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Vincent

      I

      “I wondered whether you wouldn’t read it to me,” said Mrs. Alsager, as they lingered a little near the fire before he took leave.  She looked down at the fire sideways, drawing her dress away from it and making her proposal with a shy sincerity that added to her charm.  Her charm was always great for Allan Wayworth, and the whole air of her house, which was simply a sort of distillation of herself, so soothing, so beguiling that he always made several false starts before departure.  He had spent some such good hours there, had forgotten, in her warm, golden drawing-room, so much of the loneliness and so many of the worries of his life, that it had come to be the immediate answer to his longings, the cure for his aches, the harbour of refuge from his storms.  His tribulations were not unprecedented, and some of his advantages, if of a usual kind, were marked in degree, inasmuch as he was very clever for one so young, and very independent for one so poor.  He was eight-and-twenty, but he had lived a good deal and was full of ambitions and curiosities and disappointments.  The opportunity to talk of some of these in Grosvenor Place corrected perceptibly the immense inconvenience of London.  This inconvenience took for him principally the line of insensibility to Allan Wayworth’s literary form.  He had a literary form, or he thought he had, and her intelligent recognition of the circumstance was the sweetest consolation Mrs. Alsager could have administered.  She was even more literary and more artistic than he, inasmuch as he could often work off his overflow (this was his occupation, his profession), while the generous woman, abounding in happy thoughts, but unedited and unpublished, stood there in the rising tide like the nymph of a fountain in the plash of the marble basin.

      The year before, in a big newspapery house, he had found himself next her at dinner, and they had converted the intensely material hour into a feast of reason.  There was no motive for her asking him to come to see her but that she liked him, which it was the more agreeable to him to perceive as he perceived at the same time that she was exquisite.  She was enviably free to act upon her likings, and it made Wayworth feel less unsuccessful to infer that for the moment he happened to be one of them.  He kept the revelation to himself, and indeed there was nothing to turn his head in the kindness of a kind woman.  Mrs. Alsager occupied so completely the ground of possession that she would have been condemned to inaction had it not been for the principle of giving.  Her husband, who was twenty years her senior, a massive personality in the City and a heavy one at home (wherever he stood, or even sat, he was monumental), owned half a big newspaper and the whole of a great many other things.  He admired his wife, though she bore no children, and liked her to have other tastes than his, as that seemed to give a greater acreage to their life.  His own appetites went so far he could scarcely see the boundary, and his theory was to trust her to push the limits of hers, so that between them the pair should astound by their consumption.  His ideas were prodigiously vulgar, but some of them had the good fortune to be carried out by a person of perfect delicacy.  Her delicacy made her play strange tricks with them, but he never found this out.  She attenuated him without his knowing it, for what he mainly thought was that he had aggrandised her.  Without her he really would have been bigger still, and society, breathing more freely, was practically under an obligation to her which, to do it justice, it acknowledged by an attitude of mystified respect.  She felt a tremulous need to throw her liberty and her leisure into the things of the soul—the most beautiful things she knew.  She found them, when she gave time to seeking, in a hundred places, and particularly in a dim and sacred region—the region of active pity—over her entrance into which she dropped curtains so thick that it would have been an impertinence to lift them.  But she cultivated other beneficent passions, and if she cherished the dream of something fine the moments at which it most seemed to her to come true were when she saw beauty plucked flower-like in the garden of art.  She loved the perfect work—she had the artistic chord.  This chord could vibrate only to the touch of another, so that appreciation, in her spirit, had the added intensity of regret.  She could understand the joy of creation, and she thought it scarcely enough to be told that she herself created happiness.  She would have liked, at any rate, to choose her way; but it was just here that her liberty failed her.  She had not the voice—she had only the vision.  The only envy she was capable of was directed to those who, as she said, could do something.

      As everything in her, however, turned to gentleness, she was admirably hospitable to such people as a class.  She believed Allan Wayworth could do something, and she liked to hear him talk of the ways in which he meant to show it.  He talked of them almost to no one else—she spoiled him for other listeners.  With her fair bloom and her quiet grace she was indeed an ideal public, and if she had ever confided to him that she would have liked to scribble (she had in fact not mentioned it to a creature), he would have been in a perfect position for asking her why a woman whose face had so much expression should not have felt that she achieved.  How in the world could she express better?  There was less than that in Shakespeare and Beethoven.  She had never been more generous than when, in compliance with her invitation, which I have recorded, he brought his play to read to her.  He had spoken of it to her before, and one dark November afternoon, when her red fireside was more than ever an escape from the place and the season, he had broken out as he came in—“I’ve done it, I’ve done it!”  She made him tell her all about it—she took an interest really minute and asked questions delightfully apt.  She had spoken from the first as if he were on the point of being acted, making him jump, with her participation, all sorts of dreary intervals.  She liked the theatre as she liked all the arts of expression, and he had known her to go all the way to Paris for a particular performance.  Once he had gone with her—the time she took that stupid Mrs. Mostyn.  She had been struck, when he sketched it, with the subject of his drama, and had spoken words that helped him to believe in it.  As soon as he had rung down his curtain on the last act he rushed off to see her, but after that he kept the thing for repeated last touches.  Finally, on Christmas day, by arrangement, she sat there and listened to it.  It was in three acts and in prose, but rather of the romantic order, though dealing with contemporary English life, and he fondly believed that it showed the hand if not of the master, at least of the prize pupil.

      Allan Wayworth had returned to England, at two-and-twenty, after a miscellaneous continental education; his father, the correspondent, for years, in several foreign countries successively, of a conspicuous London journal, had died just after this, leaving his mother and her two other children, portionless girls, to subsist on a very small income in a very dull German town.  The young man’s beginnings in London were difficult, and he had aggravated them by his dislike of journalism.  His father’s connection with it would have helped him, but he was (insanely, most of his friends judged—the great exception was always Mrs. Alsager) intraitable on the question of form.  Form—in his sense—was not demanded by English newspapers, and he couldn’t give it to them in their sense.  The demand for it was not great anywhere, and Wayworth spent costly weeks in polishing little compositions for magazines that didn’t pay for style.  The only person who paid for it was really Mrs. Alsager: she had an infallible instinct for the perfect.  She paid in her own way, and if Allan Wayworth had been a wage-earning person it would have made him feel that if he didn’t receive his legal dues his palm was at least occasionally conscious of a gratuity.  He had his limitations, his perversities, but the finest parts of him were the most alive, and he was restless and sincere.  It is however the impression he produced on Mrs. Alsager that most concerns us: she thought him not only remarkably good-looking but altogether original.  There were some usual bad things he would never do—too many prohibitive puddles for him in the short cut to success.

      For himself, he had never been so happy as since he had seen his way, as he fondly believed, to some sort of mastery of the scenic idea, which struck him as a very different matter now that he looked at it from within.  He had had his early days of contempt for it, when it seemed to him a jewel, dim at the best, hidden in a dunghill, a taper burning low in an air thick with vulgarity.  It was hedged about with sordid approaches, it was not worth sacrifice and suffering.  The man of letters, in dealing with it, would have to put off all literature, which was like asking the bearer of a noble name to forego his immemorial heritage.  Aspects change, however, with the point of view: Wayworth had waked up one morning in a different bed altogether.  It is needless here to trace this accident to its source; it would have been much more interesting to a spectator of the young man’s life to follow some of the consequences.  He had been made (as he felt) the subject

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