XVII

The happiest lady in the land is the lady who can sing like the adorable Patti. The construction of this sentence is not harmonious, and yet perhaps it will convey the meaning better than if it had been studied. She who can sing like Patti.

Upon the sounds of her sweet throat the multitude hang entranced, and for the song they half worship the singer. To be thus courted, thus admired, must indeed be a pleasure, because it is for something personal and genuine, not for any adventitious advantage of position, not because of a crown or wealth, simply for one’s self. She may be excused⁠—nay, she may be praised for pride and vanity in so glorious a possession.

Such joy⁠—such supreme triumph⁠—is only for woman; for man there is no similar altitude, he cannot climb so high. It is not for any man to be like this.

For him the nearest approach⁠—many miles asunder⁠—is to be able to write a really good Opera Bouffe. Something that will set the feet of all a-shuffling, the eyes gleaming, the ears tingling, the whole body aglow with music, and hearts the better for a merry hour. Nothing so good as a good Opera Bouffe. The music, the crossing of the intertwining feet, the graceful chorus-dancing, the changing colour⁠—there is nothing so good as this in our days.

How many hundred dozen Archbishops of Canterbury would it take to equal one bar of “Madame Angot”?

But then this is far, very far beneath the singer who can sing like the adorable Patti. To her must the foremost position in all the world be given. For crowned heads are only bowed to because they are crowned, statesmen because they are in place, generals because they are in command, millionaires because they have money. But the singer⁠—the divine singer, the divine Patti⁠—is worshipped because of herself. How delicious to be a little like her! Even to be a little like her is reserved for woman; a man is out of the competition.

I came to these conclusions while I was endeavouring to construct this book in such a manner that the reader should see the events and the people, one after the other, without any wearisome explanations between as to how it came to be so. While I was considering and trying to surmount the difficulty it occurred to me how happy the dramatist must be, since he places his hero and his heroine in living shape at once before you.

There they are on the stage⁠—you see them, they walk, they breathe, they talk, they accompany their words with appropriate action, and convey their meaning in an indisputable manner.

They stand there before you at once in their full growth. The dramatist has not to present his heroine to you at first as an infant in arms, then as a girl at boarding-school, finally as a full-grown woman. You understand her at once.

The unfortunate narrator is not permitted these advantages. It takes me pages upon pages to describe a single character, and then very probably you do not see half what I hoped you would see. There is no sound of voice, no movement or gesture to convey the impression. But this is not all.

The happy dramatist lets down the curtain upon one scene in town, and lifts it upon another scene in the country; the curtain falls in England and rises in the backwoods of America, and the change is accepted instantly. He has not to set someone before the footlights to laboriously explain (while the scenes are shifted) how his people get into a train and go down to Somerset, or to follow them three thousand miles, day by day, across the Atlantic. Up rolls the curtain, and there they are at once.

The unfortunate narrator has to tell you how the change came about, why it came about, and when; and to explain every little circumstance, or else it would appear that he was violating probability. He has to show you the why and wherefore, and to tell you how certain people got into certain positions at a certain time. My arm and hand very often ache with the labour of writing just to explain the simplest set of circumstances, which upon the stage would not have been thought of. They would be taken for granted. This is very hard upon me, I think. Could not you let me write my scenes one after the other, and supply the connecting-links for me out of your own imagination, as you do on the stage?

We left Felise and Martial in a very loving attitude, which, however, was not observable at a distance because of the shadow of the beech-tree. But the next day Martial did not return, nor did he appear the day after, leaving Felise to a wearisome uncertainty. Several days passed, and still he did not come.

She was almost inclined to boldly go over to the Manor House and try and see him, but a trifling circumstance had occurred which deterred her. Miss Barnard sent for the album of Dante instead of fetching it herself, as she had promised to do. Felise fancied this was an indication of disapproval⁠—a silent declaration of opposition. His cousins then had discovered her secret; they considered their Martial might do better.

Her conjecture was correct. When the younger Miss Barnard came home and heard the elder’s account of Felise’s visit, she at once pronounced that there must be some concealed motive. The elder sister, full of Dante, looked over and above the lesser motives which animate people, and took them at their word. Her ideal so far elevated her that she regarded affairs with pure eyes, and did not search for pettiness. Such is the effect of an ideal; let us all try and possess some ideal for this reason.

The younger sister, having no Dante, thought more of petty ambitions, and instantly suspected Felise of designs upon Martial. Now as a sharp woman, this young lady (young by comparison) much desired Martial’s marriage with Rosa, whose wealth would be so useful in the family, and would enable them to enter more into society. In short, she quite hoped, under the cover, as it were, of this advantageous connection, to be some day advanced to the marriage state herself.

On seeing Rosa, and hearing Rosa’s conjecture that Felise was the woman, she at once agreed; there could not be a doubt about it: besides, they tracked him and ascertained the direction in which he went. Between them, no doubt, they would have found out that it was Felise who sent back Ruy as a present, had not their eyes been blinded by their own estimate of money. They knew Felise was poor, and it never occurred to them that the poor in purse but great in spirit are capable of efforts which the rich become too indolent to make.

The younger sister, being overbearing and masterful, bore down the elder’s admiration of Felise, and persuaded her not to go for the album. Felise was right in supposing the sending, instead of coming for it, an indication of hostility. Meantime the younger Miss Barnard left no opportunity of openly proclaiming in Martial’s hearing how mean a proceeding it was for a man who had no money to marry a girl with none, and so to drag her down to share his own pitiable condition. Apart, two poor persons might get on; together, they must sink.

These remarks were not very palatable to Martial; besides, he was aware that his cousins sympathized with Rosa, that they visited her, condoled with her, and regarded his conduct as cruel in the extreme.

Just at this time a curious event occurred: Rosa (who was rich already) received a legacy of four thousand pounds, so devised as to be entirely at her own disposal. It is a very different thing to be rich through another person, as Rosa was in the existence of her father, and to be rich one’s self. By this legacy Rosa’s position became exalted beyond all competition In Maasbury. Being of age, she could do exactly what she chose with the money. Such is the irony of life⁠—to those who have, more comes; yet, as in Rosa’s case, it often happens that they cannot enjoy it.

Rosa, poor girl, felt this legacy as the bitterest blow she had yet received. It mocked her. The day she saw Felise pass and recognised her as “the other woman,” she fancied she found some consolation in the thought of her money, which gave her a sense of injured righteousness. That had faded, and now this announcement struck her heavily.

Four thousand pounds, entirely her own, absolutely at her fingers’-ends; four thousand pounds, and not one moment of happiness! Though the legacy could not be paid over till the usual period, still, as the daughter of a commercial man, she well knew she could obtain a large portion of it as an advance. But with all that money she could not buy one moment’s peace of heart.

She reflected that if she had possessed this money but a short time ago, she need not have consented to a postponement of her engagement with Martial. It would have been enough to have freed his farm from every embarrassment; and if her father had objected, he could not have prevented her from doing as she chose. In her misery Rosa was not so dutiful in her ideas as she had been in her days of moderate happiness. She would have defied her father now.

Too late. The money had come too late; her character had strengthened too late⁠—it was a bitter irony.

Since this had happened, of course the Misses Barnard (or the younger and more practical of them) still more earnestly desired the renewal of Martial’s engagement with Rosa, and would have done anything feminine spite could devise to have destroyed his increasing admiration of Felise. Martial heard much in an indirect way of Rosa’s sufferings, of her improved personal appearance, of the forwardness of women who relied upon their assurance, and so forth, till it was with the utmost difficulty he restrained his inclination to order the backbiters out of his house.

But he had other matters to trouble him; he had made no secret to Felise, nor indeed to Mr. Goring, of his financial difficulties. Ever since so large a sum had been borrowed for the purchase of the houses for the Misses Barnard⁠—a piece of unpractical generosity on his part⁠—things had gone from bad to worse. The harvest, beautiful to look at, was worth so little in the market that it scarcely repaid the cost of cultivation. Heavy tithes⁠—the curse of agriculture⁠—had to be deducted from it.

The deduction allowed from the rent was too small to be of practical value, just enough to enable the landlord to pose as a benevolent friend of the farmers. When land itself has fallen from 25 to 50 percent in value, the return of 10 or 15 percent of the rent is evidently far below the true proportion. To correspond with the fall in freehold value, it ought not to be less than twice as much. Disease was among the cattle and sheep, and those that were healthy could scarcely be sold because the markets were closed.

Martial was at the end of his resources, and had not cash to pay the reapers labouring in the wheat, while Love and Time were idle, the sun glowed, and the distant thunder rolled in from the sea.

Felise counselled him to sell his horse again, and he was obliged to do it. Little did he imagine that he was selling her present. Ruy returned to Robert Godwin, and the reapers were paid.

These influences were not without effect; they rendered Martial more sensitive than usual. He felt that he ought not to go into the society of a beautiful woman whom he could not marry, and of whom he said to himself, “I do not love her,” merely because he worshipped her beauty. Yet he went.

After the delirium of exquisite pleasure that lovely morning under the shade of the beech, when ideal beauty came to him unsought, when the dream of his life descended to him in actual reality, as the Immortals descended in the early days of Greece to favoured man, he forcibly woke himself up with a strong wrench.

He would not see her, he would not enter into the circle of her power; he would resist it and retain his freedom, that freedom so dearly bought before with loss of self-respect. By sheer strength of will he resolved to retain his individuality⁠—to stand clear of dreams and ideals⁠—to be himself alone.

For some days, with severe self-restraint, he continued in this resolution; but at last, so deeply ingrained in his nature was his worship of the beautiful, he was compelled to own to himself that he must look upon the Picture. He would not go near it or speak to it, but he must look at it.

Wednesday evening he knew was the time when Mary Shaw could generally be found in the rickyard (it was her evening out). She would obtain him a glance at the Picture.