GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“I shall make no further attempt to advise you. As fast as my counsels rise to my mind follow reflections that convince me of their futility.

“You may perhaps wonder why I never said to you what I have written down here. I have tried to do so and failed. If I understand myself aright, I have written these lines mainly to relieve a craving to express my affection for you. The awkwardness which an over-civilized man experiences in admitting that he is something more than an educated stone prevented me from confusing you by demonstrations of a kind I had never accustomed you to. Besides, I wish this assurance of my love — my last word — to reach you when no further commonplaces to blur the impressiveness of its simple truth are possible.

“I know I have said too much; and I feel that I have not said enough. But the writing of this letter has been a difficult task. Practised as I am with my pen, I have never, even in my earliest efforts, composed with such labor and sense of inadequacy — —”

Here the manuscript broke off. The letter had never been finished.

Table of Contents

In the month of May, seven years after the flight of the two boys from Moncrief House, a lady sat in an island of shadow which was made by a cedar-tree in the midst of a glittering green lawn. She did well to avoid the sun, for her complexion was as delicately tinted as mother-of-pearl. She was a small, graceful woman, with sensitive lips and nostrils, green eyes, with quiet, unarched brows, and ruddy gold hair, now shaded by a large, untrimmed straw hat. Her dress of Indian muslin, with half-sleeves terminating at the elbows in wide ruffles, hardly covered her shoulders, where it was supplemented by a scarf through which a glimpse of her throat was visible in a nest of soft Tourkaris lace. She was reading a little ivory-bound volume — a miniature edition of the second part of Goethe’s “Faust.”

As the afternoon wore on and the light mellowed, the lady dropped her book and began to think and dream, unconscious of a prosaic black object crossing the lawn towards her. This was a young gentleman in a frock coat. He was dark, and had a long, grave face, with a reserved expression, but not ill-looking.

“Going so soon, Lucian?” said the lady, looking up as he came into the shadow.

Lucian looked at her wistfully. His name, as she uttered it, always stirred him vaguely. He was fond of finding out the reasons of things, and had long ago decided that this inward stir was due to her fine pronunciation. His other intimates called him Looshn.

“Yes,” he said. “I have arranged everything, and have come to give an account of my stewardship, and to say goodbye.”

He placed a garden-chair near her and sat down. She laid her hands one on the other in her lap, and composed herself to listen.

“First,” he said, “as to the Warren Lodge. It is let for a month only; so you can allow Mrs. Goff to have it rent free in July if you still wish to. I hope you will not act so unwisely.”

She smiled, and said, “Who are the present tenants? I hear that they object to the dairymaids and men crossing the elm vista.”

“We must not complain of that. It was expressly stipulated when they took the lodge that the vista should be kept private for them. I had no idea at that time that you were coming to the castle, or I should of course have declined such a condition.”

“But we do keep it private for them; strangers are not admitted. Our people pass and repass once a day on their way to and from the dairy; that is all.”

“It seems churlish, Lydia; but this, it appears, is a special case — a young gentleman, who has come to recruit his health. He needs daily exercise in the open air; but he cannot bear observation, and he has only a single attendant with him. Under these circumstances I agreed that they should have the sole use of the elm vista. In fact, they are paying more rent than would be reasonable without this privilege.”

“I hope the young gentleman is not mad.”

“I satisfied myself before I let the lodge to him that he would be a proper tenant,” said Lucian, with reproachful gravity. “He was strongly recommended to me by Lord Worthington, whom I believe to be a man of honor, notwithstanding his inveterate love of sport. As it happens, I expressed to him the suspicion you have just suggested. Worthington vouched for the tenant’s sanity, and offered to take the lodge in his own name and be personally responsible for the good behavior of this young invalid, who has, I fancy, upset his nerves by hard reading. Probably some college friend of Worthington’s.”

“Perhaps so. But I should rather expect a college friend of Lord Worthington’s to be a hard rider or drinker than a hard reader.”

“You may be quite at ease, Lydia. I took Lord Worthington at his word so far as to make the letting to him. I have never seen the real tenant. But, though I do not even recollect his name, I will venture to answer for him at secondhand.”

“I am quite satisfied, Lucian; and I am greatly obliged to you. I will give orders that no one shall go to the dairy by way of the warren. It is natural that he should wish to be out of the world.”

“The next point,” resumed Lucian, “is more important, as it concerns you personally. Miss Goff is willing to accept your offer. And a most unsuitable companion she will be for you!”

“Why, Lucian?”

“On all accounts. She is younger than you, and therefore cannot chaperone you. She has received only an ordinary education, and her experience of society is derived from local subscription balls. And, as she is not unattractive, and is considered a beauty in Wiltstoken, she is self-willed, and will probably take your patronage in bad part.”

“Is she more self-willed than I?”

“You are not self-willed, Lydia; except that you are deaf to advice.”

“You mean that I seldom follow it. And so you think I had better employ a professional companion — a decayed gentlewoman — than save this young girl from going out as a governess and beginning to decay at twenty-three?”

“The business of getting a suitable companion, and the pleasure or duty of relieving poor people, are two different things, Lydia.”

“True, Lucian. When will Miss Goff call?”

“This evening. Mind; nothing is settled as yet. If you think better of it on seeing her you have only to treat her as an ordinary visitor and the subject will drop. For my own part, I prefer her sister; but she will not leave Mrs. Goff, who has not yet recovered from the shock of her husband’s death.”

Lydia looked reflectively at the little volume in her hand, and seemed to think out the question of Miss Goff. Presently, with an air of having made up her mind, she said, “Can you guess which of Goethe’s characters you remind me of when you try to be worldlywise for my sake?”

“When I try — What an extraordinary irrelevance! I have not read Goethe lately. Mephistopheles, I suppose. But I did not mean to be cynical.”

“No; not Mephistopheles, but Wagner — with a difference. Wagner taking Mephistopheles instead of Faust for his model.” Seeing by his face that he did not relish the comparison, she added, “I am paying you a compliment. Wagner represents a very clever man.”

“The saving clause is unnecessary,” he said, somewhat sarcastically. “I know your opinion of me quite well, Lydia.”

She looked quickly at him. Detecting the concern in her glance, he shook his head sadly, saying, “I must go now, Lydia. I leave you in charge of the housekeeper until Miss Goff arrives.”

She gave him her hand, and a dull glow came into his gray jaws as he took it. Then he buttoned his coat and walked gravely away. As he went, she watched the sun mirrored in his glossy hat, and drowned in his respectable coat. She sighed, and took up Goethe again.