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Preface vii
6 Color 89
20 Makeup 502
ix
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Contents
xi
xii Contents
Production
Organization
and Management
“Great art conceals art.” That statement has been attributed to Konstantin
Stanislavski, founder of the Moscow Art Theatre and developer of Method act-
ing. He was referring to the phenomenon that occurs when actors create bril-
liantly believable roles. Great actors don’t seem to be working. They make us
believe that they are the characters they are playing and that everything they say
or do is happening spontaneously, without thought or effort. Stanislavski meant
by his aphorism that a seemingly effortless job of acting is the end result of years
of training, dedication, and just plain hard work.
Great art does conceal art, but not just the art of the actor. Imagine a male
actor, wrapped in a heavy fur cape, standing in the middle of the stage and
delivering a soliloquy. The stage resembles a craggy mountain peak, with an
angular platform surrounded by an immense expanse of solemn purple and
blue sky. The actor strides to a rocky outcropping. Under his weight the
platform slowly starts to tip. The actor scrambles backward to save himself
and catches the hem of his cape on another “rock.” The cape comes off, and
the followspot reveals the actor standing in his BVDs with his cape around
his ankles. The spotlight operator, horrified, tries to turn off her light. But she
doesn’t hit the right lever and, instead of turning it off, changes its color from
deep blue to brilliant white.
This unlikely scenario illustrates the fact that less-than-great art conceals
little. It also demonstrates that Stanislavski’s injunction can be just as true
for the design and technical elements of the production as it is for the actors.
Together, they can create the delicate illusionary reality that we call theatre. The
illusion that the spectators see is just that. A great performance doesn’t simply
happen; it is the product of a great deal of organization, teamwork, talent, and
dedication.
Theatre folk have always delighted in surrounding the process of putting on
plays with an aura of mystery. This tradition stems from the probably accurate
belief that a play’s entertainment value increases if the audience thinks that the
production just happens spontaneously. The Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland
movies of the 1930s are perfect examples. Mickey, Judy, or one of their friends
says, “Let’s put on a show!” Someone chimes in that her uncle owns a barn.
Amazingly, the barn happens to have a highly polished linoleum floor that is followspot: A lighting instrument with a
high-intensity, narrow beam, mounted in a
perfect for tap dancing, and the barn is equipped with a full orchestra, sets, stand that allows it to tilt and swivel so the
lights, and spectacular costumes. The show is an astounding success. beam can “follow” an actor.
1
2 Chapter 1 ◆ Production Organization and Management
production team: Everyone working, The real world of theatrical production isn’t like that. Getting a play from the
in any capacity, on the production of written word to the stage requires a lot of challenging work. The result of all this
the play.
effort, the production team hopes, will be artistic and artful, but the business of
production design team: The producer,
director, and scenic, costume, lighting, making a script come alive on the stage is a process that isn’t all that mysterious.
sound, and other designers who develop
the visual and aural concept for the
production.
production concept: The creative The Production Sequence
interpretation of the script, which will
unify the artistic vision of producer,
director, and designers. How does a play happen? What sequence of events must occur for it to move
production meeting: A conference of from the pages of a script to a live performance before an audience? Every play
appropriate production personnel to share goes through several stages of development.
information.
supernumerary: An actor, normally Script
not called for in the script, used in a
production; an extra; a walk-on. The overwhelming majority of theatrical productions begin with a script. This is
not true, however, for every theatrical performance. The production of some plays
begins with just an idea. That idea may be developed by the performing group
in a variety of interesting and creative ways. Some of these concepts may evolve
into written scripts, and others may remain as conceptual cores that the actors
use as guides when they improvise dialogue during the actual performance.
FIGURE 1.1
A great deal of backstage activity occurs
before the production reaches the
stage. Photo 1, 2 by Evon Photography,
courtesy of the University of Arizona
School of Theatre, Film, and Television.
Photos 3–7 by author.
(2)
(1)
(4)
(3)
(5)
(6) (7)
4 Chapter 1 ◆ Production Organization and Management
FIGURE 1.2
The director discusses a scene with
the actors.
FIGURE 1.3
Scene shifting must be carefully After the production concept is agreed on, the sets, props, lights, costumes,
organized and choreographed. and sound are designed. Then the various diagrams, sketches, and other plans
are sent to shops for construction, fabrication, or acquisition of the production
elements (see Figure 1.1).
While the various visual elements are being built, the director and actors
are busy rehearsing (see Figure 1.2). After the rehearsal and construction period,
which usually lasts three to seven weeks, the play moves into the theatre, and
the technical and dress rehearsals begin.
Rehearsals
Technical rehearsals are devoted to integrating the sets, props, lighting, and sound
with the actors into the action of the play. During this hectic period, the patterns
and timing for shifting the scenery and props are established. The movements of
technical rehearsals: Run-throughs in any scenic or property elements (see Figure 1.3), regardless of whether those
which the sets, lights, props, and sound are
introduced into the action of the play. movements happen in front of the audience or behind a curtain, have to be cho-
blocking: Movement patterns, usually of reographed, or blocked, just as are the movements of the actors. This ensures that
actors, on the stage. each shift will be consistent in timing and efficiency for every performance.
The Production Sequence 5
FIGURE 1.4
Sound is normally run from an in-house
position. Purdue Theatre sound mix
position (courtesy of Michael Banks).
FIGURE 1.5
Costumes must be adjusted to fit
properly. Photo by Evon Photography.
Courtesy of University of Arizona School
of Theatre, Film, and Television.
Theatre Organization
More than anything else good theatre requires good organization. Every success-
ful production has a strong “artistic responsibility” organizational structure that
follows a fairly standard pattern. Figure 1.6 depicts the organization of a hypo-
thetical, but typical, theatrical production company. Each company’s structure is
unique to its own needs, and it is doubtful that any two companies would be set
up exactly the same. One particular feature of Figure 1.6 should be noted. In this
flowchart the director and the designers are symbolized as equals. This equality
is essential to the collaborative process that is theatre art and will be discussed at
greater length throughout this book. The functions of the various members of the
company will be taken up in the next section. It should be reiterated that this is
an artistic responsibility or “make happy” flowchart. This simply means that the
work produced by someone “reporting” to a position higher on the flowchart must
artistically satisfy the visual requirements stipulated by that higher position. To
illustrate, the visual appearance of the properties must satisfy the scenic designer.
It is also important to note what this chart is not: this is not a work responsibility
flowchart. A “work responsibility” flowchart would look significantly different.
In the real world property masters normally do not “work for” scenic designers.
Most property masters work for — are accountable to — the production manager
for the on-time, on-budget, as-designed production of properties.
The production meeting is probably the single most important device for
ensuring smooth communication among the various production departments. The
initial production conferences are attended by members of the production design
team. Their purpose is to develop the production concept. After the designers
begin to produce their drawings, sketches, and plans, the production meeting is
used as a forum to keep other members of the team informed about the progress in
all design areas. At this time, the stage manager normally joins in the discussions.
When the designs are approved and construction begins, the production
meeting expands to include the technical director and appropriate crew heads.
As construction starts, the director becomes heavily involved in rehearsals. At
this time, a few adjustments are almost inevitably necessary in one or more of
the design elements. These changes should be discussed and resolved at the
Producer or
board of directors
Artistic Managing
director director
Stage
Property Scenic Technical Costume Master Sound Actors
manager
master artist director shop supervisor electrician crew
Scenery Costume
construction crew crew
FIGURE 1.6
The organizational structure chart of a typical theatrical production company.
Theatre Organization
7
8 Chapter 1 ◆ Production Organization and Management
production meeting so that all departments are aware of the progress and evolu-
tion of the production concept.
While the production concept is being developed, the production meetings
are usually held as often as it is practicable and necessary — daily or less fre-
quently. As the meetings become less developmental and more informational,
their frequency decreases to about once a week. The last meeting is usually held
just before the opening of the production.
Who participates in production meetings depends, to a great extent, on the
nature of the producing organization. A single-run, Broadway-type professional
conference usually includes only the members of the production design team
and their assistants. A production conference at a regional professional theatre
includes the production design team and some of the other members of the per-
manent production staff, such as the production manager and technical director.
For a professionally oriented educational theatre, the staffing of the production
meeting is generally the same as for the regional professional production group
and ideally will include those faculty supervisors overseeing the work of student
designers, technical directors, and crew heads.
The development of advanced communication technologies and the real-
ity that most professional designers are working on more than one project at
a time often necessitate that much of the direct communication between mem-
bers of the production design team take place over great geographical distances.
Designs can be sent by overnight express, forwarded as e-mail attachments, or
faxed. Phone or video conferences can be used in place of face-to-face meetings.
While these developments speed the transfer of data and information, the iso-
lation of the design team members from each other may break down the nec-
essary communication flow within the group. But if everyone is aware of this
potential “communication gap,” it doesn’t have to become a problem. More and
more designers are communicating electronically, and we can expect even more
“remote conferencing” in the future.
Producer
The producer is the ultimate authority in the organizational structure of a theatri-
cal production. He or she is, arguably, the most influential member of the team.
The producer secures the rights to perform the play; hires the director, designers,
actors, and crews; leases the theatre; and secures financial backing for the play.
The specific functions of the producer can vary considerably. In the New York
professional theatre, most productions are set up as individual entities. As a con-
sequence, the producer and his or her staff are able to concentrate their efforts on
each production. They will sometimes be working on the preliminary phases of
a second or third production while another show is in production or in the final
stages of rehearsal, but in general they concentrate on one show at a time.
Regional professional theatres such as the Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis,
the American Conservatory Theatre (ACT) in San Francisco, the Arizona Theatre
Company in Tucson and Phoenix, the Asolo Theatre in Sarasota, Florida, and oth-
ers have been set up in every section of North America over the past forty years.
Generally, these theatres produce a full seven- or eight-month season of limited-
run productions. Some of them have active summer programs. Because of the
Production Job Descriptions 9
Playwright
The playwright is obviously a vital and essential link in the production chain.
The playwright creates and develops the ideas that ultimately evolve into the
written script. In the initial public performance of the play, he or she may be
involved in the production process. The playwright frequently helps the director
by explaining his or her interpretation of various plot and character develop-
ments. During this developmental process, the playwright often needs to rewrite
portions of some scenes or even whole scenes or acts. If the playwright is not
available for conferences or meetings, the production design team proceeds with
the development and interpretation of the script on its own.
Director
The director is the artistic manager and inspirational leader of the production
team. He or she coordinates the work of the actors, designers, and crews so that
the production accurately expresses the production concept. Any complex activ-
ity such as the production of a play must have someone with the vision, energy,
and ability to focus everyone else’s efforts on the common goal. The director is
this leader. He or she works closely with the other members of the production
design team to develop the production concept and also works with the actors to
develop their roles in a way that is consistent with the production concept. The
director is ultimately responsible for the unified creative interpretation of the
play as it is expressed in production.
Production Manager
Theatres with heavy annual production programs, such as regional profes-
sional theatres and many educational theatre programs, frequently mount sev-
eral productions or production series simultaneously, often in multiple theatres
or venues. In many of these situations the directors and designers are hired or
assigned for only one production per year. At the same time the “construction
people” — those who actually build the scenery, props, costumes, lights, and
sound — are normally hired on an annual basis to work/supervise all of the
shows that are produced by that organization. Typically, the technical director
runs the scene shop and supervises the production of the scenery for every play
in the company’s season. Similarly, the property director runs the prop shop and
supervises the creation/acquisition of the props used in each production. The
same applies for the costume shop supervisor, master electrician, and so forth.
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intellectual life of Port Royal seemed to her fancy still to linger in the
air, and make classic all the rustic paths of this quiet valley.
When she walked over the daisied grass that grew about the ruined
dovecot, Pascal seemed to pace beside her, and as she leaned over
the little brook which finds its way amongst the cresses and the
mouse-ear, she fancied she saw the face of her great master Racine
reflected in its shallow waters.
Her hostess, though a woman of no great culture, yet was learned
enough in the literature of earlier days, and in the associations of
her birthplace, to know every legend and name that are attached to
the stones and the meadows of Les Hameaux. She was no
uncongenial companion to an imaginative girl, for though taciturn,
she could have a certain rude eloquence when strongly moved, and
to her reverent and unworldly mind 'les Messieurs de Port-Royal'
were ever present memories, both saintly and heroic.
CHAPTER XXVII.
He had apportioned the sum needed at a lower figure than his own
wishes would have dictated, that it might seem to her more natural
as the legacy of Jean Bérarde; it was enough to keep her in such
simple ways of life as she had been used to, no more. He told her of
it, as of a legacy, the first day that he saw her at Les Hameaux: told
it in few words, for all equivocation was painful to him. She never for
a moment doubted the truth of the story, and he was touched to see
that her first emotion was not relief at the material safety insured to
her, but joy that the old man dying had forgiven her.
'If I had only known,' she said through her tears, 'I would have gone
back to him! I would have gone back just to have heard him say one
kind word for the last!'
The thought that her grandsire had pardoned and remembered her
was a philtre of health and strength to her. It brought back all the
warmth to her cheeks, all the depth of colour to her eyes; she wept
passionately, but from a sweet not harsh sorrow, from gratitude to
his memory, from thankfulness that his last thought of her had been
one of kindness.
Othmar watched and heard her with an embarrassment which she
was too absorbed in her own emotions to notice.
'All the money I shall give her would not suffice to buy one of
Nadine's rows of pearls,' he thought. 'Yet what rapture it affords her!
A lie! of course it is a lie; and all my Jesuit tutors could never make
me credit that a lie could be a good thing, however good its motive.
But this lie is innocent if ever there were one innocent, and even if it
were a crime the crime would be worth the doing, to set this poor
lost sea-bird safe from storm upon a ledge of rock. She would be
beaten to death by the waves without some shelter.'
Yet his conscience was not wholly easy as he responded to her warm
words of gratitude to himself for having discovered this bequest for
her, and answered her many questions as to the island that she
loved, the children of Raphael, the dogs, the trees, the boat; all
things on Bonaventure were living things to her. However long her
life might last, always the clearest and the dearest of her memories
would be those sunny childish years in the little isle of fruit and
flowers, where for sixteen years the sun had shone and the sea wind
blown on her, and the fish and the birds and the beasts been her
schoolfellows.
She had something of meridional heedlessness, and much of
meridional imagination, which made the fiction of her grandsire's
legacy more easily believed by her than it would have been by more
prosaic and cautious tempers. To her it seemed so natural that he
should have relented towards her and provided for her. All her
memories were of wants provided for by him; he had been her
providence, if a harsh one, for so long that it seemed a natural part
of his character and of her destiny that he should continue to be her
providence even in his grave.
'If I could only be sure that he is happy in heaven,' she said to
Othmar, with a certain appeal and doubt in her accent. Even to her,
though she had respected him, it was difficult to think of Jean
Bérarde of Bonaventure in any celestial life. 'Do you not think,' she
added wistfully, 'that God would remember that he was a very good
man in many ways, and always honest and upright in all his dealings
with rich and poor? He loved money, but he was not mean—not to
me, never to me—and if laborare est orare, as the Sisters used to
say, surely he must be in peace?'
Othmar heard the tormenting fear which was expressed in her tone,
and refrained from adding one grain of doubt to it.
'Be sure he is at peace, my dear,' he answered; while he thought,
'more peace than such a brute deserves—the peace of utter
extinction; the peace of dissolution and absorption into the earth
which holds him, into the grass which covers him; peace which he
shares with kings and poets and heroes!'
'He believed nothing, you know,' said Damaris wistfully, 'nothing of
any creed, I mean. But then, if he could not, was it any more his
fault than it is a deaf man's fault that he cannot hear? I think not.
Do you remember that poem of Victor Hugo's? I forget its name, but
the one in which a great wicked king of the east, all black with
crime, is saved from hell because he has a moment of pity for a pig
that is sick and tormented with flies and lies helpless in the sun? The
king drew the pig aside out of the sun and drove the flies away. It is
beautifully told in the poem; I tell it ill. But what I mean is, that I
think if they are angered in heaven with my grandfather because he
led a hard, selfish, crooked, cramped life, they will yet let him into
paradise because he was so good to me.'
Othmar assented, with a sense of infinite compassion for her. All her
dream was as baseless as the golden city which an evening sun
builds out of clouds for a moment in the western sky. But he let it
be. Life would soon enough wake her from such dreams with the
rough hand of a stepmother, who grudges motherless children sleep.
'Let us speak of present things,' he said, to distract her thoughts.
'This is very little money, though you think so much of it, which is
left to stand between you and all kinds of want. Will you let me
place it out for you where it will bring you most? You may have
heard, my dear, that I am one of those hapless persons who are
doomed by circumstance to have much to do with gold. I hate it, but
that is no matter. It is my fate. Will you trust me to try and multiply
your little fortune? I will be very careful of it, but something more it
shall make for you in my hands than if it were lying in a kitchen
chimney or under an orchard wall, which you are too true to your
nation not to think the safest kind of investment. I may? Then be it
so. No, do not thank me, there is no need for that. But you are very
young and you are not very prudent, I should say, and in these
matters you will need advice. Remember always to command mine.'
She looked at him with grateful but questioning eyes.
'Why should you do so much for me?' she said with wonder.
'I do very little,' returned Othmar. 'And were it far more, you have a
direct claim on me—on us. If my wife had not tempted you away
that memorable day, you would have been dwelling contented on
your island still, and probably for ever.'
'No: not there,' she said slowly, as if she reasoned with herself. 'I do
not think I should ever have stayed there very long. I loved it, but I
wanted something else. When I used to sit, as so often I sat, all
alone on the balcony that hangs over the sea, when it was late at
night, and everyone else was asleep, and the nightingales were
shouting in the orange-boughs underneath, I used to think that
some other world there must be where some one cared for Ondine
and Athalie, where some one had cried as I cried for Triboulet and
Hernani; where they did not all talk all day long of the price of oil,
and the cost of cargoes, and the disease in the lemons, and the
worm in the olive wood. I knew that all these great and beautiful
things could not have been written unless men and women were,
somewhere, great and beautiful also; and very often—oh, often!
long before your Lady spoke to me—I had thought that whenever
my grandfather should die I would go and find that world for myself.
And now——'
He waited some moments, but her sentence remained incomplete.
'And now?' he repeated at last. 'Now do you think still that there is
such a world, or do you not see that no one does care for Ondine or
Athalie? that the price of oil and the worm in the olive (or their
equivalents) are the sole carking cares of the great world, just as
much as of your peasant-proprietors? Did you not dream of Hernani,
and did you not only meet the sergent de ville?'
'I met you!' she said gently, with a tinge of reproach in her voice.
'My dear child!' said Othmar, touched and a little embarrassed. 'I am
far from heroic. Ask the person who knows me best, and she will tell
you so. I only rake the world's gold to and fro as if I were a croupier,
and I assure you the olives and the lemons are much worthier
subjects of thought.'
She made a little involuntary gesture of her hand, as if she pushed
away some unworthy suggestion which it was not needful to refute
in words. Her face had grown serious and resolute; she had the look
of a young Pallas Athene. Innumerable thoughts were crowding on
her which she could ill express.
Ever since a possible fate had been suggested to her in which fame
might attend on her, ever since a vague immeasurable ideal had
been suggested to her in the music of Paul of Lemberg, it had
become impossible for her ever to remain content with the homely
aims and the prosaic thoughts of the people amongst whom she had
been born. Heredity and accident had alike combined to divorce her
from her natural fate. Of those thus severed from their original
source, thus rebellious against their native air, two or three in a
generation become great, famous, victorious; the larger number fall
back from the summits which they aspire to reach, and fill the
restless, dissatisfied, tarnished ranks which are comprised in the all-
expressive word déclassés. But the word seemed unfitted to her;
there were that simplicity, that originality, that force in the child
which mark the higher natures of humanity, whether they be found
in peasants or in princes; there were in her also that natural high
breeding and absolute self-unconsciousness which render all
vulgarity and assumption impossible; those marks of race which are
wholly independent of all circumstance. Jeanne d'Arc greeted her
king as her brother, and Christine Nilsson meets sovereigns as her
sisters.
He had seen this child also bear herself with inborn grace and
natural dignity in the first dazzling scene and unkind embarrassment
of circumstance which she had ever known. It seemed to him that
she would go thus through life.
'I think I could make the world care,' she said, with a curious
mingling of dreaminess and decision, of ardour and of doubt in her
tone. 'Even your wife said I might do so—it is something outside
myself, beyond myself. I do not mean any vanity or folly. It is
something one has, as the nightingale has its song, and the lemon
flower its odour. If they would hear me—as your Lady heard? How
could I make them hear me?'
Othmar was silent.
Then he added almost cruelly, but cruelty seemed to him kindness:
'My wife forgot that she had heard you five minutes afterwards: so
perhaps would the world. And if so, what then?'
'At least I should have tried.'
The divine obstinacy of genius spoke in the words. Better failure and
oblivion than oblivion without effort.
'If only I could try?' she repeated with imploring prayer: to her he
seemed the master of the world, as utterly as Agrippa or Augustus
seemed so to the Roman girls who saw them pass from palace to
temple, 'I know it would be only interpretation; but I feel their words
say so much to me that I surely could interpret them, aloud, so that
I could move some to feel them as I do.'
He knew she meant the words of those poets which had taken so
strong and firm a hold upon her imagination, read as she had read
them in the glory of the southern light, between the sea and sky.
'Perhaps you could,' he answered reluctantly. 'But if you did, what
would be your fate? You would die like Aimée Desclée. My wife
likened you to her.'
'Who was she?'
He told her, with the pathetic force of a profound sympathy; for poor
Frou-frou had been well known to him in her brief career, and all the
feverish yearning, the tumult of unsatisfied desires, the conflict of
genius and malady in that tender and hapless soul had been sacred
to him. He passed in silence over the passions of that life, but he
dwelt long and earnestly on its storm-tossed youth, and its
premature and tragic close.
Damaris listened; her whole countenance reflecting the narrative she
heard.
'I think she was happy,' she said at length. 'You do not, but I do. She
broke her heart singing, like the nightingales in the poem. I read
once of a sword which wore out its scabbard. Who would not sooner
be that than the sword which rusts unused?'
Othmar did not reply. To him the life and the death of Aimée Desclée
were the saddest of his generation; but he could not tell this child
why he thought them so, and even if he could have done it would
have been of no avail. He knew that he argued with that thing which
no example appals, no warning affects, no prescience intimidates;
the thing at once so strong and so feeble, at once blind as the bat
and far-sighted as the eagle—the instinct of genius.
When he quitted her that day he left her with disquietude and
uncertainty. It seemed to him as if he held her fate, like a bird, in his
hand, and could either close the cage-door on it in safety, or toss it
upward free to roam through fields of air or to sink under showers of
stones as chance might choose.
He believed that she did not deceive herself when she thought that
she could move others by the electric forces within herself. He
recognised a certain volition in her which resembled that of genius.
Her imagination, which could console her for so much, her quick
assimilation of high thoughts and poetic fancies, her power of feeling
impersonal interest, her very ignorance of real life, and imprudence
in its circumstances, were all those of genius. Reared in prosaic
habits, she had forced her own way to a subjective and idealistic
mental life, even amidst the most opposing influences. She had
heard the nightingale in the orange-boughs, though all those around
her had been only busied counting the oranges to pack the crates.
She had watched the shoal of fishes spread its silver over the waves
beneath the moon, though all those around her at such a sight had
only thought of the deep sea seine, the casks for market, and the
curing brine. Surely this power of withdrawing from all familiar
association, and escaping from all compelling forces of habit, could
only exist where genius begat it?
But then he knew that even with the wedding-garment of genius on,
yet to the wedding-feast of fame many are called but few are
chosen. And it might be only a breath, a flash, a touch of inspiration,
un brin de génie, as his wife had said, enough to have impelled her
to push open the doors of her narrow destiny, and look thence with
longing eyes, but not enough to force her with untired feet and
unconquerable courage across that desert of effort which parts effort
from triumph, poetic faculty from mere dreamy indolence. He who
had always from his boyhood honoured and assisted talent,
wherever he had found it, with a patience and a liberality very rare
in this world, had suffered much disappointment from many ordinary
and pretentious lives which he had been led to believe had had the
hall-mark of intellectual superiority. He had too often found what
deemed itself genius was mere facility; originality, mere eccentricity;
ambition mere instinct of imitation; the 'coal from the altar' only the
momentary blaze of a match. Many and many a time he might have
said of the immature Muses who sought him, in the words of Victor
Hugo, 'Que de jeunes filles j'ai vues mourir!'
Damaris Bérarde appeared to him, as to his wife, a beautiful child
with an uncommon nature, and with possibly uncommon gifts; but
between the mere promise of the dawn of youth and the full heat of
the meridian of genius what a difference there was!
CHAPTER XXVIII.
In lieu of driving homeward to Paris that day, he turned his horses'
heads in the direction of Asnières, where a once famous artist, David
Rosselin, lived.
'I will ask Rosselin,' he thought. 'Rosselin can judge as I have no
power to do; and if he decide that she has genius she had better
make a career so for herself. I have no business to stand between
her and any future she may be able to create.'
He disliked the idea of his wife's careless predictions being fulfilled.
It seemed to him barbarous to let this white-souled sea-bird soar to
the electric-flame life in Paris, fancying its light the sun. But who
could tell?
It was a doubt which troubled and oppressed him as he drove back
to Paris through the pastoral country, consecrated by the memory of
Port-Royal. He felt that he had no right to make himself the arbiter
of her destinies; he would be no more to her in her future than the
dead thinkers whose brains had once been quick with philosophic
and poetic creation amidst these quiet green meadows.
So he opened the little green trellis-work gate which was set in the
acacia hedge of the cottage at Asnières, and found the once great
impersonator of Alceste, of Tartuffe, of Sganarelle sitting beside his
beehives and behind his rose-beds, with a white sun umbrella
shading his comely and silvered head, and in his hand a miniature
Aldine Plautus. His old servant was close by carefully dusting the
cobwebs off the branches of an espaliered nectarine.
It was a small suburban villa which sheltered the last years of the
great actor; a square white house set in a garden, over whose trim
hedges of clipped acacia Rosselin could see the groups of students
and work-girls going down to the landing-stairs of the Seine, and
farther yet could see the grey-green shine of the river itself with its
pleasure craft going to and fro in the midsummer sunshine.
David Rosselin in his prime had made many millions of francs, but
they had gone as fast as they were gained, and in his old age he
was poor: he had only this little square white box, so gay in summer
with its roses and wistaria, and within it some few remnants of those
magnificent gifts which nations and sovereigns and women and
artists had all alike showered upon him in those far-off years of his
greatness; and some souvenir from Othmar of an Aldine classic, or a
volume bound by Clovis, which had lain on his table some New Year
morning.
Othmar, who was quickly wearied by men in general, appreciated the
intelligence and the character of this true philosophe sans le savoir,
and would have made Rosselin free of all his libraries and welcome
at all his houses if the old man would have left for them his white-
walled and rose-covered cottage at Asnières.
'No one who is old,' said Rosselin, 'should ever go out, though he
may receive, because he knows that those whom he receives care to
see him, or they would not come to him; but how can he be ever
sure that those who invite him do not do so out of charity, out of
pity, out of complacency?'
And save those of the theatres, of the Conservatoire, and of the
public librairie, he crossed no threshold save his own.
'If I had only been a grocer,' he used to say with his mellow laugh, 'a
good plump grocer, as my poor father wished, who knows? I might
have even been mayor of my native town by this, and had a son a
vice-préfet!'
He was a man now nigh on eighty years, erect, vivacious, combating
age with all the eternal youthfulness of genius, his black eyes had
still a flash of those fires which had once scorched up the souls of
women, and his handsome mouth had still the smile of fine irony
which had adorned and accentuated his Alceste and his Mascarille.
He dwelt alone with a servant nearly as old as himself; he had a
great natural contempt for all domestic ties.
'Had I become a grocer I would have married,' he was wont to say.
'If you are in trade, respectability is as necessary to you as
dishonesty; but to the artist the nightcap of marriage is like the
biretta which they draw over a man's head in Spain before they
garotte him. When once you put it on, adieu les rêves!'
And in his celibate old age, if he had no longer dreams, he had
recollections and interests which kept him mentally young. His Paris
was his one mistress, of whom he never tired.
He had left the stage five-and-twenty years and more, in his own
person, but he still took the keenest interest, possessed the highest
influence, in all higher dramatic art and life. The silence of David
Rosselin on a first night condemned a play as an irrevocable failure,
whilst his smile of approval was assurance to an author that he had
successfully empoigné his public. He was the most accurate of
judges, the most penetrating of critics; he would occasionally make
little epigrammatic speeches which remained like little barbed steel
darts, but he was indulgent to youth and encouraging to modesty.
When Rosselin said that a pupil of the Conservatoire had a future,
the future, when it became the present, never belied his judgment.
For the rest, he was in a small way a bibliophile, delighted in rare
copies and delicate bindings, and was an unerring authority on all
centuries of costume and custom.
'Incessantly acting all your life, when did you find all the time to
acquire so much knowledge?' Paul Jacob had said once to him.
David Rosselin had replied with his genial laugh:
'Ah, mon cher, I have had all the time that I should have spent in
quarrelling with my wife if I had had one!'
This love of books had been a bond of sympathy between him and
Othmar ever since one night in the green-room of the Français,
when they had spoken of fifteenth-century Virgils; and to him the
thoughts of Othmar had turned more than once since the problem of
Damaris and her destiny had come before him. There was no one in
all Europe who could discern the gold from the pinchbeck in human
talent with such precision; no one who could more unerringly
discriminate between the aspirations of genius and its capabilities,
between the mere audacities of youth and the staying powers of
true strength.
An absurd reluctance to speak of her, of which he was ashamed, and
for which he would have assigned no definite reason even to himself,
had made him indisposed to seek his old friend on such a subject;
but it seemed to him, now that her soul was apparently set on the
career which his wife's careless praise had suggested to her, no
other way of life was so possible for her, or so likely to afford her
interest, occupation and independence.
He had seen the life of the stage near enough to loathe it. The
woman whom he had adored with all a boy's belief and passion, and
who had been hired by his father's gold to do him the cruel service
of destroying all belief in him, had been an actress, famous for the
brief day of splendour which beauty without genius can gain in the
cities of the world. He hated to imagine that the time might come
when this child, full now of ideals of heroisms, of innocence and of
faithfulness, might grow to be such a woman as Sara Vernon had
been! Sara Vernon, who had now turned saint and dwelt in the
odour of good works on her estates in Franche-Comté: the estates
which had been his father's purchase-money of her.
But it seemed to him that he had no right to let his personal
prejudices, his personal sentiments or sentimentality, stand between
Damaris and any possibility of future independence, of future
happiness which might open out before her through her natural
gifts. He felt nothing for her except a great compassion and a
passionless admiration, and he had a sense of indefinite self-blame
and of infinite embarrassment for the position towards her into
which circumstances had drifted him. It was not possible to retreat
from it: he had become her only friend, her sole support; but the
sense that to the world, and perhaps even to his wife, his too
impulsive actions would bear a very different aspect, haunted him
with a feeling which was foreboding rather than regret.
'Ah! my friend!' said Rosselin in some surprise, as he passed through
the gate. 'Is it possible you are in Paris while Sirius reigns over the
asphalte? It is charming and gracious of you to remember a decrepit
old gardener. Come and sit by me in the shade here, and Pierre shall
bring you the biggest of the nectarines. If Virgil could have tasted a
nectarine! There may be doubts about every other form of progress,
but there can be no manner of doubt that we have improved fruits
since the Georgics, and wines.'
Othmar answered a little at random, and accepted the nectarine.
The quick regard of Rosselin read easily that there was something in
the air graver than their usual talk of rare editions and coming book-
sales which his visitor desired to say to him, and with a sign
dismissed the old servant to the strip of kitchen garden on the other
side of the house.
Othmar made his narrative as brief, his own share in it as small, and
the facts as prosaic as he could; but he could not divest them of a
tinge of romance which he was ill-pleased to discover to the shrewd
comprehension of the great artist who listened to him.
'Do what I will, tell it all how I may,' he thought angrily, 'how
ridiculous I shall look to him, playing knight-errant like this!'
And as he related the story of Damaris to Rosselin he seemed in
fancy to hear the voice of his wife behind him commenting in her
delicate suggestive tones on his own exaggerated share in it. What
she would say, and what the world would say, seemed to him to be
said for both in the momentary smile which passed over Rosselin's
face.
'Of course he does not believe me,' he thought. 'Nobody will ever
believe me. They will always suppose that I have base reasons
which have never even approached me; they will always accredit me
with the coarsest of motives.'
Rosselin, with his power of divining the thoughts of others, guessed
what was thus passing through his mind.
'Yes, they will certainly never accredit you with a good motive,' he
said, answering the unspoken thoughts of his visitor. 'For that you
must be prepared. But if you think that I shall do so, you mistake.
You are a man, my dear Count Othmar, who is much more likely to
be fascinated by a disinterested action than by a vulgar amour. I
understand you, but I warn you that nobody else will.'
'I suppose not,' said Othmar. 'That must be as it may. How did you
divine so well what I was thinking of?'
'Divination of that kind is easy after experiences as long as mine
are,' answered Rosselin, gathering one of his carnations and
fastening it in his linen coat. 'If we do not acquire that much from
life we live to be old to little purpose. You have done a generous
thing, and probably the world will punish you for it; it always does.
The position your chivalry has led you into is of course certain to be
explained in one way, and one only, by people in general. The world
is not delicate, and it never appreciates delicacy.'
'Of that I am well aware,' returned Othmar. 'It is on account of the
coarseness of all hasty and ordinary judgments that I wish to keep
my own name and personality hidden as much as possible in relation
to this child. If her own talents could secure independence for her, it
would be very much to be desired that they should do so. Will you
do me the favour to judge of them?'
Rosselin hesitated.
'You can command me in all ways,' he added. 'But I think it only fair
to warn you that, even if she have very great talent, as you seem to
believe, neither technique nor culture come by nature. Training,
long, arduous, severe, and to the young most odious, is the treadmill
on which everyone must work for years before being admitted into
the kingdom of art. Has she enough to live on during these years of
probation?'
'Yes,' answered Othmar; he did not feel called upon to confess his
device for supplying this necessity. 'All I would ask of you is your
judgment of her talents. Of course she is only a child; she has seen
and heard nothing; even the poorest stage she has never seen. She
has not had any of those indirect lessons which the very poverty and
misery of their surroundings gave Rachel and Desclée. They were
always in the road of their art, even though they went to it through
mire. She knows nothing, absolutely nothing; I tell you she has not
been even inside the booth of strolling players at a fair. Yet she gave
to my wife and to me the impression of latent genius. Will you see
her and hear her, and then give me your opinion?'
'I would do much more for you, my dear friend,' replied Rosselin
with a vague sense of reluctance. 'But I have seen so many of these
maidens who dream of the stage—little, quiet, good girls, with
mended stockings and holes in their umbrellas, thronging to the
Conservatoire to pipe out "O sire! je vais mourir" or "Infame! croyez-
vous," going away with their mothers like chickens under the hen's
wing when a big dog is in the poultry-yard; falling in love with the
student who gives them the réplique, keeping chocolate in their
pockets to nibble at like little mice between the scenes; little good
girls, some pretty, some ugly, some saucy, some shy, all of them as
poor as church rats, all of them with hair-pins tumbling out of their
braids—j'en ai vu tant! And hardly a spark of genius amongst them!
When they have fine shoulders and big eyes, then their career is
certain—in a way; when they have no figure at all and no
complexion, then they go into the provinces and one hears no more
of them; or, perhaps, they leave their illusions altogether at the
Conservatoire, and take a place behind a counter. It is the prudent
ones who do that: "elles commencent où les autres finissent." Some
clever woman has said so before me. Is it not better to begin so?
Why not get a little snug shop for Mademoiselle Bérarde from the
first?'
Othmar moved impatiently.
'And the two or three who are better than the rest,' he asked; 'those
whose lips the bees of Hymettus have really kissed?'
'My dear friend, you know how it is with these also,' sighed Rosselin:
'immense success, immense insouciance, immense enjoyment for
the first few years; lovers like the leaves on the trees in midsummer;
debts as numerous as the leaves; enormous sums thrown away like
waste paper; beauty, health, power, all spent like a rouleau of gold in
a fool's hand at Monte Carlo; and then the dégringolade, the apathy
of the public, the indifference of the lovers, the persecution of the
creditors whose ardour grows as hotly as that of the others cools,
the infinite mortifications, humiliations, chagrins, disappointments;
then the death from anæmia or from consumption, or the still worse
end, which is a fifty-year-long obscurity: Sophie Arnould sweeping
out her garret with a two-sous broom! Ah bah! Marry Mlle. Bérarde
to one of your cashiers, and buy her a cottage at Neuilly.'
'Do you suppose Desclée or Rachel would have married a clerk, and
lived in a little house in the suburbs?' said Othmar with some
impatience.
'Ah, who can say? Neither would have stayed with the clerk
certainly,' replied Rosselin, lifting up the drooped stalk of one of his
picotees and fastening it to its deserted stick. 'It is all a matter of
chance and circumstance. Temperament goes for much, but accident
counts for more, and opportunity for most. You say yourself, for
instance, that Mlle. Bérarde might have lived and died on her island
but for some careless words of Madame Nadine and an invitation to
St. Pharamond. While we are young life is always inviting us
somewhere, and we accept the invitations, without thinking whether
they will lead us to Bicêtre or to a quiet cottage garden in our old
age. Allons donc! Let us do our best to secure the garden and the
sunshine for your little friend from the South. I need not assure you
that you shall have my perfect honesty of opinion and my absolute
discretion concerning her. Will you come into the house a moment? I
picked up yesterday, at a bookstall, a precious little bouquin; nothing
less than a copy of the "Terentii Comœdiæ" of 1552 by Roger
Payne.'
Othmar went in and admired the bouquin, and stayed a few
moments longer, while the evening grew duskier and the scent of
the carnations and stocks and great cabbage-roses came richer and
sweeter through the open windows into the small rooms, clean and
cosy, and raised from the commonplace by the rare volumes which
were gathered in them, and the fine pieces of porcelain standing
here and there on their wooden shelves.
Then, promising to return on the morrow, he took his leave. Rosselin
walked beside him down the little path to the gate. The sun had set
and the skies were growing quite dark. The ripple of the Seine water
under the sculls of a passing boat was audible in the stillness. From
the distance there came the sounds of a violin, and some voices
singing the postillions and travellers' chorus from the 'Manon
Lescaut' of Massenet.
Rosselin, left alone, leaned over his wooden gate between his acacia
hedges, and listened to the voices dying away in the distance, and
looked through the soft dusk to where his Paris lay.
'I wonder if he has told his wife?' he thought. 'If not—well, if not,
perhaps Madame may not care. She has never cared, why should
she care now?'
The interrogation had been on his lips more than once whilst Othmar
had been with him, but his worldly wisdom had kept it back
unspoken.
'Entre l'arbre et l'écorce ne mettez pas le doigt,' was an axiom of
which he, so often the exponent of Sganarelle, knew the profound
truth.
Aloud he added:
'Of course I will see her, and with the greatest pleasure. When and
where?'
'I will take you to-morrow. I shall remain in Paris two days.'
'Then to-morrow I will await you. Do not think me a cynical and
indifferent old hermit. If I dread to see youth throw itself into the
river of fire which leads to fame, it is only because I have seen so
many burned up in its course. I always advocate obscurity for
women. Penelope is a much happier woman than Circe, though the
latter is a goddess and a sorceress. Your protégée may become
great only to die like Desclée, like Rachel. You would do her a
greater service if you married her to one of your clerks, gave them a
modest little house in the banlieue, and became sponsor to their first
child. Though I have been a graceless artist all my life, I confess I
hesitate at being the person to assist such a friendless creature as
you describe to enter on a dramatic career. I have seen so many
failures! By-the-bye, is she handsome?'
'She has beauty,' said Othmar a little coldly, because the question
slightly confused and irritated him.
'It was a needless interrogation,' said Rosselin to himself. Even the
chivalry of Othmar would have deemed it necessary to do so much
for a plain woman.
When he went to Les Hameaux on the following day he saw her,
heard her, studied her, stayed some two hours near her, now and
then reciting to her himself, half a scene from 'Le Joueur,' a single
speech from the 'Misanthrope,' a few lines of Feuillet, a few stanzas
from the 'Odes et Ballades.'
'Oh, who are you?' she asked in transport, the tears of delight and
admiration rising to her eyes.
'My dear,' answered Rosselin with a smile, which for once was sad, 'I
am that most melancholy of all things—an artist who was once great
and now is old?'
She took his hand with reverence and kissed it.
'Va!' said the man whom the world had adored, with a little laugh
which had emotion it. 'Va! Life is always worth living. The flowers
always smell sweet and the sunshine is always warm. And so you,
too, would be an artist, would you? Well, well! every spring there are
young birds to fill the old nests.'
When he left her he was long silent. When he at last spoke, he said
briefly to Othmar: 'Elle a de l'avenir.'
CHAPTER XXIX.
The day after Othmar went alone to the green shadows of the vale
of Port-Royal. It was five o'clock in the afternoon when he reached
there: he saw Damaris before she saw him; all her rural habits and
associations had come to her in this leafy and rustic place; she rose
with the sun and went to bed with it; she had recovered her colour
and her strength; she assisted in the out-of-door work and rejoiced
in it. As he drew near he saw her mowing a swath of the autumnal
aftermath of the little field, the two watch dogs of Bonaventure,
which he had bought and restored to her, lying near and watching
her with loving eyes. Her arms, vigorous as a youth's and white as a
swan's neck, were seen bare to the shoulder in the swaying sweep
of the scythe; her hair was bound closely round her head, and its
dark gold glistened in the sun. The veins in her throat stood out in
the effort of the movement; the linen of her bodice heaved and fell.
It was an attitude which Rude or Clésinger would have given ten
years of their lives to reproduce in marble; it was the perfection of
full and youthful female strength and health, teeming with all the
promise of a perfect organisation, all the vitality which makes strong
mothers of strong men.
It was womanhood; not the womanhood of the mondaines, delicate
and fragile as a hothouse flower, pale from late hours or faintly
tinted with the resources of art, serene and harmonious in tone, in
charm, in manner, the most perfect of all the products of artificial
culture; but womanhood as it was when the earth was young, and
when life was simple and straight as a rod of hazel; womanhood
buoyant, healthful, forceful, fearless; with limbs uncramped by
fashion and beauty ignorant of art, living in the wind, in the water, in
the grass, in the sun, like the dappled cattle and the strong-winged
bird.
He watched her awhile, himself unseen. With what grace, yet with
what vigour, she moved the scythe, sweeping round her in its wide
semicircle, the long grass falling about her in green billows, with
trails of bindweed and tall red heads of clover in it; beyond her, the
blue sky and the pastoral horizon of the vast wheat-fields of La
Beauce.
What would the hot, close, fevered pressure of life in the world give
her that was half so good as that? How much better to dwell so,
between the green grass and the wide sky, than to court the fickle
homage and the fleeting loves of men! How much better if all her
years could pass so on the peaceful breast of the kindly earth, living
to lead her children out amongst the swaths of hay and teach them
to love the lark's song and the face of the fields as she loved them!
How much better to be Baucis than Aspasia!
Perhaps! but where was Philemon?
As the thoughts drifted through his mind she paused to whet her
scythe, looked up, and saw him. With a smile that was as glad as
sunshine in May weather she came towards him, leaping lightly over
the hillocks of mown grass. She was happy to see him there. She felt
no embarrassment for her bare arms and her kilted skirt; she had
not been taught the immodesty of prudes.
'No, we will not go in the house,' he said to her when he had
greeted her. 'Let us stay in your sweet-smelling meadow. Why are
you mowing? Are there no mowers to do it?'
'I like doing it,' she answered; 'and it spares Madame Chabot the
day's pay of a man. I can mow very well,' she added, with that pride
in her pastoral skill which she had been imbued with on
Bonaventure.
She walked on by his side through the little narrow spaces of mown
ground which ran between the waves of the fallen grasses. She had
pulled down her sleeves and taken the pins out of her skirt, and
passed with her firm light tread and her uncovered head over the
rough soil, with the afternoon sun in her eyes and on the rich tints
of her face. It intensified the radiance of her colouring, as it did that
of the scarlet poppies which were blowing here and there where the
grass still stood uncut.
'What did he say of me?' she asked anxiously and wistfully, as
Othmar walked on in silence beside her.
'He says you have not deceived yourself.'
'Ah!'—she drew a deep breath of relief—'I pleased him, then? And
yet, when I heard him recite, it seemed to me that I could do
nothing more than stutter and gabble foolishly; his voice was music
——'
'He has been a very great artist, and speech is to him as the flute to
the flute-player: an instrument with which he does what he will. Yes,
you pleased him, my dear. He thinks that you have in you the soul of
an artist, the future of one if you choose.'
'Ah!' she laughed aloud for sheer happiness and triumph, in the joy
and the pride of a child. It seemed to her the most exquisite glad
tidings, the most superb success.
'He will even help you; he will train you himself; and whoever is
trained by David Rosselin is in a certain sense secure of the public
ear,' said Othmar with a reluctance which he felt was unjust to her,
for if she possessed this power why should she be denied the
knowledge of it? 'But,' he added slowly, 'I must warn you that even
he, great artist as he has been, thinks as I think—that it is better to
mow grass in the fresh air than to seek the suffrage of crowds in the
gaslight. He thinks as I think, that, for a woman, the more secluded
and sheltered be the path of life the happier and the better is it for
her. This sounds very cold and cautious to you, no doubt; but it
would be what every man of the world would tell you, who was
honest with you, and had your welfare at heart.'
Her face changed and clouded as she heard him.
'Why?' she said abruptly.
He was silent. It was impossible to tell this child, who was as
innocent as any one of the poppies blowing in the grass, all the
reasons which made the future she coveted look to him like the
open mouth of a furnace into which a white sea-bird was flying in its
ignorance.
'Private life is the best life,' he said as she repeated, a little
imperiously, her 'why?' 'It is the calmest, the simplest, the most
screened from envy and hatred. I suppose tranquillity does not seem
to you the one inestimable blessing which it really is. You are full of
ardours and enthusiasms and longings, as the vines are full of sap in
the springtime. You want the wine of life, because you do not know
that the intoxication of it is always coupled with nausea, and fever,
and unspeakable disgust. It is of no use saying this to you, because
you are so young; but it is true. If I could compel your future, I
would have it pass yonder, where, far away, we see that golden
haze. There are the great wheat-lands of La Beauce, and the thrift
and the peace and the abundance of a rich pastoral life. If you spent
your little fortune on a farm there, with your love of country sights
and sounds and ways, you would be happy; and you could take your
choice from the many gallant youths who reap the harvests of those
plains. You would be a rich demoiselle in La Beauce, but in the world
of art you may be poor, my dear, for all your gifts from nature. We
are poor, very poor, forever, when once we have failed.'
His own words sounded in his ears unkind, unsympathetic, harsh,
and almost coarse; but he spoke as, it seemed to him, both
experience and conscience made it duty to do. Damaris looked down
on the shorn grass at her feet, and he saw her face and throat grow
red.
'If I had wished to marry I would have married my cousin,' she said
with a sound of anger and offence in her voice. 'Peasant life is good,
very good. Perhaps, if I had never seen anything different, it might
have seemed always the best. But not now—not now——'
'But you do not know——.' He left his reply unfinished.
Standing in the green warm meadow, with the light of afternoon
shed on it, and the golden haze of a late summer day on its horizon,
his thoughts were full of all the many things in life of which she
could imagine nothing. All the passions and pleasures and disgusts,
all the desires and satisfactions and satieties, all the tumult and
vanity and nausea and giddy haste of life in the world—what could
she tell of these? She would be handsome and young and alone;
what would that world not teach her in a year, a month, an hour?
Self-consciousness first; then, with that knowledge, all else.
As, to her, having never known anything but the close limits of
peasant life, the world which she did not know assumed the colours
and the rejoicing of a vast borealis pageantry, so to him, by whom
the world was known like an oft-read Virgil, it seemed that the
safety, the quietude, the daily round of simple duties, undisturbed by
ambition within or by contention from without, which the life of the
peasant afforded, was a kind of happiness, a positive security from
which any safe within it were ill-advised to wander.
Of all wretched creatures the déclassée seemed to him to be the
most wretched. He had reproached his wife with the effort to make
this child one of those pitiful anomalies, and he now reproached
himself with doing the same unkindness.
Damaris was a déclassée; she could never more return to the order
of life whence she had come. Ever since some indistinct glory for
herself had been suggested to her by the thoughtless words of the
great lady who had represented Fate to her, she had been haunted
by the desire for an existence wholly unlike that to which she had
been born and by which she had been surrounded. It had been only
a very few hours which she had passed under the roof of St.
Pharamond, but that short space had been long enough to make her
conceive a world wholly inconceivable to her before, a world in
which art and luxury were things of daily habit, in which leisure and
loveliness and gaiety and ease were matters of course, like the
coming and going of time, in which personal graces and personal
charm were all cultured as the flowers were cultured under glass; in
which even for her there might become possible the fruition of all
manner of gorgeous indefinite visions, born out of the suggestions of
poets and the phantasmagoria of romantic books—a world in which
all she had humbly longed for, as she had listened to the
nightingales in the orange thickets, would become visible to her and
possessed.
She was a déclassée: not in the vulgar sense, but in the sadder
meaning of a young life uprooted from its natural soil and filled with
desires, aspirations, dreams, which made all that was actually within
her grasp valueless to her. That one night, in which she had seen
around her the destinies which appeared to her like a tale of fairy-
land, had impressed her imagination with indelible memories and
her heart with ineffaceable wishes. He, who only saw in the life of
his own world tedium, inanity, stupidity, extravagance, monotonous
repetition, could not guess what enchantment its externals had worn
to her. He, who was tired of the unvaried paths of that garden of
pleasure whose habitués only see that in it 'grove nods to grove,
each alley has its fellow,' could not divine what a paradise it had
looked to this young waif and stray, who had been only able to catch
one glimpse of its beauties through the golden bars of its shut gates.
To him her wish for the world appeared the most pathetic of errors,
the most pitiable of blunders, a very madness of unwise choice. Had
not the world been with him always, and what had it given him?
Possibly it had in reality given him much more than he remembered:
it had given him culture with all its charms, and courtesy with all its
graces; it had given him the great powers which lie in wealth, and
the great light which shines from knowledge. But then he was so
used to these he counted them not, and the world only wore to him
the aspect of a monster devouring all leisure, all simplicity, all
repose, driving all mankind before it in a breathless chase of swiftly
escaping hours; and to her this monster would be ravenous as a
wolf, cruel as it could never be to any man! It would take everything
from her, and only give her in return worthless gifts of ruinous
passions, of consuming fevers, of poisoned fruits, of fierce desires.
It seemed to him as if he saw some young child coming gaily
through the grasses, clasping all unconscious to its breast a mass of
smoking dynamite, and deeming it a kindly playfellow.
And it was impossible to warn her in words brutal enough to scare
her from her purpose. He could not say to her, 'Men are beasts, and
women are worse: there are hideous pleasures, hateful appetites,
cruel temptations, of which you know nothing, but which will all
crowd on your knowledge and grow to your taste, once you are in
the midst of them. The world will embrace you, but as the bull
embraced the Christian maiden forced to appear as Pasiphaë in the
circus of Nero. Be wise while there is time. Stay in the clean, clear
daylight of a country life. Its paths are narrow and few, they only
lead from the hearth to the door, from the door to the brook or the
mill; but you may walk in them safe and content, and teach your
children to follow your steps. Peace of mind is the sweetest thing
upon earth; but it is like the wood-sorrel, it only grows in shady,
quiet, homely places. No one has it in the world.'
But he thought these thoughts, and did not say them. He looked at
her standing with dew-wet feet amongst the seeding grasses, the
warm fresh air about her, the blue sky above, and he thought of her
in the atmosphere of a supper-room in Paris, with the smoke, and
the perfumes, and the odours of the wines, and beside her men with
swimming lascivious eyes, and drôlesses with flushed faces and
indecent gestures. He would not take her there, but others would.
She raised her head suddenly and looked at him.
'What are you afraid of for me?' she said suddenly. 'There is nothing
to be afraid of. If I fail I fail; I have enough always to live on, you
say; and if I succeed——'
'Failure will not hurt you,' he said coldly; 'success may.'
'How can success hurt one unless one be very vain or very weak? I
do not think I am vain, and I know I am strong.'
'My dear—you can go from the meadows to the world if you will, but
remember you cannot come back from the world to the meadows.'
'Why? Did not many come from the world to Port-Royal when it
stood yonder?'
'Yes; they came with sick hearts, with defeated hopes, with aching
wounds, with disappointed passions; but they never stood in the
green pastures, in the morning of life, again.'
There was a sigh in the words which brought them home to her
heart with a sudden sense of all their meaning.
She was mute while the little crickets in the stalks of the hay grass
sung their last little song of one note, which would soon end with
the end of their tiny lives.
'You are not happy yourself?' she said after awhile. Astonishment
and regret were in the question.
Othmar hesitated. His sincerity combated the negative, which a
vague sense of loyalty to one absent made him desirous to utter.
'No one after a certain age is happy, my dear,' he answered
evasively. 'Illusions are happiness; and in the world which you think
must be a fairy tale, we lose them very quickly.'
'I should have thought you were happy,' she said regretfully; that
splendid pageantry of life of which she had seen a glimpse seemed
to her magical, marvellous, inexhaustible.
'I did not think she was,' she added, with that directness and
candour which made her great unlikeness to all of her sex whom he
had ever known.
'Why?' he asked abruptly; the supposition annoyed him.
'She looked tired, and as if she were looking for something she did
not find.'
The accuracy and divination in the words surprised him. How had
this child, who had never before seen any woman of the world,
guessed so accurately the perpetual vague desire and as vague
dissatisfaction which had always gone with the soul of his wife as a
shadow goes through brilliant light?
All her life long Nadège had found the old saw true, familiarity had
bred contempt in her; custom had made wisdom seem foolishness,
wit seem prose, amusement become tedium, and interest change to
apathy. Intimate knowledge of anything, of anyone, had always
altered each for her, as the fairy gold changed in mortal hands to
withered leaves.
It was no fault of hers; it was not even mere inconstancy of temper;
it was rather due to the infinitude of her inexhaustible expectations
and the microscopic penetration of her intelligence. The world was
small to her as to Alexander.
He knew that neither to her nor to himself had their life together
been that poem, that passion, that harmony which they—or he at
least—had imagined that it would be. But was not this due only to
that doom of human nature which they shared in common with all
the rest of mankind? Was it not merely the effect of that lassitude
and vague disappointment which must follow on the indulgence of
every great passion, simply because in its supreme hours it reaches
heights of rapture at which nothing human can remain?
Yet, however his philosophy may explain it, to have any other
imagine that he does not render a woman who belongs to him
perfectly contented with him always irritates and offends every man.
It is a suspicion cast on his powers, his loyalty, and his good sense:
it indirectly accuses him of deficiency in attraction or of feebleness of
character. Othmar had but little vanity; no more than human nature
naturally possesses in its unconscious forms of self-love; but the
little he had was mortified by this child's observation. She, ignorant
of all the fine intricacies of emotion which are the traits of such
highly-cultured and over-refined temperaments as were theirs, could
only say, in her simple and inadequate language, that they seemed
to her 'not happy.' It was not the phrase which expressed what they
lacked; it was too homely, too crude, too direct, to describe the
complicated world-weariness of which they both suffered the
penalties, the innumerable and conflicting sentiments and desires
which made of their lives a continual vague expectation and as
vague and continual a regret. But her young eyes, unused as they
were to read anything less clear than the open language of sea and
sky, and ignorant of the whole meaning of psychological analysis,
had yet been able to perceive the shadow of this which she had had
no power of understanding.
He was surprised at her penetration, whilst he wondered uneasily if
the world in general, so much keener of sight and more bitter of
tongue than she, saw as much as she saw. The idea that it might be
so was unwelcome to him. The supposition was horrible to him that
the great passion of his life had gone the way of most great passions
which are exposed to that most cruel of all slow destroyers—
familiarity; familiarity which is as the mildew to the wheat, as the
sirdax to the fir-tree, as the calandra to the sugar-cane. He loathed
to realise the fact, or think of it in any way; and when it was placed
before him by another's observation, he saw his own soul, as it were
in a mirror, and detested what he saw.
He answered with some constraint: 'I have told you, my dear, that
happiness is the fruit of illusions; it cannot exist without them any
more than we could have that beautiful haze yonder without water
in the atmosphere. Besides, in the world, people are only content so
long as they are of completely frivolous characters. My wife has
cultivated her intelligence and her wit too exquisitely to be capable
of that sort of coarse and common satisfaction with things as they
are which is so easy to mediocre minds.'
'Yet you advise me to be content?'
'My dear child, you are young, you are accustomed to an out-of-door
life, you have the felicity of belonging to country things and country
thoughts which give you a storehouse full of sunny memories. My
wife is a mondaine (if you have ever heard that word) who is also a
pessimist and a metaphysician. Life presents many intricate
problems to her mind which will, I hope, never trouble your joyous
acceptance of it as it is. Fénelon, I assure you, was a happier man
than Lamennais.'
'Because he was a stupider one.'
'Stupid? No, but simpler, cast in a different mould, naturally inclined
to faith, averse to speculation, taking things as he found them
without question. That is the cast of mind of all men and women
who are made to be happy.'
She was silent; wishfully thinking of those immense fields of
knowledge shut out from her own eyes like the aerial spheres of
unseen suns and planets which the unassisted sight can never
behold. She felt childish, ignorant, made of dull and common clay.
The bells of a little distant spire sounded for Vespers. The sun was
sinking beyond the edge of the wide green plain. A deeper stillness
was stealing over the meadow and the low coppices which made its
boundaries. Birds, looking grey in the shadows, flew low, to and fro,
restlessly, in that uncertain flight with which, near nightfall, they
always seek a resting-place for the dark hours.
Othmar looked at his watch. 'I must leave you or I shall miss the
train to Paris, and I go to-night to Russia.'
She changed colour.
'To Russia! That is very far away!'
'It does not seem so in these days. One sleeps and wakes and
sleeps again, and one is there. If you want me in any way, write to
me at the Paris house and they will forward your letter. Rosselin will
come to see you to-morrow. He will tell you, as no one else can, all
you will have to prepare for and encounter if you choose the life of
an artist. Do not decide too hastily. There is no hurry. I like best to
think of you in these safe pastures.'
'But the winter will come to them and—some time—to me?'
'It is far enough off you, at least, to be forgotten. Well, listen to
Rosselin and be guided by your own impulses; they are the only safe
guides in such a choice as this. I dare say the world will win you; the
world always does. It is only in fable that Herakles goes with Pallas.
Adieu.'
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