MOMENTOUS EFFECTS PRODUCED BY VERY MINOR CAUSES
The maiden ladies Dorothea and Virginia Duvidney were thin--sweet
old-fashioned grey gentlewomen, demurely conscious of their excellence
and awake to the temptation in the consciousness, who imposed a certain
reflex primness on the lips of the world when addressing them or when
alluding to them. For their appearance was picturesque of the ancestral
time, and their ideas and scrupulousness of delivery suggested the
belated in ripeness; orchard apples under a snow-storm; or any image
that will ceremoniously convey the mind’s profound appreciation together
with the tooth’s panic dread of tartness. They were by no means tart;
only, as you know, the tooth is apprehensively nervous; an uninviting
sign will set it on edge. Even the pen which would sketch them has a
spell on it and must don its coat of office, walk the liveried footman
behind them.
Their wealth, their deeds of charity, their modesty, their built grey
locks, their high repute; a ‘Chippendale elegance’ in a quaintly formal
correctness, that they had, as Colney Durance called it; gave them some
queenliness, and allowed them to claim the ear as an oracle and banish
rebellious argument. Intuitive knowledge, assisted by the Rev. Stuart
Rem and the Rev. Abram Posterley, enabled them to pronounce upon men and
things; not without effect; their country owned it; the foreigner beheld
it. Nor were they corrupted by the servility of the surrounding ear.
They were good women, striving to be humbly good. They might, for all
the little errors they nightly unrolled to then perceptions, have stood
before the world for a study in the white of our humanity. And this may
be but a washed wall, it is true: revolutionary sceptics are measuring
the depths of it. But the hue refreshes, the world admires; and we
know it an object of aim to the bettermost of the wealthy. If, happily,
complacent circumstances have lifted us to the clean paved platform out
of grip of puddled clay and bespattering wheeltracks, we get our chance
of coming to it.
Possessing, for example, nine thousand pounds per annum in Consols, and
not expending the whole of it upon our luxuries, we are, without further
privation, near to kindling the world’s enthusiasm for whiteness. Yet
there, too, we find, that character has its problems to solve; there are
shades in salt. We must be charitable, but we should be just; we give to
the poor of the land, but we are eminently the friends of our servants;
duty to mankind diverts us not from the love we bear to our dog; and
with a pathetic sorrow for silt, we discard it from sight and hearing.
We hate dirt. Having said so much, having shown it, by sealing the
mouth of Mr. Stuart Rem and iceing the veins of Mr. Abram Posterley, in
relation to a dreadful public case and a melancholy private, we have a
pleased sense of entry into the world’s ideal.
At the same time, we protest our unworthiness. Acknowledgeing that they
were not purely spotless, these ladies genuinely took the tiny fly-spot
for a spur to purification; and they viewed it as a patch to raise
in relief their goodness. They gazed on it, saw themselves in it, and
veiled it: warned of the cunning of an oft-defeated Tempter.
To do good and sleep well, was their sowing and their reaping. Uneasy
consciences could not have slept. The sleeping served for proof of an
accurate reckoning and an expungeing of the day’s debits. They differed
in opinion now and then, as we see companion waves of the river, blown
by a gust, roll a shadow between them; and almost equally transient were
their differences with a world that they condemned when they could not
feel they (as an embodiment of their principles) were leading it. The
English world at times betrayed a restiveness in the walled pathway of
virtue; for, alas, it closely neighbours the French; only a Channel,
often dangerously smooth, to divide: but it is not perverted for long;
and the English Funds are always constant and a tower. Would they be
suffered to be so, if libertinism were in the ascendant?
Colney Durance was acquainted with the Duvidney ladies. Hearing of the
journey to them and the purport of it, he said, with the mask upon glee:
‘Then Victor has met his match!’ Nataly had sent for him to dine with
her in Victor’s absence: she was far from grieved, as to the result, by
his assurance to her, that Victor had not a chance. Colney thought so.
‘Just like him! to be off gaily to try and overcome or come over the
greatest power in England.’ They were England herself; the squat
old woman she has become by reason of her overlapping numbers of
the comfortable fund-holder annuitants: a vast body of passives and
negatives, living by precept, according to rules of precedent,
and supposing themselves to be righteously guided because of their
continuing undisturbed. Them he branded, as hypocritical materialists,
and the country for pride in her sweetmeat plethora of them:--mixed with
an ancient Hebrew fear of offence to an inscrutable Lord, eccentrically
appeasable through the dreary iteration of the litany of sinfulness. He
was near a truth; and he had the heat of it on him.
Satirists in their fervours might be near it to grasp it, if they could
be moved to moral distinctness, mental intention, with a preference of
strong plain speech over the crack of their whips. Colney could not or
would not praise our modern adventurous, experimental, heroic, tramping
active, as opposed to yonder pursy passives and negatives; he had
occasions for flicking the fellow sharply: and to speak of the Lord as
our friend present with us, palpable to Reason, perceptible to natural
piety solely through the reason, which justifies punishment; that would
have stopped his mouth upon the theme of God-forsaken creatures. Our
satirist is an executioner by profession, a moralist in excuse, or
at the tail of it; though he thinks the position reversed, when he
moralizes angrily to have his angry use of the scourge condoned.
Nevertheless, he fills a serviceable place; and certainly he is not
happy in his business. Colney suffered as heavily as he struck. If he
had been no more than a mime in the motley of satire, he would have
sucked compensation from the acid of his phrases, for the failure to
prick and goad, and work amendment.
He dramatized to Nataly some of the scene going on at the Wells:
Victor’s petition; his fugue in urgency of it; the brief reply of Miss
Dorothea and her muted echo Miss Virginia. He was rather their apologist
for refusing. But, as when, after himself listening to their ‘views,’ he
had deferentially withdrawn from the ladies of Moorsedge, and had then
beheld their strangely-hatted lieutenants and the regiments of the
toneless respectable on the pantiles and the mounts, the curse upon
the satirist impelled him to generalize. The quiet good ladies were
multiplied: they were ‘the thousands of their sisters, petticoated
or long-coated or buck-skinned; comfortable annuitants under clerical
shepherding, close upon outnumbering the labourers they paralyze at home
and stultify abroad.’ Colney thumped away. The country’s annuitants had
for type ‘the figure with the helmet of the Owl-Goddess and the trident
of the Earth-shaker, seated on a wheel, at the back of penny-pieces; in
whom you see neither the beauty of nakedness nor the charm of drapery;
not the helmet’s dignity or the trident’s power; but she has patently
that which stops the wheel; and poseing for representative of an
imperial nation, she helps to pass a penny.’ So he passed his
epigram, heedless of the understanding or attention of his hearer; who
temporarily misjudged him for a man impelled by the vanity of literary
point and finish, when indeed it was hot satiric spite, justified of its
aim, which crushed a class to extract a drop of scathing acid, in the
interests of the country, mankind as well. Nataly wanted a picture
painted, colours and details, that she might get a vision of the scene
at Moorsedge. She did her best to feel an omen and sound it, in his
question ‘whether the yearly increasing army of the orderly annuitants
and their parasites does not demonstrate the proud old country as a
sheath for pith rather than of the vital run of sap.’
Perhaps it was patriotic to inquire; and doubtless she was the weakest
of women; she could follow no thought; her heart was beating blindly
beside Victor, hopeing for the refusal painful to her through his
disappointment.
‘You think me foolish,’ she made answer to one of Colney’s shrugs; ‘and
it has come to that pitch with me, that I cannot be sensible of a merit
except in being one with him--obeying, is the word. And I have never yet
known him fail. That terrible Lakelands wears a different look to me,
when I think of what he can do; though I would give half my days to
escape it.’
She harped on the chord of feverish extravagance; the more hateful to
Colney because of his perceiving, that she simulated a blind devotedness
to stupefy her natural pride; and he was divided between stamping on her
for an imbecile and dashing at Victor for a maniac. But her situation
rendered her pitiable. ‘You will learn tomorrow what Victor has done,’
he said, and thought how the simple words carried the bitterness.
That was uttered within a few minutes of midnight, when the ladies of
Moorsedge themselves, after an exhausting resistance to their dearest
relative, were at the hall-door of the house with Victor, saying the
good-night, to which he responded hurriedly, cordially, dumbly, a
baffled man. They clasped hands. Miss Dorothea said:
‘You, Victor, always.’ Miss Virginia said: ‘You will be sure of
welcome.’ He walked out upon the moonless night; and for lack of any
rounded object in the smothering darkness to look at, he could nowhere
take moorings to gather himself together and define the man who had
undergone so portentous a defeat. He was glad of quarters at an hotel, a
solitary bed, absence from his Nataly.
For their parts, the ladies were not less shattered. They had no triumph
in their victory: the weight of it bore them down. They closed, locked,
shot the bolts and fastened the chain of the door. They had to be
reminded by the shaking of their darling dog Tasso’s curly silky coat,
that he had not taken his evening’s trot to notify malefactors of his
watchfulness and official wrath at sound of footfall or a fancied one.
Without consultation, they unbolted the door, and Tasso went forth, to
‘compose his vesper hymn,’ as Mr. Posterley once remarked amusingly.
Though not pretending to the Muse’s crown so far, the little dog had
qualities to entrance the spinster sex. His mistresses talked of him;
of his readiness to go forth; of the audible first line of his hymn
or sonnet; of his instinct telling him that something was wrong in the
establishment. For most of the servants at Moorsedge were prostrated by
a fashionable epidemic; a slight attack, the doctor said; but Montague,
the butler, had withdrawn for the nursing of his wife; Perrin, the
footman, was confined to his chamber; Manton, the favourite maid, had
appeared in the morning with a face that caused her banishment to bed;
and the cook, Mrs. Bannister, then sighingly agreed to send up cold meat
for the ladies’ dinner. Hence their melancholy inhospitality to their
cousin Victor, who had, in spite of his errors, the right to claim his
place at their table, was ‘of the blood,’ they said. He was recognized
as the living prince of it. His every gesture, every word, recalled the
General. The trying scene with him had withered them, they did not speak
of it; each had to the other the look of a vessel that has come out of
a gale. Would they sleep? They scarcely dared ask it of themselves. They
had done rightly; silence upon that reflection seemed best. It was
the silence of an inward agitation; still they knew the power of good
consciences to summon sleep.
Tasso was usually timed for five minutes. They were astonished to
discover by the clock, that they had given him ten. He was very quiet:
if so, and for whatever he did, he had his reason, they said: he was a
dog endowed with reason: endowed--and how they wished that Mr. Stuart
Rem would admit it!--with, their love of the little dog believed (and
Mr. Posterley acquiesced), a soul. Do but think it of dear animals, and
any form of cruelty to them becomes an impossibility, Mr. Stuart
Rem! But he would not be convinced: ungenerously indeed he named Mr.
Posterley a courtier. The ladies could have retorted, that Mr. Posterley
had not a brother who was the celebrated surgeon Sir Nicholas Rem.
Usually Tasso came running in when the hall-door was opened to him. Not
a sound of him could be heard. The ladies blew his familiar whistle.
He trotted back to a third appeal, and was, unfortunately for them, not
caressed; he received reproaches from two forefingers directed straight
at his reason. He saw it and felt it. The hug of him was deferred to the
tender good-night to him in his basket at the foot of the ladies’ beds.
On entering their spacious bed-chamber, they were so fatigued that
sleep appeared to their minds the compensating logical deduction. Miss
Dorothea suppressed a yawn, and inflicted it upon Miss Virginia, who
returned it, with an apology, and immediately had her sister’s hand on
her shoulder, for, an attempted control of one of the irresistibles; a
spectacle imparting bitter shudders and shots to the sympathetic jawbones
of an observer. Hand at mouth, for not in privacy would they have been
guilty of exposing a grimace, they signified, under an interim smile,
their maidenly submission to the ridiculous force of nature: after
which, Miss Virginia retired to the dressing-room, absorbed in woeful
recollection of the resolute No they had been compelled to reiterate,
in response to the most eloquent and, saving for a single instance,
admirable man, their cousin, the representative of ‘the blood,’
supplicating them. A recreant thankfulness coiled within her bosom at
the thought, that Dorothea, true to her office of speaker, had tasked
herself with the cruel utterance and repetition of the word. Victor’s
wonderful eyes, his voice, yet more than his urgent pleas; and also, in
the midst of his fiery flood of speech, his gentleness, his patience,
pathos, and a man’s tone through it all; were present to her.
Disrobed, she knocked at the door.
‘I have called to you twice,’ Dorothea said; and she looked a motive for
the call.
‘What is it?’ said Virginia, with faltering sweetness, with a terrible
divination.
The movement of a sigh was made. ‘Are you aware of anything, dear?’
Virginia was taken with the contrary movement of a sniff. But the fear
informing it prevented it from being venturesome. Doubt of the pure
atmosphere of their bed-chamber, appeared to her as too heretic even for
the positive essay. In affirming, that she was not aware of anything,
her sight fell on Tasso. His eyeballs were those of a little dog that
has been awfully questioned.
‘It is more than a suspicion,’ said Dorothea; and plainly now, while
open to the seductions of any pleasing infidel testimony, her nose in
repugnance convicted him absolutely.
Virginia’s nose was lowered a few inches; it inhaled and stopped midway.
‘You must be mistaken, dear. He never... ‘
‘But are you insensible to the...’ Dorothea’s eyelids fainted.
Virginia dismissed the forlornest of efforts at incredulity. A whiff of
Tasso had smitten her. ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed and fell away. ‘Is it Tasso!
How was it you noticed nothing before undressing, dear?’
‘Thinking of what we have gone through to-night! I forgot him. At last
the very strange... The like of it I have not ever!... And upon that
thick coat! And, dear, it is late. We are in the morning hours.’
‘But, my dear-Oh, dear, what is to be done with him?’
That was the crucial point for discussion. They had no servant to
give them aid; Manton, they could not dream of disturbing. And Tasso’s
character was in the estimate; he hated washing; it balefully depraved
his temper; and not only, creature of habit that he was, would he
decline to lie down anywhere save in their bedroom, he would lament,
plead, insist unremittingly, if excluded; terrifying every poor
invalid of the house. Then again, were they at this late hour to dress
themselves, and take him downstairs, and light a fire in the kitchen,
and boil sufficient water to give him a bath and scrubbing? Cold water
would be death to him. Besides, he would ring out his alarum for the
house to hear, pour out all his poetry, poor dear, as Mr. Posterley
called it, at a touch of cold water. The catastrophe was one to weep
over, the dilemma a trial of the strongest intelligences.
In addition to reviews of their solitary alternative-the having of a
befouled degraded little dog in their chamber through the night, they
were subjected to a conflict of emotions when eyeing him: and there
came to them the painful, perhaps irreverent, perhaps uncharitable,
thought:--that the sinner who has rolled in the abominable, must cleanse
him and do things to polish him and perfume before again embraced even
by the mind: if indeed we can ever have our old sentiment for him again!
Mr. Stuart Rem might decide it for them. Nay, before even the heart
embraces him, he must completely purify himself. That is to say, the
ordinary human sinner--save when a relative. Contemplating Tasso, the
hearts of the ladies gushed out in pity of an innocent little
dog, knowing not evil, dependent on his friends for help to be
purified;--necessarily kept at a distance: the very look of him
prescribed extreme separation, as far as practicable. But they had proof
of a love almost greater than it was previous to the offence, in the
tender precautions they took to elude repulsion.
He was rolling on the rug, communicating contagion. Flasks of
treble-distilled lavender water, and their favourite, traditional in the
family, eau d’Arquebusade, were on the toilet-table. They sprinkled
his basket, liberally sprinkled the rug and the little dog.
Perfume-pastilles were in one of the sitting-rooms below; and Virginia
would have gone down softly to fetch a box, but Dorothea restrained her,
in pity for the servants, with the remark: ‘It would give us a nightmare
of a Roman Catholic Cathedral!’ A bit of the window was lifted by
Dorothea, cautiously, that prowling outsiders might not be attracted.
Tasso was wooed to his basket. He seemed inquisitive; the antidote of
his naughtiness excited him; his tail circled after his muzzle several
times; then he lay. A silken scarf steeped in eau d’Arquebusade was
flung across him.
Their customary devout observances concluded, lights were extinguished,
and the ladies kissed, and entered their beds.
Their beds were not homely to them. Dorothea thought that Virginia was
long in settling herself. Virginia did not like the sound of Dorothea’s
double sigh. Both listened anxiously for the doings of Tasso. He rested.
He was uneasy; he was rounding his basket once more; unaware of the
exaggeration of his iniquitous conduct, poor innocent, he shook that
dreadful coat of his! He had displaced the prophylactic cover of the
scarf.
He drove them in a despair to speculate on the contention between the
perfume and the stench in junction, with such a doubt of the victory
of which of the two, as drags us to fear our worst. It steals into our
nostrils, possesses them. As the History of Mankind has informed us, we
were led up to our civilization by the nose. But Philosophy warns us on
that eminence; to beware of trusting exclusively to our conductor, lest
the mind of us at least be plunged back into barbarism. The ladies
hated both the cause and the consequence, they had a revulsion from the
object, of the above contention. But call it not a contention: there is
nobility in that. This was a compromise, a degrading union, with very
sickening results. Whether they came of an excess of the sprinkling,
could not well be guessed. The drenching at least was righteously
intended.
Beneath their shut eyelids, they felt more and more the oppression of a
darkness not laden with slumber. They saw it insolidity; themselves
as restless billows, driven dashing to the despondent sigh. Sleep was
denied them.
Tasso slept. He had sinned unknowingly, and that is not a spiritual sin;
the chastisement confers the pardon.
But why was this ineffable blessing denied to them? Was it that they
might have a survey of all the day’s deeds and examine them under the
cruel black beams of Insomnia?
Virginia said: ‘You are wakeful.’
‘Thoughtful,’ was the answer.
A century of the midnight rolled on.
Dorothea said: ‘He behaved very beautifully.’
‘I looked at the General’s portrait while he besought us,’ Virginia
replied.
‘One sees him in Victor, at Victor’s age. Try to sleep.’
‘I do. I pray that you may.’
Silence courted slumber. Their interchange of speech from the posture of
bodies on their backs, had been low and deliberate, in the tone of
the vaults. Dead silence recalled the strangeness of it. The night
was breathless; their open window a peril bestowing no boon. They were
mutually haunted by sound of the gloomy query at the nostrils of each
when drawing the vital breath. But for that, they thought they might
have slept.
Bed spake to bed:
‘The words of Mr. Stuart Rem last Sunday!’ ‘He said: “Be just.” Could
one but see direction!’
‘In obscurity, feeling is a guide.’
‘The heart.’
‘It may sometimes be followed.’
‘When it concerns the family.’
‘He would have the living, who are seeking peace, be just.’
‘Not to assume the seat of justice.’
Again they lay as tombstone effigies, that have committed the passage of
affairs to another procession of the Ages.
There was a gentle sniff, in hopeless confirmation of the experience of
its predecessors. A sister to it ensued.
‘Could Victor have spoken so, without assurance in his conscience, that
his entreaty was righteously addressed to us? that we...’
‘And no others!’
‘I think of his language. He loves the child.’
‘In heart as in mind, he is eminently gifted; acknowledgeing error.’
‘He was very young.’
The huge funereal minutes conducted their sonorous hearse, the hour.
It struck in the bed-room: Three.
No more than three of the clock, it was the voice telling of half the
precious restorative night-hours wasted.
Now, as we close our eyelids when we would go to sleep, so must we,
in expectation of the peace of mind granting us the sweet oblivion,
preliminarily do something which invokes, that we may obtain it.
‘Dear,’ Dorothea said.
‘I know indeed,’ said Virginia.
‘We may have been!’
‘Not designingly.’
‘Indeed not. But harsh it may be named, if the one innocent is to be the
sufferer.’
‘The child can in no sense be adjudged guilty.’
‘It is Victor’s child.’
‘He adores the child.’
Wheels were in mute motion within them; and presently the remark was
tossed-up:
‘In his coming to us, it is possible to see paternal solicitude’
Thence came fruit of reflection:
‘To be instrumental as guides to a tender young life!’
Reflection heated with visions:
‘Once our dream!’
They had the happier feeling of composure, though Tasso possessed
the room. Not Tasso, but a sublimated offensiveness, issue of the
antagonistically combined, dispersed to be the more penetrating;
insomuch that it seemed to them they could not ever again make use of
eau d’Arquebusade without the vitiating reminder. So true were the words
of Mr. Stuart Rem: ‘Half measures to purification are the most delusive
of our artifices.’ Fatigue and its reflections helped to be peacefuller.
Their souls were mounting to a serenity above the nauseating
degradation, to which the poor little dog had dragged them.
‘Victor gave his promise.’
‘At least, concession would not imply contact with the guilty.’
Both sighed as they took up the burden of the vaporous Tasso to drop
him; with the greater satisfaction in the expelling of their breath.
‘It might be said, dear, that concession to his entreaty does not in any
way countenance the sin.’
‘I can see, dear, how it might be read as a reproof.’
Their exchange of sentences followed meditative pauses; Dorothea
leading.
‘To one so sensitive as Victor!’
‘A month or two of our society for the child!’
‘It is not the length of time.’
‘The limitation assures against maternal claims.’
‘She would not dare.’
‘He used the words: “her serious respect” for us. I should not wish to
listen to him often.’
‘We listen to a higher.’
‘It may really be, that the child is like him.’
‘Not resembling Mr. Stuart Rem’s Clementina!’
‘A week of that child gave us our totally sleepless night.’ ‘One thinks
more hopefully of a child of Victor’s.’
‘He would preponderate.’
‘He would.’
They sighed; but it was now with the relief of a lightened oppression.
‘If, dear, in truth the father’s look is in the child, he has the
greater reason to desire for her a taste of our atmosphere.’
‘Do not pursue it. Sleep.’
‘One prayer!’
‘Your mention of our atmosphere, dear, destroys my power to frame one.
Do you, for two. But I would cleanse my heart.’
‘There is none purer.’
‘Hush.’
Virginia spoke a more fervent word of praise of her sister, and had not
the hushing response to it. She heard the soft regular breathing. Her
own was in downy fellowship with it a moment later.
At the hour of nine, in genial daylight, sitting over the crumbs of his
hotel breakfast, Victor received a little note that bore the handwriting
of Dorothea Duvidney.
‘Dear Victor, we are prepared to receive the child for a month.
In haste, before your train. Our love. D. and V.’
His face flashed out of cloud.
A more precious document had never been handed to him. It chased back to
midnight the doubt hovering over his belief in himself;--phrased to
say, that he was no longer the Victor Radnor known to the world. And it
extinguished a corpse-like recollection of a baleful dream in the night.
Here shone radiant witness of his being the very man; save for the spot
of his recent confusion in distinguishing his identity or in feeling
that he stood whole and solid.--Because of two mature maiden ladies?
Yes, because of two maiden ladies, my good fellow. And friend Colney,
you know the ladies, and what the getting round them for one’s purposes
really means.
The sprite of Colney Durance had struck him smartly overnight. Victor’s
internal crow was over Colney now. And when you have the optimist
and pessimist acutely opposed in a mixing group, they direct lively
conversations at one another across the gulf of distance, even of
time. For a principle is involved, besides the knowledge of the other’s
triumph or dismay. The couple are scales of a balance; and not before
last night had Victor ever consented to think of Colney ascending while
he dropped low to graze the pebbles.
He left his hotel for the station, singing the great aria of the fourth
Act of the Favorita: neglected since that mighty German with his
Rienzi, and Tannhauser, and Tristan and Isolda, had mastered him, to
the displacement of his boyhood’s beloved sugary -inis and -antes
and-zettis; had clearly mastered, not beguiled, him; had wafted him up
to a new realm, invigorating if severer. But now his youth would have
its voice. He travelled up to town with Sir Abraham Quatley and talked,
and took and gave hints upon City and Commercial affairs, while the
honeyed Italian of the conventional, gloriously animal, stress and
flutter had a revel in his veins, now and then mutedly ebullient at the
mouth: honeyed, golden, rich in visions;--having surely much more of
Nature’s encouragement to her children?