IX

The very thought of the waiting depressed her; as if a darkness had fallen on her heart in the midst of the sunshine. Her gloom had increased till it verged on anger⁠—the two are near together; gloom and anger are like twins. She grew angry, she knew not with what, and stood up. The blackbird who had been singing uttered a loud ching-ching, as if alarmed at her change of attitude; a moorhen at the other end of the little lake scuttled into the bulrush-flags.

She stood up in the sunshine, lowering her sunshade, drawn to her full height, her features set, a slight flush on her cheeks. A silent and unchangeable resolve had been forming in her mind. She would, she must, she would have him with her. If he did not love her⁠—if he could not love her⁠—there was the end. But he should be in her society; he should feel her presence; he should see the meaning in her eyes; if she had any beauty he should come within reach of its power. He should talk with her, sit by her, do as she was doing; not once, or now and then⁠—continually, till by degrees his heart warmed, if it could warm towards her.

The forms of society were nothing to her⁠—she had already broken them. What the world said did not trouble her. She was reckless, ready for the most violent effort. She did not care; she would. She did not stamp her foot, the resolve was too deep to require a tangible emphasis; there was no fear of its vanishing.

Her features resumed their natural expression, her attitude became easy, but her cheeks grew hotter. Though she looked straight in front she saw nothing. Her whole consciousness was rapt in resolution.

It lasted a moment, and then the question arose, How?

Immediately she raised her sunshade, and sat down again. It is curious that when we act, we stand; when we think, we sit. The difference is discernible in actors on the stage: so long as they address each other standing, the play is followed with interest; the moment they sit down, though the dialogue be ever so brilliant, people take up their opera-glasses and look round them.

Stage-players should always stand⁠—it lends a force to the smallest incident. To lie down is more effective than to sit, it is next to standing; as, for example, the power Sarah Bernhardt exercises extended on a sofa⁠—not a chair.

Felise thought and sat down. She asked herself, How could this be accomplished? She thrust away from her mind the contemplation of the powerlessness of women, and concentrated her ideas upon the way it could be done. She would not submit; she would not wait, to the burden of “He cometh not.” She would force circumstances to her will, and mould her fate in her hands. The precipice was perpendicular, yet she would scale it. It was natural for a woman to attempt the impossible.

All the strength of her limbs seemed to support her resolution. Should she who could race up the steep hillside, who could swim, not only in this level lake, but in the swelling sea, who could run apace with the hounds⁠—should she tamely stand by and see her prize fall to another winner in life’s battle?

The strong limbs, the deep chest, the intense sense of life within her, urged her to the effort, and promised success.

Her face would never be seen at a window as the face I observed. Her nature was too strong, too vehement; if she failed, she would be utterly broken; if she failed, the end would come quickly. She could not live without her love.

Some dim presentiment of this perhaps passed through her mind, for a tear came into her eyes. If he could not love her when she had gained her immediate object, what then? Of that possibility she dared not think.

The question was, How? How obtain access to him⁠—how bring him into her society? Not for once, or twice, but day by day. To be with him hour after hour; her heart beat faster at the idea of it. To look into his face; to hear his voice; to come to understand his thoughts; to have one existence with him⁠—the happiness would be almost too great. That alone⁠—merely to be in his society⁠—would be sufficient reward for all the sacrifice she could make. It must be, but how?

Has anyone thought for an instant upon the extreme difficulty of knowing a person? Really to know him, or her, to speak in a friendly way, to visit and revisit, and converse without reserve, and become company with, and part of their group. Acquaintance is often difficult enough to acquire; to really come to know a stranger, or comparative stranger, is most difficult.

People’s entire destiny depends upon those whom they know. One’s friends lift one or depress one to their level. A genius is raised up to the skies, or struggles unnoticed in the grimy ranks accordingly as his acquaintances happen to be first-class or third-rate. Some men are fortunate from their youth, and are thrust forward upon the gilded shoulders of money and title till the world accepts them. So all-important is it on what level we begin life.

We cannot select our company. Our power in this matter is simply negative; we can avoid what is notoriously bad, but we cannot thrust ourselves in upon the good. A soldier may steadfastly refrain from the canteen, but he cannot invite himself to the officers’ mess.

The greatest difficulty in the world is to know people. How are you even to let them understand that you wish to know them⁠—which would often expedite the desired end very considerably? Reflect upon the vast multitude of people who enter and depart from London every day in 2,200 trains. How can you know any one of these?

There is a pretty woman in every train. This is a physiological fact which I have often observed, but how are you going to get introduced to them?

It is possible to be invited to the same dinner-party, to belong to the same club, the same hunt, to go so far as to salute whenever meeting, and yet not to know one another. The cordial greeting, the pressing invitation, the glad spirit is wanting. It is a nod and nothing more.

But for a woman to introduce herself to a man⁠—to select her acquaintance and her friend from the ranks of the other sex⁠—is it not almost impossible?

We live in little groups. These groups have not been formed upon any definite principle; they have grown up in the course of time, partly from family causes, partly from casual introductions, also from causes that defy analysis. Each of these little groups is complete in itself, and those outside it cannot get in. Observe a train, you will find that it runs upon rails; another train may be near, but cannot move itself upon those rails; each train has its metals. These groups remain in their grooves.

Yet the singularity of the thing is that although perseverance, application and admitted merit will not prevail to get an outsider into such a group, the merest outsider may enter at a moment’s notice by some little chance.

Women consequently marry inside this group, with someone with whom they have been brought into contact through family connections. Or else they leap, as it were, quite beyond the group, and are carried away by a total outsider accidentally met. If they do not belong to any group, and do not meet an outsider, then they have to continue unmarried. They cannot choose their friends, or their partners; they can refuse (the negative); they cannot select.

Some method is clearly required by which people without scandal or solecism might communicate with each other, and make it understood that they wish to be acquainted. At the present moment, even a man cannot ride up to a house and say, “Sir, I admire your niece (or your daughter). Permit me to visit you. So-and-so are my references. I await your reply after you have made inquiries.” But why not? It would be quite reasonable; people would soon agree to the custom.

However, the ladies would demand a corresponding right. Could they not be permitted to send a card with a few lithographed words in a conventional sentence amounting to a permission to visit them?

The very novelists, with all their ingenuity, have been troubled for ages to discover a means of introducing their characters to each other. Sometimes they cause their heroes to break a leg and be carried into a stranger’s house, where they are nursed, and win a heart. Or a horse runs away with the lady, who is gallantly rescued. In real life such events are as rare as legacies. A lady, in Boccaccio’s collection of stories, ingeniously uses the confessional as a means of securing a lover, showing that the difficulty was felt even then.

Half the flower-shows, the working-parties, the “causes” got up and pursued so zealously, are only supported because people unconsciously recognise in them a means of mixing with each other.