The Emancipated

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)

George Gissing

The Emancipated

PART I

CHAPTER I

NORTHERNERS IN SUNLIGHT

By a window looking from Posillipo upon the Bay of Naples sat an
English lady, engaged in letter-writing. She was only in her
four-and-twentieth year, but her attire of subdued mourning
indicated widowhood already at the stage when it is permitted to
make quiet suggestion of freedom rather than distressful reference
to loss; the dress, however, was severely plain, and its grey
coldness, which would well have harmonized with an English sky in
this month of November, looked alien in the southern sunlight. There
was no mistaking her nationality; the absorption, the troubled
earnestness with which she bent over her writing, were peculiar to a
cast of features such as can be found only in our familiar island; a
physiognomy not quite pure in outline, vigorous in general effect
and in detail delicate; a proud young face, full of character and
capacity, beautiful in chaste control. Sorrowful it was not, but its
paleness and thinness expressed something more than imperfect health
of body; the blue-grey eyes, when they wandered for a moment in an
effort of recollection, had a look of weariness, even of ennui; the
lips moved as if in nervous impatience until she had found the
phrase or the thought for which her pen waited. Save for these
intervals, she wrote with quick decision, in a large clear hand,
never underlining, but frequently supplying the emphasis of heavy
stroke in her penning of a word. At the end of her letters came a
signature excellent in individuality: "Miriam Baske."

The furniture of her room was modern, and of the kind demanded by
wealthy _forestieri_ in the lodgings they condescend to occupy. On
the variegated tiles of the floor were strewn rugs and carpets; the
drapery was bright, without much reference to taste in the ordering
of hues; a handsome stove served at present to support leafy plants,
a row of which also stood on the balcony before the window. Round
the ceiling ran a painted border of foliage and flowers. The chief
ornament of the walls was a large and indifferent copy of Raphael's
"St. Cecilia;" there were, too, several _gouache_ drawings of local
scenery: a fiery night-view of Vesuvius, a panorama of the Bay, and
a very blue Blue Grotto. The whole was blithe, sunny, Neapolitan;
sufficiently unlike a sitting-room in Redheck House, Bartles,
Lancashire, which Mrs. Baske had in her mind as she wrote.

A few English books lay here and there, volumes of unattractive
binding, and presenting titles little suggestive of a holiday in
Campania; works which it would be misleading to call theological;
the feeblest modern echoes of fierce old Puritans, half shame-faced
modifications of logic which, at all events, was wont to conceal no
consequence of its savage premises. More noticeable were some
architectural plans unrolled upon a settee; the uppermost
represented the elevation of a building designed for religious
purposes, painfully recognizable by all who know the conventicles of
sectarian England. On the blank space beneath the drawing were a few
comments, lightly pencilled.

Having finished and addressed some half a dozen brief letters, Mrs.
Baske brooded for several minutes before she began to write on the
next sheet of paper. It was intended for her sister-in-law, a lady
of middle age, who shared in the occupancy of Redheck House. At
length she penned the introductory formula, but again became absent,
and sat gazing at the branches of a pine-tree which stood in strong
relief against cloudless blue. A sigh, an impatient gesture, and she
went on with her task.

"It is very kind of you to be so active in attending to the things
which you know I have at heart. You say I shall find everything as I
could wish it on my return, but you cannot think what a stranger to
Bartles I already feel. It will soon be six months Since I lived my
real life there; during my illness I might as well have been absent,
then came those weeks in the Isle of Wight, and now this exile. I
feel it as exile, bitterly. To be sure Naples is beautiful, but it
does not interest me. You need not envy me the bright sky, for it
gives me no pleasure. There is so much to pain and sadden; so much
that makes me angry. On Sunday I was miserable. The Spences are as
kind as any one could be, but--I won't write about it; no doubt
you understand me.

"What do you think ought to be done about Mrs. Ackworth and her
daughter? It is shameful, after all they have received from me. Will
you tell them that I am gravely displeased to hear of their
absenting themselves from chapel. I have a very good mind to write
to Mr. Higginson and beg him to suspend the girl from his employment
until she becomes regular in her attendance at worship. Perhaps that
would seem malicious, but she and her mother ought to be punished in
some way. Speak to them very sternly.

"I do not understand how young Brooks has dared to tell you I
promised him work in the greenhouse. He is irreclaimable; the worst
character that ever came under my notice; he shall not set foot on
the premises. If he is in want, he has only himself to blame. I do
not like to think of his wife suffering, but it is the attribute of
sins such as his that they involve the innocent with the guilty; and
then she has shown herself so wretchedly weak. Try, however, to help
her secretly if her distress becomes too acute.

"It was impertinent in Mrs. Walker to make such reference to me in
public. This is the result of my absence and helplessness. I shall
write to her--two lines."

A flush had risen to her cheek, and in adding the last two words she
all but pierced through the thin note-paper. Then her hand trembled
so much that she was obliged to pause. At the same moment there
sounded a tap at the door, and, on Mrs. Baske's giving permission, a
lady entered. This was Mrs. Spence, a cousin of the young widow; she
and her husband had an apartment here in the Villa Sannazaro, and
were able to devote certain rooms to the convenience of their
relative during her stay at Naples. Her age was about thirty; she
had a graceful figure, a manner of much refinement, and a bright,
gentle, intellectual face, which just now bore an announcement of
news.

"They have arrived!"

"Already?" replied the other, in a tone of civil interest.

"They decided not to break the journey after Genoa. Cecily and Mrs.
Lessingham are too tired to do anything but get settled in their
rooms, but Mr. Mallard has come to tell us."

Miriam laid down her pen, and asked in the same voice as before:

"Shall I come?"

"If you are not too busy." And Mrs. Spence added, with a smile, "I
should think you must have a certain curiosity to see each other,
after so long an acquaintance at secondhand."

"I will come in a moment."

Mrs. Spence left the room. For a minute Miriam sat reflecting, then
rose. In moving towards the door she chanced to see her image in a
mirror--two of a large size adorned the room--and it checked her
step; she regarded herself gravely, and passed a smoothing hand over
the dark hair above her temples.

By a corridor she reached her friends' sitting-room, where Mrs.
Spence sat in the company of two gentlemen. The elder of these was
Edward Spence. His bearded face, studious of cast and
small-featured, spoke a placid, self-commanding character; a
lingering smile, and the pleasant wrinkles about his brow, told of a
mind familiar with many by-ways of fancy and reflection. His
companion, a man of five-and-thirty, had a far more striking
countenance. His complexion was of the kind which used to be called
adust--burnt up with inner fires; his visage was long and somewhat
harshly designed, very apt, it would seem, to the expression of
hitter ironies or stern resentments, but at present bright with
friendly pleasure. He had a heavy moustache, but no beard; his hair
tumbled in disorder. To matters of costume he evidently gave little
thought, for his clothes, though of the kind a gentleman would wear
in travelling, had seen their best days, and the waistcoat even
lacked one of its buttons; his black necktie was knotted into an
indescribable shape, and the ends hung loose.

Him Mrs. Spence at once presented to her cousin as "Mr. Mallard." He
bowed ungracefully; then, with a manner naturally frank but
constrained by obvious shyness, took the hand Miriam held to him.

"We are scarcely strangers, Mr. Mallard," she said in a
self-possessed tone, regarding him with steady eyes.

"Miss Doran has spoken of you frequently on the journey," he
replied, knitting his brows into a scowl as he smiled and returned
her look. "Your illness made her very anxious. You are much better,
I hope?"

"Much, thank you."

Allowance made for the difference of quality in their voices, Mrs.
Baske and Mallard resembled each other in speech. They had the same
grave note, the same decision.

"They must be very tired after their journey," Miriam added, seating
herself.

"Miss Doran seems scarcely so at all; but Mrs. Lessingham is rather
over-wearied, I'm afraid."

"Why didn't you break the journey at Florence or Rome?" asked Mrs.
Spence.

"I proposed it, but other counsels prevailed. All through Italy Miss
Doran was distracted between desire to get to Naples and misery at
not being able to see the towns we passed. At last she buried
herself in the 'Revue des Deux Mondes,' and refused even to look out
of the window."

"I suppose we may go and see her in the morning?" said Miriam.

"My express instructions are," replied Mallard, "that you are on no
account to go. They will come here quite early. Miss Doran begged
hard to come with me now, but I wouldn't allow it."

"Is it the one instance in which your authority has prevailed?"
inquired Spence. "You seem to declare it in a tone of triumph."

"Well," replied the other, with a grim smile, leaning forward in his
chair, "I don't undertake to lay down rules for the young lady of
eighteen as I could for the child of twelve. But my age and sobriety
of character still ensure me respect."

He glanced at Mrs. Baske, and their eyes met. Miriam smiled rather
coldly, but continued to observe him after he had looked away again.

"You met them at Genoa?" she asked presently, in her tone of
habitual reserve.

"Yes. I came by sea from London, and had a couple of days to wait
for their arrival from Paris."

"And I suppose you also are staying at Mrs. Gluck's?"

"Oh no! I have a room at old quarters of mine high up in the town,
Vico Brancaccio. I shall only be in Naples a few days."

"How's that ?" inquired Spence.

"I'm going to work at Amalfi and Paestum."

"Then, as usual, we shall see nothing of you," said Mrs. Spence.
"Pray, do you dine at Mrs. Gluck's this evening?"

"By no means."

"May we, then, have the pleasure of your company? There is no need
to go back to Vico Brancaccio. I am sure Mrs. Baske will excuse you
the torture of uniform."

With a sort of grumble, the invitation was accepted. A little while
after, Spence proposed to his friend a walk before sunset.

"Yes; let us go up the hill," said Mallard, rising abruptly. "I need
movement after the railway."

They left the villa, and Mallard grew less restrained in his
conversation.

"How does Mrs. Baske answer to your expectations?" Spence asked him.

"I had seen her photograph, you know."

"Where?"

"Her brother showed it me--one taken at the time of her marriage."

"What is Elgar doing at present?"

"It's more than a year since we crossed each other," Mallard
replied. "He was then going to the devil as speedily as can in
reason be expected of a man. I happened to encounter him one morning
at Victoria Station, and he seemed to have just slept off a great
deal of heavy drinking. Told me he was going down to Brighton to see
about selling a houseful of furniture there--his own property. I
didn't inquire how or why he came possessed of it. He is beyond
help, I imagine. When he comes to his last penny, he'll probably
blow his brains out; just the fellow to do that kind of thing."

"I suppose he hasn't done it already? His sister has heard nothing
of him for two years at least, and this account of yours is the
latest I have received."

"I should think he still lives, He would be sure to make a _coup de
theatre_ of his exit."

"Poor lad!" said the elder man, with feeling. "I liked him."

"Why, so did I; and I wish it had been in my scope to keep him in
some kind of order. Yes, I liked him much. And as for brains, why, I
have scarcely known a man who so impressed me with a sense of his
ability. But you could see that he was doomed from his cradle.
Strongly like his sister in face."

"I'm afraid the thought of him troubles her a good deal."

"She looks ill."

"Yes; we are uneasy about her," said Spence. Then, with a burst of
impatience: "There's no getting her mind away from that pestilent
Bartles. What do you think she is projecting now? It appears that
the Dissenters of Bartles are troubled concerning their chapel; it
isn't large enough. So Miriam proposes to pull down her own house,
and build them a chapel on the site, of course at her own expense.
The ground being her freehold, she can unfortunately do what she
likes with it; the same with her personal property. The thing has
gone so far that a Manchester firm of architects have prepared
plans; they are lying about in her room here."

Mallard regarded the speaker with humorous wonder.

"And the fact is," pursued Spence, "that such an undertaking as this
will impoverish her. She is not so wealthy as to be able to lay out
thousands of pounds and leave her position unaltered."

"I suppose she lives only for her religious convictions?"

"I don't profess to understand her. Her character is not easily
sounded. But no doubt she has the puritanical spirit in a rather
rare degree. I daily thank the fates that my wife grew up apart from
that branch of the family. Of all the accursed--But this is an
old topic; better not to beat one's self uselessly."

"A Puritan at Naples," mused Mallard. "The situation is
interesting."

"Very. But then she doesn't really live in Naples. From the first
day she has shown herself bent on resisting every influence of the
place. She won't admit that the climate benefits her; she won't
allow an expression of interest in anything Italian to escape her. I
doubt whether we shall ever get her even to Pompeii. One afternoon I
persuaded her to walk up here with me, and tried to make her confess
that this view was beautiful. She grudged making any such admission.
It is her nature to _distrust_ the beautiful."

"To be sure. That is the badge of her persuasion."

"Last Sunday we didn't know whether to compassionate her or to be
angry with her. The Bradshaws are at Mrs. Gluck's. You know them by
name, I think I There again, an interesting study, in a very
different way. Twice in the day she shut herself up with them in
their rooms, and they held a dissident service. The hours she spent
here were passed in the solitude of her own room, lest she should
witness our profane enjoyment of the fine weather. Eleanor refrained
from touching the piano, and at meals kept the gravest countenance,
in mere kindness. I doubt whether that is right. It isn't as though
we were dealing with a woman whose mind is hopelessly--immatured;
she is only a girl still, and I know she has brains if she could be
induced to use them."

"Mrs. Baske has a remarkable face, it seems to me," said Mallard.

"It enrages me to talk of the matter."

They were now on the road which runs along the ridge of Posillipo;
at a point where it is parted only by a low wall from the westward
declivity, they paused and looked towards the setting sun.

"What a noise from Fuorigrotta!" murmured Spence, when he had leaned
for a moment on the wall. "It always amuses me. Only in this part of
the world could so small a place make such a clamour."

They were looking away from Naples. At the foot of the vine-covered
hillside lay the noisy village, or suburb, named from its position
at the outer end of the tunnel which the Romans pierced to make a
shorter way between Naples and Puteoli; thence stretched an
extensive plain, set in a deep amphitheatre of hills, and bounded by
the sea. Vineyards and maizefields, pine-trees and poplars,
diversify its surface, and through the midst of it runs a long,
straight road, dwindling till it reaches the shore at the hamlet of
Bagnoli. Follow the enclosing ridge to the left, to where its slope
cuts athwart plain and sea and sky; there close upon the coast lies
the island rock of Nisida, meeting-place of Cicero and Brutus after
Caesar's death. Turn to the opposite quarter of the plain. First
rises the cliff of Camaldoli, where from their oak-shadowed lawn the
monks look forth upon as fair a prospect as is beheld by man. Lower
hills succeed, hiding Pozzuoli and the inner curve of its bay;
behind them, too, is the nook which shelters Lake Avernus; and at a
little distance, by the further shore, are the ruins of Cumae, first
home of the Greeks upon Italian soil. A long promontory curves round
the gulf; the dark crag at the end of it is Cape Misenum, and a
little on the hither side, obscured in remoteness, lies what once
was Baiae. Beyond the promontory gleams again a blue line of sea.
The low length of Procida is its limit, and behind that, crowning
the view, stands the mountain-height of Ischia.

Over all, the hues of an autumn evening in Campania. From behind a
bulk of cloud, here and there tossed by high wind currents into
fantastic shapes, sprang rays of fire, burning to the zenith.
Between the sea-beach at Bagnoli and the summit of Ischia, tract
followed upon tract of colour that each moment underwent a subtle
change, darkening here, there fading into exquisite transparencies
of distance, till by degrees the islands lost projection and became
mere films against the declining day. The plain was ruddy with dead
vine-leaves, and golden with the decaying foliage of the poplars;
Camaldoli and its neighbour heights stood gorgeously enrobed. In
itself, a picture so beautiful that the eye wearied with delight; in
its memories, a source of solemn joy, inexhaustible for ever.

"I suppose," said Mallard, in the undertone of reflection, "the
pagan associations of Naples are a great obstacle to Mrs. Baske's
enjoyment of the scenery."

"She admits that."

"By-the-bye, what are likely to be the relations between her and
Miss Doran?"

"I have wondered. They seem to keep on terms of easy correspondence.
But doesn't Cecily herself throw any light on that point?"

Mallard made a pause before answering.

"You must remember that I know very little of her. I have never
spoken more intimately with her than you yourself have. Naturally,
since she has ceased to be a child, I have kept my distance. In
fact, I shall be heartily glad when the next three years are over,
and we can shake hands with a definite good-bye."

"What irritates you?" inquired Spence, with a smile which recognized
a phase of his friend's character.

"The fact of my position. A nice thing for a fellow like me to have
charge of a fortune! It oppresses me--the sense of responsibility;
I want to get the weight off my shoulders. What the deuce did her
father mean by burdening me in this way?"

"He foresaw nothing of the kind," said Spence, amused. "Only the
unlikely event of Trench's death left you sole trustee. If Doran
purposed anything at all--why, who knows what it may have been?"

Mallard refused to meet the other's look; his eyes were fixed on the
horizon.

"All the same, the event was possible, and he should have chosen
another man of business. It's worse than being rich on my own
account. I have dreams of a national repudiation of debt; I imagine
dock-companies failing and banks stopping payment. It disturbs my
work; I am tired of it. Why can't I transfer the affair to some
trustworthy and competent person; yourself, for instance? Why didn't
Doran select you, to begin with--the natural man to associate with
Trench?"

"Who never opened a book save his ledger; who was the model of a
reputable dealer in calicoes; who--"

"I apologize," growled Mallard. "But you know in what sense I
spoke."

"Pray, what has Cecily become since I saw her in London?" asked the
other, after a pause, during which he smiled his own interpretation
of Mallard's humour.

"A very superior young person, I assure you," was the reply, gravely
spoken. "Miss Doran is a young woman of her time; she ranks with the
emancipated; she is as far above the Girton girl as that interesting
creature is above the product of an establishment for young ladies.
Miss Doran has no prejudices, and, in the vulgar sense of the word,
no principles. She is familiar with the Latin classics and with the
Parisian feuilletons; she knows all about the newest religion, and
can tell you Sarcey's opinion of the newest play. Miss Doran will
discuss with you the merits of Sarah Bernhardt in 'La Dame aux
Camelias,' or the literary theories of the brothers Goncourt. I am
not sure that she knows much about Shakespeare, but her appreciation
of Baudelaire is exquisite. I don't think she is naturally very
cruel, but she can plead convincingly the cause of vivisection. Miss
Doran--"

Spence interrupted him with a burst of laughter.

"All which, my dear fellow, simply means that you--"

Mallard, in his turn, interrupted gruffly.

"Precisely: that I am the wrong man to hold even the position of
steward to one so advanced. What have I to do with heiresses and
fashionable ladies? I have my work to get on with, and it shall not
suffer from the intrusion of idlers."

"I see you direct your diatribe half against Mrs. Lessingham. How
has she annoyed you?"

"Annoyed me? You never were more mistaken. It's with myself that I
am annoyed."

"On what account?"

"For being so absurd as to question sometimes whether my
responsibility doesn't extend beyond stock and share. I ask myself
whether Doran--who so befriended me, and put such trust in me, and
paid me so well in advance for the duties I was to undertake--
didn't take it for granted that I should exercise some influence in
the matter of his daughter's education? Is she growing up what he
would have wished her to be? And if--"

"Why, it's no easy thing to say what views he had on this subject.
The lax man, we know, is often enough severe with his own womankind.
But as you have given me no description of what Cecily really is, I
can offer no judgment. Wait till I have seen her. Doubtless she
fulfils her promise of being beautiful?"

"Yes; there is no denying her beauty."

"As for her _modonite_, why, Mr. Ross Mallard is a singular person
to take exception on that score."

"I don't know about that. When did I say that the modern woman was
my ideal?"

"When had you ever a good word for the system which makes of woman a
dummy and a kill-joy?"

"That has nothing to do with the question," replied Mallard,
preserving a tone of gruff impartiality. "Have I been faithful to my
stewardship? When I consented to Cecily's--to Miss Doran's passing
from Mrs. Elgar's care to that of Mrs. Lessingham, was I doing
right?"

"Mallard, you are a curious instance of the Puritan conscience
surviving in a man whose intellect is liberated. The note of your
character, including your artistic character, is this
conscientiousness. Without it, you would have had worldly success
long ago. Without it, you wouldn't talk nonsense of Cecily Doran.
Had you rather she were co. operating with Mrs. Baske in a scheme to
rebuild all the chapels in Lancashire?"

"There is a medium."

"Why, yes. A neither this nor that, an insipid refinement, a taste
for culture moderated by reverence for Mrs. Grundy."

"Perhaps you are right. It's only occasionally that I am troubled in
this way. But I heartily wish the three years remaining were over."

"And the 'definite good-bye' spoken. A good phrase, that of yours.
What possessed you to come here just now, if it disturbs you to be
kept in mind of these responsibilities?"

"I should find it hard to tell you. The very sense of
responsibility, I suppose. But, as I said, I am not going to stay in
Naples."

"You'll come and give us a 'definite good-bye' before you leave?"

Mallard said nothing, but turned and began to move on. They passed
one of the sentry-boxes which here along the ridge mark the limits
of Neapolitan excise; a boy-soldier, musket in hand, cast curious
glances at them. After walking in silence for a few minutes, they
began to descend the eastern face of the hill, and before them lay
that portion of the great gulf which pictures have made so familiar.
The landscape was still visible in all its main details, still
softly suffused with warm colours from the west. About the cone of
Vesuvius a darkly purple cloud was gathering; the twin height of
Somma stood clear and of a rich brown. Naples, the many-coloured,
was seen in profile, climbing from the Castel dell' Ovo, around
which the sea slept, to the rock of Sant' Elmo; along the curve of
the Chiaia lights had begun to glimmer. Far withdrawn, the craggy
promontory of Sorrento darkened to profoundest blue; and Capri
veiled itself in mist.

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