Читать книгу Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7 - Karel Čapek, August Nemo, John Dos Passos - Страница 30

GOOD-MORNING, my dear,” exclaims Lady Manderton, as she enters the cosy boudoir of her bosom friend and confidante, Mrs. de Lacy Trevor, as this latter, in a neat peignoir, lies stretched out, novel in hand, on an easy couch overlooking the fast-filling street of Piccadilly about eleven o’clock on the morning of the 5th June, 1890.

“Ciel! my dear, what brings you here, and dressed, too, at this unearthly hour?”

“Chute, Vivi, don’t talk so loud. A mere rencontre, that’s all. Arthur and I have arranged a little lark, and I told him to meet me here. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“He, he!” giggles Vivi; “but what have you done with Man?”

“Oh! he’s ‘Safe enough, my dear. Gone off to his club. Thinks I’ve gone to get a gown tried on. He, he! What fools men are!”

“Think themselves deuced clever, nevertheless, Dodo,” laughs Vivi. “It’s not an hour since Trebby was raving at me, laying down the law at the way I go on with Captain Kilmarnock. Of course I pretended to be awfully cut up, rubbed my eyes, got up a few tears and sniffs, got rid of him with a kiss or two, packed him off to his club, and at twelve o’clock Kil and I are off to Maidenhead together.”

This announcement creates the greatest amusement between the two ladies, judging by the peals of laughter that follow it.

“By-the-bye, Dodo, where were you yesterday?” inquires Vivi Trevor, after the laughter has subsided.

“I, my dear? Why, I was with H.R.H.‘s party for the 4th of June. You can’t think what a jolly day we had, Vivi. Some of the recitations were quite delightful, and there was a boy called Hector D’Estrange, who was simply too lovely for words. We all fell in love with him, I can tell you. I never saw such eyes in my life. Won’t he break some of our hearts some day!”

“Hector D’Estrange; but who is he?”

“That’s just what every one was asking, but no one seemed to know. It appears he has taken the school by storm. Does everything tiptop. Splendid batsman, bowler, oarsman, wonderful at racquets, undefeatable at books— in fact, my dear, beautiful as an Adonis, and clever past expression.”

“Oh, Dodo! I must see this Adonis. I love pretty boys.”

“And plucky ones, too,” laughs Vivi. “I was speaking to young Estcourt, who is his chum, and he told me that when Hector D’Estrange first came to Eton, a good many attempts were made to bully him, but he soon settled his tormentors, and gave one of them, a big overgrown monster, such a drubbing, that he never molested him more. What fun, Dodo, it would have been to see my Adonis punching the overgrown bully! I did laugh when Estcourt told me. I do so hate overgrown boys. Don’t you, Dodo?”

“Of course I do, Vivi. Detest them!”

There is a ring at the door bell. Vivi jumps up and looks out of the window.

“It’s Arthur!” is all she exclaims.

“Well, ta ta, Vivi! won’t bother you with him,” laughs Lady Manderton, as she stoops to kiss her friend. “See you to-night, I suppose, at Ferdey’s—eh? Love to Kil. Don’t let Trebby catch you, and a pleasant outing to you both;” saying which she is off out of the room, and running downstairs to meet her friend Sir Arthur Muster–Day, a smart young guardsman, whom it has pleased her for the time being to think that she likes better than any one else in the world.

They are off together, happy in each other’s company. Sir Arthur is not married, and he thinks it just the thing to be seen about as much as possible in the company of one of London’s newest belles. Lady Manderton doesn’t care a nip for her husband, and is considerably bored that her husband evinces a certain amount of affection for her; she only married him for his money and position, and did not at all bargain for the affection part of the affair.

As for Vivi, after her friend is gone, she jumps up and rings for her maid. That important individual having made her appearance, she and Vivi are soon engrossed with the all-paramount question of the moment—dress. Half-a-dozen gowns are pulled out, put on, pulled off and discarded, until at length one appears to please more than the others.

“How do you think I look in this, Marie?” she inquires a little anxiously. “Is it becoming?”

“Mais, madame, c’est tout-a-fait charmante,” replies the well-drilled maid with an expression of admiration.

Vivi is satisfied. The gown remains on her person, and in a short time she is dressed and ready for her day’s outing. Twelve o’clock strikes. A neat brougham dashes up to the door. In less time almost than it takes to tell it, Vivi has taken her seat in the carriage, and is being whirled through the busy streets of London, en route to Captain Kilmarnock’s rooms. There she will pick him up, and together they will proceed to Maidenhead, what to do God knows. We had better leave them.

A few minutes later, and there is another ring at the door, and the footman opens it to Mr. de Lacy Trevor. As he does so, the latter inquires—

“Is Mrs. Trevor in?”

“No, sir, just gone out,” answers the servant.

“Do you know where to, James?” again asks Mr. Trevor.

“I do not, sir, but perhaps Mademoiselle Marie will know.”

Marie is called, and arrives all smiles and bows. “Really, she thinks madame has gone out for a drive with her friend Lady Manderton, and to lunch with her afterwards. C’est tout.”

Mr. Trevor sighs.

“There will be no lunch wanted, James,” he observes quietly. “I shall lunch at the club,”

He wanders down the street in the direction of St. James’s. He wonders if Vivi has forgotten the promise she made him that morning to lunch at home, and go for a ride with him afterwards. He so rarely sees her now, and when he does it is seldom alone. She never seems to have any time to give to him, and yet he is not brutal to her, or neglectful, or wrapped up in some one else, as many other men are. He loves her so dearly, and would do anything to make her happy; but he can quite see how she shuns him, and how much happier she looks when in Captain Kilmarnock’s company. And then, with a shudder, he starts and stares eagerly across the street, for there she is—yes, actually there she is, in Captain Kilmarnock’s brougham, with the captain beside her, driving rapidly in the direction of Piccadilly.

Mr. Trevor has a strange lump in his throat as he ascends the steps of the Conservative and enters that roomy club.

“Waiter!” he calls out, and his voice is somewhat husky.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring me a stiff brandy-and-soda, waiter, and mind it is stiff,” continues Mr. Trevor, as he throws himself wearily into a chair. The soda with its stiff complement of brandy arrives. It is mixed carefully by the waiter, and handed to the sad-hearted man. He drinks it eagerly. He has not a strong head, and knows that he cannot take much, but he feels that oblivion must in this instance be sought, if possible, no matter how, so long as it is attained.

The brandy, in a measure, has the desired effect. He feels it perforating through his body and mounting to his brain. Things don’t look quite so gloomy to him now, and the loneliness of his position is less acutely felt. Two men are talking to each other close by him. He knows one of them. It is Sir Ralph Vereton, and he holds in his hand a copy of the June number of the Free Review.

“It is a wonderful article for a boy to write, and an Eton boy, too,” he hears the baronet exclaiming. “Have you read it, Critchley?”

“Well, no, I can’t say that I have, but I will, old chap, when I get home. I’m afraid I haven’t time to just now.”

“What’s that, Vereton?” inquires Mr. Trevor, leaning forward in his chair, “anything particularly clever?”

“Hulloa, Trevor ! you there? Didn’t see you, old man. What! you haven’t read an Eton boy’s ‘ Essay on Woman’s Position ‘? Every one is talking about it. It’s deuced clever and original, whatever one may think of the opinions, and is clearly written by a lad who will make his mark in the world.”

“Let’s have a look at it, Vereton, if you don’t want it, there’s a good chap. I want something to read,” exclaims Mr. Trevor eagerly, reaching out his hand for the periodical, which the baronet passes to him good-naturedly. It is open at the page of honour, the first page in the book, and as Mr. Trevor scans the heading he reads it as follows: “Woman’s Position in this World. By Hector D’Estrange, an Eton boy.” He starts reading it, languidly at first, as if the remarks of a boy on such a subject cannot possibly be worth reading, but he is soon absorbed in the article, and never budges in his chair until he has read it through and through.

And there are some parts to which he turns again and again, as though he would burn their truths into his brain, and keep them there never to be forgotten. One in especial rivets his attention, so much so that he commits it to memory,

“When a girl is born,” it ran, “no especial difference is made in the care of her by doctor or nurse. Up to a certain age the treatment which she and her brother receive is exactly the same. Why, I ask, should there be ever any change in this treatment? Why should such a marked contrast be drawn later on between the sexes? Is it for the good of either that the girl should be both physically and mentally stunted, both in her intellect and body,—that she should be held back while the boy is pressed forward? Can it be argued with any show of reason that her capacity for study is less, and her power of observation naturally dwarfed in comparison with that of the boy? Certainly not. I confidently assert that where a girl has fair play, and is given equal opportunities with the boy, she not only equals him in mental capacity, but far outruns him in such; and I also confidently assert, that given the physical opportunities afforded to the boy, to develop and expand, and strengthen the body by what are called ‘manly exercises,’ the girl would prove herself every inch his equal in physical strength. There are those, I know, who will sneer at these opinions, but in the words of Lord Beaconsfield, I can only asseverate that ‘the time will come,’ when those who sneer will be forced to acknowledge the truth of this assertion.

“Well then, granting, for the sake of argument, that what I have stated is correct, why, I ask, should all that men look forward to and hold most dear, be denied to women? Why should the professions which men have arrogated to themselves be entirely monopolised by their sex, to the exclusion of women? I see no manner of reason why, if women received the same moral, mental, and physical training that men do, they should not be as fit—nay, infinitely more fit—to undertake the same duties and responsibilities as men. I do not see that we should be a wit less badly governed if we had a woman Prime Minister or a mixed Cabinet, or if women occupied seats in the Houses of Parliament or on the bench in the Courts of Justice.

“Of course woman’s fitness to undertake these duties depends entirely on the manner in which she is educated. If you stunt the intellect, tell her nothing, and refuse to exercise the physical powers which Nature has given her, you must expect little from such an unfortunate creature. Put man in the same position in which you put woman, and he would be in a very short time just as mentally and physically stunted as she is.

“All very well to declare that it is a woman’s business to bear children, to bring them up, to attend to household matters, and to leave the rest to men. A high-spirited girl or woman will not, in every instance, accept this definition of her duties by man as correct. That such a definition is clearly man’s, it is not difficult to see, for woman would never have voluntarily condemned herself to a life of such inert and ambitionless duties as these. But so long as this definition of woman’s duty and position be observed and accepted by Society, so long will this latter be a prey to all the evils and horrors that afflict it, and which are a result of woman’s subjection and degradation.

” Think you, you who read these words, that hundreds of women now unhappily married would ever have contracted that terrible tie had they been aware of what they were doing, or had they had the smallest hope of advancement and prospects of success in life without? Certainly not. Marriage is contracted in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred by women desirous of making for themselves a home, and because in no other quarter can they adopt agreeable and pleasant professions and occupations like men. “Were it possible, they would either not have married, or at least have waited until, with the knowledge of man which they should possess—but which, unfortunately, nowadays comes to them only with marriage—they could select for themselves, with their eyes open, a partner suited to them in every respect. As it is, what does one see? Women, especially in the higher grades of society, marry only to escape in many instances the prim restraints of home. Others marry for money and position, because they know that the portals, through which men may pass to try for these, are closed to them. The cruel laws by which men have shut women out from every hope of winning name and fame, are responsible for hundreds of wretched marriages, which have seared the world with their griefs. If, in the narrow sphere within which she moves, a woman errs, let not the man blame her, but rather look to the abolition of unnatural laws which have brought about her degradation.”

Mr. Trevor sits very still in his chair. A flood of thoughts have come to fill his brain. They keep him very busy and occupied. The revelations thrown upon woman’s position by the straightforward, truth-breathing article of Hector D’Estrange, have taken him by storm, and have completely revolutionised his ideas. He has hitherto been so accustomed to look upon and treat women with the self-satisfied, conscious feeling of superiority assumed by men, that such ideas as these before him are startlingly strange and extraordinary. His position with Vivi, and hers in regard to him, presents itself now to his mind in a totally different light to that in which he has hitherto been accustomed to regard it. He remembers how he first met her hardly a year ago, a beautiful, lively, healthy girl, whose scheming mother, knowing no better, had thrust her into the busy mart, willing to sell her to the highest bidder. He remembers how passionately he fell in love with this girl, how he never paused to ask himself if his love were returned. He recalls full well the bitter look that had crossed her face when he had asked her to be his wife, and the cold, matter-of-fact way in which she had accepted him. then his thoughts fly back to his wedding day, and a shudder runs through Launcelot Trevor as he recalls the utter absence of love on her part towards him. And, remembering all this, he cannot but feel that Hector D’Estrange is right. If, in the narrow sphere within which poor Vivi had moved, she had, according to the notions of propriety laid down by Mrs. Grundy, erred, Launcelot Trevor feels that the blame must rest not so much with her, as with the cruel laws that had left that beautiful girl no other option but to sell herself for gold; for be it remembered, she had been educated up to no higher level, been imbued with no better aim. She had been taught that the only opening for a girl is to get herself well married, that while men could go forth into the world with a score of professions to choose from, she must for ever regard herself as shut out from that world of enterprise, daring, and fame, created, so says man, solely for himself.

He sits on in his chair, his thoughts still busy with the new problem that has presented itself so startlingly to his mind. The luncheon hour is far past, much of the afternoon has slipped away, still Launcelot Trevor remains where he had seated himself many hours before. Men keep coming in and out; friends and acquaintances nod to him as they pass. He scarcely heeds them, or pays attention to what they say. His mind is absorbed by the truths which he has faced for the first time.

Suddenly he starts; the clock is striking seven. He remembers that at eight o’clock he and Vivi are engaged to dine out. He jumps up, bids the hall porter hail a hansom, and in a few minutes is being driven towards Piccadilly.

“Has Mrs. Trevor returned yet?” he again inquires of the servant who opens the door to him.

“Yes, sir, she is in the drawing-room with Captain Kilmarnock.”

He walks slowly upstairs. All is very silent in the room mentioned. He stands on the threshold, hardly daring to open the door. He can hear a rustling inside, and, yes, unmistakably the sound of a kiss. He coughs audibly as he lays his hand on the door’s handle. He can hear a scuffling of feet, and on entering perceives Vivi sitting bolt upright on the sofa, and Captain Kilmarnock apparently warming his hands over the fireplace. Unfortunately there is no fire!

She looks at him as he comes in, and for a moment their eyes meet. A bright flush rises to Vivi’s cheeks. She expects to see him furious, as he had been that morning, and is surprised, nay, even awed by the sad expression on his face.

“Vivi,” he says very quietly, “I think we ought to be dressing for dinner. Good-evening to you, Kilmarnock. Are you to be at Ferdey’s to-night?”

“No, Trevor,” stammers the captain, visibly uncomfortable. “I have another engagement.”

“Oh, well, shall see you again, I suppose, soon? Good-night, old chap. Must go and dress. Vivi dear, don’t be late.”

He goes out as he speaks, and closes the door behind him. Hector D’Estrange’s words are still next his heart.

“Poor Vivi,” he mutters to himself. “It is not her fault. Poor Vivi.”

He is hardly out of the room, when she looks up at Captain Kilmarnock. The scared expression is still in her face.

“Kil,” she whispers, “that was a near squeak. You had better be off, old man. Didn’t hear the front door bell ring, did you?”

“No,” he answers in a rather sulky tone. “Hang him! he’s always where he’s not wanted. But you are right. I’d better be off. To-morrow at three. Don’t forget.”

“All right,” she answers, with a smile.