Читать книгу Charles Stewart Parnell - Katharine O'Shea - Страница 8

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"D'un coeur qui t'aime, Mon Dieu, qui peut troubler la tranquille paix? Il cherche, en tout, ta volunté suprème, Et ne se cherche jamais. Sur la terre, dans le ciel même, Est-il d'autre bonheur que la tranquille paix D'un coeur qui t'aime?"—RACINE.

Willie was too busy to come down to Ventnor again, and I became so depressed by the relaxing air and by the sight of the many poor consumptive people I met at every turn, veritable signposts in their different stages of disease of the road I had been warned that I was on, that I decided to go nearer home. My doctor suggested Hastings, and there I went, taking my small family under the kindly escort of one of my nephews.

Willie soon came down, and, as my health improved rapidly, we stayed on for some time, making frequent visits to my Aunt "Ben" at Eltham, who was making our stay at the seaside possible. This was practically my first introduction to my aunt, as my former visits were when, as a little child, I was only allowed to sit by her side in the "tapestry room" trying to do some needlework under her supervision, and assisting her in the consumption of the luscious peaches she always had on the table. In those days I would have been wild with terror at the idea of being left alone with this aunt, who always wore the fashions of her early Victorian youth, and who would not tolerate the slightest noise in the house. I now found her of fascinating interest, and even the painful sense of "hush" in her house, the noiseless stepping of the servants and the careful seclusion of sunlight had attractions for me. My uncle, Benjamin Wood, had died very many years before, and my aunt never alluded to him. She herself had never left Eltham since his death, and had only once been in a railway train, living in complete seclusion in her fine old Georgian house, only "taking the air" in the grounds adjoining or emerging forth in her chariot to drive for an hour daily.

She lived in the intellectual world of the Greek poets, and of Addison, Swift and Racine; and there was a leisure and a scholarly atmosphere about her life that seemed to banish the hurry and turmoil of the modern world at her gate. She was extremely generous in subscribing to what she termed "Organizations for the better conduct of charitable relief," and, though of no particular religious belief, she subscribed to the various objects of local charity when asked to do so by the clergyman of the parish. The latter gentleman once made the mistake of offering to read the Scriptures to her on the occasion of an illness, and I well remember his face of consternation when she replied: "I thank you, Mr. ——, but I am still well able to read, and the Scriptures do not interest me." Yet during the many years I spent in constant companionship with her the quiet peace which reigned by her side gave me the most restful and soothing hours of my life.

After we had paid her several visits in this way she informed me that she had ascertained that I was much alone, that she was very tenderly attached to me, and would wish to provide for me and my children if I would come to live near her so that I could be her constant companion. She added that she considered that this arrangement would be more "seemly" for me, as Willie was obliged to be away from home so much.

After consultation with the (county court) judge, Gordon Whitbread, her nephew and my cousin, who always transacted her business for her, she bought a house for me at the other side of her park, and arranged to settle a regular income on me and to educate my children. In return she asked that her "Swan"—as she always called me—should be her daily companion. This I was until her death, at the age of ninety-four, about fifteen years later.

My aunt lived a life of great seclusion, and, with the exception of George Meredith (the author), and the Rev. —— Wilkinson, who each came down once a week to read to her, her oculist and great friend, Dr. Bader, and two old ladies, friends of her youth, she rarely saw anyone. Her house—"The Lodge," Eltham—was fine old Georgian, spoilt inside by the erection of mock pillars in the hall. She was very particular that no one should tread upon the highly polished floors, and, as the two large halls had only rugs laid about on the shining surface, one had either to make many "tacks" to reach the desired door or seat, or take a short cut on tiptoe and risk her "displeasure."

It was amusing to watch George Meredith on his excursion from the front door to the dressing-room at the foot of the stairs, where my aunt kept three pairs of slippers for the use of her "gentlemen readers" lest their boots should soil the carpets. To reach this little room he had—if in a good mood and conforming to his old friend's regulations—to walk straight ahead past the room, and make a detour round a pillar of (imitation) green marble and a table, back to the door. On days of rebellion against these forms and ceremonies he would hesitate for a moment just inside the door, and, with a reckless uplifting of his head, begin a hasty stride across the sacred places; a stride which became an agitated tip-toeing under the scandalized gaze of the footman. Before he began to read to my aunt the following dialogue invariably took place:—

"Now, my dear lady, I will read you something of my own."

"Indeed, my dear Mr. Meredith, I cannot comprehend your works."

"I will explain my meaning, dear Mrs. Wood."

"You are prodigiously kind, dear Mr. Meredith, but I should prefer Molière to-day."

While Willie and I were still living in London we went down one day to see a furnished house we wished to rent for a few weeks, and, remembering my Aunt Ben's injunction to convey her "felicitations to her dear Mr. Meredith," we called on him.

I had not before met George Meredith, and had only read one of his works—and that "behind the door" when I was very young, owing to some belated scruple of my elders. I remember, as we neared the house, asking Willie the names of Meredith's other works, so that I might be ready primed with intelligent interest, and Willie's sarcastic little smile, as he mentioned one or two, adding, "You need not worry yourself; Meredith will soon enlighten us as to his books. They say it's the one thing he ever talks about." But we spent a delightful afternoon with Mr. Meredith, who showed us all his literary treasures and the little house at the end of the garden where he wrote. While we sat in the lovely little garden drinking tea our host descanted on the exquisite haze of heat that threw soft shadows about the house and gave the great trees in the background the appearance of an enchanted forest. George Meredith was "reader" to Chapman and Hall in those days, and he spoke to me appreciatively of the work of my mother and sister, who published with Chapman and Hall.

In these days at Eltham I learnt to know George Meredith very well, as I saw him almost every week when he came down to read to my aunt. The old lady did not like triangular conversation, so as soon as they were fairly launched in reading or conversation, I would gladly slip away to my own occupations. To Aunt Ben, Meredith appeared to be a very young man indeed, and in her gentle, high-bred way she loved to tease him about his very great appreciation of his own work—and person. Meredith took her gentle raillery absolutely in good part and would hold forth upon what the literary world "of all time" owed him in his books, and also upon what Lady This-or-that had said in admiration of his good looks at such-and-such a gathering. My aunt used to delight in these tales, which were delivered in the mock serious manner of a boy telling his mother of his prowess, real or imagined; and after a time of listening to him, with only her gently modulated little bursts of laughter to encourage him, she would say, "Oh, my dear Mr. Meredith, your conceit is as wonderful as your genius!"—bringing forth from him the protest, "My dear lady, no! But it is a pleasure to you to hear of my successes and to me to tell you of them." And so I would leave them to their playful badinage and reading.

Meredith was very fond of his old friend, and always treated her with the chivalrous and rather elaborate courtesy that he well knew she delighted in. His weekly visits were a great pleasure to her, and although she would not allow him to read anything modern and never anything of his own work, I think he must have enjoyed his reading and talk with this clever old lady, for often the stipulated two hours of the "classics and their discussion" lengthened into the three or four that caused him to miss all the most convenient trains home.

One evening as I was going into the house I saw him standing on the terrace gazing after the retreating form of my little girl Carmen, then about six years old. As I came up he pointed at the stiff little back and said, "She was flying along like a fairy Atalanta when I caught her, and said, 'What is your name?' 'Miss Nothin'-at-all!' she replied, with such fierce dignity that I dropped her in alarm."

I called the child to come back and speak politely to Mr. Meredith, but, to his amusement, was only rewarded by an airy wave of the hand as she fled down a by-path.

As I sometimes chatted to Mr. Meredith on his way through the grounds to the station, he would tell me of "that blessed woman," as he used to call his (second) wife, already then dead, and of how he missed her kind and always sympathetic presence on his return home and in his work. Sometimes the handsome head would droop, and I thought he looked careworn and sad as he spoke of her, and in doing so he lost for the moment all the mannerisms and "effectiveness" which were sometimes rather wearisome in him. As my aunt grew very old she—in the last few years of her life—became unequal to listening and talking to her "gentlemen readers," and to me she deputed the task of telling them so. In the case of George Meredith it was rather painful to me, as I feared the loss of the £300 a year my aunt had so long paid him for his weekly visits might be a serious one to him. But he, too, had aged in all these years, and perhaps his visits to his old friend were becoming rather irksome to him in their regularity. Curiously enough, I shared my aunt's inability to enjoy his work, and to the last I met his mocking inquiry as to my "progress in literature" (i.e. his novels) by a deprecating "Only 'Richard Feverel.'"

The house my aunt bought for me was just across her park, and she had a gate made in the park fence so that I might go backwards and forwards to her house more quickly. My house was a comfortable villa with the usual little "front garden" and larger one in the rear. There were excellent stables at the end of this garden. The house, "Wonersh Lodge," had the usual dining-room and drawing-room, with two other sitting-rooms opening severally into the garden, and a large conservatory, which I afterwards made over to Mr. Parnell for his own use. My aunt furnished the house, and we were most comfortable, while my children rejoiced in having the run of the park and grounds after the restraint of town life.

Willie was very much in London now, and occupied himself in getting up a company to develop some mining business in Spain. He always drew up a prospectus excellently; on reading it one could hardly help believing—as he invariably did—that here at last was the golden opportunity of speculators. Some influential men put into the Spanish venture sums varying from £1,000 to £10,000. Our old friend Christopher Weguelin took great interest in it, and eventually Willie was offered the post of manager, at La Mines, at a good salary. It was a very acceptable post to Willie, as he loved the life in foreign countries. There was a very good house, and he had it planted round with eucalyptus trees to keep off the fever so prevalent there, and from which the men working the mines suffered greatly.

Willie was, however, immune to fever, and never had it. He was away in Spain for over eighteen months this time, and did not come home at all during the period.

My son now, at eight years old, proved too much for his French governess, so we arranged for him to go to a school at Blackheath, though he was two years younger than the age generally accepted there. The little girls were started afresh with a German governess, and on Willie's return from Spain he stayed at Eltham for a time.

We were pleased to see one another again, but once more the wearing friction caused by our totally dissimilar temperaments began to make us feel that close companionship was impossible, and we mutually agreed that he should have rooms in London, visiting Eltham to see myself and the children at week-ends. After a while the regularity of his week-end visits became very much broken, but he still arrived fairly regularly to take the children to Mass at Chislehurst on Sunday mornings, and he would often get me up to town to do hostess when he wished to give a dinner-party. I had all my life been well known at Thomas's Hotel, Berkeley Square, as my parents and family had always stayed there when in London. So here I used to help Willie with his parties, and to suffer the boredom incidental to this form of entertainment.

On one occasion Willie, who always said that even if only for the sake of our children I ought not to "drop out of everything," worried me into accepting invitations to a ball given by the Countess ——, whom I did not know, and for this I came up to town late in the afternoon, dined quietly at the hotel by myself, and dressed for the ball, ready for Willie to fetch me as he had promised after his dinner with some friends. I was ready at half-past eleven as had been arranged, and the carriage came round for me at a quarter to twelve. At twelve the manageress, a friend from my childhood, came to see if she could "do anything for me" as Captain O'Shea was so late. At 12.30 the head waiter, who used to lift me into my chair at table on our first acquaintance, came to know if "Miss Katie" was anxious about "the Captain," and got snubbed by the manageress for his pains. At one o'clock, white with anger and trembling with mortification, I tore off my beautiful frock and got into bed. At nine o'clock the next morning Willie called, having only just remembered my existence and the ball to which he was to have taken me.

Willie was now longing for some definite occupation, and he knew many political people. While he was on a visit to Ireland early in 1880 he was constantly urged by his friends, the O'Donnells and others, to try for a seat in the next Parliament. A dissolution seemed imminent. He had often talked of becoming a member for some Irish constituency, and now, on again meeting The O'Gorman Mahon in Ireland, he was very easily persuaded to stand in with him for County Clare. He wrote home to me to know what I thought of the idea, saying that he feared that, much as he should like it, the expenses would be almost too heavy for us to manage. I wrote back strongly encouraging him to stand, for I knew it would give him occupation he liked and keep us apart—and therefore good friends. Up to this time Willie had not met Mr. Parnell.