Complete Novels of E Nesbit, page 316
And now, if I might, I would leave here certain blank pages to speak for me of certain April days, not ever to be forgotten, and never, never, never to be written about.
I always look with wonder alternating with envy on those men who can set down, in black and white, the heights of their joy, the depths of their trouble. And I marvel whether they have less imagination than I, or more. Chloe can do this thing — and in a woman one can only envy the faculty; it is that which makes her a better story-teller than I.
For my part, when I think of those days my lips are closed like the lips of the dead, and my pen falls from between my fingers. So, because, somehow, those days should be recorded, I long for the blank pages, on which every man who loves his wife should read for himself what his heart would write for him there.
And now it was May, and the sweet-plumed lilac was out, the red and white hawthorns were in bud-round, shining beads of coral and pearl. The garden had forgotten the lean days of winter and was all curves and softnesses in its new green gown; fat thrushes hopped and pecked on the wide, wet lawns. The yellow tulips stood up like tall lamps above the delicate brocade of the forget-me-nots and their leaves. It was mid-May, and this was the morning which Chloe has chosen, since it is Saturday and a whole holiday, to invite the whole tribe of those astonishing Bastable children to spend the day.
They arrived, much neater than I had expected, and when Chloe had greeted them — she remembered all their names, down to H.O. — she said:
“I’ve something new to show you — something new and nice. Come up-stairs and let’s look at it.”
Chloe always would go up the stairs two steps at a time when anything she wanted was at the top of them. The children now, light-footed, heavy-booted, followed, clattering, her flying Turkish-slippered feet and the flutter of her spring-green gown.
She led them to our loafery — now transformed in many undreamed-of ways, but with its window-bars still screened with budding creeper.
“Do you remember this?” she asked, pointing to a brown object by the fireside.
“Rather,” said the boy they call Oswald. “It’s one of the things we found in your secret cellar that day. We all thought what a good rabbit-hutch it would make.”
The girls had made a rush forward, with the prettiest “Oh!” of wonder and delight.
The smallest boy of all put his fat legs very far apart. “Why,” said he, in a tone of positive injury, “you’ve been and gone and put a baby in it!”
“Don’t you think a baby’s rather a good thing to put in a cradle?” I said, meekly.
“It would have made a jolly good hutch,” he said, with undisguised regret.
The girls were gloating over the cradle in the most charming feminine attitudes. I should have liked to draw them.
“The dear! the precious!” they said, in chorus. “What color are its eyes? Is it a boy or a girl? What’s its name?”
“Its eyes are blue — at present,” I said, “and it is a girl. And we call it the Pussy-Kitten.”
“I should have thought you would have called it after some one with a real name — an aunt or something,” said Oswald, rather gloomily.
“So I did. I called it after the dearest and best and prettiest lady in the world.”
I could not help a glance at Chloe; she certainly did grow prettier every day, and as for dearer — well, all things wax or wane.
The second boy, Dickie, surprised my glance. “Oh,” he said, with obvious cessation of interest, “you mean her.”
He indicated Chloe by a not discourteous gesture, and instantly asked if they might not go and see the pig. (Have I mentioned that Jim kept a pig?)
Permission given, they swept away like a tidal wave, and we heard their boots sound fainter and fainter on the stairs.
Chloe and I were left alone with the cradle.
“It is hard, isn’t it,” I said, meeting her eyes across the cradle, “to lose one’s high estate — even when one mounts from it to a higher?”
“Is it?” she said, covering up a fat, pink fist thrust out from beneath the pink eider-down.
“To have been a princess and then to be merely a queen! To have been a pussy-kitten and to have given up that title to another, and such a very, very small usurper, too!”
“She’s not so very small, Len,” said my wife, anxiously.
“It sounds like a riddle,” I went on. “Would you rather be — a pussy-kitten or a pussy-cat? Do you know the answer?”
“Oh yes,” she said, softly, “I know the answer; I know the answer very well, indeed. And you — aren’t you proud to have such a collection of pussies — a pussy-cat and a pussy-kitten?”
“Yes,” I said, and across the cradle we kissed each other for the last time in this story. “You know just how happy and how proud I am, my little mother pussy-cat.”
THE END
THE INCOMPLETE AMORIST
Constable, of London, and Doubleday, Page of New York, published The Incomplete Amorist in 1906. Sent with a chaperone to Paris to study art, the novel’s young heroine, Betty Desmond, soon finds herself alone and prey to a womaniser named Eustace Vernon. Further conflict arises through the introduction of other characters, forming a complicated love quartet. The novel explores themes of bohemian life, Edwardian-era conventions and sexual mores. Although on the surface a typical romance of the period, Nesbit rises above the genre by providing enough surprises, her trademark biting wit and lush descriptions of the French countryside. The Incomplete Amorist found success in America, first published by the popular weekly journal, The Saturday Evening Post, in early 1906.
The original frontispiece
CONTENTS
Book 1. — The Girl
CHAPTER I. THE INEVITABLE.
CHAPTER II. THE IRRESISTIBLE.
CHAPTER III. VOLUNTARY.
CHAPTER IV. INVOLUNTARY.
CHAPTER V. THE PRISONER.
CHAPTER VI. THE CRIMINAL.
CHAPTER VII. THE ESCAPE.
Book 2. — The Man
CHAPTER VIII. THE ONE AND THE OTHER.
CHAPTER IX. THE OPPORTUNITY.
CHAPTER X. SEEING LIFE.
CHAPTER XI. THE THOUGHT.
CHAPTER XII. THE RESCUE.
CHAPTER XIII. CONTRASTS.
CHAPTER XIV. RENUNCIATION.
Book 3. — The Other Woman
CHAPTER XV. ON MOUNT PARNASSUS.
CHAPTER XVI. “LOVE AND TUPPER.”
CHAPTER XVII. INTERVENTIONS.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE TRUTH.
CHAPTER XIX. THE TRUTH WITH A VENGEANCE.
CHAPTER XX. WAKING-UP TIME.
Book 4. — The Other Man
CHAPTER XXI. THE FLIGHT.
CHAPTER XXII. THE LUNATIC.
CHAPTER XXIII. TEMPERATURES.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE CONFESSIONAL.
CHAPTER XXV. THE FOREST.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE MIRACLE.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE PINK SILK STORY.
CHAPTER XXVIII. “AND SO—”
TO
RICHARD REYNOLDS AND JUSTUS MILES FORMAN
“Faire naitre un désir, le nourrir, le développer, le grandir, le satisfaire, c’est un poeme tout entier.”
— Balzac.
PEOPLE OF THE STORY
Eustace Vernon.
Betty Desmond
The Rev. Cecil Underwood
Miss Julia Desmond
Robert Temple
Lady St. Craye
Miss Voscoe
Madame Chevillon
Paula Conway
Mimi Chantal
Village Matrons, Concierges, Art Students, Etc.
The Incomplete Amorist
The Girl
Her Step-Father
Her Aunt
The Other Man
The Other Woman
The Art Student
The Inn-Keeper at Crez
A Soul in Hell
A Model
Book 1. — The Girl
CHAPTER I. THE INEVITABLE.
“No. The chemises aren’t cut out. I haven’t had time. There are enough shirts to go on with, aren’t there, Mrs. James?” said Betty.
“We can make do for this afternoon, Miss, but the men they’re getting blowed out with shirts. It’s the children’s shifts as we can’t make shift without much longer.” Mrs. James, habitually doleful, punctuated her speech with sniffs.
“That’s a joke, Mrs. James,” said Betty. “How clever you are!”
“I try to be what’s fitting,” said Mrs. James, complacently.
“Talk of fitting,” said Betty, “If you like I’ll fit on that black bodice for you, Mrs. Symes. If the other ladies don’t mind waiting for the reading a little bit.”
“I’d as lief talk as read, myself,” said a red-faced sandy-haired woman; “books ain’t what they was in my young days.”
“If it’s the same to you, Miss,” said Mrs. Symes in a thick rich voice, “I’ll not be tried on afore a room full. If we are poor we can all be clean’s what I say, and I keeps my unders as I keeps my outside. But not before persons as has real imitation lace on their petticoat bodies. I see them when I was a-nursing her with her fourth. No, Miss, and thanking you kindly, but begging your pardon all the same.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Betty absently. “Oh, Mrs. Smith, you can’t have lost your thimble already. Why what’s that you’ve got in your mouth?”
“So it is!” Mrs. Smith’s face beamed at the gratifying coincidence. “It always was my habit, from a child, to put things there for safety.”
“These cheap thimbles ain’t fit to put in your mouth, no more than coppers,” said Mrs. James, her mouth full of pins.
“Oh, nothing hurts you if you like it,” said Betty recklessly. She had been reading the works of Mr. G.K. Chesterton.
A shocked murmur arose.
“Oh, Miss, what about the publy kows?” said Mrs. Symes heavily. The others nodded acquiescence.
“Don’t you think we might have a window open?” said Betty. The May sunshine beat on the schoolroom windows. The room, crowded with the stout members of the “Mother’s Meeting and Mutual Clothing Club,” was stuffy, unbearable.
A murmur arose far more shocked than the first.
“I was just a-goin’ to say why not close the door, that being what doors is made for, after all,” said Mrs. Symes. “I feel a sort of draught a-creeping up my legs as it is.”
The door was shut.
“You can’t be too careful,” said the red-faced woman; “we never know what a chill mayn’t bring forth. My cousin’s sister-in-law, she had twins, and her aunt come in and says she, ‘You’re a bit stuffy here, ain’t you?’ and with that she opens the window a crack, — not meaning no harm, Miss, — as it might be you. And within a year that poor unfortunate woman she popped off, when least expected. Gas ulsters, the doctor said. Which it’s what you call chills, if you’re a doctor and can’t speak plain.”
“My poor grandmother come to her end the same way,” said Mrs. Smith, “only with her it was the Bible reader as didn’t shut the door through being so set on shewing off her reading. And my granny, a clot of blood went to her brain, and her brain went to her head and she was a corpse inside of fifty minutes.”
Every woman in the room was waiting, feverishly alert, for the pause that should allow her to begin her own detailed narrative of disease.
Mrs. James was easily first in the competition.
“Them quick deaths,” she said, “is sometimes a blessing in disguise to both parties concerned. My poor husband — years upon years he lingered, and he had a bad leg — talk of bad legs, I wish you could all have seen it,” she added generously.
“Was it the kind that keeps all on a-breaking out?” asked Mrs. Symes hastily, “because my youngest brother had a leg that nothing couldn’t stop. Break out it would do what they might. I’m sure the bandages I’ve took off him in a morning—”
Betty clapped her hands.
It was the signal that the reading was going to begin, and the matrons looked at her resentfully. What call had people to start reading when the talk was flowing so free and pleasant?
Betty, rather pale, began: “This is a story about a little boy called Wee Willie Winkie.”
“I call that a silly sort of name,” whispered Mrs. Smith.
“Did he make a good end, Miss?” asked Mrs. James plaintively.
“You’ll see,” said Betty.
“I like it best when they dies forgiving of everybody and singing hymns to the last.”
“And when they says, ‘Mother, I shall meet you ‘ereafter in the better land’ — that’s what makes you cry so pleasant.”
“Do you want me to read or not?” asked Betty in desperation.
“Yes, Miss, yes,” hummed the voices heavy and shrill.
“It’s her hobby, poor young thing,” whispered Mrs. Smith, “we all ‘as ‘em. My own is a light cake to my tea, and always was. Ush.”
Betty read.
When the mothers had wordily gone, she threw open the windows, propped the door wide with a chair, and went to tea. She had it alone.
“Your Pa’s out a-parishing,” said Letitia, bumping down the tray in front of her.
“That’s a let-off anyhow,” said Betty to herself, and she propped up a Stevenson against the tea-pot.
After tea parishioners strolled up by ones and twos and threes to change their books at the Vicarage lending library. The books were covered with black calico, and smelt of rooms whose windows were never opened.
When she had washed the smell of the books off, she did her hair very carefully in a new way that seemed becoming, and went down to supper.
Her step-father only spoke once during the meal; he was luxuriating in the thought of the Summa Theologiae of Aquinas in leather still brown and beautiful, which he had providentially discovered in the wash-house of an ailing Parishioner. When he did speak he said:
“How extremely untidy your hair is, Lizzie. I wish you would take more pains with your appearance.”
When he had withdrawn to his books she covered three new volumes for the library: the black came off on her hands, but anyway it was clean dirt.
She went to bed early.
“And that’s my life,” she said as she blew out the candle.
Said Mrs. James to Mrs. Symes over the last and strongest cup of tea:
“Miss Betty’s ailing a bit, I fancy. Looked a bit peaky, it seemed to me. I shouldn’t wonder if she was to go off in a decline like her father did.”
“It wasn’t no decline,” said Mrs. Symes, dropping her thick voice, “‘e was cut off in the midst of his wicked courses. A judgment if ever there was one.”
Betty’s blameless father had been killed in the hunting field.
“I daresay she takes after him, only being a female it all turns to her being pernickety in her food and allus wanting the windows open. And mark my words, it may turn into a decline yet, Mrs. Symes, my dear.”
Mrs. Symes laughed fatly. “That ain’t no decline,” she said, “you take it from me. What Miss Betty wants is a young man. It is but nature after all, and what we must all come to, gentle or simple. Give her a young man to walk out with and you’ll see the difference. Decline indeed! A young man’s what she wants. And if I know anything of gells and their ways she’ll get one, no matter how close the old chap keeps her.”
Mrs. Symes was not so wrong as the delicate minded may suppose.
Betty did indeed desire to fall in love. In all the story books the main interest of the heroine’s career began with that event. Not that she voiced the desire to herself. Only once she voiced it in her prayers.
“Oh, God,” she said, “do please let something happen!”
That was all. A girl had her little reticences, even with herself, even with her Creator.
Next morning she planned to go sketching; but no, there were three more detestable books to be put into nasty little black cotton coats, the drawing-room to be dusted — all the hateful china — the peas to be shelled for dinner.
She shelled the peas in the garden. It was a beautiful green garden, and lovers could have walked very happily down the lilac-bordered paths.
“Oh, how sick I am of it all!” said Betty. She would not say, even to herself, that what she hated was the frame without the picture.
As she carried in the peas she passed the open window of the study where, among shelves of dull books and dusty pamphlets, her step-father had as usual forgotten his sermon in a chain of references to the Fathers. Betty saw his thin white hairs, his hard narrow face and tight mouth, the hands yellow and claw-like that gripped the thin vellum folio.
“I suppose even he was young once,” she said, “but I’m sure he doesn’t remember it.”
He saw her go by, young and alert in the sunshine, and the May air stirred the curtains. He looked vaguely about him, unlocked a drawer in his writing-table, and took out a leather case. He gazed long at the face within, a young bright face with long ringlets above the formal bodice and sloping shoulders of the sixties.
“Well, well,” he said, “well, well,” locked it away, and went back to De Poenis Parvulorum.
“I will go out,” said Betty, as she parted with the peas. “I don’t care!”
It was not worth while to change one’s frock. Even when one was properly dressed, at rare local garden-party or flower-show, one never met anyone that mattered.
She fetched her sketching things. At eighteen one does so pathetically try to feed the burgeoning life with the husks of polite accomplishment. She insisted on withholding from the clutches of the Parish the time to practise Beethoven and Sullivan for an hour daily. Daily, for half an hour, she read an improving book. Just now it was The French Revolution, and Betty thought it would last till she was sixty. She tried to read French and German — Télémaque and Maria Stuart. She fully intended to become all that a cultured young woman should be. But self-improvement is a dull game when there is no one to applaud your score.
