_ VOLUME I. BOOK FIRST. CHAPTER XVIII.
Verena told her, a week after this, that Mr. Pardon wanted so much she
should say she would marry him; and she added, with evident pleasure at
being able to give her so agreeable a piece of news, that she had
declined to say anything of the sort. She thought that now, at least,
Olive must believe in her; for the proposal was more attractive than
Miss Chancellor seemed able to understand. "He does place things in a
very seductive light," Verena said; "he says that if I become his wife I
shall be carried straight along by a force of excitement of which at
present I have no idea. I shall wake up famous, if I marry him; I have
only got to give out my feelings, and he will take care of the rest. He
says every hour of my youth is precious to me, and that we should have a
lovely time travelling round the country. I think you ought to allow
that all that is rather dazzling--for I am not naturally concentrated,
like you!"
"He promises you success. What do you call success?" Olive inquired,
looking at her friend with a kind of salutary coldness--a suspension of
sympathy--with which Verena was now familiar (though she liked it no
better than at first), and which made approbation more gracious when
approbation came.
Verena reflected a moment, and then answered, smiling, but with
confidence: "Producing a pressure that shall be irresistible. Causing
certain laws to be repealed by Congress and by the State legislatures,
and others to be enacted." She repeated the words as if they had been
part of a catechism committed to memory, while Olive saw that this
mechanical tone was in the nature of a joke that she could not deny
herself; they had had that definition so often before, and Miss
Chancellor had had occasion so often to remind her what success _really_
was. Of course it was easy to prove to her now that Mr. Pardon's
glittering bait was a very different thing; was a mere trap and lure, a
bribe to vanity and impatience, a device for making her give herself
away--let alone fill his pockets while she did so. Olive was conscious
enough of the girl's want of continuity; she had seen before how she
could be passionately serious at times, and then perversely, even if
innocently, trivial--as just now, when she seemed to wish to convert one
of their most sacred formulas into a pleasantry. She had already quite
recognised, however, that it was not of importance that Verena should be
just like herself; she was all of one piece, and Verena was of many
pieces, which had, where they fitted together, little capricious chinks,
through which mocking inner lights seemed sometimes to gleam. It was a
part of Verena's being unlike her that she should feel Mr. Pardon's
promise of eternal excitement to be a brilliant thing, should indeed
consider Mr. Pardon with any tolerance at all. But Olive tried afresh to
allow for such aberrations, as a phase of youth and suburban culture;
the more so that, even when she tried most, Verena reproached her--so
far as Verena's incurable softness could reproach--with not allowing
enough. Olive didn't appear to understand that, while Matthias Pardon
drew that picture and tried to hold her hand (this image was
unfortunate), she had given one long, fixed, wistful look, through the
door he opened, at the bright tumult of the world, and then had turned
away, solely for her friend's sake, to an austerer probation and a purer
effort; solely for her friend's, that is, and that of the whole enslaved
sisterhood. The fact remained, at any rate, that Verena had made a
sacrifice; and this thought, after a while, gave Olive a greater sense
of security. It seemed almost to seal the future; for Olive knew that
the young interviewer would not easily be shaken off, and yet she was
sure that Verena would never yield to him.
It was true that at present Mr. Burrage came a great deal to the little
house at Cambridge; Verena told her about that, told her so much that it
was almost as good as if she had told her all. He came without Mr.
Gracie now; he could find his way alone, and he seemed to wish that
there should be no one else. He had made himself so pleasant to her
mother that she almost always went out of the room; that was the
highest proof Mrs. Tarrant could give of her appreciation of a
"gentleman-caller." They knew everything about him by this time; that
his father was dead, his mother very fashionable and prominent, and he
himself in possession of a handsome patrimony. They thought ever so much
of him in New York. He collected beautiful things, pictures and antiques
and objects that he sent for to Europe on purpose, many of which were
arranged in his rooms at Cambridge. He had intaglios and Spanish
altar-cloths and drawings by the old masters. He was different from most
others; he seemed to want so much to enjoy life, and to think you easily
could if you would only let yourself go. Of course--judging by what _he_
had--he appeared to think you required a great many things to keep you
up. And then Verena told Olive--she could see it was after a little
delay--that he wanted her to come round to his place and see his
treasures. He wanted to show them to her, he was so sure she would
admire them. Verena was sure also, but she wouldn't go alone, and she
wanted Olive to go with her. They would have tea, and there would be
other ladies, and Olive would tell her what she thought of a life that
was so crowded with beauty. Miss Chancellor made her reflexions on all
this, and the first of them was that it was happy for her that she had
determined for the present to accept these accidents, for otherwise
might she not now have had a deeper alarm? She wished to heaven that
conceited young men with time on their hands would leave Verena alone;
but evidently they wouldn't, and her best safety was in seeing as many
as should turn up. If the type should become frequent, she would very
soon judge it. If Olive had not been so grim, she would have had a smile
to spare for the frankness with which the girl herself adopted this
theory. She was eager to explain that Mr. Burrage didn't seem at all to
want what poor Mr. Pardon had wanted; he made her talk about her views
far more than that gentleman, but gave no sign of offering himself
either as a husband or as a lecture-agent. The furthest he had gone as
yet was to tell her that he liked her for the same reason that he liked
old enamels and old embroideries; and when she said that she didn't see
how she resembled such things, he had replied that it was because she
was so peculiar and so delicate. She might be peculiar, but she had
protested against the idea that she was delicate; it was the last thing
that she wanted to be thought; and Olive could see from this how far she
was from falling in with everything he said. When Miss Chancellor asked
if she respected Mr. Burrage (and how solemn Olive could make that word
she by this time knew), she answered, with her sweet, vain laugh, but
apparently with perfect good faith, that it didn't matter whether she
did or not, for what was the whole thing but simply a phase--the very
one they had talked about? The sooner she got through it the better, was
it not?--and she seemed to think that her transit would be materially
quickened by a visit to Mr. Burrage's rooms. As I say, Verena was
pleased to regard the phase as quite inevitable, and she had said more
than once to Olive that if their struggle was to be with men, the more
they knew about them the better. Miss Chancellor asked her why her
mother should not go with her to see the curiosities, since she
mentioned that their possessor had not neglected to invite Mrs. Tarrant;
and Verena said that this, of course, would be very simple--only her
mother wouldn't be able to tell her so well as Olive whether she ought
to respect Mr. Burrage. This decision as to whether Mr. Burrage should
be respected assumed in the life of these two remarkable young women,
pitched in so high a moral key, the proportions of a momentous event.
Olive shrank at first from facing it--not, indeed, the decision--for we
know that her own mind had long since been made up in regard to the
quantity of esteem due to almost any member of the other sex--but the
incident itself, which, if Mr. Burrage should exasperate her further,
might expose her to the danger of appearing to Verena to be unfair to
him. It was her belief that he was playing a deeper game than the young
Matthias, and she was very willing to watch him; but she thought it
prudent not to attempt to cut short the phase (she adopted that
classification) prematurely--an imputation she should incur if, without
more delay, she were to "shut down," as Verena said, on the young
connoisseur.
It was settled, therefore, that Mrs. Tarrant should, with her daughter,
accept Mr. Burrage's invitation; and in a few days these ladies paid a
visit to his apartments. Verena subsequently, of course, had much to say
about it, but she dilated even more upon her mother's impressions than
upon her own. Mrs. Tarrant had carried away a supply which would last
her all winter; there had been some New York ladies present who were
"on" at that moment, and with whom her intercourse was rich in emotions.
She had told them all that she should be happy to see them in her home,
but they had not yet picked their way along the little planks of the
front yard. Mr. Burrage, at all events, had been quite lovely, and had
talked about his collections, which were wonderful, in the most
interesting manner. Verena inclined to think he was to be respected. He
admitted that he was not really studying law at all; he had only come to
Cambridge for the form; but she didn't see why it wasn't enough when you
made yourself as pleasant as that. She went so far as to ask Olive
whether taste and art were not something, and her friend could see that
she was certainly very much involved in the phase. Miss Chancellor, of
course, had her answer ready. Taste and art were good when they enlarged
the mind, not when they narrowed it. Verena assented to this, and said
it remained to be seen what effect they had had upon Mr. Burrage--a
remark which led Olive to fear that at such a rate much would remain,
especially when Verena told her, later, that another visit to the young
man's rooms was projected, and that this time she must come, he having
expressed the greatest desire for the honour, and her own wish being
greater still that they should look at some of his beautiful things
together.
A day or two after this, Mr. Henry Burrage left a card at Miss
Chancellor's door, with a note in which he expressed the hope that she
would take tea with him on a certain day on which he expected the
company of his mother. Olive responded to this invitation, in
conjunction with Verena; but in doing so she was in the position,
singular for her, of not quite understanding what she was about. It
seemed to her strange that Verena should urge her to take such a step
when she was free to go without her, and it proved two things: first,
that she was much interested in Mr. Henry Burrage, and second, that her
nature was extraordinarily beautiful. Could anything, in effect, be less
underhand than such an indifference to what she supposed to be the best
opportunities for carrying on a flirtation? Verena wanted to know the
truth, and it was clear that by this time she believed Olive Chancellor
to have it, for the most part, in her keeping. Her insistence,
therefore, proved, above all, that she cared more for her friend's
opinion of Henry Burrage than for her own--a reminder, certainly, of the
responsibility that Olive had incurred in undertaking to form this
generous young mind, and of the exalted place that she now occupied in
it. Such revelations ought to have been satisfactory; if they failed to
be completely so, it was only on account of the elder girl's regret that
the subject as to which her judgement was wanted should be a young man
destitute of the worst vices. Henry Burrage had contributed to throw
Miss Chancellor into a "state," as these young ladies called it, the
night she met him at Mrs. Tarrant's; but it had none the less been
conveyed to Olive by the voices of the air that he was a gentleman and a
good fellow.
This was painfully obvious when the visit to his rooms took place; he
was so good-humoured, so amusing, so friendly and considerate, so
attentive to Miss Chancellor, he did the honours of his bachelor-nest
with so easy a grace, that Olive, part of the time, sat dumbly shaking
her conscience, like a watch that wouldn't go, to make it tell her some
better reason why she shouldn't like him. She saw that there would be no
difficulty in disliking his mother; but that, unfortunately, would not
serve her purpose nearly so well. Mrs. Burrage had come to spend a few
days near her son; she was staying at an hotel in Boston. It presented
itself to Olive that after this entertainment it would be an act of
courtesy to call upon her; but here, at least, was the comfort that she
could cover herself with the general absolution extended to the Boston
temperament and leave her alone. It was slightly provoking, indeed, that
Mrs. Burrage should have so much the air of a New Yorker who didn't
particularly notice whether a Bostonian called or not; but there is ever
an imperfection, I suppose, in even the sweetest revenge. She was a
woman of society, large and voluminous, fair (in complexion) and
regularly ugly, looking as if she ought to be slow and rather heavy, but
disappointing this expectation by a quick, amused utterance, a short,
bright, summary laugh, with which she appeared to dispose of the joke
(whatever it was) for ever, and an air of recognising on the instant
everything she saw and heard. She was evidently accustomed to talk, and
even to listen, if not kept waiting too long for details and
parentheses; she was not continuous, but frequent, as it were, and you
could see that she hated explanations, though it was not to be supposed
that she had anything to fear from them. Her favours were general, not
particular; she was civil enough to every one, but not in any case
endearing, and perfectly genial without being confiding, as people were
in Boston when (in moments of exaltation) they wished to mark that they
were not suspicious. There was something in her whole manner which
seemed to say to Olive that she belonged to a larger world than hers;
and our young lady was vexed at not hearing that she had lived for a
good many years in Europe, as this would have made it easy to classify
her as one of the corrupt. She learned, almost with a sense of injury,
that neither the mother nor the son had been longer beyond the seas than
she herself; and if they were to be judged as triflers they must be
dealt with individually. Was it an aid to such a judgement to see that
Mrs. Burrage was very much pleased with Boston, with Harvard College,
with her son's interior, with her cup of tea (it was old Sevres), which
was not half so bad as she had expected, with the company he had asked
to meet her (there were three or four gentlemen, one of whom was Mr.
Gracie), and, last, not least, with Verena Tarrant, whom she addressed
as a celebrity, kindly, cleverly, but without maternal tenderness or
anything to mark the difference in their age? She spoke to her as if
they were equals in that respect, as if Verena's genius and fame would
make up the disparity, and the girl had no need of encouragement and
patronage. She made no direct allusion, however, to her particular
views, and asked her no question about her "gift"--an omission which
Verena thought strange, and, with the most speculative candour, spoke of
to Olive afterwards. Mrs. Burrage seemed to imply that every one present
had some distinction and some talent, that they were all good company
together. There was nothing in her manner to indicate that she was
afraid of Verena on her son's account; she didn't resemble a person who
would like him to marry the daughter of a mesmeric healer, and yet she
appeared to think it charming that he should have such a young woman
there to give gusto to her hour at Cambridge. Poor Olive was, in the
nature of things, entangled in contradictions; she had a horror of the
idea of Verena's marrying Mr. Burrage, and yet she was angry when his
mother demeaned herself as if the little girl with red hair, whose
freshness she enjoyed, could not be a serious danger. She saw all this
through the blur of her shyness, the conscious, anxious silence to which
she was so much of the time condemned. It may therefore be imagined how
sharp her vision would have been could she only have taken the situation
more simply; for she was intelligent enough not to have needed to be
morbid, even for purposes of self-defence.
I must add, however, that there was a moment when she came near being
happy--or, at any rate, reflected that it was a pity she could not be
so. Mrs. Burrage asked her son to play "some little thing," and he sat
down to his piano and revealed a talent that might well have gratified
that lady's pride. Olive was extremely susceptible to music, and it was
impossible to her not to be soothed and beguiled by the young man's
charming art. One "little thing" succeeded another; his selections were
all very happy. His guests sat scattered in the red firelight,
listening, silent, in comfortable attitudes; there was a faint fragrance
from the burning logs, which mingled with the perfume of Schubert and
Mendelssohn; the covered lamps made a glow here and there, and the
cabinets and brackets produced brown shadows, out of which some precious
object gleamed--some ivory carving or cinque-cento cup. It was given to
Olive, under these circumstances, for half an hour, to surrender
herself, to enjoy the music, to admit that Mr. Burrage played with
exquisite taste, to feel as if the situation were a kind of truce. Her
nerves were calmed, her problems--for the time--subsided. Civilisation,
under such an influence, in such a setting, appeared to have done its
work; harmony ruled the scene; human life ceased to be a battle. She
went so far as to ask herself why one should have a quarrel with it; the
relations of men and women, in that picturesque grouping, had not the
air of being internecine. In short, she had an interval of unexpected
rest, during which she kept her eyes mainly on Verena, who sat near Mrs.
Burrage, letting herself go, evidently, more completely than Olive. To
her, too, music was a delight, and her listening face turned itself to
different parts of the room, unconsciously, while her eyes vaguely
rested on the _bibelots_ that emerged into the firelight. At moments
Mrs. Burrage bent her countenance upon her and smiled, at random,
kindly; and then Verena smiled back, while her expression seemed to say
that, oh yes, she was giving up everything, all principles, all
projects. Even before it was time to go, Olive felt that they were both
(Verena and she) quite demoralised, and she only summoned energy to take
her companion away when she heard Mrs. Burrage propose to her to come
and spend a fortnight in New York. Then Olive exclaimed to herself, "Is
it a plot? Why in the world can't they let her alone?" and prepared to
throw a fold of her mantle, as she had done before, over her young
friend. Verena answered, somewhat impetuously, that she should be
delighted to visit Mrs. Burrage; then checked her impetuosity, after a
glance from Olive, by adding that perhaps this lady wouldn't ask her if
she knew what strong ground she took on the emancipation of women. Mrs.
Burrage looked at her son and laughed; she said she was perfectly aware
of Verena's views, and that it was impossible to be more in sympathy
with them than she herself. She took the greatest interest in the
emancipation of women; she thought there was so much to be done. These
were the only remarks that passed in reference to the great subject; and
nothing more was said to Verena, either by Henry Burrage or by his
friend Gracie, about her addressing the Harvard students. Verena had
told her father that Olive had put her veto upon that, and Tarrant had
said to the young men that it seemed as if Miss Chancellor was going to
put the thing through in her own way. We know that he thought this way
very circuitous; but Miss Chancellor made him feel that she was in
earnest, and that idea frightened the resistance out of him--it had such
terrible associations. The people he had ever seen who were most in
earnest were a committee of gentlemen who had investigated the phenomena
of the "materialisation" of spirits, some ten years before, and had bent
the fierce light of the scientific method upon him. To Olive it appeared
that Mr. Burrage and Mr. Gracie had ceased to be jocular; but that did
not make them any less cynical. Henry Burrage said to Verena, as she was
going, that he hoped she would think seriously of his mother's
invitation; and she replied that she didn't know whether she should have
much time in the future to give to people who already approved of her
views: she expected to have her hands full with the others, who didn't.
"Does your scheme of work exclude all distraction, all recreation,
then?" the young man inquired; and his look expressed real suspense.
Verena referred the matter, as usual, with her air of bright, ungrudging
deference, to her companion. "Does it, should you say--our scheme of
work?"
"I am afraid the distraction we have had this afternoon must last us for
a long time," Olive said, without harshness, but with considerable
majesty.
"Well, now, _is_ he to be respected?" Verena demanded, as the two young
women took their way through the early darkness, pacing quietly side by
side, in their winter-robes, like women consecrated to some holy office.
Olive turned it over a moment. "Yes, very much--as a pianist!"
Verena went into town with her in the horse-car--she was staying in
Charles Street for a few days--and that evening she startled Olive by
breaking out into a reflexion very similar to the whimsical falterings
of which she herself had been conscious while they sat in Mr. Burrage's
pretty rooms, but against which she had now violently reacted.
"It would be very nice to do that always--just to take men as they are,
and not to have to think about their badness. It would be very nice not
to have so many questions, but to think they were all comfortably
answered, so that one could sit there on an old Spanish leather chair,
with the curtains drawn and keeping out the cold, the darkness, all the
big, terrible, cruel world--sit there and listen for ever to Schubert
and Mendelssohn. _They_ didn't care anything about female suffrage! And
I didn't feel the want of a vote to-day at all, did you?" Verena
inquired, ending, as she always ended in these few speculations, with an
appeal to Olive.
This young lady thought it necessary to give her a very firm answer. "I
always feel it--everywhere--night and day. I feel it _here_"; and Olive
laid her hand solemnly on her heart. "I feel it as a deep, unforgettable
wrong; I feel it as one feels a stain that is on one's honour."
Verena gave a clear laugh, and after that a soft sigh, and then said,
"Do you know, Olive, I sometimes wonder whether, if it wasn't for you, I
should feel it so very much!"
"My own friend," Olive replied, "you have never yet said anything to me
which expressed so clearly the closeness and sanctity of our union."
"You do keep me up," Verena went on. "You are my conscience."
"I should like to be able to say that you are my form--my envelope. But
you are too beautiful for that!" So Olive returned her friend's
compliment; and later she said that, of course, it would be far easier
to give up everything and draw the curtains to and pass one's life in an
artificial atmosphere, with rose-coloured lamps. It would be far easier
to abandon the struggle, to leave all the unhappy women of the world to
their immemorial misery, to lay down one's burden, close one's eyes to
the whole dark picture, and, in short, simply expire. To this Verena
objected that it would not be easy for her to expire at all; that such
an idea was darker than anything the world contained; that she had not
done with life yet, and that she didn't mean to allow her
responsibilities to crush her. And then the two young women concluded,
as they had concluded before, by finding themselves completely,
inspiringly in agreement, full of the purpose to live indeed, and with
high success; to become great, in order not to be obscure, and powerful,
in order not to be useless. Olive had often declared before that her
conception of life was as something sublime or as nothing at all. The
world was full of evil, but she was glad to have been born before it had
been swept away, while it was still there to face, to give one a task
and a reward. When the great reforms should be consummated, when the day
of justice should have dawned, would not life perhaps be rather poor and
pale? She had never pretended to deny that the hope of fame, of the very
highest distinction, was one of her strongest incitements; and she held
that the most effective way of protesting against the state of bondage
of women was for an individual member of the sex to become illustrious.
A person who might have overheard some of the talk of this possibly
infatuated pair would have been touched by their extreme familiarity
with the idea of earthly glory. Verena had not invented it, but she had
taken it eagerly from her friend, and she returned it with interest. To
Olive it appeared that just this partnership of their two minds--each of
them, by itself, lacking an important group of facets--made an organic
whole which, for the work in hand, could not fail to be brilliantly
effective. Verena was often far more irresponsive than she liked to see
her; but the happy thing in her composition was that, after a short
contact with the divine idea--Olive was always trying to flash it at
her, like a jewel in an uncovered case--she kindled, flamed up, took the
words from her friend's less persuasive lips, resolved herself into a
magical voice, became again the pure young sibyl. Then Olive perceived
how fatally, without Verena's tender notes, her crusade would lack
sweetness, what the Catholics call unction; and, on the other hand, how
weak Verena would be on the statistical and logical side if she herself
should not bring up the rear. Together, in short, they would be
complete, they would have everything, and together they would triumph. _