The Woman in White (6 page)

She nodded to me with the lively grace, the delightful refinement
of familiarity, which characterised all that she did and all that
she said; and disappeared by a door at the lower end of the room.
As soon as she had left me, I turned my steps towards the hall,
and followed the servant, on my way, for the first time, to the
presence of Mr. Fairlie.

My conductor led me upstairs into a passage which took us back to
the bedchamber in which I had slept during the past night; and
opening the door next to it, begged me to look in.

"I have my master's orders to show you your own sitting-room,
sir," said the man, "and to inquire if you approve of the
situation and the light."

I must have been hard to please, indeed, if I had not approved of
the room, and of everything about it. The bow-window looked out
on the same lovely view which I had admired, in the morning, from
my bedroom. The furniture was the perfection of luxury and
beauty; the table in the centre was bright with gaily bound books,
elegant conveniences for writing, and beautiful flowers; the
second table, near the window, was covered with all the necessary
materials for mounting water-colour drawings, and had a little
easel attached to it, which I could expand or fold up at will; the
walls were hung with gaily tinted chintz; and the floor was spread
with Indian matting in maize-colour and red. It was the prettiest
and most luxurious little sitting-room I had ever seen; and I
admired it with the warmest enthusiasm.

The solemn servant was far too highly trained to betray the
slightest satisfaction. He bowed with icy deference when my terms
of eulogy were all exhausted, and silently opened the door for me
to go out into the passage again.

We turned a corner, and entered a long second passage, ascended a
short flight of stairs at the end, crossed a small circular upper
hall, and stopped in front of a door covered with dark baize. The
servant opened this door, and led me on a few yards to a second;
opened that also, and disclosed two curtains of pale sea-green
silk hanging before us; raised one of them noiselessly; softly
uttered the words, "Mr. Hartright," and left me.

I found myself in a large, lofty room, with a magnificent carved
ceiling, and with a carpet over the floor, so thick and soft that
it felt like piles of velvet under my feet. One side of the room
was occupied by a long bookcase of some rare inlaid wood that was
quite new to me. It was not more than six feet high, and the top
was adorned with statuettes in marble, ranged at regular distances
one from the other. On the opposite side stood two antique
cabinets; and between them, and above them, hung a picture of the
Virgin and Child, protected by glass, and bearing Raphael's name
on the gilt tablet at the bottom of the frame. On my right hand
and on my left, as I stood inside the door, were chiffoniers and
little stands in buhl and marquetterie, loaded with figures in
Dresden china, with rare vases, ivory ornaments, and toys and
curiosities that sparkled at all points with gold, silver, and
precious stones. At the lower end of the room, opposite to me,
the windows were concealed and the sunlight was tempered by large
blinds of the same pale sea-green colour as the curtains over the
door. The light thus produced was deliciously soft, mysterious,
and subdued; it fell equally upon all the objects in the room; it
helped to intensify the deep silence, and the air of profound
seclusion that possessed the place; and it surrounded, with an
appropriate halo of repose, the solitary figure of the master of
the house, leaning back, listlessly composed, in a large easy-
chair, with a reading-easel fastened on one of its arms, and a
little table on the other.

If a man's personal appearance, when he is out of his dressing-
room, and when he has passed forty, can be accepted as a safe
guide to his time of life—which is more than doubtful—Mr.
Fairlie's age, when I saw him, might have been reasonably computed
at over fifty and under sixty years. His beardless face was thin,
worn, and transparently pale, but not wrinkled; his nose was high
and hooked; his eyes were of a dim greyish blue, large, prominent,
and rather red round the rims of the eyelids; his hair was scanty,
soft to look at, and of that light sandy colour which is the last
to disclose its own changes towards grey. He was dressed in a
dark frock-coat, of some substance much thinner than cloth, and in
waistcoat and trousers of spotless white. His feet were
effeminately small, and were clad in buff-coloured silk stockings,
and little womanish bronze-leather slippers. Two rings adorned
his white delicate hands, the value of which even my inexperienced
observation detected to be all but priceless. Upon the whole, he
had a frail, languidly-fretful, over-refined look—something
singularly and unpleasantly delicate in its association with a
man, and, at the same time, something which could by no
possibility have looked natural and appropriate if it had been
transferred to the personal appearance of a woman. My morning's
experience of Miss Halcombe had predisposed me to be pleased with
everybody in the house; but my sympathies shut themselves up
resolutely at the first sight of Mr. Fairlie.

On approaching nearer to him, I discovered that he was not so
entirely without occupation as I had at first supposed. Placed
amid the other rare and beautiful objects on a large round table
near him, was a dwarf cabinet in ebony and silver, containing
coins of all shapes and sizes, set out in little drawers lined
with dark purple velvet. One of these drawers lay on the small
table attached to his chair; and near it were some tiny jeweller's
brushes, a wash-leather "stump," and a little bottle of liquid,
all waiting to be used in various ways for the removal of any
accidental impurities which might be discovered on the coins. His
frail white fingers were listlessly toying with something which
looked, to my uninstructed eyes, like a dirty pewter medal with
ragged edges, when I advanced within a respectful distance of his
chair, and stopped to make my bow.

"So glad to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright," he said in
a querulous, croaking voice, which combined, in anything but an
agreeable manner, a discordantly high tone with a drowsily languid
utterance. "Pray sit down. And don't trouble yourself to move
the chair, please. In the wretched state of my nerves, movement
of any kind is exquisitely painful to me. Have you seen your
studio? Will it do?"

"I have just come from seeing the room, Mr. Fairlie; and I assure
you—-"

He stopped me in the middle of the sentence, by closing his eyes,
and holding up one of his white hands imploringly. I paused in
astonishment; and the croaking voice honoured me with this
explanation—

"Pray excuse me. But could you contrive to speak in a lower key?
In the wretched state of my nerves, loud sound of any kind is
indescribable torture to me. You will pardon an invalid? I only
say to you what the lamentable state of my health obliges me to
say to everybody. Yes. And you really like the room?"

"I could wish for nothing prettier and nothing more comfortable,"
I answered, dropping my voice, and beginning to discover already
that Mr. Fairlie's selfish affectation and Mr. Fairlie's wretched
nerves meant one and the same thing.

"So glad. You will find your position here, Mr. Hartright,
properly recognised. There is none of the horrid English
barbarity of feeling about the social position of an artist in
this house. So much of my early life has been passed abroad, that
I have quite cast my insular skin in that respect. I wish I could
say the same of the gentry—detestable word, but I suppose I must
use it—of the gentry in the neighbourhood. They are sad Goths in
Art, Mr. Hartright. People, I do assure you, who would have
opened their eyes in astonishment, if they had seen Charles the
Fifth pick up Titian's brush for him. Do you mind putting this
tray of coins back in the cabinet, and giving me the next one to
it? In the wretched state of my nerves, exertion of any kind is
unspeakably disagreeable to me. Yes. Thank you."

As a practical commentary on the liberal social theory which he
had just favoured me by illustrating, Mr. Fairlie's cool request
rather amused me. I put back one drawer and gave him the other,
with all possible politeness. He began trifling with the new set
of coins and the little brushes immediately; languidly looking at
them and admiring them all the time he was speaking to me.

"A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses. Do you like coins?
Yes. So glad we have another taste in common besides our taste
for Art. Now, about the pecuniary arrangements between us—do
tell me—are they satisfactory?"

"Most satisfactory, Mr. Fairlie."

"So glad. And—what next? Ah! I remember. Yes. In reference to
the consideration which you are good enough to accept for giving
me the benefit of your accomplishments in art, my steward will
wait on you at the end of the first week, to ascertain your
wishes. And—what next? Curious, is it not? I had a great deal
more to say: and I appear to have quite forgotten it. Do you mind
touching the bell? In that corner. Yes. Thank you."

I rang; and a new servant noiselessly made his appearance—a
foreigner, with a set smile and perfectly brushed hair—a valet
every inch of him.

"Louis," said Mr. Fairlie, dreamily dusting the tips of his
fingers with one of the tiny brushes for the coins, "I made some
entries in my tablettes this morning. Find my tablettes. A
thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright, I'm afraid I bore you."

As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I could answer, and as
he did most assuredly bore me, I sat silent, and looked up at the
Madonna and Child by Raphael. In the meantime, the valet left the
room, and returned shortly with a little ivory book. Mr. Fairlie,
after first relieving himself by a gentle sigh, let the book drop
open with one hand, and held up the tiny brush with the other, as
a sign to the servant to wait for further orders.

"Yes. Just so!" said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the tablettes.
"Louis, take down that portfolio." He pointed, as he spoke, to
several portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany stands.
"No. Not the one with the green back—that contains my Rembrandt
etchings, Mr. Hartright. Do you like etchings? Yes? So glad we
have another taste in common. The portfolio with the red back,
Louis. Don't drop it! You have no idea of the tortures I should
suffer, Mr. Hartright, if Louis dropped that portfolio. Is it
safe on the chair? Do YOU think it safe, Mr. Hartright? Yes? So
glad. Will you oblige me by looking at the drawings, if you
really think they are quite safe. Louis, go away. What an ass
you are. Don't you see me holding the tablettes? Do you suppose I
want to hold them? Then why not relieve me of the tablettes
without being told? A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright; servants
are such asses, are they not? Do tell me—what do you think of the
drawings? They have come from a sale in a shocking state—I
thought they smelt of horrid dealers' and brokers' fingers when I
looked at them last. CAN you undertake them?"

Although my nerves were not delicate enough to detect the odour of
plebeian fingers which had offended Mr. Fairlie's nostrils, my
taste was sufficiently educated to enable me to appreciate the
value of the drawings, while I turned them over. They were, for
the most part, really fine specimens of English water-colour art;
and they had deserved much better treatment at the hands of their
former possessor than they appeared to have received.

"The drawings," I answered, "require careful straining and
mounting; and, in my opinion, they are well worth—-"

"I beg your pardon," interposed Mr. Fairlie. "Do you mind my
closing my eyes while you speak? Even this light is too much for
them. Yes?"

"I was about to say that the drawings are well worth all the time
and trouble—-"

Mr. Fairlie suddenly opened his eyes again, and rolled them with
an expression of helpless alarm in the direction of the window.

"I entreat you to excuse me, Mr. Hartright," he said in a feeble
flutter. "But surely I hear some horrid children in the garden—
my private garden—below?"

"I can't say, Mr. Fairlie. I heard nothing myself."

"Oblige me—you have been so very good in humouring my poor
nerves—oblige me by lifting up a corner of the blind. Don't let
the sun in on me, Mr. Hartright! Have you got the blind up? Yes?
Then will you be so very kind as to look into the garden and make
quite sure?"

I complied with this new request. The garden was carefully walled
in, all round. Not a human creature, large or small, appeared in
any part of the sacred seclusion. I reported that gratifying fact
to Mr. Fairlie.

"A thousand thanks. My fancy, I suppose. There are no children,
thank Heaven, in the house; but the servants (persons born without
nerves) will encourage the children from the village. Such brats—
oh, dear me, such brats! Shall I confess it, Mr. Hartright?—I
sadly want a reform in the construction of children. Nature's
only idea seems to be to make them machines for the production of
incessant noise. Surely our delightful Raffaello's conception is
infinitely preferable?"

He pointed to the picture of the Madonna, the upper part of which
represented the conventional cherubs of Italian Art, celestially
provided with sitting accommodation for their chins, on balloons
of buff-coloured cloud.

"Quite a model family!" said Mr. Fairlie, leering at the cherubs.
"Such nice round faces, and such nice soft wings, and—nothing
else. No dirty little legs to run about on, and no noisy little
lungs to scream with. How immeasurably superior to the existing
construction! I will close my eyes again, if you will allow me.
And you really can manage the drawings? So glad. Is there
anything else to settle? if there is, I think I have forgotten it.
Shall we ring for Louis again?"