Part 24 (2/2)
Bice took no notice of these subduing and moderating previsions. She smiled and repeated what the Contessa said. ”I must do the best for myself, for I have no fortune.”
No fortune! and to think that Lucy, with her mind directed to other matters, never once realised that this was a state of affairs which she could put an end to in a moment. It never occurred to her--perhaps, as she certainly was matter of fact, the recollection that there was a sort of stipulation in the will against foreigners turned her thoughts into another channel.
It was, however, during this time of preparation and quiet that the household in Park Lane one day received a visit from Jock, accompanied by no less a person than MTutor, the leader of intellectual life and light of the world to the boy. They came to luncheon by appointment, and after visiting some museum on which Jock's mind was set, came to remain to dinner and go to the theatre. MTutor had a condescending appreciation of the stage. He thought it was an educational influence, not perhaps of any great utility to the youths under such care as his own, but of no small importance to the less fortunate members of society; and he liked to encourage the efforts of conscientious actors who looked upon their own calling in this light. It was rather for this purpose than with the idea of amus.e.m.e.nt that he patronised the play, and Jock, as in duty bound, though there was in him a certain boyish excitement as to the pleasure itself, did his best to regard the performance in the same exalted light. MTutor was a young man of about thirty, slim and tall. He was a man who had taken honours at college, though his admirers said not such high honours as he might have taken; ”For MTutor,” said Jock, ”never would go in for pot-hunting, you know. What he always wanted was to cultivate his own mind, not to get prizes.” It was with heartfelt admiration that this feature in his character was dwelt upon by his disciples. Not a doubt that he could have got whatever he liked to go in for, had he not been so fastidious and high-minded. He was fellow of his college as it was, had got a poetry prize which, perhaps, was not the Newdigate; and smiled indulgently at those who were more warm in the arena of compet.i.tion than himself. On other occasions when ”men” came to luncheon, the Contessa, though quite ready to be amused by them in her own person, sternly forbade the appearance of Bice, the effect of whose future was not, she was determined, to be spoilt by any such preliminary peeps; but the Contessa's vigilance slackened when the visitors were of no greater importance than this. She was insensible to the greatness of MTutor. It did not seem to matter that he should be there sitting grave and dignified by Lucy's side, and talking somewhat over Lucy's head, any more than it mattered that Mr. Rushton should be there, or any other person of an inferior level. It was not upon such men that Bice's appearance was to tell. She took no precautions against such persons.
Jock himself at sixteen was not more utterly out of the question. And the Contessa herself, as it happened, was much amused by MTutor; his great ideas of everything, the exalted ideal that showed in all he did or said, gave great pleasure to this woman of the world. And when they came to the question of the educational influence of the stage, and the conscientious character of the actors' work, she could not conceal her satisfaction. ”I will go with you, too,” she said, ”this evening.” ”We shall all go,” said Sir Tom, ”even Bice. There is a big box, and behind the curtain n.o.body will see her.” To this the Contessa demurred, but, after a little while, being in a yielding humour, gave way. ”It is for the play alone,” she said in an undertone, raising her finger in admonition, ”You will remember, my child, for the play alone.”
”We are all going for the play alone,” said Sir Tom, cheerfully. ”Here is Lucy, who is a baby for a play. She likes melodrama best, disguises and trap-doors and long-lost sons, and all the rest of it.”
”It is a taste that is very general,” said MTutor, indulgently; ”but I am sure Lady Randolph appreciates the efforts of a conscientious interpreter--one who calls all the resources of art to his aid----”
”I don't care for the play alone,” said Bice to Jock in an undertone. ”I want to see the people. They are always the most amusing. I have seen n.o.body yet in London. And though I must not be seen, I may look, that will do no harm. Then there will be the people who come into the box.”
”The people who come into the box! but you know us all,” said Jock, astonished, ”before we go----”
”You all?” said Bice, with some disdain. ”It is easy to see _you_; that is not what I mean; this will be the first time I put my foot into the world. The actors, that is nothing. Is it the custom in England to look much at the play? No, you go to see your friends.”
MTutor was on the other side of this strange girl in her black frock. He took it upon him to reply. He said: ”That is the case in some countries, but not here. In England the play is actually thought of. English actors are not so good as the French, nor even the Italian. And the Germans are much better trained. Nevertheless, we do what perhaps no other nation does. We give them our attention. It is this which makes the position of the actors more important, more interesting in England.”
”Stop a little, stop a little!” cried Sir Tom; ”don't let me interrupt you, Derwent.w.a.ter, if you are instructing the young ones; but don't forget the _Comedie Francaise_ and the aristocracy of art.”
”I do not forget it,” said Mr. Derwent.w.a.ter; ”in that point of view we are far behind France; still I uphold that nowhere else do people go to the theatre for the sake of the play as we do; and it is this,” he said, turning to Bice, ”that makes it possible that the theatre may be an influence and a power.”
Bice lifted her eyes upon this man with a wondering gaze of contempt.
She gave him a full look which abashed him, though he was so much more important, so much more intellectual, than she. Then, without deigning to take any notice, she turned to Jock at her other side. ”If that is all I do not care for going,” she said. ”I have seen many plays--oh, many! I like quite as well to read at home. It is not for that I wish to go; but to see the world. The world, that is far more interesting. It is like a novel, but living. You look at the people and you read what they are thinking. You see their stories going on. That is what amuses me;--but a play on the stage, what is it? People dressed in clothes that do not belong to them, trying to make themselves look like somebody else--but they never do. One says--that is not I, but the people that know--Bravo, Got! Bravo Regnier! It does not matter what parts they are acting. You do not care for the part. Then why go and look at it?” said Bice with straightforward philosophy.
All this she poured forth upon Jock in a low clear voice, as if there was no one else near. Jock, for his part, was carried away by the flood.
”I don't know about Got and Regnier. But what we are going to see is Shakespeare,” he said, with a little awe, ”that is not just like a common play.”
Mr. Derwent.w.a.ter had been astonished by Bice's indifference to his own instructive remarks. It was this perhaps more than her beauty which had called his attention to her, and he had listened as well as he could to the low rapid stream of her conversation, not without wonder that she should have chosen Jock as the recipient of her confidence. What she said, though he heard it but imperfectly, interested him still more. He wanted to make her out--it was a new kind of study. While Lucy, by his side, went on tranquilly with some soft talk about the theatre, of which she knew very little, he thought, he made her a civil response, but gave all his attention to what was going on at the other side; and there was suddenly a lull of the general commotion, in which he heard distinctly Bice's next words.
”_What_ is Shakespeare?” she said; then went on with her own reflections. ”What I want to see is the world. I have never yet gone into the world; but I must know it, for it is there I have to live. If one could live in Shakespeare,” cried the girl, ”it would be easy; but I have not been brought up for that; and I want to see the world--just a little corner--because that is what concerns me, not a play. If it is only for the play, I think I shall not go.”
”You had much better come,” said Jock; ”after all it is fun, and some of the fellows will be good. The world is not to be seen at the theatre that I know of,” continued the boy. ”Rows of people sitting one behind another, most of them as stupid as possible--you don't call that the world? But come--I wish you would come. It is a change--it stirs you up.”
”I don't want to be stirred up. I am all living,” cried Bice. There seemed to breathe out from her a sort of visible atmosphere of energy and impatient life. Looking across this thrill in the air, which somehow was like the vibration of heat in the atmosphere, Jock's eyes encountered those of his tutor, turned very curiously, and not without bewilderment, to the same point as his own. It gave the boy a curious sensation which he could not define. He had wished to exhibit to Mr.
Derwent.w.a.ter this strange phenomenon in the shape of a girl, with a sense that there was something very unusual in her, something in which he himself had a certain proprietors.h.i.+p. But when MTutor's eyes encountered Jock's with an astonished glance of discovery in them, which seemed to say that he had found out Bice for himself without the interposition of the original discoverer, Jock felt a thrill of displeasure, and almost pain, which he could not explain to himself.
What did it mean? It seemed to bring with it a certain defiance of, and opposition to, this king of men.
CHAPTER x.x.xI.
TWO FRIENDS.
”Who was that young lady?” Mr. Derwent.w.a.ter said. ”I did not catch the name.”
<script>