Transcriber’s note
Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list with the
corrections made can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and
special characters are indicated as follows:
_italic_
=bold=
The Yellow Book
An Illustrated Quarterly
Volume III October 1894
London: John Lane
Boston: Copeland & Day
Contents
Literature
I. Women--Wives or Mothers By A Woman _Page_ 11
II. “Tell Me not Now” William Watson 19
III. The Headswoman Kenneth Grahame 25
IV. Credo Arthur Symons 48
V. White Magic Ella D’Arcy 59
VI. Fleurs de Feu José Maria de Hérédia,
of the French Academy 69
VII. Flowers of Fire, a Translation Ellen M. Clerke 70
VIII. When I am King Henry Harland 71
IX. To a Bunch of Lilac Theo Marzials 87
X. Apple-Blossom in Brittany Ernest Dowson 93
XI. To Salome at St. James’s Theodore Wratislaw 110
XII. Second Thoughts Arthur Moore 112
XIII. Twilight Olive Custance 134
XIV. Tobacco Clouds Lionel Johnson 143
XV. Reiselust Annie Macdonell 153
XVI. To Every Man a Damsel or Two C. S. 155
XVII. A Song and a Tale Nora Hopper 158
XVIII. De Profundis S. Cornish Watkins 167
XIX. A Study in Sentimentality Hubert Crackanthorpe 175
XX. George Meredith Morton Fullerton 210
XXI. Jeanne-Marie Leila Macdonald 215
XXII. Parson Herrick’s Muse C. W. Dalmon 241
XXIII. A Note on George the Fourth Max Beerbohm 247
XXIV. The Ballad of a Nun John Davidson 273
Art
I. Mantegna By Philip Broughton _Page_ 7
II. From a Lithograph George Thomson 21
III. Portrait of Himself }
IV. Lady Gold’s Escort }
V. The Wagnerites } Aubrey Beardsley 50
VI. La Dame aux Camélias }
VII. From a Pastel Albert Foschter 89
VIII. Collins’ Music Hall, Islington }
IX. The Lion Comique } Walter Sickert 136
X. Charley’s Aunt }
XI. The Mirror }
XII. Skirt-Dancing } P. Wilson Steer 169
XIII. A Sunset William Hyde 211
XIV. George the Fourth Max Beerbohm 243
XV. Study of a Head An Unknown Artist 270
The Yellow Book
Volume III October, 1894
The Editor of THE YELLOW BOOK can in no case hold himself responsible
for rejected manuscripts; when, however, they are accompanied by
stamped addressed envelopes, every effort will be made to secure their
prompt return.
The Yellow Book
An Illustrated Quarterly
Volume III October, 1894
[Illustration]
London: John Lane, The Bodley Head, Vigo Street
Boston: Copeland & Day
Agents for the Colonies: Robt. A. Thompson & Co.
BALLANTYNE PRESS
LONDON & EDINBURGH
Mantegna
By Philip Broughton
[Illustration: ANDREAS. MANTEGNA. PAINTER. AND. ENGRAVER. OF PADVA.
1491-1506. ]
Women--Wives or Mothers
By a Woman
WE believe it to be well within the truth to say that most men
cherish, hidden away in an inner pocket of consciousness, their own
particular ideal of the perfect woman. Sole sovereign she of that
unseen kingdom, and crowned and sceptred she remains long after her
faithful subject has put aside the other playthings of his youth. The
fetish is from time to time regarded rapturously, though sorrowfully,
by its possessor, but it is never brought forth for public exhibition.
If to worship and adore were the beginning and end of the pastime, no
cavilling word need be said, for the power to worship is a great and
good gift, and, save in the fabulous region of politics, is nowadays
so rare an one, that when discovered in the actual world its steady
encouragement becomes a duty. But to this apparently innocent diversion
there is another side. Somewhat grave consequences are apt to follow,
and it is to this point of view that we wish to call attention.
When the woman uncreate becomes the measuring rod by which her
unconscious living rivals are judged, and are mostly found wanting,
then we are minded to lift up our voice and put in a plea for
fair-play. To the shrined deity are given by the acolothyst, not only
all the perfections of person demanded by a severely æsthetic sense,
but all the moral qualities as well. Every grace of every fair woman he
has ever met--the best attributes of his mother, his sister, and his
aunt--are freely hers. None of the slight blemishes which occasionally
tarnish the high lustre of virtue, none of the caprices to which
sirens are constitutionally liable, are permitted. Faultless wife
and faultless mother must she be, faithful lover and long-suffering
friend, or he will have none of her in his temple. Now, this is surely
a wholly unreasonable, an utterly extravagant demand on the part of
man, and if analysed carefully, will, we believe, be found to yield
egoism and gluttony in about equal parts. How, we venture to inquire,
would he meet a like claim, were it in turn presented to him? A witty
and light-hearted lady--a remnant yet remains, in spite of the advent
of the leaping, bounding, new womanhood--once startled a selected
audience by the general statement, “All men are widowers.” But even
if this generous utterance can be accepted as absolutely accurate, it
can hardly be taken as a proof of man’s fitness for both the important
rôles involved.
For our own part, we are convinced that, broadly speaking, the
exception only proving the rule--whatever that supporting phrase
may mean--woman, fresh from Nature’s moulding, is, so far as first
intention is concerned, a predestined wife or mother. She is not both,
though doubtless by constant endeavour, art and duty taking it turn
and turn about, the dual end may, with hardness, be attained unto.
For Nature is not economic. Far from her is the fatal utilitarian
spirit which too often prompts the improver man (or--dare we confess
it?--still more frequently woman) to attempt to make one object do the
work of two. From all such sorry makeshifts Nature, the great modeller
in clay, turns contemptuously away. Not long ago we read in a lady’s
journal of a ‘combination gown’ which by some cunning arrangement,
the secret whereof was only known to its lucky possessor, would do
alternate day and night duty with equal credit and despatch. We have no
desire to disparage the varied merits of this ingenious contrivance,
but at the best it must remain an unlovely hybrid thing. Probably it
knew this well, for gowns, too, have their feelings, and before now
have been seen to go limp in a twinkling, overcome by a sudden access
of despondency. Such a moment must certainly have come to the omnibus
garment referred to above, when it found itself breakfasting with a
severe and one-idea’d “tailor-made,” or, more cruel experience still,
dining skirt by skirt with a “mysterious miracle”--the latest label--in
gossamer and satin.
We dare to go even further, and to declare that every woman knows in
her heart--though never, never will she admit it to you--within which
fold she was intended to pass. Is it an exaggeration to say that many
a girl marries out of the superabundance of the maternal instinct,
though she may the while be absolutely ignorant of the motive power at
work? Believing herself to be wildly enamoured of the man of her (or
her parents’) choice, she is in reality only in love with the nursery
of an after-day. Of worship between husband and wife, as a factor in
the transaction, she knows nothing, or likely enough she imagines
it present when it is the sweet passion of pity, or the more subtle
patronage of bestowal, one or both, which are urging her forward into
marriage. Gratitude, none the less real because unrealised, towards
the man who thus enables her to fulfil her true destiny--the saving
of souls alive--has also its share in the complex energy. Well for
the husband of this wife if he allows himself gradually to occupy the
position of eldest and most important of her children, to whom indeed
a somewhat larger liberty is accorded, but from whom also more is
required. In return for this submission boundless will be the care
and devotion bestowed upon his upbringing day by day. He will be
foolish if he utters aloud, or even says in the silence of his heart,
that motherhood is good, but that wifehood was what he wanted. It
would be but a bootless kicking against the pricks. For he has chosen
the mother-woman, and it is beyond his power, or that of any other
specialist, to effect the fundamental change for which his soul may
long. It only remains for him to make the best of a very good bargain,
and one to which it is very probable his strict personal merits may
hardly have entitled him.
If such a marriage is childless, it may still be a very useful one.
Nature’s accommodations often verge on the miraculous. The unemployed
maternal instincts of the wife easily work themselves out in an
unlimited and universal auntdom. It must be confessed that bad blunders
are apt to ensue, but where the intentions are good, the pavement
should not be too closely scanned. In fiction these are the Dinahs, the
Romolas, the Dorotheas, the Mary Garths. Dear to the soul of the female
writer is the maternal type. With loving, if tiresome frequency, she
is presented to us again and yet again. In truth we sometimes grow a
little weary of her saintly monotony. But as it is given to few of us
to have the courage of our tastes, we bear with her, as we bear with
other not altogether pleasing appliances, presented to us by earnest
friends, with the assurance that they are for our good, or for our
education, or some other equally superfluous purpose.
With the male artist this female model is not nearly so popular. It
may be that he feels himself wholly unequal to cope with her countless
perfections. Certain it is that he makes but a sad muddle of it when
he tries. Witness Thackeray’s faded, bloodless Lady Esmond, as set
against his glowing wayward Trix--she, by the way, a beautifully-marked
specimen of the wife-woman--though whether it would be pure wisdom to
take her to wife must be left an open question. Still, we have in our
time loved her well, and some of us have found it hard to forgive the
black treachery done in bringing her back in her old age, a painted
and scolding harridan. For these, well-loved of the gods, should, in
fiction at least, die young.
Truth compels us to own regretfully that man in his self-indulgence
shrinks from both the giving and receiving of dull moments, whilst
woman, believing devoutly in their saving grace, is altruistic enough
to devote herself with enthusiasm to the task of their administration.
Now, dull moments are apt to lie hidden about the creases of the
severely classic robe, which, in the story-books at any rate, these
heroines always wear. We must all agree that during the last twenty
years this type, with its portentous accumulation of self-conscious
responsibility has increased alarmingly. To what is the increase to be
attributed? The too rapid growth of the female population stands out
plainly as prime cause. Legislators are athirst for things practical.
Is it beyond their power to devise some method of dealing with this
problem? The Chinese plan is painfully obvious, but only as a last
and despairful resource, when the wise men of Westminster sitting
on committees and commissions have failed, can it be mentioned for
adoption in Europe. We are, alas! Science-ridden, and are likely to
remain thus bridled and saddled for weary years to come. Every bush
and every bug grows its own specialist, and yet we, the patient, the
long-suffering public, are left to endure both the fogs that make
of London one murky pit, and the redundant female birth-rate which
threatens more revolutions than all the forces of the Anarchists in
active combination. Meanwhile these devotees of the abstract play about
with all sorts of trifles, masquerading as grave thinkers, hoping thus
to escape their certain judgment-day. The identification of criminals
by the variation of thumb-prints is a pretty conceit; so too is the
record of the influence of the moon on the tides, which, we are
informed, employs all to itself a whole and highly paid professor with
a yearly average of three pupils at Cambridge. But what are these save
mere fads, on a par with leapfrog and skittles, in the presence of the
momentous problems about and around us? Let these gentlemen jockeys
look to it. The hour is not far distant when public opinion shall
discover their uselessness and send them about their business.
In humbler ways, too, much might be done to stem the morbid activity
of the collective female conscience. Big sins lie at the doors of the
hosts of good men and women who turn out year by year tons of “books
for the young” to serve as nutriment for the hungry nestlings of
culpable, thoughtless parents. It is hard to overstate the pernicious
effect of this class of _motif_ literature. _Féerie_ in old or new
dress is the only nourishing food for the happy child who is to remain
happy. The little girl, aged seven, who lately wrote in her diary
before going to bed, “Of what _real_ use am I in the world?” had, it
is certain, been denied her Andersen, her Grimm, her Carroll, even
her Blue fairy book. Turned in to browse on “Ministering Children,”
“Agatha’s First Prayer,” and the fatal “Eric”--into how many editions
has this last well-meaning but poisonous romance not passed--the little
victim of parental stupidity is thus left with an organ damaged for
life by over-much stimulation at the start. This new massacre of the
innocents is of purely nineteenth-century growth. It dates from the era
of the awakened conscience, and is coincident with the formation of all
the societies for the regeneration of the human race.
_Per contra_, the wife-woman, though but seldom to be met with in the
multitudinous pages written by women, is the well-beloved, the chosen
of the male artist. Week-days and Sundays he paints her portrait.
Shakespeare returns to her again and again, as though it were hard
to part from her. Wicked Trix stands out as bold leader of one bad
band. Tess belongs to the family, though she is of another branch;
so does Cathy of Wuthering Heights, and Lyndall of the African Farm;
whilst latest and slightest scamp of the lot comes dancing Dodo of
Lambeth. Save in a strictly specialised sense, none of this class can
be said to contrive the greatest good of the greatest number. These
are the women to whom the nursery is at best but an interlude, and
at worst a real interruption of their life’s strongest interests.
They are not skilled in dealing with early teething troubles, nor
in the rival merits of Welsh and Saxony flannel stuffs. Their crass
ignorance of all this deep lore may, it is true, go far to kill off
superfluous offspring, but, unjust as it would appear, these are the
mothers who each succeeding year become more and more adored of their
sons. Fribblers though they be, they sweeten the world’s corners with
the perfume of their charm. And the bit of world’s work in which they
excel is the keeping alive the tradition of woman’s witchery. Who,
then, can deny them their plain uses? When Fate is kind and bestows the
fitting partner, the fires of their love never die down. They remain
lovers to the end. Their husbands need fear no rival, not even in the
person of their own superior son. When Fate is unkind and things go
crookedly, these are the women whose wreckage strews life’s high road,
and from whom their wiser sisters turn reprovingly away. For the good
woman who has to “work for her living,” and who pretends to enjoy the
healthful after-pains in her moral system, is rarely tolerant of the
existence of the _leichtsinnïge_ sister for whom, as to Elijah at the
brook, dainty morsels without labour are cheerfully provided by that
inconsequent raven, man. This lady goes gaily, wearing what she has not
spun, reaping where she has not sown. Sad reflections these for the
high-souled woman whose enlightened demand for justice turns in its
present day impotency to wrath and bitterness.
Wisdom and foresight are never the attributes of the wife-woman.
Charm, beguilement, fascination of sorts, form her poor equipment for
life’s selective struggle. These gifts cannot be said to promise, save
when the stars are in happiest conjunction, long life and useful days
for her intimates. Variations of the two types of Primitive Woman
may abound, but the broad distinction between them is clearly cut
and readily to be made out by the dullest groper after truth. We can
imagine a modern Daniel addressing (quite uselessly) a modern disciple
thus:
“Look to it now, O young man! that your feet go straight, and slip
not in search for the pearl that may be hid away for you. For she who
loveth you best may work you all evil, and she who loveth her own
soul’s travail best will hardly fail you in the days and the years. But
Love remaineth, and the way of return is not.”
“Tell me not Now”
By William Watson
Tell me not now, if love for love
Thou canst return,--
Now while around us and above
Day’s flambeaux burn.
Not in clear noon, with speech as clear,
Thy heart avow,
For every gossip wind to hear;
Tell me not now!
Tell me not now the tidings sweet,
The news divine;
A little longer at thy feet
Leave me to pine.
I would not have the gadding bird
Hear from his bough;
Nay, though I famish for a word,
Tell me not now!
But when deep trances of delight
All Nature seal;
When round the world the arms of Night
Caressing steal;
When rose to dreaming rose says, “_Dear,
Dearest_;” and when
Heaven sighs her secret in Earth’s ear,--
Ah, tell me then!
From a Lithograph
By George Thomson
[Illustration]
The Headswoman
By Kenneth Grahame
I
IT was a bland sunny morning of a mediæval May--an old-style May of
the most typical quality; and the Council of the little town of St.
Radegonde were assembled, as was their wont at that hour, in the
picturesque upper chamber of the Hotel de Ville, for the dispatch of
the usual municipal business. Though the date was early sixteenth
century, the members of this particular town-council possessed some
resemblance to those of similar assemblies in the seventeenth,
eighteenth, and even the nineteenth centuries, in a general absence of
any characteristic at all--unless a pervading hopeless insignificance
can be considered as such. All the character, indeed, in the room
seemed to be concentrated in the girl who stood before the table,
erect, yet at her ease, facing the members in general and Mr. Mayor in
particular; a delicate-handed, handsome girl of some eighteen summers,
whose tall, supple figure was well set off by the quiet, though
tasteful mourning in which she was clad.
“Well, gentlemen,” the Mayor was saying; “this little business appears
to be--er--quite in order, and it only remains for me to--er--review
the facts. You are aware that the town has lately had the misfortune
to lose its executioner--a gentleman who, I may say, performed the
duties of his office with neatness and dispatch, and gave the fullest
satisfaction to all with whom he--er--came in contact. But the
Council has already, in a vote of condolence, expressed its sense of
the--er--striking qualities of the deceased. You are doubtless also
aware that the office is hereditary, being secured to a particular
family in this town, so long as any one of its members is ready
and willing to take it up. The deed lies before me, and appears to
be--er--quite in order. It is true that on this occasion the Council
might have been called upon to consider and examine the title of the
claimant, the late lamented official having only left a daughter--she
who now stands before you; but I am happy to say that Jeanne--the young
lady in question--with what I am bound to call great good-feeling
on her part, has saved us all trouble in that respect, by formally
applying for the family post, with all its--er--duties, privileges,
and emoluments; and her application appears to be--er--quite in order.
There is therefore, under the circumstances, nothing left for us to do
but to declare the said applicant duly elected. I would wish, however,
before I--er--sit down, to make it quite clear to the--er--fair
petitioner, that if a laudable desire to save the Council trouble in
the matter has led her to a--er--hasty conclusion, it is quite open to
her to reconsider her position. Should she determine not to press her
claim, the succession to the post would then apparently devolve upon
her cousin Enguerrand, well known to you all as a practising advocate
in the courts of this town. Though the youth has not, I admit, up to
now proved a conspicuous success in the profession he has chosen,
still there is no reason why a bad lawyer should not make an excellent
executioner; and in view of the close friendship--may I even say
attachment?--existing between the cousins, it is possible that this
young lady may, in due course, practically enjoy the solid emoluments
of the position without the necessity of discharging its (to some
girls) uncongenial duties. And so, though not the rose herself, she
would still be--er--near the rose!” And the Mayor resumed his seat,
chuckling over his little pleasantry, which the keener wits of the
Council proceeded to explain at length to the more obtuse.
“Permit me, Mr. Mayor,” said the girl, quietly, “first to thank you
for what was evidently the outcome of a kindly though misdirected
feeling on your part; and then to set you right as to the grounds of
my application for the post to which you admit my hereditary claim.
As to my cousin, your conjecture as to the feeling between us is
greatly exaggerated; and I may further say at once, from my knowledge
of his character, that he is little qualified either to adorn or to
dignify an important position such as this. A man who has achieved
such indifferent success in a minor and less exacting walk of life,
is hardly likely to shine in an occupation demanding punctuality,
concentration, judgment--all the qualities, in fine, that go to make
a good business man. But this is beside the question. My motives,
gentlemen, in demanding what is my due, are simple and (I trust)
honest, and I desire that you should know them. It is my wish to be
dependent on no one. I am both willing and able to work, and I only
ask for what is the common right of humanity--admission to the labour
market. How many poor toiling women would simply jump at a chance
like this which fortune lays open to me! And shall I, from any false
deference to that conventional voice which proclaims this thing as
“nice,” and that thing as “not nice,” reject a handicraft which
promises me both artistic satisfaction and a competence? No, gentlemen;
my claim is a small one--only a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work.
But I can accept nothing less, nor consent to forgo my rights, even for
any contingent remainder of possible cousinly favour!”
There was a touch of scorn in her fine contralto voice as she finished
speaking; the Mayor himself beamed approval. He was not wealthy, and
had a large family of daughters; so Jeanne’s sentiments seemed to him
entirely right and laudable.
“Well, gentlemen,” he began, briskly, “then all we’ve got to do, is
to----”
“Beg pardon, your worship,” put in Master Robinet, the tanner, who
had been sitting with a petrified, Bill-the-Lizard sort of expression
during the speechifying; “but are we to understand as how this here
young lady is going to be the public executioner?”
“Really, neighbour Robinet,” said the Mayor somewhat pettishly, “you’ve
got ears like the rest of us, I suppose; and you know the contents of
the deed; and you’ve had my assurance that it’s--er--quite in order;
and as it’s getting towards lunchtime----”
“But it’s unheard-of,” protested honest Robinet. “There hasn’t ever
been no such thing--leastways not as I’ve heard tell.”
“Well, well, well,” said the Mayor, “everything must have a beginning,
I suppose. Times are different now, you know. There’s the march of
intellect, and--er--all that sort of thing. We must advance with the
times--don’t you see, Robinet?--advance with the times!”
“Well I’m----” began the tanner.
But no one heard, on this occasion, the tanner’s opinion as to his
condition, physical or spiritual; for the clear contralto cut short his
obtestations.
“If there’s really nothing more to be said, Mr. Mayor,” she remarked,
“I need not trespass longer on your valuable time. I propose to take
up the duties of my office to-morrow morning, at the usual hour. The
salary will, I assume, be reckoned from the same date; and I shall make
the customary quarterly application for such additional emoluments
as may have accrued to me during that period. You see I am familiar
with the routine. Good morning, gentlemen!” And as she passed from
the Council chamber, her small head held erect, even the tanner felt
that she took with her a large portion of the May sunshine which was
condescending that morning to gild their deliberations.
II
One evening, a few weeks later, Jeanne was taking a stroll on the
ramparts of the town, a favourite and customary walk of hers when
business cares were over. The pleasant expanse of country that lay
spread beneath her--the rich sunset, the gleaming sinuous river, and
the noble old château that dominated both town and pasture from its
adjacent height--all served to stir and bring out in her those poetic
impulses which had lain dormant during the working day; while the cool
evening breeze smoothed out and obliterated any little jars or worries
which might have ensued during the practice of a profession in which
she was still something of a novice. This evening she felt fairly happy
and content. True, business was rather brisk, and her days had been
fully occupied; but this mattered little so long as her modest efforts
were appreciated, and she was now really beginning to feel that,
with practice, her work was creditably and artistically done. In a
satisfied, somewhat dreamy mood, she was drinking in the various sweet
influences of the evening, when she perceived her cousin approaching.
“Good evening, Enguerrand,” cried Jeanne pleasantly; she was thinking
that since she had begun to work for her living, she had hardly seen
him--and they used to be such good friends. Could anything have
occurred to offend him?
Enguerrand drew near somewhat moodily, but could not help relaxing his
expression at sight of her fair young face, set in its framework of
rich brown hair, wherein the sunset seemed to have tangled itself and
to cling, reluctant to leave it.
“Sit down, Enguerrand,” continued Jeanne, “and tell me what you’ve been
doing this long time. Been very busy, and winning forensic fame and
gold?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Enguerrand, moody once more. “The fact
is, there’s so much interest required nowadays at the courts, that
unassisted talent never gets a chance. And you, Jeanne?”
“Oh, I don’t complain,” answered Jeanne, lightly. “Of course it’s
fair-time just now, you know, and we’re always busy then. But work
will be lighter soon, and then I’ll get a day off, and we’ll have a
delightful ramble and picnic in the woods, as we used to do when we
were children. What fun we had in those old days, Enguerrand! Do you
remember when we were quite little tots, and used to play at executions
in the back-garden, and you were a bandit and a buccaneer, and all
sorts of dreadful things, and I used to chop off your head with a
paper-knife? How pleased dear father used to be!”
“Jeanne,” said Enguerrand, with some hesitation, “you’ve touched upon
the very subject that I came to speak to you about. Do you know, dear,
I can’t help feeling--it may be unreasonable, but still the feeling is
there--that the profession you have adopted is not quite--is just a
little----”
“Now, Enguerrand!” said Jeanne, an angry flash sparkling in her eyes.
She was a little touchy on this subject, the word she most affected to
despise being also the one she most dreaded--the adjective “unladylike.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Jeanne,” went on Enguerrand, imploringly:
“You may naturally think that, because I should have succeeded to the
post, with its income and perquisites, had you relinquished your claim,
there is therefore some personal feeling in my remonstrances. Believe
me, it is not so. My own interests do not weigh with me for a moment.
It is on your own account, Jeanne, and yours alone, that I ask you
to consider whether the higher æsthetic qualities, which I know you
possess, may not become cramped and thwarted by ‘the trivial round,
the common task,’ which you have lightly undertaken. However laudable
a professional life may be, one always feels that with a delicate
organism such as woman, some of the bloom may possibly get rubbed off
the peach.”
“Well, Enguerrand,” said Jeanne, composing herself with an effort,
though her lips were set hard, “I will do you the justice to believe
that personal advantage does not influence you, and I will try to
reason calmly with you, and convince you that you are simply hide-bound
by old-world prejudice. Now, take yourself, for instance, who come here
to instruct me: what does _your_ profession amount to, when all’s said
and done? A mass of lies, quibbles, dodges, and tricks, that would
make any self-respecting executioner blush! And even with the dirty
weapons at your command, you make but a poor show of it. There was that
wretched fellow you defended only two days ago. (I was in court during
the trial--professional interest, you know.) Well, he had his regular
_alibi_ all ready, as clear as clear could be; only you must needs go
and mess and bungle the thing up, so that, as I expected all along, he
was passed on to me for treatment in due course. You may like to have
his opinion--that of a shrewd, though unlettered person. ‘It’s a real
pleasure, miss,’ he said, ‘to be handled by you. You _knows_ your work,
and you _does_ your work--though p’raps I ses it as shouldn’t. If that
blooming fool of a mouthpiece of mine’--he was referring to you, dear,
in your capacity of advocate--‘had known his business half as well as
you do yours, I shouldn’t a bin here now!’ And you know, Enguerrand, he
was perfectly right.”
“Well, perhaps he was,” admitted Enguerrand. “You see, I had been
working at a sonnet the night before, and I couldn’t get the rhymes
right, and they would keep coming into my head in court and mixing
themselves up with the _alibi_. But look here, Jeanne, when you saw I
was going off the track, you might have given me a friendly hint, you
know--for old times’ sake, if not for the prisoner’s!”
“I daresay,” replied Jeanne, calmly: “perhaps you’ll tell me why I
should sacrifice my interests because you’re unable to look after
yours. You forget that I receive a bonus, over and above my salary,
upon each exercise of my functions!”
“True,” said Enguerrand, gloomily: “I did forget that. I wish I had
your business aptitudes, Jeanne.”
“I daresay you do,” remarked Jeanne. “But you see, dear, how all your
arguments fall to the ground. You mistake a prepossession for a logical
base. Now if I had gone, like that Clairette you used to dangle after,
and been waiting-woman to some grand lady in a château--a thin-blooded
compound of drudge and sycophant--then, I suppose, you’d have been
perfectly satisfied. So feminine! So genteel!”
“She’s not a bad sort of girl, little Claire,” said Enguerrand,
reflectively (thereby angering Jeanne afresh): “but putting her
aside,--of course you could always beat me at argument, Jeanne; you’d
have made a much better lawyer than I. But you know, dear, how much I
care about you; and I did hope that on that account even a prejudice,
however unreasonable, might have some little weight. And I’m not alone,
let me tell you, in my views. There was a fellow in court only to-day,
who was saying that yours was only a _succès d’estime_, and that woman,
as a naturally talkative and hopelessly unpunctual animal, could never
be more than a clever amateur in the profession you have chosen.”
“That will do, Enguerrand,” said Jeanne, proudly; “it seems that when
argument fails, you can stoop so low as to insult me through my sex.
You men are all alike--steeped in brutish masculine prejudice. Now
go away, and don’t mention the subject to me again till you’re quite
reasonable and nice.”
III
Jeanne passed a somewhat restless night after her small scene with
her cousin, waking depressed and unrefreshed. Though she had carried
matters with so high a hand, and had scored so distinctly all around,
she had been more agitated than she had cared to show. She liked
Enguerrand; and more especially did she like his admiration for her;
and that chance allusion to Clairette contained possibilities that were
alarming. In embracing a professional career, she had never thought for
a moment that it could militate against that due share of admiration
to which, as a girl, she was justly entitled; and Enguerrand’s views
seemed this morning all the more narrow and inexcusable. She rose
languidly, and as soon as she was dressed sent off a little note to the
Mayor, saying that she had a nervous headache and felt out of sorts,
and begging to be excused from attendance on that day; and the missive
reached the Mayor just as he was taking his usual place at the head of
the Board.
“Dear, dear,” said the kind-hearted old man, as soon as he had read the
letter to his fellow-councilmen: “I’m very sorry. Poor girl! Here, one
of you fellows, just run round and tell the gaoler there won’t be any
business to-day. Jeanne’s seedy. It’s put off till to-morrow. And now,
gentlemen, the agenda----”
“Really, your worship,” exploded Robinet, “this is simply ridiculous!”
“Upon my word, Robinet,” said the Mayor, “I don’t know what’s the
matter with you. Here’s a poor girl unwell--and a more hardworking
girl isn’t in the town--and instead of sympathising with her, and
saying you’re sorry, you call it ridiculous! Suppose you had a headache
yourself! You wouldn’t like----”
“But it _is_ ridiculous,” maintained the tanner stoutly. “Who ever
heard of an executioner having a nervous headache? There’s no precedent
for it. And ‘out of sorts,’ too! Suppose the criminals said they were
out of sorts, and didn’t feel up to being executed?”
“Well, suppose they did,” replied the Mayor, “we’d try and meet
them halfway, I daresay. They’d have to be executed some time or
other, you know. Why on earth are you so captious about trifles? The
prisoners won’t mind, and _I_ don’t mind: nobody’s inconvenienced, and
everybody’s happy!”
“You’re right there, Mr. Mayor,” put in another councilman. “This
executing business used to give the town a lot of trouble and bother;
now it’s all as easy as kiss-your-hand. Instead of objecting, as
they used to do, and wanting to argue the point and kick up a row,
the fellows as is told off for execution come skipping along in the
morning, like a lot of lambs in Maytime. And then the fun there is on
the scaffold! The jokes, the back-answers, the repartees! And never
a word to shock a baby! Why, my little girl, as goes through the
market-place every morning--on her way to school, you know--she says to
me only yesterday, she says, ‘Why, father,’ she says, ‘it’s as good as
the play-actors,’ she says.”
“There again,” persisted Robinet, “I object to that too. They ought to
show a properer feeling. Playing at mummers is one thing, and being
executed is another, and people ought to keep ’em separate. In my
father’s time, that sort of thing wasn’t thought good taste, and I
don’t hold with new-fangled notions.”
“Well, really, neighbour,” said the Mayor, “I think you’re out of sorts
yourself to-day. You must have got out of bed the wrong side this
morning. As for a little joke, more or less, we all know a maiden loves
a merry jest when she’s certain of having the last word! But I’ll tell
you what I’ll do, if it’ll please you; I’ll go round and see Jeanne
myself on my way home, and tell her--quite nicely, you know--that
once in a way doesn’t matter, but that if she feels her health won’t
let her keep regular business hours, she mustn’t think of going on
with anything that’s bad for her. Like that, don’t you see? And now,
gentlemen, let’s read the minutes!”
Thus it came about that Jeanne took her usual walk that evening with a
ruffled brow and a swelling heart; and her little hand opened and shut
angrily as she paced the ramparts. She couldn’t stand being found fault
with. How could she help having a headache? Those clods of citizens
didn’t know what a highly-strung sensitive organisation was. Absorbed
in her reflections, she had taken several turns up and down the grassy
foot-way, before she became aware that she was not alone. A youth, of
richer dress and more elegant bearing than the general run of the
Radegundians, was leaning in an embrasure, watching the graceful figure
with evident interest.
“Something has vexed you, fair maiden?” he observed, coming forward
deferentially as soon as he perceived he was noticed; “and care sits
but awkwardly on that smooth young brow.”
“Nay, it is nothing, kind sir,” replied Jeanne; “we girls who work for
our living must not be too sensitive. My employers have been somewhat
exigent, that is all. I did wrong to take it to heart.”
“’Tis the way of the bloated capitalist,” rejoined the young man
lightly, as he turned to walk by her side. “They grind us, they grind
us; perhaps some day they will come under your hands in turn, and then
you can pay them out. And so you toil and spin, fair lily! And yet
methinks those delicate hands show little trace of labour?”
“You wrong me, indeed, sir,” replied Jeanne merrily. “These hands of
mine, that you are so good as to admire, do great execution!”
“I can well believe that your victims are numerous,” he replied; “may I
be permitted to rank myself among the latest of them?”
“I wish you a better fortune, kind sir,” answered Jeanne demurely.
“I can imagine no more delightful one,” he replied; “and where do you
ply your daily task, fair mistress? Not entirely out of sight and
access, I trust?”
“Nay, sir,” laughed Jeanne, “I work in the market-place most mornings,
and there is no charge for admission; and access is far from difficult.
Indeed, some complain--but that is no business of mine. And now I
must be wishing you a good evening. Nay”--for he would have detained
her--“it is not seemly for an unprotected maiden to tarry in converse
with a stranger at this hour. _Au revoir_, sir! If you should happen
to be in the market-place any morning”----And she tripped lightly
away. The youth, gazing after her retreating figure, confessed himself
strangely fascinated by this fair unknown, whose particular employment,
by the way, he had forgotten to ask; while Jeanne, as she sped
homewards, could not help reflecting that for style and distinction,
this new acquaintance threw into the shade all the Enguerrands and
others she had met hitherto--even in the course of business.
IV
The next morning was bright and breezy, and Jeanne was early at her
post, feeling quite a different girl. The busy little market-place
was full of colour and movement, and the gay patches of flowers and
fruit, the strings of fluttering kerchiefs, and the piles of red and
yellow pottery, formed an artistic setting to the quiet impressive
scaffold which they framed. Jeanne was in short sleeves, according to
the etiquette of her office, and her round graceful arms showed snowily
against her dark blue skirt and scarlet tight-fitting bodice. Her
assistant looked at her with admiration.
“Hope you’re better, miss,” he said respectfully. “It was just as
well you didn’t put yourself out to come yesterday; there was nothing
particular to do. Only one fellow, and he said _he_ didn’t care;
anything to oblige a lady!”
“Well, I wish he’d hurry up now, to oblige a lady,” said Jeanne,
swinging her axe carelessly to and fro: “ten minutes past the hour; I
shall have to talk to the Mayor about this.”
“It’s a pity there ain’t a better show this morning,” pursued the
assistant, as he leant over the rail of the scaffold and spat
meditatively into the busy throng below. “They do say as how the young
Seigneur arrived at the Château yesterday--him as has been finishing
his education in Paris, you know. He’s as likely as not to be in the
market-place to-day; and if he’s disappointed, he may go off to Paris
again, which would be a pity, seeing the Château’s been empty so long.
But he may go to Paris, or anywheres else he’s a mind to, he won’t see
better workmanship than in this here little town!”
“Well, my good Raoul,” said Jeanne, colouring slightly at the obvious
compliment, “quality, not quantity, is what we aim at here, you know.
If a Paris education has been properly assimilated by the Seigneur,
he will not fail to make all the necessary allowances. But see, the
prison-doors are opening at last!”
They both looked across the little square to the prison, which fronted
the scaffold; and sure enough, a small body of men, the Sheriff at
their head, was issuing from the building, conveying, or endeavouring
to convey, the tardy prisoner to the scaffold. That gentleman, however,
seemed to be in a different and less obliging frame of mind from that
of the previous day; and at every pace one or other of the guards was
shot violently into the middle of the square, propelled by a vigorous
kick or blow from the struggling captive. The crowd, unaccustomed of
late to such demonstrations of feeling, and resenting the prisoner’s
want of taste, hooted loudly; but it was not until that ingenious
mediæval arrangement known as _la marche aux crapauds_ had been brought
to bear on him, that the reluctant convict could be prevailed upon to
present himself before the young lady he had already so unwarrantably
detained.
Jeanne’s profession had both accustomed her to surprises and taught
her the futility of considering her clients as drawn from any one
particular class: yet she could hardly help feeling some astonishment
on recognising her new acquaintance of the previous evening. That, with
all his evident amiability of character, he should come to this end,
was not in itself a special subject for wonder; but that he should
have been conversing with her on the ramparts at the hour when--after
courteously excusing her attendance on the scaffold--he was cooling his
heels in prison for another day, seemed hardly to be accounted for,
at first sight. Jeanne, however, reflected that the reconciling of
apparent contradictions was not included in her official duties.
The Sheriff, wiping his heated brow, now read the formal _procès_
delivering over the prisoner to the executioner’s hands; “and a nice
job we’ve had to get him here,” he added on his own account. And the
young man, who had remained perfectly tractable since his arrival,
stepped forward and bowed politely.
“Now that we have been properly introduced,” said he courteously,
“allow me to apologise for any inconvenience you have been put to by my
delay. The fault was entirely mine, and these gentlemen are in no way
to blame. Had I known whom I was to have the pleasure of meeting, wings
could not have conveyed me swiftly enough.”
“Do not mention, I pray, the word inconvenience,” replied Jeanne with
that timid grace which so well became her: “I only trust that any
slight discomfort it may be my duty to cause you before we part, will
be as easily pardoned. And now--for the morning, alas! advances--any
little advice or assistance that I can offer is quite at your service;
for the situation is possibly new, and you may have had but little
experience.”
“Faith, none worth mentioning,” said the prisoner, gaily. “Treat me as
a raw beginner. Though our acquaintance has been but brief, I have the
utmost confidence in you.”
“Then, sir,” said Jeanne, blushing, “suppose I were to assist you in
removing this gay doublet, so as to give both of us more freedom and
less responsibility?”
“A perquisite of the office?” queried the prisoner with a smile, as he
slipped one arm out of the sleeve.
A flush came over Jeanne’s fair brow. “That was ungenerous,” she said.
“Nay, pardon me, sweet one,” said he, laughing: “’twas but a poor jest
of mine--in bad taste, I willingly admit.”
“I was sure you did not mean to hurt me,” she replied kindly, while
her fingers were busy in turning back the collar of his shirt. It was
composed, she noticed, of the finest point lace; and she could not
help a feeling of regret that some slight error--as must, from what
she knew, exist somewhere--should compel her to take a course so at
variance with her real feelings. Her only comfort was that the youth
himself seemed entirely satisfied with his situation. He hummed the
last air from Paris during her ministrations, and when she had quite
finished, kissed the pretty fingers with a metropolitan grace.
“And now, sir,” said Jeanne, “if you will kindly come this way: and
please to mind the step--so. Now, if you will have the goodness to
kneel here--nay, the sawdust is perfectly clean; you are my first
client this morning. On the other side of the block you will find a
nick, more or less adapted to the human chin, though a perfect fit
cannot of course be guaranteed in every case. So! Are you pretty
comfortable?”
“A bed of roses,” replied the prisoner. “And what a really admirable
view one gets of the valley and the river, from just this particular
point!”
“Charming, is it not?” replied Jeanne. “I’m so glad you do justice
to it. Some of your predecessors have really quite vexed me by their
inability to appreciate that view. It’s worth coming here to see it.
And now, to return to business for one moment,--would you prefer to
give the word yourself? Some people do; it’s a mere matter of taste. Or
will you leave yourself entirely in my hands?”
“Oh, in your fair hands,” replied her client, “which I beg you to
consider respectfully kissed once more by your faithful servant to
command.”
Jeanne, blushing rosily, stepped back a pace, moistening her palms
as she grasped her axe, when a puffing and blowing behind caused her
to turn her head, and she perceived the Mayor hastily ascending the
scaffold.
“Hold on a minute, Jeanne, my girl,” he gasped. “Don’t be in a hurry.
There’s been some little mistake.”
Jeanne drew herself up with dignity. “I’m afraid I don’t quite
understand you, Mr. Mayor,” she replied in freezing accents. “There’s
been no little mistake on my part that I’m aware of.”
“No, no, no,” said the Mayor, apologetically; “but on somebody else’s
there has. You see it happened in this way: this here young fellow was
going round the town last night; and he’d been dining, I should say,
and he was carrying on rather free. I will only say so much in your
presence, that he was carrying on decidedly free. So the town-guard
happened to come across him, and he was very high and very haughty, he
was, and wouldn’t give his name nor yet his address--as a gentleman
should, you know, when he’s been dining and carrying on free. So our
fellows just ran him in--and it took the pick of them all their time
to do it, too. Well, then, the other chap who was in prison--the
gentleman who obliged you yesterday, you know--what does he do but
slip out and run away in the middle of all the row and confusion; and
very inconsiderate and ungentlemanly it was of him to take advantage
of us in that mean way, just when we wanted a little sympathy and
forbearance. Well, the Sheriff comes this morning to fetch out his man
for execution, and he knows there’s only one man to execute, and he
sees there’s only one man in prison, and it all seems as simple as A B
C--he never was much of a mathematician, you know--so he fetches our
friend here along, quite gaily. And--and that’s how it came about, you
see; _hinc illæ lachrymæ_, as the Roman poet has it. So now I shall
just give this young fellow a good talking to, and discharge him with a
caution; and we shan’t require you any more to-day, Jeanne, my girl.”