Unkown - "Cinderella; or, The Little Glass Slipper and other Stories"

Andrew Lang - "Shakespeare, Bacon and the Great Unknown"

Several - "Wenyuange Sikuquanshu"

Thomas Carlyle - "History of Friedrich II of Prussia V 8"

The Whirlpool

G >> George Gissing >> The Whirlpool




Was it inconceivable? Why should a woman of that age, and of so much
experience, feel nervous about going alone to her friend's house on such
a simple mission? It appeared odd at the time, and was more difficult to
understand the more she thought of it. And one heard such strange
stories -- in society of a certain kind -- so many whispered hints of
things that would not bear to be talked about.

Redgrave had not been in Paris, but at Coventry. There again was a
puzzling circumstance. Harvey himself declared his surprise at hearing
that Redgrave had entered into partnership with Hugh Carnaby. Had Sibyl
anything to do with this? Could she have hinted to her friend the
millionaire that her husband's financial position was anything but
satisfactory, and had Redgrave, out of pure friendship -- of course, out
of pure friendship -- hastened to their succour?

This perplexity was almost as disturbing as that which preceded it.
Knowing the man of money as she did, Alma found it disagreeable to
connect his name thus closely with Sibyl's. Disagreeable in a
complicated sense; for she had begun to think of Cyrus Redgrave as
intimately associated with her own ambitions, secret and avowed. He was
to aid her in winning fame as a violinist; and, to this end, all
possible use (within certain limits) was to be made of the power she had
over him. Alma viewed the position without the least attempt at
disguising its true nature. She was playing with fire; knew it; enjoyed
the excitement of it; trusted herself with the completest confidence to
come out of the game unscorched. But she felt assured that other women,
in similar circumstances, had engaged in much the same encounter with
Cyrus Redgrave; and could it be imagined that Sibyl Carnaby was one of
them -- Sibyl, the woman of culture, of high principle, the critic of
society -- Sibyl, to whom she had so long paid homage, as to one of the
chosen of her sex? That Redgrave might approach Sibyl with lawless
thought, she could well believe, and such a possibility excited her
indignation; that Sibyl would meet him on his own terms, she could not
for a moment have credited, but for a traitor-voice that spoke in her
for the first time, the voice of jealousy.

Where and how often did they meet? To ask this question was to touch
another motive of discontent. Ever since the return to London life, Alma
had felt dissatisfied with her social position. She was the wife of a
gentleman of independent means; in theory, all circles should be open to
her. Practically, she found herself very much restricted in the choice
of acquaintances. Harvey had hinted that she should be careful where she
went, and whom she knew; that she recognised the justice of this warning
served merely to irritate her against its necessity. Why, then, did not
her husband exert himself to obtain better society for her? Plainly, he
would never take a step in that direction; he had his two or three
friends, and found them sufficient; he would have liked to see her very
intimate with Mrs. Abbott -- perhaps helping to teach babies on the
kindergarten system! Left to her own resources, she could do little
beyond refusing connections that were manifestly undesirable. Sibyl, she
knew, associated with people of much higher standing, only out of
curiosity taking a peep at the world to which her friend was restricted.
There had always been a slight disparity in this respect between them,
and in former days Alma had accepted it without murmuring; but why did
Sibyl, just when she could have been socially helpful, show a
disposition to hold aloof? 'Of course, you care nothing for people of
that kind,' Mrs. Carnaby had said, after casually mentioning some 'good'
family at whose country house she had been visiting. It was intended,
perhaps, as a compliment, with allusion to Alma's theories of the
'simple life'; but, in face of the very plain fact that such theories
were utterly abandoned, it sounded to Alma a humiliating irony.

Could it be that Sibyl feared inquiries, shrank from having it known
that she was on intimate terms with the daughter of the late Bennet
Frothingham -- a name still too often mentioned in newspapers and
elsewhere? The shadow of this possibility had ere now flitted over
Alma's mind; she was in the mood to establish it as a certainty, and to
indulge the resentment that naturally ensued. For on more than one
occasion of late, at Mrs. Rayner Mann's or in some such house, she had
fancied that one person and another had eyed her in a way that was not
quite flattering, and that remarks were privately exchanged about her.
Perhaps Harvey himself saw in the fact of her parentage a social
obstacle, which made him disinclined to extend their circle of common
acquaintances. Was that what he meant by his grave air this evening? Was
he annoyed at the thought of a publicity which would reveal her maiden
name?

These currents of troubled feeling streamed together and bore her
turbidly onwards whither her desires pointed. In one way, and one way
only, could she hope to become triumphantly conspicuous, to raise
herself quite above petty social prejudices, to defeat ill-wishers and
put to shame faint-hearted friends. She had never been able to endure
the thought of mediocrity. One chance there was; she must grasp it
energetically and without delay. And she must make use of all subsidiary
means to her great conquest -- save only the last dishonour.

That on her own merit she might rise to the first rank of musicians,
Alma did not doubt. Her difficulty lay in the thought that it might
require a long time, a wearisome struggle, to gain the universal
recognition which alone would satisfy her. Therefore must Cyrus Redgrave
be brought to the exertion of all his influence, which she imagined
would assist her greatly. Therefore, too, must Felix Dymes be retained
as her warm friend, probably (his own suggestion) as her man of
business.

It was January. Her 'recital' must take place in the coming season, in
May or June. She would sketch a programme at once -- tomorrow morning --
and then work, work, work terrifically!

Saved by the fervour of this determination from brooding over mysteries
and jealousies, Alma lay down with a contented sigh, and was soon
asleep, thanks to the health she still enjoyed. Her excitability was of
the imagination rather than of the blood, and the cool, lymphatic flow,
characteristically feminine, which mingled with the sanguine humour,
traceable perhaps to a paternal source, spared her many an hour of
wakefulness, as it guarded her against much graver peril.

On Sunday morning she generally went to church -- not because of any
spiritual impulse, but out of habit. In Wales, Harvey often accompanied
her; at Pinner he ceased to do so; but neither then nor now had any talk
on the subject passed between them. Alma took it for granted that her
husband was very 'broad' in matters of faith. She gathered from her
reading that every man of education nowadays dispensed with dogmas, and,
for her own part, it was merely an accident that she had not sought to
attract attention by pronounced freethinking. Sibyl Carnaby went to
church as a matter of course, and never spoke for or against orthodoxy.
Had Sibyl been more 'advanced' in this direction, undoubtedly Alma would
long ago have followed her example. Both of them, in girlhood, had
passed through a great deal of direct religious teaching -- and both
would have shrunk amazed if called upon to make the slightest sacrifice
in the name of their presumed creed.

This morning, however, Alma remained at home, and one of the first
things she did was to write to Sibyl, asking when it would be convenient
for her friend to give her half-an-hour's private talk. Then she wrote
to Felix Dymes, addressing the letter to the care of his publishers. At
midday, as Harvey had gone to town on his business with Cecil Morphew,
she decided to run over to Kingsbury-Neasden and ask her friends for
lunch, in return for which she would make known to them her startling
project. It was a wretched day; Hughie must not go out, and Pauline --
good creature -- would amuse him in one way and another all the
afternoon.

As it chanced, her surprise visit could not have been worse timed, for
Mrs. Leach was in a state of collapse after a violent quarrel, the day
before, with her cook-housekeeper, who quitted the house at a moment's
notice. Luncheon, in the admissible sense of the word, there was none to
be had. Mr. Leach, finding the house intolerable when he arrived on
Saturday afternoon, had gone back to his bachelor quarters, and the
girls, when Alma presented herself, were just sitting down alone to what
the housemaid chose to give them. But such an old friend could not be
turned away because of domestic mishap.

Not until they had despatched the unsatisfactory meal, and were cosy in
the drawing-room, did Alma reveal her great purpose. Dora Leach happened
to have a slight acquaintance with a professional pianist who had
recently come before the public, and Alma began by inquiring whether her
friend could obtain information as to the expenses of the first
'recital' given by that lady.

'I'm afraid I don't know her quite well enough,' replied Miss Leach.
'What's it for? Are you thinking ----? Really? You _really_ are?'

The sisters became joyously excited. Splendid idea! They had feared it
was impossible. Oh, she might count with certainty upon a brilliant
success! They began to talk about the programme. And what professionals
would she engage to take part in the concert? When Alma mentioned that
the illustrious Felix Dymes had offered to undertake the management of
her business, interest rose to the highest point. Felix Dymes would of
course be a tower of strength. Though tempted to speak of the support
she might expect from another great man, Alma refrained; her reason
being that she meant to ask Dora to accompany her to the Crystal Palace
next Saturday. If, as was almost certain, Redgrave met them there, it
would be unpleasant to let Dora surmise that the meeting was not by
chance.

They chattered for two or three hours, and, among other things, made
merry over a girl of their acquaintance (struggling with flagrant
poverty), who aimed at a professional career.

'It really would be kindness,' said Dora, 'to tell her she hasn't the
least chance; but one can't do that. She was here the other day playing
to us -- oh, for _such_ a time! She said her bow would have to be
rehaired, and when I looked at it, I saw it was all greasy and black
near the frog, from her dirty fingers; it only wanted washing. I just
managed to edge in a hint about soap and water. But she's very touchy;
one has to be so careful with her.'

'It's dreadfully awkward, you know,' put in Gerda, 'to talk to people
who are so _poor_ -- isn't it? It came out one day that she had been
peeling potatoes for their dinner! It makes one so uncomfortable -- she
really need not have mentioned it.'

The public halls were discussed. Which would Alma select? Then again the
programme. Would she play the Adagio? -- meaning, of course, that in
Spohr's Concerto 9. No, _no_; not the Adagio -- not on any account the
Adagio! Something of Bach's? -- yes; perhaps the Chaconne. And Brahms?
There was the Sonata in A for violin and piano. A stiff piece, but one
must not be too popular -- Heaven forbid that one should catch at cheap
applause! How about a trio? What was that thing of Dvorak's, at St
James's Hall not long ago? Yes, the trio in B flat -- piano, violin, and
'cello. At least a score of pieces were jotted down, some from memory,
some picked out of old programmes, of which Dora produced a great
portfolio. Interruption came at length -- a servant entering to say that
Mrs. Leach felt so ill, she wished the doctor to be summoned.

'Oh, bother Mamma and her illnesses!' exclaimed the vivacious Gerda when
the intruder was waved off. 'It's all nonsense, you know. She will
quarrel with servants and get herself into a state. It'll have to be a
boarding-house; I see it coming nearer every day.'

Having made an appointment with Dora for next Saturday, Alma took leave,
and went home in excellent spirits. Everything seemed to plan itself;
the time had come, the moment of destiny. Doubtless she had been wise in
waiting thus long. Had she come forward only a year or so after her
father's tragedy, people might have said she was making profit of a
vulgar sensation; it would have seemed in bad taste; necessity would
have appeared to urge her. Now, such remarks were impossible. Mrs. Harvey
Rolfe sounded much better than Miss Alma Frothingham. By-the-bye, was it
to be 'Mrs.', or ought she to call herself 'Madame'? People did use the
Madame, even with an English name. Madame Rolfe? Madame Harvey Rolfe?
That made her laugh; it had a touch of the ridiculous; it suggested
millinery rather than music. Better to reject such silly affectations
and use her proper name boldly.

It was to be expected, of course, that people in general would soon
discover her maiden name. Whispers would go round; facts might even get
into the newspapers. Well? She herself had done nothing to be ashamed
of, and if curiosity helped her to success, why, so much the better. In
all likelihood it _would_ help her; but she did not dwell upon this
adventitious encouragement. A more legitimate source of hope revealed
itself in Mrs. Strangeways' allusion to her personal advantages. She was
not ill-looking; on that point there needed no flatterer's assurance.
Her looks, if anything, had improved, and possibly she owed something to
her experiment in 'simplicity', to the air of mountain and of sea. Felix
Dymes, Cyrus Redgrave, not to speak of certain other people -- no
matter. For all that, she must pay grave attention to the subject of
dress. Her recital would doubtless be given in the afternoon, according
to custom; so that it was not a case of _grande tenue_; but her attire
must be nothing short of perfection in its kind. Could she speak about
it with Sibyl? Perhaps -- yet perhaps not. She was very anxious to see
Sibyl, and felt that a great deal depended upon their coming interview.

This took place on Tuesday; for Sibyl replied at once to the note, and
begged her to come without delay. 'Tuesday at twelve. I do little in
these gloomy days but read -- am becoming quite a bookworm. Why have you
been silent so long? I was on the very point of writing to you, for I
wish to see you particularly.'

And, when the servant opened her door, Sibyl was discovered in the
attitude of a severe student, bending over a table on which lay many
volumes. She would not have been herself had there appeared any neglect
or unbecomingness in her costume, but she wore the least pretentious of
morning gowns, close at throat and wrist, which aided her look of mental
concentration and alertness. She rose with alacrity, and the visitor,
using her utmost keenness in scrutiny of countenance, found that her own
eyes, not Sibyl's, were the first to fall.

'Yes -- working as if I had an examination to pass. It's the best thing
in weather such as this -- keeps one in health, I believe. You, of
course, have your music, which answers the same purpose. I'm going in
for the Renaissance; always wished to make a thorough study of it. Hugh
is appalled; he never imagined I had so much energy. He says I shall be
writing a book next -- and why not?'

'Of course you could,' replied Alma. 'You're clever enough for
anything.'

Her suspicions evaporated in this cosy cloister. She wondered how she
could have conceived such a thought of Sibyl, who, dressed so simply,
had a girlish air, a beauty as of maidenhood. Exhilarated by her
ambitious hopes, she turned in heart to the old friendship, felt her
admiration revive, and spoke it freely.

'I know I'm not stupid,' said Sibyl, leaning back as if a little weary;
'and there's the pity of it, that I've never made more use of my brains.
Of course, those years abroad were lost, though I suppose I got to know
a little more of the world. And since we came back I have had no peace
of mind. Did you guess that? Perhaps your husband knew about things from
Hugh?'

'I was afraid you might be getting rather anxious; but as you never said
anything yourself ----'

'I never should have done -- I hate talking about money. And you know
that things are looking better?'

Sibyl's confident smile drew one of like meaning from Alma.

'Your husband had good news, I know, when Harvey met him on Saturday.'

'It sounds good,' said Sibyl, 'and I take it for granted it will be as
good as it sounds. If that's complicated, well, so is business, and I
don't profess to understand the details. I can only say that Hugh seems
to be a good deal shrewder and more practical than I thought him. He is
always making friends with what I consider the wrong kind of people; now
at last he has got hold of just the right man, and it very much puzzles
me how he did it. I have known Mr. Redgrave -- you've heard it's Mr
Redgrave? -- I've known him for several years now, and, between
ourselves, I never expected to benefit by the acquaintance.'

Her laugh was so significant that Alma had much ado to keep a steady
face.

'I know -- things are said about him,' she murmured.

'Things _are_ said about him, as you discreetly put it, my dear Alma.'
The voice still rippled with laughter. 'I should imagine Hugh has heard
them, but I suppose a man of the world thinks nothing of such trifles.
And after all' -- she grew serious -- 'I would rather trust Hugh's
judgment than general gossip. Hugh thinks him a "very good fellow". They
were together a little in Scotland last autumn, you know, and -- it's
very wrong to make fun of it, and I shouldn't repeat the story to anyone
but you -- Mr. Redgrave confided to him that he was a blighted being, the
victim of an unhappy love in early life. Can you quite picture it?'

'It has an odd sound,' replied Alma, struggling with rather tense
nerves. 'Do you believe the story?'

'I can't see why in the world such a man should invent it. It seems he
wanted to marry someone who preferred someone else; and since then he
has ----'

Sibyl rippled off again.

'He has -- what?'

'Been blighted, my dear! Of course, people have different ways of
showing blight. Mr. Redgrave, it is rumoured, hides his head in a
hermitage, somewhere in the north of Italy, by one of the lakes. No
doubt he lives on olives and macaroni, and broods over what _might_ have
been. Did you ever hear of that hermitage?'

Alma's colour heightened ever so little, and she kept her eyes on the
questioner with involuntary fixedness. The last shadow of doubt
regarding Sibyl having disappeared (no woman with an uneasy conscience,
she said to herself, could talk in this way), she had now to guard
herself against the betrayal of suspicious sensibilities. Sibyl, of
course, meant nothing personal by these jesting allusions -- how could
she? But it was with a hard voice that Alma declared her ignorance of Mr
Redgrave's habits, at home, or in retreat by Italian lakes.

'It doesn't concern us,' agreed her friend. 'He has chosen to put his
money into Hugh's business, and, from one point of view, that's a
virtuous action. Hugh says he didn't suggest anything of the kind, but I
fancy the idea must have been led up to at some time or other. The poor
fellow has been horridly worried, and perhaps he let fall a word or two
he doesn't care to confess. However it came about, I'm immensely glad,
both for his sake and my own. My mind is enormously relieved -- and
that's how I come to be working at the Renaissance.'

Alma took the first opportunity of giving the conversation a turn. It
was not so easy as she had anticipated to make her announcement; for, to
her own mind, Cyrus Redgrave and the great ambition were at every moment
suggestive of each other, and Sibyl, in this peculiar mood, might throw
out disturbing remarks or ask unwelcome questions. Only one recent
occurrence called for concealment. Happily, Sibyl no longer met Mrs
Strangeways (whose character had taken such a doubtful hue), and
Redgrave himself could assuredly be trusted for discretion, whatever his
real part in that perplexing scene at he bungalow.

'I feel the same want as you do,' said Alma, after a little transitional
talk, 'of something to keep me busy. Of course, it must be music; but
music at home, and at other people's homes, isn't enough. You know my
old revolt against the bonds of the amateur. I'm going to break out --
or try to. What would you give for my chances?'

'My dear, I am no capitalist,' replied her friend, with animation. 'For
such a bargain as that you must go among the great speculators. Hugh's
experience seems to point to Mr. Redgrave.'

'Sibyl, please be serious.'

'So I am. I should like to have the purchase of your chances for a
trifle of a few thousand pounds.'

Alma's flush of discomposure (more traitorous than she imagined)
transformed itself under a gratified smile.

'You really think that I might do something worth the trouble? -- I
don't mean money-making -- though, of course, no one despises money --
but a real artistic success?'

Sibyl made no half-hearted reply. She seemed in thorough agreement with
those other friends of Alma's who had received the project
enthusiastically. A dozen tickets, at least a dozen, she would at once
answer for. But, as though an unwelcome word must needs mingle with her
pleasantest talk today, she went on to speak of Alma's husband; what did
he think of the idea?

'He looks on, that's all,' Alma replied playfully. 'If I succeed, he
will be pleased; if I don't, he will have plenty of consolation to
offer. Harvey and I respect each other's independence -- the great
secret of marriage, don't you think? We ask each other's advice, and
take it or not, as we choose. I fancy he doesn't quite like the thought
of my playing for money. But if it were _necessary_ he would like it
still less. He finds consolation in the thought that I'm just amusing
myself.'

'I wish you would both come over and dine with us quietly,' said Sibyl,
after reflecting, with a smile. 'It would do us all good. I don't see
many people nowadays, and I'm getting rather tired of ordinary society;
after all, it's great waste of time. I think Hugh is more inclined to
settle down and be quiet among his friends. What day would suit you?'

Alma, engrossed in other thoughts, named a day at random. Part of her
scheme was still undisclosed: she had a special reason for wishing Sibyl
to know of her relations with Felix Dymes, yet feared that she might not
hit exactly the right tone in speaking of him.

'Of course, I must have a man of business -- and who do you think has
offered his services?'

Sibyl was not particularly impressed by the mention of Dymes's name; she
had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, and cared little for
his reputation as a composer.

'I had a note from him this morning,' Alma continued. 'He asks me to see
him today at the Apollo -- the theatre, you know. They're going to
produce his comic opera, "Blue Roses" -- of course, you've heard of it.
I shall feel rather nervous about going there -- but it'll be a new
experience. Or do you think it would be more discreet if I got him to
come to Pinner?'

'I didn't think artists cared about those small proprieties,' answered
Sibyl, laughing.

'No -- of course, that's the right way to regard it. Let me show you his
letter.' She took it from her little seal-skin bag. 'A trifle impudent,
don't you think? Mr. Dymes has a great opinion of himself, and absolutely
no manners.'

'Well -- if you can keep him in hand ----'

They exchanged glances, and laughed together.

'No fear of that,' said Alma 'And he's just the kind of man to be very
useful. His music -- ah well! But he has popularity, and a great many
people take him at his own estimate. Impudence does go a long way.'

Sibyl nodded, and smiled vaguely.

Dymes had suggested a meeting at three o'clock, and to this Alma had
already given her assent by telegraph. She lunched with Mrs. Carnaby, --
who talked a great deal about the Renaissance, -- left immediately
after, to visit a few shops, and drove up to the Apollo Theatre at the
appointed time. Her name sufficed; at once she was respectfully
conducted to a small electric-lighted room, furnished only with a table
and chairs, and hung about with portraits of theatrical people, where
Dymes sat by the fire smoking a cigarette. The illustrious man
apologised for receiving her here, instead of in the manager's room,
which he had hoped to make use of.

'Littlestone is in there, wrangling about something with Sophy Challis,
and they're likely to slang each other for an hour or two. Make yourself
comfortable. It's rather hot; take off those furry things.'

'Thank you,' replied Alma, concealing her nervousness with malapert
vivacity, 'I shall be quite comfortable in my own way. It _is_ rather
hot, and your smoke is rather thick, so I shall leave the door a little
open.'

Dymes showed his annoyance, but could offer no objection.

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