Sections: General Index Present Section: Index Present Work: Index Previous: Book IV
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BOOK V
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CHAPTER I
I
COME now to a stage in my story which
I would gladly omit, or at least touch upon very lightly. It relates to myself
and my connection with the Carol family. That connection, it is true, is
sufficiently close and important to make some reference to myself indispensable.
I am, nevertheless, strongly of opinion that a far less detailed account would
better tend to maintain the harmonious proportions of the narrative, while it
would certainly be infinitely more agreeable to my own feelings, to say nothing
of those of my readers. Having, however, a coadjutor in the task, and that one
whom my readers will assuredly recognize as entitled to dictate, being no other
than the daughter of Christmas Carol, backed by powerful friends, – I find
myself overruled, and compelled to submit. When I state that I persevered in my
opposition until sundry chapters of my own biography had been actually composed
for me – the said chapters being altogether monstrous and impossible, being the
work of one far too favourably disposed towards me to be critical – I trust my
readers will consider themselves fortunate in having only this modicum of
egotism thrust upon them.
In following my avocations as a student in the library of the
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have advanced far beyond the stage reached in
their own day. English, French, German, and American writers all tried their
hand at such forecasting of the future; but, ingenious as were their attempts,
there is one respect in which their sagacity was woefully at fault: – most of
all so in those of France, where ecclesiasticism and political organization bore
greatest sway; and least of all so in those of America, where individual freedom
most prevailed.
The error of these prophets consisted m their regarding physical science as
destined to dominate man to such an extent as to destroy the individuality of
his character, and mechanise his very affections. It is true that the writings
to which I am referring belong principally to a period when the human mind was
yet so much under the influence of rigid inflexible systems of thought in
religion, politics, and society, as to make it very difficult for men to realize
the true nature and functions of the new power which was to regenerate the
earth. They thought that in exchanging Dogma for Science they would merely be
exchanging one hard master for another. As it had ever been the aim of Dogma to
crystallize, if not to suppress, all the humanity of human nature; so it would,
they supposed, be the business of science to deprive character of individuality,
and life of contrast and variety, by making all men alike, and converting the
world into one vast Chinese empire. My story will have failed in respect of at
least one of its main ends, if it does not enable my younger readers to see that
under the reign of Science, Civilization has come to consist, not in the
suppression, but in the development of individual character and genius, to the
utmost extent compatible with the security and convenience of the whole mass.
It is by many a bitter experience that the world has learnt that systems of
organization are no substitute for personal development. The Ruler, whether he
wields the sceptre, the lash, or that yet more dire instrument – spiritual
terror – is, until the principle of Tear be discarded altogether for that of
Knowledge, but a driver of slaves who will some day break out into disastrous
revolt. If I have dwelt much on the Emancipation
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and its great achievement – the liberation of
the National Church from its dogmatic basis, and the consequent preservation of
its organization, prestige, and resources to the State – it is because this was
the event which alone rendered truly rational education possible in England; the
event which, by combating and ultimately defeating the spirit of
Jesuitism in all its various manifestations
– ecclesiaticism, communism, socialism, and trades-unionism – and so destroying
from among us the love of drilling and dictating to our fellows, and of making
ourselves a rule to others, constituted the basis of all our subsequent
advances. So long as the State supported this spirit in the Church, it was
powerless against its action in society. Our unreserved acceptance of the axiom
that the prime function of government is the maintenance of liberty, religious,
political, social, and industrial, was indispensable to the fulfilment of the
modern era. The too long deferred assumption by Government of the functions of
the Policeman, strong, energetic, and
ubiquitous, was the death-blow to the tyranny alike of priest and parent,
peasant and artisan.
Then for the first time in the world’s history was a people really free, free to
think, to speak, to work, to win, and to enjoy; free from every tyranny, –
saving one.
Saving one: for there was, and is, an exception to the rule of entire freedom;
an exception founded in the very constitution of our own nature, even the
tyranny of the Affections, – a tyranny requiring not less than any other, the
restraint of a developed intellect. What mattered it to me that I dwelt in the
land of liberty, where the whole order of society was contrived expressly to
secure my freedom, when feelings which were a part of myself, and from which I
could not escape, demanded the sacrifices which cost me so dear? What mattered
it that the law of the land would have justified my evasion from all family
ties, on the plea that I had a right to my own soul, and that my soul, thus
bound, was not my own, when the law of affection within me compelled me to
remain, even at the price of my utter self-annihilation? Useless indeed, in such
case to argue that the individual ought to assert himself,
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and be true to the lights vouchsafed to him.
The only comfort possible for those who have not the resolution to declare
them-selves in you, and sever the connection ere it has become confirmed by
time, consists in looking forward to a day when the progress of enlightenment
shall have involved even parents such as those now in the Remnant, and when the
inalienable right of children to their own souls shall be fully recognized by
the most indomitable sectarian. It is to my former associates of the Remnant
that I say this, on the chance of my pages finding admission within those
adamantine walls. Those who are of the Emancipation need it not. They have
already long since recognized it as a sacred duty to encourage their children to
form and follow their own judgment in all matters of opinion, and in all their
professions to put Conviction before Compliance. It is thus in reality as well
as in theory, that, the Emancipation repudiates the world-old practice of human
sacrifice.
How my own eyes were first opened, and how I first met Christmas Carol at the
Alberthalla – two events which are always associated together in my mind – have
already been related. My story brings me now to the time when the acquaintance
thus begun was to bear its due fruit.
It may seem strange that I had failed to recognize one in whom my family had so
special an interest. The fact is that, although in my childhood I had heard my
father speak of an adventure which had happened to him in his youth in
connection with an iceberg and an infant, the story had, through my mother’s
reticence, faded into a dim tradition.
It was about eight years after that first meeting before I again saw him. In the
interval I had become a man, and his name had grown familiar to me as that of
one of our most honoured citizens, and not less remarkable for his origin and
wealth, than for his character, genius, and achievements. Since our first
meeting I lad always kept him vividly before me, watching, though from a,
distance, every movement in which he bore a part. I longed intensely, to know
more of him, but was withheld by my constitutional shyness and a not
unjustifiable
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pride, from making any approach. There would
be naught, I felt, between two men placed in positions so different, save favour
from one and obligation from the other.
Besides, the exclusiveness of my family ties operated as an impassable barrier
to detain me from the great outer world. I had, at the time of which I am now
speaking, a twofold object in life, namely, to keep from my mother the knowledge
both of the change which had come over my religious opinions, and of a serious
reverse of fortune which had befallen me. Each of us had derived from my father
an income sufficient for all our moderate wants. But I, being ambitious of
something beyond this, had put my money into speculative investments, and lost
it. My mother’s income was untouched, but it sufficed only for herself. I hardly
knew which intelligence would most grieve her, the loss of my money or the loss
of my religion; for I was far from being convinced that her piety was of that
unpractical sort which leads some persons to regard spiritual prosperity as a
satisfactory counterpoise to temporal adversity. However, either would cause her
acute agony, and embitter the remainder of her days. I determined, therefore, to
make no apparent diminution in the cost of my living, but to earn the means by
steadfast labour. Even here my adherence to the Remnant stood in my way. I could
not look beyond our own circle either for the objects or for the rewards of my
work. All must be done within the narrow limits of the Sect, or my labours would
be regarded as unhallowed, and myself as reprobate. Even in making excuses for
my newly found faculty of industry, I was forced sometimes to sail so near the
wind as to feel very un-comfortable at the deceit I was practising. It was only
by persuading myself that the bigotry in deference to which I was acting, was a
sort of madness, and that it is lawful to deceive a madman for his own benefit,
that I managed to reconcile myself to the necessity. If I committed a wrong in
thus acting, the compensation must be found in the motive that prompted it. It
was solely to spare my mother the misery which a knowledge of the truth would
have caused her.
That she ought not to have experienced unhappiness at my
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following my own judgment, and asserting my
own individuality of character, I am well aware. But it is a fixed idea among
parents in the Remnant, that they are so infallibly right in their own notions
respecting all things, that their children are hopelessly lost if they venture
to differ from them. So saturated are they with a sense of the Absolute, as to
have no comprehension whatever of the Relative. It may be asked why, when I had
learnt to rejoice in my new-found liberty of soul, I did not seek to make my
mother a sharer in my joy. The answer is easy. I did not think she would be
damned for not believing as I did. Whereas she was certain I should be damned
for not believing as she did. I could not be guilty of the cruelty of letting my
mother know – at least in this life, where I could prevent it – that I was to be
damned.
I preferred that she should think me stingy. I know that she thought I had
become unreasonably economical, and absurdly industrious. I know, too, that she
feared the effect of my devotion to my work on my soul’s prospects. Absorbed in
worldly labour, I was apt to be withdrawn from God. This was a favourite notion
in the Remnant. All doing was so likely to be wrong-doing, that they held it
better to do nothing than run the risk of doing wrong. My art underwent a
change. The demand for paintings of sacred subjects being confined to our own
sect, the sale was too small to answer my purpose. Besides, I had become tired
of producing them. With my emancipation from bondage I had learnt to recognize
the beauty and sanctity of humanity and its affections. I painted a series of
tableaux illustrative of my new phase, but unfortunately was not sufficiently
careful to conceal them from my mother’s watchful eyes. She reproached me for
venturing so near the “broad path.” I took them to the publishing office of an
Art and Literature Association of high standing, and whose agent I had heard
well spoken of. Telling this man my business, I enjoined him to keep my name
absolutely secret.
He was greatly surprised at the request, and said it was quite a new thing to
him that an artist should refuse the fame of his work. “Was it diffidence?” he
would venture to ask; “because
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there was sufficient talent in the drawings
to render such a sentiment misplaced.”
I told him that my reasons were connected with private family circumstances,
which, while they induced me to work for pay, compelled me also to work unknown
– unknown, that was, to my relatives.
“Your work would be much more valuable,’’ he said, “with a name to it.”
I replied that I was aware of that, but for the present, at least, must be
content to be a loser to that extent. Of the two, fames, not fame, must be my lot for the
present.
He explained to me that he was only a publishing agent for an Association of
Authors, and that it would be necessary to submit them to a committee. “We
never,” he continued, “Issue any works unless it appears to us to possess a
certain amount of merit, and likely to be acceptable to some class of society, –
what class does not matter to us. Our imprimatur being sufficient to insure us
against loss, we are able to publish everything at our own risk, taking only a
small percentage of the profits to reimburse outlay and expenses. And as artists
do not care to quaff their wine out of the skulls of their brethren, the rest
goes to the author.”
I left my work with him, and a few days afterwards received a note saying that
the committee had been struck not only by the originality and execution of the
designs, but also by the continuity of idea existing between them, and were
willing to publish them in a volume, if I would provide a story to which they
might serve as illustrations. But a name must be attached, though not
necessarily the real name.
To this I consented, and adopting a pseudonym, set to work in the new direction.
I was by no means satisfied with the result, but the committee and their agent
were. The time thus occupied, too, was so long, for I got on but slowly, that
only the hope of succeeding in laying a foundation for future success reconciled
me to the privations I was forced to undergo rather than get into debt for my
living. My mother noticed my loss of appetite at home. I led her to believe I
had eaten
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something while out. I really had lost my
appetite, for I was sick and harassed with delay and apprehension.
The publication paid for itself, but brought me little beyond some favourable
notices in the press. The agent, however, assured me that I had made a good
beginning, and my future work would be sought for, and encouraged me to
persevere in both lines. In the meantime I was at my wits’ end to keep up
appearances at home. My clothes became too shabby for me to appear at the social
gatherings of our set; and I had to make every decent excuse I could think of
for not accompanying my mother to the place of worship where alone, in ‘her
view, a soul could gain a certainty of safety.
My physical strength became so reduced, that my mind was affected also. I
actually envied those who had none to grieve over them if they committed
suicide. The object of all my endeavours being to save my mother from sorrow on
whatever score, suicide was one of the last things I could, consistently,
contemplate.
One day I called at the publishing office, and told the agent that if he could
not dispose of the originals of my drawings I would take them home. He said that
some enquiries had lately been made by a person who would only purchase them on
condition of knowing the artist’s real name. He added, with a somewhat singular
expression of countenance, that if he were in my place he should think twice
before refusing the terms. But that, of course, pride must be paid for.
“Pride!” I exclaimed. “Do you think it is pride that keeps me back? listen, and
I will tell you all.”
He listened, and I told him all, even to how my mother lived in comfort, while I
lived with her and starved, rather than lei her know either that I had forsaken
her creed or lost my own fortune. He seemed really interested, and said he had
often heard of such a sect as the Remnant, but had no idea such narrowness could
hare survived to our day. After a good deal more talk, he repeated his advice to
let him impart my name to the lady who had taken a. liking for my drawings.
“A lady!”
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“Yes, one of the P.
M.s. And I
assure you, you could not find a better set of patrons.”
“P.
M.s! And what
may they be?” I asked.
“Ah, sir, I forgot. You have lived out of the world, and are not familiar with
things that everybody else knows. The P. M.s is a colloquial term for the
well-known heiresses’ club, and means Particular Maidens. The members are all young ladies
of fortune and station, who decline the association of merely fashionable and
wealthy men, and make-a point of looking out for young men, especially
struggling ones, of genius and aspiration, either to adorn their club
gatherings, or to bestow themselves upon in marriage. I assure you, sir, you may
do worse than dispose of your works in that quarter – or yourself either,” he
added after a pause, smiling.
I was still so incompletely emancipated from the traditions of my sect, that I
regarded all such associations of women with a considerable amount of
repugnance. I knew what they would be if composed of such women as there were in
the Remnant. While the idea of a marriage for money, or of being indebted to a
woman for the means of living, excited my scorn and horror. I said as much to my
friend, for such, since I had told him my story, I felt him to be.
He replied that there was many a nice woman who would be only grateful to a man
whom she could love and esteem, for taking care of herself and fortune, and not
consider that he was under any obligation to her.
I confessed that I myself had never been able to see why it should not be so,
but that I had never yet discovered a woman whom I could credit with the
possession of sufficient magnanimity to make such a position tolerable to a
man’s self-respect. “I consider,” I added, “That the highest compliment that can
pass between the sexes, is for a poor man to marry a rich woman. A man never
credits a woman with such largeness of heart as when he puts it in her power to
suspect him of having mercenary motives in his love.”
I observed that as we conversed, he paused from time to time to write something,
but without breaking the thread of our talk.
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“Many a man thinks in the same way, while he is young,” he said. “But I never
knew one regret the money, however much he regretted his choice of a subject.”
“Well,” I said, “as I should marry only for the love that would make a home of
my home, such an association as you describe would be to me a constant sore.”
“The money would enable you to buy poultices.”
“I am afraid my poultice would prove a blister,” I answered, laughing, and
departed, leaving my paintings for further consideration.
CHAPTER II
THE notion of combining whatever
talents I possessed into a harmonious whole, became especially pleasing to me. I
had always been a dabbler in verses, and now glanced through my portfolio to see
if I had any which would bear illustrating. The artist who is not a mere
imitator, I held, ought to be both poet and painter. There can be no reason why
both modes of expression should not be united in the same work, as music with
singing. I found some which suited me, and having illustrated them to my fancy,
took them to the office. To my intense astonishment, the agent at once wrote me
a cheque in payment, far exceeding anything I had dared to hope for, even after
long waiting.
“Soul is up in the market just now,” he said, smiling. “Always put soul into
your work, and it shall be equally well paid.”
“May I ask any questions?” I enquired.
“Nay, I cannot encourage such inconsistency in one who insists on being himself
anonymous.”
He then made me an offer for the originals of the illustrations already
published. I gladly accepted it, and left his office with my head in the clouds.
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The removal of one difficulty served to launch me into another. I could obtain
payment provided I could work. But my mother’s failing health made her terribly
exacting in her demands upon my time. She could not bear that I should be away
from her side; and to be with her meant to be idle, so far as any paying work
was concerned.
At length, becoming worse, she was recommended to pass the summer at a favourite
watering-place in
I had long wished to see
The physicians hesitated to subject my mother to the longer journey, – to the
North Pole. Neither could she with safety travel by aërial conveyance. So we
went by sea, in the Scot-and-Ice-land Ferry, and took up our abode on the
northern shore of the island. I told the agent of my intended journey, and its
cause, and of the satisfaction it gave me to be able to
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devote the first proceeds of my new work to
such an object. I said also that I feared my work would be sadly hindered by the
interruption.
He expressed a contrary opinion on this head. I was just the man that ought to
travel. No new scenes or experiences would be thrown away upon my work. Let me
only give my-self wholly up to nature, but “nature with a soul,” he said, and I
need have no anxiety on the score of success in art, whether written or painted.
“In the meantime,” he added, “If you can manage to send me any light or fugitive
pieces struck off in the intervals of heavier and more permanent work, I will at
once remit the proceeds to you. You must not be above the production of what the
trade calls Pot-boilers; such things have a use above that
which their name indicates. They are a relief and rest from more serious work,
and enable the artist to return to it with increased zest. It is not given to
mortals to live always up to the same high pitch. The tension must be loosened
sometimes. The universe is not peopled exclusively with archangels. The artist,
as well as the ordinary man, must relax his morals. In other words, he must
condescend to consider what other people think and like, as well as what he
himself thinks and likes. Granted that he stoops in so doing; well,
self-abasement, in moderation, may be a judicious alterative. It has often
happened that in stooping, he has stooped to conquer. Let me give you an
instance. Once upon a time, somewhere, I believe, about the beginning of the
Emancipation period, there was an author who had expended himself in elaborating
his highest ideals of faith, and art, and life, for the elevation of his
countrymen. His work was admired by all, read by many, enthusiastically praised
by some, but bought by so few (for they were books of instruction, rather than
amusement), that the author himself was in a fair Way to starve; for, like you,
he had hazarded and lost the fortune he had in possession when he started on his
literary career.
“Well, he determined to make the public not only admire and praise him, but buy him. So he set to work and wrote
a tale, which, while outwardly affecting to illustrate all the
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excellencies of his country and times, was in
reality a bitter satire upon the follies and shams of society. The rich bought
it because they found in it an apotheosis of Dives; the poor, because it exalted
Lazarus. The sceptical bought it because it exposed the fallacies of the
priests; the pious, because it upheld the Church and respected religion. The
Materialists bought it because it represented matter as the basis of the mind;
the Spiritualists, because it described mind as pervading and shaping matter.
The old bought it because it gave them ground of hope for an hereafter; the
young, because it bade them make the best use of this world, without reference
to a life beyond. The men bought it because it bantered the foibles of women;
and the women, because it upheld their claims as against the men. The ignorant
bought it because they could understand every word in it; and the learned,
because it contained an esoteric meaning discernible only by themselves.
“So the money poured in, and the author became rich; but the richer he became,
the more ashamed he was of himself and of his kind. He had at last won success,
but at the expense of his ideal. Was Satan, then, he asked himself, really the
god of this world, and the human conscience but a delusion and a snare?
“Now mark the moral. By thus making himself, as it were, ‘a little lower than
the angels’ – by condescending, I mean, to an ideal more closely approximating
to that of the general – he had caught the public, and established a rapport which resulted in creating a
demand for his earlier writings scarcely inferior to that for his later one. As
the teacher of a new faith may work vulgar miracles to draw the attention of the
crowd to his pure doctrines, so his higher work had been advertised by his
lower. I make you a present of the hint; and-wish you fare well.”
“One word,” I said. “What was the title of his successful book? I have much
faith in titles.”
“As it consisted,” he replied, “of ideas already floating, more or less vaguely,
in men’s minds, and flattered the most
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popular feelings, it was very appropriately
called, In
the Air; or,
Made to Sell.”
The early part of my sojourn in
On one point I was somewhat uneasy. I had, in one of my moments of depression,
made a rough draft of an advertisement, containing an appeal for aid on behalf
of a student of art, who, having lost his own fortune, desired the means of
continuing his career, if any could be found to support him until success should
enable him to repay them. It was not so much that I seriously thought of sending
such an advertisement to the papers; I had drawn it up merely to see how it
would look when written.
This I had lost, and for some time I was under an apprehension that my mother
had found it. Even when I at length ascertained that this vas not the case, I
continued to be uncomfortable at the idea of its having got into strange hands.
I shrank from the thought of such a revelation of myself.
At first my mother seemed to derive benefit from the change.
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But towards the end of the summer she was so
decidedly worse that I felt convinced the end could not be far off. I now found
myself in a very curious frame of mind. Tenderly attached as I was to her, and
ready to devote myself utterly to the promotion of her recovery, I was
constantly pondering whether her recovery would be the best thing that could
happen either for herself or for me. The more I hated such a line of thought and
drove it from me, the more it persisted in haunting me. It was only by
resolutely refusing to regard them as my own thoughts, and treating them as
thoughts naturally occurring to a disinterested bystander who might be weighing
all the pros and cons of the situation – much, in short, as Providence itself
might be supposed to do – that I kept myself from being made exclusively
miserable by them.
One fact I could not hide from myself. For our lives to be perfectly happy it
was necessary that my mother and myself be in perfect-accord, without any
concealments. I knew the fatal influence of the system of intellectual
suppression pursued in the Remnant, too well not to be aware that a change on
her part was absolutely impossible. All intellectual independence was regarded
as the result of worse than moral depravity. And the knowledge that I had come
to certain conclusions which did not coincide with her own traditional ones,
would be accompanied by the conviction either that I had been changed at nurse,
or that she had given birth to a child of wrath, with whom she could have
neither part nor lot in the future world.
But, however potent my motive for deception, and however merciful to her my
resolution, I could not be blind to the fact that such habit of deception was
far from agreeable to myself, or favourable to my moral health; and also that it
was very doubtful how long I should be able to maintain it. Determined as were
the efforts of the Remnant to shut out every gleam of light coming from the
outer world, they could not always succeed in preventing names and deeds and
words of note from penetrating into their retreat. The literary agent knew my
name, if nobody else did, and so long as it remained a small name, would
probably keep it secret. But what if it grew to
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fame? Was my whole career to be sacrificed,
and I sink to lower aims and lower work, for the express purpose of eluding fame
lest my name might reach my mother’s ears?
It was thus a singular conflict of opposing feelings to which I was at this time
a prey. The very consolation I derived from success was embittered by the
thought of the pleasure my mother was losing through her inability to sympathize
in that success. I learnt then that the concealment of our joys from those to
whom we are profoundly attached, is far more grievous to endure than the
concealment of our sorrows. If grief is halved by sympathy, assuredly joy is
more than doubled.
That in the event of my mother’s death, her income would become mine, was a
motive which, I rejoice to say, scarce thrust itself at all before me. It was
only my resolute resolve to drive all such canvassings away as the snares of an
enemy, and combine to the very best of my ability, my work with her health and
comfort, that carried me through this distressing period, and when at length she
departed, prevented my having any feeling regarding myself, save the
satisfaction of having sacrificed myself to the utmost for her.
Her death was doubtless accelerated by the unusually severe climate of that
season. As I have since learnt, it not unfrequently happens that large masses of
ice become detached from the coast of Greenland and drift across to Iceland,
where they form into a compact body, and for the time utterly ruin the climate
of the island. This was the case in the year that we were there. What we ought
to have done was to go on to the clear warm seas at the Pole; but my mother
could not or would not make another move.’ Even the homeward passage by sea was
closed by the ice, arid it was useless to propose to her to travel by air.
After her death my grief and sense of isolation were very keen. She had many
friends and I had many acquaintances in the Remnant. But from all these I was
now cut off. I was not one of themselves, and did not intend to claim a place
among them under false pretences. That was over for me. But elsewhere l knew not
where to seek for a friend, scarcely
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for an acquaintance. The ordinary
engrossments for men of my age, love and marriage, were beyond the reach even of
my dreams. Putting all my work aside, I allowed the Arctic winter that was
closing in upon the isle to enshroud my*spirits with a more than Arctic
dreariness. A volume of narratives of the Arctic explorations of old times –
when men were forced to content themselves with traversing the surface of the
earth without cutting the knot of their difficulties by soaring into the air –
helped to beguile but not to cheer those dark days. Having some of my father’s
papers with me, I chose that season for looking through them. Among them I found
some lines indicating that he, too, had vividly realized a like situation, aided
no doubt by his recollections of his own early adventure. The lines in question
had been suggested by the story of an explorer who had lost the whole of his
comrades, and remained prisoned fast for successive years from all possibility
of returning to his home and his love. It is, however, less for any intrinsic
quality than for their connection with our story, that I have thought fit to
insert them here, and consented to do the same with those of my own which
follow: –
“As Arctic voyagers muse upon the zone
Wherein they gathered up their sunny youth,
And glow again amid the chilling scene –
A brief relapse of joy, when pent among
Those everlasting solitudes, to think
The sun still shines afar, but not for them,
And ne’er for them may shine: to know that
soon
Those joyless seas may be a burial place
From which their frozen souls will hardly
mount;
Or should they chance to ’scape their
shattered bark,
’Tis but to drag a drear existence on,
A
Thus must I lead a dull inferior lot,
Ho warmth without, but that one fire within,
Cherished as life from the surrounding cold.”
When I resumed work I illustrated these lines – supplying the sun’s absence by
an electric-lamp – and forwarded the result to the literary agent by aëromotive,
a regular service being
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maintained throughout the year. I could not
make up my mind to return home myself, simply because I felt that I had no home
to return to, and was not yet equal to the task of seeking for one. I was not
unhappy; for the release from the constant anxiety and concealment of my later
years, operated to balance my sense of bereavement. Moreover, my mother had been
spared the pain of knowing that I was an apostate. If, where she was now, the
knowledge had reached her, she would with that knowledge, know also the sanctity
of the instinct and the resolve which had guided me. For do not the dead see
things “with larger other eyes?”
The keenness of my sensations under my new position, and the weird wildness of
the country, brought me several inspirations which I duly turned to account,
never failing to receive immediate and satisfactory returns. I thus came to
welcome any occurrence which afforded me a vivid idea, that might be both
poetically and pictorially expressed. It was an additional satisfaction to me to
find that some of my lines were deemed worthy also of musical expression; and
that, through the same kind agency, I gained an advantage from their publication
as songs.
I mention these details by way of leading up to an incident which not only
provided me in the first instance with a subject for illustration, but
ultimately affected the whole tenor of my life.
The summer sojourners in
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The natives, either from use or from dulness,
were insensible to the scene; and my enjoyment therefore was wont to be a
solitary one.
One evening, however, I detected a figure moving on the ice at a perilous
distance from the shore. After watching its movements for some time, my eyes
became sufficiently accustomed to the dim light to perceive that it was a woman.
Now and then sounds reached me as of one declaiming, and the idea was borne out
by the motion of the arms. She passed near me on her return to the shore, but
without perceiving me, and to my surprise I recognized her as one of the
visitors of the past summer; an exceedingly lovely girl of some eighteen years
of age, whose variableness of expression had often struck me, when I had passed
her walking with her companion, a fair handsome middle-aged lady.
The aspect of this girl produced on me the impression that she was suffering
from some heart-affection, but not of the kind for which a sojourn in
After seeing that she had returned safe to her dwelling, I suffered my
imagination to dwell on her, and her strange manner and reckless action; and to
frame an hypothesis which found vent in the following verses.
A maiden stood on a sunny shore,
Where the waters rippled brightly,
And tender breezes gently bore
The song she sang so lightly
“Dance as thou wilt, oh happy sea!
My heart leaps up in gladder glee,
Far brighter rays within me shine,
Than gild that dazzling breast of thine!”
A woman stood on the rocky shore,
Where the waves were driving madly,
And scarce was heard amid their roar,
The strain she poured so sadly.
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“Rave as thou wilt, oh, driven sea,
Thou canst not match my agony:
On sharper rocks than thou dost know,
My all of joy is dashed to woe.”
Again, beside the ice-bound shore,
Where the ocean, frozen, slumbers;
The wintry breezes slowly bore
Her low and measured numbers.
“Freeze to thy depths, oh marble sea;
This heart will colder, harder be!
Nor sun, nor wind, again can move
My stricken soul to life or love.”
Having illustrated these verses, making for the last one a facsimile of the
scene I had witnessed, and which had suggested them, I sent my work home; but
could not so easily dismiss this lovely, and evidently unhappy, girl from my
mind. I sought for opportunities of seeing her close. I ascertained the name she
and her companion were known by, but it was strange to me. So far as was
apparent, they were mother and daughter, in retirement for the daughter’s
health.
My glimpses of them were but rare, and the scene on the shore was not repeated.
However, I saw the young lady close enough and often enough to become deeply
impressed with a sense of her beauty and worth. Whether or not I was absolutely
in love, I do not undertake to determine. I tried to think that I was not, but
that only my fancy was touched, for the idea of coining my heart into money was
infinitely repugnant to me. I have reason to believe, however, that the most
popular able-book in London, and particularly in the Triangle, before that
winter was over, was one which contained the two sets of verses just given, with
illustrations in which the colour-printers had admirably seconded the artist’s
designs; and also a third set, upon the significance of which the reader may
form his own hypothesis; the whole volume being entitled Winter
Reminiscences of an Artist in Iceland.
Why haunt me when I know thou dost not love
me?
Why haunt me when thou never canst be mine?
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’Tis not thy bliss to fill the air above me
With gleams of visions false e’en while
divine.
Why wilt thou still diffuse thy look and tone
O’er every spot my wand’ring footsteps seek?
Why leave me not to tread my path alone,
Unwatched by eyes of thine, so pure and meek?
Yet, no, I cannot with thine image part,
Or cease with thoughts of thee my soul to
fill.
Thou dost not love me, perfect as thou art;
But I love ever, therefore haunt me still!
CHAPTER III
ON my return to
But, while thus abhorring the system to which I had been subjected, and
resenting the unhappiness it had caused me, I found myself hesitating to declare
positively that the evil had, in my case, been an unmixed one. I fancied that I
could trace the development of anything that might be valuable in my
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disposition or character to the hard training
I had undergone I n the conflict between duty and affection. But though, for me,
from evil had been educed good, it did not follow that I should be kindly
affected towards the evil. Besides, might not the character which was capable of
such alchemy, have been, under other and more favourable conditions, far more
advantageously developed.
I said something of this kind one evening, when in conversation with a little
group of men whom I met in the salon of the Triangle. My friend, the literary
agent, was a member, and on my returning to
But the kindness I met with when it was known that I was not merely the artist
of several of the favourite books then lying on the salon table, but one of the
family of Wilmer’s who had been so long and favourably known in the Triangle as
the close friends of the Avenils, and their early associates in the guardianship
of the young Carol, whose name had since been in the months, and whose character
in the hearts, of all men, – the kindness I hereupon met with broke down all my
diffidence and reserve, and made me feel that a t last I had come among my own
kind. A stray soul welcomed to bliss by sympathizing angels, could not feel
otherwise than; did on that ever-to-be-remembered evening.
The group to which I had been introduced consisted of my host, L o rd Avenil and
some of us sisters, the son of Mistress Susanna, a fine young fellow of nearly
my own age, who tore his mother’s name, and another, who at first sat writing at
a table near us, and to whom my host said he would presently introduce me.
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Young Avenil apologized for the absence of several of his aunts and cousins, who
he said would otherwise have made a point of being present to welcome me, but
were under an obligation to attend in some distant town at the opening of a new
Triangle, of which they were the architects and decorators.
The questions with which I was plied respecting the history of my family since
their secession from the world to the Remnant, and the nature of the life led by
the sect, gave me plenty to say without betraying my ignorance of things in
general. It seemed to me that the man who sat at the writing table, though
apparently intent on his occupation, was not unobservant of our conversation.
His face was in shade, and I could not discern his features, but thought that I
could now and then feel a gleam, as from lustrous eyes, resting upon
me.
I had, in reply to their friendly curiosity, been describing the feelings with
which I now regarded the sect from whose blighting influences I had effected my
escape, very much in the terms I have set down a little above. The stranger had
caught my words, and apparently found some chord in his nature struck by them.
For the first time he joined in the conversation, saying, without a word of
ceremony, –
“Your own nature has divined the spell with which once upon a time I found
myself obliged to conjure away the demon of negation for a young friend in
circumstances not altogether different from your own. He, too, was an artist,
but through ease of circumstances was idle and luxurious. He believed in the
superintendence of unseen influences, and reproached them for not interfering to
save his life from being wasted, but had not strength of resolution to make the
necessary effort himself. Prayer, as you doubtless have often observed, is very
apt to take the form of requiring another to do our duty for us. In the
wantonness of idleness he took to gambling, and did not leave it until he had
lost the whole of his fortune. He was now more than ever bitter against those
whom he considered as the guardians of his fate. But he had not leisure to
indulge his bitterness. Necessity compelled him to turn his hand to toil. I
watched, but said nothing. His work succeeded, for it
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was very good, and he made a name and a
fortune. ‘l have beaten the spirits,’ he said to me exultingly. ‘When I trusted
myself to fortune they let it turn against me, and min me. I have remade myself
by myself! No thanks to my kind guardians!’
“ ‘And you are happier now,’ I said, ‘than before your adversity?’
“ ‘Happier and better. It has made me a man!’
“ ‘And without your providential spirits having any hand in it?’
“ ‘Why, they turned the luck against me,’ he said.
“ ‘But if you are so much better,’ I asked, ‘can you say the luck was really
against you?’
“ ‘Ah, I see!’ he said, and added, ‘It is a case, I suppose, of things working
together for good. But I did not know that I could be called one who “loved
God.” ”
“And of course you suggested that perhaps the love was the other way,”
interposed Lord Avenil, addressing the speaker. “But, my dear Carol, do you know
that that is the most immoral story I ever heard even you tell. It is a direct
incentive to gambling. What will our new-found friend here think of the company
be has got among. Come, I am glad you have done writing. I have been wanting to
introduce you to the son of your earliest nurse, Lawrence Wilmer, in whose arms
you were first dandled on the iceberg, and to whose ingenuity you owe your very
name.”
“I am glad you did not introduce us before,” said the other, rising and
advancing to me with the look in his eyes and over his whole countenance that I
well remembered, – the look that perforce drew all men to him. “I am glad you
did not introduce us before. The delay has enabled me to wish to know the son of my dear lost
Lawrence Wilmer for his own sake, as well as for his father’s. But you must
know,” he added, “that unless I am very much mistaken, this is not our first
interview. Am I not right?” he said, addressing me.
“It is so, indeed,” I said, “and that first interview has never left my memory.
But I did not think our few moment’s converse
(p.
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in the Alberthalla could have enabled you to
remember me. Besides, I was but a lad then.”
“Ah,” he replied, “I read souls, not faces merely. And I am disposed to think
that though your face be older, your soul is younger than it then was.”
The conversation which followed was of a kind the most grateful to me, making me
feel that from an adventurer and an outcast, I had become a member of a family
and a home. I was about to retire with the friend who had brought me, but was
stopped by Carol, who said that he would take it as a great favour if I would
accompany him to his own rooms, as he wished some further converse with me. He
then walked some steps with the literary agent, and I heard him on parting from
him say, –
“My dear sir, you have performed my commission to my complete satisfaction, and
earned my warm gratitude. He seems all that you have described him.”
Then rejoining the party, he said, –
“Avenil, you will forgive my appropriation of our friend for the rest of the
evening. There is much that I wish to talk about with him. Indeed, you must not
be surprised if l grudge a large share of him at all.”
Thus I found myself installed more as a son than as a stranger in the private
dwelling-rooms of Christmas Carol. The only change I noted in him was that he
seemed at times less buoyant of manner and spirit than he had at first appeared
to me, as if through the burden of some present grief. But this was only when
silent. In conversing he was all himself.
To my surprise, what he took most interest in was my recent sojourn in
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I told him all I had seen that bore on the subject, not concealing the sentiment
which had been evoked in my breast. I acknowledged my ignorance as to how far
love or compassion predominated in me. That the damsel was as pure and good as
she was beautiful and sad, I declared that I had no manner of doubt, and should
esteem myself fortunate could I have the privilege of consoling her.
He said that, artist-like, I had evidently constructed a complete romance upon a
slender foundation; and that it would probably be better for my career as an
artist, as well as for my happiness, were I to keep to my dream, and shun the
reality. He added with a smile, which appeared to me to have in it more of
sadness than of mirth, that he hoped I was not seriously smitten.
I replied that I did not think I was at present, but felt that I might very
easily become so, inasmuch as I was singularly amenable to the influence of
faces and voices, and had considerable faith in my faculty of divining character
by them. I added that the conclusion which now seemed to me most probable, was
that this young lady was suffering as much through her own act as through that
of another, for I had read in her looks contrition as well as resignation; yet
nevertheless, I was convinced that even if she had herself committed a wrong, it
was not through lack, but through excess of heart; and I could forgive any act
that had been thus prompted, no matter what it might be. “In the sect in which I
was brought up,” I added, “we profess to hold in high estimation a book which we
are taught to believe is now-a-days little considered by any hut ourselves, –
not that we understand it, or get much beside harm from it. I have, however,
always found a mighty significance in one of its utterances. It is this: – ‘Her
sins, which are many, are forgiven her, for she loved much.’ My own people,
following, I believe, some of the early Christian fathers, hold that this
sentence ought to “be expunged, as having an immoral tendency. For me, it
contains the whole gospel. I cannot bring myself even to regard as sin that
which is done for love, and not for self.”
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I suffered myself to be led on in this way, seeing that, so far from attempting
to direct the conversation into another channel, he was at least content with
the topic. To myself it was so great a relief, after my life of suppression and
reticence, to utter my mind freely to one whom I intuitively recognized as
capable of comprehending me, that I experienced not the slightest pang at such
departure from my habitual reserve.
“We have left far behind us,” he remarked, in an absent, meditative manner, “The
times in which love and sin were commonly linked together in people’s minds. Sin
now-a-days is associated with breach of contract, or unfaithfulness, both being
forms of selfishness. However imprudent an individual may be in yielding to the
impulses of love, there is no sin unless some one be defrauded thereby, though,
of course, there may be much inconvenience. This is now the popular and general
sentiment on the subject, and humanity has gained infinitely in happiness since
its adoption. Still, I can imagine a nature so constituted ns to feel bitter
mortification on the score of having ignored the judgment of those who were
entitled to be taken into confidence, – a mortification that would constitute
repentance, and make a second and like defect of conduct impossible.”
I said that it seemed to me that the sentiment of mortification was scarcely
possible, except in one who had previously regarded himself as infallible. That
as I read life, it is a series of lessons from experience; by its very
constitution involving error, even error moral as well as intellectual.
“The old contest,” he said, manifestly speaking to himself rather than to me,
“between experience and intuition. I have taught her to follow heart alone, even
as I myself have followed it, and naught but sorrow has come of it, sorrow to
both of us.”
Here the clock seemed to have caught his eye, for he said, looking at it, –
“There will be no more signals tonight. I thank you for having given me your
company thus late. Tomorrow, if I am not making too great a demand upon you, I
shall have matters of greater interest to impart to you. I quite long for the
time
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when you will become a resident with us.
Avenil says it will be like old times to have a Wilmer once more in the
Triangle. I wonder whether you will find in any of his nieces a charm to
counteract your recent impression.
I left him after promising to return for breakfast, and having a sort of
instinctive conviction that he knew more of me than he bad said, or than I could
comprehend, and that there was a relation between our lives scarcely to be
accounted for by the fact of his having been first nursed by my father on the
iceberg. His conversation also perplexed me. Though coherent in itself, it
seemed to vary its object, and point sometimes to himself, sometimes to my own
recent experience, and sometimes to some third person with whom his mind
evidently was much occupied.
CHAPTER IV
BREAKFAST was already prepared when I
arrived at the Triangle next morning. But my host was engaged in an adjoining
room, and I had leisure to look round the apartment into which I had been shown.
It was the same that I had been in over night, a small and sumptuous chamber,
evidently a favourite one, to judge from its comfortable homelike aspect, and
the character of its conveniences and decorations.
Being an author and an artist, my first glances of course fell upon the books on
the tables, and the paintings on the walls. I was pleased rather than surprised
to find among the former my own little works. My feeling was one of blank
astonishment, when, on going round the room, I found, carefully set up upon a
stand by themselves, the whole of the originals of my published drawings,
excepting the very latest ones.
While I was gazing in wonder at them, Christmas Carol entered, and apologized
for his delay, saying that he was always at the mercy of his telegraphs, and
required his friends to make
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allowance for him. Perceiving what I was
looking at, he smiled, and said that his daughter had been so much pleased with
the first specimens she had seen of that style, that she insisted on purchasing
the whole of the series. “I suspect also,” he added, “That she was a little
piqued by the artist’s refusal to allow his name to be made known.”
“Does she know it now?” I asked.
He said, “No;” and in answer to my question whether she was a member of the club
known as the P. M.s, he said “Yes,” but that she rarely availed herself of her
membership, being of a somewhat too retiring and domestic disposition to feel
quite at ease in the Common room of a club. “Poor Zöe,” he added, “she has been
very much out of health of late, and has caused me great anxiety. I should like
to introduce my dear nurse’s son to her. Can you spare yourself to me tomorrow
for the day, to run down to my place in
We agreed to start about noon; and in the interval I was made acquainted with so
much of his history and pursuits as enabled me to comprehend his exact position,
and feel that he was in no way a stranger to me. I was introduced also to the
room in which he had been occupied when I arrived. It was a very large one, and
entirely taken up with the machinery whereby he controlled the various works he
had in hand. In addition to numerous telegraphs, there were surveys and drawings
of various portions of the
About the man himself there was a simplicity and genuineness of character which
showed him to be greater than all his works. I said something in reference to
the tenets of my old
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sect, – to the effect that his life was a
refutation of their doctrine that the world was so much more fit to be damned
than to be saved that only supernatural interposition could accomplish any
improvement.
He replied that a work called divine, as Creation, if anything, is undoubtedly
entitled to be, would fall very far short of deserving such an epithet unless it
contained within itself the elements of its own improvement: but that, for his
part, he had a strong objection to the use of such words as divine and supernatural, as being apt to mislead. People
might as well talk of the super-divine origin of the Deity, as of the
supernatural origin of Nature.
His reference to his second wife excited in me unbounded astonishment. Not that
I had the slightest right to indulge such a feeling, but the whole aspect and
character of the man were so strongly suggestive of steadfast, undying constancy
to a cherished ideal, that I could not reconcile myself to the notion of his
being married again. And I soon found myself fancying that he was of my mind in
the matter, and had not succeeded in reconciling himself to it, now that it had
been done.
I was somewhat disappointed to find that our excursion into
His longest journeys, however, compelled him to travel as of old, in his Ariel.
He was expecting to make one shortly to
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form several considerable lakes, and many
regrets had been expressed at the prospect of their freshness being destroyed by
the introduction of the sea. The people who uttered these regrets, however, had
no conception of the real magnitude of the contemplated results. Already, he
said, had the elongated Shary, in its issue from Lake Tchad, formed a broad
and deep channel almost into the heart of the Sahara, and deposited myriads of
acres of rich alluvial soil at a level somewhat above that which would be
reached by the new sea. The people of Timbuctoo, delighted with the result of
the experiment, had themselves proposed to turn the surplus waters of the
“Take our surplus waters, and relieve us of the perpetual curse of inundation
and fever.”
The emperor’s engineers had reported that their portion of the work was fast
approaching completion, and that the waters of the Mediterranean and
My meeting with Bertie Greathead, whom we took in our way, was of the most
delightful description. The kind-hearted old man seized upon every point about
me that served to remind him of my father, and made me feel at once’ that my
life was enriched by the acquisition of another genuine friend. He detained
Carol for some minutes after I had ‘parted from him, and then called me back to
say I might always count on a home and a welcome whenever I chose to come that
way, which be hoped might be often.
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On reaching our destination, Carol’s demeanour indicated more uneasiness than he
had hitherto betrayed. As it certainly was not owing to any ill news he had
received of his daughter from Bertie, I was at a loss to account for his
manifest preoccupation; – unless, indeed, it arose from the recollection of his
first marriage mingling with reflections upon the second.
It must be remembered that at this time his domestic history was altogether
unknown to me. That his second choice was a good one, whatever the first, might
have been fairly augured from the handsome presence and gracious manner of the
lady who met us at the door, and after affectionately embracing him, welcomed
me, with an admirably proportioned admixture of precision and effusion. If in
this first meeting there was anything that jarred on me, it assuredly was not on
the side of the lady, but rather on that of her husband, whose manner struck me
as colder and more restrained than was appropriate either to the occasion or to
the persons concerned.
“Our darling Zöe,” said the lady, amiably overlooking all defects, “would have
rejoiced to unite her greetings with mine, but her sad health causes her to keep
much aloof from society, – even from mine, though living in the same house. I do
trust, my dear Christmas, that your visit will quicken her spirits somewhat.”
“Where is she? Is she well enough to see us?” he asked, in a tone that betrayed
no intention of being beguiled into using more words than were absolutely
necessary.
“She is in her own apartments, and, of course, able to see her father,” replied
the lady, marking the last word with a strong emphasis.
“Then I will ask you, Amelia, to entertain Mr. Wilmer, while I go and see her.
He is an author and an artist, and so will be able to appreciate your
descriptive “and creative talents.”
Before he could leave the room, the door opened, and a young lady entered, and,
running up to Carol, embraced him tenderly. She was tall and fair, but with
dark, expressive eyes, and a somewhat Oriental cast of countenance, and about
nineteen
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years of age. Great as was her beauty, it
struck me that the illness from which she was suffering must have enhanced it by
the delicacy ‘it imparted to her aspect. Leading her towards me, her father
said, – “Zöe, I have at last captured the artist who refused to give you his
name, and brought him to you, to be properly punished for his churlishness. But
I must beg you to deal leniently with him, as he is no other than Lawrence
Wilmer, the son of the lad who first nursed your father when on the iceberg.”
As she advanced towards me, I fairly gasped. I had not recognized the elder
lady, – her stepmother; but I could not be wrong in identifying Zöe with the
subject of my dreams, poems, and pictures in
Zöe, on her part, regarded me with a look of almost stupid wonderment, for
which, as she could not by any possibility have recognized me, I was altogether
at a loss to account.
Looking round in my bewilderment, my glance chanced to rest upon the face of the
stepmother. The look of intense annoyance which I there beheld, did not serve to
interpret to me the situation.
Quickly recovering herself, Amelia (for thus I shall take the liberty of styling
her in future) said, in a voice but little corresponding with her recent
expression of countenance, for it was bland to a degree:
“Dearest Zöe, are you not exceedingly rash to venture into the presence of
strangers in your weak state? Do be guided by me, and retire to your own
apartments until we are alone. Pray persuade her, Christmas, to take my advice?”
Neither father nor daughter took any notice of her pleadings; but Zöe came up
close to me, and, taking my hand, said:
“We ought to have been friends long ago. Please let me date back and consider
that we were so.”
Then turning to her father, she said, still holding my hand:
“Now, papa, darling, I am going to take off my new-found old friend to talk with
him all by myself. When you want us, you will find us in my room.”
And she actually led me away without suffering me to raise
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an objection against such abrupt desertion of
the party. I caught, however, a glance of encouragement from her father, upon
whose face there was a curiously mingled look of apprehension and gratification.
She did not utter a word until we had arrived at her own little drawing-room,
and I followed her example. She told me afterwards that she liked me for that,
as any other man would have talked all the way. Entering the room, she led me
straight up to a picture-stand, on which stood some drawings which I was at no
loss to recognize. They were my Iceland illustrations; one of them representing
the incident of my beholding her out on the floe, making wild moan to the
ice-locked deep.
“There!” she exclaimed, pointing to the stand, “I will say nothing to you, and
hear nothing from you, until you have explained to me how you came to paint
those pictures and write those verses.”
Her eager look as she said this, impressed me with the idea that her mind was
still suffering from the shock it had evidently received before her visit to
“I was in
“Then you saw me go out upon the ice-field to drown my-self, and come back
without having done so because I couldn’t find a hole?”
“I must ask your pardon,” I returned, “for the liberty I have taken in
representing a scene which concerned you. Had it occurred to me that it would
ever be recognized by one to whom it might give pain, nothing would have induced
me to take it.”
“You mistake me,” she said. “Tell me how much you know about me?”
“I know nothing but what my own eyes showed me in
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most admirable of men, and one for whom. I
ought to have an hereditary friendship.”
“You may add, and the step-daughter and sister-in-law of a white demon.”
“What! You are married!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” she replied, sadly. “I was in too great a hurry. But I am going to be
unmarried. My heart has no place for the false. Oh, what a fool I have been!
Even my father does not know all, or nearly all. He has brought you to me to be
my old friend. Your works revealed you to me as a friend who knew and understood
me long before we met. Now that we have met, I have with you all the confidence
of old friendship.”
I pressed her hand for a moment, partly in order to assure her of my sympathy,
and partly to calm her excitement; for I felt that she was not altogether
herself. But I kept silence. Presently she continued, –
“You cannot imagine the relief it is to me to find one who can sympathize
without chattering. Oh, that woman! with her sharp-cut lips and careful
elocution! How could my father have been so blinded to her character! But he is
not a man of the world, – I mean of this world; and her art was supreme. She got
tired of practising it when married; or, rather, it was that she found it
impossible to be a hypocrite every hour and moment, and marriage is such a
revealer. But I am afraid it was all my doing. I wished him to marry her. Her
kindness to me was so artfully contrived, that neither of us saw through it
until the mischief was done. There was always something about her that jarred on
us, though.”
Not knowing what to say, I said nothing, but felt that her antipathy, whatever
its object or its justice, was already shared by me.
“Nothing can give me back what I have lost,” she continued, “or remove from my
life the evil flavour of the past. Personally I shall be free, on that I am
resolved, and my father will not refuse his consent, when he hears what I have
to tell him, much as he hates divorces for any.” The law allows divorce to those
who are married under a false pretence. But how will it be
(p.
400)
with him? It is true that there is virtually
a separation between them, but I doubt whether oven her vileness will suffice to
reconcile him to a divorce for himself?
“What! is she not true to him?”
“True? Oh, yes, she is true to him, with all the constancy of a cold, hard
nature, scheming ever for its own ends. Stay, you are Artist, and therefore
Observer. Did you notice the colour of her complexion and hair?”
“I was struck by their amazing clearness and brilliancy, but scarcely bad time
to note more.”
“Do you attach any importance to colouring, in relation to character?”
“Yes, indeed. The addition or subtraction of a warm tint often makes all the
difference between a true and kind heart, and a false and selfish one.” And as I
spoke, I glanced significantly at her hair, which was of the warmest brown and
gold.
“Well, this woman has the cold white hue that belongs to the latter, in her
yellow metallic hair and dear skin. Oh! the spectroscopists must be right, when
they say that races and temperaments vary according to the metals which enter
into their composition. For I am sure that an analysis of Amelia would reveal
very strongly the lines indicating the presence of tin and copper, or whatever
may be the constituents of brass. My mother bad the rich warm auburn, though
much lighter than mine. I know little of her, save that she had been reared in
tropical
“Then his second marriage was scarcely one of mere affection?”
“He thought it was on her side, so well “did she play her part. But he was as
much influenced by gratitude, and consideration for me, as by any thought of
himself. Oh, how I hate all the kindness she showed me, when l think of the
calculating spirit which prompted it.”
(p.
401)
By the time we finished talking, I understood that Zöe and her father had been
betrayed into alliances with Amelia Bliss and her brother George, who was much
under her influence. The plan had been for the lady to ingratiate herself with
Carol, by displaying such affection for Zöe, and such exquisite propriety of
sentiment and manner, that he should think he could not entrust his daughter’s
education and introduction to better hands. During Zöe’s childhood, Amelia bad
lived much at the house in
Indeed, she seemed at length to have no other conception of conversation than as
a vehicle for boasting; and, regarding the slightest statement made’ by another
as intended for a boast, she invariably endeavoured in her replies to cap what had been said.
(p.
402)
To complete ray sketch, and dwell no longer than necessary upon a hateful theme,
I may here add that, as the love of display grew with the possession of means to
indulge it, there was no department of life in which she did not endeavour to
outvie all who came into contact with her. The range and assurance of her
conversation demonstrated her pretensions to universal knowledge; and no matter
what the eminence of the scholar who ventured to correct her blunders, the
attempt invariably terminated in a triumph for her, achieved by sheer force of
assertion. So confident was she of the perfection of her own wit, that she
allowed none of her attempts at humour to pass without being ‘repeated until not
a person present could escape knowing them by heart.
Her husband, after his first shock of amazement at the manifestation of these
oppressive characteristics, strove hard to be blind and deaf to them. Observing
with more pain than surprise the gradual withdrawal of his acquaintances, and
even of his friends, from any society in which she was present, he endeavoured
to show her that such displays, even of knowledge, would be in the worst
possible taste; but that when they were displays of ignorance, they were utterly
intolerable to a refined and educated society. Her way of taking the rebuke
revealed an innate vulgarity of soul that altogether sickened him; and in regard
to anything that could be brought within the category of mere taste, he never
repeated the experiment. His next remonstrance was evoked by her habit of
indulging in utterances of the severest uncharity against any person whose
reported conduct appeared to her to contain an element of ambiguity. It was with
every nerve of his moral nature quivering with indignation, that he listened as
she picked the characters of people to pieces, and ascribed bad motives for
their conduct, or scoffed at all notions of mercy and forgiveness, even in cases
where errors had been atoned for by years of repentance and well-doing. It was
only when no longer able to bear the infliction, that he exclaimed, –
“Silence, woman! Do not further blaspheme God’s creatures by finding only evil
in them. Are you so conscious of perfect
(p.
403)
rectitude in your own every thought, word,
and deed, as to be secure in condemning all others?”
“I am sorry,” she replied, “To find that you do not appreciate a pure and a
faithful wife too well to address her in that strain. I will retire to my own
apartment and leave you to your reflections. I cannot be humiliated by my
husband, whom I only consented to marry for his own sake, and that of his – his
– dear child. Oh! that I had retained my independence.” And here she put her
handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed, delicately.
“Hear me,” he said, sternly, “and lay to heart what I say. It is no matter for
boasting to have the physical characteristic you call purity, when every thought
and word is an outrage against every virtue of the soul. Infinitely better is
the ardour of the fire than the chastity of the iceberg, for with warmth there
is a possibility of life; whereas, of the disposition you evince, there can come
nought but utter death. My whole moral nature rises in revolt against the
insincerity and hardness you seem to delight in exhibiting. Unless you amend, we
must dwell apart.”
It required all the knowledge I have since obtained of Carol’s domestic history,
to make me understand how such a monstrous union as this second marriage could
ever come about. I can see now how that the very nature of the difference
between poor Nannie and this woman contributed to mislead him. He had no fear of
any rude impulsive outbreak on the part of Amelia; or of anything being said
save that which was exactly the proper thing to suit the occasion. Actress at
heart, cold, pitiless, and insincere, – many a less fine, less suspicions nature
than Christmas Carol’s might have fallen a victim to her wiles, even without
undergoing the long and artfully contrived process of ingratiation, whereby the
father was made to believe that in wedding her he was giving as mother to his
daughter one thoroughly proved to be worthy of all confidence and affection.
My conversation with Zöe was terminated by the entry of her father, whose face
bore an exceedingly grave expression. Zöe commenced pouring out her thanks to
him for having
(p.
404)
brought the very brother that she needed, but
stopped on observing her father’s face, and said to him in a whisper, –
“Has she been telling you?”
“My dear child,” replied Carol, “I have come to take you and Lawrence to lunch.
I hope I have not left him here long enough to tire you.”
“Oh no,” said Zöe, “he is just what I want my friend to be. He lets me talk on
and on as wildly as my troublesome head prompts me to do. And when he speaks, it
is all so natural and simple that it does not tire me in the least. So different
from Amelia’s fatiguing way.”
On reaching the luncheon room we were received with a glance of the keenest
scrutiny; but the voice and manner relaxed not a particle of their ordinary
careful graciousness. In consequence of Zöe’s remarks I paid particular heed to
her stepmother’s complexion, and was startled at noting the accuracy with which
she had, so far as I could see, detected the secret of that lady’s character.
Probably the marvellous contrast between her own colouring and that of her foe,
had unconsciously suggested the hypothesis. Zöe had, in addition to the pure
auburn of her mother, just sufficient infusion of her father’s darker blood to
give a rich Oriental shade to her whole complexion. Her hair, as I have said,
had a basis of gold, but verged on a deep warm brown; a hue which indicated a
temperament that required all the larger brain she had derived from her father
to balance the mighty impulses of her heart. She was manifestly of a rich and roomy nature; and incapable of a petty
action or thought.
Amelia, on the other hand, had the aspect of one from whose veins all the blood
has been drawn, and whose vitality is nourished only by a cold colourless lymph.
Pondering on this peculiarity as we sat at table, and comparing the lady’s
manner with the account I had just heard of her character, I was suddenly struck
by a certain look about her which at once suggested the idea that, though whiter
of complexion than the whites themselves, her blood was not purely white, but
contained a dark infusion, probably of Hindoo or African.
(p.
405)
Observing her closely, with this notion in my mind, I came to the conclusion
that she was, either nearly or remotely, of Eurasian descent, that is, a cross
between an European and an Asiatic. If this was the case, all was accounted for;
and Carol had brought his misfortune upon himself, by failing to ascertain the
breed with which he was allying himself.
The more I dwelt upon the characteristics of his wife, as described to me by Zöe,
the more did I recognize the identity between them, and those which mark the
race of half-castes that owes its origin to our ancient rule in
This, as I came soon to learn, was the nature of the bond between Amelia and her
brother. He was the sole being, beside herself, for whom she cared; and their
connection with the Carols was the result of a carefully planned and well
executed conspiracy. The sister had, by arts already indicated, gained their
entire confidence for herself. The brother was regarded by Carol with distrust,
which, out of regard for his wife, he refrained from communicating to his
daughter. But his absence in
(p.
406)
warm feeling, and lack of protection, of the
other, to obtain under false pretences that which would be denied were the facts
fully known.
Zöe’s horror on discovering that she had been deceived and betrayed, was based
solely in her own moral nature. Her un-happiness on this score was sufficient
without the added agony of the social stigma once attached to the hopeless
victim of the seducer’s arts. Society now-a-days accords to a girl under such
circumstances, either a passing laugh of good-natured ridicule, or a smile of
kindly compassion, and bids her be more careful in the choice of her next lover.
Its serious reprobation falls upon the man. Thenceforth, he has no chance of
getting a decent woman to accept him. The sex itself avenges its betrayed
member. The fact that I am able to tell and publish this history of Zöe’s first
connection, without doing her fair fame the slightest injury, will, at least for
those conversant with social history, indicate the enormous amelioration the
position of women has undergone.
The fact that Zöe was an inmate of her father’s house, and dependent upon him,
imparted to her betrayal a degree of criminality which would be wanting in the
case of a girl occupying a less private position. A woman who in early life goes
forth from the parental roof to earn her own living and make her own home, avows
thereby her readiness to take her chance in the conflict of wits, and an offence
against her is not regarded by society with the same degree of reprobation as if
she had retained the inexperience and helplessness incident to home nurture.
There is the difference that exists between luring a lamb from the fold and
pursuing wild game.
The bitterness of Zöe’s feeling had been aggravated by her father’s conduct when
he returned from
“Could you not wait for my return,” he asked, “before giving yourself up
wholly?”
“Oh, my father,” she had replied, “I could wait, but he could not. They told me
you approved. I believed him to be good; and I – I – loved him.”
(p.
407)
This was enough for the tender parent. He set himself to make the best of it.
Perhaps after all, he was prejudiced, and there was more good in Zöe’s lover
than he had allowed. He would ask him to come and live in the house, and give
him a trial.
The test of constant companionship soon settled the question for Zöe as well as
for her father. George Bliss manifested all the evil characteristics of his
sister, with this addition, – he had not only basely treated a woman with whom
he had been previously allied, but he had denied that any such connection had
existed.
He was dismissed, Amelia vehemently protesting her own innocence of any
intention to deceive, though owning that her regard for both parties had led her
to desire and encourage their union. Zöe perceived, however, that the statements
which had been made to herself did not correspond with those made to her father.
But the question – who was responsible for the forged message which alone had
procured Zöe’s consent? – had remained undetermined. Worshipping her father as
she did, the slightest hint of his disapprobation would have sufficed to keep
her from yielding.
In their anxiety to be just to Amelia, father and daughter had somewhat receded
from their position of hostility and distrust, and encouraged themselves to hope
that the recent experiences would have a beneficial effect upon her character.
It was while under the influence of this reaction that Zöe had made the trip to
The freedom with which I had been received by Zöe was altogether foreign to her
character. Her mind, which had never recovered from its first shock, had just
been excited afresh by a new discovery, which she intended on that very day to
communicate to her father. She had been dreading the effect the intelligence
might have in embittering his relations with
(p.
408)
Amelia; and eagerly welcomed in me one whose
presence might be of service. She had a twofold justification, she said, for at
once trusting me wholly. There was the sympathy already revealed in my works;
and the fact that her father had never introduced anyone to her in the way he
introduced me. His whole demeanour had said to her, “Zöe, he is one of
ourselves. Recognize in him a long-lost brother.” Even long afterwards, when
completely restored to health, she would have it that I must have regarded her
behaviour as deficient in proper reserve, and it required no little art on my
part to soothe the distress she suffered on this score. Indeed, I doubt whether
it was thoroughly cured until I had recourse to a somewhat extreme remedy. But
of that it would he premature to speak now.
Amelia had hitherto, as I have said, received all the benefit of the doubt
entertained as to her complicity in her brother’s treachery. By Zöe’s discovery,
the doubt was removed. She had overheard in the garden a conversation between
the pair, which convicted the sister of being the most culpable of the two, for
it revealed her as the author and contriver of the plot, and forger of the false
message. Zöe had resolved to relate the circumstance to her father on that very
afternoon. It had been a question with her whether she should do so privately,
or in her stepmother’s presence. I advised the former, feeling that children, no
matter of what age, should never be suffered to witness altercations, or even
discussions, between their parents.
My advice was taken, and after lunch – which the scarcely suppressed excitement
of Zöe, the anxiety of her father, who was ignorant of the cause of her manner,
and the suspicious watchfulness of the stepmother, who struck me as looking on
me as a possible obstacle to her brother’s rehabilitation, made anything but a
cheerful meal – Zöe took her father apart, and left me alone with Amelia.
I found myself haunted l)y an idea which. kept recurring to me with increased
force, namely, that Amelia was not altogether a stranger to me. But I could not
recall a single circumstance in confirmation of it. However, we began to talk.
“The Blisses had a great name in
(p.
409)
“You are probably descended from the same
distinguished family.”
I wanted to obtain an admission of her connection with that country, with a view
to verifying my theory of her Eurasian origin; but I was too clever and
overreached myself. My ascription to her of a distinguished ancestry set her off
on such a flight of glorification of herself and parentage, that I began to feel
myself in the presence of one of the most elevated of human lineage. How many
times her family had proved the salvation of our empire in Asia, how regal the
blood which flowed in their veins, how vast the wealth they had lavished for
their country’s good, how wise and courageous the men, how beautiful and good
the women, how eagerly sought their alliance in marriage, and how great the
condescension of herself and her brother in consenting to associate with the
ordinary folk of modern days, – on these and numerous other topics flight soared
above flight until I was only saved from being overwhelmed by the augustness of
the presence in which I sat, by suddenly recollecting that there was no
necessity for believing a word she uttered. So well had she acted, that I had
totally forgotten the character Zöe had given me of her. But now this came to me
in all its force, needing no further confirmation. Christmas Carol married to an
ingrained liar! There could be no greater tribute to her skill in mendacity,
than that it had baffled his almost preternatural insight. I saw now the
significance of his remark when commending me to her to be entertained by her
creative and descriptive talents. It was a sarcasm! Christmas Carol become
sarcastic! Here was another tribute to her powers. She had turned the sweetest
of natures into bitterness. Truly he was right when he said that she revolted
his whole moral being. Association with her was a moral suicide. I saw but one
means of rescue for him. Under the old laws that would have been closed. They
forbade divorce save as a premium on one sort of vice. Under them Carol would
have been chained to this woman “until death did them part,” all, forsooth,
because she was “pure,” or because he was so. Away with a word that can be used
to describe two things so infinitely wide
(p.
410)
asunder as the respective purities of these
two. Worse than worthless is such purity of body where the whole nature is an
incarnate adultery with all the powers of malignance. Amelia knew that Carol
detested the notion of divorce, and that the soul of Zöe was the personification
of constancy. This conviction was the rock upon which her confidence reposed.
Of course, a nature like hers could not realize its own exceeding hatefulness in
Carol’s eyes, any more than Carol could all at once comprehend the extent of her
vileness. She was too keen, however, not to be conscious of the gulf between
them. But she consoled herself by the reflection that in case the worst happened
and she was turned adrift, it would be with a hand-some competence to continue
her career elsewhere. A man in Carol’s position, and of his character, could
not, she argued, throw over one who had held such relations with him, on any
other terms, whatever her fault.
A message summoned me to Zöe’s room. On my way, I met Carol, who was going to
take my place in the conversation with his wife. His face told me that he now
knew all, and had taken his resolution. His words charged me to endeavour to
soothe Zöe’s excitement.
CHAPTER V
THE same evening Carol, Zöe, and I
returned to
(p.
411)
had pensioned off his wife and his daughter’s
husband, on condition that they left him and Zöe absolutely free, and never
again ventured within their range.
“And now, for the first time in my life,” he said, “I thank God that he has made
divorce.”
Yet he presently added, –
“Had I thought it possible I could save her, I would have continued to endure,
and not put her away from me. For a nature genuine and true, however narrow and
perverse, I could bear all things. But pharisaic pretence and hollow
conventionalism, however fair-seeming outwardly, revolt my whole soul.”
She had owned, he told me later, that but for her conviction that he never would
take that extreme step, she would not have presumed upon his forbearance, but
would have continued to act her adopted character to the end.
The even had the effrontery to offer him at parting a piece of advice, telling
him to be sure and keep her successor on her good behaviour by making the
connection one of limited liability only. “We women,” she had said, “who, having
neither fortune of our own, nor the ability or inclination to earn our own
living by industry, are dependent upon men, are obliged to enact characters
which are not natural to us; especially with such men as you, my dear Christmas,
who are made to be cajoled. For we have no moral sense, as you call it, of our
own, or at least, cannot afford to keep one; though we may affect to have one,
and even to be guided by it, in imitation of you, that is, until we deem it safe
to throw off the mask. Now that I have been so foolish as to lose you by
throwing it off too completely, I suppose I shall have to resume it for a while.
I must not let my next success intoxicate me in the same way. Not that I deem
myself, or my brother, to have failed entirely. And I am sure you do not grudge
our arms such little spoil as they have won for us?”
“Grudge it to you!” he had replied. “Oh, no. You are fairly entitled to every
shilling of it. You have earned it hardly. Ah, how hardly! far more so than
either of you know. May it prove a blessing to you! Farewell.”
(p.
412)
Before we quitted the train, the notion which had been haunting me about Amelia,
made itself clear to me. I now recollected that she had in early life been a
member of the Remnant, though not of my mother’s circle. None had known why she
had quitted it; but the gossip about her had implied that her perversion was due
to her failure to obtain all the credit due to the devoutness of her demeanour.
The character she had left behind was that of being a mere actress, who had
taken up with the most formal ritual for the sake of the facilities it gave her
for compensating the lack of sincere piety by an ostentatious parade of its
outward appearance.
On my telling Carol what I had recollected about her, he said that she had, in
the very beginning of their acquaintance, owned to him that she had abandoned
the faith in which she was brought up, in consequence of the emptiness and
unreality of its formalism; and claimed his sympathy for the painful struggles
of conscience she had undergone, – a sympathy he had unsuspectingly accorded.
“Perhaps, after all,” he continued, “I am unduly hard upon her. Had she been
reared in a less narrow system, she might have found legitimate scope for her
talents as a professional actress. Whereas, under a regime of repression, the
propensity to falsehood has eaten into and vitiated her whole character.”
After we reached the Triangle, Zöe continued to be so painfully affected that
her father bade her retire at once, and sent for medical aid. He, too, vas much
depressed, and requested me to stay with him. We sat up together, but spoke
little; a word now and then, at considerable intervals. He, like his daughter,
preferred silent sympathy to that of the loquacious sort. His utterances, when
he did speak, showed that his suffering was for humanity, not for himself.
“Two hearts, and two only, have I specially striven to attach to myself, and
redeem by love. In what I have failed I know not. Well, well; better to think
the fault is I n myself, than condemn humanity utterly.”
I ventured to suggest that, although we might find it very
(p.
413)
hard to admit that the Supreme may have an
ideal for us which is not our ideal for ourselves; yet, with so many types in
the physical world, it might be that we erred in demanding that there be but one
in the moral.
“Surely,” he replied, musingly, “love is a fire that ought to be able to fuse
and assimilate all.”
I had no opinions myself. As Artist, my love had been for freedom and beauty.
And on such an occasion, and in such a presence, I should not have propounded
opinions if I had been possessed of any. The sentiments expressed by him
belonged to the category of feeling, and to one who feels, opinions and
arguments are impertinences. Placed as I was, an expression only of sympathy was
fitting, and sympathy might well be exhibited in following the train of thought
indicated by him. So, not in answer to his last remark, but in pursuance of it I
said, –
“Yet, if all things proceed from love, it would seem that love must really be
the source even of the differences which lead to our disappointments. If the
initial and final stages of being belong to love, harmony, or identity, it may
be necessary that the intermediate condition involve opposites and antagonisms.
It is as impossible to conceive of conscious existence without differences and
degrees, as of a whole without parts, or life without motion. And if opposites
of physical nature, why not of moral? In objecting to the essential conditions
of life, people really object to life itself. They would have the fruit without
the flower, or the flower without the plant, or the plant without the soil, or
the soil without the elements, OF the elements without the activity which makes
them contend, and mingle, and fructify; in short, they would have results
without processes.”
“Forgive me,” he said, “if I have suffered my mind to dwell on one of your
earlier remarks, instead of following you throughout. You have unawares trodden
upon the heels of a mystery communicated to me many years ago, in one of my
flights into the Empyrean: – that with spiritual natures, sex is the product of
love, not the reverse as in the merely animal
(p.
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world. Without entering on the vexed
question, whether in our own case the individual mind precedes and forms the
individual body, it is clear that what I have said must be the case, if the
absolute mind precedes the material universe. For, if all things have their
origin in universal love, the sentiment of love must have existed prior to the
manifestation which we call sex.”
“So that what we call good and evil,” I suggested, “may be as male and female to
each other, between them constituting and producing life.”
He smiled at this, and enquired to which category I assigned which function; but
I confessed myself unable to offer a rule on this point, and said that probably
it is sometimes one and sometimes the other. Only, that on the theory of the
attraction of opposites, in order to make a perfect marriage between mortals,
the better the one side is, the worse the other should be. And at this he smiled
again – but not, it seemed to me, as implying that he considered what I had said
to be altogether absurd – and remarked that marriage assumed many forms. There
were marriages of intensification, as in the spiritual world; marriages of
completion, as in the ideal world; and marriages of correction, or discipline,
as in the actual world. And here he sighed.
Some days passed before Zöe consented to see me again. Her father took her
consent as a sign of amendment. The excitement which had characterized our first
meeting, and under whose influence she had so readily made me her confidant, had
quite passed away. In her present phase of reaction, she took an exaggerated
view of what she persisted in regarding as her unfeminine forwardness, and
expressed herself as ashamed to see me. I sent back a jocular message, saying
that if it would put her more at ease to know that I was out of the world, I
should be happy to do her the service of quitting it; but that I thought it a,
better plan that she should convince me, by ocular proof, of the extreme
propriety of her demeanour when she was quite herself. I could not, however,
help deriving a certain
(p.
415)
gratification from her self-banishment. For
the self-consciousness indicated by her conduct seemed to me inconsistent with a
merely fraternal sentiment.
As the daughter mended, the father lost ground. Avenil urged a more active life.
His body suffered through his mind. Let him occupy his mind with other things,
and all would soon be well. I was now a member of the Triangle, and saw much of
him. I sought to bring him down to the Conversation Hall in the evenings, but he
shrank from the general view. To me there was an immense delight in the society
of the Hall. Tire cultivated intelligence, broad views, and kindly spirit which
marked it, perpetually suggested to me a contrast with the sectarianism in which
I had been reared. It was as if I had escaped from the stifling confinement and
gloom of a vault, into the free air and light of heaven. It seemed so strange to
me to find Truth regarded as the sole criterion of any statement, and not its
agreement with the tenets of a sect.
The only society which Christmas Carol would receive was that of a few of his
most intimate friends, and this in his own rooms. Suddenly he announced his
intention of taking Zöe abroad for a change. When I heard this I secretly hoped
to be allowed to form one of the party. Either divining or sharing my wish, he
said that he hoped on some future tour to have me with him; but this time he
thought he was hest consulting the object of his journey by taking his daughter
alone.
I thanked him for his thought of me at such a moment, and said that, while I
felt toward him and his all the affection and confidence which result ordinarily
only from a life-long association, I sometimes marvelled at the existence of
such a sentiment on his part.
He smiled, and said, –
“I have known you longer and better than you are aware of. Since our first
meeting, in the Alberthalla, I have never lost sight of you. I know your
faithfulness, and your labour, and your patience, and how, out of pure
tenderness of heart, you strove painfully to reconcile two hardly compatible
duties, –
(p.
416)
your duty to your parent, with that which you
owed to your own soul. I have seen you tried, and found you true, and that
before ever you were aware that any eye beheld you; save that of the Everlasting
Conscience.”
“You would scarcely award me the credit of having laboured and not fainted, if
you knew all,” I managed to say, my eyes swimming and voice faltering, not less
at his words than at the recollections evoked by them.
“I know,” he said, “and regret the extremity to which at one time you were
brought. It was owing to my own unparalleled engrossment just then, that I
suffered you nearly to slip out of my reach.”
Here he rose, and going to a cabinet, took out a sheet of paper, which he
brought and placed in my hands, saying, –
“The loss of this saved you. Do you not remember that it was the turning point
of your fortune?”
Glancing at it, I found it was the rough draft of the advertisement my
desperation had prompted me to draw up, and which, I now perceived, I must have
dropped in the publishing office.
“You don’t look at the other side,” he remarked.
Turning it, I found there some sentences which I had totally forgotten having
written. Sentences which showed that, whether speculatively or practically, I
had so far familiarized myself with the idea of suicide, as to sum up the
arguments for and against it. The conclusion then come to was, that in yielding
to the temptation, I should be giving my mother the very un-happiness I was then
sacrificing myself to spare her.
“To have carried out the project there contemplated,” he said, “would indeed
have been. a terrible waste of your time and powers. But I am going to make a
clean breast and tell you all, even though you may resent my action as somewhat
impertinent. I chanced to le in the inner room when you were conversing with the
agent, and could not avoid hearing your indignant rejection of his suggestion of
a mercenary marriage. Partly to spare your own feeling, I would not let you know
that you had been overheard. I had always felt as a
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child to your father, and in turn felt as a
father to his child. This must be my excuse. Zöe’s attraction to you through
your work was altogether spontaneous. I need not describe my satisfaction at
finding who it was that had excited her interest. Your position at home made
open interference impracticable. I was a black sheep to the pietists of the
Remnant; and to have revealed myself then as your friend, would have been to
defeat what at that time was the object of your life. In all that the agent did,
he acted for me. It is true that I then considered you wrong in not endeavouring
to win over your mother at least to a comprehension of your principles and
motives; for I thought affection, truthfulness, and sincerity such as yours must
sooner or later find an echo in every human heart; most of all in that of your
own parent. My own experiences, however, have now convinced me of the contrary,
and shown me that you reconciled, in the only way possible to you, the
conflicting claims of affection and of faithfulness to your own convictions. You
and I alike may find comfort in regarding such absolute incapacity for sympathy
as a species of insanity. There is an insanity which comes by training, as well
as that which comes by nature; – though too often the one but supplements the
other, as in that which takes the form of a narrow sectarianism. You see I speak
unreservedly to you, even as to my own son. Would that you could have indeed
occupied that place!”
“Is it too late?” I cried, startled out of my cherished secret by this
utterance, and the emotion which accompanied it.
“Too late? Yes, you are fit for something better than to be sacrificed to one
who is about ––”
He was unable to finish. His voice faltered, and tears ran down his cheek.
“Great Heavens!” I exclaimed, divining his meaning. “I never thought of that.
Poor, poor, darling, how terribly she must suffer in the thought.”
“You think that but for that,” he said, “you might have reciprocated her
attraction to you?”
“But for that!” I cried. “Aye, and in spite of that! I
(p.
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meant all that I said when I expressed my
tolerance for the error that comes through excess of heart. Do not breathe a
word of it to Zöe; but suffer me, when this trouble is overpast, to strive to
win her affection, and convert the brother she deems me, into the lover she
deserves.”
He looked his gratitude, and I added, –
“Would that I could believe it would comfort her to know that I, at least, am
utterly devoted to her.”
“Nothing can comfort her at present,” he said, “save the assurance that she is
not despised by others as she despises herself.”
CHAPTER VI
THE great work approached its
completion. Already were hundreds of square miles of the
(p.
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The rock and soil left to serve as a barrier to the sea until the final moment
of admission, were so cut and bored as to be readily carried away, by the rush
and deposited in the deeper hollows of the desert. The agency whereby the last
obstacle was to be removed from the channel’s mouth, consisted of a vast system
of mines, which were to be exploded simultaneously.
The labour of supervising the final preparations had been most beneficial to
Carol’s health. He appeared to his friends to be once more himself. Zöe, too,
had regained much of her old brightness and elasticity, though not until after
she had passed through a most severe ordeal.
We went, together with a large party from the Triangle, to the opening ceremony.
The assemblage of vessels and notables from all parts of the world, made the
occasion one of un-paralleled magnificence. Of course, Christmas Carol, as the
projector and executor of the scheme, would under any circumstances have been
the most conspicuous personage present. But his more than imperial munificence
in undertaking and carrying through such vast operations at his own sole cost,
and without prospect of ulterior gain to himself, and the world-wide reputation
he had acquired for the singular benevolence, simplicity, and nobility of his
character – in some of the ruder countries obtaining for him the credit of a
supernatural origin – these, not to reckon his personal beauty of face and form,
caused him to be the one person whom to have seen, was to have seen all, and to
have missed, was to have missed all.
At a given signal, in sight of the multitudes assembled on land, sea, and in
air, the mines were fired. A number of muffled explosions in rapid succession
was then heard, and the whole mass heaved and sank and rose again, like the
surface of a boiling fluid. Then from myriads of pores the smoke oozed slowly
out, showing that every particle of the soil was loosened from its neighbour.
This absence of coherence in the mass was presently demonstrated by a slight
movement of the surface, in the direction of the channel. This was proof that
the experiment had succeeded; for the movement was caused by the
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pressure of the sea against the mouth of the
channel. A few moments more, and the intervening obstacles had been swept away,
as the sea rushed, a broad and mighty stream, through the opening, and along its
appointed course, towards the heart of the Sahara, that vast region, from which
it had for myriads and myriads of ages been utterly divorced, but with which now
it was to be rejoined in a happy union for evermore!
The success of the enterprise thus far being ensured, the Emperor of Soudan, as
the next principal personage concerned, turned to Carol and tenderly embraced
him, placing at the same time a magnificent jewelled chain about his neck, while
salvos of artillery rent the air.
The likeness between the royal cousins was undeniable; but, I was assured, not
so striking as it had been. The Emperor was much the stouter of the two, and his
countenance bore an. expression indicative of a life of self-indulgence, and
little calculated to win trust. At least, such was the impression it made upon
me.
Then followed an outburst of music from bands stationed not only on the earth
and the sea, but also in the air, their combined harmonies mingling with the
rush of the waters as they hastened towards the longing desert in such volume as
to suggest the idea that the level of the ocean itself must soon be sensibly
lowered; a rush that would continue for months, until the thirsty sands of the
new ocean-bed were satisfied, and could drink no more, and every remote nook and
comer of the desert filled up to the level of the Mediterranean itself.
The music of the bands then ceased, and a myriad voices, chiefly of the
labourers who had been employed on the works, commenced pouring forth to a wild
melodious chant, the anthem, –
“Return, oh Sea! unto thine ancient bed,
Where waits thy Desert Bride,
With dust bespread,
And parching sand –
Her fount of tears all dried –
Waits for thy moistening hand
To cool her fevered head.
Return! return! oh Sea!”
(p.
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The words were written by me without any idea of their finding publicity. But
Carol took a fancy to them, and having turned them into Arabic, and had them set
to music, he made their performance a feature in the proceedings of that great
day. The final verse – that lauding the hero of the event – I ought to state,
was added surreptitiously, and took him entirely by surprise. The whole was sung
with vast enthusiasm; the blending of the musical rhythm as it rose and fell,
with the constant rush and roar of the flood, producing an effect altogether
extraordinary.
Even with night the music did not cease. The whole of the parties who were
afloat in the air, had made an excursion down the course of the stream to
witness its issue from the channel, and diffusion over the low-lying reaches of
the desert. Music had accompanied us all the way, and long after we had returned
to our resting-place and lain down to sleep, it might be heard in the air, now
far_ and now near, now high and now low, now singly and now massed, as the
aërial bands flitted to and fro, ever maintaining their sweet utterances,
careering and wheeling over the landscape like a flight of tuneful curlews.
It had been a question how best to dispose of the vast quantity of rock and soil
which had been excavated; and it was decided to heap it in a mass near the
interior end of the channel, so as to form a foundation for a maritime city.
This city, it was urged by the assembled magnates, ought to be called after its
founder. They accordingly fixed upon the name it now bears, which will serve to
perpetuate the beloved memory to all future time.
There was nothing to detain us longer on the spot. The hot season was advancing,
and Zöe was still far from strong. Carol invited me to accompany him and his
daughter to
(p. 422)
CHAPTER VII
HIGH up on the slopes of the Alps, in
green vales embosomed amid peaks, passes, and glaciers, inhaling new life with
every breath, and new vigour with every step of our daily rambles, we passed the
happiest days it had been my lot to know. Carol was much occupied in examining
and tabulating the accounts daily received from various points in the
Thus constantly and intimately associated with her, and witnessing the abounding
richness and fullness of her nature, I learnt to comprehend and appreciate the
impulse which prompts the true woman to rank her love as supreme above all
prudences and conventions whatsoever. Her soul was a sea which but needed some
fitting shore on which to break and lavish all the blessings of its ineffable
tenderness. So harmoniously was she constructed, that it was impossible to tell
whether it was in heart or brain that her ideas and impulses had their origin.
Thinking and feeling were with her an identical process. In short, in every
respect of heart, mind, form and demeanour, she was all that I could wish a
woman to be, save that she seemed to be utterly unconscious that I was not
really her brother.
Much in her as I could trace of her father, there was also much for which he
could not be considered responsible. Her colouring of character as well as
complexion showed this. She was something more than merely the feminine of
himself, a difference not attributable to difference of sex. It was on my
telling him the result of my analysis that he gave me the history of her mother.
I then clearly saw that Zöe was the due resultant of the compounded natures of
her parents.
On my owning to him the disappointment I felt at her apparent inaccessibility to
anything like the tender feeling I entertained for her, he bade me have
patience, and not betray my
(p.
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passion by the slightest word or sign.
“Nature,” he said, “is the best teacher and guide. The healing of a wound cannot
be hurried, for it is a growth that is required. A premature disclosure might
put all back. Nothing can be done at present beyond making the conditions
favourable to the growth we desire.”
“Making the conditions favourable to the growth we desire.” The more I pondered
over this utterance, the more fully was the depth of the philosophy contained in
it revealed to me. I saw too, that it comprised the ruling principle of his
life. Nothing about him was too insignificant to illustrate it. He applied it
alike to the regeneration of a planet, the development of a soul, and the
cultivation of a flower. To bring out the latent indwelling Deity that he
recognized as substanding all existence, was for him the sole end of the life
worth living.
The phrase, – “background of Deity,” was used by him one day, as resting by the
edge of a glacier, he called the attention of Zöe and myself to an exquisite
little flower, which was flourishing there in spite, apparently, of the most
unfavourable conditions of chilling ice and naked rock.
“See,” he said, “how this plant seems to contradict all our theories respecting
the necessity to growth, of the conditions favourable to it. Can you account for
its flourishing in such a spot, Zöe?”
“Why should it not,” she replied, somewhat bitterly, I fancied, “when evil
flourishes under conditions which appear to us to be favourable only to good?”
“Succeeding so well, under such conditions,” I suggested, “To what might it not
have attained under more favourable ones?”
“Thus do the life and character of each of us ever tinge our philosophy! “said
Carol, with a smile of sadness. “But yours, Lawrence, is not in perfect accord
with itself. The point is one which no man can determine. Who knows how far the
discipline of uncongenial conditions serves to produce that which is best in us?
If I mistake not, you once admitted as much to me.
(p.
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I said that certainly I had found, even in my work as an artist, a liability to
be carried in a direction contrary to the influences prevailing at the moment.
For instance, it was always in summer that I succeeded inmost vividly
representing the phenomena of winter, and in winter those of summer. It seemed
as if there were a reaction against one’s actual conditions.
“The ideal,” he said, “is more to you than the actual, and requires the force of
contrasts to elucidate it. It is often so in life and character, as well as in
art. Yet, nevertheless, and in spite of all anomalies, it is our duty to make
the conditions as favourable as possible to the best, even though we know they
sometimes will fail to produce the best. For what is the beauty of this very
flower but the result of conditions favourable to such beauty, enjoyed by its
progenitors near or remote? And what the evil which Zöe deprecates, but a
survival from times, perchance long past, of the effect of conditions
unfavourable to good?”
“We should hardly have noticed this flower had we found it in a conservatory,”
observed Zöe. “Instead of reigning a queen of beauty there, it would be but a
humble courtier.”
Something suggested to me the ancient class-feuds, by which, prior to the
Emancipation, our social system was disfigured. And I made a remark to the
effect that if the elements were possessed of sentiments corresponding to those
of humanity, we might find the soil, the moisture, the atmosphere, and the
light, grudging the flower the very sweetness and beauty which it derived from
them; much as the labouring classes used to indulge in enmity against the
wealth, culture, and refinement which were the noblest result of their own toil.
“Add,” said Carol, “chiefly owing to the selfishness which once governed the
distribution of those results. Those who had the power took all, and gave back
nothing beyond what they were obliged. A veritable Jacob’s ladder has been man’s
ascent, first physical, then mental, from the first step planted in earth, to
the apex piercing the clouds. In each of his stages, – the struggle for
individual existence, the organization for
(p.
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conquest and supremacy, and the final one of
combination for mutual advantage, such as the conditions so always have been the
results. It is when the parts show themselves so engrossed by their own personal
interests, as they deem them, as to be incapable of sympathizing with and aiding
the higher destinies of the whole, that a state of things is produced which
contains the elements of its own destruction. That is my definition of evil.”
I had long wished to know precisely what form the Universe had assumed in his
mind, and I took this opportunity to make a remark which led him to give
expression to it.
“Whatever the state or stage of existence,” he said, “There must still be a
mystery recognizable by the faculties of those who are in that stage. The
ability to apprehend such mystery involves the passage to a higher class. And
until we have such ability, we are always liable to be in some error respecting
the things which he immediately below it. My view of the higher phenomena of the
Universe may be utterly in error, although I have taken into account all the
facts which I have been able to find in those phenomena, and tried to generalize
from them with an unprejudiced mind. However, for the present, this is where I
stand. Deity, which is the All, has put forth out of himself, as it were, the
whole substance of which the Universe is composed, withdrawing himself into the
background, and leaving each various portion to the control of certain unvarying
rules. These rules constitute the Laws of Nature. Proceeding through an infinity
of stages, these portions gradually attain a consistency and consolidation which
render them incapable of relapse into a lower stage.
“That is, they become, as individuals, indestructible and immortal. But to be
this, they must harmonize in their character and emotions with the great Whole
from which they originally sprang. Failing to do this, by reason of discordant
self-engrossment, they prove themselves unfitted to endure, and so decompose and
become resolved into their original elements, their constituents remingling with
the surrounding universe. It is thus that whatever is sufficiently beautiful and
good continues,
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by force of its own attraction, to endure and
grow; while that which is obnoxious becomes dispersed, and vanishes by force of
its own inherent antagonism to the general conditions of existence. I like thus
to think of the good as enduring for ever, and of the evil as being dissolved
and recast in fresh moulds, to come out good and enduring in its turn. I say, I
like to think this. I cannot prove that it is so. Though at present I see
nothing that is inconsistent with its being so.”
I ventured to remark that, at any rate, he had determined for himself the
question between Theism and Atheism in favour of the former.
“Call it rather,” he said, “the question whether the material with which
infinity was originally filled, and of which, therefore, the universe is
composed, possessed among its other endowments faculties corresponding to those
of sensation, consciousness, and thought, as a whole? Yes, I do so decide it, at least
for myself; and for this reason. If the organized and individual portions alone
were capable of thought, they would be superior to the rest, and able to
penetrate its mystery; and so, a part would be superior to the whole. But the
existence of mystery incomprehensible by the parts, demonstrates for me the
superiority of the Whole in all qualities possessed by those parts. It baffles
the utmost scrutiny of the most advanced intelligence of any of its parts. What
but a superior intelligence can do that? But, beyond these or other reasons, I
have
feelings, – feelings which compel me to the
same result. It is a necessity of my nature to personify the whole, and to
regard the laws of nature as but the thoughts of God. But I am not therefore
unable to comprehend the stand-point of those who deem it most probable that, as
in the individualized part, so in the Universal Whole, the mechanical and
automatic should precede the mental and conscious. Let each be faithful to his
own lights. Only the presumption which leads men to dogmatize is utterly
condemned. Imagine anyone who possessed but a fractional knowledge of our
natures and circumstances, claiming dogmatically to define one of ourselves!
Methinks we should resent it as a great liberty.”
(p.
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“Ah! father,” cried Zöe, “This flower, pretty as it is, will not be among your
indestructibles. See! it is drooping already. And, look! here is a worm at the
core eating away its heart.”
As she said this, I observed his whole frame shiver as with a sudden tremor.
Walking homewards he resumed the subject of conditions, saying, –
“When I think of the force that has been constantly exerted through myriads of
generations, to compel men to hate liberty, to hate each other, and to fear the
light, and how tremendous is the strength of hereditary impressions thus
accumulated, I am lost in wonder at the marvellous vitality of the divine spark
within us. That it should have survived those ages of falsehood and suppression,
is to me the standing miracle of the world. You remember,
So the summer came and passed.
(p.
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CHAPTER II
WE were still in
September past, all hope vanished. The river ought to have been now fast
subsiding from its inundation. From the parched plains of
(p.
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between the two regions to account for the
river’s failure. Perhaps some accident had occurred with the imperial operations
to the south.” The engineers had some time since reported that they had tapped
several springs, the water from which was so abundant as to impede their
operations. The tone of the Soudan, and especially of the Abyssinian press at
this time, was so menacing and even exultant in respect to their ancient enemy,
as to lead Carol to make strong remonstrances to the Emperor, and to represent
that such uncivilized conduct seriously imperilled the country’s prospects of
admission to the Confederacy of Nations.
The report brought back to Carol excited his utmost alarm. His agent had first
come upon the river at Khartoom, where the clear and thick
Leaving Khartoom, he next dropped down upon the river at the point where it is
joined by one of its most important branches, the
Now, between Shendy and Halfay, for a space of about fourteen
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miles, the
Having fixed the point of disappearance within a space of forty or fifty miles,
and finding the passage barred, the explorers determined to proceed cautiously.
By dint of liberal payment, they obtained the guidance of a native who knew the
country well. Then waiting till nightfall before starting, they rose to a height
sufficient to escape being seen, and proceeded slowly up the river, making
careful observations with their glasses as they went along. They knew that about
the centre of the defile was one of the cataracts of the
Ascending a little further, a glare of distant lights became visible. Seeing
this, they rose higher in the air, and continuing their course, presently heard
the noise as of a camp, and a prolonged roar as of a mighty rush of waters, but
with a more muffled sound than would be made by a cataract.
Pausing directly over the spot, they were able, by means of the lights with
which the camp was freely illuminated, to perceive what was taking place below.
The guide soon detected a change in the aspect of the spot. His description,
added to the testimony of their own eyes and ears, explained all. But at first
he was too terrified to speak. Those below were demons, he declared, and not
mortals; for they had dug a hole in the
(p.
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world, and were pouring the river into it! A
further inspection made it appear that a gigantic dam had been constructed
slantways across the gorge, and a cutting made in the base of the mountain on
the western bank, at the lower end of the dam, and that through this cutting the
river was flowing into a deep hollow, for only thus could they account for the
roar of its passage.
To make quite sure, they descended upon the river at a short distance above the
camp. Here they found the stream flowing full and free as at ordinary times.
Then, returning to the place where it disappeared, they crossed the mountain, in
order to ascertain whether it issued on the other side. They even went to some
distance, but found no traces of it. A final visit of inspection was then made
to the place of disappearance, and then it was determined to turn the aëromotive
westwards; for Carol had instructed the leader, in case he found himself at a
loss, to proceed to the camp at the mouth of the Imperial tunnel, and turn his
wits to the best account. He gave “him for this purpose the exact position, in
latitude and longitude, of the spot in question. First, however, they returned
to Shendy, and set down their guide, charging him, for the present, if possible,
to hold his tongue.
In consequence of the mists which covered the earth, and extended far above it,
they were compelled to rise to a great height in order to ascertain their
position by stellar observations. Having at length arrived over the spot which
they were seeking, they returned towards the earth. Here, while still far up,
the sounds of music and revelry plainly greeted their approach; for sounds
ascend from the earth far more readily than they descend to it. The camp was a
blaze of light. Corning near, they saw the Imperial banner floating above a vast
pavilion. The sound of rushing waters, too, rose to their ears. Every one below
was evidently too busily engaged in carousing to observe them. They would
descend close to the earth and make sure, before reporting to their employer.
There was no longer room for doubt. At a distance below the camp, short, yet far
enough to be safe, and a little to the
(p.
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side of it, where the ground sloped rapidly,
was the mouth of an enormous tunnel, and from it issued a volume of water, so
vast that it could only be supplied by the sea or a great river. To ascertain
which of the two, it was necessary only to taste it. This was soon done. Letting
down a vessel, they drew it up filled. The water was muddy, but perfectly fresh.
But, listen, what is the meaning of the chorus yonder carousers are singing so
lustily? The words are Arabic, and the music is rude. This is the burden of
their song: –
“Rescued from the hands of robbers, welcome back, O Nile, to thine own kindred.
No longer shall
CHAPTER IX
ON learning these things, Carol dispatched a telegraphic message to the Emperor of Soudan. It ran thus: –
“MY COUSIN, –
“Relieve, I pray thee, my mind, which is sore disturbed by an evil dream
concerning thee. I have dreamt that thou art the cause of the dire calamity
which has befallen thy neighbours the Egyptians, in that thou hast turned the
This was the answer that he received: –
(p.
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“MY COUSIN, –
“Peace and good-will from me to thee. Truly thou art the best of dreamers in all
respects save one, namely, that thy dreams are not dreams, but realities. What
thou sayest is true. The Nile, our
THY LOVING COUSIN.”
“This takes away my last hope,” he said. “In spite of the fact that the river at
that point is at least a thousand feet above the level required for his
projected tunnel to the sea, I had been trying to persuade myself that he had
yielded only to the temptation of an after-thought. But this shown that he has
deceived me from the first.” And he handed me the message.
“The plea is a specious one,” I said, when l had read it; “but I suspect the
Federal Council will have little difficulty in meeting it, whether by argument
or by force. You must keep that to publish, in case anyone suspects you of being
a party to the scheme.”
“Suspect me!” he cried. “No, no! I may at least trust that I am above suspicion.
But your first thought has indicated
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one course that I must take.” And he penned a
dispatch in reply to the Emperor’s: –
“COUSIN, – the argument which thou hast
used is as unworthy of thy head as the deed which thou hast done is of thy
heart. Unless the wrong committed against
When I had read this, he said to me, –
“What I have done hitherto has been done out of income. This emergency can be
met only by a sacrifice of principal. We will return home at once, and place Zöe
with our friends, and then go to superintend in person the distribution of
sup-plies in
Following his wont when a wrong was done, he still sought to find pleas in
mitigation of his cousin’s act. Anything seemed better than to be compelled to
regard it as a treachery conceived in the beginning. But a consultation with his
engineers showed his hopes to be untenable. An underground exploration
demonstrated the tunnel to have been raised above the level necessary for its
declared purpose long before it approached the
(p.
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river. The change of the stratum to be
pierced, from hard limestone to soft sandstone, had greatly facilitated the
operations, and the downward course of the water through many miles of the
tunnel was so rapid as to greatly enlarge the channel for itself.
The memory of these events is too fresh to need any recalling by me. ‘How
rapidly the world’s horror at the act of the monarch of the dark continent, and
its consequences, was succeeded by the world’s wonder at the self-immolation of
him who determined to thwart that act and avert those consequences, is too well
known to require description here. Christmas Carol determined to save
For a whole year must these millions be supported by such charity, even were the
His request was granted; and leaving me in
charge of the
(p. 436)
food-distribution, the organization of which
was now perfected, he suddenly descended with the Federal squadron upon the camp
at the dam. The event was as he expected. Not a man of the Imperial forces would
risk an encounter. The first shell, dropped so as to explode over their heads,
dispersed the entire garrison, and the miners of the expedition were left
unmolested to work their will upon the dam and tunnel.
So vast and solid were the works, that it was evident their construction must
have employed thousands of men for years. On one side, the mountain had been
pierced to make way for the river, and on the other it had been cast into the
bed and walled up with mighty rocks, to turn the river into its new channel. In
addition to this, a tunnel of enormous dimensions had been hewn through the
solid rock for scores of miles towards the desert.
The first thing was to mine the dam, with a view to blowing it up. This was no
small task, but the expedition was equal to it, and having made preparations for
a series of explosions, at a given signal the mass was so loosened that it
yielded to the pressure of the water, and went rushing with it down the now open
channel of the river.
So low cut, however, was the tunnel, that a considerable portion of the stream
still escaped into it. The stoppage of this was a task of greater difficulty;
and it was necessary to accomplish it solidly, so that on its next rise the
river should be safe from a return to the tunnel. ‘On the successful conclusion
of the work, Carol rejoined me in
In order to guard against a reconstruction of the dam, one of the vessels of the
squadron was detached, with orders to cruise at intervals over the locality.
(p. 437)
CHAPTER X
EVEN when restored to the quiet of his
own home, and tended assiduously by Zöe, Bertie, and myself, Carol failed to
regain his lost health. Zöe manifested all the joy to see me that I could wish,
but its quality was not of the kind I desired. Her demeanour continued to have
the perfect frankness befitting a sister, but obstinately refused to take any
other form. She gladly admitted me to share in all the offices of ministering to
her father, precisely as if I had been a born brother to her.
I, meanwhile, made my home with Bertie, becoming as much attached to him as does
everyone else who has the opportunity. He had outgrown the liability to the
sudden illnesses which so alarmed his friends a few years back, so that old ago
found him a hale and hearty man. Together we daily walked to and fro between the
two houses, and from him I learnt many particulars of Carol’s life which before
were unknown to me. He was very grave about his “dear boy,” as he always called
him, and said that it was far more from a moral than from a physical’ shock that
he was suffering.
Carol’s own hopelessness of his recovery was a bad symptom. He maintained that
his work was done, and had ended in disappointment. Hearts were harder than
rocks. The latter by a little industry and skill were redeemable. The former
resisted alike all influences of love and of friendship. l low he had failed to
win the souls of his wives, was already known to me. Now he would tell me all
the story of the Emperor, and I should see what cause he had for despair. Twice
had he saved his capital from the destruction it would inevitably have met at
the hands of the Federal Council, besides heaping benefits innumerable upon him
and his people; but now no word came of repentance or sorrow. What was the
meaning of the advantages with which he had been endowed, if their exercise thus
resulted in ignominious failure ?
I adjured him to take a more sanguine view of things. He
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judged by too high a standard, even the
impossible standard of his own ideal; although the result had not been what his
imagination had framed, yet for all others it had been truly immense. In any
case, a beautiful example, such as he had set the world, could never be lost.
Referring to Zöe, he said that hut for her he should be glad to be at rest. She
needed some one to lean upon. What did I think of her? Had the interval been
sufficient to enable her to become herself again?
I told him that I believed her to be perfectly recovered, only that she had
taken a firm resolve to lead a solitary life. Her very frankness with me showed
that she regarded all men as brothers.
“And you?” he said, regarding me with a wistful smile. “Are you still of the
same mind?”
I assured him that, with me, to know Zöe was to love her, but that I had
repressed every indication of the feeling, through fear of its making a barrier
between us if known to her. “I sometimes,” I added, “am disposed to think she
still regrets her severance from that man, even though she would on no account
be again associated with him.”
Avenil, who came at short intervals, went away each time more depressed. “Never
before was I disposed to believe in a broken heart,” he said. “Yet I can find
nothing else to account for his state.”
The doctor agreed with Avenil, but said that Carol’s was a constitution of which
the heart was the basis. To injure him in the emotional region was to strike at
his most vital part. With him it was as if the body were but a function of the
mind, not the mind of the body.
“Bertie, dear,” said Zöe one day, “my father tells us that he wants nothing but
to be at rest. Does he say the same to you? Is there anything that could be done
to bring him comfort?”
“I hate to bring a pang to your dear heart,” replied the old man. “If you will
know, there is one thing that preys upon him, but he shrinks from obtaining
comfort at your cost.”
(p.
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“My cost! What is my cost to his happiness?”
“He says he would die in peace if he only could see you worthily wedded first.”
Her lip, ordinarily so indicative of sweetness, curled with scorn.
“I worthily wedded! Bertie, have either you, he, or I lost our memories?” and
sinking into a sofa, she murmured, “I worthily wedded! I worthily wedded!”
“Bertie!” she said, springing up again, “has my father fixed upon any ‘worthy’
man to be the victim?”
Catching his eye, she again exclaimed, –
“I see your – his meaning. No, – Lawrence Wilmer is too good a man for such a
fate. Happily he has no such thought of me. He is a model of a brother, and I
hope to retain him as one.
“My dear Zöe,” replied Bertie, “there is no respect in which you show yourself
to be your father’s own child more than in your throwing your life away in
remorse for the faults of others. Now, without being in
While listening to this speech her colour changed rapidly, she sank down upon
the sofa, and gasped as for breath. Presently recovering herself she said,
speaking more quietly than before, –
“I think you must be mistaken about Mr. Wilmer’s sentiments. I am sure he looks
upon me only as a sister, and that a somewhat fallen one, whose due is
compassion rather than love.”
She said this with a formality which, as Bertie perceived, cost her an effort.
“Then at least the idea of his caring for you is not disagreeable to you? “said
the old man, hazarding a bold stroke in order to surprise her out of her secret,
if she had one.
Zöe was silent. She could not contradict him; and she would not speak untruly.
(p.
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“My darling child, this will make your father intensely happy. May I tell him?”
“Your imagination is outrunning your facts, at least with one of the parties
concerned,” she replied, somewhat saucily, it appeared to Bertie; but he saw
that her eyes were brimming over with tears, and that she spoke under an effort
to check them.
“I promise not to betray you, in case I am wrong about
“Oh, Bertie dear, you know my history. I feel as if I had no right to let myself
love anyone, and still less to accept love.”
“Well, I don’t see it in that light myself, and I doubt whether anybody else
does; but that is all better said to your father, or to – to ––”
She stopped the rest by a kiss, and made him promise again not to betray her.
Finding the invalid somewhat revived the day following this conversation, Bertie
took occasion to speak of me, remarking casually that he could quite understand
that the presence of one so entirely devoted and trustworthy, must he a vast
solace.
I shall not repeat the gratifying things said by Carol in answer, though they
will ever be treasured by me as a precious testimonial. But Bertie went on to
say that what he could not understand was, any young man being so much with Zöe
without falling utterly in love with her. Now it seemed, to him, he said, that
nothing could be more fitting than that I should become a son to him in reality
as; was in affection and conduct.
“Perhaps,” said Carol, “he thinks ho would have no chance, and withholds himself
from speech through fear of offending her.”
“I see the awkwardness of the situation,” returned Bertie; “but young men are
too apt to let their diffidence interfere with the happiness, not of themselves
only, but of those who trust to them to take the initiative. It seems to me so
natural
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and probable that a girl should be attracted
by a man of his stamp, to say nothing of his family associations with you, that
I only wonder that on her part Zöe is not as much in love with him as he ought
to be with her.”
Cunning old Bertie! falling, unsuspecting, into the trap, Carol exclaimed –
“Oh, that she were! there would then be happiness all round.”
“Yes, if he cared likewise for her.”
“But he does! he does! We have often spoken of it together. She, however, seems
bent on remaining unwed. I can quite appreciate her feeling,” he added; “she
feels herself humiliated by what has already occurred to her, and shrinks from
again loving, or allowing herself to be loved. She is not as the great majority
of girls are now-a-days.”
“She comes of a proud stock, I know,” remarked Bertie drily.
Carol looked at him inquiringly.
“I mean,” he continued, “that she inherits a tendency to feel as much mortified
when she has made a mistake, as if she had forfeited a recognized claim to
infallibility. Now, I consider it true humility, when one has failed in
anything, not to brood over the failure – life may be better employed – but to
try again until one succeeds. One does that in learning a new game of amusement.
How much more in the game of life!”
“Would to heaven she would try again, if only for this once. Zöe united to
“Tell him to ask her.”
“You think she will consent?”
“I say nothing positively; but I am following my observations. Even supposing
she cares much for him, the ease with which he contrives to conceal his feeling
for her, in time may come to disgust her. A woman is very apt to distrust a love
that can so effectually hide itself. Further delay may ruin his chance
altogether.”
“My ever wise Bertie, pray how came you to know so much about women?”
(p.
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At my next interview with Carol, he spoke of his wish to see us united, and said
that he almost thought it better that I should strain a point and ask Zöe, than
delay too long. “You might even,” he said, “do it under the appearance of
consulting her, as on a matter in which both your feelings and mine were
enlisted, but in which nevertheless we were anxious to defer to her wishes.”
He was too ill and exhausted for me to think of following his advice that day.
The weather was intensely hot and still. Longing for the cool upper airs in
which he had been wont to take delight, he had given directions to have a
balloon constructed, on the old gaseous system, but with all the modern
improvements. It was to be kept captive by a line attached to a windlass in the
garden, so that he might ascend and be drawn back at will. Avenil himself
superintended the construction. The sick man’s eagerness to have it finished,
struck me as a hopeful sign, but Avenil and the doctor shook their heads. It was
made of a material warranted to restrain the gas for an indefinite period from
fulfilling its longings to mix with the atmosphere; and Carol struck us as
almost whimsical I n his determination to fit it with a variety of contrivances
for which, under the circumstances, we could see no use. In these he was
assisted by Bertie, who regarded the whole affair as an elaborate toy, but
nevertheless gave his aid gladly for the sake of his sick friend.
On the first ascent he lay out so many hours under the stars, having mounted in
the afternoon, that we were somewhat uneasy at his failing to give the expected
signal for being drawn down. However, when at length he returned to us, he was
so cheerful and invigorated that we entertained hopes that the balloon was to
prove the best of doctors. This was on the day after he had suggested my making
my appeal to Zöe.
On retiring to rest he said to his daughter:
“I had a strange longing, Zöe, when lying up yonder, to cut my tether and soar
away never to return. I think it was only the idea of leaving you alone and
unprotected that restrained me. Would it, darling, he such a very great
sacrifice for you to make to my comfort, to marry
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I was at the furthest end of the room, and observed only that they were
conversing in a low tone.
“I fear, my father,” she replied, in a faltering voice, and l joking very much
abashed, “I fear that it would be too great a sacrifice to ask of – him.”
“So that if he were ready to make it, you would not object?”
“For your sake, my father, I would not be out-done in generosity.”
A lurking smile revealed all to him. Kissing her fair broad brow, he said:
“Then, should
“Nay, if he has aught upon his mind, I should prefer that he speak. Whatever the
issue, we could still live together as – as we have done. I should not think so
very much the worse of him, as to require his dismissal.”
So they parted, Carol once more calling out to me his good-night as he left the
room.
I rarely lingered after his retirement, and now was undecided whether to say to
Zöe that which was uppermost in my thoughts. What served most to restrain me was
the reflection that it might appear selfish to speak to her of myself and my
wishes while he was so ill.
Looking up from the book over which, while thus pondering, I had been bending, I
found Zöe standing before me, regarding me steadfastly with her dark, lustrous
eyes.
For a moment neither of us spoke. Then she said:
“What is it you have been reading,
It was a book of dramas, of the Victorian period. One passage had especially
struck me, though occurring in a play which was disfigured and spoilt by false,
history and gross prejudices. I had been wishing to read it to Carol, but
refrained through fear of recalling evil memories.
(p.
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“Sit down here, Zöe, and look at this,’’ I said, making a place for her beside
me. “See how a poet of many generations ago wrote as if he discerned the
relation between colour and constitution. In this play of Charles I, the
unfortunate king is made to say to his treacherous favourite:
“ ‘I saw a picture once by a great master;
‘Twas an old man’s head.
Narrow and evil was its wrinkled brow;
Eyes close and cunning; a dull vulpine smile;
‘Twas called a JUDAS. Wide that artist err’d.
Judas had eyes like thine, of candid blue;
His skin was soft; his hair of stainless
gold;
Upon his brow shone the white stamp of truth;
And lips like thine did give the
traitor-kiss.’
“Is it not a full-length picture of your
stepmother; that is, supposing the fairness to have been of her white, bloodless
hue?”
“Aye, and still more so of – Oh,
“My darling Zöe!” I exclaimed, thunderstruck at my heedlessness. “I would not
have pained you for the world. I thought only of the sister. You know I have
never seen George Bliss. To me he is but a phantom, though a phantom whom to
secure your happiness I would pursue to the world’s end, until I had driven him
beyond the flaming bounds of space; aye, and will, Zöe, if you will tell me that
by inflicting such vengeance upon him, l can ease your heart of but the smallest
pang.”
“You would do so much for me, Lawrence? My father was wondering just now which
of us would make the greatest sacrifice for him.”
“Well, Zöe, I am ready to enter the lists with you. What is to be the nature of
the competition?”
“I like what you said of George Bliss just now. It is a relief to me to think
that you regard him only as a phantom. It will help me to banish my evil
memories.”
“Tell me, Zöe, do you mean that you really have been
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allowing the past to influence the
disposition of your plans, and – and affections for the future?”
“In what way do you mean,
“For instance, is it on that account that you have withdrawn yourself from
Society, and become to all intents and purposes a nun, holding yourself in so
that no man, not even I, who almost live with you, would venture to speak to you
of love – no matter how mighty the impulse – for fear of grieving and offending
you?”
“Yes,
“And why, pray?”
“Because I am a woman, and have a woman’s instincts.”
“Then hear me, Zöe,” I said, placing my hand upon hers.
“It is because you are a woman and have a woman’s instincts, that you are
absolved from all shadow of blame for the past, and therefore from all cause for
unhappiness in the future. It is because you are a woman and have a woman’s
instincts, that you are capable of putting love before prudence, and lavishing
all the wealth of your nature upon that which is un-worthy of you. And, further,
it is because you are a woman and have a woman’s instincts, even to this extent
of not despising wholly that which is not wholly worthy your regard, that I
presume to tell you that I love you, and to ask you whether I may hope you will
ever consent to bless my life with the gift of the only woman I have ever loved
or longed for.”
She seemed very much surprised, and said:
“How long have you felt thus toward me?”
The little book of my winter in
“Why haunt me when I know thou dost not love me?”
I told her that it began with the first sight of her, and had grown ever since,
the more I saw her, until it had become an indispensable portion of my being.
“Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, how happy this will make my father!” And her head bent
forward until it rested on the hand in which I was still holding hers.
(p.
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“Why, he has known of it all along.”
“I don’t understand. Known of what?”
“Of my love for you. That was not wanting to make his happiness.”
“My dear, dull
“You love me, then! That must be your meaning. Sweetest Zöe, how could you
torment me so long?”
“Can you not divine? I thought you had read me thoroughly. Listen,
When ecstasy had subsided sufficiently to allow of conversation, I said,
“My own precious Zöe, what a thing it is to have a higher law than. That of the
Conventional! Here is your dear father killing himself for the lapse of another
from an ideal that other does not recognize; and his daughter destroying her
happiness and mine, to say nothing of her father’s, because she was not endowed
with an infallibility that made her superior to the arts of villains! Really,
Zöe darling, such vanity needed such correction. Let us believe the discipline
has been purposely provided for you. And now let me kiss away those tears, and
we will go and tell your, nay, our father, that we have agreed that no sacrifice
is too great to be made to his happiness, and are prepared for his sake to put
up with each other!”
“Dear
*
*
*
*
*
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A gentle tap at his chamber door elicited permission to enter. Carol had not
gone to his bed, but was reclining, wrapped in a dressing gown, beside the open
window, gazing at the starry heavens. Our unwonted appearance at such an hour,
and linked hand in hand, told him all.
“I can have no delay,” he said, “for I know not how soon I may be called away. I
have been listening to the sweet voices up yonder, and they have come nearer
tonight than ever before. This only was needed to enable me to depart in perfect
peace. Tomorrow, Zöe, – nay, I will not be so precipitate, – the day after, you
will give me the right to call Lawrence my son?”
Presently he continued, –
“That Egyptian business has made nearly as great inroads upon my fortune as upon
my health. One cannot keep so many millions of people for a twelvemonth upon
nothing, you know. But there is enough left to make the wheels of life go
smoothly. Don’t go home tonight,
CHAPTER XI
“So long as ye both do live, or love?” asked the lawyer, as he took from his bag
a number of forms of marriage-contracts for us to make a selection from.
“Charms or chains?” said Bertie, gaily, putting the query into other words.
“Remember that the former are very liable to be galled by the latter,” observed
Lord Avenil; – for all our chief friends were present to congratulate us and
witness our union.
“It is quite true,” said Mistress Susanna, with a significant
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look, “That people are apt to be kept on
their good behaviour by the knowledge that a separation is easy.”
“But it is not infallible, as I know to my – gain,” said Bessie, evidently on a
second thought substituting the word gain for cost. She was always a favourite of
Carol’s, and more than ever since, in obedience to her heart, she had vanquished
her pride, and returned to her husband.
“With whom does the decision rest?” I asked of the lawyer.
He said that it is a matter of arrangement between the parties, the lady, if
under age, generally being represented by her parents.
“My daughter and I waive all voice in the matter,” said Carol from his couch,
“and leave it entirely to you, Lawrence. We have agreed to accept your decision,
whatever it be.”
This put me in a position of considerable embarrassment. A marriage of the first
class is soluble only for unfaithfulness, or some tremendous fault equally
impossible of contemplation by one placed as I was, and this accompanied by all
the horrors of a public investigation. On the other hand, the advantages of
fortune and position were all on the side of the lady. In claiming such a
marriage, I should be appropriating a life-interest in her fortune. I asked the
lawyer to repeat his interrogation.
“So long as ye both do live, or love?”
“I may be very stupid,” I said, “but I fail to see the distinction. Do you see
it, Zöe?”
She left her father’s side, where she had been sitting with her hand in his, and
came and kissed me on the forehead.
“Thank you, Lawrence,” she said. “I may truly declare that my life shall end
with my love. I cannot survive second failure.”
“My dear Zöe! I did not mean a bit what you mean. I meant that my love would
only end with my life.”
She did not kiss me this time, but sat down by me, and held my hand in hers. It
seemed wonderful to me, now that I knew the magnetism of her caress, to think
that I had been so long and so much in her society without learning it before.
The
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readiness with which her nature opened to the
sunshine of affection, showed how severe was the frost by which it had hitherto
been closed.
At length, I said that my difficulty in coming to a decision depended, not on
any positive sentiment of mine, but on the peculiarity of our respective
positions. All the material advantages being on the other side, I did not
consider myself entitled to consult my own feelings and wishes as I should do
were I in a thoroughly independent position.
“I anticipated the dilemma,” said my dear Zöe’s father, “and have endeavoured to
provide against it. This, Lawrence, is a deed of gift by which I settle on you a
fortune sufficient to justify you in deciding according both to your judgment
and your heart. Mark only that we do not seek to influence your determination,
but shall love and respect you truly whatever it be. So far from that, the
fortune is yours whether you wed Zöe or not.”
Somehow, my circulation seemed to have become deranged. My head was feeling
dizzy, and my heart had taken to thumping against my side in a manner that I
thought must have been audible all over the room. And, what was yet more
curious, it seemed to me to beat in rhythmical time with the words, –
“Let your heart speak, Lawrence Wilmer!”
“Let your heart speak, Lawrence Wilmer!”
More for the purpose of gaining time to collect myself, than for any other
cause, I asked the lawyer to repeat his interrogation once again.
“So long as ye both do live, or love?”
“For life!” I exclaimed, with a vehemence l was unable to control or to account
for. “For life, or not at all!”
The cause of my perturbation has since become apparent to me. The contact of
Zöe’s hand, backed as it was by the intense’ desire of the whole abundant
vitality of her nature, had completely magnetized me. It was the impulse of her
blood
(p.
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that was circulating through my veins, her
heart that was throbbing in my breast, and her wish that made in my mind the
rhythm, –
“Let your heart speak, Lawrence Wilmer!”
She herself, however, was quite unconscious
of the effect she was producing upon me, though she admitted that she felt while
then sitting beside me as if her being was in. some mysterious way identified
with mine.
There was no mistaking the satisfaction with which my decision, and the
heartiness with which I had enunciated it, were regarded.
“My son, in very truth!” exclaimed Carol, first embracing me, and then joining
my hand to that of his daughter. Even Susanna indicated her approbation, by
admitting that no rule is without its exception, and remarking, ––” Our Zöe’s
character is one that requires the constant presence and support of a husband.
Indeed, she will have nothing else to occupy her.” And the lawyer proceeded to
select from his bundle a form of the first-class, for the signature of ourselves
and witnesses.
The one drawback to our gladness was the illness of our dear father, – for so I
shall now call him. And here it occurs to me that some of my readers may be at a
loss to account for the change made sometime back in my manner of styling him,
namely, when, for the familiar and affectionate Criss, I substituted the formal surname.
This is the explanation. During the period prior to my intimacy with him, I knew
him only through the medium of those whom a life-long and affectionate
friendship justified in using the familiar and endearing abbreviation. Seeing
him with their eyes, and hearing him with their ears, he naturally was for me
the Criss he was for them. But when I came upon the
scene and knew him for myself, I did not deem it meet to adopt the same familiar
tone. If nothing else, the difference between our ages and positions made it
unseemly for me to do so. Thus it is that from Criss
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he became in my narrative Carol, or Christmas Carol. I could not bring myself to use
his conventional title of honour, shrinking as he himself did from it. And now
that he has become my father, all other names are merged in that one cherished
appellation.
Whether owing to his entering upon a new phase in his disease, or to a
resolution to lessen our anxiety on his account during this first period of our
union, he certainly manifested such an increase of vigour and cheerfulness as to
fill us with hopes for the best. He insisted on my taking Zöe a short tour, and
introducing her anew as my wife to the circle at the Triangle, Bertie the while
occupying our place by his side. The season continued to be oppressively hot and
calm; but the device of the captive balloon ministered vastly to his relief. He
made Bertie also ascend with him, and read his correspondence to him in it. His
best hours were those thus spent aloft, and it was there he obtained his most
invigorating slumber.
Our hopes were renewed but to be disappointed. We had not long returned, when a
rapid change for the worse set in. He was fully aware of its significance, and
told the doctor he should not trouble him much longer. He conversed much with me
in a tone that, though low and weak, was full of gladness. He told me of all his
plans for the good of mankind, and spoke much of
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concerned. The world must live its own life.”
With regard to the Emperor himself, he charged me to do whatever might he in my
power to lessen the remorse he might feel at having contributed to his death;
though he admitted, on the other hand, that it might he useful for the people of
Soudan to know the truth. Thus might his death, he said, he of more avail than
his life. Some causes never prosper until they have had their martyr.
“Such reflection will bring hut poor comfort to us,” I said, scarcely able to
speak for the fullness of my heart; “Though history fully hears it out, even
that of Him whom of all men you have ever most loved and cherished. It must be
an additional embitterment,” I continued, “To know that one’s end has been
compassed by the treachery of a chosen friend. Yet, even the least fallible of
human hearts was forced to admit the existence of a ‘son of perdition,’
redeemable by no love, and to lament over his failure to save him.”
“I suppose it ought to comfort me,” he returned, “To think that, whereas He met
with one, the traitors to me have been hut two. That, however, is not the
thought from which my comfort comes. I am unable to recognize any as a child of
perdition. It is not given to me to fathom all moral mysteries, hut I see enough
to enable me to trust, and that not faintly, the larger, nay, the largest hope –
the hope that at last, far off it may be, yet at last to all, good will be the
final goal ––”
I recognized the quotation he was too weak to finish.
Recovering a little, he continued, –
“After I am gone tell this to the Emperor, my cousin, with my love and pardon.
Tell it, too, to her from whom I was compelled to separate. It is not the good
who are to me a proof of the hereafter, but the bad. And, that, not for their
chastisement, but for their amendment: that is, their development, the
development in them of the moral sense – that divine spark, of whose marvellous
vitality we have before spoken – a development necessary, one would suppose, for
His own satisfaction, as well as for their benefit. That is, if like man, He
hates leaving any portion of his work unfinished.”
(p.
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Zöe and I sat much by his couch watching the face with the divine eyes closed,
and often detecting no appearance of breathing; hut there was ever over all the
smile of intense peace.
More than once we thought him gone, when he returned to consciousness with ideas
which seemed freshly gathered from the communion of saints. Once we thought he
was wandering in mind, for we discerned amid his murmurings words that seemed to
us utterly irrelevant. But presently his wan face lit up joyously, and he
exclaimed in a voice of more than his wonted power, –
“Yes! yes! It is indeed encouraging. To what may not life come, when we see the
progress it has already made!” An utterance to which Avenil afterwards supplied
the clue, as well as its relation to the words which had struck us as so
irrelevant. Those words were Aquarium and Zoological. His mind was running upon a
conversation he had held with Avenil on a recent visit to the institutions
indicated, a conversation in which they had made the objects before them the
text of a discussion on their respective theories of existence and evolution.
The subject had evidently taken great hold of him; and it was with no little
interest that Zöe and I continued to listen to the workings of his mind in
relation to it, as he continued his colloquy with the Invisible.
“All is clear now; even the Justice that was so dark and inscrutable. I see now
that the Universe is thy first thought, and not the mere translation into fact
of a thought already conceived, and that in some way mysterious to us, Thou
thyself livest therein. But thou seemedst to me sometimes to think too slowly. I
wanted heaven to be reached at a single bound. Impatient myself, I rebelled
against thy patience. I could not bear that men should themselves build the
ladder-by which they must rise, toilsome round by round. Oh, how I rejoice in my
conviction of thy inexorable justice, for therein alone lies safety for all. Out
upon those who would divorce it from mercy, and thrust themselves between. Thy
justice and
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thy mercy are one and the same. Oh, men my
brothers, what have ye not suffered through that divorce! The justice, that
could swerve to one side could swerve also to the other. But trusting the
justice, ye cannot but trust the maker of. The conditions to be content with the
products; seeing that it would be injustice to make” the products
disproportionate to the conditions. If the conditions have a tight to exist, the
products have a like right. The poor soil and the arid” sky are as much a part
of the universal order as the rich garden, soft rain, and warm sunshine. It is
just that one should yield a crop which the other would despise. It would be
unjust were both to yield alike. It is only from those to whom much is given
that much is required. The worm! the worm is one of the conditions; yes, Amelia,
even the worm that eats out the heart! Nannie, darling! are you listening”? and
do you comprehend? See! you have taught me something.”
Speaking thus, he suddenly raised himself and looked around with a bewildered
air. The sight of Zöe and me recalled him to the present, and he said, –
“You believe,
For some time he remained unconscious to all around, and murmuring words that
were hard to understand, though the voice was not the voice of grief. After a
while, either through their becoming clearer, or our ears being better trained,
we learnt to comprehend their import. While occupied one day in listening to
them, Bertie being with us, Avenil appeared at the door, asking mutely if he
might enter. Beckoning him to tread softly over, the carpet, he approached
noiselessly and
(p.
455)
joined the group. The murmuring was going on,
though so faintly as to require close listening if we would catch its meaning.
Avenil bent down and listened.
“There is music and rhythm,” he whispered. “It is more singing than talking.
What can it be that he sings at such a moment? Me thought I caught the words.
‘Heaven the reflex of earth.’ ”
He was answered by Zöe, unconsciously using the words of her father’s favourite
poet:
“He sings of what the world will be when the years have died away!”
“He leaves the world as he entered it: a Christmas Carol to the last,” said
Bertie.
After a while his eyes opened, and brightened as they rested on Avenil.
“Master Charles, dear,” he said, using his old boyish phrase for him, “I was
wishing for you. I want you to take Zöe and Lawrence back to the Triangle with
you tonight. Do not speak, please, but gratify me,” he added, turning his eyes
to us. “I want this night the repose of absolute solitude – solitude, that is,
so far as this world and its affections are concerned. I wish to be alone with
––” and here his voice became inaudible.
He was evidently bent upon it, and with heavy hearts we obeyed him, first
impressing our kisses on his brow. Bertie was the last to leave him, even as he
had been the first to receive him. We intended, however, to return very early
next day.
In the morning we were aroused by a messenger bearing a letter from Bertie. It
said, “He is gone; gone as he himself wished to go. I remained with him a while
after your departure. He appeared to rally, and asked me to help him to walk
across the garden to the balloon. The effort of making those few steps exhausted
his strength. On reaching the balloon he was forced to he down in the car. After
a little while, it being quite dark, he asked me to light a signal lamp, the
pale green one, containing Avenil’s famous composition. Its
(p.
456)
brilliant light seemed to inspirit him, for
he declared he would go aloft, and have his sleep there. ‘I think, dear Bertie,’
he said, ‘that I should die happier, if that were possible, did I know that I
should for ever remain aloft in the land of dreams. Should, by any chance, the
balloon escape with me, and bear ray body upwards, do not send in search of it.
Let it be, so long as the elements suffer it. A wild fancy you will think this,
Bertie, but it is my fancy. Now kiss me, Bertie, and set the windlass free. Tell
the servants to await my signal for hauling me in; or if that does not come –
and it may not, you know (he smiled significantly as he said this) – they may
let me be till morning, unless the wind comes on to blow strongly.’
“As he finished speaking, he composed himself on the little couch in the
balloon, in the attitude of one of the recumbent monumental figures in the
ancient cathedrals, his face illuminated by the signal lamp, already looking
like the face of the peaceful dead. I lingered, not liking to let him go where
he would be alone and far from help; but he cried to mo, ‘Now! Bertie, now I am
ready. Let me rise!’ and so with reluctant hand I pressed the spring of the
windlass, and suffered the balloon slowly to ascend. The night was intensely
still. ‘Perhaps,’ I said to myself ‘the airs aloft will revive him once more,
according to their wont, and the morning will bring him back better.’
“Alas, dear friends, I have to tell you that the morning failed to bring him
back at all.
“I had gone into the house to he down just as I was, keeping my face upturned to
the window whence I could see the light of his signal lamp. I am old, and I was
weary and heavy with sadness, and I suppose I dropped asleep. But on waking I
could no longer see the light. Calling one of his attendants, I enquired whether
he could see it, for it might be that there was a mist either in the air or in
my eyes. He said that either it must have gone out, or else the balloon had
escaped.
“Hastening into the garden, I stumbled over what proved to be a coil of rope.
The man reached the windlass, and cried that it was indeed so, the balloon had
broken loose, and his master was lost.
(p.
457)
“At my bidding he brought a light, and we searched for the rope, over which I
had stumbled. It was indeed the line by which the balloon had been attached to
the windlass, and which now lay with its vast length in coils about the lawn. I
examined the end, to ascertain whether the escape had been intended or
accidental. There was no breakage: it had been regularly detached from its
fastenings. I remembered then that the attachment had been made by an ingenious
contrivance, which, while it was impossible to become loosened of itself, was
yet capable of detachment by a slight pull.
“Dear ones, with whom I mourn as for a son prematurely taken from me, though
this be so, there is no need to suppose that our beloved one hastened his own
end. His latest words show that he contemplated the probability of his not
surviving until morning: also that he coveted to take his rest in the dear upper
airs rather than on the murky earth. I am convinced that, feeling his dying
struggle upon him, he, in a final convulsion, withdrew the attaching bolt, and
soared upwards, body and soul together. The vessel which bears him, a very ship
of heaven, will never come down again; at least, not in the days of any now
dwelling upon earth. Nay, such is its extraordinary buoyancy – he would have it
so, to steady it in the wind, while yet a captive – that, on being released, it
must at once have shot far up into those rare strata of airs whither no living
person can follow it, for death would overcome them long before they could reach
the altitude where alone it will find its balance and fixed height.
“Let us, then, think of him we loved, not as mouldering in the damp earth, but
as riding, even in death free and joyous, upon the blasts he so loved to
surmount in life, and sleeping the sleep of the righteous, or mingling with the
pure spirits of his living dreams.”
*
*
*
*
*
“Oh, Lawrence,
(p.
458)
lying out upon the breezes, subject to no
conditions of regular motion or speed, but evermore a sport to the most
capricious of elements. I have been longing for night that we might sweep the
heavens for his pale green star. It is so calm that it may yet be within range
of the great Reflector in the Observatory. Come up and search with me.”
“Let us not call the element he loved so well capricious, my Zöe,” I replied, as
we ascended to the astronomical tower of the Triangle. “None better than he
comprehended the secret of its impulses. The perfect sympathy subsisting between
the atmosphere and the sun; its responsiveness to every varying thrill that
expresses itself to us in heat, colour, magnetism, light, was for him the most
significant symbol of the dependence of the individual upon the universal soul.
Born in a balloon, I verily believe that by his own choice, though the action of
some divine instinct, he is also buried in a balloon. Buried, as Bertie well
says, not to moulder in damp dark earth, but far above the corroding influences
of our lower atmosphere; far above the lightning-ranges; far above the breezes
such as we know them; even in those blue depths of air whence he was wont in
life to seek his inspirations. Let us rather envy him his Euthanasia!”
“Ah, and if I thought that they would still visit him, and whisper to him of
the Above, I should rejoice and no longer think of him as lonely. Believe you it
can be so?”
“Dearest, we cannot better honour his teaching than by emulating his
trustfulness. Do you remember his saying that, as perfect love casts out fear,
so perfect knowledge would leave no space for hope? Zöe, let ns cherish hope.”
CHAPTER XII
THE time that has elapsed since I
commenced my labour of love, has been far longer than I anticipated. I hoped
also to
(p.
459)
have given a much fuller account, and to have
told it in fewer words. My principal difficulty has been to make a selection
from the mass of materials which have flowed in upon me from all quarters, –
materials of which each item is a separate testimonial to the excellencies I
undertook to exhibit.
For one reason in particular I rejoice that my work is finished, however
imperfect and inadequate it be. It is a reason which would have had his eager
sympathy had he lived. Already are the semi-civilized populations of
If this memoir achieve no other end than to show the peoples who seek thus to
honour him, that they are thereby doing him dishonour, and not him only, but the
Creation in which he was a factor, I shall deem myself fully repaid. For I shall
have done that which he would desire to have done, and done it in the spirit he
would approve.
I trust that it will fulfil this end, and yet another also; and that the example
here set forth will incite many to whom these days of vast accumulated wealth
and enormous scientific appliance have given the power, like him to –
“Fly, discaged, to sweep,
In ever-highering eagle-circles, up
To the great Sun of glory, and thence swoop
Down upon all things base, and dash them
dead;”
as sang his favourite poet of the Victorian
era, of one who might well have passed for his prototype.
And for those, too, who are neither wealthy nor learned, may he, without being
summoned from his chosen rest in the deeps of air, prove ever nigh in their
hearts and minds as a controlling ideal of their aspirations.
(p.
460)
In his divine simplicity and comprehension, the man himself was far greater than
aught that he said or did, or than can be said of him. Of his principal
achievement, I will only add that the ocean-stream, whose first rush into the
The moral victory is greater even than the physical.
May it be that by the life and death of Christmas Carol, more than one Eastern Question will be advanced towards its
final solution!”
THE
END
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