Edith Wharton - Novella 01 (4 page)

 
          
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Lady Breton of
Lowood.

 
          
“A sorrow’s crown of sorrow is
remembering happier things.”
 
Tennyson: Locksley Hall.

 
          
It
is sometimes wonderful to me how little it takes to make people happy. How
short a time is needed to bury a grief, how little is needed to cover it! What
Salvandy once said in a political sense, “Nous dansons sur un volcan,” is
equally true of
life.
We trip lightly over new graves
& gulfs of sorrow & separation; we piece & patch & draw
together the torn woof of our happiness; yet sometimes our silent sorrows break
through the slight barrier we have built to ward them off, & look us
sternly in the face—

 
          
A
month after Guy Hastings & Egerton started on their wanderings southward,
Miss Rivers’ engagement to Lord Breton of Lowood was made known to the
fashionable world, & a month after that (during which the fashionable world
had time to wag its tongue over the nine-day’s wonder of the old peer’s being
caught by that “fast little chit”) Georgie became Lady Breton.
As a county paper observed: “The brilliant espousals were
celebrated with all the magnificence of wealth directed by taste.”
Georgie, under her floating mist of lace went up the aisle with a slow step,
& not a few noticed how intensely pale she was; but when she came out on
her husband’s arm her colour had revived & she walked quickly &
bouyantly. Of course Mrs. Rivers was in tears; & Kate & Julia, in their
new role of bridemaids fluttered about everywhere; & Miss Blackstone put on
a gown of Bismarck-coloured poplin (her favourite shade) & a bonnet of surprising
form & rainbow tints, in honour of the occasion. But perhaps the real
moment of Georgie’s triumph was when the carriage rolled through the grand
gateways of Lowood, & after long windings through stately trees &
slopes of shaven lawn, passed before the door of her new home. Her heart beat
high as Lord Breton, helping her to descend, led her on his arm through the
wide hall lined by servants; she felt now that no stakes would have been too
high to win this exquisite moment of possessorship. A fortnight after this
brought on the bright, busy Christmas season; & as Lord Breton was desirous
of keeping it festively, invitations were sent out right & left. Georgie,
although perhaps she had not as much liberty as she had dreamed, found her
husband sufficiently indulgent, unless his express wishes were crossed; when,
as the game-keeper once remarked, “His lordship were quite pinacious.” She
enjoyed, too, the character of Lady Bountiful, & the tribute of obsequious
flattery which everybody is ready to pay to the mistress of a hospitable house;
but it was not long before she felt that these passing triumphs, which her
girlish fancy had exaggerated, palled on her in proportion as they became an
understood part of her life; praise loses half its sweetness when it is
expected. At first she would not confess to herself the great want that seemed
to be growing undefinably into her life; but as the gulf widened, she could not
overlook it. There is but one Lethe for those who are haunted by a life’s
mistake; & Georgie plunged into it. I have hinted that she had had a
reputation for fastness in her unmarried days; this reputation, which grew as
much out of a natural vivacity & daring as out of anything marked in her
conduct, grew to be a truth after she became Lady Breton. She dashed into the crowd
to escape the ghosts that peopled her solitude with vague reproaches; & as
the incompleteness of her mischosen life grew upon her day by day it gave new
impetus to the sort of moral opium-eating which half-stifled memory. Lord
Breton did not care to stay her; he took a certain pride in the glitter that
his young wife’s daring manners carried with them; for in pretty women,
fastness has always more or less fascination. And Georgie had to perfection the
talent of being “fast.” She was never coarse, never loud,
never
disagreeably masculine; but there was a resistless, saucy elan about her that
carried her a little beyond the average bounds laid for a lady’s behaviour. It
seemed as though her life never stood still, but rushed on with the hurry &
brawl of the streamlet that cannot hide the stones clogging its flow.
Altogether, she fancied herself happy; but there were moments when she might
have said, with Miss Ingelow: “My old sorrow wakes & cries”; moments when
all the hubbub of the present could not drown the low reproach of the past. It
was a very thin partition that divided Georgie from her skeleton.

 
          
One
day, when the last Christmas guests had departed from Lowood, & the new
relay had not arrived, Lord Breton, who was shut up with a sharp attack of gout,
sent a servant to Georgie’s dressing-room, to say that he would like to see my
lady. She came to him at once, for even his company, & his slow, pompous
speeches, were better than that dreadful solitude; although gout did not
sweeten his temper. “My dear,” he said, “seeing that ivory chess-board in the
drawing-room yesterday suggested to me an occupation while I am confined to my
chair. I used to be a fair player once. Will you kindly have the board brought
up?” As it happened, Georgie had not played a game of chess since the afternoon
of her parting with Guy, & her husband’s words, breaking upon a train of
sad thought (she had been alone nearly all day) jarred her strangely. “Chess!”
she said, with a start. “Oh, I—I had rather not. Excuse me. I hate chess.
Couldn’t we play something else?” Lord Breton looked surprised. “Is the game so
repugnant to you that I may not ask you to gratify me this afternoon?” he
asked, serenely; & Georgie felt almost ashamed of her weakness. “I beg your
pardon,” she said. “I play very badly, & could only bore you.” “I think I
can instruct you,” said Lord Breton, benignly; mistaking her aversion for
humility, & delighted at the display of this wife-like virtue.
“Oh, no, indeed.
I am so stupid about those things. And I
don’t like the game.” “I hoped you might conquer your dislike for my sake. You
forget that I lead a more monotonous existence than yours, when confined by
this unfortunate malady.” Lord Breton’s very tone spoke unutterable things; but
if Georgie could have mastered her feeling, the spirit of opposition alone
would have been enough to prick her on now. “I am sorry,” she said, coldly, “that
my likes & dislikes are not under better control. I cannot play chess.” “You
cannot, or will not?” “Whichever you please,” said Georgie, composedly. Lord
Breton’s wrath became evident in the contraction of his heavy brows; that a man
with his positive ideas about wifely submission, & marital authority,
should have his reproofs answered thus! “I do not think,”
he
observed, “that you consider what you are saying.” “I seldom do,” said Georgia,
with engaging frankness. “You know I am quite incorrigible.” “I confess, Lady
Breton, I do not care for such trifling.” “I was afraid I was boring you. I am
going to drive into Morley. Shall I order you any books from the library?”
enquired Georgie, graciously. But as she rose to go, Lord Breton’s ire burst
out. “Stay!” he exclaimed, turning red up to his rough eye-brows. “I repeat,
Lady
Breton, that
I do not think you know what you are
saying. This trivial evasion of so simple [a] request displeases me; & I
must again ask you to sacrifice part of your afternoon to the claims of your
husband.” Georgie, who [was] standing with her hand on the door, did not speak;
but her eyes gave him back flash for flash. “Will you oblige me by ringing for
the chess-board?” continued Lord Breton, rigidly.
“Certainly.
Perhaps you can get Williamson to play with you,” said Georgie, pulling the
bell. (Williamson was my lord’s confidential valet.) “I beg your pardon. I believe
I have already asked you to perform that function, Lady Breton.” “And I believe
that I have already refused,” said Georgie, regaining her coolness in
proportion as her husband grew more irate. At this moment, Williamson appeared,
& Lord Breton ordered him to bring up the chessboard. When he was gone,
Georgie saw that matters had gone too far for trifling. She had set her whole,
strong will against playing the game, & she resolved that Lord Breton
should know it at once. “I do not suppose,” she said, looking him directly in
the face, “that you mean to drive me into obeying by force. Once for all, I
cannot & I will not, do as you ask me. You have insulted me by speaking to
me as if I were a perverse
child,
& not the head
of your house; but I don’t mean to lose my temper. I know that gout is very
trying.” With this Parthian shot, she turned & left the room. Lord Breton,
boiling with rage, called after her—but what can a man tied to his chair with
the gout do against a quick-witted strategist in petticoats? Lord Breton began
to think that this wife-training was, after all, not mere child’s play. This
was the first declaration of open war; but it put Lord Breton on the alert,
& spurred Georgie into continual opposition. After all, she said to
herself, quarrelling was better than [the] heavy monotony of peace; Lord Breton
was perhaps not quite such a bore when worked into a genuine passion, as when
trying to be ponderously gallant. Poor Georgie! When she appeared on her
husband’s arm at the county balls & dinners in the flash of her diamonds
& the rustle of her velvet & lace, it seemed a grand thing to be Lady
Breton of Lowood; but often, after those very balls & dinners, when she had
sent her hundred-eyed maid away, & stood before the mirror taking off her
jewels, she felt that, like Cinderella, after one of those brief triumphs, she
was going back to the ashes & rags of reality.

 
          
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At Rome.

 
          
“I & he,
Brothers in art.”
Tennyson.

 
          
A large studio on the third floor of a Roman palazzo; a room
littered & crowded & picturesque in its disorderliness, as only a
studio can be.
A white cast of Aphrodite relieved by a dull tapestry
background representing a wan Susannah dipping her foot in the water, while two
muddy-coloured elders glare through a time-eaten bough; an Italian stove
surmounted by a coloured sporting print, a Toledo blade & a smashed
Tyrolean hat; in one corner a lay-figure with the costumes of a nun, a brigand,
a sultana & a Greek girl piled on indiscriminately; in another an easel
holding a large canvas on which was roughly sketched the head of a handsome
contadina. Such was the first mixed impression which the odd furnishing of the
room gave to a newcomer; although a thousand lesser oddities, hung up,
artist-fashion, everywhere, made a background of bright colours for these
larger objects. It was a soft February day, & the window by which Guy
Hastings sat (he was lounging on its broad, uncushioned sill) was opened; so
that the draught blew the puffs from his cigarette hither & thither before
his face. Jack Egerton, who shared the studio with him, was painting before a
small easel, adding the last crimson touches to a wild Campagna sunset, &
of course they kept the ball flying between them pretty steadily, as the one
worked & the other watched. “That will be a success,” observed Guy,
critically. “For whom did you say it was painted?” “A fellow named Graham, an
English merchant, with about as much knowledge of art as you & I have of
roadmaking. But it is such a delightful rarity to sell a
picture,
that
I don’t care who gets it.” “How did he happen to be trapped?” Jack
laughed. “Why, I met him at your handsome Marchese’s the other day, & she
made a little speech about my superhuman genius, which led him to take some
gracious notice of me. I hinted that he might have seen one of my pictures
(that confounded thing that Vianelli’s had for a month) in a shop-window on the
Corso, & he remembered it, & enquired the price. ‘Very sorry’ said I, ‘but
the thing is sold. To an English Earl, an amateur, whose name I am not at
liberty to mention.’ He gobbled the bait at once, ordered this at a splendid
price, & I ran down to Vianelli’s, let him into my little game, told him to
send the picture home at once, & then sent some flowers to the Marchese!”
Guy laughed heartily at his friend’s ruse, & then observed, “I wish you had
mentioned that I had some pictures which I would part with as a favour.”
“By degrees, my boy, by degrees.
He will come to the studio,
to see this
chef-d’oeuvre
, & then
you shall be introduced as a painter of whose fame he has of course etc., etc.
By the way, I shouldn’t wonder if he came today.” Guy knocked the ashes off his
cigarette & got up from his seat. “I thought Teresina would have come this
morning,” he said, “but I hope she won’t. She gets so confoundedly frightened
when anybody comes in, & one feels like such a fool.” “Guy!” said Egerton,
suddenly, laying down his brush. “Well, old fellow?” “Are you going to make an
ass of yourself?”
“Not that I know of.
How do you
mean?” Guy stood opposite his friend, & looked him frankly in the face. “I
mean,” said Jack, resuming his work, “Are you going to fancy yourself in love
with this pretty little peasant, & get into no end of a scrape?” “I don’t
know.” “Well, then, be warned. What is the saying?
Le jeu ne
vaut pas la chandelle.”
“Very likely not.
But…
Ah, here she is. I know that tremulous little knock.”
Guy opened the door as he spoke, to admit a contadina, in holyday dress, with a
gold chain about her soft olive throat & a clean white head-dress above her
lustrous braids pinned with a silver dagger. She could not have been more than
16 years old, & was of that purest type of the Roman peasant which is so
seldom met with nowadays. Her large, languid blue-black eyes were so heavily
fringed that when she looked downward (as she almost always did, from an
instinct of fawn-like timidity) they scarcely gleamed through their veil; &
there was not a tinge of colour in the transparent olive cheek which made her
full, sensitive mouth look all the redder as it parted on a row of pearl-white
teeth, when Guy greeted her with his usual gentle gayety. It was no wonder that
Jack had his fears. Little Teresina, with her trembling shyness & her faint
smiles, & her low, sweet Italian, was a more dangerous siren than many an
accomplished woman of the world. “I expected you” said Guy, smiling, as she
stepped timidly into the room; & speaking in Italian, which Jack, as he
bent quietly over his work, wished more than ever to understand. “Look here,”
Guy continued, pointing to the sketched head in the corner, “I have not touched
it since because I knew I could not catch those eyes or that sweet, frightened
smile without looking at you again.” As he spoke, he moved the easel out into
its place, & began to collect his brushes, while Teresina went quietly to
place herself in a large, carved armchair raised on a narrow dais. When Guy had
finished his preparations, & arranged the light to his complete
satisfaction, he sprang up on the dais, with an old red cloth on his arm &
stretched it at Teresina’s feet. “Now, piccola,” he said, standing at a
critical distance, “let us see if you are properly posed. Wait a minute.
So.”
He came close to her, adjusted a fold in her dress
& moved her soft, frightened hand a little. “Are you so much afraid of me,
cara
?” he asked, smiling, as he felt it tremble. “I am not
very hard to please, am
I
?” Teresina shook her head. “There,”
said Guy, “that is right, now. Only lift up those wonderful lashes. I do not
want to paint the picture of a blind contadina, do I?” All this, spoken in a
soft tone which was natural to Guy when addressing any woman, made poor Jack
groan inwardly at his own stupidity in not understanding that sweet pernicious
language that sounded like perpetual love-making! Having perfected Teresina’s
attitude, Guy sat down before his canvas, & began to paint; every now &
then saying something to provoke the soft, monosyllables that he liked so well.
“Where did you get that fine gold necklace, piccola?” he asked, beginning to
paint it in with a few preparatory touches. “It is not mine. It belongs to la
madre,” said Teresina. “She wore it at her wedding.” “Ah, & perhaps you
will wear it at yours.
Should you like to get married,
Teresina?”
“I don’t know,” said Teresina, slowly. “La madre wants me to
marry Pietro (the carpenter, you know) but I would rather kill myself!” There
was a flash in the soft velvet eyes, that made Guy pause in undisguised
admiration; but it died in an instant, & no art of his brush or palette
could hope to reflect it. “Is there anyone else you would like to marry,
Teresina?” She was silent; & he repeated his question. “Why do you ask me,
Signore?” said the girl, dropping her lids. “I wish you would go on painting.”
Guy was not a little astonished at this outburst; & went on with his work
quietly, to Jack’s intense relief. After about an hour of silence (Jack was
obstinately dumb during Teresina’s presence in the studio, believing that those
infernal models could understand anything a fellow said) a round knock at the
door made Guy breathe a low “confound it!” Egerton called “Come in,” & the
next moment a portly gentleman, unmistakably English from top to toe, stood on
the threshold. “Mr. Graham!” said Jack, rising. “You find me at work on the
last touches of your little thing. Let me present my friend, Mr. Hastings,
whose fame of course… I need not say Mr. Graham bowed, & was very much
honoured by an introduction to Mr. Hastings. Mr. Graham spoke in a satisfied,
important voice. Mr. Graham had the uneasy, patronizing air of a man who stands
higher than his level, & is not quite sure of his footing. “You see,” Jack
continued, lightly, moving a chair forward for his august visitor, “that we
painters are not quite such idle fellows as the world makes us out to be.
Hastings & I take advantage of this fine light for our work.” “So I
observe,” said Mr. Graham, with a bow. “I see you’ve nearly done my order—a
very nice little bit (as you artists would say) a very nice little bit.” As Mr.
Graham spoke, his eye wandered about the motley room, & in its course
rested on Teresina. As Guy had said, she got “so confoundedly frightened” when
any stranger was present; it was the first year she had been hired as a model,
& the miserable life had not yet rubbed off her girlish bloom. When she met
Mr. Graham’s scrutinizing eyes, her lashes drooped & a soft crimson stole
over her neck & face, making her lovelier than ever; “let me go, Signore,”
she whispered to Guy, who had approached her to rearrange some detail in her
dress. Then, without a word, she slipped down from her elavation, & stole
quickly out of the room, still followed by Mr. Graham’s gaze.
“A model, eh?
A very pretty little girl,
Mr. Hastings.
And a very nice picture—a very good likeness.” Mr. Graham
threw his head back critically & fancied, worthy man, that he had been
eminently calculated to discriminate justly in art. “Have you been long at
that, eh?” he continued, nodding towards the picture. “Two sittings,” said Guy,
shortly; he was vexed that this intrusion had put his shy bird to the flight,
& could not abide this goodnatured
bourgeois
patronage which Jack laughed at & professed to like as a study of
character. “A very pretty, sweet little girl,” said Mr. Graham, who had a
weighty way of repeating his remarks as if they were too precious to pass at
once into oblivion. “But I am told that those models haven’t much character,
Mr. Hastings, eh?” “A common mistake,” Guy returned coldly. “Ah!” said Mr.
Graham. But Jack’s effusive politeness flattered him more than the stern
reserve of Jack’s handsome, sulky friend; & Guy was left to himself, while
the merchant & Egerton talked together. It was not until the former rose to
go, that he was again drawn into the circle of conversation. “I hope we shall
see you at our apartment, no. 2
via ,
Mr. Egerton.
You—Mr. Hastings—you also, Sir.
I shall be happy to
introduce my wife & daughter. I shall have my little commission tomorrow,
then?
Good morning to you, gentlemen.”
And Mr. Graham
marched out with what (he flattered himself) was a ducal elegance of manner
& carriage. When the door was shut, Guy relieved himself of, “I hate your
confounded shopkeepers!” “Every man who buys my pictures is my brother,”
exclaimed Jack, dramatically, “whatever be his station in life!” “Odd—because I
never knew one of your brothers to do such an ingenuous thing!” observed Guy,
gathering up his brushes.
“Guy, my boy!
You’re getting
sarcastic.”
“Very likely.
I am going to the deuce by
grande vitesse.” “Why don’t you stop at a station by the way?” said Egerton,
rising with a yawn from his easel. “It would be a pity to reach your
destination so soon.” “What does it matter?” returned Guy, bitterly, turning
away to stare out of the window.
“A good deal, my boy, to
some people.”
I might have thought so once,” said Guy very low. Jack was
silent; he lighted his cigar & leaned back in a medieval armchair puffing
meditatively. After a while he said, “Are you falling in love with Teresina?”
Guy started. “No,” he said, “I don’t think I am falling in love with anybody.
If I have any heart left, I haven’t enough for that. Poor little Teresina!” “Why
do you pity her?” said Jack, sharply. “Because she is young &—I believe—sincere.”
“Pity such virtues don’t last longer in persons of her class!” said Egerton.” “But
you’ve got her in your head. Now, what are you going to do with her?” “Paint
her.”
Nonsense!”
Jack jumped up & laid a hand on
his friend’s shoulder. “Look here, my boy,” he said, in his quick way, “since
you left London with me last
Autumn
you have been
doing your best to shew what I have always said—that there is nothing like a
woman for ruining a man’s life. In short, you have been going rapidly to the
dogs. Well; I am not a parson either, & I don’t care to preach. But, for
Heaven’s sake, don’t give way one instant to another woman! If, as you say,
this child is innocent & honest, leave her so. Don’t let those confounded
soft eyes twist you into the idea that you’re in love.” “Poor little Teresina!”
said Guy again.