How many hundred dozen Archbishops of Canterbury would it take to equal one bar of “Madame Angot”?
But then this is far, very far beneath the singer who can sing like the adorable Patti. To her must the foremost position in all the world be given. For crowned heads are only bowed to because they are crowned, statesmen because they are in place, generals because they are in command, millionaires because they have money. But the singer—the divine singer, the divine Patti—is worshipped because of herself. How delicious to be a little like her! Even to be a little like her is reserved for woman; a man is out of the competition.
I came to these conclusions while I was endeavouring to construct this book in such a manner that the reader should see the events and the people, one after the other, without any wearisome explanations between as to how it came to be so. While I was considering and trying to surmount the difficulty it occurred to me how happy the dramatist must be, since he places his hero and his heroine in living shape at once before you.
There they are on the stage—you see them, they walk, they breathe, they talk, they accompany their words with appropriate action, and convey their meaning in an indisputable manner.
They stand there before you at once in their full growth. The dramatist has not to present his heroine to you at first as an infant in arms, then as a girl at boarding-school, finally as a full-grown woman. You understand her at once.
The unfortunate narrator is not permitted these advantages. It takes me pages upon pages to describe a single character, and then very probably you do not see half what I hoped you would see. There is no sound of voice, no movement or gesture to convey the impression. But this is not all.
The happy dramatist lets down the curtain upon one scene in town, and lifts it upon another scene in the country; the curtain falls in England and rises in the backwoods of America, and the change is accepted instantly. He has not to set someone before the footlights to laboriously explain (while the scenes are shifted) how his people get into a train and go down to Somerset, or to follow them three thousand miles, day by day, across the Atlantic. Up rolls the curtain, and there they are at once.
The unfortunate narrator has to tell you how the change came about, why it came about, and when; and to explain every little circumstance, or else it would appear that he was violating probability. He has to show you the why and wherefore, and to tell you how certain people got into certain positions at a certain time. My arm and hand very often ache with the labour of writing just to explain the simplest set of circumstances, which upon the stage would not have been thought of. They would be taken for granted. This is very hard upon me, I think. Could not you let me write my scenes one after the other, and supply the connecting-links for me out of your own imagination, as you do on the stage?
We left Felise and Martial in a very loving attitude, which, however, was not observable at a distance because of the shadow of the beech-tree. But the next day Martial did not return, nor did he appear the day after, leaving Felise to a wearisome uncertainty. Several days passed, and still he did not come.
She was almost inclined to boldly go over to the Manor House and try and see him, but a trifling circumstance had occurred which deterred her. Miss Barnard sent for the album of Dante instead of fetching it herself, as she had promised to do. Felise fancied this was an indication of disapproval—a silent declaration of opposition. His cousins then had discovered her secret; they considered their Martial might do better.
Her conjecture was correct. When the younger Miss Barnard came home and heard the elder’s account of Felise’s visit, she at once pronounced that there must be some concealed motive. The elder sister, full of Dante, looked over and above the lesser motives which animate people, and took them at their word. Her ideal so far elevated her that she regarded affairs with pure eyes, and did not search for pettiness. Such is the effect of an ideal; let us all try and possess some ideal for this reason.
The younger sister, having no Dante, thought more of petty ambitions, and instantly suspected Felise of designs upon Martial. Now as a sharp woman, this young lady (young by comparison) much desired Martial’s marriage with Rosa, whose wealth would be so useful in the family, and would enable them to enter more into society. In short, she quite hoped, under the cover, as it were, of this advantageous connection, to be some day advanced to the marriage state herself.
On seeing Rosa, and hearing Rosa’s conjecture that Felise was the woman, she at once agreed; there could not be a doubt about it: besides, they tracked him and ascertained the direction in which he went. Between them, no doubt, they would have found out that it was Felise who sent back Ruy as a present, had not their eyes been blinded by their own estimate of money. They knew Felise was poor, and it never occurred to them that the poor in purse but great in spirit are capable of efforts which the rich become too indolent to make.
The younger sister, being overbearing and masterful, bore down the elder’s admiration of Felise, and persuaded her not to go for the album. Felise was right in supposing the sending, instead of coming for it, an indication
