GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“Yes,” said Mary, laughing. “He said he was not a man of business; but I wonder what he thinks of us.”

“As of two young children whom fate has delivered into his hand, doubtless, shall we start now for South Kensington?”

“Yes. But I don’t want to disturb my impression of the Lady of Shalott by any more art to-day. It is so fine this afternoon that I think it would be more sensible for us to take a walk in the Park than to shut ourselves up in the Museum.”

Herbert agreeing, they walked together to Hyde Park. “Now that we are here,” said he, “where shall we go to? The Row?”

“Certainly not. It is the most vulgar place in London. If we could find a pleasant seat, I should like to rest.”

“We had better try Kensington Gardens, then.”

“No,” said Mary, remembering Mr Jack. “I do not like Kensington Gardens.”

“I have just thought of the very thing,” exclaimed Herbert. “Let us take a boat. The Serpentine is not so pretty as the Thames at Windsor; but it will have the charm of novelty for you. Will you come?”

“I should like it of all things. But I rely upon you as to the propriety of my going with you.”

Herbert hesitated. “I do not think there can be any harm.”

“There: I was only joking. Do you think I allow myself to be influenced by such nonsense as that? Let us go.”

So they went to the boat-house and embarked. Herbert sculled aimlessly about, enjoying the spring sunshine, until they found themselves in an unfrequented corner of the Serpentine, when he half shipped his sculls, and said, “Let us talk for a while now. I have worked enough, I think.”

“By all means,” said Mary. “May I begin?”

Herbert looked quickly at her, and seemed a little disconcerted. “Of course.” said he.

“I want to make a confession,” she said. “it concerns the Lady of Shalott, of which I have been busily thinking since we started.”

“Have you reconsidered your good opinion of it?”

“No. Better and yet worse than that. I have reconsidered my bad impression of it — at least, I do not mean that — I never had a bad impression of it, but my vacant, stupid first idea. My confession is that I was disappointed at the first sight of it. Wait: let me finish. It was different from what I imagined, as it ought to have been; for I am not an artist, and therefore do not imagine things properly. But it has grown upon me since; and now I like it better than if it had dazzled my ignorant eyes at first. I have been thinking that if it had the gaudy qualities I missed in it, I should not have respected you so much for painting it, nor should I have been forced to dwell on the poetry of the conception as I have been. I remember being secretly disappointed the first time we went to the National Gallery; and, as to my first opera, I suffered agonies of disenchantment. It is a comfort to me — a mean one, I fear — to know that Sir Joshua Reynolds was disappointed at his first glimpse of Raphael’s frescoes in the Vatican, and that some of the great composers thought Beethoven’s music hideous before they became familiar with it.”

“You find that my picture improves on acquaintance?”

“Oh. yes! Very much. Or rather I improve.”

“But are you sure youre not coaxing yourself into a false admiration of it for my — to avoid hurting me?”

“No, indeed,” said Mary vehemently, trying by force of assertion to stifle this suspicion, which had come into her own mind before Herbert mentioned it.

“And do you still feel able to sympathize with my aims, and willing to encourage me, and to keep the highest aspects of my art before me, as you have done hitherto?”

“I feel willing, but not able. How often must I remind you that I owe all my feeling for art to you, and that I am only the faint reflexion of you in all matters concerning it?”

“Nevertheless without your help I should long ago have despaired. Are you quite sure — I beg you to answer me faithfully — that you do not despise me?”

“Mr. Herbert! How can you think such a thing of me? How can you think it of yourself?”

“I am afraid my constant self-mistrust is only too convincing a proof of my weakness. I sometimes despise myself.”

“It is a proof of your artistic sensibility. You do not need to learn from me that all the great artists have left passages behind them proving that they have felt sometimes as you feel now. Take the oars again; and let us spin down to the bridge. The exercise will cure your fancies.”

“Not yet. I have something else to say. Has it occurred to you that if by any accident — by the forming of a new tie, for instance — your sympathies came to be diverted from me, I should lose the only person whose belief in me has helped me to believe in myself? How utterly desolate I should be!”

“Desolate! Nonsense. Some day you will exhaust the variety of the sympathy you compliment me so highly upon. You will find it growing shallow and monotonous; and then you will not be sorry to be rid of it.”

“I am quite serious. Mary: I have felt for some time past that it is neither honest nor wise in me to trifle any longer with my only chance of happiness. Will you become engaged to me? You may meet many better and stronger men than I, but none who will value you more highly — perhaps none to whose life you can be so indispensable.”

There was a pause, Mary being too full of the responsibility she felt placed upon her to reply at once. Of the ordinary maidenly embarrassment she shewed not a trace.

“Why cannot we go on as we have been doing so happily?” she said, thoughtfully.

“Of course, if you wish it, we can. That is, if you do not know your own mind on the subject. But such happiness as there may be in our present indefinite relations will be all on your side.”

“It seems so ungrateful to hesitate. It is doubt of myself that makes me do so. You have always immensely overrated me; and I should not like you to feel at some future day that you had made a mistake. When you are famous, you will be able to choose whom you please, and where you please.”

“If that is the only consideration that hinders you, I claim your consent. Do you not think that I, too, do not feel how little worthy of your acceptance my offer is? But if we can love one another, what does all that matter? It is not as though we were strangers: we have proved one another. It is absurd that we two should say ‘Mr Herbert’ and ‘Miss Sutherland, as if our friendship were an acquaintance of ceremony.”

“I have often wished that you would call me Mary. At home we always speak of you as Adrian. But I could hardly have asked you to, could I?”

“I am sorry you did not. And now, will you give me a definite answer? Perhaps I have hardly made you a definite offer; but you know my position. I am too poor with my wretched £300 a year to give you a proper home at present. For that I must depend on my brush. You can fancy how I shall work when every exertion will bring my wedding day nearer; though, even at the most hopeful estimate, I fear I am condemning you to a long engagement. Are you afraid to venture on it?”

“Yes, I am afraid; but only lest you should find out the true worth of what you are waiting for. If you will risk that, I consent.”

Table of Contents

On one of the last days of July, Mary Sutherland was in her father’s house at Windsor, copying a sketch signed A. H. The room had a French window opening on a little pleasure ground and shrubbery, far beyond which, through the swimming summer atmosphere, was the river threading the distant valley. But Mary did not look that way. With her attention concentrated on a stained scrap of paper, she might have passed for an æsthetic daughter of the Man with the Muck Rake. At last a shadow fell upon the drawing board. Then she turned, and saw a tall, handsome lady, a little past middle age, standing at the window.