The Open Door, and the Portrait. - Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
"I cannot understand it," I said.
"No. I don't wonder at that; but if it is strange to you, Phil, think how
much more strange to me! That is the partner of my life. I have never had
another, or thought of another. That--girl! If we are to meet again, as I
have always hoped we should meet again, what am I to say to her,--I, an
old man? Yes; I know what you mean. I am not an old man for my years; but
my years are threescore and ten, and the play is nearly played out. How
am I to meet that young creature? We used to say to each other that it
was forever, that we never could be but one, that it was for life and
death. But what--what am I to say to her, Phil, when I meet her again,
that--that angel? No, it is not her being an angel that troubles me; but
she is so young! She is like my--my granddaughter," he cried, with a
burst of what was half sobs, half laughter; "and she is my wife,--and I
am an old man--an old man! And so much has happened that she could not
understand."
I was too much startled by this strange complaint to know what to say.
It was not my own trouble, and I answered it in the conventional way.
"They are not as we are, sir," I said; "they look upon us with larger,
other eyes than ours."
"Ah! you don't know what I mean," he said quickly; and in the interval he
had subdued his emotion. "At first, after she died, it was my consolation
to think that I should meet her again,--that we never could be really
parted. But, my God, how I have changed since then! I am another man,--I
am a different being. I was not very young even then,--twenty years older
than she was; but her youth renewed mine. I was not an unfit partner; she
asked no better, and knew as much more than I did in some things,--being
so much nearer the source,--as I did in others that were of the world.
But I have gone a long way since then, Phil,--a long way; and there she
stands, just where I left her."
I pressed his arm again. "Father," I said, which was a title I seldom
used, "we are not to suppose that in a higher life the mind stands
still." I did not feel myself qualified to discuss such topics, but
something one must say.
"Worse, worse!" he replied; "then she too will be, like me, a different
being, and we shall meet as what? as strangers, as people who have lost
sight of each other, with a long past between us,--we who parted, my God!
with--with--"
His voice broke and ended for a moment then while, surprised and almost
shocked by what he said, I cast about in my mind what to reply, he
withdrew his arm suddenly from mine, and said in his usual tone, "Where
shall we hang the picture, Phil? It must be here in this room. What do
you think will be the best light?"
This sudden alteration took me still more by surprise, and gave me almost
an additional shock; but it was evident that I must follow the changes of
his mood, or at least the sudden repression of sentiment which he
originated. We went into that simpler question with great seriousness,
consulting which would be the best light. "You know I can scarcely
advise," I said; "I have never been familiar with this room. I should
like to put off, if you don't mind, till daylight."
"I think," he said, "that this would be the best place." It was on the
other side of the fireplace, on the wall which faced the windows,--not
the best light, I knew enough to be aware, for an oil-painting. When I
said so, however, he answered me with a little impatience, "It does not
matter very much about the best light; there will be nobody to see it but
you and me. I have my reasons--" There was a small table standing against
the wall at this spot, on which he had his hand as he spoke. Upon it
stood a little basket in very fine lace-like wicker-work. His hand must
have trembled, for the table shook, and the basket fell, its contents
turning out upon the carpet,--little bits of needlework, colored silks, a
small piece of knitting half done. He laughed as they rolled out at his
feet, and tried to stoop to collect them, then tottered to a chair, and
covered for a moment his face with his hands.
No need to ask what they were. No woman's work had been seen in the house
since I could recollect it. I gathered them up reverently and put them
back. I could see, ignorant as I was, that the bit of knitting was
something for an infant. What could I do less than put it to my lips? It
had been left in the doing--for me.
"Yes, I think this is the best place," my father said a minute after, in
his usual tone.
We placed it there that evening with our own hands. The picture was
large, and in a heavy frame, but my father would let no one help me but
himself. And then, with a superstition for which I never could give any
reason even to myself, having removed the packings, we closed and locked
the door, leaving the candles about the room, in their soft, strange
illumination, lighting the first night of her return to her old place.
That night no more was said. My father went to his room early, which was
not his habit. He had never, however, accustomed me to sit late with him
in the library. I had a little study or smoking-room of my own, in which
all my special treasures were, the collections of my travels and my
favorite books,--and where I always sat after prayers, a ceremonial which
was regularly kept up in the house. I retired as usual this night to my
room, and, as usual, read,--but to-night somewhat vaguely, often pausing
to think. When it was quite late, I went out by the glass door to the
lawn, and walked round the house, with the intention of looking in at the
drawing-room windows, as I had done when a child. But I had forgotten
that these windows were all shuttered at night; and nothing but a faint
penetration of the light within through the crevices bore witness to the
installment of the new dweller there.
In the morning my father was entirely himself again. He told me without
emotion of the manner in which he had obtained the picture. It had
belonged to my mother's family, and had fallen eventually into the hands
of a cousin of hers, resident abroad,--"A man whom I did not like, and
who did not like me," my father said; "there was, or had been, some
rivalry, he thought: a mistake, but he was never aware of that. He
refused all my requests to have a copy made. You may suppose, Phil, that
I wished this very much. Had I succeeded, you would have been acquainted,
at least, with your mother's appearance, and need not have sustained this
shock. But he would not consent. It gave him, I think, a certain pleasure
to think that he had the only picture. But now he is dead, and out of
remorse, or with some other intention, has left it to me."
"That looks like kindness," said I.
"Yes; or something else. He might have thought that by so doing he was
establishing a claim upon me," my father said; but he did not seem
disposed to add any more. On whose behalf he meant to establish a claim I
did not know, nor who the man was who had laid us under so great an
obligation on his death-bed. He _had_ established a claim on me at least;
though, as he was dead, I could not see on whose behalf it was. And my
father said nothing more; he seemed to dislike the subject. When I
attempted to return to it, he had recourse to his letters or his
newspapers. Evidently he had made up his mind to say no more.
Afterwards I went into the drawing-room, to look at the picture once
more. It seemed to me that the anxiety in her eyes was not so evident as
I had thought it last night. The light possibly was more favorable. She
stood just above the place where, I make no doubt, she had sat in life,
where her little work-basket was,--not very much above it. The picture
was full-length, and we had hung it low, so that she might have been
stepping into the room, and was little above my own level as I stood and
looked at her again. Once more I smiled at the strange thought that this
young creature--so young, almost childish--could be my mother; and once
more my eyes grew wet looking at her. He was a benefactor, indeed, who
had given her back to us. I said to myself, that if I could ever do
anything for him or his, I would certainly do it, for my--for this lovely
young creature's sake. And with this in my mind, and all the thoughts
that came with it, I am obliged to confess that the other matter, which I
had been so full of on the previous night, went entirely out of my head.
* * * * *
It is rarely, however, that such matters are allowed to slip out of one's
mind. When I went out in the afternoon for my usual stroll,--or rather
when I returned from that stroll,--I saw once more before me the woman
with her baby, whose story had filled me with dismay on the previous
evening. She was waiting at the gate as before, and, "Oh, gentleman, but
haven't you got some news to give me?" she said.
"My good woman,--I--have been greatly occupied. I have had--no time to do
anything."
"Ah!" she said, with a little cry of disappointment, "my man said not to
make too sure, and that the ways of the gentlefolks is hard to know."
"I cannot explain to you," I said, as gently as I could, "what it is that
has made me forget you. It was an event that can only do you good in the
end. Go home now, and see the man that took your things from you, and
tell him to come to me. I promise you it shall all be put right."
The woman looked at me in astonishment, then burst forth, as it seemed,
involuntarily, "What! without asking no questions?" After this there came
a storm of tears and blessings, from which I made haste to escape, but
not without carrying that curious commentary on my rashness away with
me,--"Without asking no questions?" It might be foolish, perhaps; but
after all, how slight a matter. To make the poor creature comfortable at
the cost of what,--a box or two of cigars, perhaps, or some other trifle.
And if it should be her own fault, or her husband's--what then? Had I
been punished for all my faults, where should I have been now? And if the
advantage should be only temporary, what then? To be relieved and
comforted even for a day or two, was not that something to count in life?
Thus I quenched the fiery dart of criticism which my _protegee_ herself
had thrown into the transaction, not without a certain sense of the humor
of it. Its effect, however, was to make me less anxious to see my father,
to repeat my proposal to him, and to call his attention to the cruelty
performed in his name. This one case I had taken out of the category of
wrongs to be righted, by assuming arbitrarily the position of Providence
in my own person,--for, of course, I had bound myself to pay the poor
creature's rent as well as redeem her goods,--and, whatever might happen
to her in the future, had taken the past into my own hands. The man came
presently to see me, who, it seems, had acted as my father's agent in the
matter. "I don't know, sir, how Mr. Canning will take it," he said. "He
don't want none of those irregular, bad-paying ones in his property. He
always says as to look over it and let the rent run on is making things
worse in the end. His rule is, 'Never more than a month, Stevens;' that's
what Mr. Canning says to me, sir. He says, 'More than that they can't
pay. It's no use trying.' And it's a good rule; it's a very good rule. He
won't hear none of their stories, sir. Bless you, you'd never get a penny
of rent from them small houses if you listened to their tales. But if so
be as you'll pay Mrs. Jordan's rent, it's none of my business how it's
paid, so long as it's paid, and I'll send her back her things. But
they'll just have to be took next time," he added composedly. "Over and
over; it's always the same story with them sort of poor folks,--they're
too poor for anything, that's the truth," the man said.
Morphew came back to my room after my visitor was gone. "Mr. Philip," he
said, "you'll excuse me, sir, but if you're going to pay all the poor
folks' rent as have distresses put in, you may just go into the court at
once, for it's without end--"
"I am going to be the agent myself, Morphew, and manage for my father;
and we'll soon put a stop to that," I said, more cheerfully than I felt.
"Manage for--master," he said, with a face of consternation. "You,
Mr. Philip!"
"You seem to have a great contempt for me, Morphew."
He did not deny the fact. He said with excitement, "Master, sir,--master
don't let himself be put a stop to by any man. Master's--not one to be
managed. Don't you quarrel with master, Mr. Philip, for the love of God."
The old man was quite pale.
"Quarrel!" I said. "I have never quarrelled with my father, and I don't
mean to begin now."
Morphew dispelled his own excitement by making up the fire, which was
dying in the grate. It was a very mild spring evening, and he made up a
great blaze which would have suited December. This is one of many ways in
which an old servant will relieve his mind. He muttered all the time as
he threw on the coals and wood. "He'll not like it,--we all know as he'll
not like it. Master won't stand no meddling, Mr. Philip,"--this last he
discharged at me like a flying arrow as he closed the door.
I soon found there was truth in what he said. My father was not angry, he
was even half amused. "I don't think that plan of yours will hold water,
Phil. I hear you have been paying rents and redeeming furniture,--that's
an expensive game, and a very profitless one. Of course, so long as you
are a benevolent gentleman acting for your own pleasure, it makes no
difference to me. I am quite content if I get my money, even out of your
pockets,--so long as it amuses you. But as my collector, you know, which
you are good enough to propose to be--"
"Of course I should act under your orders," I said; "but at least you
might be sure that I would not commit you to any--to any--" I paused
for a word.
"Act of oppression," he said, with a smile--"piece of cruelty,
exaction--there are half-a-dozen words--"
"Sir--" I cried.
"Stop, Phil, and let us understand each other. I hope I have always been
a just man. I do my duty on my side, and I expect it from others. It is
your benevolence that is cruel. I have calculated anxiously how much
credit it is safe to allow; but I will allow no man, or woman either, to
go beyond what he or she can make up. My law is fixed. Now you
understand. My agents, as you call them, originate nothing; they execute
only what I decide--"
"But then no circumstances are taken into account,--no bad luck, no evil
chances, no loss unexpected."
"There are no evil chances," he said; "there is no bad luck; they reap as
they sow. No, I don't go among them to be cheated by their stories, and
spend quite unnecessary emotion in sympathizing with them. You will find
it much better for you that I don't. I deal with them on a general rule,
made, I assure you, not without a great deal of thought."
"And must it always be so?" I said. "Is there no way of ameliorating or
bringing in a better state of things?"
"It seems not," he said; "we don't get 'no forrarder' in that
direction so far as I can see." And then he turned the conversation to
general matters.
I retired to my room greatly discouraged that night. In former ages--or
so one is led to suppose--and in the lower primitive classes who still
linger near the primeval type, action of any kind was, and is, easier
than amid the complication of our higher civilization. A bad man is a
distinct entity, against whom you know more or less what steps to take. A
tyrant, an oppressor, a bad landlord, a man who lets miserable tenements
at a rack-rent (to come down to particulars), and exposes his wretched
tenants to all those abominations of which we have heard so much--well!
he is more or less a satisfactory opponent. There he is, and there is
nothing to be said for him--down with him! and let there be an end of his
wickedness. But when, on the contrary, you have before you a good man, a
just man, who has considered deeply a question which you allow to be full
of difficulty; who regrets, but cannot, being human, avert the miseries
which to some unhappy individuals follow from the very wisdom of his
rule,--what can you do? What is to be done? Individual benevolence at
haphazard may balk him here and there, but what have you to put in the
place of his well-considered scheme? Charity which makes paupers? or what
else? I had not considered the question deeply, but it seemed to me that
I now came to a blank wall, which my vague human sentiment of pity and
scorn could find no way to breach. There must be wrong somewhere, but
where? There must be some change for the better to be made, but how?
I was seated with a book before me on the table, with my head supported
on my hands. My eyes were on the printed page, but I was not reading; my
mind was full of these thoughts, my heart of great discouragement and
despondency,--a sense that I could do nothing, yet that there surely must
and ought, if I but knew it, be something to do. The fire which Morphew
had built up before dinner was dying out, the shaded lamp on my table
left all the corners in a mysterious twilight. The house was perfectly
still, no one moving: my father in the library, where, after the habit of
many solitary years, he liked to be left alone, and I here in my retreat,
preparing for the formation of similar habits. I thought all at once of
the third member of the party, the new-comer, alone too in the room that
had been hers; and there suddenly occurred to me a strong desire to take
up my lamp and go to the drawing-room and visit her, to see whether her
soft, angelic face would give any inspiration. I restrained, however,
this futile impulse,--for what could the picture say?--and instead
wondered what might have been had she lived, had she been there, warmly
enthroned beside the warm domestic centre, the hearth which would have
been a common sanctuary, the true home. In that case what might have
been? Alas! the question was no more simple to answer than the other: she
might have been there alone too, her husband's business, her son's
thoughts, as far from her as now, when her silent representative held her
old place in the silence and darkness. I had known it so, often enough.
Love itself does not always give comprehension and sympathy. It might be
that she was more to us there, in the sweet image of her undeveloped
beauty, than she might have been had she lived and grown to maturity and
fading, like the rest.
I cannot be certain whether my mind was still lingering on this not very
cheerful reflection, or if it had been left behind, when the strange
occurrence came of which I have now to tell. Can I call it an occurrence?
My eyes were on my book, when I thought I heard the sound of a door
opening and shutting, but so far away and faint that if real at all it
must have been in a far corner of the house. I did not move except to
lift my eyes from the book as one does instinctively the better to
listen; when--But I cannot tell, nor have I ever been able to describe
exactly what it was. My heart made all at once a sudden leap in my
breast. I am aware that this language is figurative, and that the heart
cannot leap; but it is a figure so entirely justified by sensation, that
no one will have any difficulty in understanding what I mean. My heart
leaped up and began beating wildly in my throat, in my ears, as if my
whole being had received a sudden and intolerable shock. The sound went
through my head like the dizzy sound of some strange mechanism, a
thousand wheels and springs circling, echoing, working in my brain. I
felt the blood bound in my veins, my mouth became dry, my eyes hot; a
sense of something insupportable took possession of me. I sprang to my
feet, and then I sat down again. I cast a quick glance round me beyond
the brief circle of the lamplight, but there was nothing there to
account in any way for this sudden extraordinary rush of sensation, nor
could I feel any meaning in it, any suggestion, any moral impression. I
thought I must be going to be ill, and got out my watch and felt my
pulse: it was beating furiously, about one hundred and twenty-five throbs
in a minute. I knew of no illness that could come on like this without
warning, in a moment, and I tried to subdue myself, to say to myself that
it was nothing, some flutter of the nerves, some physical disturbance. I
laid myself down upon my sofa to try if rest would help me, and kept
still, as long as the thumping and throbbing of this wild, excited
mechanism within, like a wild beast plunging and struggling, would let
me. I am quite aware of the confusion of the metaphor; the reality was
just so. It was like a mechanism deranged, going wildly with
ever-increasing precipitation, like those horrible wheels that from time
to time catch a helpless human being in them and tear him to pieces; but
at the same time it was like a maddened living creature making the
wildest efforts to get free.
When I could bear this no longer I got up and walked about my room; then
having still a certain command of myself, though I could not master the
commotion within me, I deliberately took down an exciting book from the
shelf, a book of breathless adventure which had always interested me, and
tried with that to break the spell. After a few minutes, however, I flung
the book aside; I was gradually losing all power over myself. What I
should be moved to do,--to shout aloud, to struggle with I know not what;
or if I was going mad altogether, and next moment must be a raving
lunatic,--I could not tell. I kept looking round, expecting I don't know
what; several times with the corner of my eye I seemed to see a movement,
as if some one was stealing out of sight; but when I looked straight,
there was never anything but the plain outlines of the wall and carpet,
the chairs standing in good order. At last I snatched up the lamp in my
hand, and went out of the room. To look at the picture, which had been
faintly showing in my imagination from time to time, the eyes, more
anxious than ever, looking at me from out the silent air? But no; I
passed the door of that room swiftly, moving, it seemed, without any
volition of my own, and before I knew where I was going, went into my
father's library with my lamp in my hand.
He was still sitting there at his writing-table; he looked up astonished
to see me hurrying in with my light. "Phil!" he said, surprised. I
remember that I shut the door behind me, and came up to him, and set down
the lamp on his table. My sudden appearance alarmed him. "What is the
matter?" he cried. "Philip, what have you been doing with yourself?"
I sat down on the nearest chair and gasped, gazing at him. The wild
commotion ceased; the blood subsided into its natural channels; my
heart resumed its place. I use such words as mortal weakness can to
express the sensations I felt. I came to myself thus, gazing at him,
confounded, at once by the extraordinary passion which I had gone
through, and its sudden cessation. "The matter?" I cried; "I don't
know what is the matter."
My father had pushed his spectacles up from his eyes. He appeared to me
as faces appear in a fever, all glorified with light which is not in
them,--his eyes glowing, his white hair shining like silver; but his
looks were severe. "You are not a boy, that I should reprove you; but you
ought to know better," he said.
Then I explained to him, so far as I was able, what had happened. Had
happened? Nothing had happened. He did not understand me; nor did I, now
that it was over, understand myself; but he saw enough to make him aware
that the disturbance in me was serious, and not caused by any folly of my
own. He was very kind as soon as he had assured himself of this, and
talked, taking pains to bring me back to unexciting subjects. He had a
letter in his hand with a very deep border of black when I came in. I
observed it, without taking any notice or associating it with anything I
knew. He had many correspondents; and although we were excellent friends,
we had never been on those confidential terms which warrant one man in
asking another from whom a special letter has come. We were not so near
to each other as this, though we were father and son. After a while I
went back to my own room, and finished the evening in my usual way,
without any return of the excitement which, now that it was over, looked
to me like some extraordinary dream. What had it meant? Had it meant
anything? I said to myself that it must be purely physical, something
gone temporarily amiss, which had righted itself. It was physical; the
excitement did not affect my mind. I was independent of it all the time,
a spectator of my own agitation, a clear proof that, whatever it was, it
had affected my bodily organization alone.
Next day I returned to the problem which I had not been able to solve. I
found out my petitioner in the back street, and that she was happy in the
recovery of her possessions, which to my eyes indeed did not seem very
worthy either of lamentation or delight. Nor was her house the tidy house
which injured virtue should have when restored to its humble rights. She
was not injured virtue, it was clear. She made me a great many curtseys,
and poured forth a number of blessings. Her "man" came in while I was
there, and hoped in a gruff voice that God would reward me, and that the
old gentleman'd let 'em alone. I did not like the look of the man. It
seemed to me that in the dark lane behind the house of a winter's night
he would not be a pleasant person to find in one's way. Nor was this all:
when I went out into the little street which it appeared was all, or
almost all, my father's property, a number of groups formed in my way,
and at least half-a-dozen applicants sidled up. "I've more claims nor
Mary Jordan any day," said one; "I've lived on Squire Canning's property,
one place and another, this twenty year." "And what do you say to me?"
said another; "I've six children to her two, bless you, sir, and ne'er a
father to do for them." I believed in my father's rule before I got out
of the street, and approved his wisdom in keeping himself free from
personal contact with his tenants. Yet when I looked back upon the
swarming thoroughfare, the mean little houses, the women at their doors
all so open-mouthed and eager to contend for my favor, my heart sank
within me at the thought that out of their misery some portion of our
wealth came, I don't care how small a portion; that I, young and strong,
should be kept idle and in luxury, in some part through the money screwed
out of their necessities, obtained sometimes by the sacrifice of
everything they prized! Of course I know all the ordinary commonplaces of
life as well as any one,--that if you build a house with your hand or
your money, and let it, the rent of it is your just due; and must be
paid. But yet--