The Tragic Muse (London & New York: Macmillan & Co., 1890)/Volume 2/Chapter 7
VII.
Whether Sherringham had prearranged it is more than I can say, but Mademoiselle Voisin delayed so long to show herself that Mrs. Rooth, who wished to see the rest of the play, though she had sat it out on another occasion, expressed a returning relish for her corner of the baignoire and gave her conductor the best pretext he could have desired for asking Basil Dashwood to be so good as to escort her back. When the young actor, of whose personal preference Sherringham was quite aware, had led Mrs. Rooth away with an absence of moroseness which showed that his striking analogy with a gentleman was not kept for the footlights, the two others sat on a divan in the part of the room furthest from the entrance, so that it gave them a degree of privacy, and Miriam watched the coming and going of their fellow-visitors and the indefinite people, attached to the theatre, hanging about, while her companion gave a name to some of the figures, Parisian celebrities.
"Fancy poor Dashwood, cooped up there with mamma!" the girl exclaimed, whimsically.
"You're awfully cruel to him; but that's of course," said Sherringham.
"It seems to me I'm as kind as you: you sent him off."
"That was for your mother: she was tired."
"Oh, gammon! And why, if I were cruel, should it be of course?"
"Because you must destroy and torment and consume—that's your nature. But you can't help your type, can you?"
"My type?" the girl repeated.
"It's bad, perverse, dangerous. It's essentially insolent."
"And pray what is yours, when you talk like that? Would you say such things if you didn't know the depths of my good-nature?"
"Your good-nature all comes back to that," said Sherringham. "It's an abyss of ruin—for others. You have no respect. I'm speaking of the artistic character, in the direction and in the .plenitude in which you have it. It's unscrupulous, nervous, capricious, wanton."
"I don't know about respect: one can be good," Miriam reasoned.
"It doesn't matter, so long as one is powerful," answered Sherringham. "We can't have everything, and surely we ought to understand that we must pay for things. A splendid organization for a special end, like yours, is so rare and rich and fine that we oughtn't to grudge it its conditions."
"What do you call its conditions?" Miriam demanded, turning and looking at him.
"Oh, the need to take its ease, to take up space, to make itself at home in the world, to square its elbows and knock others about. That's large and free; it's the good-nature you speak of. You must forage and ravage and leave a track behind you; you must live upon the country you occupy. And you give such delight that, after all, you are welcome—you are infinitely welcome!"
"I don't know what you mean. I only care for the idea," Miriam said.
"That's exactly what I pretend; and we must all help you to it. You use us, you push us about, you break us up. We are your tables and chairs, the simple furniture of your life."
"Whom do you mean by 'we'?"
Sherringham gave a laugh. "Oh, don't be afraid—there will be plenty of others."
Miriam made no rejoinder to this, but after a moment she broke out again: "Poor Dashwood, immured with mamma—he's like a lame chair that one has put into the corner."
"Don't break him up before he has served. I really believe that something will come out of him," her companion went on. "However, you'll break me up first," he added, "and him probably never at all."
"And why shall I honour you so much more?"
"Because I'm a better article, and you'll feel that."
"You have the superiority of modesty—I see."
"I'm better than a young mountebank—I've vanity enough to say that."
She turned upon him with a flush in her cheek and a splendid dramatic face. "How you hate us! Yes, at bottom, below your little taste, you hate us!" she repeated.
He coloured too, met her eyes, looked into them a minute, seemed to accept the imputation, and then said quickly: "Give it up; come away with me."
"Come away with you?"
"Leave this place: give it up."
"You brought me here, you insisted it should be only you, and now you must stay," she declared, with a head-shake and a laugh. "You should know what you want, dear Mr. Sherringham."
"I do—I know now. Come away, before she comes."
"Before she comes?"
"She's success—this wonderful Voisin—she's triumph, she's full accomplishment: the hard, brilliant realization of what I want to avert for you." Miriam looked at him in silence, the angry light still in her face, and he repeated: "Give it up—give it up."
Her eyes softened after a moment; she smiled and then she said: "Yes, you're better than poor Dashwood."
"Give it up and we'll live for ourselves, in ourselves, in something that can have a sanctity."
"All the same, you do hate us," the girl went on.
"I don't want to be conceited, but I mean that I'm sufficiently fine and complicated to tempt you. I'm an expensive modern watch, with a wonderful escapement—therefore you'll smash me if you can."
"Never—never!" said the girl, getting up. "You tell me the hour too well." She quitted her companion and stood looking at Gérôme's fine portrait of the pale Rachel, invested with the antique attributes of tragedy. The rise of the curtain had drawn away most of the company. Sherringham, from his bench, watched Miriam a little, turning his eye from her to the vivid image of the dead actress and thinking that his companion suffered little by the juxtaposition. Presently he came over and joined her again, and she said to him: "I wonder if that is what your cousin had in his mind."
"My cousin?"
"What was his name? Mr. Dormer; that first day at Madame Carré's. He offered to paint my portrait."
"I remember. I put him up to it."
"Was he thinking of this?"
"I don't think he has ever seen it. I dare say I was."
"Well, when we go to London he must do it," said Miriam.
"Oh, there's no hurry," Sherringham replied.
"Don't you want my picture?" asked the girl, with one of her successful touches.
"I'm not sure I want it from you. I don't know quite what he'd make of you."
"He looked so clever—I liked him. I saw him again at your party."
"He's a dear fellow; but what is one to say of a painter who goes for his inspiration to the House of Commons?"
"To the House of Commons?"
"He has lately got himself elected."
"Dear me, what a pity! I wanted to sit for him; but perhaps he won't have me, as I'm not a member of Parliament."
"It's my sister, rather, who has got him in."
"Your sister who was at your house that day? What has she to do with it?"
"Why, she's his cousin, just as I am. And in addition," Sherringham went on, "she's to be married to him."
"Married—really? So he paints her, I suppose?"
"Not much, probably. His talent in that line isn't what she esteems in him most."
"It isn't great, then?"
"I haven't the least idea."
"And in the political line?"
"I scarcely can tell. He's very clever."
"He does paint then?"
"I dare say."
Miriam looked at Gérôme's picture again. "Fancy his going into the House of Commons! And your sister put him there?"
"She worked, she canvassed."
"Ah, you're a queer family!" the girl exclaimed, turning round at the sound of a step.
"We're lost—here's Mademoiselle Voisin," said Sherringham.
This celebrity presented herself smiling and addressing Miriam. "I acted for you to-night—I did my best."
"What a pleasure to speak to you, to thank you! "the girl murmured, admiringly. She was startled and dazzled.
"I couldn't come to you before, but now I've got a rest—for half an hour," the actress went on. Gracious and passive, as if she were a little tired, she let Sherringham, without looking at him, take her hand and raise it to his lips. "I'm sorry I make you lose the others—they are so good in this act," she added.
"We have seen them before, and there's nothing so good as you," Miriam replied.
"I like my part," said Mademoiselle Voisin, gently, smiling still at our young lady with clear, charming eyes. "One is always better in that case."
"She's so bad sometimes, you know!" Sherringham jested, to Miriam; leading the actress to glance at him kindly and vaguely, with a little silence which, with her, you could not call embarrassment, but which was still less affectation.
"And it's so interesting to be here—so interesting!" Miriam declared.
"Ah, you like our old house? Yes, we are very proud of it." And Mademoiselle Voisin smiled again at Sherringham, good-humouredly, as if to say: "Well, here I am, and what do you want of me? Don't ask me to invent it myself, but if you'll tell me I'll do it." Miriam admired the note of discreet interrogation in her voice—the slight suggestion of surprise at their "old house" being liked. The actress was already an astonishment to her, from her seeming still more perfect on a nearer view; which was not, she had an idea, what actresses usually did. This was very encouraging to her: it widened the programme of a young lady about to embrace the scenic career. To have so much to show before the footlights and yet to have so much left when you came off—that was really wonderful. Mademoiselle Voisin's eyes, as one looked into them, were still more agreeable than the distant spectator would have supposed; and there was in her appearance an extreme finish which instantly suggested to Miriam that she herself, in comparison, was big and rough and coarse.
"You're lovely to-night—you're particularly lovely," said Sherringham, very frankly, translating Miriam's own impression and at the same time giving her an illustration of the way that, in Paris at least, gentlemen expressed themselves to the stars of the drama. She thought she knew her companion very well and had been witness of the degree to which, under these circumstances, his familiarity could increase; but his address to the slim, distinguished, harmonious woman before them had a different quality, the note of a special usage. If Miriam had had any apprehension that such directness might be taken as excessive, it was removed by the manner in which Mademoiselle Yoisin returned—
"Oh, one is always well enough when one is made up; one is always exactly the same." That served as an example of the good taste with which a star of the drama could receive homage that was wanting in originality. Miriam determined on the spot that this should be the way she would receive it. The grace of her new acquaintance was the greater as the becoming bloom which she alluded to as artificial was the result of a science so consummate that it had none of the grossness of a mask. The perception of all this was exciting to our young aspirant, and her excitement relieved itself in the inquiry, which struck her as rude as soon as she had uttered it—
"You acted for me? How did you know? What am I to you?"
"Monsieur Sherringham has told me about you. He says we are nothing beside you; that you are to be the great star of the future. I'm proud that you've seen me."
"That of course is what I tell every one," Sherringham said, a trifle awkwardly, to Miriam.
"I can believe it when I see you. Je vous ai bien observée," the actress continued, in her sweet, conciliatory tone.
Miriam looked from one of her interlocutors to the other, as if there was a joy to her in this report of Sherringham's remarks, accompanied however, and partly mitigated, by a quicker vision of what might have passed between a secretary of embassy and a creature so exquisite as Mademoiselle Voisin. "Ah, you're wonderful people a most interesting impression!" she sighed.
"I was looking for you; he had prepared me. We are such old friends!" said the actress, in a tone courteously exempt from intention: upon which Sherringham again took her hand and raised it to his lips, with a tenderness which her whole appearance seemed to bespeak for her, a sort of practical consideration and carefulness of touch, as if she were an object precious and frail, an instrument for producing rare sounds, to be handled, like a legendary violin, with a recognition of its value.
"Your dressing-room is so pretty—show her your dressingroom," said Sherringham.
"Willingly, if she'll come up. Vous savez, c'est une montée."
"It's a shame to inflict it on you," Miriam objected.
"Comment donc? If it will interest you in the least!" They exchanged civilities, almost caresses, trying which could have the nicest manner to the other. It was the actress's manner that struck Miriam most; it denoted such a training, so much taste, expressed such a ripe conception of urbanity.
"No wonder she acts well when she has that tact—feels, perceives, is so remarkable, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" Miriam said to herself as they followed their conductress into another corridor and up a wide, plain staircase. The staircase was spacious and long, and this part of the establishment was sombre and still, with the gravity of a college or a convent. They reached another passage, lined with little doors, on each of which the name of a comedian was painted; and here the aspect became still more monastic, like that of a row of solitary cells. Mademoiselle Voisin led the way to her own door, obligingly, as if she wished to be hospitable, dropping little subdued, friendly attempts at explanation on the way. At her threshold the monasticism stopped. Miriam found herself in a wonderfully upholstered nook, a nest of lamplight and delicate cretonne. Save for its pair of long glasses it looked like a tiny boudoir, with a water-colour drawing of value in each panel of stretched stuff, its crackling fire, its charming order. It was intensely bright and extremely hot, singularly pretty and exempt from litter. Nothing was lying about, but a small draped doorway led into an inner sanctuary. To Miriam it seemed royal; it immediately made the art of the comedian the most distinguished thing in the world. It was just such a place as they should have, in the intervals, if they were expected to be great artists. It was a result of the same evolution as Mademoiselle Voisin herself—not that our young lady found this particular term to her hand, to express her idea. But her mind was flooded with an impression of style, of refinement, of the long continuity of a tradition. The actress said, "Voilà, c'est tout!" as if it were little enough and there were even something clumsy in her having brought them so far for nothing and in their all sitting there waiting and looking at each other till it was time for her to change her dress. But to Miriam it was occupation enough to note what she did and said: these things and her whole person and carriage struck her as exquisite in their adaptation to the particular occasion. She had had an idea that foreign actresses were rather of the cabotin order; but her hostess suggested to her much more a princess than a cabotine. She would do things as she liked, and straight off: Miriam couldn't fancy her in the gropings and humiliations of rehearsal. Everything in her had been sifted and formed, her tone was perfect, her amiability complete, and she might have been the charming young wife of a secretary of state receiving a pair of strangers of distinction. Miriam observed all her movements. And then, as Sherringham had said, she was particularly lovely.
Suddenly she told Sherringham that she must put him à la porte—she wanted to change her dress. He retired and returned to the foyer, where Miriam was to rejoin him after remaining the few minutes more with Mademoiselle Voisin and coming down with her. He waited for his companion, walking up and down and making up his mind; and when she presently came in he said to her:
"Please don't go back for the rest of the play. Stay here." They now had the foyer virtually to themselves.
"I want to stay here. I like it better." She moved back to the chimney-piece, from above which the cold portrait of Rachel looked down, and as he accompanied her he said:
"I meant what I said just now."
"What you said to Voisin?"
"No, no; to you. Give it up and live with me."
"Give it up?" And she turned her stage face upon him.
"Give it up and I'll marry you to-morrow."
"This a happy time to ask it!" she mocked. "And this is a good place."
"Very good indeed, and that's why I speak: it's a place to make one choose—it puts it all before one."
"To make you choose, you mean. I'm much obliged, but that's not my choice," laughed Miriam.
"You shall be anything you like—except this."
"Except what I most want to be? I am much obliged."
"Don't you care for me? Haven't you any gratitude?" Sherringham asked.
"Gratitude for kindly removing the blessed cup from my lips? I want to be what she is—I want it more than ever."
"Ah, what she is!" he replied impatiently.
"Do you mean I can't? We'll see if I can't. Tell me more about her—tell me everything."
"Haven't you seen for yourself, and can't you judge?"
"She's strange, she's mysterious," Miriam declared, looking at the fire. "She showed us nothing—nothing of her real self."
"So much the better, all things considered."
"Are there all sorts of other things in her life? That's what I believe," Miriam went on, raising her eyes to him.
"I can't tell you what there is in the life of such a woman."
"Imagine—when she's so perfect!" the girl exclaimed, thoughtfully. "Ah, she kept me off—she kept me off! Her charming manner is in itself a kind of contempt. It's an abyss—it's the wall of China. She has a hard polish, an inimitable surface, like some wonderful porcelain that costs more than you'd think."
"Do you want to become like that?" Sherringham asked.
"If I could I should be enchanted. One can always try."
"You must act better than she," said Sherringham.
"Better? I thought you wanted me to give it up."
"Ah, I don't know what I want, and you torment me and turn me inside out! What I want is you yourself."
"Oh, don't worry," said Miriam, kindly. Then she added that Mademoiselle Voisin had asked her to come to see her; to which Sherringham replied, with a certain dryness, that she would probably not find that necessary. This made Miriam stare, and she asked, "Do you mean it won't do, on account of mamma's prejudices?"
"Say, this time, on account of mine."
"Do you mean because she has lovers?"
"Her lovers are none of our business."
"None of mine, I see. So you have been one of them?"
"No such luck."
"What a pity! I should have liked to see that. One must see everything, to be able to do everything." And as he inquired what she had wished to see she replied: "The way a woman like that receives one of the old ones."
Sherringham gave a groan at this, which was at the same time partly a laugh, and, turning away and dropping upon a bench, ejaculated: "You'll do—you'll do!"
He sat there some minutes with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Miriam remained looking at the portrait of Rachel; after which she demanded: "Doesn't such a woman as that receive—receive every one?"
"Every one who goes to see her, no doubt."
"And who goes?"
"Lots of men—clever men, eminent men."
"Ah, what a charming life! Then doesn't she go out?"
"Not what we Philistines mean by that—not into society, never. She never enters a lady's drawing-room."
"How strange, when one's as distinguished as that; except that she must escape a lot of stupidities and corvées. Then where does she learn such manners?"
"She teaches manners, à ses heures: she doesn't need to learn them."
"Oh, she has given me ideas! But in London actresses go into society," Miriam continued.
"Oh, in London nous mêlons les genres!"
"And sha'n't I go—I mean if I want?"
"You'll have every facility to bore yourself. Don't doubt of it."
"And doesn't she feel excluded?" Miriam asked.
"Excluded from what? She has the fullest life."
"The fullest?"
"An intense artistic life. The cleverest men in Paris talk over her work with her; the principal authors of plays discuss with her subjects and characters and questions of treatment. She lives in the world of art."
"Ah, the world of art—how I envy her! And you offer me Dashwood!"
Sherringham rose in his emotion. "I offer you—?"
Miriam burst out laughing. "You look so droll! You offer me yourself then, instead of all these things."
"My child, I also am a very clever man," he said, smiling, though conscious that for a moment he had stood gaping.
"You are—you are; I delight in you. No ladies at all—no femmes comme il faut?" Miriam began again.
"Ah, what do they matter? Your business is the artistic life!" he broke out with inconsequence and with a little irritation at hearing her sound that trivial note again.
"You're a dear— your charming good sense comes back to you! What do you want of me then?"
"I want you for myself—not for others; and now, in time, before anything's done."
"Why then did you bring me here? Everything's done; I feel it to-night."
"I know the way you should look at it—if you do look at it at all," Sherringham conceded.
"That's so easy! I thought you liked the stage so," Miriam said, artfully.
"Don't you want me to be a great swell?"
"And don't you want me to be?"
"You will be—you'll share my glory."
"So will you share mine."
"The husband of an actress? Yes, I see that!" Sherringham cried, with a frank ring of disgust.
"It's a silly position, no doubt. But if you're too good for it why talk about it? Don't you think I'm important?" Miriam inquired. Her companion stood looking at her, and she suddenly said in a different tone: "Ah, why should we quarrel, when you have been so kind, so generous? Can't we always be friends—the solidest friends?"
Her voice sank to the sweetest cadence and her eyes were grateful and good as they rested on him. She sometimes said things with such perfection that they seemed dishonest, but in this case Sherringham was stirred to an expressive response. Just as he was making it, however, he was moved to utter other words—"Take care, here's Dashwood!" Mrs. Rooth's companion was in the doorway. He had come back to say that they really must relieve him.