Ideala Part 8

We cannot be together in this world; I cannot live alone and know thee here.

And thou art troubled! I for beneath that garb Thy heart beats ever hot with love for me; For love will not be quell'd by monkish vows.

But all things change in death! so let us die Thus, hand in hand, and so together pa.s.s, And be together thro' eternity!"

There was a struggle in the young monk's breast; He would not meet her pleading eyes and yield, But gazing up to heaven prayed for strength, Strength to resist, and guidance how to act, For death like that with her was luring--sweet-- A strong temptation, but he must resist, And strive to save and show her how to live.

"We cannot make hereafter for ourselves,"

He answered softly; "all that we can do Is so to live that we shall win reward Of praise, and peace, and happy life to come.

Thy duty lies before thee; so does mine.

Let each return, and toil and watch and pray, Knowing each other's heart is fix'd on heaven.

And do the good we can; not seeking death Nor shunning it, but living pure and true, With conscience clear to meet our G.o.d at last, And win each other for our great reward."

The moving music of his words sank deep Her alter'd heart thrill'd high to holy thoughts.

"Be thou my guide," she said. "My duty now Shall bring me peace; so shall I toil like thee To win the love I yearn for in the end."

It might not be. The treach'rous, working sand Already clutched their feet, and check'd their speed; And dancing, sparkling, like a joyful thing, A glitt'ring, gla.s.sy wall of foam-fleck'd wave Towards them glided with that fatal speed You cannot mark because it is so swift.

No use to struggle now: no time to fly!

He clasp'd her to him: "G.o.d hath will'd it thus.

Courage, my sister!" "Is this death?" she cried.

"Yes, this is death." "It is not death, but joy!"

And as she spoke the spot where they were seen Became a wat'ry waste of battling waves: While high above the summer sun shone on-- A pa.s.sing seabird hoa.r.s.ely shriek'd along!

All things were changed, with that vast change which makes It seem as tho' nought else had ever been.

"Well done, Ideala!" said Ralph, patronisingly; "you certainly have a memory, and are quite as good at patchwork as the author of 'Delysle.'

I could criticise on another count, but taking into consideration time, place, circ.u.mstances, and the female intellect, I refrain. That is the generous sort of creature _I_ am. So, without expressing my own opinion further--except to remark that, though I don't think much of either of them, personally I prefer 'Delysle.' The other is wholesomer, doubtless, for those who like a mild diet. Milk and water doesn't agree with me. But I put it to the vote. Ladies and gentlemen, do you or do you not consider that this lady has won her bet?"

"Oh, won it, most decidedly!" we all agreed.

"By-the-by, what was the bet?" I asked.

"My Pa's gaiters against Ideala's blue stockings. I regret to say that circ.u.mstances over which I have no control"--and he glanced at the unconscious Bishop--"prevent the immediate payment of my debt--unless, indeed, he has a second pair;" and he left the room hurriedly as if to see.

He did not come back to us that evening, but I believe he was to be heard of later at the sign of the "Billiard and Cue."

"Well," said the young sculptor, returning to the old point of departure, "for my own part, I find much that is elevating in modern works."

"So do I," said Ideala; "I find much that raises me on stilts."

"But even that eminence would enable you to look over other people's heads and beyond."

"It would," she answered, "if human nature didn't desire a sense of security; but, as it is, when I am artificially set up, I find that all I can do is to look at my own feet, and tremble lest I fall. Modern literature stimulates; it doesn't nourish. It makes you feel like a giant for a moment, but leaves you crushed like a worm, and without faith, without love, without hope. It excites you pleasurably, and when you see life through its medium you never suspect that the vision is distorted. It makes you think the Iconoclast the greatest hero, and causes you to feel that you share his glory when you help him with your approval to overthrow all the images you ever cherished; but when the work of destruction is over, and you look about you once more with sober eyes, you find you have sacrificed your all for nothing. Your false guide fails you when you want him most. He robs you, and leaves you hungry, thirsty, and alone in the wilderness to which he has beguiled you. There is no need for new theories of Life and Religion; all we require is strength and courage to perfect the old ones.

[Footnote: She quite changed her mind upon this subject eventually, and held that there was not only need of new theories, but good hope that we should have them.] What the mind wants is food it can grow upon, not stimulants which inflate it for a time with a fancied sense of power that has no real existence. But I have small hope for our nation when I think of the sparkling trash that the mind of the mult.i.tude daily imbibes and craves for. I mean our novels. What a fine affectation of goodness there is in most of them! And what a perfect moral is tacked on to them!--like the _balayeuse_ at the bottom of a lady's dress; but, like the _balayeuse_, it is only meant to be a protection and a finish, and, however precious it may be, it suffers from contact with the dirt, and sooner or later has to be cut out and cast aside, soiled and useless. Some doggerel a friend of mine scribbled on one book in particular describes dozens of popular novels exactly:

O what a beautiful history!

Think what temptations they pa.s.sed!

Each one more cruelly trying, More tempting, indeed, than the last.

And what a lesson it teaches; No pa.s.sion from evil's exempted-- Whilst admiring the moral it preaches, It makes you quite long to be tempted.

I agree with those who tell us that society is breaking up, or will break up unless something is done at once to stop the dissolution. We have no high ideals of anything. Marriage itself is a mere commercial treaty, and only professional preachers speak of it in other terms--and those young people, with a pa.s.sion for each other, who are about to be united--a pa.s.sion that dies the death inevitably for want of knowledge, and wholesome principle, and self-control to support it. Some of us like our bargains better than others, but you can judge of the estimation in which marriage is held when you see how much happiness people generally find in it. If men and women were kept apart, and made to live purely from their cradles, they would still scarcely be fit for marriage; yet any man thinks he may marry, and never cares to be the n.o.bler or the better for it. And when you see that this, the only perfect state, the most sacred bond of union between man and woman, is everywhere lightly considered, don't you think there is reason in the fear that we are falling on bad times? Oh, don't quote the Romans to me, and the Inevitable. We know better than the Romans, and could do better if we chose. But we have to mourn for the death of our manhood!

Where is our manhood? Where are our men? Is there any wonder that we are losing what is best in life when only women are left to defend it?

Believe me, the degradation of marriage is the tune to which the whole fabric of society is going to pieces----"

"Eh, what!" exclaimed the Bishop, waking up with a start--"whole fabric of society going to pieces? Nonsense! When so many people come to church. And then look at all the societies at work for the--for the-- ah--prevention of everything. Why, I belong to a dozen at least myself; the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and the Rational Dress Reform, for doing away with petticoats--no, by-the-by, it is my wife who belongs to that. But, at any rate, everything is being done that should be done, and you talk nonsense, my dear"--looking at Ideala severely-- "because you don't know anything about it."

"The faults we are hardest on in others are those we are most conscious of in ourselves--perhaps because we know how easy it would be to conquer them," Ideala observed vaguely.

"Oh, come, now, my dear," said the Bishop, beaming round on all of us, "you must not believe what you hear about society being in such a bad state. I know idle people say so, and it is very wrong of them. Why, _I_ never see anything wrong."

"Of course not," said Ideala. "We are all on our best behaviour before you."

The Bishop patted his ap.r.o.n good-humouredly. "Well, now, take yourself for example," he said. "I am sure _you_ never do wrong--tell stories, you know, and that kind of thing."

"Haven't I, though!" she answered, mischievously. "Not that it was much use, for I always repented and confessed; and now I have abandoned the practice to the best of my ability. It is horrid to feel you don't deserve the confidence that is placed in you, Bishop, isn't it?"

"Ideala!" Claudia protested.

The Bishop looked puzzled.

"I can a.s.sure you I have suffered agonies of remorse because, in an idle moment, I deceived my cat--a big, comfortable creature, who used to come to me every day to be fed, and preferred to eat out of my hand.

He was greedy, though, and snapped, and one day I offered him a piece of preserved ginger, and he dashed at it as usual, and swallowed it before he knew what it was. Then he just looked at me and walked away.

He trusted me, and I had deceived him. It was an unpardonable breach of confidence, and I have always felt that I never could look that cat in the face again."

The Bishop smiled and sighed at the little reminiscence. "I think you are right, though, in one way, Ideala," he presently observed. "The powers of Light and Darkness are certainly having a hard fight for it in our day; but we have every reason to hope.

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill."

"And, granted that the popular literature of the day is corrupt," the young sculptor put in, "and that the standard of society is being yearly lowered by it, still there is Art----"

"But there is so little of it," said Ideala; "I mean so little that elevates. Most of the subjects chosen are not worth painting; and what profit is there in contemplating a thing that is neither grand nor beautiful in itself, nor suggestive, by a.s.sociation, of anything that is grand or beautiful? The pictures one generally sees are not calculated to suggest anything to the minds that need suggestion most.

The technical part may be good and gratifying to those who understand it, but that is the mere trade of the thing. We prefer to see it well done, of course, but if the canvas has nothing but the paint to recommend it, the artist might have saved himself the trouble of putting it on, for all the good it does or the pleasure it gives."

"Oh, Ideala, do you know nothing of the charm of colour?" asked a lady who painted.

"_I_ do," said Ideala, "but I may be supposed to have enjoyed exceptional advantages. And it is hardly charm we want to elevate us.

There will always be enough in all conscience to appeal to the senses.

But there is an absence even of charm."

"Many a n.o.ble thought has been expressed in a coat of colour," said the lady.

"I know it has," Ideala answered; "and all best thoughts give pleasure.

I have been so thrilled by a n.o.ble idea, well expressed, that I could do nothing but sit with closed eyes and revel in the joy of it. But if such an idea were placed before you, and you did not know the language in which it was written, what good would it do you? An uneducated person seeing a picture of a donkey in a field sees only a donkey in a field, however well it may be painted; and I fancy very exceptional ability would be required to make any of us think a grey donkey sublime, or believe an ordinary green field to be one of the Elysian."

"Talking about charm," the sculptor broke in, enthusiastically, "I suppose you haven't seen the new picture, 'Venus getting into the Bath?' That is a feast of colour, and realism, if you like! She is standing beside the bath with a dreamy look on her face. Her lovely eyes are fixed on the water. One arched and blue-veined foot is slightly raised as if the touch of the marble chilled her. Her limbs are in an easy att.i.tude, and beautifully modelled. She is represented as a slight young girl, and the figure stands out in exquisite nudity from a background of Pompeian red, and the dark green of myrtles. With one hand she is holding aloft the ma.s.ses of her rich brown hair--the att.i.tude suggests the stretching of the muscles after repose; with the other"--but here his memory failed him. "What _is_ she doing with her other hand?"

"Scratching herself!" slipped from Ideala, involuntarily, to her own horror and the delight of some. But she recovered herself quickly, and turning to the good Bishop, who was looking mildly astonished and much amused, she said: "There, my Lord, is an instance of the corrupt state of society in our own day. You see, even your restraining presence doesn't always keep us in order. I hope," she whispered to me, "I'm not going to be made the horrid example to prove the truth of all my theories."

Soon after this the party broke up. Claudia returned in her wraps to say good-night to the Bishop's wife.

"Claudia!" Ideala exclaimed, "you have forgotten that detestable old blue shawl."

Claudia tried to stop her with a significant gesture, but in vain.