[Georgiana Ford to Wilfrid:]
“I have omitted replying to your first letter, not because of the nature
of its contents: nor do I write now in answer to your second because of
the permission you give me to lay it before my brother. I cannot think
that concealment is good, save for very base persons; and since you take
the initiative in writing very openly, I will do so likewise.
“It is true that Emilia is with me. Her voice is lost, and she has
fallen as low in spirit as one can fall and still give us hope of her
recovery. But that hope I have, and I am confident that you will not
destroy it. In the summer she goes with us to Italy. We have consulted
one doctor, who did not prescribe medicine for her. In the morning
she reads with my brother. She seems to forget whatever she reads: the
occupation is everything necessary just now. Our sharp Monmouth air
provokes her to walk briskly when she is out, and the exercise has once
or twice given colour to her cheeks. Yesterday being a day of clear
frost, we drove to a point from which we could mount the Buckstone, and
here, my brother says, the view appeared to give her something of her
lost animation. It was a look that I had never seen, and it soon went:
but in the evening she asked me whether I prayed before sleeping, and
when she retired to her bedroom, I remained there with her for a time.
“You will pardon me for refusing to let her know that you have written
to your relative in the Austrian service to obtain a commission for you.
But, on the other hand, I have thought it right to tell her incidentally
that you will be married in the Summer of this year. I can only say that
she listened quite calmly.
“I beg that you will not blame yourself so vehemently. By what you
do, her friends may learn to know that you regret the strange effect
produced by certain careless words, or conduct: but I cannot find that
self-accusation is ever good at all. In answer to your question, I may
add that she has repeated nothing of what she said when we were together
in Devon.
“Our chief desire (for, as we love her, we may be directed by our
instinct), in the attempt to restore her, is to make her understand that
she is anything but worthless. She has recently followed my brother's
lead, and spoken of herself, but with a touch of scorn. This morning,
while the clear frosty sky continues, we were to have started for an old
castle lying toward Wales; and I think the idea of a castle must have
struck her imagination, and forced some internal contrast on her mind.
I am repeating my brother's suggestion--she seemed more than usually
impressed with an idea that she was of no value to anybody. She asked
why she should go anywhere, and dropped into a chair, begging to
be allowed to stay in a darkened room. My brother has some strange
intuition of her state of mind. She has lost any power she may have had
of grasping abstract ideas. In what I conceived to be play, he told
her that many would buy her even now. She appeared to be speculating on
this, and then wished to know how much those persons would consider her
to be worth, and who they were. Nor did it raise a smile on her face to
hear my brother mention Jews, and name an absolute sum of money; but,
on the contrary, after evidently thinking over it, she rose up, and
said that she was ready to go. I write fully to you, telling you these
things, that you may see she is at any rate eager not to despair, and is
learning, much as a child might learn it, that it need not be.
“Believe me, that I will in every way help to dispossess your mind of
the remorse now weighing upon you, as far as it shall be within my power
to do so.
“Mr. Runningbrook has been invited by my brother to come and be her
companion. They have a strong affection for one another. He is a true
poet, full of reverence for a true woman.”
[Wilfrid to Georgiana Ford:]
“I cannot thank you enough. When I think of her I am unmanned; and if
I let my thoughts fall back upon myself, I am such as you saw me that
night in Devon--helpless, and no very presentable figure. But you do not
picture her to me. I cannot imagine whether her face has changed; and,
pardon me, were I writing to you alone, I could have faith that the
delicate insight and angelic nature of a woman would not condemn my
desire to realize before my eyes the state she has fallen to. I see her
now under a black shroud. Have her features changed? I cannot remember
one--only at an interval her eyes. Does she look into the faces of
people as she used? Or does she stare carelessly away? Softly between
the eyes, is what I meant. I mean--but my reason for this particularity
is very simple. I would state it to you, and to no other. I cannot have
peace till she is restored; and my prayer is, that I may not haunt her
to defeat your labour. Does her face appear to show that I am quite
absent from her thoughts? Oh! you will understand me. You have seen me
stand and betray no suffering when a shot at my forehead would have been
mercy. To you I will dare to open my heart. I wish to be certain that
I have not injured her--that is all. Perhaps I am more guilty than
you think: more even than I can call to mind. If I may fudge by the
punishment, my guilt is immeasurable. Tell me--if you will but tell
me that the sacrifice of my life to her will restore her, it is hers.
Write, and say this, and I will come: Do not delay or spare me. Her dumb
voice is like a ghost in my ears. It cries to me that I have killed
it. Be actuated by no charitable considerations in refraining to write.
Could a miniature of her be sent? You will think the request strange;
but I want to be sure she is not haggard--not the hospital face I
fancy now, which accuses me of murder. Does she preserve the glorious
freshness she used to wear? She had a look--or did you see her before
the change? I only want to know that she is well.”
[Tracy Runningbrook to Wilfrid:]
“You had my promise that I would write and give your conscience
a nightcap. I have a splendid one for you. Put it on without any
hesitation. I find her quite comfortable. Powys reads Italian with her
in the morning. His sister (who might be a woman if she liked, but
has an insane preference for celestial neutrality) does the moral
inculcation. The effect is comical. I should like you to see Cold Steel
leading Tame Fire about, and imagining the taming to be her work! You
deserve well of your generation. You just did enough to set this darling
girl alight. Knights and squires numberless will thank you. The idea of
your reproaching yourself is monstrous. Why, there's no one thanks you
more than she does. You stole her voice, which some may think a pity,
but I don't, seeing that I would rather have her in a salon than before
the footlights. Imagine my glory in her!--she has become half cat! She
moves softly, as if she loved everything she touched; making you throb
to feel the little ball of her foot. Her eyes look steadily, like green
jewels before the veil of an Egyptian temple. Positively, her eyes have
grown green--or greenish! They were darkish hazel formerly, and talked
more of milkmaids and chattering pastorals than a discerning master
would have wished. Take credit for the change; and at least I don't
blame you for the tender hollows under the eyes, sloping outward, just
hinted... Love's mark on her, so that men's hearts may faint to know
that love is known to her, and burn to read her history. When she is
about to speak, the upper lids droop a very little; or else the under
lids quiver upward--I know not which. Take further credit for her
manner. She has now a manner of her own. Some of her naturalness has
gone, but she has skipped clean over the 'young lady' stage; from raw
girl she has really got as much of the great manner as a woman can have
who is not an ostensibly retired dowager, or a matron on a pedestal
shuffling the naked virtues and the decorous vices together. She looks
at you with an immense, marvellous gravity, before she replies to
you--enveloping you in a velvet light. This, is fact, not fine stuff,
my dear fellow. The light of her eyes does absolutely cling about you.
Adieu! You are a great master, and know exactly when to make your bow
and retire. A little more, and you would have spoilt her. Now she is
perfect.”
[Wilfrid to Tracy Runningbrook:]
“I have just come across a review of your last book, and send it,
thinking you may wish to see it. I have put a query to one of the
passages, which I think misquoted: and there will be no necessity to
call your attention to the critic's English. You can afford to laugh
at it, but I confess it puts your friends in a rage. Here are a set
of fellows who arm themselves with whips and stand in the public
thoroughfare to make any man of real genius run the gauntlet down their
ranks till he comes out flayed at the other extremity! What constitutes
their right to be there?--By the way, I met Sir Purcell Barrett (the
fellow who was at Hillford), and he would like to write an article
on you that should act as a sort of rejoinder. You won't mind, of
course--it's bread to him, poor devil! I doubt whether I shall see you
when you comeback, so write a jolly lot of letters. Colonel Pierson, of
the Austrian army, my uncle (did you meet him at Brookfield?),
advises me to sell out immediately. He is getting me an Imperial
commission--cavalry. I shall give up the English service. And if they
want my medal, they can have it, and I'll begin again. I'm sick of
everything except a cigar and a good volume of poems. Here's to light
one, and now for the other!
“'Large eyes lit up by some imperial sin,'” etc.
(Ten lines from Tracy's book are here copied neatly.)
[Tracy Runningbrook to Wilfrid:]
“Why the deuce do you write me such infernal trash about the opinions of
a villanous dog who can't even en a decent sentence? I've been damning
you for a white-livered Austrian up and down the house. Let the fellow
bark till he froths at the mouth, and scatters the virus of the beast
among his filthy friends. I am mad-dog proof. The lines you quote were
written in an awful hurry, coming up in the train from Richford one
morning. You have hit upon my worst with commendable sagacity. If it
will put money in Barren's pocket, let him write. I should prefer to
have nothing said. The chances are all in favour of his writing like
a fool. If you're going to be an Austrian, we may have a chance of
shooting one another some day, so here's my hand before you go and sell
your soul; and anything I can do in the meantime--command me.”
[Georgiana Ford to Wilfrid:]
“I do not dare to charge you with a breach of your pledged word. Let me
tell you simply that Emilia has become aware of your project to enter
the Austrian service, and it has had the effect on her which I foresaw.
She could bear to hear of your marriage, but this is too much for her,
and it breaks my heart to see her. It is too cruel. She does not betray
any emotion, but I can see that every principle she had gained is gone,
and that her bosom holds the shadows of a real despair. I foresaw it,
and sought to guard her against it. That you, whom she had once
called (to me) her lover, should enlist himself as an enemy, of her
country!--it comes to her as a fact striking her brain dumb while she
questions it, and the poor body has nothing to do but to ache. Surely
you could have no object in doing this? I will not suspect it. Mr.
Runningbrook is acquainted with your plans, I believe; but he has
no remembrance of having mentioned this one to Emilia. He distinctly
assures me that he has not done so, and I trust him to speak truth. How
can it have happened? But here is the evil done. I see no remedy. I am
not skilled in sketching the portraits you desire of her, and yet, if
you have ever wished her to know this miserable thing, it would be
as well that you should see the different face that has come among us
within twenty hours.”
[Wilfrid to Georgiana Ford:]
“I will confine my reply to a simple denial of having caused this fatal
intelligence to reach her ears; for the truth of which, I pledge my
honour as a gentleman. A second's thought would have told me--indeed I
at once acquiesced in your view--that she should not know it. How it has
happened it is vain to attempt to guess. Can you suppose that I desired
her to hate me? Yet this is what the knowledge of the step I am taking
will make her do! If I could see--if I might see her for five minutes, I
should be able to explain everything, and, I sincerely think (painful as
it would be to me), give her something like peace. It is too late even
to wish to justify myself; but her I can persuade that she--Do you not
see that her mind is still unconvinced of my--I will call it baseness!
Is this the self-accusing you despise? A little of it must be heard. If
I may see her I will not fail to make her understand my position.
She shall see that it is I who am worthless--not she! You know the
circumstances under which I last beheld her--when I saw pang upon pang
smiting her breast from my silence! But now I may speak. Do not be
prepossessed against my proposal! It shall be only for five minutes--no
more. Not that it is my desire to come. In truth, it could not be. I
have felt that I alone can cure her--I who did the harm. Mark me:
she will fret secretly--, but dear and kindest lady, do not smile too
critically at the tone I adopt. I cannot tell how I am writing or what
saying. Believe me that I am deeply and constantly sensible of your
generosity. In case you hesitate, I beg you to consult Mr. Powys.”
[Georgiana Ford to Wilfrid:]
“I had no occasion to consult my brother to be certain that an interview
between yourself and Emilia should not take place. There can be no
object, even if the five minutes of the meeting gave her happiness, why
the wound of the long parting should be again opened. She is wretched
enough now, though her tenderness for us conceals it as far as possible.
When some heavenly light shall have penetrated her, she will have a
chance of peace. The evil is not of a nature to be driven out by your
hands. If you are not going into the Austrian service, she shall know
as much immediately. Otherwise, be as dead to her as you may, and your
noblest feelings cannot be shown under any form but that.”
[Wilfrid to Tracy Runningbrook:]
“Some fellows whom I know want you to write a prologue to a play they
are going to get up. It's about Shakespeare--at least, the proceeds go
to something of that sort. Do, like a good fellow, toss us off twenty
lines. Why don't you write? By the way, I hope there's no truth in a
report that has somehow reached me, that they have the news down in
Monmouth of my deserting to the black-yellow squadrons? Of course,
such a thing as that should have been kept from them. I hear, too, that
your--I suppose I must call her now your--pupil is falling into bad
health. Think me as cold and 'British' as you like; but the thought of
this does really affect me painfully. Upon my honour, it does! 'And now
he yawns!' you're saying. You're wrong. We Army men feel just as you
poets do, and for a longer time, I think, though perhaps not so acutely.
I send you the 'Venus' cameo which you admired. Pray accept it from an
old friend. I mayn't see you again.”
[Tracy Runningbrook to Wilfrid:] (enclosing lines)
“Here they are. It will require a man who knows something about metre to
speak them. Had Shakespeare's grandmother three Christian names? and
did she anticipate feminine posterity in her rank of life by saying
habitually, 'Drat it?' There is as yet no Society to pursue this
investigation, but it should be started. Enormous thanks for the Venus.
I wore it this morning at breakfast. Just as we were rising, I leaned
forward to her, and she jumped up with her eyes under my chin. 'Isn't
she a beauty?' I said. 'It was his,' she answered, changing eyes of
eagle for eyes of dove, and then put out the lights. I had half a mind
to offer it, on the spot. May I? That is to say, if the impulse seizes
me I take nobody's advice, and fair Venus certainly is not under my chin
at this moment. As to ill health, great mother Nature has given a house
of iron to this soul of fire. The windows may blaze, or the windows may
be extinguished, but the house stands firm. When you are lightning or
earthquake, you may have something to reproach yourself for; as it is,
be under no alarm. Do not put words in my mouth that I have not uttered.
'And now he yawns,' is what I shall say of you only when I am sure you
have just heard a good thing. You really are the best fellow of your
set that I have come across, and the only one pretending to brains.
Your modesty in estimating your value as a leader of Pandours will be
pleasing to them who like that modesty. Good-bye. This little Emilia is
a marvel of flying moods. Yesterday she went about as if she said,
'I've promised Apollo not to speak till to-morrow.' To-day, she's in a
feverish gabble--or began the day with a burst of it; and now she's soft
and sensible. If you fancy a girl at her age being able to see, that
it's a woman's duty to herself and the world to be artistic--to perfect
the thing of beauty she is meant to be by nature!--and, seeing, too,
that Love is an instrument like any other thing, and that we must play
on it with considerate gentleness, and that tearing at it or dashing it
to earth, making it howl and quiver, is madness, and not love!--I assure
you she begins to see it! She does see it. She is going to wear a wreath
of black briony (preserved and set by Miss Ford, a person cunning in
these matters). She's going to the ball at Penarvon Castle, and will
look--supply your favourite slang word. A little more experience, and
she will have malice. She wants nothing but that to make her consummate.
Malice is the barb of beauty. She's just at present a trifle blunt. She
will knock over, but not transfix. I am anxious to watch the effect
she produces at Penarvon. Poor little woman! I paid a compliment to her
eyes. 'I've got nothing else,' said she. Dine as well as you can while
you are in England. German cookery is an education for the sentiment of
hogs. The play of sour and sweet, and crowning of the whole with fat,
shows a people determined to go down in civilization, and try the
business backwards. Adieu, curst Croat! On the Wallachian border mayst
thou gather philosophy from meditation.”