A NECESSARY DEVELOPMENT
THE few friends who have read the first part of my autobiography may
perhaps remember that in my younger days I had engaged myself to a girl
named Ellen, from whom afterwards I parted. After some two or three
years she was left an orphan, and came into the possession of a small
property, over which unfortunately she had complete power. She was
attractive and well-educated, and I heard long after I had broken with
her, and had ceased to have intercourse with Butts, that the two were
married. He of course, living so near her, had known her well, and he
found her money useful. How they agreed I knew not save by report, but I
was told that after the first child was born, the only child they ever
had, Butts grew indifferent to her, and that she, to use my friend’s
expression, “went off,” by which I suppose he meant that she faded.
There happened in those days to live near Butts a small squire, married,
but with no family. He was a lethargic creature, about five-and-thirty
years old, farming eight hundred acres of his own land. He did not,
however, belong to the farming class. He had been to Harrow, was on the
magistrates’ bench, and associated with the small aristocracy of the
country round. He was like every other squire whom I remember in my
native county, and I can remember scores of them. He read no books and
tolerated the usual conventional breaches of the moral law, but was an
intense worshipper of respectability, and hated a scandal. On one point
he differed from his neighbours. He was a Whig and they were all Tories.
I have said he read no books, and this, on the whole, is true, but
nevertheless he did know something about the history of the early part of
the century, and he was rather fond at political gatherings of making
some allusion to Mr. Fox. His father had sat in the House of Commons
when Fox was there, and had sternly opposed the French war. I don’t
suppose that anybody not actually _in it_—no Londoner certainly—can
understand the rigidity of the bonds which restricted county society when
I was young, and for aught I know may restrict it now. There was with us
one huge and dark exception to the general uniformity. The earl had
broken loose, had ruined his estate, had defied decorum and openly lived
with strange women at home and in Paris, but this black background did
but set off the otherwise universal adhesion to the Church and to
authorised manners, an adhesion tempered and rendered tolerable by port
wine. It must not, however, be supposed that human nature was different
from the human nature of to-day or a thousand years ago. There were
then, even as there were a thousand years ago, and are to-day, small,
secret doors, connected with mysterious staircases, by which access was
gained to freedom; and men and women, inmates of castles with walls a
yard thick, and impenetrable portcullises, sought those doors and
descended those stairs night and day. But nobody knew, or if we did
know, the silence was profound. The broad-shouldered, yellow-haired Whig
squire, had a wife who was the opposite of him. She came from a distant
part of the country, and had been educated in France. She was small,
with black hair, and yet with blue eyes. She spoke French perfectly, was
devoted to music, read French books, and, although she was a constant
attendant at church, and gave no opportunity whatever for the slightest
suspicion, the matrons of the circle in which she moved were never quite
happy about her. This was due partly to her knowledge of French, and
partly to her having no children. Anything more about her I do not know.
She was beyond us, and although I have seen her often enough I never
spoke to her. Butts, however, managed to become a visitor at the
squire’s house. Fancy _my_ going to the squire’s! But Butts did, was
accepted there, and even dined there with a parson, and two or three
half-pay officers. The squire never called on Butts. That was an
understood thing, nor did Mrs. Butts accompany her husband. That also
was an understood thing. It was strange that Butts could tolerate and
even court such a relationship. Most men would scorn with the scorn of a
personal insult an invitation to a house from which their wives were
expressly excluded. The squire’s lady and Clem became great friends.
She discovered that his mother was a Frenchwoman, and this was a bond
between them. She discovered also that Clem was artistic, that he was
devotedly fond of music, that he could draw a little, paint a little, and
she believed in the divine right of talent wherever it might be found to
assert a claim of equality with those who were better born. The women in
the country-side were shy of her; for the men she could not possibly
care, and no doubt she must at times have got rather weary of her heavy
husband with his one outlook towards the universal in the person of
George James Fox, and the Whig policy of 1802. I am under some
disadvantage in telling this part of my story, because I was far away
from home, and only knew afterwards at second hand what the course of
events had been; but I learned them from one who was intimately
concerned, and I do not think I can be mistaken on any essential point.
I imagine that by this time Mrs. Butts must have become changed into what
she was in later years. She had grown older since she and I had parted;
she had seen trouble; her child had been born, and although she was not
exactly estranged from Clem, for neither he nor she would have admitted
any coolness, she had learned that she was nothing specially to him. I
have often noticed what an imperceptible touch, what a slight shifting in
the balance of opposing forces, will alter the character. I have
observed a woman, for example, essentially the same at twenty and
thirty—who is there who is not always essentially the same?—and yet, what
was a defect at twenty, has become transformed and transfigured into a
benignant virtue at thirty; translating the whole nature from the human
to the divine. Some slight depression has been wrought here, and some
slight lift has been given there, and beauty and order have miraculously
emerged from what was chaotic. The same thing may continually be noticed
in the hereditary transmission of qualities. The redeeming virtue of the
father palpably present in the son becomes his curse, through a faint
diminution of the strength of the check which caused that virtue to be
the father’s salvation. The propensity, too, which is a man’s evil
genius, and leads him to madness and utter ruin, gives vivid reality to
all his words and thoughts, and becomes all his strength, if by divine
assistance it can just be subdued and prevented from rising in victorious
insurrection. But this is a digression, useful, however, in its way,
because it will explain Mrs. Butts when we come a little nearer to her in
the future.
For a time Clem’s visits to the squire’s house always took place when the
squire was at home, but an amateur concert was to be arranged in which
Clem was to take part together with the squire’s lady. Clem consequently
was obliged to go to the Hall for the purpose of practising, and so it
came to pass that he was there at unusual hours and when the master was
afield. These morning and afternoon calls did not cease when the concert
was over. Clem’s wife did not know anything about them, and, if she
noticed his frequent absence, she was met with an excuse. Perhaps the
worst, or almost the worst effect of relationships which we do not like
to acknowledge, is the secrecy and equivocation which they beget. From
the very first moment when the intimacy between the squire’s wife and
Clem began to be anything more than harmless, he was compelled to shuffle
and to become contemptible. At the same time I believe he defended
himself against himself with the weapons which were ever ready when self
rose against self because of some wrong-doing. He was not as other men.
It was absurd to class what he did with what an ordinary person might do,
although externally his actions and those of the ordinary person might
resemble one another. I cannot trace the steps by which the two sinners
drew nearer and nearer together, for the simple reason that this is an
autobiography, and not a novel. I do not know what the development was,
nor did anybody except the person concerned. Neither do I know what was
the mental history of Mrs. Butts during this unhappy period. She seldom
talked about it afterwards. I do, however, happen to recollect hearing
her once say that her greatest trouble was the cessation, from some
unknown cause, of Clem’s attempts—they were never many—to interest and
amuse her. It is easy to understand how this should be. If a man is
guilty of any defection from himself, of anything of which he is ashamed,
everything which is better becomes a farce to him. After he has been
betrayed by some passion, how can he pretend to the perfect enjoyment of
what is pure? The moment he feels any disposition to rise, he is
stricken through as if with an arrow, and he drops. Not until weeks,
months, and even years have elapsed, does he feel justified in
surrendering himself to a noble emotion. I have heard of persons who
have been able to ascend easily and instantaneously from the mud to the
upper air, and descend as easily; but to me at least they are
incomprehensible. Clem, less than most men, suffered permanently, or
indeed in any way from remorse, because he was so shielded by his
peculiar philosophy; but I can quite believe that when he got into the
habit of calling at the Hall at mid-day, his behaviour to his wife
changed.
One day in December the squire had gone out with the hounds. Clem, going
on from bad to worse, had now reached the point of planning to be at the
Hall when the squire was not at home. On that particular afternoon Clem
was there. It was about half-past four o’clock, and the master was not
expected till six. There had been some music, the lady accompanying, and
Clem singing. It was over, and Clem, sitting down beside her at the
piano, and pointing out with his right hand some passage which had
troubled him, had placed his left arm on her shoulder, and round her
neck, she not resisting. He always swore afterwards that never till then
had such a familiarity as this been permitted, and I believe that he did
not tell a lie. But what was there in that familiarity? The worst was
already there, and it was through a mere accident that it never showed
itself. The accident was this. The squire, for some unknown reason, had
returned earlier than usual, and dismounting in the stable-yard, had
walked round the garden on the turf which came close to the windows of
the ground floor. Passing the drawing-room window, and looking in by the
edge of the drawn-down blind, he saw his wife and Clem just at the moment
described. He slipped round to the door, took off his boots so that he
might not be heard, and as there was a large screen inside the room he
was able to enter it unobserved. Clem caught sight of him just as he
emerged from behind the screen, and started up instantly in great
confusion, the lady, with greater presence of mind, remaining perfectly
still. Without a word the squire strode up to Clem, struck out at him,
caught him just over the temple, and felled him instantaneously. He lay
for some time senseless, and what passed between husband and wife I
cannot say. After about ten minutes, perhaps, Clem came to himself;
there was nobody to be seen; and he managed to get up and crawl home. He
told his wife he had met with an accident; that he would go to bed, and
that she should know all about it when he was better. His forehead was
dressed, and to bed he went. That night Mrs. Butts had a letter. It ran
as follows:—
“MADAM,—It may at first sight seem a harsh thing for me to write and
tell you what I have to say, but I can assure you I do not mean to be
anything but kind to you, and I think it will be better, for reasons
which I will afterwards explain, that I should communicate with you
rather than with your husband. For some time past I have suspected
that he was too fond of my wife, and last night I caught him with his
arms round her neck. In a moment of not unjustifiable anger I
knocked him down. I have not the honour of knowing you personally,
but from what I have heard of you I am sure that he has not the
slightest reason for playing with other women. A man who will do
what he has done will be very likely to conceal from you the true
cause of his disaster, and if you know the cause you may perhaps be
able to reclaim him. If he has any sense of honour left in him, and
of what is due to you, he will seek your pardon for his baseness, and
you will have a hold on him afterwards which you would not have if
you were in ignorance of what has happened. For him I do not care a
straw, but for you I feel deeply, and I believe that my frankness
with you, although it may cause you much suffering now, will save you
more hereafter. I have only one condition to make. Mr. Butts must
leave this place, and never let me see his face again. He has ruined
my peace. Nothing will be published through me, for, as far as I can
prevent it, I will have no public exposure. If Mr. Butts were to
remain here it would be dangerous for us to meet, and probably
everything, by some chance, would become common property.—Believe me
to be, Madam, with many assurances of respect, truly yours,—.”
I cannot distinguish the precise proportion of cruelty in this letter.
Did the writer designedly torture Butts by telling his wife, or did he
really think that she would in the end be happier because Butts would not
have a secret reserved from her,—a temptation to lying—and because with
this secret in her possession, he might perhaps be restrained in future?
Nobody knows. All we know is that there are very few human actions of
which it can be said that this or that taken by itself produced them.
With our inborn tendency to abstract, to separate mentally the concrete
into factors which do not exist separately, we are always disposed to
assign causes which are too simple, and which, in fact, have no being _in
rerum natura_. Nothing in nature is propelled or impeded by one force
acting alone. There is no such thing, save in the brain of the
mathematician. I see no reason why even motives diametrically opposite
should not unite in one resulting deed, and think it very probable that
the squire was both cruel and merciful to the same person in the letter;
influenced by exactly conflicting passions, whose conflict ended _so_.
As to the squire and his wife, they lived together just as before. I do
not think, that, excepting the four persons concerned, anybody ever heard
a syllable about the affair, save myself a long while afterwards. Clem,
however, packed up and left the town, after selling his business. He had
a reputation for restlessness; and his departure, although it was sudden,
was no surprise. He betook himself to Australia, his wife going with
him. I heard that they had gone, and heard also that he was tired of
school-keeping in England, and had determined to try his fortune in
another part of the world. Our friendship had dwindled to nothing, and I
thought no more about him. Mrs. Butts never uttered one word of reproach
to her husband. I cannot say that she loved him as she could have loved,
but she had accepted him, and she said to herself that as perhaps it was
through her lack of sympathy with him that he had strayed, it was her
duty more and more to draw him to herself. She had a divine disposition,
not infrequent amongst women, to seek in herself the reason for any wrong
which was done to her. That almost instinctive tendency in men, to
excuse, to transfer blame to others, to be angry with somebody else when
they suffer from the consequences of their own misdeeds, in her did not
exist.
During almost the whole of her married life, before this affair between
the squire and Clem, Mrs. Butts had had much trouble, although her
trouble was, perhaps, rather the absence of joy than the presence of any
poignant grief. She was much by herself. She had never been a great
reader, but in her frequent solitude she was forced to do something in
order to obtain relief, and she naturally turned to the Bible. It would
be foolish to say that the Bible alone was to be credited with the
support she received. It may only have been the occasion for a
revelation of the strength that was in her. Reading, however, under such
circumstances, is likely to be peculiarly profitable. It is never so
profitable as when it is undertaken in order that a positive need may be
satisfied or an inquiry answered. She discovered in the Bible much that
persons to whom it is a mere literature would never find. The water of
life was not merely admirable to the eye; she drank it, and knew what a
property it possessed for quenching thirst. No doubt the thought of a
heaven hereafter was especially consolatory. She was able to endure, and
even to be happy because the vision of lengthening sorrow was bounded by
a better world beyond. “A very poor, barbarous gospel,” thinks the
philosopher who rests on his Marcus Antoninus and Epictetus. I do not
mean to say, that in the shape in which she believed this doctrine, it
was not poor and barbarous, but yet we all of us, whatever our creed may
be, must lay hold at times for salvation upon something like it. Those
who have been plunged up to the very lips in affliction know its
necessity. To such as these it is idle work for the prosperous and the
comfortable to preach satisfaction with the life that now is. There are
seasons when it is our sole resource to recollect that in a few short
years we shall be at rest. While upon this subject I may say, too, that
some injustice has been done to the Christian creed of immortality as an
influence in determining men’s conduct. Paul preached the imminent
advent of Christ and besought his disciples, therefore, to watch, and we
ask ourselves what is the moral value to us of such an admonition. But
surely if we are to have any reasons for being virtuous, this is as good
as any other. It is just as respectable to believe that we ought to
abstain from iniquity because Christ is at hand, and we expect to meet
Him, as to abstain from it because by our abstention we shall be
healthier or more prosperous. Paul had a dream—an absurd dream let us
call it—of an immediate millennium, and of the return of his Master
surrounded with divine splendour, judging mankind and adjusting the
balance between good and evil. It was a baseless dream, and the
enlightened may call it ridiculous. It is anything but that, it is the
very opposite of that. Putting aside its temporary mode of expression,
it is the hope and the prophecy of all noble hearts, a sign of their
inability to concur in the present condition of things.
Going back to Clem’s wife; she laid hold, as I have said, upon heaven.
The thought wrought in her something more than forgetfulness of pain or
the expectation of counterpoising bliss. We can understand what this
something was, for although we know no such heaven as hers, a new temper
is imparted to us, a new spirit breathed into us; I was about to say a
new hope bestowed upon us, when we consider that we live surrounded by
the soundless depths in which the stars repose. Such a consideration has
a direct practical effect upon us, and so had the future upon the mind of
Mrs. Butts. “Why dost thou judge thy brother,” says Paul, “for we shall
all stand before the judgment-seat of God.” Paul does not mean that God
will punish him and that we may rest satisfied that our enemy will be
turned into hell fire. Rather does he mean, what we, too, feel, that,
reflecting on the great idea of God, and upon all that it involves, our
animosities are softened, and our heat against our brother is cooled.
One or two reflections may perhaps be permitted here on this passage in
Mrs. Butts’ history.
The fidelity of Clem’s wife to him, if not entirely due to the New
Testament, was in a great measure traceable to it. She had learned from
the Epistle to the Corinthians that charity beareth all things, believeth
all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things; and she interpreted
this to mean, not merely charity to those whom she loved by nature, but
charity to those with whom she was not in sympathy, and who even wronged
her. Christianity no doubt does teach such a charity as this, a love
which is to be: independent of mere personal likes and dislikes, a love
of the human in man. The natural man, the man of this century,
uncontrolled by Christianity, considers himself a model of what is
virtuous and heroic if he really loves his friends, and he permits all
kinds of savage antipathies to those of his fellow creatures with whom he
is not in harmony. Jesus on the other hand asks with His usual perfect
simplicity, “If ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? Do not
even the publicans the same?” It would be a great step in advance for
most of us to love anybody, and the publicans of the time of Jesus must
have been a much more Christian set than most Christians of the present
day; but that we should love those who do not love us is a height never
scaled now, except by a few of the elect in whom Christ still survives.
In the gospel of Luke, also, Mrs. Butts read that she was to hope for
nothing again from her love, and that she was to be merciful, as her
Father in heaven is merciful. That is really the expression of the
_idea_ in morality, and incalculable is the blessing that our great
religious teacher should have been bold enough to teach the idea, and not
any limitation of it. He always taught it, the inward born, the heavenly
law towards which everything strives. He always trusted it; He did not
deal in exceptions; He relied on it to the uttermost, never despairing.
This has always seemed to me to be the real meaning of the word faith.
It is permanent confidence in the idea, a confidence never to be broken
down by apparent failure, or by examples by which ordinary people prove
that qualification is necessary. It was precisely because Jesus taught
the idea, and nothing below it, that He had such authority over a soul
like my friend’s, and the effect produced by Him could not have been
produced by anybody nearer to ordinary humanity.
It must be admitted, too, that the Calvinism of those days had a powerful
influence in enabling men and women to endure, although I object to
giving the name of Calvin to a philosophy which is a necessity in all
ages. “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall
not fall on the ground without your Father.” This is the last word which
can be said. Nothing can go beyond it, and at times it is the only
ground which we feel does not shake under our feet. All life is summed
up, and due account is taken of it, according to its degree. Mrs. Butts’
Calvinism, however, hardly took the usual dogmatic form. She was too
simple to penetrate the depths of metaphysical theology, and she never
would have dared to set down any of her fellow creatures as irrevocably
lost. She adapted the Calvinistic creed to something which suited her.
For example, she fully understood what St. Paul means when he tells the
Thessalonians that _because_ they were called, _therefore_ they were to
stand fast. She thought with Paul that being called; having a duty
plainly laid upon her; being bidden as if by a general to do something,
she _ought_ to stand fast; and she stood fast, supported against all
pressure by the consciousness of fulfilling the special orders of One who
was her superior. There is no doubt that this dogma of a personal
calling is a great consolation, and it is a great truth. Looking at the
masses of humanity, driven this way and that way, the Christian teaching
is apt to be forgotten that for each individual soul there is a vocation
as real as if that soul were alone upon the planet. Yet it is a fact.
We are blinded to it and can hardly believe it, because of the impotency
of our little intellects to conceive a destiny which shall take care of
every atom of life on the globe: we are compelled to think that in such
vast crowds of people as we behold, individuals must elude the eye of the
Maker, and be swept into forgetfulness. But the truth of truths is that
the mind of the universe is not our mind, or at any rate controlled by
our limitations.
This has been a long digression which I did not intend; but I could not
help it. I was anxious to show how Mrs. Butts met her trouble through
her religion. The apostle says that “_they drank of that spiritual Rock
which followed them_, _and that Rock was Christ_.” That was true of her.
The way through the desert was not annihilated; the path remained stony
and sore to the feet, but it was accompanied to the end by a sweet stream
to which she could turn aside, and from which she could obtain
refreshment and strength.
Just about the time that we began our meetings near Drury Lane, I heard
that Clem was dead; that he had died abroad. I knew nothing more; I
thought about him and his wife perhaps for a day, but I had parted from
both long ago, and I went on with my work.