Read Complete Works of Wilkie Collins Online
Authors: Wilkie Collins
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps Helena knows?”
“Not she!”
Mrs. took the next question out of her husband’s mouth: “Come, come, my dear! you must know how old you are.”
“Yes; I do know that. I’m eighteen.”
“And how old is Helena?”
“Helena’s eighteen.”
Mrs. turned round to Mr.: “Do you hear that?”
Mr. said: “I shall write to her father, and ask what it means.”
I said: “Papa will only tell you what he told us — years ago.”
“What did your father say?”
“He said he had added our two ages together, and he meant to divide the product between us. It’s so long since, I don’t remember what the product was then. But I’ll tell you what the product is now. Our two ages come to thirty-six. Half thirty-six is eighteen. I get one half, and Helena gets the other. When we ask what it means, and when friends ask what it means, papa has got the same answer for everybody, ‘I have my reasons.’ That’s all he says — and that’s all I say.”
I had no intention of making Mr. angry, but he did get angry. He left off speaking to me by my Christian name; he called me by my surname. He said: “Let me tell you, Miss Gracedieu, it is not becoming in a young lady to mystify her elders.”
I had heard that it was respectful in a young lady to call an old gentleman, Sir, and to say, If you please. I took care to be respectful now. “If you please, sir, write to papa. You will find that I have spoken the truth.”
A woman opened the door, and said to Mrs. Staveley: “Dinner, ma’am.” That stopped this nasty exhibition of our tempers. We had a very good dinner.
.......
The next day I wrote to Helena, asking her what she had really said to the Staveleys about her age and mine, and telling her what I had said. I found it too great a trial of my patience to wait till she could see what I had written about the dispute in my journal. The days, since then, have passed, and I have been too lazy and stupid to keep my diary.
To-day it is different. My head is like a dark room with the light let into it. I remember things; I think I can go on again.
We have religious exercises in this house, morning and evening, just as we do at home. (Not to be compared with papa’s religious exercises.) Two days ago his answer came to Mr. Staveley’s letter. He did just what I had expected — said I had spoken truly, and disappointed the family by asking to be excused if he refrained from entering into explanations. Mr. said: “Very odd;” and Mrs. agreed with him. Young Miss is not quite as friendly now as she was at first. And young Master was impudent enough to ask me if “I had got religion.” To conclude the list of my worries, I received an angry answer from Helena. “Nobody but a simpleton,” she wrote, “would have contradicted me as you did. Who but you could have failed to see that papa’s strange objection to let it be known which of us is the elder makes us ridiculous before other people? My presence of mind prevented that. You ought to have been grateful, and held your tongue.” Perhaps Helena is right — but I don’t feel it so.
On Sunday we went to chapel twice. We also had a sermon read at home, and a cold dinner. In the evening, a hot dispute on religion between Mr. Staveley and his son. I don’t blame them. After being pious all day long on Sunday, I have myself felt my piety give way toward evening.
There is something pleasant in prospect for to-morrow. All London is going just now to the exhibition of pictures. We are going with all London.
.......
I don’t know what is the matter with me tonight. I have positively been to bed, without going to sleep! After tossing and twisting and trying all sorts of positions, I am so angry with myself that I have got up again. Rather than do nothing, I have opened my ink-bottle, and I mean to go on with my journal. Now I think of it, it seems likely that the exhibition of works of art may have upset me.
I found a dreadfully large number of pictures, matched by a dreadfully large number of people to look at them. It is not possible for me to write about what I saw: there was too much of it. Besides, the show disappointed me. I would rather write about a disagreement (oh, dear, another dispute!) I had with Mrs. Staveley. The cause of it was a famous artist; not himself, but his works. He exhibited four pictures — what they call figure subjects. Mrs. Staveley had a pencil. At every one of the great man’s four pictures, she made a big mark of admiration on her catalogue. At the fourth one, she spoke to me: “Perfectly beautiful, Eunice, isn’t it?”
I said I didn’t know. She said: “You strange girl, what do you mean by that?”
It would have been rude not to have given the best answer I could find. I said: “I never saw the flesh of any person’s face like the flesh in the faces which that man paints. He reminds me of wax-work. Why does he paint the same waxy flesh in all four of his pictures? I don’t see the same coloured flesh in all the faces about us.” Mrs. Staveley held up her hand, by way of stopping me. She said: “Don’t speak so loud, Eunice; you are only exposing your own ignorance.”
A voice behind us joined in. The voice said: “Excuse me, Mrs. Staveley, if I expose
my
ignorance. I entirely agree with the young lady.”
I felt grateful to the person who took my part, just when I was at a loss what to say for myself, and I looked round. The person was a young gentleman.
He wore a beautiful blue frock-coat, buttoned up. I like a frock-coat to be buttoned up. He had light-coloured trousers and gray gloves and a pretty cane. I like light-coloured trousers and gray gloves and a pretty cane. What colour his eyes were is more than I can say; I only know they made me hot when they looked at me. Not that I mind being made hot; it is surely better than being made cold. He and Mrs. Staveley shook hands.
They seemed to be old friends. I wished I had been an old friend — not for any bad reason, I hope. I only wanted to shake hands, too. What Mrs. Staveley said to him escaped me, somehow. I think the picture escaped me also; I don’t remember noticing anything except the young gentleman, especially when he took off his hat to me. He looked at me twice before he went away. I got hot again. I said to Mrs. Staveley: “Who is he?”
She laughed at me. I said again: “Who is he?” She said: “He is young Mr. Dunboyne.” I said: “Does he live in London?” She laughed again. I said again: “Does he live in London?” She said: “He is here for a holiday; he lives with his father at Fairmount, in Ireland.”
Young Mr. Dunboyne — here for a holiday — lives with his father at Fairmount, in Ireland. I have said that to myself fifty times over. And here it is, saying itself for the fifty-first time in my Journal. I must indeed be a simpleton, as Helena says. I had better go to bed again.
Not long before I left home, I heard one of our two servants telling the other about a person who had been “bewitched.” Are you bewitched when you don’t understand your own self? That has been my curious case, since I returned from the picture show. This morning I took my drawing materials out of my box, and tried to make a portrait of young Mr. Dunboyne from recollection. I succeeded pretty well with his frock-coat and cane; but, try as I might, his face was beyond me. I have never drawn anything so badly since I was a little girl; I almost felt ready to cry. What a fool I am!
This morning I received a letter from papa — it was in reply to a letter that I had written to him — so kind, so beautifully expressed, so like himself, that I felt inclined to send him a confession of the strange state of feeling that has come over me, and to ask him to comfort and advise me. On second thoughts, I was afraid to do it. Afraid of papa! I am further away from understanding myself than ever.
Mr. Dunboyne paid us a visit in the afternoon. Fortunately, before we went out.
I thought I would have a good look at him; so as to know his face better than I had known it yet. Another disappointment was in store for me. Without intending it, I am sure, he did what no other young man has ever done — he made me feel confused. Instead of looking at him, I sat with my head down, and listened to his talk. His voice — this is high praise — reminded me of papa’s voice. It seemed to persuade me as papa persuades his congregation. I felt quite at ease again. When he went away, we shook hands. He gave my hand a little squeeze. I gave him back the squeeze — without knowing why. When he was gone, I wished I had not done it — without knowing why, either.
I heard his Christian name for the first time to-day. Mrs. Staveley said to me: “We are going to have a dinner-party. Shall I ask Philip Dunboyne?” I said to Mrs. Staveley: “Oh, do!”
She is an old woman; her eyes are dim. At times, she can look mischievous. She looked at me mischievously now. I wished I had not been so eager to have Mr. Dunboyne asked to dinner.
A fear has come to me that I may have degraded myself. My spirits are depressed. This, as papa tells us in his sermons, is a miserable world. I am sorry I accepted the Staveleys’ invitation. I am sorry I went to see the pictures. When that young man comes to dinner, I shall say I have got a headache, and shall stop upstairs by myself. I don’t think I like his Christian name. I hate London. I hate everybody.
What I wrote up above, yesterday, is nonsense. I think his Christian name is perfect. I like London. I love everybody.
He came to dinner to-day. I sat next to him. How beautiful a dress-coat is, and a white cravat! We talked. He wanted to know what my Christian name was. I was so pleased when I found he was one of the few people who like it. His hair curls naturally. In colour, it is something between my hair and Helena’s. He wears his beard. How manly! It curls naturally, like his hair; it smells deliciously of some perfume which is new to me. He has white hands; his nails look as if he polished them; I should like to polish my nails if I knew how. Whatever I said, he agreed with me; I felt satisfied with my own conversation, for the first time in my life. Helena won’t find me a simpleton when I go home. What exquisite things dinner-parties are!
My sister told me (when we said good-by) to be particular in writing down my true opinion of the Staveleys. Helena wishes to compare what she thinks of them with what I think of them.
My opinion of Mr. Staveley is — I don’t like him. My opinion of Miss Staveley is — I can’t endure her. As for Master Staveley, my clever sister will understand that
he
is beneath notice. But, oh, what a wonderful woman Mrs. Staveley is! We went out together, after luncheon today, for a walk in Kensington Gardens. Never have I heard any conversation to compare with Mrs. Staveley’s. Helena shall enjoy it here, at second hand. I am quite changed in two things. First: I think more of myself than I ever did before. Second: writing is no longer a difficulty to me. I could fill a hundred journals, without once stopping to think.
Mrs. Staveley began nicely; “I suppose, Eunice, you have often been told that you have a good figure, and that you walk well?”
I said: “Helena thinks my figure is better than my face. But do I really walk well? Nobody ever told me that.”
She answered: “Philip Dunboyne thinks so. He said to me, ‘I resist the temptation because I might be wanting in respect if I gave way to it. But I should like to follow her when she goes out — merely for the pleasure of seeing her walk.’“
I stood stockstill. I said nothing. When you are as proud as a peacock (which never happened to me before), I find you can’t move and can’t talk. You can only enjoy yourself.
Kind Mrs. Staveley had more things to tell me. She said: “I am interested in Philip. I lived near Fairmount in the time before I was married; and in those days he was a child. I want him to marry a charming girl, and be happy.”
What made me think directly of Miss Staveley? What made me mad to know if she was the charming girl? I was bold enough to ask the question. Mrs. Staveley turned to me with that mischievous look which I have noticed already. I felt as if I had been running at the top of my speed, and had not got my breath again, yet.
But this good motherly friend set me at my ease. She explained herself: “Philip is not much liked, poor fellow, in our house. My husband considers him to be weak and vain and fickle. And my daughter agrees with her father. There are times when she is barely civil to Philip. He is too good-natured to complain, but
I
see it. Tell me, my dear, do you like Philip?”