The Emancipated

G >> George Gissing >> The Emancipated

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32

CHAPTER II

CECILY DORAN

Villa Sannazaro had no architectural beauty; it was a building of
considerable size, irregular, in need of external repair. Through
the middle of it ran a great archway, guarded by copies of the two
Molossian hounds which stand before the Hall of Animals in the
Vatican; beneath the arch, on the right-hand side, was the main
entrance to the house. If you passed straight through, you came out
upon a terrace, where grew a magnificent stone-pine and some robust
agaves. The view hence was uninterrupted, embracing the line of the
bay from Posillipo to Cape Minerva. From the parapet bordering the
platform you looked over a descent of twenty feet, into a downward
sloping vineyard. Formerly the residence of an old Neapolitan
family, the villa had gone the way of many such ancestral abodes,
and was now let out among several tenants.

The Spences were established here for the winter. On the occasion of
his marriage, three years ago, Edward Spence relinquished his
connection with a shipping firm, which he represented in Manchester,
and went to live in London; a year and a half later he took his wife
to Italy, where they had since remained. He was not wealthy, but had
means sufficient to his demands and prospects. Thinking for himself
in most matters, he chose to abandon money-making at the juncture
when most men deem it incumbent upon them to press their efforts in
that direction; business was repugnant to him, and he saw no reason
why he should sacrifice his own existence to put a possible family
in more than easy circumstances, He had the inclinations of a
student, but was untroubled by any desire to distinguish himself,
freedom from the demands of the office meant to him the possibility
of living where he chose, and devoting to his books the best part of
the day instead of its fragmentary leisure. His choice in marriage
was most happy. Eleanor Spence had passed her maiden life in
Manchester, but with parents of healthy mind and of more literature
than generally falls to the lot of a commercial family. Pursuing a
natural development, she allied herself with her husband's freedom
of intellect, and found her nature's opportunities in the life which
was to him most suitable. By a rare chance, she was the
broader-minded of the two, the more truly impartial. Her
emancipation from dogma had been so gradual, so unconfused by
external pressure, that from her present standpoint she could look
back with calmness and justice on all the stages she had left
behind. With her cousin Miriam she could sympathize in a way
impossible to Spence, who, by-the-bye, somewhat misrepresented his
wife in the account he gave to Mallard of their Sunday experiences.
Puritanism was familiar to her by more than speculation; in the
compassion with which she regarded Miriam there was no mixture of
contempt, as in her husband's case. On the other hand, she did not
pretend to read completely her con sin's heart and mind; she knew
that there was no simple key to Miriam's character, and the quiet
study of its phases from day to day deeply interested her.

Cecily Doran had been known to Spence from childhood; her father was
his intimate friend. But Eleanor had only made the girl's
acquaintance in London, just after her marriage, when Cecily was
spending a season there with her aunt, Mrs. Lessingham. Mallard's
ward was then little more than fifteen; after several years of weak
health, she had entered upon a vigorous maidenhood, and gave such
promise of free, joyous, aspiring life as could not but strongly
affect the sympathies of a woman like Eleanor. Three years prior to
that, at the time of her father's death, Cecily was living with Mrs.
Elgar, a widow, and her daughter Miriam, the latter on the point of
marrying (at eighteen) one Mr. Baske, a pietistic mill-owner, aged
fifty. It then seemed very doubtful whether Cecily would live to
mature years; she had been motherless from infancy, and the
difficulty with those who brought her up was to repress an activity
of mind which seemed to be one cause of her bodily feebleness. In
those days there was a strong affection between her and Miriam
Elgar, and it showed no sign of diminution in either when, on Mrs.
Elgar's death, a year and a half after Miriam's marriage, Cecily
passed into the care of her father's sister, a lady of moderate
fortune, of parts and attainments, and with a great love of
cosmopolitan life. A few months more and Mrs. Baske was to be a
widow, childless, left in possession of some eight hundred a year,
her house at Bartles, and a local importance to which she was not
indifferent. With the exception of her brother, away in London, she
had no near kin. It would now have been a great solace to her if
Cecily Doran could have been her companion; but the young girl was
in Paris, or Berlin, or St. Petersburg, and, as Miriam was soon to
learn, the material distance between them meant little in comparison
with the spiritual remoteness which resulted from Cecily's education
under Mrs. Lessingham. They corresponded, however, and at first
frequently; but letters grew shorter on both sides, and arrived less
often. The two were now to meet for the first time since Cecily was
a child of fourteen.

The ladies arrived at the villa about eleven o'clock. Miriam had
shown herself indisposed to speak of them, both last evening, when
Mallard was present, and again this morning when alone with her
relatives; at breakfast she was even more taciturn than usual, and
kept her room for an hour after the meal. Then, however, she came to
sit with Eleanor, and remained when the visitors were announced.

Mrs. Lessingham did not answer to the common idea of a strong-minded
woman. At forty-seven she preserved much natural grace of bearing, a
good complexion, pleasantly mobile features. Her dress was in
excellent taste, tending to elaboration, such as becomes a lady who
makes some figure in the world of ease. Little wrinkles at the outer
corners of her eyes assisted her look of placid thought fulness;
when she spoke, these were wont to disappear, and the expression of
her face became an animated intelligence, an eager curiosity, or a
vivacious good-humour, Her lips gave a hint of sarcasm, but this was
reserved for special occasions; as a rule her habit of speech was
suave, much observant of amenities. One might have imagined that she
had enjoyed a calm life, but this was far from being the case. The
daughter of a country solicitor, she married early--for love, and
the issue was disastrous. Above her right temple, just at the roots
of the hair, a scar was discoverable; it was the memento of an
occasion on which her husband aimed a blow at her with a mantelpiece
ornament, and came within an ace of murder. Intimates of the
household said that the provocation was great--that Mrs.
Lessingham's gift of sarcasm had that morning displayed itself much
too brilliantly. Still, the missile was an extreme retort, and on
the whole it could not be wondered at that husband and wife resolved
to live apart in future. Mr. Lessingham was, in fact, an
aristocratic boor, and his wife never puzzled so much over any
intellectual difficulty as she did over the question how, as a girl,
she came to imagine herself enamoured of him. She was not, perhaps,
singular in her concernment with such a personal problem.

"It is six years since I was in Italy," she said, when greetings
were over, and she had seated herself. "Don't you envy me my
companion, Mrs. Spence? If anything could revive one's first
enjoyment, it would be the sight of Cecily's."

Cecily was sitting by Miriam, whose hand she had only just
relinquished. Her anxious and affectionate inquiries moved Miriam to
a smile which seemed rather of indulgence than warm kindness.

"How little we thought where our next meeting would be!" Cecily was
saying, when the eyes of the others turned upon her at her aunt's
remark.

Noble beauty can scarcely be dissociated from harmony of utterance;
voice and visage are the correspondent means whereby spirit
addresses itself to the ear and eye. One who had heard Cecily Doran
speaking where he could not see her, must have turned in that
direction, have listened eagerly for the sounds to repeat
themselves, and then have moved forward to discover the speaker. The
divinest singer may leave one unaffected by the tone of her speech.
Cecily could not sing, but her voice declared her of those who think
in song, whose minds are modulated to the poetry, not to the prose,
of life.

Her enunciation had the peculiar finish which is acquired in
intercourse with the best cosmopolitan society, the best in a worthy
sense. Four years ago, when she left Lancashire, she had a touch of
provincial accent,--Miriam, though she spoke well, was not wholly
free from it,--but now it was impossible to discover by listening
to her from what part of England she came. Mrs. Lessingham, whose
admirable tact and adaptability rendered her unimpeachable in such
details, had devoted herself with artistic zeal to her niece's
training for the world; the pupil's natural aptitude ensured
perfection in the result. Cecily's manner accorded with her
utterance; it had every charm derivable from youth, yet nothing of
immaturity. She was as completely at her ease as Mrs. Lessingham,
and as much more graceful in her self-control as the advantages of
nature made inevitable.

Miriam looked very cold, very severe, very English, by the side of
this brilliant girl. The thinness and pallor of her features became
more noticeable; the provincial faults of her dress were painfully
obvious. Cecily was not robust, but her form lacked no development
appropriate to her years, and its beauty was displayed by Parisian
handiwork. In this respect, too, she had changed remarkably since
Miriam last saw her, when she was such a frail child. Her hair of
dark gold showed itself beneath a hat which Eleanor Spence kept
regarding with frank admiration, so novel it was in style, and so
perfectly suitable to its wearer. Her gloves, her shoes, were no
less perfect; from head to foot nothing was to be found that did not
become her, that was not faultless in its kind.

At the same time, nothing that suggested idle expense or vanity. To
dwell at all upon the subject would be a disproportion, but for the
note of contrast that was struck. In an assembly of well-dressed
people, no one would have remarked Cecily's attire, unless to praise
its quiet distinction. In the Spences' sitting-room it became
another matter; it gave emphasis to differences of character; it
distinguished the atmosphere of Cecily's life from that breathed by
her old friends.

"We are going to read together Goethe's 'Italienische Reise,'"
continued Mrs. Lessingham. "It was of quite infinite value to me
when I first was here. In each town I _tuned_ my thoughts by it, to
use a phrase which sounds like affectation, but has a very real
significance."

"It was much the same with me," observed Spence.

"Yes, but you had the inestimable advantage of knowing the classics.
And Cecily, I am thankful to say, at least has something of Latin;
an ode of Horace, which I look at with fretfulness, yields her its
meaning. Last night, when I was tired and willing to be flattered,
she tried to make me believe it was not yet too late to learn."

"Surely not," said Eleanor, gracefully.

"But Goethe--you remember he says that the desire to see Italy had
become an illness with him. I know so well what that means. Cecily
will never know; the happiness has come before longing for it had
ceased to be a pleasure."

It was not so much affection as pride that her voice expressed when
she referred to her niece; the same in her look, which was less
tender than gratified and admiring. Cecily smiled in return, but was
not wholly attentive; her eyes constantly turned to Miriam,
endeavouring, though vainly, to exchange a glance.

Mrs. Lessingham was well aware of the difficulty of addressing to
Mrs. Baske any remark on natural topics which could engage her
sympathy, yet to ignore her presence was impossible.

"Do you think of seeing Rome and the northern cities when your
health is established?" she inquired, in a voice which skilfully
avoided any presumption of the reply. "Or shall you return by sea?"

"I am not a very good sailor," answered Miriam, with sufficient
suavity, "and I shall probably go back by land. But I don't think I
shall stop anywhere."

"It will be wiser, no doubt," said Mrs. Lessingham, "to leave the
rest of Italy for another visit. To see Naples first, and then go
north, is very much like taking dessert before one's substantial
dinner. I'm a little sorry that Cecily begins here; but it was
better to come and enjoy Naples with her friends this winter. I hope
we shall spend most of our time in Italy for a year or two."

Conversation took its natural course, and presently turned to the
subject--inexhaustible at Naples--of the relative advantages of
this and that situation for an abode. Mrs. Lessingham, turning to
the window, expressed her admiration of the view it afforded.

"I think it is still better from Mrs. Baske's sitting-room," said
Eleanor, who had been watching Cecily, and thought that she might be
glad of an opportunity of private talk with Miriam. And Cecily at
once availed herself of the suggestion.

"Would you let me see it, Miriam?" she asked. "If it is not
troublesome--"

Miriam rose, and they went out together. In silence they passed
along the corridor, and when they had entered her room Miriam walked
at once to the window. Then she half turned, and her eyes fell
before Cecily's earnest gaze.

"I did so wish to be with you in your illness!" said the girl, with
affectionate warmth. "Indeed, I would have come if I could have been
of any use. After all the trouble you used to have with my wretched
headaches and ailments--"

"You never have anything of the kind now," said Miriam, with her
indulgent smile.

"Never. I am in what Mr. Mallard calls aggressive health. But it
shocks me to see how pale you still are Miriam. I thought the voyage
and these ten days at Naples--And you have such a careworn look.
Cannot you throw off your troubles under this sky?"

"You know that the sky matters very little to me, Cecily."

"If I could give you only half my delight! I was awake before dawn
this morning, and it was impossible to lie still I dressed and stood
at the open window. I couldn't see the sun itself as it rose, but I
watched the first beams strike on Capri and the sea; and I tried to
make a drawing of the island as it then looked,--a poor little
daub, but it will be precious in bringing back to my mind all I felt
when I was busy with it. Such feeling I have never known; as if
every nerve in me had received an exquisite new sense. I keep saying
to myself, 'Is this really Naples?' Let us go on to the balcony. Oh,
you _must_ be glad with me!"

Freed from the constraint of formal colloquy, and overcoming the
slight embarrassment caused by what she knew of Miriam's thoughts,
Cecily revealed her nature as it lay beneath the graces with which
education had endowed her. This enthusiasm was no new discovery to
Miriam, but in the early days it had attached itself to far other
things. Cecily seemed to have forgotten that she was ever in
sympathy with the mood which imposed silence on her friend. Her eyes
drank light from the landscape; her beauty was transfigured by
passionate reception of all the influences this scene could exercise
upon heart and mind. She leaned on the railing of the balcony, and
gazed until tears of ecstasy made her sight dim.

"Let us see much of each other whilst we are here," she said
suddenly, turning to Miriam. "I could never have dreamt of our being
together in Italy; it is a happy fate, and gives me all kinds of
hope. We will be often alone together in glorious places. We will
talk it over; that is better than writing. You shall understand me,
Miriam. You shall get as well and strong as I am, and know what I
mean when I speak of the joy of living. We shall be sisters again,
like we used to be."

Miriam smiled and shook her head.

"Tell me about things at home. Is Miss Baske well?"

"Quite well. I have had two letters from her since I was here. She
wished me to give you her love."

"I will write to her. And is old Don still alive?"

"Yes, but very feeble, poor old fellow. He forgets even to be angry
with the baker's boy."

Cecily laughed with a moved playfulness.

"He has forgotten me. I don't like to be forgotten by any one who
ever cared for me."

There was a pause. They came back into the room, and Cecily, with a
look of hesitation, asked quietly,--

"Have you heard of late from Reuben?"

Miriam, with averted eyes, answered simply, "No." Again there was
silence, until Cecily, moving about the room, came to the "St.
Cecilia."

"So my patron saint is always before you. I am glad of that. Where
is the original of this picture, Miriam? I forget."

"I never knew."

"Oh, I wished to speak to you of Mr. Mallard. You met him yesterday.
Had you much conversation?"

"A good deal. He dined with us."

"Did he? I thought it possible. And do you like him?"

"I couldn't say until I knew him better."

"It isn't easy to know him, I think," said Cecily, in a reflective
and perfectly natural tone, smiling thoughtfully. "But he is a very
interesting man, and I wish he would be more friendly with me. I
tried hard to win his confidence on the journey from Genoa, but I
didn't seem to have much success. I fancy"--she laughed--"that
he is still in the habit of regarding me as a little girl, who
wouldn't quite understand him if he spoke of serious things. When I
wished to talk of his painting, he would only joke. That annoyed me
a little, and I tried to let him see that it did, with the result
that he refused to speak of anything for a long time."

"What does Mr. Mallard paint?" Miriam asked, half absently.

"Landscape," was the reply, given with veiled surprise. "Did you
never see anything of his?"

"I remember; the Bradshaws have a picture by him in their
dining-room. They showed it me when I was last in Manchester. I'm
afraid I looked at it very inattentively, for it has never
re-entered my mind from that day to this. But I was ill at the
time."

"His pictures are neglected," said Cecily, "but people who
understand them say they have great value. If he has anything
accepted by the Academy, it is sure to be hung out of sight. I think
he is wrong to exhibit there at all. Academies are foolish things,
and always give most encouragement to the men who are worth least.
When there is talk of such subjects, I never lose an opportunity of
mentioning Mr. Mallard's name, and telling all I can about his work.
Some day I shall, perhaps, be able to help him. I will insist on
every friend of mine who buys pictures at all possessing at least
one of Mr. Mallard's; then, perhaps, he will condescend to talk with
me of serious things."

She added the last sentence merrily, meeting Miriam's look with the
frankest eyes.

"Does Mrs. Lessingham hold the same opinion?" Miriam inquired.

"Oh yes! Aunt, of course, knows far more about art than I do, and
she thinks very highly indeed of Mr. Mallard. Not long ago she met
M. Lambert at a friend's house in Paris--the French critic who has
just been writing about English landscape--and he mentioned Mr.
Mallard with great respect. That was splendid, wasn't it?"

She spoke with joyous spiritedness. However modern, Cecily, it was
clear, had caught nothing of the disease of pococurantism. Into
whatever pleased her or enlisted her sympathies, she threw all the
glad energies of her being. The scornful remark on the Royal Academy
was, one could see, not so much a mere echo of advanced opinion, as
a piece of championship in a friend's cause. The respect with which
she mentioned the name of the French critic, her exultation in his
dictum, were notes of a youthful idealism which interpreted the
world nobly, and took its stand on generous beliefs.

"Mr. Mallard will help you to see Naples, no doubt," said Miriam.

"Indeed, I wish he would. But he distinctly told us that he has no
time. He is going to Amalfi in a few days, to work. I begged him at
least to go to Pompeii with us, but he frowned--as he so often
does--and seemed unwilling to be persuaded; so I said no more.
There again, I feel sure he was afraid of being annoyed by trifling
talk in such places. But one mustn't judge an artist like other men.
To be sure, anything I could say or think would be trivial compared
with what is in _his_ mind."

"But isn't it rather discourteous?" Miriam observed impartially.

"Oh, I could never think of it in that way! An artist is privileged;
he must defend his time and his sensibilities. The common terms of
society have no application to him. Don't you feel that, Miriam?"

"I know so little of art and artists. But such a claim seems to me
very strange."

Cecily laughed.

"This is one of a thousand things we will talk about. Art is the
grandest thing in the world; it means everything that is strong and
beautiful--statues, pictures, poetry, music. How could one live
without art? The artist is born a prince among men. What has he to
do with the rules by which common people must direct their lives?
Before long, you will feel this as deeply as I do, Miriam. We are in
Italy, Italy!"

"Shall we go back to the others?" Miriam suggested, in a voice which
contrasted curiously with that exultant cry.

"Yes; it is time."

Cecily's eyes fell on the plans of the chapel, which were still
lying open.

"What is this?" she asked. "Something in Naples? Oh no!"

"It's nothing," said Miriam, carelessly. "Come, Cecily."

The visitors took their leave just as the midday cannon boomed from
Sant' Elmo. They had promised to come and dine in a day or two.
After their departure, Miriam showed as little disposition to make
comments as she had to indulge in expectation before their arrival.
Eleanor and her husband put less restraint upon themselves.

"Heavens!" cried Spence, when they were alone; "what astounding
capacity of growth was in that child!"

"She is a swift and beautiful creature!" said Eleanor, in a warm
undertone characteristic of her when she expressed admiration.

"I wish I could have overheard the interview in Miriam's room."

"I never felt more curiosity about anything. Pity one is not a
psychological artist. I should have stolen to the keyhole and
committed eavesdropping with a glow of self-approval."

"I half understand our friend Mallard."

"So do I, Ned."

They looked at each other and smiled significantly.

That evening Spence again had a walk with the artist. He returned to
the villa alone, and only just in time to dress for dinner. Guests
were expected, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw of Manchester, old
acquaintances of the Spences and of Miriam. When it had become known
that Mrs. Baske, advised to pass the winter in a mild climate, was
about to accept an invitation from her cousin and go by sea to
Naples, the Bradshaws, to the astonishment of all their friends,
offered to accompany her. It was the first time that either of them
had left England, and they seemed most unlikely people to be
suddenly affected with a zeal for foreign travel. Miriam gladly
welcomed their proposal, and. it was put into execution.

When Spence entered the room his friends had already arrived. Mr.
Bradshaw stood in the attitude familiar to him when on his own
hearthrug, his back turned to that part of the wall where in England
would have been a fireplace, and one hand thrust into the pocket of
his evening coat.

"I tell you what it is, Spence!" he exclaimed, "I'm very much afraid
I shall be committing an assault. Certainly I shall if I don't soon
learn some good racy Italian. I must make out a little list of
sentences, and get you or Mrs. Spence to translate them. Such as 'Do
you take me for a fool?' or 'Be off, you scoundrel!' or 'I'll break
every bone in your body!' That's the kind of thing practically
needed in Naples, I find."

"Been in conflict with coachmen again?" asked Spence, laughing.

"Slightly! Never got into such a helpless rage in my life. Two
fellows kept up with me this afternoon for a couple of miles or so.
Now, what makes me so mad is the assumption of these blackguards
that I don't know my own mind. I go out for a stroll, and the first
cabby I pass wants to take me to Pozzuoli or Vesuvius--or Jericho,
for aught I know. It's no use showing him that I haven't the
slightest intention of going to any such place. What the deuce! does
the fellow suppose he can persuade me or badger me into doing what
I've no mind to do? Does he take me for an ass? It's the insult of
the thing that riles me! The same if I look in at a shop window; out
rushes a gabbling swindler, and wants to drag me in--"

"Only to _take_ you in, Mr. Bradshaw," interjected Eleanor.

"Good! To take me in, with a vengeance. Why, if I've a mind to buy,
shan't I go in of my own accord? And isn't it a sure and certain
thing that I shall never spend a halfpenny with a scoundrel who
attacks me like that?"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32