Moods and Memories, III

Dana, 1 June 1904, pages 55-61, 2,931 words

Feeling that he would never see Scotland again, Stevenson wrote in a preface to "Catriona”: —

"I see like a vision the youth of my father, and of his father, and the whole stream of lives flowing down there far in the north, with the sound of laughter and tears, to cast me out in the end, as by a sudden freshet, on these ultimate islands. And I admire and bow my head before the romance of destiny.”

Does not this sentence read as if it were written in the stress of some effusive febrile emotion, as if he wrote while still pursuing his idea? And so it reminds us of a moth fluttering after a light. But however vacillating, the sentence contains some pretty clauses, and it will be remembered though not perhaps in its original form. We shall forget the "laughter and the tears” and the "sudden freshet,” and a simpler phrase will form itself in our memories. The emotion that Stevenson had to express transpires only in the words ‘*romance, destiny, ultimate islands.” Who does not feel his destiny to be a romance, and who does not admire the ultimate island whither his destiny will cast him? Giacomo Cenci, whom the Pope ordered to be flayed alive, no doubt admired the romance of destiny that laid him on his ultimate island, a raised plank, so that the executioner might conveniently roll up the skin of his belly like an apron. And a hare that I once saw beating a tambourine in Regent Street looked at me so wistfully that I am sure it admired in some remote way the romance of destiny that had taken it from the woodland and cast it upon its ultimate island — in this case a barrow. But neither of these strange examples of the romance of destiny seems to me more wonderful than the destiny of a wistful Irish girl whom I saw serving drinks to students in a certain ultimate caf in the Latin Quarter; she, too, no doubt admired the destiny which had cast her out, ordaining that she should die amid tobacco smoke, serving drinks to students, entertaining them with whatever conversation they desired.

Gervex, Mademoiselle D’Avary, and I had gone to this café after the theatre for half-an-hour’s distraction; I had thought that the place seemed too rough for Mademoiselle D’Avary, but Gervex had said that we should find a quiet corner, and we had happened to choose one in charge of a thin delicate girl, a girl touched with langour, weakness, and a grace which interested and moved me; her cheeks were thin, and the deep grey eyes were wistful as a drawing of Rossetti; her waving brown hair fell over the temples, and was looped up low over the neck after the Rossetti fashion. I had noticed how the two women had looked at each other, one woman healthful and rich, the other poor and ailing; I had guessed the thought that had passed across their minds. Each had doubtless asked and wondered why life had come to them so differently. But first I must tell who was Mademoiselle D’Avary, and how I came to know her. I had gone to Tortoni, a once celebrated café at the corner of the Rue Taitbout, the dining place of Rossini. When Rossini had earned an income of two thousand pounds a year it is recorded that he said, “Now I’ve done with music, it has served its turn, and I’m going to dine every day at Tortoni’s.” Even in my time Tortoni was the rendezvous of the world of art and letters; everyone was there at five o'clock, and to Tortoni I went the day I arrived in Paris. To be seen there would make known the fact that I was in Paris. Tortoni was a sort of publication. At Tortoni I had discovered a young man, one of my oldest friends, a painter of talent — he had a picture in the Luxembourg — and a man who was beloved by women. Gervex, for it was he, had seized me by the hand and with voluble eagerness had told me that I was the person he was seeking: he had heard of my coming and had sought me in every café from the Madeleine to Tortoni. He had been seeking me because he wished to ask me to dinner to meet Mademoiselle D’Avary; we were to fetch her in the Rue des Capucines. I write the name of the street, not because it matters to my little story in what street she lived, but because the name is an evocation. Those who like Paris like to hear the names of the streets, and the long staircase turning closely up the painted walls, the brown painted doors on the landings, and the bell rope, are evocative of Parisian life; and Mdlle. D’Avary is herself an evocation, for she was an actress of the Palais Royal. My friend, too, is an evocation, he was one of those whose pride is not to spend money upon women, whose theory of life is that "If she likes to come round to the studio when one’s work is done, nous pouvons faire la fête ensemble.” But however defensible this view of life may be, and there is much to be said for it, I had thought that he might have refrained from saying when I looked round the drawing-room, admiring it — a drawing-room furnished with sixteenth century bronzes, Dresden figures, étagères covered with silver ornaments, three drawings by Boucher — Boucher in three periods, a French Boucher, a Flemish Boucher, and an Italian Boucher — that I must not think that any of these things were presents from him, and from saying when she came into the room that the bracelet on her arm was not from him. It had  seemed to me in slightly bad taste that he should remind her that he made no presents, for his remark had clouded her joyousness; I could see that she was not so happy at the thought of going out to dine with him as she had been.

It was chez Foyoz that we dined, an old-fashioned restaurant still free from the new taste that likes walls painted white and gold, electric lamps and fiddlers. After dinner we had gone to see a play next door at the Odéon, a play in which shepherds spoke to each other about singing brooks, and stabbed each other for false women, a play diversified with vintages, processions, wains and songs. Nevertheless it had not interested us. And during the entr'actes Gervex had paid visits in various parts of the house, leaving Mdlle. D’Avary to make herself agreeable to me. I dearly love to walk by the perambulator in which Love is wheeling a pair of lovers. After the play he had said, "Allons boire un bock," and we had turned into a students’ café, a café furnished with tapestries and oak tables, and old time jugs and Medicis gowns, a café in which a student occasionally caught up a tall bock in his teeth, emptied it in a gulp, and after turning head over heels walked out without having smiled. Mdlle. D’Avary’s beauty and fashion had drawn the wild eyes of all the students gathered there. She wore a flower-enwoven dress, and from under the large hat her hair showed dark as night; and her southern skin filled with rich tints, yellow and dark green where the hair grew scanty on the neck; the shoulders drooped into opulent suggestion in the lace bodice. And it was interesting to compare her ripe beauty with the pale deciduous beauty of the waitress. Mdlle. D’Avary sat, her fan wide-spread across her bosom, her lips parted, the small teeth showing between the red lips. The waitress sat, her thin arms leaning on the table, joining very prettily in the conversation, betraying only in one glance that she knew that she was only a failure and Mdlle. D’Avary a success. It was some time before the ear caught the slight accent; an accent that was difficult to trace to any country. Once I heard a southern intonation, and then a northern, finally I heard an unmistakable English intonation, and said,

“But you’re English.”

“I’m Irish. I’m from Dublin.”

And thinking of a girl reared in its Dublin conventions, but whom the romance of destiny had cast upon this ultimate café, I asked her how she had found her way here; and she told me she had left Dublin when she was sixteen; she went to Paris six years ago to take a situation as nursery governess. She used to go with the children into the Luxembourg Gardens and talk to them in English. One day a student had sat on the bench beside her. The rest of the story is easily guessed. But he had no money to keep her and she had to come to this café to earn her living.

“It doesn’t suit me, but what am I to do? One must live, and the tobacco smoke makes me cough.” I sat looking at her, and she must have guessed what was passing in my mind for she told me that one lung was gone; and we spoke of health, of the south, and she said that the doctor had advised her to go away south.

And seeing that Gervex and Mademoiselle D’Avary were engaged in conversation I leaned forward and devoted all my attention to this wistful Irish girl, so interesting in her phthisis, in her red Medicis gown, her thin arms showing in the long rucked sleeves. I had to offer her drink, to do so was the custom of the place. She said that drink harmed her, but she would get into trouble if she refused drink, perhaps I would not mind paying for a piece of beefsteak instead. She had been ordered raw steak and I have only to close my eyes to see her going over to the corner of the café and cutting a piece and putting it away. She said she would eat it before going to bed — that would be two hours hence, about three, and all the while I was thinking of a cottage in the south amid olive and orange trees, an open window full of fragrant air and this girl sitting by it.

‘I should like to take you south and attend upon you.”

“l"m afraid you would grow weary of nursing me. I should be able to give you very little in return for your care. The doctor says I’m not to love anyone.”

We must have talked for some time, for it was like waking out of a dream when Gervex and Mademoiselle D’Avary got up to go, and seeing how interested | was, he laughed, saying to Mademoiselle D’Avary that it would be kind to leave me with my new friend. His pleasantry jarred, and though I should like to have remained, I followed them into the street, where the moon was shining over the Luxembourg Gardens. As I have said before, I dearly love to walk by a perambulator in which Love is wheeling a pair of lovers, but it is sad to find oneself alone on the pavement at midnight, and I thought of going back to the café, but instead, I wandered on, thinking of the girl I had seen, and of her certain death, for she could not live many months in that café. We all want to think at midnight, under the moon, when the city looks like a black Italian engraving, and poems come to us as we watch a swirling river. Not only the idea of a poem came to me that night, but on the Pont Neuf the words began to sing together, and I jotted down the first lines before going to bed. Next morning I continued my poem, and all day was passed in this little composition.

We are alone! Listen, a little while,

And hear the reason why your weary smile

And lute-toned speaking is so very sweet,

And how my love of you is more complete

Than any love of any lover. They

Have only been attracted by the gray 

Delicious softness of your eves, your slim

And delicate form, or some such other whim,

The simple pretexts of all lovers; I

For other reason. Listen whilst I try

To say. I joy to see the sunset slope

Beyond the weak hours’ hopeless horoscope,

Leaving the heavens a melancholy calm

Of quiet colour chaunted like a psalm,

In mildly modulated phrases; thus

Your life shall fade like a voluptuous

Vision beyond the sight, and you shall die

Like some soft evening’s sad serenity…

I would possess your dying hours; indeed

My love is worthy of the gift, I plead

For them. Although I never loved as yet,

Methinks that I might love you; I would get

From out the knowledge that the time was brief,

That tenderness, whose pity grows to grief,

And grief that sanctifies, a joy, a charm

Beyond all other loves, for now the arm

Of Death is stretched to you-ward, and he claims

You as his bride. Maybe my soul misnames 

Its passton; love perhaps it is not, yet

To see you fading like a violet,

Or some sweet thought away, would be a strange

And costly pleasure, far beyond the range

Of formal man’s emotion. Listen, I

Will choose a country spot where fields of rye

nd wheat extend in rustling yellow plains,

Broken with wooded hills and leafy lanes,

To pass our honeymoon; a cottage where,

The porch and windows are festooned with fair

Green wreaths of eglantine, and look upon

A shady garden where we'll walk alone

In the autumn sunny evenings; each will see

Our walks grow shorter, till to the orange tree,

The garden's length, is far, and you will rest

From time to time, leaning upon my breast

Your languid lily face, Then later still

Unto the sofa by the window-sill

Your wasted body I shall carry, so

That you may drink the last left lingering glow

Of evening, when the air is filled with scent 

Of blossoms; and my spirits shall be rent

The while with many griefs. Like some blue day

That grows more lovely as it fades away,

Gaining that calm serenity and height

Of colour wanted, as the solemn night

Steals forward you will sweetly fall asleep

For ever and for ever; I shall weep

A day and night large tears upon your face,

Laying you then beneath a rose-red place

Where I may muse and dedicate and dream

Volumes of poesy of you; and deem

It happiness to know that you are far

From any base desires as that fair star

Set in the evening magnitude of heaven.

Death takes but little, yea, your death has given

Me that deep peace, and immaculate possession

Which man may never find in earthly passion.

Good poetry of course not, but good verse, well turned every line except the penultimate. The elision is not a happy one, and the mere suppression of the ‘and’ does not produce a satisfying line.

Death takes but little, Death I thank for giving

Me a remembrance, a pure possession

Of unrequited love.

And mumbling the last lines of the poem, I hastened to the café near the Luxembourg Gardens, wondering if I should find courage to ask the girl to come away to the South and live, fearing that I should not, fearing it was the idea rather than the deed that tempted me; for the soul of a poet is not the soul of Florence Nightingale. I was sorry for this wistful Irish girl, and was hastening to her, I knew not why; not to show her the poem — the very thought was intolerable. Often did I stop on the way to ask myself why I was going, and what I was going to say to her; and without discovering an answer in my heart I hastened on. My quest was in my own heart. I would know if it were capable of making a sacrifice; and sitting down at one of her tables I waited, but she did not come, and I asked the student by me if he knew the girl generally in charge of these tables. He said he did, and told me about her case. There was no hope for her, only a transfusion of blood could save her; she was almost bloodless. Then he described how blood could be taken from the arm of a healthy man and passed into the veins of the almost bloodless. But as he spoke things began to grow dim, his voice began to grow faint, I heard someone saying, "You’re very pale,” and he ordered some brandy for me. The South could not save her; practically nothing could, and I returned home thinking of her.

Twenty years have passed and I am thinking of her again. Poor little Irish girl! Cast out in the end by a sudden freshet on an ultimate cafe. Poor little heap of bones! And I bow my head and admire the romance of destiny which ordained that I, who only saw her once, should be the last to remember her. Perhaps I should have forgotten her had it not been that I wrote a poem, a poem which I now inscribe and dedicate to her nameless memory.

GEORGE MOORE.

(To be continued.)