[2] The manner in which Mr. Fairlie’s Narrative, and other Narratives
that are shortly to follow it, were originally obtained, forms the
subject of an explanation which will appear at a later period.
It is the grand misfortune of my life that nobody will let me alone.
Why—I ask everybody—why worry ME? Nobody answers that question, and
nobody lets me alone. Relatives, friends, and strangers all combine
to annoy me. What have I done? I ask myself, I ask my servant, Louis,
fifty times a day—what have I done? Neither of us can tell. Most
extraordinary!
The last annoyance that has assailed me is the annoyance of being
called upon to write this Narrative. Is a man in my state of nervous
wretchedness capable of writing narratives? When I put this extremely
reasonable objection, I am told that certain very serious events
relating to my niece have happened within my experience, and that I am
the fit person to describe them on that account. I am threatened if I
fail to exert myself in the manner required, with consequences which I
cannot so much as think of without perfect prostration. There is really
no need to threaten me. Shattered by my miserable health and my family
troubles, I am incapable of resistance. If you insist, you take your
unjust advantage of me, and I give way immediately. I will endeavour
to remember what I can (under protest), and to write what I can (also
under protest), and what I can’t remember and can’t write, Louis must
remember and write for me. He is an ass, and I am an invalid, and we
are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between us. How humiliating!
I am told to remember dates. Good heavens! I never did such a thing in
my life—how am I to begin now?
I have asked Louis. He is not quite such an ass as I have hitherto
supposed. He remembers the date of the event, within a week or
two—and I remember the name of the person. The date was towards the
end of June, or the beginning of July, and the name (in my opinion a
remarkably vulgar one) was Fanny.
At the end of June, or the beginning of July, then, I was reclining in
my customary state, surrounded by the various objects of Art which I
have collected about me to improve the taste of the barbarous people
in my neighbourhood. That is to say, I had the photographs of my
pictures, and prints, and coins, and so forth, all about me, which I
intend, one of these days, to present (the photographs, I mean, if
the clumsy English language will let me mean anything) to present to
the institution at Carlisle (horrid place!), with a view to improving
the tastes of the members (Goths and Vandals to a man). It might be
supposed that a gentleman who was in course of conferring a great
national benefit on his countrymen was the last gentleman in the
world to be unfeelingly worried about private difficulties and family
affairs. Quite a mistake, I assure you, in my case.
However, there I was, reclining, with my art-treasures about me, and
wanting a quiet morning. Because I wanted a quiet morning, of course
Louis came in. It was perfectly natural that I should inquire what the
deuce he meant by making his appearance when I had not rung my bell.
I seldom swear—it is such an ungentlemanlike habit—but when Louis
answered by a grin, I think it was also perfectly natural that I should
damn him for grinning. At any rate, I did.
This rigorous mode of treatment, I have observed, invariably brings
persons in the lower class of life to their senses. It brought Louis to
HIS senses. He was so obliging as to leave off grinning, and inform me
that a Young Person was outside wanting to see me. He added (with the
odious talkativeness of servants), that her name was Fanny.
“Who is Fanny?”
“Lady Glyde’s maid, sir.”
“What does Lady Glyde’s maid want with me?”
“A letter, sir——”
“Take it.”
“She refuses to give it to anybody but you, sir.”
“Who sends the letter?”
“Miss Halcombe, sir.”
The moment I heard Miss Halcombe’s name I gave up. It is a habit of
mine always to give up to Miss Halcombe. I find, by experience, that it
saves noise. I gave up on this occasion. Dear Marian!
“Let Lady Glyde’s maid come in, Louis. Stop! Do her shoes creak?”
I was obliged to ask the question. Creaking shoes invariably upset me
for the day. I was resigned to see the Young Person, but I was NOT
resigned to let the Young Person’s shoes upset me. There is a limit
even to my endurance.
Louis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were to be depended upon.
I waved my hand. He introduced her. Is it necessary to say that she
expressed her sense of embarrassment by shutting up her mouth and
breathing through her nose? To the student of female human nature in
the lower orders, surely not.
Let me do the girl justice. Her shoes did NOT creak. But why do Young
Persons in service all perspire at the hands? Why have they all got fat
noses and hard cheeks? And why are their faces so sadly unfinished,
especially about the corners of the eyelids? I am not strong enough to
think deeply myself on any subject, but I appeal to professional men,
who are. Why have we no variety in our breed of Young Persons?
“You have a letter for me, from Miss Halcombe? Put it down on the
table, please, and don’t upset anything. How is Miss Halcombe?”
“Very well, thank you, sir.”
“And Lady Glyde?”
I received no answer. The Young Person’s face became more unfinished
than ever, and I think she began to cry. I certainly saw something
moist about her eyes. Tears or perspiration? Louis (whom I have just
consulted) is inclined to think, tears. He is in her class of life, and
he ought to know best. Let us say, tears.
Except when the refining process of Art judiciously removes from
them all resemblance to Nature, I distinctly object to tears. Tears
are scientifically described as a Secretion. I can understand that a
secretion may be healthy or unhealthy, but I cannot see the interest of
a secretion from a sentimental point of view. Perhaps my own secretions
being all wrong together, I am a little prejudiced on the subject. No
matter. I behaved, on this occasion, with all possible propriety and
feeling. I closed my eyes and said to Louis—
“Endeavour to ascertain what she means.”
Louis endeavoured, and the Young Person endeavoured. They succeeded
in confusing each other to such an extent that I am bound in common
gratitude to say, they really amused me. I think I shall send for them
again when I am in low spirits. I have just mentioned this idea to
Louis. Strange to say, it seems to make him uncomfortable. Poor devil!
Surely I am not expected to repeat my niece’s maid’s explanation of
her tears, interpreted in the English of my Swiss valet? The thing
is manifestly impossible. I can give my own impressions and feelings
perhaps. Will that do as well? Please say, Yes.
My idea is that she began by telling me (through Louis) that her master
had dismissed her from her mistress’s service. (Observe, throughout,
the strange irrelevancy of the Young Person. Was it my fault that she
had lost her place?) On her dismissal, she had gone to the inn to
sleep. (I don’t keep the inn—why mention it to ME?) Between six o’clock
and seven Miss Halcombe had come to say good-bye, and had given her
two letters, one for me, and one for a gentleman in London. (I am not
a gentleman in London—hang the gentleman in London!) She had carefully
put the two letters into her bosom (what have I to do with her bosom?);
she had been very unhappy, when Miss Halcombe had gone away again;
she had not had the heart to put bit or drop between her lips till it
was near bedtime, and then, when it was close on nine o’clock, she
had thought she should like a cup of tea. (Am I responsible for any
of these vulgar fluctuations, which begin with unhappiness and end
with tea?) Just as she was WARMING THE POT (I give the words on the
authority of Louis, who says he knows what they mean, and wishes to
explain, but I snub him on principle)—just as she was warming the pot
the door opened, and she was STRUCK OF A HEAP (her own words again, and
perfectly unintelligible this time to Louis, as well as to myself) by
the appearance in the inn parlour of her ladyship the Countess. I give
my niece’s maid’s description of my sister’s title with a sense of the
highest relish. My poor dear sister is a tiresome woman who married
a foreigner. To resume: the door opened, her ladyship the Countess
appeared in the parlour, and the Young Person was struck of a heap.
Most remarkable!
I must really rest a little before I can get on any farther. When I
have reclined for a few minutes, with my eyes closed, and when Louis
has refreshed my poor aching temples with a little eau-de-Cologne, I
may be able to proceed.