LAUREL COTTAGE.
A small, quaint, old-fashioned house in South Bank, Regent's Park; two
maidens in white in the open veranda; around them the abundant foliage
of June, unruffled by any breeze; and down at the foot of the steep
garden the still canal, its surface mirroring the soft translucent
greens of the trees and bushes above, and the gaudier colors of a barge
lying moored on the northern side. The elder of the two girls is seated
in a rocking-chair; she appears to have been reading, for her right
hand, hanging down, still holds a thin MS. book covered with coarse
brown paper. The younger is lying at her feet, with her head thrown back
in her sister's lap, and her face turned up to the clear June skies.
There are some roses about this veranda, and the still air is sweet with
them.
"And of all the parts you ever played in," she says, "which one did you
like the best Gerty?"
"This one," is the gentle answer.
"What one?"
"Being at home with you and papa, and having no bother at all, and
nothing to think of."
"I don't believe it," says the other, with the brutal frankness of
thirteen. "You couldn't live without the theatre, Gerty--and the
newspapers talking about you--and people praising you--and bouquets--"
"Couldn't I?" says Miss White, with a smile, as she gently lays her hand
on her sister's curls.
"No," continues the wise young lady. "And besides, this pretty, quiet
life would not last. You would have to give up playing that part. Papa
is getting very old now; and he often talks about what may happen to
us. And you know, Gerty, that though it is very nice for sisters to say
they will never and never leave each other, it doesn't come off, does
it? There is only one thing I see for you--and that is to get married."
"Indeed!"
It is easy to fence with a child's prattle. She might have amused
herself by encouraging this chatterbox to go through the list of their
acquaintances, and pick out a goodly choice of suitors. She might have
encouraged her to give expression to her profound views of the chances
and troubles of life, and the safeguards that timid maidens may seek.
But she suddenly said, in a highly matter-of-fact manner:--
"What you say is quite true, Carry, and I've thought of it several
times. It is a very bad thing for an actress to be left without a father
or husband, or brother, as her ostensible guardian. People are always
glad to hear stories--and to make them--about actresses. You would be no
good at all, Carry--"
"Very well, then," the younger sister said, promptly, "you've got to get
married. And to a rich man, too; who will buy you a theatre, and let you
do what you like in it."
Miss Gertrude White, whatever she may have thought of this speech, was
bound to rebuke the shockingly mercenary ring in it.
"For shame, Carry! Do you think people marry from such motives as that?"
"I don't know," said Carry; but she had, at least, guessed.
"I should like my husband to have money, certainly," Miss White said,
frankly; and here she flung the MS. book from her on to a neighboring
chair. "I should like to be able to refuse parts that did not suit me. I
should like to be able to take just such engagements as I chose. I
should like to go to Paris for a whole year, and study hard--"
"Your husband might not wish you to remain an actress," said Miss Carry.
"Then he would never be my husband," the elder sister said, with
decision. "I have not worked hard for nothing. Just when I begin to
think I can do something--when I think I can get beyond those
coquettish, drawing-room, simpering parts that people run after
now--just when the very name of Mrs. Siddons, or Rachael, or any of the
great actresses makes my heart jump--when I have ambition and a fair
chance, and all that--do you think I am to give the whole thing up, and
sink quietly into the position of Mrs. Brown or Mrs. Smith, who is a
very nice lady, no doubt, and very respectable, and lives a quiet and
orderly life, with no greater excitement than scheming to get big people
to go to her garden parties?"
She certainly seemed very clear on that point.
"I don't see that men are so ready to give up their professions, when
they marry, in order to devote themselves to domestic life, even when
they have plenty of money. Why should all the sacrifice be on the side
of the woman? But I know if I have to choose between my art and a
husband, I shall continue to do without a husband."
Miss Carry had risen, and put one arm round her sister's neck, while
with the other she stroked the soft brown hair over the smooth forehead.
"And it shall not be taken away from its pretty theatre, it sha'n't!"
said she, pettingly; "and it shall not be asked to go away with any
great ugly Bluebeard, and be shut up in a lonely house--"
"Go away, Carry," said she, releasing herself. "I wonder why you began
talking such nonsense. What do you know about all those things?"
"Oh! very well," said the child, turning away with a pout; and she
pulled a rose and began to take its petals off, one by one, with her
lips. "Perhaps I don't know. Perhaps I haven't studied your manoeuvres
on the stage, Miss Gertrude White. Perhaps I never saw the newspapers
declaring that it was all so very natural and life-like." She flung two
or three rose petals at her sister. "I believe you're the biggest flirt
that ever lived, Gerty. You could make any man you liked marry you in
ten minutes."
"I wish I could manage to have certain schoolgirls whipped and sent to
bed."
At this moment there appeared at the open French window an elderly woman
of Flemish features and extraordinary breadth of bust.
"Shall I put dressing in the salad, miss?" she said, with scarcely any
trace of foreign accent.
"Not yet, Marie," said Miss White. "I will make the dressing first.
Bring me a large plate, and the cruet-stand, and a spoon and fork, and
some salt."
Now when these things had been brought, and when Miss White had sat
about preparing this salad dressing in a highly scientific manner, a
strange thing occurred. Her sister seemed to have been attacked by a
sudden fit of madness. She had caught up a light shawl, which she
extended from hand to hand, as if she were dancing with some one, and
then she proceeded to execute a slow waltz in this circumscribed space,
humming the improvised music in a mystical and rhythmical manner. And
what were these dark utterances that the inspired one gave forth, as she
glanced from time to time at her sister and the plate?
"_Oh, a Highland lad my love was born--and the Lowland laws he held in
scorn--_"
"Carry, don't make a fool of yourself!" said the other flushing angrily.
Carry flung her imaginary partner aside.
"There is no use making any pretence," said she, sharply. "You know
quite well why you are making that salad dressing."
"Did you never see me make salad dressing before?" said the other, quite
as sharply.
"You know it is simply because Sir Keith Macleod is coming to lunch. I
forgot all about it. Oh, and that's why you had the clean curtains put
up yesterday?"
What else had this precocious brain ferreted out?
"Yes, and that's why you bought papa a new necktie," continued the
tormenter; and then she added, triumphantly, "_But he hasn't put it on
this morning, ha--Gerty?_"
A calm and dignified silence is the best answer to the fiendishness of
thirteen. Miss White went on with the making of the salad-dressing. She
was considered very clever at it. Her father had taught her: but he
never had the patience to carry out his own precepts. Besides, brute
force is not wanted for the work: what you want is the self-denying
assiduity and the dexterous light-handedness of a woman.
A smart young maid-servant, very trimly dressed, made her appearance.
"Sir Keith Macleod, miss," said she.
"Oh, Gerty, you're caught!" muttered the fiend.
But Miss White was equal to the occasion. The small white fingers plied
the fork without a tremor.
"Ask him to step this way, please," she said.
And then the subtle imagination of this demon of thirteen jumped to
another conclusion.
"Oh, Gerty, you want to show him that you are a good housekeeper--that
you can make salad--"
But the imp was silenced by the appearance of Macleod himself. He
looked tall as he came through the small drawing-room. When he came out
onto the balcony the languid air of the place seemed to acquire a fresh
and brisk vitality: he had a bright smile and a resonant voice.
"I have taken the liberty of bringing you a little present, Miss
White--no, it is a large present--that reached me this morning," said
he. "I want you to see one of our Highland salmon. He is a splendid
fellow--twenty-six pounds four ounces, my landlady says. My cousin Janet
sent him to me."
"Oh, but, Sir Keith, we cannot rob you," Miss White said, as she still
demurely plied her fork. "If there is any special virtue in a Highland
salmon, it will be best appreciated by yourself, rather than by those
who don't know."
"The fact is," said he, "people are so kind to me that I scarcely ever
am allowed to dine at my lodgings; and you know the salmon should be
cooked at once."
Miss Carry had been making a face behind his back to annoy her sister.
She now came forward and said, with a charming innocence in her eyes:--
"I don't think you can have it cooked for luncheon, Gerty, for that
would look too much like bringing your tea in your pocket, and getting
hot water for twopence. Wouldn't it?"
Macleod turned and regarded this new-comer with an unmistakable "Who is
this?"--"_Co an so?_"--in his air.
"Oh, that is my sister Carry, Sir Keith," said Miss White. "I forgot you
had not seen her."
"How do you do?" said he, in a kindly way; and for a second he put his
hand on the light curls as her father might have done. "I suppose you
like having holidays?"
From that moment she became his deadly enemy. To be patted on the head,
as if she were a child, an infant--and that in the presence of the
sister whom she had just been lecturing.
"Yes, thank you," said she, with a splendid dignity, as she proudly
walked off. She went into the small lobby leading to the door. She
called to the little maid-servant. She looked at a certain long bag made
of matting which lay there, some bits of grass sticking out of one end.
"Jane, take this thing down to the cellar at once! The whole house
smells of it."
Meanwhile Miss White had carried her salad dressing in to Marie, and
had gone out again to the veranda where Macleod was seated. He was
charmed with the dreamy stillness and silence of the place, with the
hanging foliage all around, and the colors in the steep gardens, and the
still waters below.
"I don't see how it is," said he, "but you seem to have much more open
houses here than we have. Our houses in the North look cold, and hard,
and bare. We should laugh if we saw a place like this up with us; it
seems to me a sort of a toy place out of a picture--from Switzerland or
some such country. Here you are in the open air, with your own little
world around you, and nobody to see you; you might live all your life
here, and know nothing about the storm crossing the Atlantic, and the
wars in Europe, if only you gave up the newspapers."
"Yes, it is very pretty and quiet," said she, and the small fingers
pulled to pieces one of the rose leaves that Carry had thrown at her.
"But you know one is never satisfied anywhere. If I were to tell you the
longing I have to see the very places you describe as being so
desolate--But perhaps papa will take me there some day."
"I hope so," said he; "but I would not call them desolate. They are
terrible at times, and they are lonely, and they make you think. But
they are beautiful too, with a sort of splendid beauty and grandeur that
goes very near making you miserable.... I cannot describe it. You will
see for yourself."
Here a bell rang, and at the same moment Mr. White made his appearance.
"How do you do, Sir Keith? Luncheon is ready, my dear--luncheon is
ready--luncheon is ready."
He kept muttering to himself as he led the way. They entered a small
dining-room, and here, if Macleod had ever heard of actresses having
little time to give to domestic affairs, he must have been struck by the
exceeding neatness and brightness of everything on the table and around
it. The snow-white cover; the brilliant glass and spoons; the carefully
arranged, if tiny, bouquets; and the precision with which the smart
little maiden-servant, the only attendant, waited--all these things
showed a household well managed. Nay, this iced claret-cup--was it not
of her own composition?--and a pleasanter beverage he had never drank.
But she seemed to pay little attention to these matters, for she kept
glancing at her father, who, as he addressed Macleod from time to time,
was obviously nervous and harassed about something. At last she said,--
"Papa, what is the matter with you? Has anything gone wrong this
morning?"
"Oh, my dear child," said he, "don't speak of it. It is my memory--I
fear my memory is going. But we will not trouble our guest about it. I
think you were saying, Sir Keith, that you had seen the latest additions
to the National Gallery--"
"But what is it, papa?" his daughter insisted.
"My dear, my dear, I know I have the lines somewhere; and Lord ---- says
that the very first jug fired at the new pottery he is helping shall
have these lines on it, and be kept for himself. I know I have both the
Spanish original and the English translation somewhere; and all the
morning I have been hunting and hunting--for only one line. I think I
know the other three,--
'Old wine to drink.
Old wrongs let sink,
* * * *
Old friends in need.'
It is the third line that has escaped me--dear, dear me! I fear my brain
is going."
"But I will hunt for it, papa," said she; "I will get the lines for you.
Don't you trouble."
"No, no, no, child," said he, with somewhat of a pompous air. "You have
this new character to study. You must not allow any trouble to disturb
the serenity of your mind while you are so engaged. You must give your
heart and soul to it, Gerty; you must forget yourself; you must abandon
yourself to it, and let it grow up in your mind until the conception is
so perfect that there are no traces of the manner of its production
left."
He certainly was addressing his daughter, but somehow the formal phrases
suggested that he was speaking for the benefit of the stranger. The prim
old gentleman continued; "That is the only way. Art demands absolute
self-forgetfulness. You must give yourself to it in complete surrender.
People may not know the difference; but the true artist seeks only to be
true to himself. You produce the perfect flower; they are not to know of
the anxious care--of the agony of tears, perhaps you have spent on it.
But then your whole mind must be given to it; there must be no
distracting cares; I will look for the missing lines myself."
"I am quite sure, papa," said Miss Carry, spitefully, "that she was far
more anxious about these cutlets than about her new part this morning.
She was half a dozen times to the kitchen. I didn't see her reading the
book much."
"The _res angustæ domi_," said the father, sententiously, "sometimes
interfere, where people are not too well off. But that is necessary.
What is not necessary is that Gerty should take my troubles over to
herself, and disturb her formation of this new character, which ought to
be growing up in her mind almost insensibly, until she herself will
scarcely be aware how real it is. When she steps on to the stage she
ought to be no more Gertrude White than you or I. The artist loses
himself. He transfers his soul to his creation. His heart beats in
another breast; he sees with other eyes. You will excuse me, Sir Keith,
but I keep insisting on this point to my daughter. If she ever becomes a
great artist, that will be the secret of her success. And she ought
never to cease from cultivating the habit. She ought to be ready at any
moment to project herself, as it were, into any character. She ought to
practise so as to make of her own emotions an instrument that she can
use at will. It is a great demand that art makes on the life of an
artist. In fact, he ceases to live for himself. He becomes merely a
medium. His most secret experiences are the property of the world at
large, once they have been transfused and moulded by his personal
skill."
And so he continued talking, apparently for the instruction of his
daughter, but also giving his guest clearly to understand that Miss
Gertrude White was not as other women but rather as one set apart for
the high and inexorable sacrifice demanded by art. At the end of his
lecture he abruptly asked Macleod if he had followed him. Yes, he had
followed him, but in rather a bewildered way. Or had he some confused
sense of self-reproach, in that he had distracted the contemplation of
this pale and beautiful artist, and sent her downstairs to look after
cutlets?
"It seems a little hard, sir," said Macleod to the old man, "that an
artist is not to have any life of his or her own at all; that he or she
should become merely a--a--a sort of ten-minutes' emotionalist."
It was not a bad phrase for a rude Highlander to have invented on the
spur of the moment. But the fact was that some little personal feeling
stung him into the speech. He was prepared to resent this tyranny of art.
And if he now were to see some beautiful pale slave bound in these iron
chains, and being exhibited for the amusement of an idle world, what
would the fierce blood of the Macleods say to that debasement? He began
to dislike this old man, with his cruel theories and his oracular
speech. But he forbore to have further or any argument with him; for he
remembered what the Highlanders call "the advice of the bell of
Scoon"--"_The thing that concerns you not meddle not with._"