The Birthplace by Henry James
It seemed to them at first, the offer, too good to be true, and
their friend's letter, addressed to them to feel, as he said, the
ground, to sound them as to inclinations and possibilities, had almost
the effect of a brave joke at their expense. Their friend,
Mr Grant-Jackson, a highly preponderant, pushing person, great in
discussion and arrangement, abrupt in overture, unexpected, if not
perverse, in attitude, and almost equally acclaimed and objected to in
the wide midland region to which he had taught, as the phrase was, the
size of his foot — their friend had launched his bolt quite out of
the blue and had thereby so shaken them as to make them fear almost
more than hope. The place had fallen vacant by the death of one of the
two ladies, mother and daughter, who had discharged its duties for
fifteen years; the daughter was staying on alone, to accommodate, but
had found, though extremely mature, an opportunity of marriage that
involved retirement, and the question of the new incumbents was not a
little pressing. The want thus determined was of a united couple of
some sort, of the right sort, a pair of educated and competent sisters
possibly preferred, but a married pair having its advantage if other
qualifications were marked. Applicants, candidates, besiegers of the
door of everyone supposed to have a voice in the matter, were already
beyond counting, and Mr Grant-Jackson, who was in his way diplomatic
and whose voice, though not perhaps of the loudest, possessed notes of
insistence, had found his preference fixing itself on some person or
brace of persons who had been decent and dumb. The Gedges appeared to
have struck him as waiting in silence — though absolutely, as
happened, no busybody had brought them, far away in the north, a hint
either of bliss or of danger; and the happy spell, for the rest, had
obviously been wrought in him by a remembrance which, though now
scarcely fresh, had never before borne any such fruit.
Morris Gedge had for a few years, as a young man, carried on a
small private school of the order known as preparatory, and had
happened then to receive under his roof the small son of the great
man, who was not at that time so great. The little boy, during an
absence of his parents from England, had been dangerously ill, so
dangerously that they had been recalled in haste, though with
inevitable delays, from a far country — they had gone to America,
with the whole continent and the great sea to cross again — and had
got back to find the child saved, but saved, as couldn't help coming
to light, by the extreme devotion and perfect judgement of Mrs Gedge.
Without children of her own, she had particularly attached herself to
this tiniest and tenderest of her husband's pupils, and they had both
dreaded as a dire disaster the injury to their little enterprise that
would be caused by their losing him. Nervous, anxious, sensitive
persons, with a pride — as they were for that matter well aware —
above their position, never, at the best, to be anything but dingy,
they had nursed him in terror and had brought him through in
exhaustion. Exhaustion, as befell, had thus overtaken them early and
had for one reason and another managed to assert itself as their
permanent portion. The little boy's death would, as they said, have
done for them, yet his recovery hadn't saved them; with which it was
doubtless also part of a shy but stiff candour in them that they
didn't regard themselves as having in a more indirect manner laid up
treasure. Treasure was not to be, in any form whatever, of their
dreams or of their waking sense; and the years that followed had
limped under their weight, had now and then rather grievously
stumbled, had even barely escaped laying them in the dust. The school
had not prospered, had but dwindled to a close. Gedge's health had
failed, and, still more, every sign in him of a capacity to publish
himself as practical. He had tried several things, he had tried many,
but the final appearance was of their having tried him not less. They
mostly, at the time I speak of, were trying his successors, while he
found himself, with an effect of dull felicity that had come in this
case from the mere postponement of change, in charge of the grey
town-library of Blackport-on-Dwindle, all granite, fog and female
fiction. This was a situation in which his general intelligence —
acknowledged as his strong point — was doubtless conceived, around
him, as feeling less of a strain than that mastery of particulars in
which he was recognised as weak.
It was at Blackport-on-Dwindle that the silver shaft reached and
pierced him; it was as an alternative to dispensing dog's-eared
volumes the very titles of which, on the lips of innumerable glib
girls, were a challenge to his temper, that the wardenship of so
different a temple presented itself. The stipend named differed little
from the slim wage at present paid him, but even had it been less the
interest and the honour would have struck him as determinant. The
shrine at which he was to preside — though he had always lacked
occasion to approach it — figured to him as the most sacred known to
the steps of men, the early home of the supreme poet, the Mecca of the
English-speaking race. The tears came into his eyes sooner still than
into his wife's while he looked about with her at their actual narrow
prison, so grim with enlightenment, so ugly with industry, so turned
away from any dream, so intolerable to any taste. He felt as if a
window, had opened into a great green woodland, a woodland that had a
name, glorious, immortal, that was peopled with vivid figures, each of
them renowned, and that gave out a murmur, deep as the sound of the
sea, which was the rustle in forest shade of all the poetry, the
beauty, the colour of life. It would be prodigious that of this
transfigured world he should keep the key. No — he couldn't
believe it, not even when Isabel, at sight of his face, came and
helpfully kissed him. He shook his head with a strange smile. "We
shan't get it. Why should we? It's perfect."
"If we don't he'll simply have been cruel; which is impossible
when he has waited all this time to be kind." Mrs Gedge did believe —
she would; since the wide doors of the world of poetry had
suddenly pushed back for them it was in the form of poetic justice
that they were first to know it. She had her faith in their patron; it
was sudden, but it was now complete. "He remembers — that's all; and
that's our strength."
"And what's his?" Gedge asked. "He may
want to put
us through, but that's a different thing from being able. What are our
"Well, that we're just the thing." Her knowledge of the needs of
the case was, as yet, thanks to scant information, of the vaguest, and
she had never, more than her husband, stood on the sacred spot; but
she saw herself waving a nicely-gloved hand over a collection of
remarkable objects and saying to a compact crowd of gaping, awe-struck
persons: "And now, please, this way." She even heard herself
meeting with promptness and decision an occasional inquiry from a
visitor in whom audacity had prevailed over awe. She had been once,
with a cousin, years before, to a great northern castle, and that was
the way the housekeeper had taken them round. And it was not moreover,
either, that she thought of herself as a housekeeper: she was well
above that, and the wave of her hand wouldn't fail to be such as to
show it. This, and much else, she summed up as she answered her mate.
"Our special advantages are that you're a gentleman."
"Oh!" said Gedge, as if he had never thought of it, and yet as if
too it were scarce worth thinking of.
"I see it all," she went on; "they've had the vulgar —
they find they don't do. We're poor and we're modest, but anyone can
see what we are."
Gedge wondered. "Do you mean—?" More modest than she, he didn't
know quite what she meant.
"We're refined. We know how to speak."
"Do we?" — he still, suddenly, wondered.
But she was, from the first, surer of everything than he; so that
when a few weeks more had elapsed and the shade of uncertainty —
though it was only a shade — had grown almost to sicken him, her
triumph was to come with the news that they were fairly named. "We're
on poor pay, though we manage" — she had on the present occasion
insisted on her point. "But we're highly cultivated, and for them to
get that, don't you see? without getting too much with it in
the way of pretensions and demands, must be precisely their dream.
We've no social position, but we don't mind that we haven't, do
we? a bit; which is because we know the difference between realities
and shams. We hold to reality, and that gives us common sense, which
the vulgar have less than anything, and which yet must be wanted
there, after all, as well as anywhere else."
Her companion followed her, but musingly, as if his horizon had
within a few moments grown so great that he was almost lost in it and
required a new orientation. The shining spaces surrounded him; the
association alone gave a nobler arch to the sky. "Allow that we hold
also a little to the romance. It seems to me that that's the beauty.
We've missed it all our life, and now it's come. We shall be at
head-quarters for it. We shall have our fill of it."
She looked at his face, at the effect in it of these prospects,
and her own lighted as if he had suddenly grown handsome. "Certainly
— we shall live as in a fairy-tale. But what I mean is that we shall
give, in a way — and so gladly — quite as much as we get. With all
the rest of it we're, for instance, neat." Their letter had come to
them at breakfast, and she picked a fly out of the butter-dish. "It's
the way we'll keep the place" — with which she removed from
the sofa to the top of the cottage-piano a tin of biscuits that had
refused to squeeze into the cupboard. At Blackport they were in
lodgings — of the lowest description, she had been known, with a
freedom felt by Blackport to be slightly invidious, to declare. The
Birthplace — and that itself, after such a life, was exaltation —
wouldn't be lodgings, since a house close beside it was set apart for
the warden, a house joining on to it as a sweet old parsonage is often
annexed to a quaint old church. It would all together be their home,
and such a home as would make a little world that they would never
want to leave. She dwelt on the gain, for that matter, to their income;
as, obviously, though the salary was not a change for the better, the
house, given them, would make all the difference. He assented to this,
but absently, and she was almost impatient at the range of his
thoughts. It was as if something, for him — the very swarm of them —
veiled the view; and he presently, of himself, showed what it was.
"What I can't get over is its being such a man—!" He almost, from
inward emotion, broke down.
"Such a man—?"
"Him, him, HIM—!" It was too much.
"Grant-Jackson? Yes, it's a surprise, but one sees how he has been
meaning, all the while, the right thing by us."
"I mean Him," Gedge returned more coldly; "our becoming
familiar and intimate — for that's what it will come to. We shall
just live with Him."
"Of course — it is the beauty." And she added quite gaily:
"The more we do the more we shall love Him."
"No doubt — but it's rather awful. The more we know Him,"
Gedge reflected, "the more we shall love Him. We don't as yet, you
see, know Him so very tremendously."
"We do so quite as well, I imagine, as the sort of people they've
had. And that probably isn't — unless you care, as we do — so
awfully necessary. For there are the facts."
"Yes — there are the facts."
"I mean the principal ones. They're all that the people — the
people who come — want."
"Yes — they must be all they want."
"So that they're all that those who've been in charge have needed
"Ah," he said as if it were a question of honour, "we must
She cheerfully acceded: she had the merit, he felt, of keeping the
case within bounds. "Everything. But about him personally," she added,
"there isn't, is there? so very, very much."
"More, I believe, than there used to be. They've made discoveries."
It was a grand thought. "Perhaps we shall make some!"
"Oh, I shall be content to be a little better up in what has been
done." And his eyes rested on a shelf of books, half of which, little
worn but much faded, were of the florid 'gift' order and belonged to
the house. Of those among them that were his own most were common
specimens of the reference sort, not excluding an old Bradshaw and a
catalogue of the town-library. "We've not even a Set of our own. Of
the Works," he explained in quick repudiation of the sense, perhaps
more obvious, in which she might have taken it.
As a proof of their scant range of possessions this sounded almost
abject, till the painful flush with which they met on the admission
melted presently into a different glow. It was just for that kind of
poorness that their new situation was, by its intrinsic charm, to
console them. And Mrs Gedge had a happy thought. "Wouldn't the Library
more or less have them?"
"Oh no, we've nothing of that sort: for what do you take us?"
This, however, was but the play of Gedge's high spirits: the form both
depression and exhilaration most frequently took with him being a
bitterness on the subject of the literary taste of Blackport. No one
was so deeply acquainted with it. It acted with him in fact as so lurid
a sign of the future that the charm of the thought of removal was
sharply enhanced by the prospect of escape from it. The institution he
served didn't of course deserve the particular reproach into which his
irony had flowered; and indeed if the several Sets in which the Works
were present were a trifle dusty, the dust was a little his own fault.
To make up for that now he had the vision of immediately giving his
time to the study of them; he saw himself indeed, inflamed with a new
passion, earnestly commenting and collating. Mrs Gedge, who had
suggested that they ought, till their move should come, to read Him
regularly of an evening — certain as they were to do it still more
when in closer quarters with Him — Mrs Gedge felt also, in her
degree, the spell; so that the very happiest time of their anxious
life was perhaps to have been the series of lamplight hours, after
supper, in which, alternately taking the book, they declaimed, they
almost performed, their beneficent author. He became speedily more
than their author — their personal friend, their universal light,
their final authority and divinity. Where in the world, they were
already asking themselves, would they have been without him? By the
time their appointment arrived in form their relation to him had
immensely developed. It was amusing to Morris Gedge that he had so
lately blushed for his ignorance, and he made this remark to his wife
during the last hour they were able to give to their study, before
proceeding, across half the country, to the scene of their romantic
future. It was as if, in deep, close throbs, in cool after-waves that
broke of a sudden and bathed his mind, all possession and
comprehension and sympathy, all the truth and the life and the story,
had come to him, and come, as the newspapers said, to stay. "It's
absurd," he didn't hesitate to say, "to talk of our not 'knowing'. So
far as we don't it's because we're donkeys. He's in the thing,
over His ears, and the more we get into it the more we're with Him. I
seem to myself at any rate," he declared, "to see Him in it as
if He were painted on the wall."
"Oh, doesn't one rather, the dear thing? And don't you feel
where it is?" Mrs Gedge finely asked. "We see Him because we love Him
— that's what we do. How can we not, the old darling — with what
He's doing for us? There's no light" — she had a sententious turn —
"like true affection."
"Yes, I suppose that's it. And yet," her husband mused, "I see,
confound me, the faults."
"That's because you're so critical. You see them, but you don't
mind them. You see them, but you forgive them. You mustn't mention
them there. We shan't, you know, be there for that."
"Dear no!" he laughed: "we'll chuck out anyone who hints at them."
If the sweetness of the preliminary months had been great, great
too, though almost excessive as agitation, was the wonder of fairly
being housed with Him, of treading day and night in the footsteps He
had worn, of touching the objects, or at all events the surfaces, the
substances, over which His hands had played, which his arms, his
shoulders had rubbed, of breathing the air — or something not too
unlike it — in which His voice had sounded. They had had a little at
first their bewilderments, their disconcertedness; the place was both
humbler and grander than they had exactly prefigured, more at once of
a cottage and of a museum, a little more archaically bare and yet a
little more richly official. But the sense was strong with them that
the point of view, for the inevitable ease of the connection,
patiently, indulgently awaited them; in addition to which, from the
first evening, after closing-hour, when the last blank pilgrim had
gone, the mere spell, the mystic presence — as if they had had it
quite to themselves — were all they could have desired. They had
received, by Grant-Jackson's care and in addition to a table of
instructions and admonitions by the number, and in some particulars by
the nature, of which they found themselves slightly depressed, various
little guides, handbooks, travellers' tributes, literary memorials
and other catch-penny publications, which, however, were to be for the
moment swallowed up in the interesting episode of the induction or
initiation appointed for them in advance at the hands of several
persons whose connection with the establishment was, as superior to
their own, still more official, and at those in especial of one of the
ladies who had for so many years borne the brunt. About the
instructions from above, about the shilling books and the well-known
facts and the full-blown legend, the supervision, the subjection, the
submission, the view as of a cage in which he should circulate and a
groove in which he should slide, Gedge had preserved a certain play of
mind; but all power of reaction appeared suddenly to desert him in the
presence of his so visibly competent predecessor and as an effect of
her good offices. He had not the resource, enjoyed by his wife, of
seeing himself, with impatience, attired in black silk of a make
characterised by just the right shade of austerity; so that this firm,
smooth, expert and consummately respectable middle-aged person had him
somehow, on the whole ground, completely at her mercy.
It was evidently something of a rueful moment when, as a lesson
she being for the day or two still in the field — he accepted Miss
Putchin's suggestion of 'going round' with her and with the
successive squads of visitors she was there to deal with. He
appreciated her method — he saw there had to be one; he
admired her as succinct and definite; for there were the facts, as his
wife had said at Blackport, and they were to be disposed of in the
time; yet he felt like a very little boy as he dangled, more than
once, with Mrs Gedge, at the tail of the human comet. The idea had
been that they should, by this attendance, more fully embrace the
possible accidents and incidents, as it were, of the relation to the
great public in which they were to find themselves; and the poor man's
excited perception of the great public rapidly became such as to
resist any diversion meaner than that of the admirable manner of their
guide. It wandered from his gaping companions to that of the priestess
in black silk, whom he kept asking himself if either he or Isabel
could hope by any possibility ever remotely to resemble; then it
bounded restlessly back to the numerous persons who revealed to him,
as it had never yet been revealed, the happy power of the simple to
hang upon the lips of the wise. The great thing seemed to be — and
quite surprisingly — that the business was easy and the strain, which
as a strain they had feared, moderate; so that he might have been
puzzled, had he fairly caught himself in the act, by his recognising
as the last effect of the impression an odd absence of the ability to
rest in it, an agitation deep within him that vaguely threatened to
grow. "It isn't, you see, so very complicated," the black silk lady
seemed to throw off, with everything else, in her neat, crisp,
cheerful way; in spite of which he already, the very first time —
that is after several parties had been in and out and up and down —
went so far as to wonder if there weren't more in it than she
imagined. She was, so to speak, kindness itself — was all
encouragement and reassurance; but it was just her slightly coarse
redolence of these very things that, on repetition, before they
parted, dimmed a little, as he felt, the light of his acknowledging
smile. That, again, she took for a symptom of some pleading weakness
in him — he could never be as brave as she; so that she wound up with
a few pleasant words from the very depth of her experience. "You'll
get into it, never fear — it will come; and then you'll feel
as if you had never done anything else." He was afterwards to know
that, on the spot, at this moment, he must have begun to wince a
little at such a menace; that he might come to feel as if he had never
done anything but what Miss Putchin did loomed for him, in germ, as a
penalty to pay. The support she offered, none the less, continued to
strike him; she put the whole thing on so sound a basis when she said:
"You see they're so nice about it — they take such an interest. And
they never do a thing they shouldn't. That was always everything to
mother and me." 'They', Gedge had already noticed, referred
constantly and hugely, in the good woman's talk, to the millions who
shuffled through the house; the pronoun in question was forever on her
lips, the hordes it represented filled her consciousness, the addition
of their numbers ministered to her glory. Mrs Gedge promptly met her.
"It must be indeed delightful to see the effect on so many, and to
feel that one may perhaps do something to make it — well, permanent."
But he was kept silent by his becoming more sharply aware that this
was a new view, for him, of the reference made, that he had never
thought of the quality of the place as derived from Them, but from
Somebody Else, and that They, in short, seemed to have got into the
way of crowding out Him. He found himself even a little resenting this
for Him, which perhaps had something to do with the slightly invidious
cast of his next inquiry.
"And are They always, as one might say — a — stupid?"
"Stupid!". She stared, looking as if no one could be such a
thing in such a connection. No one had ever been anything but neat and
cheerful and fluent, except to be attentive and unobjectionable and,
so far as was possible, American.
"What I mean is," he explained, "is there any perceptible
proportion that take an interest in Him?"
His wife stepped on his toe; she deprecated irony. But his mistake
fortunately was lost on their friend. "That's just why they come, that
they take such an interest. I sometimes think they take more than
about anything else in the world." With which Miss Putchin looked
about at the place. "It is pretty, don't you think, the way
they've got it now?" This, Gedge saw, was a different 'They'; it
applied to the powers that were — the people who had appointed him,
the governing, visiting Body, in respect to which he was afterwards to
remark to Mrs Gedge that a fellow — it was the difficulty — didn't
know "where to have her." His wife, at a loss, questioned at that
moment the necessity of having her anywhere, and he said,
good-humouredly, "Of course; it's all right." He was in fact content
enough with the last touches their friend had given the picture.
"There are many who know all about it when they come, and the
Americans often are tremendously up. Mother and me really enjoyed" —
it was her only slip — "the interest of the Americans. We've
sometimes had ninety a day, and all wanting to see and hear
everything. But you'll work them off; you'll see the way — it's all
experience." She came back, for his comfort, to that. She came back
also to other things: she did justice to the considerable class who
arrived positive and primed. "There are those who know more about it
than you do. But that only comes from their interest."
"Who know more about what?" Gedge inquired.
"Why, about the place. I mean they have their ideas — of what
everything is, and where it is, and what it isn't, and where it should be. They do ask questions," she said, yet not so much in
warning as in the complacency of being seasoned and sound; "and
they're down on you when they think you go wrong. As if you ever
could! You know too much," she sagaciously smiled; "or you will
"Oh, you mustn't know too much, must you?" And Gedge now
smiled as well. He knew, he thought, what he meant.
"Well, you must know as much as anybody else. I claim, at any
rate, that I do," Miss Putchin declared. "They never really caught me."
"I'm very sure of that," Mrs Gedge said with an elation
"Certainly," he added, "I don't want to be caught." She rejoined
that, in such a case, he would have Them down on him, and he saw
that this time she meant the powers above. It quickened his sense of
all the elements that were to reckon with, yet he felt at the same
time that the powers above were not what he should most fear. "I'm
glad," he observed, "that they ever ask questions; but I happened to
notice, you know, that no one did to-day."
"Then you missed several — and no loss. There were three or four
put to me too silly to remember. But of course they mostly are
"You mean the questions?"
She laughed with all her cheer. "Yes, sir; I don't mean the
Whereupon, for a moment snubbed and silent, he felt like one of
the crowd. Then it made him slightly vicious. "I didn't know but you
meant the people in general — till I remembered that I'm to
understand from you that they're wise, only occasionally
It was not really till then, he thought, that she lost patience;
and he had had, much more than he meant no doubt, a cross-questioning
air. "You'll see for yourself." Of which he was sure enough. He was
in fact so ready to take this that she came round to full
accommodation, put it frankly that every now and then they broke out
— not the silly, oh no, the intensely inquiring. "We've had quite
lively discussions, don't you know, about well-known points. They want
it all their way, and I know the sort that are going to as soon
as I see them. That's one of the things you do — you get to know the
sorts. And if it's what you're afraid of — their taking you up," she
was further gracious enough to say, "you needn't mind a bit. What do
they know, after all, when for us it's our life? I've never moved an
inch, because, you see, I shouldn't have been here if I didn't know
where I was. No more will you be a year hence — you know what
I mean, putting it impossibly — if you don't. I expect you do,
in spite of your fancies." And she dropped once more to bedrock.
"There are the facts. Otherwise where would any of us be? That's all
you've got to go upon. A person, however cheeky, can't have them his way just because he takes it into his head. There can only be
one way, and," she gaily added as she took leave of them, "I'm
sure it's quite enough!"
Gedge not only assented eagerly — one way was quite enough
if it were the right one — but repeated it, after this conversation,
at odd moments, several times over to his wife. "There can only be one
way, one way," he continued to remark — though indeed much as if it
were a joke; till she asked him how many more he supposed she wanted.
He failed to answer this question, but resorted to another repetition,
"There are the facts, the facts," which, perhaps, however, he kept a
little more to himself, sounding it at intervals in different parts of
the house. Mrs Gedge was full of comment on their clever
introductress, though not restrictively save in the matter of her
speech, "Me and mother," and a general tone — which certainly was
not their sort of thing. "I don't know," he said, "perhaps it comes
with the place, since speaking in immortal verse doesn't seem to come.
It must be, one seems to see, one thing or the other. I dare say that
in a few months I shall also be at it — 'me and the wife'."
"Why not me and the missus at once?" Mrs Gedge resentfully
inquired. "I don't think," she observed at another time, "that I quite
know what's the matter with you."
"It's only that I'm excited, awfully excited — as I don't see how
one can not be. You wouldn't have a fellow drop into this berth as
into an appointment at the Post Office. Here on the spot it goes to my
head; how can that be helped? But we shall live into it, and perhaps,"
he said with an implication of the other possibility that was
doubtless but part of his fine ecstasy, "we shall live through it."
The place acted on his imagination — how, surely, shouldn't it? And
his imagination acted on his nerves, and these things together, with
the general vividness and the new and complete immersion, made rest
for him almost impossible, so that he could scarce go to bed at night
and even during the first week more than once rose in the small hours
to move about, up and down, with his lamp, standing, sitting,
listening, wondering, in the stillness, as if positively to recover
some echo, to surprise some secret, of the genius loci. He
couldn't have explained it — and didn't in fact need to explain it,
at least to himself, since the impulse simply held him and shook him;
but the time after closing, the time above all after the people —
Them, as he felt himself on the way to think of them, predominant,
insistent, all in the foreground — brought him, or ought to have
brought him, he seemed to see, nearer to the enshrined Presence,
enlarged the opportunity for communion and intensified the sense of
it. These nightly prowls, as he called them, were disquieting to his
wife, who had no disposition to share in them, speaking with decision
of the whole place as just the place to be forbidding after dark. She
rejoiced in the distinctness, contiguous though it was, of their own
little residence, where she trimmed the lamp and stirred the fire and
heard the kettle sing, repairing the while the omissions of the small
domestic who slept out; she foresaw herself with some promptness,
drawing rather sharply the line between her own precinct and that in
which the great spirit might walk. It would be with them, the great
spirit, all day — even if indeed on her making that remark, and in
just that form, to her husband, he replied with a queer "But will he
though?" And she vaguely imaged the development of a domestic antidote
after a while, precisely, in the shape of curtains more markedly drawn
and everything most modern and lively, tea, 'patterns', the
newspapers, the female fiction itself that they had reacted against at
Blackport, quite defiantly cultivated.
These possibilities, however, were all right, as her companion
said it was, all the first autumn — they had arrived at summer's end;
as if he were more than content with a special set of his own that he
had access to from behind, passing out of their low door for the few
steps between it and the Birthplace. With his lamp ever so carefully
guarded, and his nursed keys that made him free of treasures, he
crossed the dusky interval so often that she began to qualify it as a
habit that 'grew'. She spoke of it almost as if he had taken to drink,
and he humoured that view of it by confessing that the cup was strong.
This had been in truth, altogether, his immediate sense of it; strange
and deep for him the spell of silent sessions before familiarity and,
to some small extent, disappointment had set in. The exhibitional side
of the establishment had struck him, even on arrival, as qualifying
too much its character; he scarce knew what he might best have looked
for, but the three or four rooms bristled overmuch, in the garish
light of day, with busts and relics, not even ostensibly always His
, old prints and old editions, old objects fashioned in His likeness,
furniture 'of the time' and autographs of celebrated worshippers. In
the quiet hours and the deep dusk, none the less, under the play of
the shifted lamp and that of his own emotion, these things too
recovered their advantage, ministered to the mystery, or at all events
to the impression, seemed consciously to offer themselves as personal
to the poet. Not one of them was really or unchallengeably so, but
they had somehow, through long association, got, as Gedge always
phrased it, into the secret, and it was about the secret he asked them
while he restlessly wandered. It was not till months had elapsed that
he found how little they had to tell him, and he was quite at his ease
with them when he knew they were by no means where his sensibility had
first placed them. They were as out of it as he; only, to do them
justice, they had made him immensely feel. And still, too, it was not
they who had done that most, since his sentiment had gradually cleared
itself to deep, to deeper refinements.
The Holy of Holies of the Birthplace was the low, the sublime
Chamber of Birth, sublime because, as the Americans usually said —
unlike the natives they mostly found words — it was so pathetic; and
pathetic because it was — well, really nothing else in the world that
one could name, number or measure. It was as empty as a shell of which
the kernel has withered, and contained neither busts nor prints nor
early copies; it contained only the Fact — the Fact itself —
which, as he stood sentient there at midnight, our friend, holding his
breath, allowed to sink into him. He had to take it as the
place where the spirit would most walk and where he would therefore be
most to be met, with possibilities of recognition and reciprocity. He
hadn't, most probably — He hadn't — much inhabited the room,
as men weren't apt, as a rule, to convert to their later use and
involve in their wider fortune the scene itself of their nativity. But
as there were moments when, in the conflict of theories, the sole
certainty surviving for the critic threatened to be that He had not —
unlike other successful men — not been born, so Gedge, though
little of a critic, clung to the square feet of space that connected
themselves, however feebly, with the positive appearance. He was
little of a critic — he was nothing of one; he hadn't pretended to
the character before coming, nor come to pretend to it; also, luckily
for him, he was seeing day by day how little use he could possibly
have for it. It would be to him, the attitude of a high expert,
distinctly a stumbling-block, and that he rejoiced, as the winter
waned, in his ignorance, was one of the propositions he betook
himself, in his odd manner, to enunciating to his wife. She denied it,
for hadn't she, in the first place, been present, wasn't she still
present, at his pious, his tireless study of everything connected with
the subject? — so present that she had herself learned more about it
than had ever seemed likely. Then, in the second place, he was not to
proclaim on the housetops any point at which he might be weak, for who
knew, if it should get abroad that they were ignorant, what effect
might be produced—?
"On the attraction" — he took her up — "of the Show?"
He had fallen into the harmless habit of speaking of the place as
the 'Show'; but she didn't mind this so much as to be diverted by it.
"No; on the attitude of the Body. You know they're pleased with us,
and I don't see why you should want to spoil it. We got in by a tight
squeeze — you know we've had evidence of that, and that it was about
as much as our backers could manage. But we're proving a comfort to
them, and it's absurd of you to question your suitability to people
who were content with the Putchins."
"I don't, my dear," he returned, "question anything; but if I
should do so it would be precisely because of the greater advantage
constituted for the Putchins by the simplicity of their spirit. They
were kept straight by the quality of their ignorance — which was
denser even than mine. It was a mistake in us, from the first, to have
attempted to correct or to disguise ours. We should have waited simply
to become good parrots, to learn our lesson — all on the spot here,
so little of it is wanted — and squawk it off."
"Ah, 'squawk', love — what a word to use about Him!"
"It isn't about Him — nothing's about Him. None of Them care
tuppence about Him. The only thing They care about is this empty shell
— or rather, for it isn't empty, the extraneous, preposterous
stuffing of it."
"Preposterous?" — he made her stare with this as he had not yet
At sight of her look, however — the gleam, as it might have been,
of a queer suspicion — he bent to her kindly and tapped her cheek.
"Oh, it's all right. We must fall back on the Putchins. Do you
remember what she said? — 'They've made it so pretty now.' They have made it pretty, and it's a first-rate show. It's a first-rate
show and a first-rate billet, and He was a first-rate poet, and you're
a first-rate woman — to put up so sweetly, I mean, with my nonsense."
She appreciated his domestic charm and she justified that part of
his tribute which concerned herself. "I don't care how much of your
nonsense you talk to me, so long as you keep it all for me and
don't treat Them to it."
"The pilgrims? No," he conceded — "it isn't fair to Them. They
"What complaint have we, after all, to make of Them so long as
They don't break off bits — as They used, Miss Putchin told us, so
awfully — to conceal about Their Persons? She broke them at least of
"Yes," Gedge mused again; "I wish awfully she hadn't!"
"You would like the relics destroyed, removed? That's all that's
"There are no relics."
"There won't be any soon, unless you take care." But he was
already laughing, and the talk was not dropped without his having
patted her once more. An impression or two, however, remained with her
from it, as he saw from a question she asked him on the morrow. "What
did you mean yesterday about Miss Putchin's simplicity — its keeping
her 'straight'? Do you mean mentally?"
Her 'mentally' was rather portentous, but he practically
confessed. "Well, it kept her up. I mean," he amended, laughing, "it
kept her down."
It was really as if she had been a little uneasy. "You consider
there's a danger of your being affected? You know what I mean. Of its
going to your head. You do know," she insisted as he said nothing.
"Through your caring for Him so. You'd certainly be right in that
case about its having been a mistake for you to plunge so deep." And
then as his listening without reply, though with his look a little sad
for her, might have denoted that, allowing for extravagance of
statement, he saw there was something in it: "Give up your prowls.
Keep it for daylight. Keep it for Them."
"Ah," he smiled, "if one could! My prowls," he added, "are what I
most enjoy. They're the only time, as I've told you before, that I'm
really with Him. Then I don't see the place. He isn't the
"I don't care for what you 'don't' see," she replied with
vivacity; "the question is of what you do see."
Well, if it was, he waited before meeting it. "Do you know what I
sometimes do?" And then as she waited too: "In the Birthroom there,
when I look in late, I often put out my light. That makes it better."
"What is it then you see in the dark?"
"Nothing!" said Morris Gedge.
"And what's the pleasure of that?"
"Well, what the American ladies say. It's so fascinating."
The autumn was brisk, as Miss Putchin had told them it would be,
but business naturally fell off with the winter months and the short
days. There was rarely an hour indeed without a call of some sort, and
they were never allowed to forget that they kept the shop in all the
world, as they might say, where custom was least fluctuating. The
seasons told on it, as they tell upon travel, but no other influence,
consideration or convulsion to which the population of the globe is
exposed. This population, never exactly in simultaneous hordes, but in
a full, swift and steady stream, passed through the smoothly-working
mill and went, in its variety of degrees duly impressed and edified,
on its artless way. Gedge gave himself up, with much ingenuity of
spirit, to trying to keep in relation with it; having even at moments,
in the early time, glimpses of the chance that the impressions
gathered from so rare an opportunity for contact with the general mind
might prove as interesting as anything else in the connection. Types,
classes, nationalities, manners, diversities of behaviour, modes of
seeing, feeling, of expression, would pass before him and become for
him, after a fashion, the experience of an untravelled man. His
journeys had been short and saving, but poetic justice again seemed
inclined to work for him in placing him just at the point in all
Europe perhaps where the confluence of races was thickest. The theory,
at any rate, carried him on, operating helpfully for the term of his
anxious beginnings and gilding in a manner — it was the way he
characterized the case to his wife — the somewhat stodgy gingerbread
of their daily routine. They had not known many people, and their
visiting-list was small — which made it again poetic justice that
they should be visited on such a scale. They dressed and were at home,
they were under arms and received, and except for the offer of
refreshment — and Gedge had his view that there would eventually be a buffet farmed out to a great firm — their hospitality would have
made them princely if mere hospitality ever did. Thus they were
launched, and it was interesting, and from having been ready to drop,
originally, with fatigue, they emerged even-winded and strong in the
legs, as if they had had an Alpine holiday. This experience, Gedge
opined, also represented, as a gain, a like seasoning of the spirit —
by which he meant a certain command of impenetrable patience.
The patience was needed for the particular feature of the ordeal
that, by the time the lively season was with them again, had
disengaged itself as the sharpest — the immense assumption of
veracities and sanctities, of the general soundness of the legend
with which everyone arrived. He was well provided, certainly, for
meeting it, and he gave all he had, yet he had sometimes the sense of
a vague resentment on the part of his pilgrims at his not ladling, out
their fare with a bigger spoon. An irritation had begun to grumble in
him during the comparatively idle months of winter when a pilgrim would
turn up singly. The pious individual, entertained for the half-hour,
had occasionally seemed to offer him the promise of beguilement or the
semblance of a personal relation; it came back again to the few
pleasant calls he had received in the course of a life almost void of
social amenity. Sometimes he liked the person, the face, the speech:
an educated man, a gentleman, not one of the herd; a graceful woman,
vague, accidental, unconscious of him, but making him wonder, while he
hovered, who she was. These chances represented for him light
yearnings and faint flutters; they acted indeed, within him, in a
special, an extraordinary way. He would have liked to talk with such
stray companions, to talk with them really, to talk with them
as he might have talked if he had met them where he couldn't meet them
— at dinner, in the 'world', on a visit at a country-house. Then he
could have said — and about the shrine and the idol always — things
he couldn't say now. The form in which his irritation first came to
him was that of his feeling obliged to say to them — to the single
visitor, even when sympathetic, quite as to the gaping group — the
particular things, a dreadful dozen or so, that they expected. If he
had thus arrived at characterising these things as dreadful the reason
touches the very point that, for a while turning everything over, he
kept dodging, not facing, trying to ignore. The point was that he was
on his way to become two quite different persons, the public and the
private, and yet that it would somehow have to be managed that these
persons should live together. He was splitting into halves,
unmistakably — he who, whatever else he had been, had at least always
been so entire and in his way, so solid. One of the halves, or perhaps
even, since the split promised to be rather unequal, one of the
quarters, was the keeper, the showman, the priest of the idol; the
other piece was the poor unsuccessful honest man he had always been.
There were moments when he recognised this primary character as he
had never done before; when he in fact quite shook in his shoes at the
idea that it perhaps had in reserve some supreme assertion of its
identity. It was honest, verily, just by reason of the possibility. It
was poor and unsuccessful because here it was just on the verge of
quarrelling with its bread and butter. Salvation would be of course —
the salvation of the showman — rigidly to keep it on the
verge; not to let it, in other words, overpass by an inch. He might
count on this, he said to himself, if there weren't any public — if
there weren't thousands of people demanding of him what he was paid
for. He saw the approach of the stage at which they would affect him,
the thousands of people — and perhaps even more the earnest
individual — as coming really to see if he were earning his wage.
Wouldn't he soon begin to fancy them in league with the Body,
practically deputed by it — given, no doubt, a kindled suspicion to
look in and report observations? It was the way he broke down with the
lonely pilgrim that led to his first heart-searchings — broke down as
to the courage required for damping an uncritical faith. What they all
most wanted was to feel that everything was 'just as it was'; only the
shock of having to part with that vision was greater than any
individual could bear unsupported. The bad moments were upstairs in
the Birthroom, for here the forces pressing on the very edge assumed a
dire intensity. The mere expression of eye, all-credulous, omnivorous
and fairly moistening in the act, with which many persons gazed about,
might eventually make it difficult for him to remain fairly civil.
Often they came in pairs — sometimes one had come before — and then
they explained to each other. He never in that case corrected; he
listened, for the lesson of listening: after which he would remark to
his wife that there was no end to what he was learning. He saw that if
he should really ever break down it would be with her he would begin.
He had given her hints and digs enough, but she was so inflamed with
appreciation that she either didn't feel them or pretended not to
This was the greater complication that, with the return of the
spring and the increase of the public, her services were more required.
She took the field with him, from an early hour; she was present with
the party above while he kept an eye, and still more an ear, on the
party below; and how could he know, he asked himself, what she might
say to them and what she might suffer Them to say — or in
other words, poor wretches, to believe — while removed from his
control? Some day or other, and before too long, he couldn't but
think, he must have the matter out with her — the matter, namely, of
the morality of their position. The morality of women was
special — he was getting lights on that. Isabel's conception of her
office was to cherish and enrich the legend. It was already, the
legend, very taking, but what was she there for but to make it more so?
She certainly wasn't there to chill any natural piety. If it was all
in the air — all in their 'eye', as the vulgar might say — that He
had been born in the Birthroom, where was the value of the
sixpences they took? Where the equivalent they had engaged to supply?
"Oh dear, yes — just about here"; and she must tap the place
with her foot. "Altered? Oh dear, no — save in a few trifling
particulars; you see the place — and isn't that just the charm of it?
— quite as He saw it. Very poor and homely, no doubt; but
that's just what's so wonderful." He didn't want to hear her, and yet
he didn't want to give her her head; he didn't want to make
difficulties or to snatch the bread from her mouth. But he must none
the less give her a warning before they had gone too far. That
was the way, one evening in June, he put it to her; the affluence,
with the finest weather, having lately been of the largest, and the
crowd, all day, fairly gorged with the story. "We mustn't, you know,
go too far."
The odd thing was that she had now ceased to be even conscious of
what troubled him — she was so launched in her own career. "Too far
"To save our immortal souls. We mustn't, love, tell too many lies."
She looked at him with dire reproach. "Ah now, are you going to
"I never have begun; I haven't wanted to worry you. But,
you know, we don't know anything about it." And then as she stared,
flushing: "About His having been born up there. About anything,
really. Not the least little scrap that would weigh, in any other
connection, as evidence. So don't rub it in so."
"Rub it in how?"
"That He was born—" But at sight of her face he only
sighed. "Oh dear, oh dear!"
"Don't you think," she replied cuttingly, "that He was born
He hesitated — it was such an edifice to shake. "Well, we don't
know. There's very little to know. He covered His tracks as no
other human being has ever done."
She was still in her public costume and had not taken off the
gloves that she made a point of wearing as a part of that uniform; she
remembered how the rustling housekeeper in the Border castle, on whom
she had begun by modelling herself, had worn them. She seemed official
and slightly distant. "To cover His tracks, He must have had to
exist. Have we got to give that up?"
"No, I don't ask you to give it up yet. But there's very
little to go upon."
"And is that what I'm to tell Them in return for everything?"
Gedge waited — he walked about. The place was doubly still after
the bustle of the day, and the summer evening rested on it as a
blessing, making it, in its small state and ancientry, mellow and
sweet. It was good to be there, and it would be good to stay. At the
same time there was something incalculable in the effect on one's
nerves of the great gregarious density. That was an attitude that had
nothing to do with degrees and shades, the attitude of wanting all or
nothing. And you couldn't talk things over with it. You could only do
this with friends, and then but in cases where you were sure the
friends wouldn't betray you. "Couldn't you adopt," he replied at last,
"a slightly more discreet method? What we can say is that things have
been said; that's all we have to do with. 'And is this
really' — when they jam their umbrellas into the floor — 'the very
spot where He was born?' 'So it has, from a long time back, been
described as being.' Couldn't one meet Them to be decent a little, in
some such way as that?"
She looked at him very hard. "Is that the way you meet
"No; I've kept on lying — without scruple, without shame."
"Then why do you haul me up?"
"Because it has seemed to me that we might, like true companions,
work it out a little together."
This was not strong, he felt, as, pausing with his hands in his
pockets, he stood before her; and he knew it as weaker still after she
had looked at him a minute. "Morris Gedge, I propose to be your
true companion, and I've come here to stay. That's all I've got to
say." It was not, however, for "You had better try yourself and see,"
she presently added. "Give the place, give the story away, by so much
as a look, and — well, I'd allow you about nine days. Then you'd see."
He feigned, to gain time, an innocence. "They'd take it so ill?"
And then, as she said nothing: "They'd turn and rend me? They'd tear
me to pieces?"
But she wouldn't make a joke of it. "They wouldn't have it,
"No — they wouldn't. That's what I saw. They won't."
"You had better," she went on, "begin with Grant-Jackson. But even
that isn't necessary. It would get to him, it would get to the Body,
"I see," said poor Gedge. And indeed for the moment he did see,
while his companion followed up what she believed her advantage.
"Do you consider it's all a fraud?"
"Well, I grant you there was somebody. But the details are naught.
The links are missing. The evidence — in particular about that room
upstairs, in itself our Casa Santa — is nil. It was so awfully
long ago." Which he knew again sounded weak.
"Of course it was awfully long ago — that's just the beauty and
the interest. Tell Them, tell Them," she continued, "that the
evidence is nil, and I'll tell them something else." She spoke
it with such meaning that his face seemed to show a question, to which
she was on the spot of replying "I'll tell them that you're a—" She
stopped, however, changing it. "I'll tell them exactly the opposite.
And I'll find out what you say — it won't take long — to do it. If
we tell different stories, that possibly may save us."
"I see what you mean. It would perhaps, as an oddity, have a
success of curiosity. It might become a draw. Still, they but want
broad masses." And he looked at her sadly. "You're no more than one of
"If it's being no more than one of them to love it," she answered,
"then I certainly am. And I am not ashamed of my company."
"To love what?" said Morris Gedge.
"To love to think He was born there."
"You think too much. It's bad for you." He turned away with his
chronic moan. But it was without losing what she called after him.
"I decline to let the place down." And what was there indeed to
say? They were there to keep it up.
He kept it up through the summer, but with the queerest
consciousness, at times, of the want of proportion between his secret
rage and the spirit of those from whom the friction came. He said to
himself — so sore as his sensibility had grown — that They were
gregariously ferocious at the very time he was seeing Them as
individually mild. He said to himself that They were mild only because he was — he flattered himself that he was divinely so,
considering what he might be; and that he should, as his wife had
warned him, soon enough have news of it were he to deflect by a hair's
breadth from the line traced for him. That was the collective
fatuity — that it was capable of turning, on the instant, both to a
general and to a particular resentment. Since the least breath of
discrimination would get him the sack without mercy, it was absurd, he
reflected, to speak of his discomfort as light. He was gagged, he was
goaded, as in omnivorous companies he doubtless sometimes showed by a
strange silent glare. They would get him the sack for that as well if
he didn't look out; therefore wasn't it in effect ferocity when you
mightn't even hold your tongue? They wouldn't let you off with silence
— They insisted on your committing yourself. It was the pound of
flesh — They would have it; so under his coat he bled. But a wondrous
peace, by exception, dropped on him one afternoon at the end of
August. The pressure had, as usual, been high, but it had diminished
with the fall of day, and the place was empty before the hour for
closing. Then it was that, within a few minutes of this hour, there
presented themselves a pair of pilgrims to whom in the ordinary course
he would have remarked that they were, to his regret, too late. He was
to wonder afterwards why the course had, at sight of the visitors — a
gentleman and a lady, appealing and fairly young — shown for him as
other than ordinary; the consequence sprang doubtless from something
rather fine and unnameable, something, for instance, in the tone of
the young man, or in the light of his eye, after hearing the statement
on the subject of the hour. "Yes, we know it's late; but it's just,
I'm afraid, because of that. We've had rather a notion of
escaping the crowd — as, I suppose, you mostly have one now; and it
was really on the chance of finding you alone—!"
These things the young man said before being quite admitted, and
they were words that any one might have spoken who had not taken the
trouble to be punctual or who desired, a little ingratiatingly, to
force the door. Gedge even guessed at the sense that might lurk in
them, the hint of a special tip if the point were stretched. There
were no tips, he had often thanked his stars, at the Birthplace; there
was the charged fee and nothing more; everything else was out of
order, to the relief of a palm not formed by nature for a scoop. Yet
in spite of everything, in spite especially of the almost audible
chink of the gentleman's sovereigns, which might in another case
exactly have put him out, he presently found himself, in the Birthroom,
access to which he had gracefully enough granted, almost treating the
visit as personal and private. The reason — well, the reason would
have been, if anywhere, in something naturally persuasive on the part
of the couple, unless it had been, rather, again, in the way the young
man, once he was in place, met the caretaker's expression of face,
held it a moment and seemed to wish to sound it. That they were
Americans was promptly clear, and Gedge could very nearly have told
what kind; he had arrived at the point of distinguishing kinds, though
the difficulty might have been with him now that the case before him
was rare. He saw it, in fact, suddenly, in the light of the golden
midland evening, which reached them through low old windows, saw it
with a rush of feeling, unexpected and smothered, that made him wish
for a moment to keep it before him as a case of inordinate happiness.
It made him feel old, shabby, poor, but he watched it no less
intensely for its doing so. They were children of fortune, of the
greatest, as it might seem to Morris Gedge, and they were of course
lately married; the husband, smooth-faced and soft, but resolute and
fine, several years older than the wife, and the wife vaguely,
delicately, irregularly, but mercilessly pretty. Somehow, the world
was theirs; they gave the person who took the sixpences at the
Birthplace such a sense of the high luxury of freedom as he had never
had. The thing was that the world was theirs not simply because they
had money — he had seen rich people enough — but because they could
in a supreme degree think and feel and say what they liked. They had a
nature and a culture, a tradition, a facility of some sort — and all
producing in them an effect of positive beauty — that gave a light to
their liberty and an ease to their tone. These things moreover
suffered nothing from the fact that they happened to be in mourning;
this was probably worn for some lately-deceased opulent father, or
some delicate mother who would be sure to have been a part of the
source of the beauty, and it affected Gedge, in the gathered twilight
and at his odd crisis, as the very uniform of their distinction.
He couldn't quite have said afterwards by what steps the point had
been reached, but it had become at the end of five minutes a part of
their presence in the Birthroom, a part of the young man's look, a part
of the charm of the moment, and a part, above all, of a strange sense
within him of 'Now or never!' that Gedge had suddenly, thrillingly,
let himself go. He had not been definitely conscious of drifting to
it; he had been, for that, too conscious merely of thinking how
different, in all their range, were such a united couple from another
united couple that he knew. They were everything he and his wife were
not; this was more than anything else the lesson at first of their
talk. Thousands of couples of whom the same was true certainly had
passed before him, but none of whom it was true with just that
engaging intensity. This was because of their transcendent
freedom; that was what, at the end of five minutes, he saw it all come
back to. The husband had been there at some earlier time, and he had
his impression, which he wished now to make his wife share. But he
already, Gedge could see, had not concealed it from her. A pleasant
irony, in fine, our friend seemed to taste in the air — he who had
not yet felt free to taste his own.
"I think you weren't here four years ago" — that was what the
young man had almost begun by remarking. Gedge liked his remembering
it, liked his frankly speaking to him; all the more that he had given
him, as it were, no opening. He had let them look about below, and then
had taken them up, but without words, without the usual showman's
song, of which he would have been afraid. The visitors didn't ask for
it; the young man had taken the matter out of his hands by himself
dropping for the benefit of the young woman a few detached remarks.
What Gedge felt, oddly, was that these remarks were not inconsiderate
of him; he had heard others, both of the priggish order and the crude,
that might have been called so. And as the young man had not been
aided to this cognition of him as new, it already began to make for
them a certain common ground. The ground became immense when the
visitor presently added with a smile: "There was a good lady, I
recollect, who had a great deal to say."
It was the gentleman's smile that had done it; the irony was
there. "Ah, there has been a great deal said." And Gedge's look at
his interlocutor doubtless showed his sense of being sounded. It was
extraordinary of course that a perfect stranger should have guessed
the travail of his spirit, should have caught the gleam of his inner
commentary. That probably, in spite of him, leaked out of his poor old
eyes. "Much of it, in such places as this," he heard himself adding,
"is of course said very irresponsibly." Such places as this! —
he winced at the words as soon as he had uttered them.
There was no wincing, however, on the part of his pleasant
companions. "Exactly so; the whole thing becomes a sort of stiff, smug
convention, like a dressed-up sacred doll in a Spanish church — which
you're a monster if you touch."
"A monster," said Gedge, meeting his eyes.
The young man smiled, but he thought he looked at him a little
harder. "A blasphemer."
It seemed to do his visitor good — he certainly was
looking at him harder. Detached as he was he was interested — he was
at least amused. "Then you don't claim, or at any rate you don't
insist—? I mean you personally."
He had an identity for him, Gedge felt, that he couldn't have had
for a Briton, and the impulse was quick in our friend to testify to
this perception. "I don't insist to you."
The young man laughed. "It really — I assure you if I may —
wouldn't do any good. I'm too awfully interested."
"Do you mean," his wife lightly inquired, "in — a — pulling it
down? That is in what you've said to me."
"Has he said to you," Gedge intervened, though quaking a little,
"that he would like to pull it down?"
She met, in her free sweetness, this directness with such a charm!
"Oh, perhaps not quite the house—!"
"Good. You see we live on it — I mean we people."
The husband had laughed, but had now so completely ceased to look
about him that there seemed nothing left for him but to talk avowedly
with the caretaker. "I'm interested," he explained, "in what, I
think, is the interesting thing — or at all events the
eternally tormenting one. The fact of the abysmally little that, in
proportion, we know."
"In proportion to what?" his companion asked.
"Well, to what there must have been — to what in fact there
— to wonder about. That's the interest; it's immense. He escapes us
like a thief at night, carrying off — well, carrying off everything.
And people pretend to catch Him like a flown canary, over whom you can
close your hand and put Him back. He won't go back; he won't come back. He's not" — the young man laughed — "such a fool! It
makes Him the happiest of all great men."
He had begun by speaking to his wife, but had ended, with his
friendly, his easy, his indescribable competence, for Gedge — poor
Gedge who quite held his breath and who felt, in the most unexpected
way, that he had somehow never been in such good society. The young
wife, who for herself meanwhile had continued to look about, sighed
out, smiled out — Gedge couldn't have told which — her little answer
to these remarks. "It's rather a pity, you know, that He isn't
here. I mean as Goethe's at Weimar. For Goethe is at
"Yes, my dear; that's Goethe's bad luck. There he sticks.
man isn't anywhere. I defy you to catch Him."
"Why not say, beautifully," the young woman laughed, "that, like
the wind, He's everywhere?"
It wasn't of course the tone of discussion, it was the tone of
joking, though of better joking, Gedge seemed to feel, and more within
his own appreciation, than he had ever listened to; and this was
precisely why the young man could go on without the effect of
irritation, answering his wife but still with eyes for their
companion. "I'll be hanged if He's here!"
It was almost as if he were taken — that is, struck and rather
held — by their companion's unruffled state, which they hadn't meant
to ruffle, but which suddenly presented its interest, perhaps even
projected its light. The gentleman didn't know, Gedge was afterwards
to say to himself, how that hypocrite was inwardly all of a tremble,
how it seemed to him that his fate was being literally pulled down on
his head. He was trembling for the moment certainly too much to speak;
abject he might be, but he didn't want his voice to have the absurdity
of a quaver. And the young woman — charming creature! — still had
another word. It was for the guardian of the spot, and she made it, in
her way, delightful. They had remained in the Holy of Holies, and she
had been looking for a minute, with a ruefulness just marked enough to
be pretty, at the queer old floor. "Then if you say it wasn't
in this room He was born — well, what's the use?"
"What's the use of what?" her husband asked. "The use, you mean,
of our coming here? Why, the place is charming in itself. And it's
also interesting," he added to Gedge, "to know how you get on."
Gedge looked at him a moment in silence, but he answered the young
woman first. If poor Isabel, he was thinking, could only have been
like that! — not as to youth, beauty, arrangement of hair or
picturesque grace of hat — these things he didn't mind; but as to
sympathy, facility, light perceptive, and yet not cheap, detachment!
"I don't say it wasn't — but I don't say it was."
"Ah, but doesn't that," she returned, "come very much to the same
thing? And don't They want also to see where He had His dinner and
where He had His tea?"
"They want everything," said Morris Gedge. "They want to see where
He hung up His hat and where He kept His boots and where His mother
boiled her pot."
"But if you don't show them—?"
"They show me. It's in all their little books."
"You mean," the husband asked, "that you've only to hold your
"I try to," said Gedge.
"Well," his visitor smiled, "I see you can."
Gedge hesitated. "I can't."
"Oh, well," said his friend, "what does it matter?"
"I do speak," he continued. "I can't sometimes not."
"Then how do you get on?"
Gedge looked at him more abjectly, to his own sense, than he had
ever looked at anyone — even at Isabel when she frightened him. "I
don't get on. I speak," he said, "since I've spoken to you."
"Oh, we shan't hurt you!" the young man reassuringly laughed.
The twilight meanwhile had sensibly thickened; the end of the
visit was indicated. They turned together out of the upper room, and
came down the narrow stair. The words just exchanged might have been
felt as producing an awkwardness which the young woman gracefully felt
the impulse to dissipate. "You must rather wonder why we've come." And
it was the first note, for Gedge, of a further awkwardness — as if he
had definitely heard it make the husband's hand, in a full pocket,
begin to fumble.
It was even a little awkwardly that the husband still held off.
"Oh, we like it as it is. There's always something." With which
they had approached the door of egress.
"What is there, please?" asked Morris Gedge, not yet opening the
door, as he would fain have kept the pair on, and conscious only for a
moment after he had spoken that his question was just having, for the
young man, too dreadfully wrong a sound. This personage wondered, yet
feared, had evidently for some minutes been asking himself; so that,
with his preoccupation, the caretaker's words had represented to him,
inevitably, 'What is there, please, for me?' Gedge already
knew, with it, moreover, that he wasn't stopping him in time. He had
put his question, to show he himself wasn't afraid, and he must have
had in consequence, he was subsequently to reflect, a lamentable air
The visitor's hand came out. "I hope I may take the liberty—?"
What afterwards happened our friend scarcely knew, for it fell into a
slight confusion, the confusion of a queer gleam of gold — a
sovereign fairly thrust at him; of a quick, almost violent motion on
his own part, which, to make the matter worse, might well have sent
the money rolling on the floor; and then of marked blushes all round,
and a sensible embarrassment; producing indeed, in turn, rather oddly,
and ever so quickly, an increase of communion. It was as if the young
man had offered him money to make up to him for having, as it were,
led him on, and then, perceiving the mistake, but liking him the
better for his refusal, had wanted to obliterate this aggravation of
his original wrong. He had done so, presently, while Gedge got the
door open, by saying the best thing he could, and by saying it frankly
and gaily. "Luckily it doesn't at all affect the work!"
The small town-street, quiet and empty in the summer eventide,
stretched to right and left, with a gabled and timbered house or two,
and fairly seemed to have cleared itself to congruity with the
historic void over which our friends, lingering an instant to converse,
looked at each other. The young wife, rather, looked about a moment at
all there wasn't to be seen, and then, before Gedge had found a reply
to her husband's remark, uttered, evidently in the interest of
conciliation, a little question of her own that she tried to make
earnest. "It's our unfortunate ignorance, you mean, that doesn't?"
"Unfortunate or fortunate. I like it so," said the husband. "
'The play's the thing.' Let the author alone."
Gedge, with his key on his forefinger, leaned against the
doorpost, took in the stupid little street, and was sorry to see them
go — they seemed so to abandon him. "That's just what They won't do
— not let me do. It's all I want — to let the author alone.
Practically" — he felt himself getting the last of his chance —
"there is no author; that is for us to deal with. There are all
the immortal people — in the work; but there's nobody else."
"Yes," said the young man — "that's what it comes to. There
should really, to clear the matter up, be no such Person."
"As you say," Gedge returned, "it's what it comes to. There
no such Person."
The evening air listened, in the warm, thick midland stillness,
while the wife's little cry rang out. "But wasn't there—?"
"There was somebody," said Gedge, against the doorpost. "But
They've killed Him. And, dead as He is, They keep it up, They do it
over again, They kill Him every day."
He was aware of saying this so grimly — more grimly than he
wished — that his companions exchanged a glance and even perhaps
looked as if they felt him extravagant. That was the way, really,
Isabel had warned him all the others would be looking if he should
talk to Them as he talked to her. He liked, however, for that
matter, to hear how he should sound when pronounced incapable through
deterioration of the brain. "Then if there's no author, if there's
nothing to be said but that there isn't anybody," the young woman
smilingly asked, "why in the world should there be a house?"
"There shouldn't," said Morris Gedge.
Decidedly, yes, he affected the young man. "Oh, I don't say, mind
you, that you should pull it down!"
"Then where would you go?" their companion sweetly inquired.
"That's what my wife asks," Gedge replied.
"Then keep it up, keep it up!" And the husband held out his hand.
"That's what my wife says," Gedge went on as he shook it.
The young woman, charming creature, emulated the other visitor; she
offered their remarkable friend her handshake. "Then mind your wife."
The poor man faced her gravely. "I would if she were such a wife
It had made for him, all the same, an immense difference; it had
given him an extraordinary lift, so that a certain sweet aftertaste of
his freedom might, a couple of months later, have been suspected of
aiding to produce for him another, and really a more considerable,
adventure. It was an odd way to think of it, but he had been, to his
imagination, for twenty minutes in good society — that being the term
that best described for him the company of people to whom he hadn't to
talk, as he further phrased it, rot. It was his title to society that
he had, in his doubtless awkward way, affirmed; and the difficulty was
just that, having affirmed it, he couldn't take back the affirmation.
Few things had happened to him in life, that is few that were
agreeable, but at least this had, and he wasn't so constructed
that he could go on as if it hadn't. It was going on as if it had,
however, that landed him, alas! in the situation unmistakeably marked
by a visit from Grant-Jackson, late one afternoon towards the end of
October. This had been the hour of the call of the young Americans.
Every day that hour had come round something of the deep throb of it,
the successful secret, woke up; but the two occasions were, of a
truth, related only by being so intensely opposed. The secret had been
successful in that he had said nothing of it to Isabel, who, occupied
in their own quarter while the incident lasted, had neither heard the
visitors arrive nor seen them depart. It was on the other hand
scarcely successful in guarding itself from indirect betrayals. There
were two persons in the world, at least, who felt as he did; they were
persons, also, who had treated him, benignly, as feeling as they
did, who had been ready in fact to overflow in gifts as a sign of it,
and though they were now off in space they were still with him
sufficiently in spirit to make him play, as it were, with the sense of
their sympathy. This in turn made him, as he was perfectly aware, more
than a shade or two reckless, so that, in his reaction from that
gluttony of the public for false facts which had from the first
tormented him, he fell into the habit of sailing, as he would have
said, too near the wind, or in other words — all in presence of the
people — of washing his hands of the legend. He had crossed the line
— he knew it; he had struck wild — They drove him to it; he had
substituted, by a succession of uncontrollable profanities, an
attitude that couldn't be understood for an attitude that but too
evidently had been.
This was of course the franker line, only he hadn't taken it,
alas! for frankness — hadn't in the least, really, taken it,
but had been simply himself caught up and disposed of by it, hurled by
his fate against the bedizened walls of the temple, quite in the way
of a priest possessed to excess of the god, or, more vulgarly, that of
a blind bull in a china-shop — an animal to which he often compared
himself. He had let himself fatally go, in fine, just for irritation,
for rage, having, in his predicament, nothing at all to do with
frankness — a luxury reserved for quite other situations. It had
always been his sentiment that one lived to learn; he had learned
something every hour of his life, though people mostly never knew
what, in spite of its having generally been — hadn't it? — at
somebody's expense. What he was at present continually learning was
the sense of a form of words heretofore so vain — the famous 'false
position' that had so often helped out a phrase. One used names in
that way without knowing what they were worth; then of a sudden, one
fine day, their meaning was bitter in the mouth. This was a truth with
the relish of which his fireside hours were occupied, and he was quite
conscious that a man was exposed who looked so perpetually as if
something had disagreed with him. The look to be worn at the
Birthplace was properly the beatific, and when once it had fairly been
missed by those who took it for granted, who, indeed, paid sixpence
for it — like the table-wine in provincial France, it was compris
— one would be sure to have news of the remark.
News accordingly was what Gedge had been expecting — and what he
knew, above all, had been expected by his wife, who had a way of
sitting at present as with an ear for a certain knock. She didn't
watch him, didn't follow him about the house, at the public hours, to
spy upon his treachery; and that could touch him even though her
averted eyes went through him more than her fixed. Her mistrust was so
perfectly expressed by her manner of showing she trusted that he never
felt so nervous, never so tried to keep straight, as when she most let
him alone. When the crowd thickened and they had of necessity to
receive together he tried himself to get off by allowing her as much
as possible the word. When people appealed to him he turned to her —
and with more of ceremony than their relation warranted: he couldn't
help this either, if it seemed ironic — as to the person most
concerned or most competent. He flattered himself at these moments
that no one would have guessed her being his wife; especially as, to
do her justice, she met his manner with a wonderful grim bravado —
grim, so to say, for himself, grim by its outrageous cheerfulness for
the simple-minded. The lore she did produce for them, the
associations of the sacred spot that she developed, multiplied,
embroidered; the things in short she said and the stupendous way she
said them! She wasn't a bit ashamed; for why need virtue be ever
ashamed? It was virtue, for it put bread into his mouth — he
meanwhile, on his side, taking it out of hers. He had seen
Grant-Jackson, on the October day, in the Birthplace itself — the
right setting of course for such an interview; and what occurred was
that, precisely, when the scene had ended and he had come back to
their own sitting-room, the question she put to him for information
was: "Have you settled it that I'm to starve?"
She had for a long time said nothing to him so straight — which
was but a proof of her real anxiety; the straightness of
Grant-Jackson's visit, following on the very slight sinuosity of a
note shortly before received from him, made tension show for what it
was. By this time, really, however, his decision had been taken; the
minutes elapsing between his reappearance at the domestic fireside and
his having, from the other threshold, seen Grant-Jackson's broad,
well-fitted back, the back of a banker and a patriot, move away, had,
though few, presented themselves to him as supremely critical. They
formed, as it were, the hinge of his door, that door actually ajar so
as to show him a possible fate beyond it, but which, with his hand, in
a spasm, thus tightening on the knob, he might either open wide or
close partly and altogether. He stood, in the autumn dusk, in the
little museum that constituted the vestibule of the temple, and there,
as with a concentrated push at the crank of a windlass, he brought
himself round. The portraits on the walls seemed vaguely to watch for
it; it was in their august presence — kept dimly august, for the
moment, by Grant-Jackson's impressive check of his application of a
match to the vulgar gas — that the great man had uttered, as if it
said all, his "You know, my dear fellow, really—!" He had managed it
with the special tact of a fat man, always, when there was any,
very fine; he had got the most out of the time, the place, the
setting, all the little massed admonitions and symbols; confronted
there with his victim on the spot that he took occasion to name to him
afresh as, to his piety and patriotism, the most sacred on
earth, he had given it to be understood that in the first place he was
lost in amazement and that in the second he expected a single warning
now to suffice. Not to insist too much moreover on the question of
gratitude, he would let his remonstrance rest, if need be, solely on
the question of taste. As a matter of taste alone—! But he was
surely not to be obliged to follow that up. Poor Gedge indeed would
have been sorry to oblige him, for he saw it was precisely to the
atrocious taste of unthankfulness that the allusion was made. When he
said he wouldn't dwell on what the fortunate occupant of the post owed
him for the stout battle originally fought on his behalf, he simply
meant he would. That was his tact — which, with everything
else that had been mentioned, in the scene, to help, really had the
ground to itself. The day had been when Gedge couldn't have
thanked him enough — though he had thanked him, he considered, almost
fulsomely — and nothing, nothing that he could coherently or
reputably name, had happened since then. From the moment he was pulled
up, in short, he had no case, and if he exhibited, instead of one,
only hot tears in his eyes, the mystic gloom of the temple either
prevented his friend from seeing them or rendered it possible that
they stood for remorse. He had dried them, with the pads formed by the
base of his bony thumbs, before he went in to Isabel. This was the
more fortunate as, in spite of her inquiry, prompt and pointed, he but
moved about the room looking at her hard. Then he stood before the
fire a little with his hands behind him and his coat-tails divided,
quite as the person in permanent possession. It was an indication his
wife appeared to take in; but she put nevertheless presently another
question. "You object to telling me what he said?"
"He said 'You know, my dear fellow, really—!'
"And is that all?"
"Practically. Except that I'm a thankless beast."
"Well!" she responded, not with dissent.
"You mean that I am?"
"Are those the words he used?" she asked with a scruple.
Gedge continued to think. "The words he used were that I give away
the Show and that, from several sources, it has come round to Them."
"As of course a baby would have known!" And then as her husband
said nothing: "Were those the words he used?"
"Absolutely. He couldn't have used better ones."
"Did he call it," Mrs Gedge inquired, "the 'Show'?"
"Of course he did. The Biggest on Earth."
She winced, looking at him hard — she wondered, but only for a
moment. "Well, it is."
"Then it's something," Gedge went on, "to have given
away. But," he added, "I've taken it back."
"You mean you've been convinced?"
"I mean I've been scared."
"At last, at last!" she gratefully breathed.
"Oh, it was easily done. It was only two words. But here I am."
Her face was now less hard for him. "And what two words?"
"'You know, Mr Gedge, that it
simply won't do.' That was all. But it was the way such a man says
"I'm glad, then," Mrs Gedge frankly averred, "that he
such a man. How did you ever think it could do?"
"Well, it was my critical sense. I didn't ever know I had one —
till They came and (by putting me here) waked it up in me. Then I had,
somehow, don't you see? to live with it; and I seemed to feel that,
somehow or other, giving it time and in the long run, it might, it ought to, come out on top of the heap. Now that's where, he says,
it simply won't do. So must put it — I have put it — at the
"A very good place, then, for a critical sense!" And Isabel, more
placidly now, folded her work. "If, that is, you can only keep
it there. If it doesn't struggle up again."
"It can't struggle." He was still before the fire, looking round
at the warm, low room, peaceful in the lamplight, with the hum of the
kettle for the ear, with the curtain drawn over the leaded casement, a
short moreen curtain artfully chosen by Isabel for the effect of the
olden time, its virtue of letting the light within show ruddy to the
street. "It's dead," he went on; "I killed it just now."
He spoke, really, so that she wondered. "Just now?"
"There in the other place — I strangled it, poor thing, in the
dark. If you'll go out and see, there must be blood. Which, indeed,"
he added, "on an altar of sacrifice, is all right. But the place is
for ever spattered."
"I don't want to go out and see." She rested her locked hands on
the needlework folded on her knee, and he knew, with her eyes on him,
that a look he had seen before was in her face. "You're off your head
you know, my dear, in a way." Then, however, more cheeringly: "It's a
good job it hasn't been too late."
"Too late to get it under?"
"Too late for Them to give you the second chance that I thank God
"Yes, if it had been—!" And he looked away as through the
ruddy curtain and into the chill street. Then he faced her again.
"I've scarcely got over my fright yet. I mean," he went on, "for you."
"And I mean for you. Suppose what you had come to announce
to me now were that we had got the sack. How should I enjoy, do
you think, seeing you turn out? Yes, out there!" she added as
his eyes again moved from their little warm circle to the night of
early winter on the other side of the pane, to the rare, quick
footsteps, to the closed doors, to the curtains drawn like their own,
behind which the small flat town, intrinsically dull, was sitting down
He stiffened himself as he warmed his back; he held up his head,
shaking himself a little as if to shake the stoop out of his shoulders,
but he had to allow she was right. "What would have become of us?"
"What indeed? We should have begged our bread — or I should be
taking in washing."
He was silent a little. "I'm too old. I should have begun sooner."
"Oh, God forbid!" she cried.
"The pinch," he pursued, "is that I can do nothing else."
"Nothing whatever!" she agreed with elation.
"Whereas here — if I cultivate it — I perhaps
lie. But I must cultivate it."
"Oh, you old dear!" And she got up to kiss him.
"I'll do my best," he said.
"Do you remember us?" the gentleman asked and smiled — with the
lady beside him smiling too; speaking so much less as an earnest
pilgrim or as a tiresome tourist than as an old acquaintance. It was
history repeating itself as Gedge had somehow never expected, with
almost everything the same except that the evening was now a mild
April-end, except that the visitors had put off mourning and showed
all their bravery — besides showing, as he doubtless did himself,
though so differently, for a little older; except, above all, that —
oh, seeing them again suddenly affected him as not a bit the thing he
would have thought it. "We're in England again, and we were near; I've
a brother at Oxford with whom we've been spending a day, and we
thought we'd come over." So the young man pleasantly said while our
friend took in the queer fact that he must himself seem to them rather
coldly to gape. They had come in the same way, at the quiet close;
another August had passed, and this was the second spring; the
Birthplace, given the hour, was about to suspend operations till the
morrow; the last lingerer had gone, and the fancy of the visitors was,
once more, for a look round by themselves. This represented surely no
greater presumption than the terms on which they had last parted with
him seemed to warrant; so that if he did inconsequently stare it was
just in fact because he was so supremely far from having forgotten
them. But the sight of the pair luckily had a double effect, and the
first precipitated the second — the second being really his sudden
vision that everything perhaps depended for him on his recognising no
complication. He must go straight on, since it was what had for more
than a year now so handsomely answered; he must brazen it out
consistently, since that only was what his dignity was at last reduced
to. He mustn't be afraid in one way any more than he had been in
another; besides which it came over him with a force that made him
flush that their visit, in its essence, must have been for himself. It
was good society again, and they were the same. It wasn't for
him therefore to behave as if he couldn't meet them.
These deep vibrations, on Gedge's part, were as quick as they were
deep; they came in fact all at once, so that his response, his
declaration that it was all right — "Oh, rather; the hour
doesn't matter for you!" — had hung fire but an instant; and
when they were within and the door closed behind them, within the
twilight of the temple, where, as before, the votive offerings
glimmered on the walls, he drew the long breath of one who might, by a
self-betrayal, have done something too dreadful. For what had brought
them back was not, indubitably, the sentiment of the shrine itself —
since he knew their sentiment; but their intelligent interest in the
queer case of the priest. Their call was the tribute of curiosity, of
sympathy, of a compassion really, as such things went, exquisite — a
tribute to that queerness which entitled them to the frankest
welcome. They had wanted, for the generous wonder of it, to see how he
was getting on, how such a man in such a place could; and they
had doubtless more than half expected to see the door opened by
somebody who had succeeded him. Well, somebody had — only with
a strange equivocation; as they would have, poor things, to make out
for themselves, an embarrassment as to which he pitied them. Nothing
could have been more odd, but verily it was this troubled vision of
their possible bewilderment, and this compunctious view of such a
return for their amenity, that practically determined for him his
tone. The lapse of the months had but made their name familiar to him;
they had on the other occasion inscribed it, among the thousand names,
in the current public register, and he had since then, for reasons of
his own, reasons of feeling, again and again turned back to it. It was
nothing in itself; it told him nothing — 'Mr and Mrs B. D. Hayes, New
York' — one of those American labels that were just like every other
American label and that were, precisely, the most remarkable thing
about people reduced to achieving an identity in such other ways. They
could be Mr and Mrs B. D. Hayes and yet they could be, with all
presumptions missing — well, what these callers were. It had quickly
enough indeed cleared the situation a little further that his friends
had absolutely, the other time, as it came back to him, warned him of
his original danger, their anxiety about which had been the last note
sounded between them. What he was afraid of, with this reminiscence,
was that, finding him still safe, they would, the next thing,
definitely congratulate him and perhaps even, no less candidly, ask
him how he had managed. It was with the sense of nipping some such
inquiry in the bud that, losing no time and holding himself with a
firm grip, he began, on the spot, downstairs, to make plain to them
how he had managed. He averted the question in short by the assurance
of his answer. "Yes, yes, I'm still here; I suppose it is in a
manner to one's profit that one does, such as it is, one's best." He
did his best on the present occasion, did it with the gravest face he
had ever worn and a soft serenity that was like a large damp sponge
passed over their previous meeting — over everything in it, that is,
but the fact of its pleasantness.
"We stand here, you see, in the old living-room, happily still to
be reconstructed in the mind's eye, in spite of the havoc of time,
which we have fortunately, of late years, been able to arrest. It was
of course rude and humble, but it must have been snug and quaint, and
we have at least the pleasure of knowing that the tradition in respect
to the features that do remain is delightfully uninterrupted. Across
that threshold He habitually passed; through those low windows, in
childhood, He peered out into the world that He was to make so much
happier by the gift to it of His genius; over the boards of this floor
— that is over some of them, for we mustn't be carried away!
— his little feet often pattered; and the beams of this ceiling (we
must really in some places take care of our heads!) he
endeavoured, in boyish strife, to jump up and touch. It's not often
that in the early home of genius and renown the whole tenor of
existence is laid so bare, not often that we are able to retrace, from
point to point and from step to step, its connection with objects,
with influences — to build it round again with the little solid
facts out of which it sprang. This, therefore, I need scarcely remind
you, is what makes the small space between these walls — so modest to
measurement, so insignificant of aspect — unique on all the earth. There is nothing like it," Morris Gedge went on, insisting as
solemnly and softly, for his bewildered hearers, as over a
pulpit-edge; "there is nothing at all like it anywhere in the world.
There is nothing, only reflect, for the combination of greatness, and,
as we venture to say, of intimacy. You may find elsewhere perhaps
absolutely fewer changes, but where shall you find a presence
equally diffused, uncontested and undisturbed? Where in particular
shall you find, on the part of the abiding spirit, an equally towering
eminence? You may find elsewhere eminence of a considerable order, but
where shall you find with it, don't you see, changes, after
all, so few, and the contemporary element caught so, as it were, in
the very fact?" His visitors, at first confounded, but gradually
spellbound, were still gaping with the universal gape — wondering, he
judged, into what strange pleasantry he had been suddenly moved to
break out, and yet beginning to see in him an intention beyond a joke,
so that they started, at this point, almost jumped, when, by as rapid
a transition, he made, toward the old fireplace, a dash that seemed to
illustrate, precisely, the act of eager catching. "It is in this old
chimney corner, the quaint inglenook of our ancestors — just there in
the far angle, where His little stool was placed, and where, I dare
say, if we could look close enough, we should find the hearthstone
scraped with His little feet — that we see the inconceivable child
gazing into the blaze of the old oaken logs and making out there
pictures and stories, see Him conning, with curly bent head, His
well-worn hornbook, or poring over some scrap of an ancient ballad,
some page of some such rudely bound volume of chronicles as lay, we
may be sure, in His father's window-seat."
It was, he even himself felt at this moment, wonderfully done; no
auditors, for all his thousands, had ever yet so inspired him. The
odd, slightly alarmed shyness in the two faces, as if in a
drawing-room, in their 'good society', exactly, some act incongruous,
something grazing the indecent, had abruptly been perpetrated, the
painful reality of which faltered before coming home — the visible
effect on his friends, in fine, wound him up as to the sense that they were worth the trick. It came of itself now — he had got it
so by heart; but perhaps really it had never come so well, with the
staleness so disguised, the interest so renewed and the clerical
unction, demanded by the priestly character, so successfully
distilled. Mr Hayes of New York had more than once looked at his wife,
and Mrs Hayes of New York had more than once looked at her husband —
only, up to now, with a stolen glance, with eyes it had not been easy
to detach from the remarkable countenance by the aid of which their
entertainer held them. At present, however, after an exchange less
furtive, they ventured on a sign that they had not been appealed to in
vain. "Charming, charming, Mr Gedge!" Mr Hayes broke out; "we feel
that we've caught you in the mood."
His wife hastened to assent — it eased the tension. "It
be quite the way; except," she smiled, "that you'd be too dangerous.
You've really a genius!"
Gedge looked at her hard, but yielding no inch, even though she
touched him there at a point of consciousness that quivered. This was
the prodigy for him, and had been, the year through — that he did it
all, he found, easily, did it better than he had done anything else in
his life; with so high and broad an effect, in truth, an inspiration
so rich and free, that his poor wife now, literally, had been moved
more than once to fresh fear. She had had her bad moments, he knew,
after taking the measure of his new direction — moments of readjusted
suspicion in which she wondered if he had not simply embraced another,
a different perversity. There would be more than one fashion of giving
away the show, and wasn't this perhaps a question of giving it
away by excess? He could dish them by too much romance as well as by
too little; she had not hitherto fairly apprehended that there might be too much. It was a way like another, at any rate, of reducing
the place to the absurd; which reduction, if he didn't look out, would
reduce them again to the prospect of the streets, and this time
surely without an appeal. It all depended, indeed — he knew she knew
that — on how much Grant-Jackson and the others, how much the Body,
in a word, would take. He knew she knew what he himself held it would
take — that he considered no limit could be drawn to the quantity.
They simply wanted it piled up, and so did everybody else; wherefore,
if no one reported him, as before, why were They to be uneasy? It was
in consequence of idiots brought to reason that he had been dealt with
before; but as there was now no form of idiocy that he didn't
systematically flatter, goading it on really to its own private
doom, who was ever to pull the string of the guillotine? The axe was in
the air — yes; but in a world gorged to satiety there were no
revolutions. And it had been vain for Isabel to ask if the other
thunder-growl also hadn't come out of the blue. There was actually
proof positive that the winds were now at rest. How could they be more
so? — he appealed to the receipts. These were golden days — the show
had never so flourished. So he had argued, so he was arguing still —
and, it had to be owned, with every appearance in his favour. Yet if
he inwardly winced at the tribute to his plausibility rendered by his
flushed friends, this was because he felt in it the real ground of his
optimism. The charming woman before him acknowledged his 'genius' as
he himself had had to do. He had been surprised at his facility until
he had grown used to it. Whether or no he had, as a fresh menace to
his future, found a new perversity, he had found a vocation much older,
evidently, than he had at first been prepared to recognise. He had
done himself injustice. He liked to be brave because it came so easy;
he could measure it off by the yard. It was in the Birthroom, above
all, that he continued to do this, having ushered up his companions
without, as he was still more elated to feel, the turn of a hair. She
might take it as she liked, but he had had the lucidity — all, that
is, for his own safety — to meet without the grace of an answer the
homage of her beautiful smile. She took it apparently, and her husband
took it, but as a part of his odd humour, and they followed him aloft
with faces now a little more responsive to the manner in which, on that spot, he would naturally come out. He came out, according to
the word of his assured private receipt, 'strong'. He missed a little,
in truth, the usual round-eyed question from them — the inveterate
artless cue with which, from moment to moment, clustered troops had,
for a year, obliged him. Mr and Mrs Hayes were from New York, but it
was a little like singing, as he had heard one of his Americans once
say about something, to a Boston audience. He did none the less what
he could, and it was ever his practice to stop still at a certain spot
in the room and, after having secured attention by look and gesture,
suddenly shoot off. "Here!"
They always understood, the good people — he could fairly love
them now for it; they always said, breathlessly and unanimously,
"There?" and stared down at the designated point quite as if some
trace of the grand event were still to be made out. This movement
produced, he again looked round. "Consider it well: the spot of
earth—!" "Oh, but it isn't earth!" the boldest spirit —
there was always a boldest — would generally pipe out. Then the
guardian of the Birthplace would be truly superior — as if the
unfortunate had figured the Immortal coming up, like a potato, through
the soil. "I'm not suggesting that He was born on the bare ground. He
was born here!" — with an uncompromising dig of his heel.
"There ought to be a brass, with an inscription, let in." "Into the
floor?" — it always came. "Birth and burial: seedtime, summer,
autumn!" — that always, with its special, right cadence, thanks to
his unfailing spring, came too. "Why not as well as into the pavement
of the church? — you've seen our grand old church?" The former
of which questions nobody ever answered — abounding, on the other
hand, to make up, in relation to the latter. Mr and Mrs Hayes even
were at first left dumb by it — not indeed, to do them justice,
having uttered the word that produced it. They had uttered no word
while he kept the game up, and (though that made it a little more
difficult) he could yet stand triumphant before them after he had
finished with his flourish. Then it was only that Mr Hayes of New York
"Well, if we wanted to see, I think I may say we're quite
satisfied. As my wife says, it would seem to be your line." He
spoke now, visibly, with more ease, as if a light had come: though he
made no joke of it, for a reason that presently appeared. They were
coming down the little stair, and it was on the descent that his
companion added her word.
"Do you know what we half did think—?" And then to her
husband: "Is it dreadful to tell him?" They were in the room below,
and the young woman, also relieved, expressed the feeling with gaiety.
She smiled, as before, at Morris Gedge, treating him as a person with
whom relations were possible, yet remaining just uncertain enough to
invoke Mr Hayes's opinion. "We have awfully wanted — from what
we had heard." But she met her husband's graver face; he was not quite
out of the wood. At this she was slightly flurried — but she cut it
short. "You must know — don't you? — that, with the crowds who
listen to you, we'd have heard."
He looked from one to the other, and once more again, with force,
something came over him. They had kept him in mind, they were neither
ashamed nor afraid to show it, and it was positively an interest, on
the part of this charming creature and this keen, cautious gentleman,
an interest resisting oblivion and surviving separation, that had
governed their return. Their other visit had been the brightest thing
that had ever happened to him, but this was the gravest; so that at
the end of a minute something broke in him and his mask, of itself,
fell off. He chucked, as he would have said, consistency; which, in
its extinction, left the tears in his eyes. His smile was therefore
queer. "Heard how I'm going it?"
The young man, though still looking at him hard, felt sure, with
this, of his own ground. "Of course, you're tremendously talked about.
You've gone round the world."
"You've heard of me in America?"
"Why, almost of nothing else!"
"That was what made us feel—!" Mrs Hayes contributed.
"That you must see for yourselves?" Again he compared, poor Gedge,
their faces. "Do you mean I excite — a — scandal?"
"Dear no! Admiration. You renew so," the young man observed, "the
"Ah, there it is!" said Gedge with eyes of adventure that seemed
to rest beyond the Atlantic.
"They listen, month after month, when they're out here, as you
must have seen; and they go home and talk. But they sing your praise."
Our friend could scarce take it in. "Over there?"
"Over there. I think you must be even in the papers."
"Oh, we don't abuse everyone."
Mrs Hayes, in her beauty, it was clear, stretched the point. "They
rave about you."
"Then they don't know?"
"Nobody knows," the young man declared; "it wasn't anyone's
knowledge, at any rate, that made us uneasy."
"It was your own? I mean your own sense?"
"Well, call it that. We remembered, and we wondered what had
happened. So," Mr Hayes now frankly laughed, "we came to see."
Gedge stared through his film of tears. "Came from America to see
"Oh, a part of the way. But we wouldn't, in England, not have seen
"And now we have!" the young woman soothingly added.
Gedge still could only gape at the candour of the tribute. But he
tried to meet them — it was what was least poor for him — in their
own key. "Well, how do you like it?"
Mrs Hayes, he thought — if their answer were important — laughed
a little nervously. "Oh, you see."
Once more he looked from one to the other. "It's too beastly easy,
Her husband raised his eyebrows. "You conceal your art. The
emotion — yes; that must be easy; the general tone must flow. But
about your facts — you've so many: how do you get them
Gedge wondered. "You think I get too many—?"
At this they were amused together. "That's just what we came to
"Well, you know, I've felt my way; I've gone step by step; you
wouldn't believe how I've tried it on. This — where you see me
— is where I've come out." After which, as they said nothing: "You
hadn't thought I could come out?"
Again they just waited, but the husband spoke: "Are you so awfully
sure you are out?"
Gedge drew himself up in the manner of his moments of emotion,
almost conscious even that, with his sloping shoulders, his long lean
neck and his nose so prominent in proportion to other matters, he
looked the more like a giraffe. It was now at last that he really
caught on. "I may be in danger again — and the danger is what
has moved you? Oh!" the poor man fairly moaned. His appreciation of it
quite weakened him, yet he pulled himself together. "You've your view
of my danger?"
It was wondrous how, with that note definitely sounded, the air
was cleared. Lucid Mr Hayes, at the end of a minute, had put the thing
in a nutshell. "I don't know what you'll think of us — for being so
"I think," poor Gedge grimaced, "you're only too beastly kind."
"It's all your own fault," his friend returned, "for presenting us
(who are not idiots, say) with so striking a picture of a crisis. At
our other visit, you remember," he smiled, "you created an anxiety for
the opposite reason. Therefore if this should again be a crisis
for you, you'd really give us the case with an ideal completeness."
"You make me wish," said Morris Gedge, "that it might be one."
"Well, don't try — for our amusement — to bring one on. I don't
see, you know, how you can have much margin. Take care — take care."
Gedge took it pensively in. "Yes, that was what you said a year
ago. You did me the honour to be uneasy as my wife was."
Which determined on the young woman's part an immediate question.
"May I ask, then, if Mrs Gedge is now at rest?"
" No; since you do ask. She fears, at least, that I go too
far; she doesn't believe in my margin. You see, we had
our scare after your visit. They came down."
His friends were all interest. "Ah! They came down?"
"Heavy. They brought me down. That's why—"
"Why you are down?" Mrs Hayes sweetly demanded.
"Ah, but my dear man," her husband interposed, "you're not down;
you're up! You're only up a different tree, but you're up at
"You mean I take it too high?"
"That's exactly the question," the young man answered; "and the
possibility, as matching your first danger, is just what we felt we
couldn't, if you didn't mind, miss the measure of."
Gedge looked at him. "I feel that I know what you at bottom
"We at bottom 'hope', surely, that you're all right."
"In spite of the fool it makes of everyone?"
Mr Hayes of New York smiled. "Say because of that. We only
ask to believe that everyone is a fool!"
"Only you haven't been, without reassurance, able to imagine fools
of the size that my case demands?" And Gedge had a pause, while, as if
on the chance of some proof, his companion waited. "Well, I won't
pretend to you that your anxiety hasn't made me, doesn't threaten to
make me, a bit nervous; though I don't quite understand it if, as you
say, people but rave about me."
"Oh, that report was from the other side; people in our
country so very easily rave. You've seen small children laugh to
shrieks when tickled in a new place. So there are amiable millions
with us who are but small children. They perpetually present new
places for the tickler. What we've seen in further lights," Mr Hayes
good-humouredly pursued, "is your people here — the
Committee, the Board, or whatever the powers to whom you're
"Call them my friend Grant-Jackson then — my original backer,
though I admit, for that reason, perhaps my most formidable critic.
It's with him, practically, I deal; or rather it's by him I'm dealt
with — was dealt with before. I stand or fall by him. But he
has given me my head."
"Mayn't he then want you," Mrs Hayes inquired, "just to show as
flagrantly running away?"
"Of course — I see what you mean. I'm riding, blindly, for a
fall, and They're watching (to be tender of me!) for the smash that
may come of itself. It's Machiavellic — but everything's possible.
And what did you just now mean," Gedge asked — "especially if you've
only heard of my prosperity — by your 'further lights'?"
His friends for an instant looked embarrassed, but Mr Hayes came
to the point. "We've heard of your prosperity, but we've also,
remember, within a few minutes, heard you."
"I was determined you should," said Gedge. "I'm good then —
but I overdo?" His strained grin was still sceptical.
Thus challenged, at any rate, his visitor pronounced. "Well, if
you don't; if at the end of six months more it's clear that you
haven't overdone; then, then—"
"Then it's great."
"But it is great — greater than anything of the sort ever
was. I overdo, thank goodness, yes; or I would if it were a thing you could."
"Oh, well, if there's proof that you can't—!" With which,
and an expressive gesture, Mr Hayes threw up his fears.
His wife, however, for a moment, seemed unable to let them go.
"Don't They want then any truth? — none even for the mere look
"The look of it," said Morris Gedge, "is what I give!"
It made them, the others, exchange a look of their own. Then she
smiled. "Oh, well, if they think so—!"
"You at least don't? You're like my wife — which indeed, I
remember," Gedge added, "is a similarity I expressed a year ago the
wish for! At any rate I frighten her."
The young husband, with an "Ah, wives are terrible!" smoothed it
over, and their visit would have failed of further excuse had not, at
this instant, a movement at the other end of the room suddenly engaged
them. The evening had so nearly closed in, though Gedge, in the course
of their talk, had lighted the lamp nearest them, that they had not
distinguished, in connection with the opening of the door of
communication to the warden's lodge, the appearance of another person,
an eager woman, who, in her impatience, had barely paused before
advancing. Mrs Gedge — her identity took but a few seconds to become
vivid — was upon them, and she had not been too late for Mr Hayes's
last remark. Gedge saw at once that she had come with news; no need
even, for that certitude, of her quick retort to the words in the air
— "You may say as well, sir, that they're often, poor wives,
terrified!" She knew nothing of the friends whom, at so unnatural an
hour, he was showing about; but there was no livelier sign for him
that this didn't matter than the possibility with which she intensely
charged her "Grant-Jackson, to see you at once!" — letting it, so to
speak, fly in his face.
"He has been with you?"
"Only a minute — he's there. But it's you he wants to see."
He looked at the others. "And what does he want, dear?"
"God knows! There it is. It's his horrid hour — it
She had nervously turned to the others, overflowing to them, in
her dismay, for all their strangeness — quite, as he said to himself,
like a woman of the people. She was the bare-headed goodwife talking
in the street about the row in the house, and it was in this character
that he instantly introduced her: "My dear doubting wife, who will do
her best to entertain you while I wait upon our friend." And he
explained to her as he could his now protesting companions — "Mr and
Mrs Hayes of New York, who have been here before." He knew, without
knowing why, that her announcement chilled him; he failed at least to
see why it should chill him so much. His good friends had themselves
been visibly affected by it, and heaven knew that the depths of
brooding fancy in him were easily stirred by contact. If they had
wanted a crisis they accordingly had found one, albeit they had
already asked leave to retire before it. This he wouldn't have. "Ah
no, you must really see!"
"But we shan't be able to bear it, you know," said the young
woman, "if it is to turn you out."
Her crudity attested her sincerity, and it was the latter,
doubtless, that instantly held Mrs Gedge. "It is to turn us
"Has he told you that, madam?" Mr Hayes inquired of her — it
being wondrous how the breath of doom had drawn them together.
"No, not told me; but there's something in him there — I mean in
his awful manner — that matches too well with other things. We've
seen," said the poor pale lady, "other things enough."
The young woman almost clutched her. "Is his manner very awful?"
"It's simply the manner," Gedge interposed, "of a very great man."
"Well, very great men," said his wife, "are very awful things."
"It's exactly," he laughed, "what we're finding out! But I mustn't
keep him waiting. Our friends here," he went on, "are directly
interested. You mustn't, mind you, let them go until we know."
Mr Hayes, however, held him; he found himself stayed. "We're so
directly interested that I want you to understand this. If anything
"Yes?" said Gedge, all gentle as he faltered.
"Well, we must set you up."
Mrs Hayes quickly abounded. "Oh, do come to us!"
Again he could but look at them. They were really wonderful folk.
And but Mr and Mrs Hayes! It affected even Isabel, through her alarm;
though the balm, in a manner, seemed to foretell the wound. He had
reached the threshold of his own quarters; he stood there as at the
door of the chamber of judgement. But he laughed; at least he could be
gallant in going up for sentence. "Very good then — I'll come to you!"
This was very well, but it didn't prevent his heart, a minute
later, at the end of the passage, from thumping with beats he could
count. He had paused again before going in; on the other side of this
second door his poor future was to be let loose at him. It was broken,
at best, and spiritless, but wasn't Grant-Jackson there, like a
beast-tamer in a cage, all tights and spangles and circus attitudes,
to give it a cut with the smart official whip and make it spring at
him? It was during this moment that he fully measured the effect for
his nerves of the impression made on his so oddly earnest friends —
whose earnestness he in fact, in the spasm of this last effort, came
within an ace of resenting. They had upset him by contact; he was
afraid, literally, of meeting his doom on his knees; it wouldn't have
taken much more, he absolutely felt, to make him approach with his
forehead in the dust the great man whose wrath was to be averted.
Mr and Mrs Hayes of New York had brought tears to his eyes; but was it
to be reserved for Grant-Jackson to make him cry like a baby? He
wished, yes, while he palpitated, that Mr and Mrs Hayes of New York
hadn't had such an eccentricity of interest, for it seemed somehow to
come from them that he was going so fast to pieces. Before he
turned the knob of the door, however, he had another queer instant;
making out that it had been, strictly, his case that was interesting,
his funny power, however accidental, to show as in a picture the
attitude of others — not his poor, dingy personality. It was this
latter quantity, none the less, that was marching to execution. It is
to our friend's credit that he believed, as he prepared to turn
the knob, that he was going to be hanged; and it is certainly not less
to his credit that his wife, on the chance, had his supreme thought.
Here it was that — possibly with his last articulate breath — he
thanked his stars, such as they were, for Mr and Mrs Hayes of New
York. At least they would take care of her.
They were doing that certainly with some success when, ten minutes
later, he returned to them. She sat between them in the beautified
Birthplace, and he couldn't have been sure afterwards that each
wasn't holding her hand. The three together, at any rate, had the
effect of recalling to him — it was too whimsical — some picture, a
sentimental print, seen and admired in his youth, a 'Waiting for the
Verdict', a 'Counting the Hours', or something of that sort; humble
respectability in suspense about humble innocence. He didn't know how
he himself looked, and he didn't care; the great thing was that he
wasn't crying — though he might have been; the glitter in his eyes
was assuredly dry, though that there was a glitter, or
something slightly to bewilder, the faces of the others, as they rose
to meet him, sufficiently proved. His wife's eyes pierced his own, but
it was Mrs Hayes of New York who spoke. "Was it then for
He only looked at them at first — he felt he might now enjoy it.
"Yes, it was for 'that'. I mean it was about the way I've been going
on. He came to speak of it."
"And he's gone?" Mr Hayes permitted himself to inquire.
"It's over?" Isabel hoarsely asked.
"Then we go?"
This it was that he enjoyed. "No, my dear; we stay."
There was fairly a triple gasp; relief took time to operate. "Then
why did he come?"
"In the fulness of his kind heart and of Their discussed
and decreed satisfaction. To express Their sense—!"
Mr Hayes broke into a laugh, but his wife wanted to know. "Of the
grand work you're doing?"
"Of the way I polish it off. They're most handsome about it. The
receipts, it appears, speak—"
He was nursing his effect; Isabel intently watched him, and the
others hung on his lips. "Yes, speak—?"
"Well, volumes. They tell the truth."
At this Mr Hayes laughed again. "Oh, they at least do?"
Near him thus, once more, Gedge knew their intelligence as one —
which was so good a consciousness to get back that his tension now
relaxed as by the snap of a spring and he felt his old face at ease.
"So you can't say," he continued, "that we don't want it."
"I bow to it," the young man smiled. "It's what I said then. It's
"It's great," said Morris Gedge. "It couldn't be greater."
His wife still watched him; her irony hung behind. "Then we're
just as we were?"
"No, not as we were."
She jumped at it. "Better?"
"Better. They give us a rise."
"Of our sweet little stipend — by a vote of the Committee. That's
what, as Chairman, he came to announce."
The very echoes of the Birthplace were themselves, for the
instant, hushed; the warden's three companions showed, in the
conscious air, a struggle for their own breath. But Isabel, with
almost a shriek, was the first to recover hers. "They double us?"
"Well — call it that. 'In recognition.' There you are." Isabel
uttered another sound — but this time inarticulate; partly because
Mrs Hayes of New York had already jumped at her to kiss her. Mr Hayes
meanwhile, as with too much to say, but put out his hand, which our
friend took in silence. So Gedge had the last word. "And there you