Читать книгу THE COLLECTED WORKS OF GEORGE BERNARD SHAW - George Bernard Shaw - Страница 68

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When the novelty of Mrs. Hoskyn’s first baby had worn off, she successfully resisted the temptation to abandon it to the care of her servants, as an exacting little nuisance; but her incorrigible interest in art, no longer totally eclipsed by the cradle, retook possession of her mind. This interest, as usual, took the form of curiosity as to what Adrian Herbert was doing. Now that her domestic affections were satisfied and centred by Hoskyn, and that the complete absorption of Herbert’s affections by his wife was beyond all suspicion, she felt easier and more earnest in her friendship for him than ever before. Marriage had indeed considerably deepened her capacity for friendship.

One morning, Hoskyn looked up from his paper and said, “Have you looked at the Times. There is something in it about Herbert that he won’t like.”

“I hope not. The Times always spoke well of him.”

Hoskyn, without a word, handed her the sheet he had been reading and took up another.

“Oh John,” said Mary, putting down the paper in dismay; “what is to be done?”

“Done! What about?”

“About Adrian.”

“I don’t know,” said Hoskyn, placably. “Why should we do anything?”

“I for one, shall be very sorry if he loses his position, after all his early struggling.”

“He won’t lose it. Who cares about the Times?”

“But I am greatly afraid that the Times is right.”

“If you think so, why, that’s another thing. In that case, Herbert had better work a little harder.”

“Yes; but he always used to work so hard.”

“Well, he must keep at it, you know.”

Mary fell amusing; and Hoskyn went on reading.

“Adrian should never have married,” she said presently.

“Why not, my dear”’

“Because of that,” she replied, pointing to the paper.

“They don’t find fault with him for being a married man, though.”

“They find fault with him for being what his marriage has made him. He neither thinks nor cares about anything but his wife.”

“That needn’t prevent his working,” said Hoskyn. “I contrive to do a goodish deal of work,” he added with an amorous glance, “without caring any the less for my wife.”

“Your wife does not run away from you to the other end of Europe at a moment’s notice, John. She does not laugh at your business and treat you as if you were a little boy who sometimes gets troublesome.”

“Still,” said Hoskyn reflectively, “she has a sort of fascination about her.”

“Nonsense,” said Mary, supposing that her husband had been paying her a compliment, whereas he had really referred to Aurel “I feel very much in earnest about this. It is quite pitiable to see a man like Adrian become the slave of a woman who obviously docs not care for him — or perhaps I should not say that; but she certainly does not care for him as he deserves to be cared for. I am beginning to think that she cares for nothing but money.”

“Oh, come!” remonstrated Hoskyn. “You’re too hard on her, Mary. She certainly doesn’t seem to concern herself much about Herbert: but then I fancy that he is rather a milk-and-water sort of man. I know he is a very good fellow, and all that; but there is a something wanting in him — not exactly stamina, but — but something or other.”

“There is a great want of worldliness and indifference in him; and I hope there always will be, although a little of both would help him to bring his wife to her senses. Still, Adrian is weak.”

“I should think so. For my part,” said Hoskyn, scratching his beard, and glancing at his wife as if he were going to make a venturesome remark, “I wonder how any woman could be bothered with him! I may be prejudiced: but that’s my opinion.”

“Oh, that is absurd,” said Mary. “She may consider herself very fortunate in getting so good a man. He is too good for her: that is where the real difficulty lies. He is neglecting himself on her account. Do you think I ought to speak to him seriously about it?”

“Humph!” muttered Hoskyn cautiously. “It’s generally rather unwise to mix oneself up with other people’s affairs, particularly family affairs. You don’t as a rule get thanked for it.”

“I know that. But is it right to hold aloof when one might do some good by disregarding considerations of that sort? It is always safest to do nothing. But I doubt if it is generous.”

“Well, you can do as you like. If I were in your place, I wouldn’t meddle.”

“You are running away with an idea that I am going to make mischief, and talk to Adrian about his wife. I only want to give him a little lecture, such as I have given him twenty times before. I am in some sort his fellow student. Don’t you think I might venture? I cannot see how I can do any harm by speaking to him about what the Times says.”

Hoskyn pursed his lips, and shook his head. Mary, who had made up her mind to exhort Adrian, and wanted to be advised to do so, added, with some vexation, “Of course I will not go if you do not wish me to.”

“I! Oh Lord no, my dear: I don’t want to interfere with you. Go by all means if you like.”

“Very well, John. I think I had better.” As she said this as if she were about to go in deference to his wishes, he seemed inclined to remonstrate; but he thought better of it, and buried himself in the newspaper until it was time for him to go to the city.

After luncheon that day, Mary put on her broad hat and cloak — her matronhood had not reconciled her to bonnets — walked and to South Kensington where Herbert still kept his studio. The Avenue, Fulham Road, resembles a lane leading to the gates of the back-gardens of the neighboring houses rather than an artist’s courtyard. Except when some plaster colossus, crowded out of a sculptors studio, appears incongruously at the extremity of the short perspective, no person would dream of turning down there in quest of statues or pictures. Disregarding a gigantic clay horse which ramped in the sun, its nostrils carved into a snort of a type made familiar to Mary by the Elgin marbles and the knights in her set of chessmen, she entered at a door on the right which led to a long corridor, on each side of which were the studios. In one of these she found Adrian, with his palette set and his canvas uncovered on the easel, but with the Times occupying all his attention as he sat uncomfortably on the rung of a broken chair.

Mrs. Hoskyn!” he exclaimed, rising hastily.

‘Yes, Adrian. Mrs. Hoskyn’s compliments; and she is surprised to see Mr. Herbert reading the newspapers which he once despised, and neglecting the art in which he once gloried.”

“I have taken to doing both since I established myself as a family man,” he replied with a sigh. “Will you ascend the throne? It is the only seat in the place that can be depended upon not to break down.”

“Thank you. Have you been reading the Times ever since your breakfast?”

“Have you seen it, Mary?”

“Yes.”

Herbert laughed, and then glanced anxiously at her.

“It is all very well to laugh,” she said, “ — and, as you know, nobody despises newspaper criticism more thoroughly than I, when it is prejudiced or flippant.”

“In this instance, perhaps you agree with the Times.”

Mary immediately put on her glasses, and looked hardily at him, by which he knew that she was going to say “I do.” When she had said it, he smiled patiently.

Adrian,” she said, with some remorse: “do you feel it to be true yourself? If you do not, then I shall admit that I am in error.”

“There may be some truth in it — I am hardly an impartial judge in the matter. It is not easy to explain my feeling concerning it. To begin with, I am afraid that when I used to preach to you about the necessity of devoting oneself wholly and earnestly to the study of art in order to attain true excellence, I was talking nonsense — or at least exaggerating mere practice, which is a condition of success in tinkering and tailoring as much as in painting, into a great central principle peculiar to art. I have discovered since that life is larger than any special craft. The difficulty once seemed to lie in expanding myself to the universal comprehensiveness of art: now I perceive that it lies in contracting myself within the limits of my profession, and I am not sure that that is quite desirable.”

“Well, of course, if you have lost your conviction that it is worth while to be an artist, I do not know what to say to you. You once thought it worth any sacrifice.

“Yes, when I was a boy, and had nothing to sacrifice. But I do not say that it is not worth while to be an artist; for, you see, I have not given up my profession.”

“But you have brought the Times down on you.”

“True. The Times now sees defects in my work which I cannot see. Just as it formerly failed to see defects in my early work which are very plain to me now. It says very truly that I no longer take infinite pains. I do my best still; but I confess that I work less at my pictures than I used to, because then I strove to make up for my shortcomings by being laborious, whereas I now perceive that mere laboriousness does not and cannot amend any shortcoming in art except the want of itself, which is not always a shortcoming — sometimes quite the reverse. Laboriousness is, at best, only an appeal ad miseracordiam to oneself and the critics. ‘Sir Lancelot’ is a bad picture, if you like; but do you suppose that any expenditure of patience would have tortured it into a good one? My dear Mary — I beg Mr Hoskyn’s pardon—”

“Beg Mrs Herbert’s, rather. Go on.”

“Mrs Herbert is a very good example of my next heresy, which is, that earnestness of intention, and faith in the higher mission of art, are impotent to add an inch to my artistic capacity. They rather produce a mental stress fatal to all freedom of conception and execution. I cannot bring them to bear on drawing and painting: they seem to me to be more the concern of clergymen and statesmen. Your husband once told my mother that art was a backwater into which the soft chaps got to be out of the crush in the middle of the stream. He was thinking about me, I suppose — oh, don’t apologize, Mary: I quite agree with him. It is a backwater; and faith and earnestness are of no use in it: mere brute skill carries everything before it. You once asked me how I should like to be Titian and a lot of other great painters all rolled into one. At present I should be only too glad to be as good as Titian alone; but I would not pay five years of my life for the privilege: it would not be worth it. What view did Titian take of his mission in life? Simply that he was to paint pictures and sell them. He painted religious pictures when the church paid him to do it; he painted indecent pictures when licentious noblemen paid him to do it; and he painted portraits for the wealthy public generally. Believe me, Mary, out in the middle the stream of life, from the turbulences and vulgarities of which we agreed to hold aloof, there may be many different sorts of men — earnest men, frivolous men, faithful men, cynical men and so forth; for the backwater there are only two sorts of painters, dexterous ones and maladroit ones. I am not a dexterous one; and that is all about it: self-criticism on moral principles, and the culture of the backwater library, won’t mend my eyes and fingers. I said that Aurélie’s was a case in point. Even the Times does not deny that she is a perfect artist. Yet if you spoke of her being a moral teacher with a great gift and a a great trust, she would not understand you, although she has some distorted fancy about her touch on the piano being a moral faculty. She thinks your husband a most original and profound thinker because he once happened to remark to her that musical people were generally clever. As I failed to be overwhelmed by her account of this, she, I believe, thought I was jealous of him because I had not hit on the observation myself.”

“Perhaps she would play still better if she did look upon herself as the holder of a great gift and a great trust.”

“Did I paint the Lady of Shalott the better because I would have mixed the colors with my blood if the picture would have gained by my doing so? No: I could paint it twice as well now, though I should not waste half as much thought on it. But put Aurélie out of the question, since you do not admire her. Take—”

“Oh, Adrian, I ad—”

“ — the case of Jack. You will admit that he is a genius: he has the inexhaustible flow of ugly sounds which constitutes a composer a genius nowadays. I take Aurélie’s word and yours that he is a great musician, in spite of the evidence of my own ears. Judging him as a mere unit of society, he is perhaps the most uncouth savage in London. Does he ever think of himself as having a mission, or a gift, or a trust?”

“I am sure he does. Consider how much he endured formerly because he would not write down to the level of the popular taste.”

“Depend upon it, either he did not get the chance or he could not. Mozart, I believe, wrote ballets and Masses in the Italian style. If Jack had Mozart’s versatility, he would, in similar circumstances, act just as Mozart acted. I do not make a virtue of never having condescended to draw for the illustrated papers, because if anyone had asked me to do it, I should certainly have tried, and probably have failed.”

“Adrian,” said Mary, coming down from the throne, and approaching him: “do you know that it gives me great pain to hear you talk in this way? If there was one vice more than another which I felt sure could never taint your nature, it was the vice of cynicism.”

“You reproach me with cynicism!” he said, with a smile, evidently enjoying some inconsistency in her.

“Why not?”

“There is, of course, no reason why you should not — , except that you seem to have come to very similar conclusions yourself.”

“You never made a greater mistake, Adrian. My faith in the ennobling power of Art, and in the august mission of the artist, is steadfast as it was years ago, when you first instilled it into me.”

“And that faith has never wavered?*

“Never.”

“Not even for a moment”

“Not even for a moment.”

A slight shrug was his only comment. He took up his palette and busied himself with it, with a curious expression at the corners of his mouth.

“What do you mean, Adrian?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“You used to be more candid than that.”

“I used to be many that I am not now.”

“You admit that you are changed!”

“Surely.”

“Then the change in me that you hint at is only a change in your way of looking at me.”

“Perhaps so.”

A pause followed, during which he put a few touches on the canvas, and she watched him in growing doubt.”

“You won’t mind my working whilst you are here.” he said, presently.

“Adrian: do you remember that day on the undercliff at Bonchurch, when I announced my falling off, in principle, from the austerity of our worship of art?”

“I do. Why do you ask?”

“I little thought, then, which of us would be the first to fall off in practice. If a prophet had shewn you to me as you are now, contemning loftiness of purpose and renouncing arduous work, I should have been at a loss for words strong enough to express my repudiation of the forecast.”

“I cannot say that I did not suspect then who would be the first to fall off,” said Adrian, quietly, though his color deepened a little. “But I should have been as sceptical as you, if your prophet had shewn me you—” He checked himself.

“Well, Adrian?”

“No. I beg your pardon: I was going to say something I have no right to say.”

“Whatever it may be, you think it: and I have a right to hear it, so that I may justify myself. How could a prophet have shewn me so as to astonish you?”

“As Mrs Hoskyn,” he replied, looking at her steadily for a moment, and then resuming his work.

“I don’t understand,” said Mary anxiously, after a pause.

“I told you there was nothing to understand,” said he, relieved. “I meant that it is odd in the first place that we are both married, and not to one another — I suppose you don’t mind my alluding to that. It is still odder that I should be married to Aurélie, who knows nothing about painting. But it is oddest that you should be married to Mr Hoskyn, who knows nothing about art at all.”

Mary, understanding him well now, became very red, and for a moment tried hard to keep back a retort which came to her lips. He continued to paint attentively. Then she said indignantly, “Do you conclude that I do not care for my husband because I can still work and think and respect myself — because I am not his slave when he is present, and a slave to my thoughts of him when he is absent?”

“Mary!” exclaimed Herbert, putting down his palette and confronting her with a color as deep as her own. She stood her ground without flinching. Then he recovered himself, and said, “I beg your pardon. I was quite wrong to say anything about your marriage. Have I annoyed you?”

“You have let slip your opinion of me, Adrian.”

“And you yours of me, I think, Mary.”

After this there was another strained pause, disconcerting to both. This time Mary gained her self-possession first. “I was annoyed just now,” she said: “but I did not mean that we should quarrel. I hope you did not.”

“No, indeed,” he said fervently. “I trust we shall never have any such meaning, whatever may pass between us.”

“Then,” she rejoined, instinctively responding to his emotion with an impulse of confession, “let me tell you candidly how far you were right in what you said. I married because I discovered, as you have that the world is larger than Art and that there is plenty of interest in it for those who do not even know what Art means. But I have never been in love in the storybook fashion; and I had given up all belief in the reality of that fashion when I cast in my lot with John’s, though I am very fond of him, and do not at all regret being Mrs. Hoskyn.”

“It is curious that our courses of action should be so similar and our motives so different! My confession is so obvious that it is hardly worth while to make it. I did fall in love in the storybook fashion: and that is the true explanation of what the Times notices in my work. I will not say that I can no longer work, think, or respect myself — I hope I am not so bad as that: but the rest is true. I am a slave to her when she is present, and a slave to my thoughts of her when she is absent. Perhaps you despise me for it.”

“I can hardly despise you for loving your wife. It would be rather unreasonable.”

“There are many things which are not reasonable, and are yet quite natural. I sometimes despise myself. That occurs when I contrast Aurélie’s influence on my work with yours. Before I met her, I worked steadfastly in this studio, thinking of you whenever my work palled on me, and never failing to derive fresh courage from you. I know now, better than I did then, how much of my first success, and of the resolute labor that won it, was due to you. The new influence is a different — a disturbing one. When I think of Aurélie, there is an end of my work. Where in the old time I used to be reinforced and concentrated, I am now excited and distracted; impatient for some vague tomorrow that never comes; capable of nothing but trouble or ecstasy. Imagine, then, how I value your friendship — for you must not think that you have lost your old power over me. Even to-day, because I have had this opportunity of talking with you, I feel more like my old artist self than I have been for a longtime. We understand each other: I could not say the same to Aurélie. Therefore, Mary, will you — however ill I may in your opinion have deserved it — will you still stand my friend, and help me to regain the ground I have lost, as you formerly helped me to win it?”

“Most willingly, “said Mary with enthusiasm, holding out both her hands to him. “I will take your word for my ability to help you, though I know that you used to help yourself by helping me. Now we are fast friends again, are we not?”

“Fast friends,” he repeated, taking her hands, and turning her with affectionate admiration and gratitude.

“Aha!” cried a voice. They released each other’s hands quickly, and turned, pale and startled, towards the newcomer. Aurélie, in a light summer dress, was smiling at them from the doorway.

“I fear I derange you,” she said in English, which she now spoke easily and carelessly, though with a soft foreign accent. “How do you do, Madame Hoskyn? Am I too much? Eh?”

Mary, confused by the surprise of her entry, and still more by the innocent and caressing manner in which she spoke, murmured some words of salutation.

This is a very unusual honor, Aurélie,” said Herbert, affecting to laugh.

“Yes, I did not know of it beforehand myself. I got into the wrong train, and was carried to South Kensington instead of to Addison Road. So I said, ‘I will give Adrian a surprise.’ And so I have.”

“You came in at an interesting moment,” said Mary, who had now partly regained some of her self-possession, and all her boldness. “Mr Herbert and I have had a serious quarrel; and we are just making it up. English fashion.”

“Oh, it is not an English fashion. People quarrel like that everywhere. And you are now greater friends than ever. Is it not so?”

“I hope so,” said Mary.

“I knew it,” said Aurélie, with a wave of her fingers. “The human nature is the same things throughout the world. Ah yes. What an untidy atelier is this ! How can you expect that great ladies will come here to sit for their portraits?”

“I do not desire that they should, Aurélie.”

“But it is by portraits that the English artists make great sums of money. Why do you not cure him of these strange notions, Madame? You have so much sense; and he respects you so. He mocks at me when I speak of painting: yet I am sure I am right.”

Mary smiled uneasily, not knowing exactly how to reply. Aurélie wandered about the studio, picking up sketches and putting them down without looking at them; peeping into corners; and behaving like a curious child. At last her husband, seeing her about to disturb a piece of drapery, cried out to her to take care.

“What is the matter now?” said she. “Is there somebody behind it? Ciell! it is a great doll.”

“Please do not touch it,” he said. “I am drawing from it; and the change of a single fold will waste all my labor.”

“Yes; but that is not fair. You should not copy things into your pictures: you should paint them all out of your head.” She went over to the easel. “Is this the great work for next year? Why has that man a bonnet on?”

“It is not a bonnet: it is a helmet.”

“Ah! He is a fireman then. Tiens! You have drawn him with long curling hair! There — I know — he is a knight of the round table: all your knights are the same. Of what use are such barbarians? I prefer the Nibelungs and Wotan and Thor — in Wagner’s music. His arm is a deal too long, and the little boy’s head is not half large enough in proportion to height. The child is like a man in miniature. Madame Hoskyn: will you do me a great favor — that is, if you are disengaged?”

“I have no engagements today, happily,” said Mary. You may command me.”

“Then you will come back with us to our house, and stay to dinner. Oh, you must not refuse me. We will send a telegram to Mr Hoskyn to come too. En famille, you understand. Adrian will entertain you; I will play for you; my mother will shew you the bambino. He is a droll child — you shall see if he is not”

“You are very kind,” said Mary, wavering. “Mr Hoskyn expects me to dine at home with him; but—” She looked inquiringly at Adrian.

“As Aurélie says, we can ask Mr Hoskyn by telgraph. I hope you will come, Mary.”

Mary blushed at his use of her Christian name, accustomed as she was to it. “Thank you,”she said. “I will come with pleasure.”

“Ah, that is very good,” said Aurélie, apparently delighted. “Come then,” she added, in French, to Adrian. “Put away thy sottises and let us go at once.”

“You hear?” he remarked. She calls my canvas and brushes sottises” He put them away resignedly, nevertheless. Aurélie, chatting lightheartedly with Mary, meanwhile. When he was ready, they went out together past the white horse, whose shadow was tending at some length eastward, and sallied into the Fulham Road, where they halted to consider whether they should walk or drive, Whilst they stood, a young man with a serious expression, long and curly fair hair, and a velveteen jacket, approached them. He was reading a book as he walked, taking no note of the persons whom he passed.

“Why, here is Charlie,” exclaimed Mary. The young man looked up, and immediately stopped and shut his book, exhibiting a remarkable degree of confusion. Then, to the surprise of his sister, he raised his hat, and attempted to pass on.

“Charlie,” she said: “are you going to cut us?” At this he stopped again, and stood looking at them discomfitedly.

“How do you do?” said Adrian, offering his hand, which was eagerly accepted. Charlie now ventured to glance at Aurélie, becoming redder as he did so. She was waiting with perfect composure and apparently without interest for the upshot of the encounter.

“I thought you knew Mrs Herbert,” said Mary, puzzled. “My brother, Mrs Herbert,” she added, turning to Aurélie.

Charlie removed his hat solemnly, and received in acknowledgement what was rather a droop of the eyelids than a bow.

Herbert, seeing that an awkward silence was likely to ensue, interposed goodhumoredly. “What is your latest project?” he said. “If you are an engineer still your exterior is singularly unprofessional. Judging by appearances, I should say that I must be the engineer and you the artist.”

Oh, I’ve given up engineering,” said Charlie. It’s a mere trade. The fact is, I have come round at last to your idea that there is nothing like Art. I have turned my attention to literature of late.”

“Poetry, I presume,” said Herbert, drawing the book from beneath his arm and looking at the title.

“I wish I had the least scrap of genius to make me a poet. In any ease I must give up the vagabond life I have been leading, and settle down to some earnest pursuit. I may not ever be able to write a decent book; but I at least can persevere in the study of Art and literature and — and so forth.”

“Persevere in literature:” repeated Mary. “Oh, Charlie! How many novels and tragedies have you begun since we went to live at Beulah? and not one of them ever got to the second chapter.”

“I shewed my good sense in not finishing any of them. What has become of the pictures you used to work so hard at, and of the great compositions that were to have come of your studies with Jack?

“I think,” said Herbert jocularly, “that if we wait here until you and Mary agree on the subject of your perseverance, our dinner will be cold. Mrs. Hoskyn is coming to dine with us this evening, Charlie. Suppose you join us.”

“Thank you,” he said, hastily: “I should like it of all things; but I am not dressed; and—”

“You can hardly propose to dress for dinner on my account at this late stage of our acquaintance: and Mrs. Herbert will excuse you, I think.”

“You shall be the welcome, monsieur,” said Aurélie, who had been gazing abstractedly down the vista at the white h<>rse.

“Thanks, very much indeed,” said Charlie. This decided, it was arranged that they should go by train to High Street, and walk thence to Herbert’s lodging: for he had never fulfilled his intention of taking a house, his wife being only nominally more at home in London than in the other European capitals. They accordingly moved towards the railway station, Adrian going first with Mary, and Charlie following with Aurélie, who seemed unconscious of his presence, although his uneasiness, his frequent glances sidelong at her, and his occasional dumb efforts to hazard some commonplace remark, were much more obvious than he suspected. In this way they came within a hundred yards of the South Kensington station without having exchanged a word, his dismay increasing at every step. He stole another look at her, and this time met her eye, which fixed him as if it had been that of the ancient mariner: and the longer she looked, the redder and more disconcerted he became.

“Well Monsieur Beatty,” she said composedly.

He glanced apprehensively at Adrian, who was within earshot. “I hardly know how to tell you,” he said: “but my name is not Beatty.”

“Is it possible! I beg your pardon, monsieur: I mistook you for a zhentleman of that name, whom I met at Paris. You resemble him very much.”

“No, I assure you,” said Charlie eagerly. “I am not in the least like him. I know the fellow you mean: he was a drunken wretch whom you rescued from being run over or robbed in the street, and who made a most miserable ass of himself in return. He is dead.”

“Jesu Christ!” ejaculated Aurélie with an irrepressible start: “do not say such things. What do you mean?”

“Dead as a doornail,” said Charlie, triumphant at having shaken her composure, but still very earnest. “He was killed, scotched, stamped out of existence by remorse, and by being unable to endure the contrast between his worthlcssness and your — your goodness. If you would only forget him, and not think of him whenever you see me, you would confer a great favor on me — far greater than I deserve. Will you do this please, Mrs Herbert?

“I believe you will make great success as poet,” said Aurélie, looking oddly at him. “You are — what you call clever. Ach! This underground railway is a horror.”

They said nothing more to one another until they left the train at High Street, fromm which they walked in the same order as before. Charlie again at a loss for something to say, but no longer afraid to speak. His first effort was:

“I hope, Madame Sczympliça is quite well.”

“Thank you, she is qute well. You will see her presently.”

“What! Is she staying with you?”

“Yes. You are glad of that?”

“No, I’m not,” he said blunt1y.”How could I be glad? She remembers that vagabond of whom we were speaking. What shall I do?”

Aurélie shook her head gravely. “Truly, I do not know,” she replied. “You had better prepare for the worst.”

“It is very easy for you to make a jest of the affair, Mrs Herbert. If you had as much cause to be ashamed of meeting her as I have, you would not laugh at me. However, since you have forgiven me, I think she may very well do so.”

Madame Sczympliça did, in fact, receive him without betraying the slightest emotion. She did not remember him. All her attention was absorbed by other considerations, which led her to draw her daughter into a private conversation on the stairs whilst their guests supposed her to be fetching the baby.

“My child: have you brought home dinner as well as guests? What are they to eat? Do you think that the proprietress can provide a double dinner at a moment’s notice?”

“She must, maman. It is very simple. Let her go to the shops — to the pastrycooks. Let her go wherever she will, so that the dinner be ready. Perhaps there is enough in the house.”

“And how—”

“There, there. She will manage easily. If not, how can I help it? I know nothing about such things. Go for the bambinotelegraph; and do not fret about the dinner. All will be well, depend upon it.” And she retreated quickly into the drawingroom. Madame Szczympliça raised her hands in protest; let them fall in resignation; and went upstairs, whence she presently returned with a small baby who looked very sad and old.

“Behold it!” said Aurélie, interlacing her fingers behind her back, and nodding from a distance towards her child. “See how solemn he looks! He is a true Englishman.” The baby uttered a plaintive sound and stretched out one fist. “Aha! Knowest thou thy mother’s voice, rogue? Does he not resemble Adrian?”

Mary took the infant gently; kissed it; shook its toes, called it endearing names; and elicited several inarticulate remonstrances from it. Adrian felt ridiculous, and acknowledged his condition by a faint smile. Charlie kept cautiously aloof. Mary was in act of handing the child carefully hack to Madame Sczympliça, when Aurélie interposed swiftly; tossed it up to the ceiling; and caught it dexterously.Adrian stepped forward in alarm; Madame uttered a Polish exclamation; and the baby itself growled angrily. Being sent aloft a second time, it howled with all its might.

“Now you shall see,” said Aurélie, suddenly placing it supine and screaming, on the pianoforte. She began to play the Skater’s Quadrille from Meyerbeer’s opera of The Prophet. The baby immediately ceased to kick, became silent, and lay still with the bland expression of a dog being scratched, or a lady having her hair combed.

“Ït has a vile taste in music,” she said, when the performance was over. “It is old fashioned in everything. Ah Monsieur Sutherland: would you kindly pass the little one to my mother?”

Madam Madame Sczympliça hastily advanced to forestall Charlie’s compliance with this request, made purposely to embarrass him. But he lifted the baby very expertly, and even gave it a kiss before he handed it to the old lady, who watched him as if he were handling a valuable piece of china.

“There. Take it away,” said Aurélie. “You would make a good nurse, monsieur.”

“What a mother!” whispered Madame Szczympliça. “Poor infant!” and she indignantly carried it away.

“I wish he would grow up all at once,” said Aurélie. “By the time he is a man, I shall be an old woman, half deaf, with gout in my fingers. He will go to hear the new players, and wonder how I got my reputation. Ah, it is a stupid world! One may say so before you, madame, because you are a philosopher.”

Madame Szczympliça soon returned, and was of much service in maintaining conversation, as she was not, like the other three, unable to avoid keeping a furtive watch on her daughter. At dinner, Aurélie, when she found that the talk would go on without her help, said no more, eating but little, and drinking water. In her abstraction, she engaged their attention more than ever. Mary, trying to puzzle out the real nature of Adrian’s wife, considered her carefully, but vainly. The pianist’s character appeared as vaguely to her mind as the face did to her shortsighted eyes. Even Herbert, though he ate with the appetite of a husband, often glanced along the table with the admiration of a lover. Charlie did not dare to look often; but he sought for distorted images of her face in glass vessels and bowls of spoons, and gazed at them instead. At last Mary, oppressed by her silence, determined to make her speak.

“Is it possible that you never drink wine?” she said: “you, who work so hard!”

“Never,” said Aurélie, resuming her volition instantly. “I have in the tip of every finger a sensation of touch the most subtle, the most delicate, that you can conceive. It is a — chose — a species of nervous organization. One single glass of wine would put all those little nerves to sleep. My fingers would become hammers, like the fingers of all the world; and I should be excited, and have a great pleasure to hammer, as all the world has. But I could no longer make music.”

“Aurélie has rearkable theories of what she calls her fine touch,” said Herbert. “Practically, I find that when she is in a musical humor, and enjoys her own playing, she says she has ‘found her fingers’; but when only other people enjoy it, then the touch is gone; the fingers are like the fingers of all the world; and I receive formal notice that Mlle Sczympliça is about to retire from the musical profession.

“Yes, yes, you are very wise. You have not this fine touch; and you do not understand. If you had, ah, how you would draw! You would greater than no matter what artist in the world.”

Mary burned with indignation at Aurélie, knowing how it hurt Herbert to be reminded that he was not a firstrate artist. Aurélie, indifferent to the effect of her speech, relapsed into meditation until they left the table, when she seated herself at the pianoforte and permitted Charlie to engage her in conversation, whilst Herbert became engrossed by a discussion with Mary on painting. and Madame Sczympliça sat still in a corner, knitting.

“What!” said Aurélie, when Charlie had been speaking for some time: “were you at that concert too?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have been at every concert where I have played since I returned to London. Do you go to all concerts?”

“To all of those at which you play. Not to the others.”

“Oh, I understand. You pay me a compliment. I am very — very recognizant, do you call it? — of your appreciation.”

“I am musical, you know. I was to have been a musician, and had lessons from old Jack in the noble art. But I gave it up, I am sorry to say.”

“What presumption! It does not become you to speak of a great man in that fashion, Monsieur Charles.”

“True, Mrs Herbert. But then nobody minds what I say.”

“Tiens!” said Aurélie, with a light laugh. “You are right. You know how to make everything gay. And so you gave up the music, and are now to be a poet. Can you think of no more suitable profession than that?”

“It’s the only one left to me, except the army; and that is considered closed to me because my brother — Phipson’s daughter’s husband, you know — is there already. First I was to be a college don — a professor. Then I took to music. Then I tried the bar, the medical, engineering, the Indian civil service, and got tired of them all. In fact I only drew the line at the church.”

“What is that? You drew a line at the church!”

“It is what you very properly call an idiotisme. I mean that I would not condescend to be a parson.”

“What a philosopher! Proceed.”

“I am now — if the poetry fails, which it most likely will — going into business. I shall try for a post in the Conolly Electro-Motor Company.”

“I think that will suit you best. I will play you something to encourage you.”

She began to play a polonaise by Chopin. Herbert and Mary ceased speaking, but presently resumed their conversation in subdued tones. Charlie listened eagerly. When the polonaise was finished, she did not stop, but played on, looking at the ceiling, and occasionally glancing at Charlie’s face.

“Aurélie,” said Herbert, raising his voice suddenly: “where are those sketches that Mrs. Scott left here last Tuesday?”

“Oh, I say!” said Charlie, in a tone of strong remonstrance, as the music ceased. Herbert, not understanding, looked inquiringly at him. Aurélie rose, took the sketches from her music stand; and handed them silently to Mary.

“I am afraid we have interrupted you,” said Mary, coloring. Aurélie deprecated the apology by a gesture and sat down in a loww chair near the window.

“I wish you’d play again, if you’re not tired, Mrs Herbert,” said Charlie timidly.

She shook her head.

“It is hard that I should have to suffer because my sister has a wooden head with no ears on it,” he whispered, glancing angrily not at Mary, but at Adrian. I was comfortably settled in in heaven when they interrupted you. I wish Jack was here. He would have given them a piece of his mind.”

“Mr Herbert does not like Monsieur Jacques.”

“Monsieur Jacques doesn’t like Mr Herbert either. There is no love lost between them. Adrian hates Jack’s music; and Jack laughs at Adrian’s pictures.

“Maman: ring the bell. Tell them to bring some tea.”

“Yes, my angel.”

“The conversation now became general and desultory. Mary, fearing that she had already been rudely inattentive to her hostess, thought it better not to continue her chat with Adrian. “I see our telegram is of no avail, “ she said. “Mr. Hoskyn has probably dined at his club.”

“The more fool he,” said Charlie, morosely.

“What is that for?” said Mary, surprised by his tone. He looked sulkily at the piano, and did not reply. Then he stole a glance at Aurélie, and was much put out to find that she was tendering him her empty teacup. He took it, and replaced it on the table in confusion.

“And so,” she said, when he was again seated near her, “you have succeeded in none of your professions.”

This sudden return to a dropped subject put him out still more. “I — you mean my — ?”

“Your metiers — whatever you call them. I am not surprised, Monsieur Charles. You have no patience.”

“I can be patient enough when I like.”

“Do you ever like?”

“Sometimes. When you play, for instance, I could listen for a year without getting tired.”

“You would get very hungry. And I should get very tired of playing. Besides—”

“A thud, followed by babyish screams, interrupted her. She listened for a moment, and left the room, followed by her mother. Mary and Adrian, accustomed to such incidents, did not stir. Charlie, reassured by their composure, took up the book of sketches.

Adrian,” said Mary in a low voice: “do you think Mrs Herbert is annoyed with me?”

“No.Why”

“I mean, was she annoyed — to-day — in the studio?”

“I should not think so. N — no. Why should she annoyed with you?”

“Not perhaps with me particularly. But with both of us. You must know what I mean, Adrian. I felt in an excessively false position when she came in. I do not mean exactly that she might be jealous: but —

“Reassure yourself, Mary,” he replied, with a sad smile. She is not jealous. I wish she were.”

“You wish it!”

“Yes. It would be proof of love. I doubt if she is capable of jealousy.

“I hope not. She must have thought it very odd; and, of course, we looked as guilty as possible. Innocent people always do. Hush! here she is. Have you restored peace to the nursery, Mrs Herbert?

“My mother is doing so.” said Aurélie. “It is a very unlucky child. It is impossible to find a cot that it cannot fall out of. But do not rise. Is it it possible that you are going?”

Mary, who in spite of Herbert’s assurance was not comfortable, invented unanswerable reasons for returning home at once. Charlie had to go with her. He tried to bid Aurélie good night unconcernedly, but failed. Mary remarked to Herbert, who accompanied them to the door, that Charlie had behaved himself much 1ess akwardly a boy than he did now as a man. Adrian assented; let them out; stood for a moment to admire the beauty of the evening; and returned to the drawingroom, where Aurélie was sitting on an ottoman, apparently deep in thought.

“Come!” he said spiritedly: “does not Mrs Hoskyn improve on acquaintance? Is she not a nice woman?”

Aurélie looked at him dreamily for a moment, and then said, “Charming.”

“I knew you would like her. That was a happy thought of yours to ask her to dinner. I am very glad you did.”

“I owed you some reparation, Adrian.”

“What for?” he said, instinctively feeling damped.”

“For interrupting your tete-a-tete.”

He laughed. “Yes,” he said. “But you owe me no reparation for that. You came most opportunely.”

“That is quite what I thought. Ah, my friend, how much more I admire you when you are in love with Mrs. Hoskyn than when you are in love with me! You are so much more manly and thoughtful. And you abandoned her to marry me! What folly!”

Adrian stood openmouthed, not only astonished, but anxious that she should perceive his astonishment. “Aurélie,” he exclaimed: “is it possible — it is hardly conceivable — that you are jealous?”

“N — no,” replied she, after some consideration. “I do not think I am jealous. Perhaps Mr. Hoskyn will be, if he happens upon another tete-a-tete. But you do not fight in England, so it does not matter.”

“Aurélie: are you serious?”

“Wherefore should I not be serious?” she said, rousing herself a little.

“Because,” he answered, gravely, “your words imply that you have a vile opinion of Mrs. Hoskyn and of me.”

“Oh, no, no,” she said, carelessly reassuring him. “I not think that you arc a wicked gallant, like Don Juan. I know you would both think that a great English sin. I suspect you of nothing except what I saw in your face when you had her hands clasped in yours. You could not look at me so.”

“What do you mean?” said he, indignantly.

“I will shew you,” she replied calmly, rising and approaching him. “Give me your hands.”

“Aurélie: this is chil—”

“Both your hands. Give them to me.”

She took them as she spoke, he looking foolish meanwhile.

“Now, she aid. taking a step back so that they were nearly at arms length. “behold what I mean. Look into my eyes as you looked at hers, if you can.” She waited; but his face expressed nothing bn1 confusion. “You cannot,” she added, attempting to loose his hands. But he grasped her tightly, drew her towards him, and kissed her. “Ah,” she said, disengaging herself quietly, “I did not see that part of it. I was only at the door for a moment before I spoke.”

“Nonsense, Aurélie‚ I do not mean that I kissed Mrs. Hoskyn.”

“Then you should have. When a woman gives you both her hands, that is what she expects.”

“But I pledge you my word that you are mistaken. We were simply shaking hands on a bargain: the commonnest thing possible in England.”

“A bargain?”

“An agreement — a species of arrangement between us.”

“Eh bien! And what was this agreement that called such a light into your eyes?”

Adrian, about to reply confidently, hesitated when he realized the impression which his words would probably convey. “It is rather difficult to explain,” he began.

“Then do not explain it; for it is very easy to understand. I know. I know. My poor Adrian: you are in love without knowing it. Ah! I envy Mrs Hoskyn.”

“If you really mean that,” he said eagerly, “I will forgive you all the rest.”

“I envy her the power to be in love,” rejoined Aurélie, sitting down again, and speaking meditatively. “I cannot love. I can feel it in the music — in the romance — in the poetry; but in real life — it is impossible. I am fond of mamman, fond of the bambino, fond of you sometimes; but this is not love — not such love as you used to feel for me — as she feels now for you. I see people and things too clearly to love. Ah well! I must content myself with the music. It is but a shadow. Perhaps it is as real as love is, after all.”

“In short, Aurélie, you do not love me, and never have loved me.”

“Not in your way.”

“Why did you not tell me this before?”

“Because, whilst you loved me, it would have wounded you.”

“I love you still; and you know it. Why did you not tell me so before we were married?”

“Ah, I had forgotten that. I must have loved you then. But you were only half real: I did not know you. What is the matter with you?”

“You ask me what is the matter, after — after—”

“Come and sit by me, and be tranquil. You are making grimaces like a comedian. I do more for you than you deserve; for I still cherish you as my husband, whilst you make bargains, as you call it, with other women.”

“Aurélie,” he said, sternly: “there is one course, and only one, left to us. We must separate.”

“Separate! And for why?”

“Because you do not love me. I suspected it before: now I know it. Your respect for me has vanished too. I can at least set you free: I owe that much to myself. You may not see the necessity for this; and I cannot make you see it. None the less, we must separate.”

“And what shall I do for a husband? Do you forget your duty to me and to my child? Well, it does not matter. Go. But look you, Adrian, if you abandon your home only to draw that woman away from hers, it will be an infamy — one that will estrange me from you forever. Do not hope, when you tire of her — for one tires of all pronounced people, and she, in face and character, is very pronounced — do not hope to console yourself with me. You may be weak and foolish if you will; but when you cease to be a man of honor, you are no longer my Adrian.”

“And how, in heaven’s name, shall I be the worse for that, since already I am no longer your Adrian? You have told me that vou never cared for me—”

“Chut! I tell thee that I am not of a nature to fall in love. Becalm ; and do not talk of separation, and such silly things. Have I not been good to her and to you this day?”

“Upon my soul,” cried Adrian despairingly, “I believe you are either mad or anxious to make me mad.”

“He is swearing!” she ejaculated, lifting her hands.

“I am not in love with Mary,” he continued. “It is a gross and absurd libel on both of us to say so. If anyone be to blame, you are — yes, you, Aurélie. You have put the vilest construction on a perfectly innocent action of mine; and now you tell me with the most cynical coolness that you do not care for me.

Aurélie, implying by a little shrug that she gave him up, rose and went to the piano. The moment her fingers touched the keys, she seemed to forget him. But she stopped presently, and said with grave surprise, “What did you say, Adrian?”

“Nothing,” he replied shortly.

“Nothing!” she repeated incredulously.

“Nothing that was intended for your ears. Since you overheard me, I beg your pardon. I do not often offend you with such language; but tonight I do say with all my soul, ‘Damn that pianoforte.’”

“Without doubt you have often said so before under your breath,” said Aurélie, closing the instrument quietly.

“Are you going?” he said anxiously, as she moved toward the door. “No,” he exclaimed, springing forward, and timidly putting his arm about her, “I did not mean that I disliked your playing. I only hate the piano when you make me jealous of it — when you go to it to forget me.”

“It does not matter. Be tranquil. I am not offended,” she said coldly, trying to disengage herself.

“You are indeed, Aurélie. Pray do not be so quick to—”

“Adrian: you are worrying me — you will make me cry; and then I will never forgive you. Let me go.”

At the threat of crying he released her, and stood looking piteously at her.

“You should nut make scenes with me,” she said plaintively. “Where is my handkerchief? I had it a moment ago.”

“Here it is, my darling.” he said humbly, picking it from the floor where it had fallen. She took it without thanking him. Then, glancing petulantly at him, and seeing him dejected and wistful, she relented and stretched out her arms for a caress.

“Mon âme,” she whispered, as she rested her face against his.

“Ma vie,” he said fervently, and clasped her with a shudder of delight to his breast.