by George Moore
David amat vates, vatorum est gloria David.
Dulcis amor David inspirat corda canentum,
Cordibus in nostris faciat amor ipsius odas:
Vates Homerus amat David, fac, fistula, versus.
David amat vates, vatorum est gloria David.’”
“I should have flogged that monk— ‘ipsius,’ oh, oh!— ‘vatorum.’... It really is too terrible.”
John laughed, and was about to reply, when the clanging of the college bell was heard.
“I am afraid that is dinner-time.”
“Afraid, I am delighted; you don’t suppose that every one can live, chameleon-like, on air, or worse still, on false quantities. Ha, ha, ha! And those pictures too. That snow is more violet than white.”
When dinner was over, John and Mr Hare walked out on the terrace. The carriage waited in the wet in front of the great oak portal; the grey, stormy evening descended on the high roofs, smearing the red out of the walls and buttresses, and melancholy and tall the red college seemed amid its dwarf plantation, now filled with night wind and drifting leaves. Shadow and mist had floated out of the shallows above the crests of the valley, and the lamps of the farm-houses gleamed into a pale existence.
“And now tell me what I am to say to your mother. Will you come home for Christmas?”
“I suppose I must. I suppose it would seem so unkind if I didn’t. I cannot account even to myself for my dislike to the place. I cannot think of it without a revulsion of feeling that is strangely personal.”
“I won’t argue that point with you, but I think you ought to come home.”
“Why? Why ought I to come to Sussex, and marry my neighbour’s daughter?”
“There is no reason that you should marry your neighbour’s daughter, but I take it that you do not propose to pass your life here.”
“For the present I am concerned mainly with the problem of how I may make advances, how I may meet life, as it were, half-way; for if possible I would not quite lose touch of the world. I would love to live in its shadow, a spectator whose duty it is to watch and encourage, and pity the hurrying throng on the stage. The church would approve this attitude, whereas hate and loathing of humanity are not to be justified. But I can do nothing to hurry the state of feeling I desire, except of course to pray. I have passed through some terrible moments of despair and gloom, but these are now wearing themselves away, and I am feeling more at rest.”
Then, as if from a sudden fear of ridicule, John said, laughing: “Besides, looking at the question from a purely practical side, it must be hardly wise for me to return to society for the present. I like neither fox-hunting, marriage, Robert Louis Stevenson’s stories, nor Sir Frederick Leighton’s pictures; I prefer monkish Latin to Virgil, and I adore Degas, Monet, Manet, and Renoir, and since this is so, and alas, I am afraid irrevocably so, do you not think that I should do well to keep outside a world in which I should be the only wrong and vicious being? Why spoil that charming thing called society by my unlovely presence?
“Selfishness! I know what you are going to say — here is my answer. I assure you I administer to the best of my ability the fortune God gave me — I spare myself no trouble. I know the financial position of every farmer on my estate, the property does not owe fifty pounds; — I keep the tenants up to the mark; I do not approve of waste and idleness, but when a little help is wanted I am ready to give it. And then, well, I don’t mind telling you, but it must not go any further. I have made a will leaving something to all my tenants; I give away a fixed amount in charity yearly.”
“I know, my dear John, I know your life is not a dissolute one; but your mother is very anxious, remember you are the last. Is there no chance of your ever marrying?”
“I don’t think I could live with a woman; there is something very degrading, something very gross in such relations. There is a better and a purer life to lead ... an inner life, coloured and permeated with feelings and tones that are, oh, how intensely our own, and he who may have this life, shrinks from any adventitious presence that might jar or destroy it. To keep oneself unspotted, to feel conscious of no sense of stain, to know, yes, to hear the heart repeat that this self — hands, face, mouth and skin — is free from all befouling touch, is all one’s own. I have always been strongly attracted to the colour white, and I can so well and so acutely understand the legend that tells that the ermine dies of gentle loathing of its own self, should a stain come upon its immaculate fur.... I should not say a legend, for that implies that the story is untrue, and it is not untrue — so beautiful a thought could not be untrue.”
FOOTNOTES:
Qui Romam regis.
CHAPTER III.
“URNS ON CORNER walls, pilasters, circular windows, flowerage and loggia. What horrible taste, and quite out of keeping with the landscape!” He rang the bell.
“How do you do, Master John!” cried the tottering old butler who had known him since babyhood. “Very glad, indeed, we all are to see you home again, sir!”
Neither the appellation of Master John, nor the sight of the four paintings, Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, which decorated the walls of the passage, found favour with John, and the effusiveness of Mrs Norton, who rushed out of the drawing-room, followed by Kitty, and embraced her son, at once set on edge all his curious antipathies. Why this kissing, this approachment of flesh? Of course she was his mother.... Then this smiling girl in the background! He would have to amuse her and talk to her; what infinite boredom it would be! He trusted fervently that her visit would not be a long one.
Then through what seemed to him the pollution of triumph, he was led into the library; and he noticed, notwithstanding the presiding busts of Shakespeare and Milton, that there was but one wretched stand full of books in the room, and that in the gloom of a far corner. His mother sat down, and there was a resoluteness in her look and attitude that seemed to proclaim, “Now I hold you captive;” but she said:
“I was very much alarmed, my dear John, about your not sleeping. Mr Hare told me you said that you went two and three nights without closing your eyes, and that you had to have recourse to sleeping draughts.”
“Not at all, mother, I never took a sleeping draught but twice in my life.”
“Well, you don’t sleep well, and I am sure it is those college beds. But you will be far more comfortable here. You are in the best bedroom in the house, the one in front of the staircase, the bridal chamber; and I have selected the largest and softest feather-bed in the house.”
“My dear mother, if there is one thing more than another I dislike, it is a feather-bed. I should not be able to close my eyes; I beg of you to have it taken away.”
Mrs Norton’s face flushed. “I cannot understand, John; it is absurd to say that you cannot sleep on a feather-bed. Mr Hare told me you complained of insomnia, and there is no surer way of losing your health. It is owing to the hardness of those college mattresses, whereas in a feather-bed—”
“There is no use in our arguing that point, mother, I say I cannot sleep on a feather-bed....”
“But you have not tried one; I don’t believe you ever slept on a feather-bed in your life.”
“Well, I am not going to begin now.”
“We haven’t another bed aired in the house, and it is really too late to ask the servants to change your room.”
“Well, then, I shall be obliged to sleep at the hotel in Henfield.”
“You should not speak to your mother in that way; I will not have it.”
“There! you see we are quarrelling already; I did wrong to come home.”
“I am speaking to you for your own good, my dear John, and I think it is very stubborn of you to refuse to sleep on a feather-bed; if you don’t like it, you can change it to-morrow.”
The conversation fell, and in silence the speakers strove to master their irritation. Then John, for politeness’ sake, spoke of when he had last seen Kitty. It was about five years ago. She had ridden her pony over to see them.
<
br /> Mrs Norton talked of some people who had left the county, of a marriage, of an engagement, of a mooted engagement; and she jerked in a suggestion that if John were to apply at once, he would be placed on the list of deputy-lieutenants. Enumeration of the family influence — Lord So-and-so, the cousin, was the Lord Lieutenant’s most intimate friend.
“You are not even a J.P., but there will be no difficulty about that; and you have not seen any of the county people for years. We will have the carriage out some day this week, and we’ll pay a round of visits.”
“We’ll do nothing of the kind. I have no time for visiting; I must get on with my book. I hope to finish my study of St Augustine before I leave here. I have my books to unpack, and a great deal of reading to get through. I have done no more than glance at the Anglo-Latin. Literature died in France with Gregory of Tours at the end of the sixth century; with St Gregory the Great, in Italy, at the commencement of the seventh century; in Spain about the same time. And then the Anglo-Saxons became the representatives of the universal literature. All this is most important. I must re-read St Aldhelm and the Venerable Bede.... Now, I ask, do you expect me — me, with my head full of Aldhelm’s alliterative verses —
“‘Turbo terram teretibus
Quæ catervatim cœlitus
Neque cœlorum culmina
......
......
Grassabatur turbinibus
Crebrantur nigris nubibus
Carent nocturna nebula—’
“a letter descriptive of a great storm which he was caught in as he was returning home one night....”
“Now, sir, we have had quite enough of that, and I would advise you not to go on with any of that nonsense here; you will be turned into dreadful ridicule.”
“That’s just why I wish to avoid them ... but you have no pity for me. Just fancy my having to listen to them! How I have suffered.... What is the use of growing wheat when we are only getting eight pounds ten a load?... But we must grow something, and there is nothing else but wheat. We must procure a certain amount of straw, or we’d have no manure, and you can’t work a farm without manure. I don’t believe in the fish manure. But there is market gardening, and if we kept shops in Brighton, we could grow our own stuff and sell it at retail price.... And then there is a great deal to be done with flowers.”
“Now, sir, that will do, that will do.... How dare you speak to me so! I will not allow it.” And then relapsing into an angry silence, Mrs Norton drew her shawl about her shoulders.
One of a thousand quarrels. The basis of each nature was common sense — shrewd common sense — but such similarity of structure is in itself apt to lead to much violent shocking of opinion; and to this end an adjuvant was found in the dose of fantasy, mysticism, idealism which was inherent in John’s character. “Why is he not like other people? Why will he waste his time with a lot of rubbishy Latin authors? Why will he not take up his position in the county?” Mrs Norton asked herself these questions as she fumed on the sofa.
“I wonder why she will continue to try to impose her will upon mine. I wonder why she has not found out by this time the uselessness of her effort. But no; she still keeps on hoping at last to wear me down. She wants me to live the life she has marked out for me to live — to take up my position in the county, and, above all, to marry and give an heir to the property. I see it all; that is why she wanted me to spend Christmas with her; that is why she has Kitty Hare here to meet me. How cunning, how mean women are: a man would not do that. Had I known it.... I have a mind to leave to-morrow. I wonder if the girl is in the little conspiracy.” And turning his head he looked at her.
Tall and slight, a grey dress, pale as the wet sky, fell from her waist outward in the manner of a child’s frock, and there was a lightness, there was brightness in the clear eyes. The intense youth of her heart was evanescent; it seemed constantly rising upwards like the breath of a spring morning — a morning when the birds are trilling. The face sharpened to a tiny chin, and the face was pale, although there was bloom on the cheeks. The forehead was shadowed by a sparkling cloud of brown hair, the nose was straight, and each little nostril was pink tinted. The ears were like shells. There was a rigidity in her attitude. She laughed abruptly, perhaps a little nervously, and the abrupt laugh revealed the line of tiny white teeth. Thin arms fell straight to the translucent hands, and there was a recollection of puritan England in look and in gesture.
Her picturesqueness calmed John’s ebullient discontent; he decided that she knew nothing of, and was not an accomplice in, his mother’s scheme: For the sake of his guest he strove to make himself agreeable during dinner, but it was clear that he missed the hierarchy of the college table. The conversation fell repeatedly. Mrs Norton and Kitty spoke of making syrup for the bees; and their discussion of the illness of poor Dr —— , who would no longer be able to get through the work of the parish single-handed, and would require a curate, was continued till the ladies rose from table. Nor did matters mend in the library. John’s thoughts went back to his book; the room seemed to him intolerably uncomfortable and ugly. He went to the billiard-room to smoke a cigar. It was not clear to him if he would be able to spend two months in this odious place. He might offer them to God as penance for his sins; if every evening passed like the present, it were a modern martyrdom. But had they removed that horrid feather-bed? He went upstairs. The feather-bed had been removed.
The room was large and ample, and it was draped with many curtains — pale curtains covered with walking birds and falling petals, a sort of Indian pattern. There was a sofa at the foot of the bed, and the toilette-table hung out its skirts in the wavering light of the fire. John tossed to and fro staring at the birds and petals. He thought of his ascetic college bed, of the great Christ upon the wall, of the prie-dieu with the great rosary hanging, but in vain; he could not rid his mind of the distasteful feminine influences which had filled the day, and which now haunted the night.
After breakfast next morning Mrs Norton stopped John as he was going upstairs to unpack his books. “Now,” she said, “you must go out for a walk with Kitty Hare, and I hope you will make yourself agreeable. I want you to see the new greenhouse I have put up; she’ll show it to you. And I told the bailiff to meet you in the yard. I thought you might like to see him.”
“I wish, mother, you would not interfere in my business; had I wanted to see Burnes I should have sent for him.”
“If you don’t want to see him, he wants to see you. There are some cottages on the farm that must be put into repair at once. As for interfering in your business, I don’t know how you can talk like that; were it not for me the whole place would be falling to pieces.”
“Quite true; I know you save me a great deal of expense; but really ...”
“Really what? You won’t go out to walk with Kitty Hare?”
“I did not say I wouldn’t, but I must say that I am very busy just now. I had thought of doing a little reading, for I have an appointment with my solicitor in the afternoon.”
“That man charges you £200 a-year for collecting the rents; now, if you were to do it yourself, you would save the money, and it would give you something to do.”
“Something to do! I have too much to do as it is.... But if I am going out with Kitty.... Where is she?”
“I saw her go into the library a moment ago.”
And as it was preferable to go for a walk with Kitty than to continue the interview with his mother, John seized his hat and called Kitty, Kitty, Kitty! Presently she appeared, and they walked towards the garden, talking. She told him she had been at Thornby Place the whole time the greenhouse was being built, and when they opened the door they were greeted by Sammy. He sprang instantly on her shoulder.
“This is my cat,” she said. “I’ve fed him since he was a little kitten; isn’t he sweet?”
The girl was beautiful on the brilliant flower background; she stroked the great caressing creature, and when she put him down he mewed reproachfull
y. Further on her two tame rooks cawed joyously, and alighted on her shoulder.
“I wonder they don’t fly away, and join the others in the trees.”
“One did go away, and he came back nearly dead with hunger. But he is all right now, aren’t you, dear?” And the bird cawed, and rubbed its black head against its mistress’ cheek. “Poor little things, they fell out of the nest before they could fly, and I brought them up. But you don’t care for pets, do you, John?”
“I don’t like birds!”
“Don’t like birds! Why, that seems as strange as if you said that you didn’t like flowers.”
“Mrs Norton told me, sir, that you would like to speak to me about them cottages on the Erringham Farm,” said the bailiff.
“Yes, yes, I must go over and see them to-morrow morning at ten o’clock. I intend to go thoroughly into everything. How are they getting on with the cottages that were burnt down?”
“Rather slow, sir, the weather is so bad.”
“But talking of fire, Burnes, I find that I can insure at a much cheaper rate at Lloyds’ than at most of the offices. I find that I shall make a saving of £20 a-year.”
“That’s worth thinking about, sir.”
While the young squire talked to his bailiff Kitty fed her rooks. They cawed, and flew to her hand for the scraps of meat. The coachman came to speak about oats and straw. They went to the stables. Kitty adored horses, it amused John to see her pat them, and her vivacity and light-heartedness rather pleased him than otherwise.
Nevertheless, during the whole of the following week the ladies held little communication with John. He lived apart from them. In the mornings he went out with his bailiffs to inspect farms and consult about possible improvement and necessary repairs. He had appointments with his solicitor. There were accounts to be gone through. He never paid a bill without verifying every item. It was difficult to say what should be done with a farm for which a tenant could not be found even at a reduced rent. At four o’clock he came into tea, his head full of calculations of such a complex character that even his mother could not follow the different statements to his satisfaction. When she disagreed with him, he took up the “Epistles of St Columban of Bangor,” the “Epistola ad Sethum,” or the celebrated poem, “Epistola ad Fedolium,” written when the saint was seventy-two, and continued his reading, making copious notes in a pocket-book. To do so he drew his chair close to the library fire, and when Kitty came quickly into the room with a flutter of skirts and a sound of laughter, he awoke from contemplation, and her singing as she ascended the stairs jarred the dreams of cloister and choir which mounted from the pages to his brain in clear and intoxicating rhapsody.