the range

Of formal man's emotion. Listen, I

Will choose a country spot where fields of rye

And wheat extend in rustling yellow plains,

Broken with wooded hills and leafy lanes,

To pass our honeymoon; a cottage where,

The porch and windows are festooned with fair

Green wreaths of eglantine, and look upon

A shady garden where we'll walk alone

In the autumn sunny evenings; each will see

Our walks grow shorter, till to the orange tree,

The garden's length, is far, and you will rest

From time to time, leaning upon my breast

Your languid lily face. Then later still

Unto the sofa by the window-sill

Your wasted body I shall carry, so

That you may drink the last left lingering glow

Of evening, when the air is filled with scent

Of blossoms; and my spirit shall be rent

The while with many griefs. Like some blue day

That grows more lovely as it fades away,

Gaining that calm serenity and height

Of colour wanted, as the solemn night

Steals forward you will sweetly fall asleep

For ever and for ever; I shall weep

A day and night large tears upon your face,

Laying you then beneath a rose-red place

Where I may muse and dedicate and dream

Volumes of poesy of you; and deem

It happiness to know that you are far

From any base desires as that fair star

Set in the evening magnitude of heaven.

Death takes but little, yea, your death has given

Me that deep peace, and that secure possession

Which man may never find in earthly passion.

And here are two specimens of my French verse. I like to print them, for

they tell me how I have held together, and they are not worse than my

English verse, and is my English verse worse than the verse of our minor

poets?