The Days of My Life: An Autobiography
“Why, yes, I confess I think so,” said the old Fellow. “I have forgotten my native fells a little, after living here nearly fifty years; but I have never learned yet to find any beauty in the country here. Pray what are its impressive features, Miss Southcote?”
I paused a moment that I might not be angry. “There is the sky,” said I.
The youth, on the other side of the table, bent towards me to listen; the old gentleman laughed a polite little critical laugh. “The sky is scarcely a part of the Cambridgeshire scenery, I am afraid,” he said.
As I paused, not quite knowing what to answer, the young man came to my aid. “I am not sure of that, sir,” he said, with a look of eagerness, which struck me with some wonder. “The sky is as much a portion of the Cambridgeshire scenery as Michael Angelo’s roof is a part of the Sistine chapel. Where else have you such an extent of cloud and firmament? You must yield us the sky.”
“The sky belongs equally to every county in England, and to every country in the world,” said our white-haired critic. “I will yield you no such thing – there is but one Sistine chapel in the world, and one roof belonging to it. You must find a better argument.”
“You can see so far – you are bounded by nothing but heaven,” said I.
“Yes,” said my new supporter, “there is the true sense of infinitude in that wonderful vast blank of horizon; you never find the same thing in a hilly country, and it is perfect of its kind.”
“My young assailants,” said the old gentleman, smiling, “if you mean to maintain that your county has no features at all, I have no controversy with you; that is exactly my own opinion.”
It happened that as we both glanced up indignantly, and both paused, hesitating what next to say to such an obdurate infidel, our eyes met. He looked at me earnestly, almost sadly, and with a rising color – I felt my cheeks burn, yet could not help returning his gaze for an instant. It was a contemplative face, with fine and regular features, and large dark blue eyes; the oval outline of the cheeks was quite smooth, and the complexion dusky and almost colorless; but I was surprised to find myself wondering over this stranger’s features, as if they were familiar to me. Where was it possible I could have seen them before? but, indeed, if he was a Cambridgeshire man, as his words implied, it was easy to account for having seen him.
For the moment, looking at each other, we forgot the cause we were defending, and our antagonist stood contemplating us with a pleasant smile; he did not say anything, but when I looked up and caught his eye, I withdrew my own in confusion. I did not know why, and there was, indeed, no cause, but though I could not explain, I felt a strange embarrassment, and hastened to speak to shake it off.
“I know what I mean, though I may not be able to say it,” said I; “I think in our country you are never master of the landscape – you can never see it all, as you could if it was shut in with hills; it is always greater than you – and it is because our eyes are not able, and not because there is any obstacle in nature, that we cannot see twice as far – to the end of the world.”
“It is quite true,” said the young man hurriedly, “these flat fields are boundless like the sky – or like a man’s desires which are limited by nothing but heaven.”
“My dear boy, a man’s desires are limited by very trifles, sometimes,” said our old friend; “happy are they whose wishes reach like your Cambridge fields as far as the horizon. If you come to that,” he continued, going on with a smile, “and give a figurative significance to those dreary levels, I will not quarrel with you. In my north country, which, by the way, I have quite lost acquaintance with – the extent of our ambition is, to have our hills recognised as mountains, and get to the top of them; but your land, I confess, Miss Southcote, gets to the sky as soon as we do; there is no dispute about that.”
I was obliged to be content with this, satirical as it was, and began to occupy myself immediately with the prints on the table. The old gentleman fell back a step, and began conversing with some one else. The youth still stood opposite, holding an engraving in his hands and going over it minutely. It was very strange – I cannot tell how it came about – but in this crowded room, and among all these echoes of conversation, I felt myself in some extraordinary way alone with this young stranger. I never lifted my eyes from the picture before me, yet I was aware of every motion he made – and though he did not once look up, I felt his eye upon me. We did not exchange a single word, but we remained opposite each other perfectly still, watching each other with a sort of fascination. I do not know how the time went for those few moments – I know it looked like an hour to me before Mrs. Boulder came back; yet when she did come back, she exclaimed at having lost sight of me for full ten minutes, and began to overpower me with an account of the unknown lion, and the clever things he said – and to pull about and turn over the prints which had been passing so slowly and so unwittingly through my hands.
Mrs. Boulder had not been seated by our table for five minutes when she had a ring of potent people round her, whom she had called out of the crowd. I sat by her timidly on a stool, which some one brought me when I gave up my easy chair to the great lady – and bent my head, half with awkwardness and half to find breathing room, oppressed as I was by the bulky figure of the Professor leaning over me in earnest discussion with another pillar of learning. Mr. Osborne was not far off; but though this might be pleasant enough for Mrs. Boulder, who was the centre of the group, it was very much the reverse for me, stifled and overwhelmed by half-a-dozen people pressing over me to pay their court to the eminent woman, who had taken charge of a bewildered and shy girl to her own inconvenience, and who, if she ever thought of me at all, thought no doubt that I was only too greatly privileged, had I been entirely, instead of only half, stifled with the pressure of this learned crowd. But the young stranger whom I followed, not with my eyes, but with my attention, remained still very near us, and still I felt strongly that though our eyes had only met once, we had been observing each other all the time.
I saw Mr. Osborne speak to him, as to a familiar acquaintance – I saw him honored with a nod from Mrs. Boulder – and I wondered greatly who he was. He was certainly not older than myself, and of a slight youthful figure, which made him look even younger, I thought – was he a Cambridge man? a traveller, though so young, and a scholar too, of course, or he would not be here. I was very curious about this young man; would he speak to me again? what could we have to do with each other which could account for this strange mutual attraction? for I felt sure that he was wondering and inquiring in his own mind about me, as I was about him.
After a little while, he drew nearer to us, and joined our little circle, and turning round to answer some question for Mr. Osborne, I was surprised to find him still by my side. Then, still under cover of the prints, he spoke to me. I would have gladly spoken to any one else, but I was uncomfortably embarrassed, I could not tell why, in speaking to him. He began to tell me of those Dutch towns, and then we returned to talk of our own country, and insensibly grew into a kind of acquaintance. Then when the greater people dispersed, Mrs. Boulder perceived him, and entered into a condescending conversation with him, touching, in a professional tone, on the progress of his studies, and putting hard questions to him, which puzzled and somewhat irritated me. He answered them quietly and with a smile, and was evidently in great favor with her; and still I sat by watching him, and still he stood at my side observing me.
“How well he gets on!” said Mrs. Boulder, in a loud whisper to Mr. Osborne, behind her chair. Mrs. Boulder did not think it necessary to conceal her favorable judgment from the happy object of it.
“Who? oh! Harry Edgar,” said Mr. Osborne, glancing at him; “that will be a distinguished man!”
I had nothing to do with it, yet it pleased me, and set me on a new train of questions – how would he distinguish himself? Not after the fashion of my heroes – not like Columbus or Buonaparte – in books then, I supposed. Now I had few literary tastes, though I read novels with devotion; yet I paused to marvel what kind of books they could be, which should distinguish this youth; but without finding any answer to my secret question. More than ever now was I anxious about him. I wondered what he was thinking now – what he would think to-morrow. I felt a great desire to see into the mind of my new acquaintance, not by any means to see how he thought, or if he thought at all, of me; it was simply himself whom I wanted to understand. Harry Edgar – I did not think it was a Cambridgeshire name – it sounded hard to me, like a north country one; but it did not throw the least light upon who he was.
When Mr. Osborne put me into Mrs. Boulder’s carriage at the door, I saw Mr. Edgar’s face again turned towards us for a moment. He, too, was going away – and when Mr. Osborne asked me how I liked the party, it was with difficulty I restrained the words on my lips: “I wonder who he is!” I had no doubt he was thinking the same of me; yet I am sure we were not attracted by each other, as people might suppose, who heard what I say. For my part, it was a species of fascination. I did not either like or dislike this stranger; but somehow I wanted to penetrate his thoughts, and to know what manner of man he was.
Alice, of course, was waiting for me, and a fire was burning in my room, to make it more cheerful. When Alice loosed off the great shawl I was wrapped in, I could not comprehend, for a moment, what caused her sudden exclamation of pleasure, and the heavy sigh with which it was followed. It was the little diamond ornament which I wore round my neck. I had forgotten it. Yes, this had been my mother’s too; but I was tired and sleepy, and not communicative. Had I liked the party? Yes, I thought I had – pretty well – quite as much as I expected; sometimes it was very pretty, that was taking it in the picture point of view – for I did not think it necessary to tell Alice how I had been interested by the stranger. What a pity, I thought, that he was a young man! for people would laugh at me, if I expressed any interest in him.
So I lay down to rest in the firelight, to watch the ruddy shadows dancing on the walls, and wakefully and long to consider this evening and all its novelties. It was all novel to me. My dress and my jewels were enough to have woke me for a little out of the usual torpor of my life; but this party which I had been rather ashamed of desiring to go to, I felt I should never forget it now. Why? I could not tell why – but I went to sleep wondering which was Harry Edgar’s college, and what he might be thinking of. I even looked into the future with a little eagerness, marvelling what sort of career his was to be, and if I should ever know more of him. It was very strange – for certainly his thoughts, and the subjects they might be occupied with, were nothing to me.
THE SIXTH DAY
I WAS out upon a household errand to order something for Alice. My father and Alice conspired to keep me still as free of cares and almost of duties, as a child. Alice attended to everything; she was a good careful housekeeper, long accustomed to our house and ways, and needed no help in the administration of our domestic economy; though, perhaps, it would have been better for me, if I had been led to these homely occupations, and found something tangible to employ my mind and thoughts. It was Spring, one of those fresh, sunny, showery, boisterous days, which are so pleasant to youth. I liked my quiet walk along the narrow, old-fashioned streets – I liked the wind which blew my hair loose from my bonnet, and swept the clouds along the blue, blue sky, rushing past the turrets and pinnacles of the collegiate buildings. I was young, and my heart rose with the vague and causeless exhilaration of youth. I scarcely cared to think, but went on with a pure delight in the motion and life which I had within me. I was pleased to feel the shawl escaping from my hand, and my hair curling upon the breeze; and if my step was not quite so bold as its girlish freedom permitted five years ago, it was as firm a tread as it had been among our own fields, or in the lanes that led to Cottiswoode.
I had done my errand and was going home; but I was scarcely contented to return so soon, and would have walked a mile or two with pleasure. When I came to the paved alley, by St. Benet’s, which was the nearest way to our house, I paused a moment in uncertainty, thinking where I should go – but just as I was about to return in the opposite direction, I started to hear Mr. Osborne’s voice behind me. “Running away, Hester? – nay, I want you at home to-day; come back and tell me how your father is.”
I turned round – Mr. Osborne was not alone – standing a little apart from him, out of regard to his meeting with me, was the young man who had so strangely interested me at the party. I glanced at him involuntarily, and so did he at me; but we had no warrant for knowing each other, and I drew apart as he did, as if by instinct. Mr. Osborne was not paying the least attention to his companion, and seemed quite careless of him, whether he stayed or went away, and the wind at that moment was playing very strange pranks with the elder gentleman’s gown, so that, what with keeping it in order, and addressing me, Mr. Osborne had quite enough to do.
“My father is very well,” I said. “He is at home, of course; are you going to see him?”
“I am going to tell him how his daughter behaved on her entrance into the world,” said Mr. Osborne with much importance. “Were you very much impressed by your first experiences, Hester? There now, that is a little better. We are, at least, out of the road of that vagabond breeze.”
We had turned into the alley, and I had been waiting for Mr. Osborne’s young acquaintance to leave us; but he walked on steadily at the other side, and showed no disposition to go away. I did not quite like answering Mr. Osborne’s questions before this stranger; he made me feel so strangely conscious of all my own words and movements. I no longer did anything easily, but became aware of every step I made.
“Have you not seen him since that night?” said I, “it is quite a long time ago.”
“That night – so it did make some impression on my young debutante,” said Mr. Osborne, with a smile. “Do you know I have been out of Cambridge for nearly three weeks, you forgetful young lady? Well, Hester, what of that night?”
“What of it, Mr. Osborne?” said I, with some little indignation. “I suppose there was nothing very extraordinary about it.”
Mr. Osborne laughed, and I was provoked. “There only was a crowd of people – there is nothing remarkable in a crowd,” said I, impetuously. “Why should I think about it – you do not suppose that I take a party like that for the world?”
“What do you call the world then, Hester?” said Mr. Osborne.
“I do not know,” said I, hesitating a little. “I cannot tell,” I repeated, after another pause, “but I suppose there is as much of it here as there was yonder. I think so, at least.”
“So that is the verdict of youth, is it?” said Mr. Osborne. “Henry, my boy, what say you?”
I could not help turning my head quickly towards him, but I did not raise my eyes; how I wondered what he would say.
“The party has sometimes more influence on a life than the street can have,” said the young man, with hesitation, “otherwise, I have no doubt, a thronged and busy street in London would look more like the world than a Cambridge drawing-room – but sometimes the drawing-room makes a greater mark in a life.”
“My good youth, you are less intelligible than Hester,” said Mr. Osborne, “but the young lady has no metaphysical bias that I know of, so we will not discuss the question. So we were very prosy, were we, the other night? and you were nearly smothered under the Professor’s shadow, and had nothing but pictures to look at, poor child! The next one will be better, Hester, do not be dismayed.”
I made no answer. I was piqued at Mr. Osborne’s mockery; but I wondered over what the other had said – what did he mean by the drawing-room making a mark in his life. Had it made any mark in mine? why should it? and why was he walking along so quietly by Mr. Osborne’s side, without the least intention of going away? I saw that he kept his eyes away from me, as carefully as I kept mine from him; but how I observed him for all that. His walk was rather slow and steady – he was not quick and impetuous as I was – I wanted to hasten on, for I was embarrassed a little, not knowing anything about “society,” and being quite at a loss to know whether I was acquainted with this stranger or not; but, of course, Mr. Osborne continued his leisurely pace, and so did his young companion. They made me impatient and almost irritated me; they went on so quietly.
When we came to the door, I opened it hastily, for it was an old-fashioned, unsuspicious door, and opened from the outside. Then in my awkwardness I went down the two steps which led from it, and stood below in the door, waiting for Mr. Osborne. I was in a little tremor of expectation – what was he going to do?
“I think I may presume on your father and yourself, Hester, so far as to ask my young friend to come in with me,” said Mr. Osborne, “for we have some business together. This is Mr. Harry Edgar, Miss Southcote – will you admit him within your precincts.”
Of course I had to make a little awkward bow to him, and I do not think his was much more graceful; and then I hurriedly led the way into the house. Mr. Osborne went directly to the library, and I called Alice to show Mr. Edgar up-stairs, then I ran to my own room to take off my bonnet. Must I go to the drawing-room where he was sitting alone – I thought it was very unpleasant – I felt extremely confused and awkward, yet I smoothed my hair, and prepared to go.
When I went into the room, he was looking at the pictures – those dark, hard panel portraits on the wall, and with some interest as I thought – though when I came, he, too, grew a little embarrassed like me. I went to my work-table immediately to look out some work, for I could not sit idle and talk to him. There were countless little bits of work lying half completed on my work-table, I had no difficulty in finding occupation, and when I had selected one, I sat down by the window and wished for Mr. Osborne. He ought to know better, than to leave me alone here.
There was nothing at all to keep us from the necessity of talking to each other, for he immediately gave up looking at the portraits, and the room was in fatal good order, and all the books put away. After the first awkward pause, he said something about the pictures: “they were family portraits, no doubt.”
“No,” said I, “that is, they are not Southcotes; they are portraits of grandmamma’s family, I suppose; but we always count our family on the other side.”
Then we came to another dead pause, and Mr. Edgar advanced to the window where I sat.
“How fresh and green your garden looks,” he said, after the fashion of people who must say something, “what a good effect the grass has – are there really blossoms on the trees? how early everything is this year!”
“We are well sheltered,” said I, in the same tone. “Our trees are always in blossom before our neighbors’.”
“And that is old Corpus,” he said, glancing out at the little gleaming windows of the College, “all this youth and life out of doors, contrasts strangely enough, I am sure, with the musty existence within.”
“The books may be musty, but I don’t think the existence is,” said I, rashly; “everybody ought to be happy that has something to do.”
“Yes. I always envy a hard student who has an object,” said Mr. Edgar, rather eagerly seizing upon this possibility of conversation – “he is a happy fellow who has a profession to study for, otherwise it is vanity and vexation of spirit.”
Now I had a strong instinct of contradiction in me – a piece of assertion always provoked me to resistance.
“I do not know how that can be,” said I. “I suppose Mr. Osborne only lives for his books, and his spirit shows very little vexation or vanity, and papa does nothing else but study, and cannot have any object in it – I fancy a good thing ought to be good for its own sake.”
“Mr. Osborne is a very busy man – he has a great many pursuits,” said my new friend, “he is not a fair example. We have an enthusiasm for books when we are young, and suck inspiration from them, and then we come back to them that they may deaden our own feelings and recollections after we have had a life of our own – when we are old.”
“You are not old, to be aware of that,” cried I, though I secretly thought that, at least, in my father’s case this might be true.
“I have lived a very solitary life,” he said, “which is almost as good as grey hairs.”
After that we paused again, very conscious of our silence, but finding conversation a very difficult matter. I was more at my ease than I had expected. I observed him, but not with the same intense observation. A person I knew by name, and spoke to in my father’s house, was a less mysteriously interesting person than the stranger who had attracted my notice so much, when all were strangers. At last, Mr. Edgar began to talk again – it was only to ask me if I had seen the great author who was at the party when he met me first – he did not say “had the pleasure to meet.”
“I saw him, but I did not speak to him – nor even hear him speak,” said I.
Another pause – what were we to say? “Do you like his books?” said the young man.
“I do not care for any books but novels,” said I bluntly. I am afraid I was not above a wish to shock and horrify him.
Mr. Edgar laughed a little, and his color rose. I am sure I did what I could to give him an unfavorable impression of me, in this our first interview. He said —
“You are very honest, Miss Southcote.”
I cannot tell how it was either that he presumed so far, or that I suspected it – but I certainly did think he had a great mind to say Hester, instead of Miss Southcote, and only checked himself by an effort. It was very strange – I felt haughty immediately, but I scarcely felt displeased; but I am sure there was a consciousness in the deep color that rose upon his face, and in my tone as I answered him.
“I am only telling the truth,” said I. “I cannot help it – when it is only thinking about a thing, I would rather think myself. A story is a different matter; I am very sorry for my dulness, but I think there are no really pleasant books except those which tell a story.”
“Even that limit reaches to something more than novels,” said Mr. Edgar; “there is history, and biography besides.”
“Yes – but then I only care for them for the mere story’s sake,” said I, “and not because they are true or good, or for any better reason. I suppose a man’s life is often more like a novel than like anything else – only, perhaps, not so well arranged. The misfortunes do not come in so conveniently, and neither do the pleasures. I think reading a novel is almost next best to having something to do.”
“I am afraid some of us think it a superior good, now and then,” said my companion.
And so our talk came to an abrupt conclusion again. It was my turn to make a new beginning, and I could not. I did not like to ask him any questions about himself – which was his college, or if he was a Cambridgeshire man, or any of the things I wished to know; and, as I glanced up at his thoughtful face, I once more fell a-pondering what he could be thinking of. I do not recollect that I had ever had much curiosity about other people’s thoughts before. My father always had a book before him, which he read, or made a pretence of reading, and my father’s meditations were sacred to me. I guessed at them with reverence, but it would have been sacrilege to inquire into them. As my established right, I claimed to know what Alice was thinking of, and did not need to wonder; but here, with the full charm of a mystery which I could not inquire into, came back upon me my first curiosity about this stranger. Either his face did express what was in his mind, or I was not acquainted with its language. What was he thinking of? – what did he generally think of? I wondered over his thoughts so much that I had no leisure to think of himself who was standing beside me, though still I was strongly aware of every movement he made.