A BROWN WOMAN
"But I must be hurrying home now," the girl said, "for it is high timeI were back in the hayfields."
"Fair shepherdess," he implored, "for heaven's sake, let us not cutshort the _pastorelle_ thus abruptly."
"And what manner of beast may that be, pray?"
"'Tis a conventional form of verse, my dear, which we at presentstrikingly illustrate. The plan of a _pastorelle_ is simplicity'sself: a gentleman, which I may fairly claim to be, in some fair ruralscene--such as this--comes suddenly upon a rustic maiden of surpassingbeauty. He naturally falls in love with her, and they say all mannerof fine things to each other."
She considered him for a while before speaking. It thrilled him to seethe odd tenderness that was in her face. "You always think of sayingand writing fine things, do you not, sir?"
"My dear," he answered, gravely, "I believe that I was undoubtedlyguilty of such folly until you came. I wish I could make youunderstand how your coming has changed everything."
"You can tell me some other time," the girl gaily declared, and wasabout to leave him.
His hand detained her very gently. "Faith, but I fear not, for alreadymy old hallucinations seem to me incredible. Why, yesterday I thoughtit the most desirable of human lots to be a great poet"--the gentlemanlaughed in self-mockery. "I positively did. I labored every daytoward becoming one. I lived among books, esteemed that I was doingsomething of genuine importance as I gravely tinkered with alliterationand metaphor and antithesis and judicious paraphrases of the ancients.I put up with life solely because it afforded material forversification; and, in reality, believed the destruction of Troy wasprovidentially ordained lest Homer lack subject matter for an epic.And as for loving, I thought people fell in love in order to exchangewitty rhymes."
His hand detained her, very gently. . . . Indeed, it seemed to him hecould never tire of noting her excellencies. Perhaps it was thatsplendid light poise of her head he chiefly loved; he thought so atleast, just now. Or was it the wonder of her walk, which made allother women he had ever known appear to mince and hobble, like rustytoys? Something there was assuredly about this slim brown girl whichrecalled an untamed and harmless woodland creature; and it was that, heknew, which most poignantly moved him, even though he could not nameit. Perhaps it was her bright kind eyes, which seemed to mirror thetranquillity of forests. . . .
"You gentry are always talking of love," she marveled.
"Oh," he said, with acerbity, "oh, I don't doubt that any number ofbeef-gorging squires and leering, long-legged Oxford dandies----" Hebroke off here, and laughed contemptuously. "Well, you are beautiful,and they have eyes as keen as mine. And I do not blame you, my dear,for believing my designs to be no more commendable than theirs--no, notat all."
But his mood was spoiled, and his tetchy vanity hurt, by the thought ofstout well-set fellows having wooed this girl; and he permitted her togo without protest.
Yet he sat alone for a while upon the fallen tree-trunk, humming acontented little tune. Never in his life had he been happier. He didnot venture to suppose that any creature so adorable could love such asickly hunchback, such a gargoyle of a man, as he was; but that Sarahwas fond of him, he knew. There would be no trouble in arranging withher father for their marriage, most certainly; and he meant to attendto that matter this very morning, and within ten minutes. So Mr.Alexander Pope was meanwhile arranging in his mind a suitable wordingfor his declaration of marital aspirations.
Thus John Gay found him presently and roused him from phrase-spinning."And what shall we do this morning, Alexander?" Gay was alwaysdemanding, like a spoiled child, to be amused.
Pope told him what his own plans were, speaking quite simply, but withhis countenance radiant. Gay took off his hat and wiped his forehead,for the day was warm. He did not say anything at all.
"Well----?" Mr. Pope asked, after a pause.
Mr. Gay was dubious. "I had never thought that you would marry," hesaid. "And--why, hang it, Alexander! to grow enamored of a milkmaid iswell enough for the hero of a poem, but in a poet it hints atinjudicious composition."
Mr. Pope gesticulated with thin hands and seemed upon the verge ofeloquence. Then he spoke unanswerably. "But I love her," he said.
John Gay's reply was a subdued whistle. He, in common with the otherguests of Lord Harcourt, at Nuneham Courtney, had wondered what wouldbe the outcome of Mr. Alexander Pope's intimacy with Sarah Drew. Amonth earlier the poet had sprained his ankle upon Amshot Heath, andthis young woman had found him lying there, entirely helpless, as shereturned from her evening milking. Being hale of person, she hadmanaged to get the little hunchback to her home unaided. And sincethen Pope had often been seen with her.
This much was common knowledge. That Mr. Pope proposed to marry theheroine of his misadventure afforded a fair mark for raillery, nodoubt, but Gay, in common with the run of educated England in 1718, didnot aspire to be facetious at Pope's expense. The luxury was toocostly. Offend the dwarf in any fashion, and were you the proudestduke at Court or the most inconsiderable rhymester in Petticoat Lane,it made no difference; there was no crime too heinous for "the greatMr. Pope's" next verses to charge you with, and, worst of all, therewas no misdoing so out of character that his adroit malignancy couldnot make it seem plausible.
Now, after another pause, Pope said, "I must be going now. Will younot wish me luck?"
"Why, Alexander--why, hang it!" was Mr. Gay's observation, "I believethat you are human after all, and not just a book in breeches."
He thereby voiced a commentary patently uncalled-for, as Mr. Popeafterward reflected. Mr. Pope was then treading toward the home of oldFrederick Drew. It was a gray morning in late July.
"I love her," Pope had said. The fact was undeniable; yet anexpression of it necessarily halts. Pope knew, as every man must dowho dares conserve his energies to annotate the drama of life ratherthan play a part in it, the nature of that loneliness which thisconservation breeds. Such persons may hope to win a posthumous esteemin the library, but it is at the bleak cost of making life a wistfultransaction with foreigners. In such enforced aloofness Sarah Drew hadcome to him--strong, beautiful, young, good and vital, all that he wasnot--and had serenely befriended "the great Mr. Pope," whom she viewedas a queer decrepit little gentleman of whom within a week she wasunfeignedly fond.
"I love her," Pope had said. Eh, yes, no doubt; and what, he fiercelydemanded of himself, was he--a crippled scribbler, a bungling artisanof phrases--that he should dare to love this splendid and deep-bosomedgoddess? Something of youth awoke, possessing him--something of thathigh ardor which, as he cloudily remembered now, had once controlled aboy who dreamed in Windsor Forest and with the lightest of heartsplanned to achieve the impossible. For what is more difficult ofattainment than to achieve the perfected phrase, so worded that toalter a syllable of its wording would be little short of sacrilege?
"What whimwhams!" decreed the great Mr. Pope, aloud. "Verse-making isat best only the affair of idle men who write in their closets and ofidle men who read there. And as for him who polishes phrases, whateverbe his fate in poetry, it is ten to one but he must give up all thereasonable aims of life for it."
No, he would have no more of loneliness. Henceforward Alexander Popewould be human--like the others. To write perfectly was much; but itwas not everything. Living was capable of furnishing even more thanthe raw material of a couplet. It might, for instance, yield content.
For instance, if you loved, and married, and begot, and died, with theseriousness of a person who believes he is performing an action of realimportance, and conceded that the perfection of any art, whether it bethat of verse-making or of rope-dancing, is at best a by-product oflife's conduct; at worst, you probably would not be lonely. No; youwould be at one with all other fat-witted people, and there was nogreater blessing conceivable.
Pope muttered, and produced his notebook, and wrote tentatively.
Wrote Mr. Pope:
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The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind; No powers of body or of soul to share But what his nature and his state can bear.
"His state!" yes, undeniably, two sibilants collided here. "Hiswit?"--no, that would be flat-footed awkwardness in the management ofyour vowel-sounds; the lengthened "a" was almost requisite. . . . Popewas fretting over the imbroglio when he absent-mindedly glanced up toperceive that his Sarah, not irrevocably offended, was being embracedby a certain John Hughes--who was a stalwart, florid personableindividual, no doubt, but, after all, only an unlettered farmer.
The dwarf gave a hard, wringing motion of his hands. The diamond-LordBolingbroke's gift--which ornamented Pope's left hand cut into theflesh of his little finger, so cruel was the gesture; and this littlefinger was bleeding as Pope tripped forward, smiling. A gentleman doesnot incommode the public by obtruding the ugliness of a personal wound.
"Do I intrude?" he queried. "Ah, well! I also have dwelt in Arcadia."It was bitter to comprehend that he had never done so.
The lovers were visibly annoyed; yet, if an interruption of theirpleasant commerce was decreed to be, it could not possibly have sprung,as they soon found, from a more sympathetic source.
These were not subtle persons. Pope had the truth from them within tenminutes. They loved each other; but John Hughes was penniless, and oldFrederick Drew was, in consequence, obdurate.
"And, besides, he thinks you mean to marry her!" said John Hughes.
"My dear man, he pardonably forgets that the utmost reach of my designsin common reason would be to have her as my kept mistress for a monthor two," drawled Mr. Pope. "As concerns yourself, my good fellow, thecase is somewhat different. Why, it is a veritable romance--an affairof Daphne and Corydon--although, to be unpardonably candid, the plot ofyour romance, my young Arcadians, is not the most original conceivable.I think that the denouement need not baffle our imaginations."
The dwarf went toward Sarah Drew. The chary sunlight had found thegold in her hair, and its glint was brightly visible to him. "Mydear--" he said. His thin long fingers touched her capable hand. Itwas a sort of caress--half-timid. "My dear, I owe my life to you. Mybody is at most a flimsy abortion such as a night's exposure would havemade more tranquil than it is just now. Yes, it was you who found acaricature of the sort of man that Mr. Hughes here is, disabled,helpless, and--for reasons which doubtless seemed to yousufficient--contrived that this unsightly parody continue in existence.I am not lovable, my dear. I am only a hunchback, as you can see. Myaspirations and my sickly imaginings merit only the derision of acandid clean-souled being such as you are." His finger-tips touchedthe back of her hand again. "I think there was never a maker ofenduring verse who did not at one period or another long to exchange anassured immortality for a sturdier pair of shoulders. I think--I thinkthat I am prone to speak at random," Pope said, with his half-drowsysmile. "Yet, none the less, an honest man, as our kinsmen in Adamaverage, is bound to pay his equitable debts."
She said, "I do not understand."
"I have perpetrated certain jingles," Pope returned. "I had notcomprehended until to-day they are the only children I shall leavebehind me. Eh, and what would you make of them, my dear, couldingenuity contrive a torture dire enough to force you into readingthem! . . . Misguided people have paid me for contriving thesejingles. So that I have money enough to buy you from your father justas I would purchase one of his heifers. Yes, at the very least I havemoney, and I have earned it. I will send your big-thewed adorer--Ibelieve that Hughes is the name?--L500 of it this afternoon. That sum,I gather, will be sufficient to remove your father's objection to yourmarriage with Mr. Hughes."
Pope could not but admire himself tremendously. Moreover, in suchmatters no woman is blind. Tears came into Sarah's huge brown eyes.This tenderhearted girl was not thinking of John Hughes now. Popenoted the fact with the pettiest exultation. "Oh, you--you are good."Sarah Drew spoke as with difficulty.
"No adjective, my dear, was ever applied with less discrimination. Itis merely that you have rendered no inconsiderable service toposterity, and merit a reward."
"Oh, and indeed, indeed, I was always fond of you----" The girl sobbedthis.
She would have added more, no doubt, since compassion is garrulous, hadnot Pope's scratched hand dismissed a display of emotion as notentirely in consonance with the rules of the game.
"My dear, therein you have signally honored me. There remains only tooffer you my appreciation of your benevolence toward a sickly monster,and to entreat for my late intrusion--however unintentional--thatforgiveness which you would not deny, I think, to any other impertinentinsect."
"Oh, but we have no words to thank you, sir----!" Thus Hughes began.
"Then don't attempt it, my good fellow. For phrase-spinning, as I canassure you, is the most profitless of all pursuits." Whereupon Popebowed low, wheeled, walked away. Yes, he was wounded past sufferance;it seemed to him he must die of it. Life was a farce, and Destiny anoverseer who hiccoughed mandates. Well, all that even Destiny couldfind to gloat over, he reflected, was the tranquil figure of a smallishgentleman switching at the grass-blades with his cane as he saunteredunder darkening skies.
For a storm was coming on, and the first big drops of it weresplattering the terrace when Mr. Pope entered Lord Harcourt's mansion.
Pope went straight to his own rooms. As he came in there was a vividflash of lightning, followed instantaneously by a crashing, splittingnoise, like that of universes ripped asunder. He did not honor thehigh uproar with attention. This dwarf was not afraid of anythingexcept the commission of an error in taste.
Then, too, there were letters for him, laid ready on the writing-table.Nothing of much importance he found there.--Here, though, was a ratherdiverting letter from Eustace Budgell, that poor fool, abjectlythanking Mr. Pope for his advice concerning how best to answer theatrocious calumnies on Budgell then appearing in _The Grub-StreetJournal_,--and reposing, drolly enough, next the proof-sheets of ananonymous letter Pope had prepared for the forthcoming issue of thatpublication, wherein he sprightlily told how Budgell had poisoned Dr.Tindal, after forging his will. For even if Budgell had not in pointof fact been guilty of these particular peccadilloes, he had quitecertainly committed the crime of speaking lightly of Mr. Pope, as "alittle envious animal," some seven years ago; and it was for this graveindiscretion that Pope was dexterously goading the man into insanity,and eventually drove him to suicide. . . .
The storm made the room dark and reading difficult. Still, this was aneven more amusing letter, from the all-powerful Duchess of Marlborough.In as civil terms as her sick rage could muster, the frightened womanoffered Mr. Pope L1,000 to suppress his verbal portrait of her, in thecharacter of Atossa, from his _Moral Essays_; and Pope straightwaydecided to accept the bribe, and afterward to print his versesunchanged. For the hag, as he reflected, very greatly needed to betaught that in this world there was at least one person who did notquail before her tantrums. There would be, moreover, even anelementary justice in thus robbing her who had robbed England at large.And, besides, her name was Sarah. . . .
Pope lighted four candles and set them before the long French mirror.He stood appraising his many curious deformities while the storm raged.He stood sidelong, peering over his left shoulder, in order to see theoutline of his crooked back. Nowhere in England, he reflected, wasthere a person more pitiable and more repellent outwardly.
"And, oh, it would be droll," Pope said, aloud, "if our exteriors wereever altogether parodies. But time keeps a diary in our faces, andwrites a monstrously plain hand. Now, if you take the first letter ofMr. Alexander Pope's Christian name, and the first and last letters ofhis surname, you have A. P. E.," Pope quoted, genially. "I begin tothink that Dennis was right. What conceivable woman would not prefer awell-set man of five-and-twenty to such a withered abortion? And whatdoes it matter, after all, that a hunchback has dared to desire ashapely br
own-haired woman?"
Pope came more near to the mirror. "Make answer, you who have dared toimagine that a goddess was ever drawn to descend into womanhood exceptby kisses, brawn and a clean heart."
Another peal of thunder bellowed. The storm was growing furious. "YetI have had a marvelous dream. Now I awaken. I must go on in the oldround. As long as my wits preserve their agility I must be able toamuse, to flatter and, at need, to intimidate the patrons of that apein the mirror, so that they will not dare refuse me the market-value ofmy antics. And Sarah Drew has declined an alliance such as this infavor of a fresh-colored complexion and a pair of straight shoulders!"
Pope thought a while. "And a clean heart! She bargained royally,giving love for nothing less than love. The man is rustic, illiterate;he never heard of Aristotle, he would be at a loss to distinguishbetween a trochee and a Titian, and if you mentioned Boileau to himwould probably imagine you were talking of cookery. But he loves her.He would forfeit eternity to save her a toothache. And, chief of all,she can make this robust baby happy, and she alone can make him happy.And so, she gives, gives royally--she gives, God bless her!"
Rain, sullen rain, was battering the window. "And you--you hunchbackin the mirror, you maker of neat rhymes--pray, what had you to offer?A coach-and-six, of course, and pin-money and furbelows and in the enda mausoleum with unimpeachable Latin on it! And--_pate sur pate_--anunswerving devotion which she would share on almost equal terms withthe Collected Works of Alexander Pope. And so she chose--chose brawnand a clean heart."
The dwarf turned, staggered, fell upon his bed. "God, make a man ofme, make me a good brave man. I loved her--oh, such as I am, You knowthat I loved her! You know that I desire her happiness above allthings. Ah, no, for You know that I do not at bottom. I want to hurt,to wound all living creatures, because they know how to be happy, and Ido not know how. Ah, God, and why did You decree that I should neverbe an obtuse and comely animal such as this John Hughes is? I am sotired of being 'the great Mr. Pope,' and I want only the common joys oflife."
The hunchback wept. It would be too curious to anatomize the writhingsof his proud little spirit.
Now some one tapped upon the door. It was John Gay. He was bidden toenter, and, complying, found Mr. Pope yawning over the latest ofTonson's publications.
Gay's face was singularly portentous. "My friend," Gay blurted out, "Ibring news which will horrify you. Believe me, I would never havemustered the pluck to bring it did I not love you. I cannot let youhear it first in public and unprepared, as, otherwise, you would haveto do."
"Do I not know you have the kindest heart in all the world? Why, sooutrageous are your amiable defects that they would be the publicderision of your enemies if you had any," Pope returned.
The other poet evinced an awkward comminglement of consternation andpity. "It appears that when this storm arose--why, Mistress Drew waswith a young man of the neighborhood--a John Hewet----" Gay wasspeaking with unaccustomed rapidity.
"Hughes, I think," Pope interrupted, equably.
"Perhaps--I am not sure. They sought shelter under a haycock. Youwill remember that first crash of thunder, as if the heavens were indemolishment? My friend, the reapers who had been laboring in thefields--who had been driven to such protection as the trees or hedgesafforded----"
"Get on!" a shrill voice cried; "for God's love, man, get on!" Mr.Pope had risen. This pallid shaken wisp was not in appearance thegreat Mr. Pope whose ingenuity had enabled Homeric warriors to excel inthe genteel.
"They first saw a little smoke. . . . They found this Hughes with onearm about the neck of Mistress Drew, and the other held over her face,as if to screen her from the lightning. They were both"--and here Gayhesitated. "They were both dead," he amended.
Pope turned abruptly. Nakedness is of necessity uncouth, he held,whether it be the body or the soul that is unveiled. Mr. Pope wenttoward a window which he opened, and he stood thus looking out for abrief while.
"So she is dead," he said. "It is very strange. So many rarefelicities of curve and color, so much of purity and kindliness andvalor and mirth, extinguished as one snuffs a candle! Well! I amsorry she is dead, for the child had a talent for living and got suchjoy out of it. . . . Hers was a lovely happy life, but it was sterile.Already nothing remains of her but dead flesh which must be huddled outof sight. I shall not perish thus entirely, I believe. Men willremember me. Truly a mighty foundation for pride! when the utmost Ican hope for is but to be read in one island, and to be thrown aside atthe end of one age. Indeed, I am not even sure of that much. I print,and print, and print. And when I collect my verses into books, I amaltogether uncertain whether to took upon myself as a man building amonument, or burying the dead. It sometimes seems to me that eachpublication is but a solemn funeral of many wasted years. For I havegiven all to the verse-making. Granted that the sacrifice avails torescue my name from oblivion, what will it profit me when I am dead andcare no more for men's opinions than Sarah Drew cares now for what Isay of her? But then she never cared. She loved John Hughes. And shewas right."
He made an end of speaking, still peering out of the window withconsiderate narrowed eyes.
The storm was over. In the beech-tree opposite a wren was raisingoptimistic outcry. The sun had won his way through a black-belliedshred of cloud; upon the terrace below, a dripping Venus and a Perseuswere glistening as with white fire. Past these, drenched gardens, thenatural wildness of which was judiciously restrained with walks, ponds,grottoes, statuary and other rural elegancies, displayed theintermingled brilliancies of diamonds and emeralds, and glittered aswith pearls and rubies where tempest-battered roses were reviving inassertiveness.
"I think the storm is over," Mr. Pope remarked. "It is strange howviolent are these convulsions of nature. . . . But nature is atreacherous blowsy jade, who respects nobody. A gentleman can butshrug under her onslaughts, and henceforward civilly avoid them. It isa consolation to reflect that they pass quickly."
He turned as in defiance. "Yes, yes! It hurts. But I envy them.Yes, even I, that ugly spiteful hornet of a man! 'the great Mr. Pope,'who will be dining with the proudest people in England within the hourand gloating over their deference! For they presume to make a littlefree with God occasionally, John, but never with me. And _I_ envythese dead young fools. . . . You see, they loved each other, John. Ileft them, not an hour ago, the happiest of living creatures. I lookedback once. I pretended to have dropped my handkerchief. I imaginethey were talking of their wedding-clothes, for this broad-shoulderedHughes was matching poppies and field-flowers to her complexion. Itwas a scene out of Theocritus. I think Heaven was so well pleased bythe tableau that Heaven hastily resumed possession of its enactors inorder to prevent any after-happenings from belittling that perfectinstant."
"Egad, and matrimony might easily have proved an anti-climax," Gayconsidered.
"Yes; oh, it is only Love that is blind, and not the lover necessarily.I know. I suppose I always knew at the bottom of my heart. Thishamadryad was destined in the outcome to dwindle into a villagehousewife, she would have taken a lively interest in the number of eggsthe hens were laying, she would even have assured her children,precisely in the way her father spoke of John Hughes, that young peopleordinarily have foolish fancies which their rational elders agree todisregard. But as it is, no Eastern queen--not Semele herself--leftearth more nobly--"
Pope broke off short. He produced his notebook, which he never wentwithout, and wrote frowningly, with many erasures. "H'm, yes," hesaid; and he read aloud:
"When Eastern lovers feed the funeral fire, On the same pile the faithful fair expire; Here pitying heaven that virtue mutual found, And blasted both that it might neither wound. Hearts so sincere the Almighty saw well pleased, Sent His own lightning and the victims seized."
Then Pope made a grimace. "No; the analogy is trim enough, but thelines lack fervor. It is deplorable how much easier it is to expressany
emotion other than that of which one is actually conscious." Popehad torn the paper half-through before he reflected that it would helpto fill a printed page. He put it in his pocket. "But, come now, I amwriting to Lady Mary this afternoon. You know how she loves oddities.Between us--with prose as the medium, of course, since verse should,after all, confine itself to the commemoration of heroes and royalpersons--I believe we might make of this occurrence a neat and moving_pastorelle_--I should say, pastoral, of course, but my wits arewool-gathering."
Mr. Gay had the kindest heart in the universe. Yet he, also, haddreamed of the perfected phrase, so worded that to alter a syllable ofits wording would be little short of sacrilege. Eyes kindling, he tookup a pen. "Yes, yes, I understand. Egad, it is an admirable subject.But, then, I don't believe I ever saw these lovers----?"
"John was a well-set man of about five-and-twenty," replied Mr. Pope;"and Sarah was a brown woman of eighteen years, three months andfourteen days."
Then these two dipped their pens and set about a moving composition,which has to-day its proper rating among Mr. Pope's Complete Works.