THE BLIND ARTIST'S PICTURES.*
THESE tales are remarkable less for their knowledge of life and the skill with which they sketch it, than for the fresh- nese and originality of • the idealism which is displayed in almost all of them. There is an idealism which is vague and general, and which shows only that the writer who displays it aspires after an ideal of life which is conventional or per- haps sentimental. Almost any author can imagine tenderly loving children, or devoted, self-sacrificing women, or prompt, courageous, powerful men. But to give any effect to such pictures, there must be a special freshness, deli- cacy, or boldness in conceiving the particular situation in which these feelings are shown, and in rendering visible the type of character in which they spring up. This marks the difference between mere sentimental idealism and the keener idealism that has seen exactly what is usually missing in life, and yet what is sometimes so nearly realised, that to paint it as absolutely realised, gives no shock to any imagina- tion trained by experience, while it gives a great stimulus to the heart and mind of the reader. This is exactly where Miss or Mrs. Vynne (we wish our authoresses would consult the con- venience of reviewers by giving their proper designation on their title-page) succeeds in almost all these tales, slight as some of thein are. We do not think that she does hit the mark in " The Maiden Loved of Cleomenes " and " Zahnaha's Lover" (who, by-the-way, is not Zahnaha's lover at all ; quite the contrary) ; but in all the other tales she just hits that nicety of conception for lifting us a single step on the ideal ladder above that which is usually reached in ordinary life, which makes her idealism satisfying, without making it either vague or ambitious, and without betraying any want of knowledge• of the realities of human life. Moreover, there is no re- petition in the little book, no monotonous return to the same note. There is originality, too, in the way in which what may be called the preternatural, or almost preternatural, side of life is touched. " Thought-reading " has never been turned to better account than in the little story called "An Ugly Little Woman," and, indeed, it is so happily used as to give quite a thrill to the reader. Again, in "Miss May's Guest" an almost or quite supernatural incident is brought into such telling relations with the circumstances of a vulgar in- quest, as to 'raise the whole story to the level of genuine originality.
There is no better illustration of the author's peculiar power than in the story called "An Unnoticed Incident." It opens with a very skilful, unexaggerated description of a neglected wife and an overworked mother, who is really as commonplace as possible, but who, partly from want of stamina in her own character, mostly through the selfishness of her husband, is becoming the drudge of the whole family instead of its head. Then a cousin and old lover appears on the scene, not now in the least as a lover, but as an old and loyal friend, who retains the most cordial recollections of her in the old days when he was looked down upon for being a few months younger than herself, and yet had been liked well enough to share with her many delightful days of youthful enjoyment. He sees her neglected condition with great pain, and does his best to cheer and brighten her life; yet he observes that she is not only neglected by her clever, worldly husband, but that none of her children have learned to show her any respect or affection. At last, an instance of rather specially sel- fish neglect on all their parts, irritates the cousin, who is compelled at that particular time to leave England for a con- siderable number of years, into proposing to her to go with him, not in the least because he is in love with her, but because he is fond of her and pities her so profoundly; and yet he has hardly persuaded her to act on his advice, when he repents it, and sees that he has been her worst counsellor just where he had intended to be her protector and friend. But it is not • The Blind AttiFes Pieturee, and other Stories. By Nora Vynne. London Jarrold and Sons. 1893.
his too-late repentance which saves her, but the tardy awakening of the heart of one of her children, who has long been observant of the cousin's kindness to her, and whose con- science has been pricked by the deficiency of any tenderness of the same sort amongst her own children. Here is the crisis of this finely imagined story. The poor weak woman is visiting her children's beds, as she thinks, for the last time :—
'" How I would have loved my children if they had cared about it,' she murmured, standing over Paul's bed, and half-ashamed of offering unseught tenderness, she stooped and kissed him.— ` Mother,' he started awake suddenly, rubbing his eyes with his left hand. Yes, it's mother,' and he held out the crumpled paper towards her.—' What is this, Paul ? ' and unfolding it she saw two squashed macaroons in the last stage of dampness and sticki- ness.—' They're from the party. You didn't go, and I thought you'd like some.'—' Paul, did you think of me at the party ?'- Yes, lots. I've been thinking a long time. I've been thinking—' —` What have you been thinking ? You're always doing things for us, and nobody is good to you but Dennis, and he's going away, and there won't be anybody ; so I am going to be always like Dennis to you.' Young as he was he was thoroughly English, and looked more ashamed of his good impulse than if he had been caught stealing jam. His mother was looking at him in eager wonder. He went on, mumbling his words, scarlet-faced, and rubbing his eyes with both hands now both were free, ' Father's always scolding you, and we bother you, and Tommy Brent's mother isn't half as nice as you but they are all good to her, and we're horrid ; but I won't be any more.`My son, my son !' she cried, do you understand what you say ? You will not forget to-morrow ? You are so young, you cannot understand.' She flung herself on her knees by the bed, gazing with piteous eager- ness into his half-awakened face, and, as she looked, the soul of the child stood up in his eyes, and she knew it was no childish whim, but the beginning of a great joy for her. He put his warm arms round her neck, and fell asleep there Ten minutes to eleven. She would soon he with him, and everything was ready. Dennis paced up and down his room in a fever of impatience, more miserable than ever he had been in his life. He had triumphed ; that is, he had succeeded in making the woman he loved, less than she might have been. She was worse, not better, for knowing him. He had persuaded her to do wrong in the hope that, together, they might find happiness ; and his misery had begun already. Lisa! the patient, gentle saint, he had worshipped. He had made her no longer a saint. He, who . had meant to be her best friend, was now her worst enemy. He had loved her for her purity, her sweet patience, and endurance. What if he ceased to love her now he himself had destroyed those qualities ! It would not astonish him. Nothing would astonish him that he found himself doing now. He had thought himself honourable and upright, and be was neither. He had thought himself a true friend, and he was none, Now, when he thought himself a faithful lover, how could he tell that he was not mistaken ? He felt himself so false and contemptible that no further discovery of baseness in himself would have surprised him. It grieved him to think that Lisa had trusted herself to one so contemptible. He remembered how he had always believed that such actions as his ended in wretchedness. He believed even more certainly now. How could he trust his good intentions to Lisa, when those other good intentions had broken down ? How could he be sure of his love when his friendship was such a miserable failure ? The clock struck eleven. He started. She would be with him in a minute, and there would be no going back. The thing was done already. dust then he heard the door open. He groaned and hid his face. He had realised his own fall already ; now he knew that she, too, was in the mire with him. Telegram, sir,' It was the landlady who entered. Dennis took the envelope, and read the contents.
• Do not wait for me. I cannot come. Paul loves me. 'You have taught him to love me. Good-bye.' He bent eagerly over the few half-illegible words. Slowly their full meaning reached him then he raised his face, and said, Thank God,' quite firmly and quietly."
There is just the same kind of nicety of idealism in the tale called "Believe it now." Gertrude Southey is a girl who has got the reputation of having a strong character because she has extricated her mother successfully from a situation in which she would have been beggared had not the daughter
had the good sense and courage to go to law with the man who was not doing his duty towards the family ; and further because, with a weak and widowed mother who had no nerve in her, she then took the management of the family, and was really 'the ruling mind in it. But all this was the result of her own con- viction that everything would go to ruin if she did not make this great effort. As her lover expresses it, she must be very brave if she is not strong, and very strong if she is not brave. She is really not strong, but brave. She is brave in the truest sense. She can make herself do what she really trembles at the thought of doing, because she feels that it is her duty to do it, and that no one else will, or can, do it if she does not string herself up to the task :— " • If you are not strong you must be very brave,' he said.—' I don't know about that either. Desperation is not courage. I once heard of a girl who, knowing nothing of the sea, put out in
a small boat on a very rough day because she saw other people on the bay, and so thought she would be safe enough. The other people were men who know the coast and had been used to boats almost before they could walk, and this girl soon found out that she could not manage her boat at all, and got frightened. She wanted to get back to the pier, but what with the wind and the waves and the tide she actually did not dare to turn round lest she should be swamped. So she kept the boat's head straight with the wind, and rowed boldly across the bay, left her boat in the care of a fisher, and came home by train. That girl gained a reputation for simply reckless courage by what was really the merest exercise of prudence. I did something of the same sort. I saw we should inevitably be ruined if some one did not find a. mind and make it up, so, as there was no one else to do it, I did it myself ; but I did not like doing That's where the courage comes in. You'll have to admit one virtue or the other, Miss Southey ; the less you are strong, the more you are brave to act strongly."
She is, however, all but engaged, not to this man, but to one who is easy-going and generally irresolute, of very fascinating character, and, like herself, equal to an heroic effort on
sufficient occasion, but one who will lean on her rather than enable her to lean on him ; and in the first scene of the story she expresses to him quite frankly her half- dissatisfaction with their half-engagement. She confesses that she doubts whether he loves her enough 'to make him happy,—the real doubt having, of course, quite a different origin, namely, her desire for a stronger and more resolute character to lean upon. The author's skill lies
in the delineation of the gentler lover's heroism. When Gertrude Southey expresses her doubt whether he loves her enough for their common happiness, he replies "Believe it
now." And, later, he reiterates the words when he has proved his love for her in the most decisive way, by departing to South Africa in the same steamer in which his rival was sail- ing away from his great disappointment. He drives him back home by the nonchalant way in which he talks of Miss Southey, and of the engagement which they had thought of, but which they found "would not do." Of course, the rival returns at once ; and the lover who had really Gertrude Southey's promise, though it was a promise which was irresolutely given, and had never been made public, writes to the girl he
loved so well only these three words, " Believe it now." The author thus gives to the idealism of her tale just the happy turn which makes it strike the imagination of her. readers, and she shows the same skill elsewhere. We would, however, suggest to her that steamers for the Cape do not, and could not, call at Port Said without a preposteroui lengthening of their journey; and as regards the telegram sent by Lisa in " An Unnoticed Incident " at 11 at night, we would suggest a doubt whether there is any telegraph-office open at that hour in the neighhourhood of Hammersmith.
Previous page
