Ragged Lady, Complete

W >> William Dean Howells >> Ragged Lady, Complete

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The Russian's card bore the name Baron Belsky, with the baron crossed out
in pencil, and he began to attack in Mrs. Lander the demerits of the
American character, as he had divined them. He instructed her that her
countrymen existed chiefly to make money; that they were more shopkeepers
than the English and worse snobs; that their women were trivial and their
men sordid; that their ambition was to unite their families with the
European aristocracies; and their doctrine of liberty and equality was a
shameless hypocrisy. This followed hard upon her asking, as she did very
promptly, why he had scratched out the title on his card. He told her
that he wished to be known solely as an artist, and he had to explain to
her that he was not a painter, but was going to be a novelist. She taxed
him with never having been in America, but he contended that as all
America came to Europe he had the materials for a study of the national
character at hand, without the trouble of crossing the ocean. In return
she told him that she had not been the least sea-sick during the voyage,
and that it was no trouble at all; then he abruptly left her and went
over to beg a cup of tea from Clementina, who sat behind the kettle by
the window.

"I have heard this morning from that American I met in Pompeii" he began.
"He is coming northward, and I am going down to meet him in Rome."

Mrs. Lander caught the word, and called across the room, "Why, a'n't that
whe'e that lo'd's gone?"

Clementina said yes, and while the kettle boiled, she asked if Baron
Belsky were going soon.

"Oh, in a week or ten days, perhaps. I shall know when he arrives. Then I
shall go. We write to each other every day." He drew a letter from his
breast pocket. "This will give you the idea of his character," and he
read, "If we believe that the hand of God directs all our actions, how
can we set up our theories of conduct against what we feel to be his
inspiration?"

"What do you think of that?" he demanded.

"I don't believe that God directs our wrong actions," said Clementina.

"How! Is there anything outside of God?

"I don't know whether there is or not. But there is something that tempts
me to do wrong, sometimes, and I don't believe that is God."

The Russian seemed struck. "I will write that to him!"

"No," said Clementina, "I don't want you to say anything about me to
him."

"No, no!" said Baron Belsky, waving his band reassuringly. "I would not
mention your name!"

Mr. Ewins came in, and the Russian said he must go. Mrs. Lander tried to
detain him, too, as she had tried to keep Mr. Hinkle, but he was
inexorable. Mr. Ewins looked at the door when it had closed upon him.
Mrs. Lander said, "That is one of the gentlemen that Clementina met the
otha night at the dance. He is a baron, but he scratches it out. You'd
ought to head him go on about Americans."

"Yes," said Mr. Ewins coldly. "He's at our hotel, and he airs his
peculiar opinions at the table d'hote pretty freely. He's a revolutionist
of some kind, I fancy." He pronounced the epithet with an abhorrence
befitting the citizen of a state born of revolution and a city that had
cradled the revolt. "He's a Nihilist, I believe."

Mrs. Lander wished to know what that was, and he explained that it was a
Russian who wanted to overthrow the Czar, and set up a government of the
people, when they were not prepared for liberty.

"Then, maybe he isn't a baron at all," said Mrs. Lander.

"Oh, I believe he has a right to his title," Ewins answered. "It's a
German one."

He said he thought that sort of man was all the more mischievous on
account of his sincerity. He instanced a Russian whom a friend of his
knew in Berlin, a man of rank like this fellow: he got to brooding upon
the condition of working people and that kind of thing, till he renounced
his title and fortune and went to work in an iron foundry.

Mr. Ewins also spoke critically of Mrs. Milray. He had met her in Egypt;
but you soon exhausted the interest of that kind of woman. He professed a
great concern that Clementina should see Florence in just the right way,
and he offered his services in showing her the place.

The Russian came the next day, and almost daily after that, in the
interest with which Clementina's novel difference from other American
girls seemed to inspire him. His imagination had transmuted her simple
Yankee facts into something appreciable to a Slav of his temperament. He
conceived of her as the daughter of a peasant, whose beauty had charmed
the widow of a rich citizen, and who was to inherit the wealth of her
adoptive mother. He imagined that the adoption had taken place at a much
earlier period than the time when Clementina's visit to Mrs. Lander
actually began, and that all which could be done had been done to efface
her real character by indulgence and luxury.

His curiosity concerning her childhood, her home, her father and mother,
her brothers and sisters, and his misunderstanding of everything she told
him, amused her. But she liked him, and she tried to give him some notion
of the things he wished so much to know. It always ended in a
dissatisfaction, more or less vehement, with the outcome of American
conditions as he conceived them.

"But you," he urged one day, "you who are a daughter of the fields and
woods, why should you forsake that pure life, and come to waste yourself
here?"

"Why, don't you think it's very nice in Florence?" she asked, with eyes
of innocent interest.

"Nice! Nice! Do we live for what is nice? Is it enough that you have what
you Americans call a nice time?"

Clementina reflected. "I wasn't doing much of anything at home, and I
thought I might as well come with Mrs. Lander, if she wanted me so much."
She thought in a certain way, that he was meddling with what was not his
affair, but she believed that he was sincere in his zeal for the ideal
life he wished her to lead, and there were some things she had heard
about him that made her pity and respect him; his self-exile and his
renunciation of home and country for his principles, whatever they were;
she did not understand exactly. She would not have liked never being able
to go back to Middlemount, or to be cut off from all her friends as this
poor young Nihilist was, and she said, now, "I didn't expect that it was
going to be anything but a visit, and I always supposed we should go back
in the spring; but now Mrs. Lander is beginning to think she won't be
well enough till fall."

"And why need you stay with her?"

"Because she's not very well," answered Clementina, and she smiled, a
little triumphantly as well as tolerantly.

"She could hire nurses and doctors, all she wants with her money."

"I don't believe it would be the same thing, exactly, and what should I
do if I went back?"

"Do? Teach! Uplift the lives about you."

"But you say it is better for people to live simply, and not read and
think so much."

"Then labor in the fields with them."

Clementina laughed outright. "I guess if anyone saw me wo'king in the
fields they would think I was a disgrace to the neighbahood."

Belsky gave her a stupified glare through his spectacles. "I cannot
undertand you Americans."

"Well, you must come ova to America, then, Mr. Belsky"--he had asked her
not to call him by his title--"and then you would."

"No, I could not endure the disappointment. You have the great
opportunity of the earth. You could be equal and just, and simple and
kind. There is nothing to hinder you. But all you try to do is to get
more and more money."

"Now, that isn't faia, Mr. Belsky, and you know it."

Well, then, you joke, joke--always joke. Like that Mr. Hinkle. He wants
to make money with his patent of a gleaner, that will take the last grain
of wheat from the poor, and he wants to joke--joke!'

Clementina said, "I won't let you say that about Mr. Hinkle. You don't
know him, or you wouldn't. If he jokes, why shouldn't he?"

Belsky made a gesture of rejection. "Oh, you are an American, too."

She had not grown less American, certainly, since she had left home; even
the little conformities to Europe that she practiced were traits of
Americanism. Clementina was not becoming sophisticated, but perhaps she
was becoming more conventionalized. The knowledge of good and evil in
things that had all seemed indifferently good to her once, had crept upon
her, and she distinguished in her actions. She sinned as little as any
young lady in Florence against the superstitions of society; but though
she would not now have done a skirt-dance before a shipful of people, she
did not afflict herself about her past errors. She put on the world, but
she wore it simply and in most matters unconsciously. Some things were
imparted to her without her asking or wishing, and merely in virtue of
her youth and impressionability. She took them from her environment
without knowing it, and in this way she was coming by an English manner
and an English tone; she was only the less American for being rather
English without trying, when other Americans tried so hard. In the region
of harsh nasals, Clementina had never spoken through her nose, and she
was now as unaffected in these alien inflections as in the tender cooings
which used to rouse the misgivings of her brother Jim. When she was with
English people she employed them involuntarily, and when she was with
Americans she measurably lost them, so that after half an hour with Mr.
Hinkle, she had scarcely a trace of them, and with Mrs. Lander she always
spoke with her native accent.

XXIII

One Sunday night, toward the end of Lent, Mrs. Lander had another of her
attacks; she now began to call them so as if she had established an
ownership in them. It came on from her cumulative over-eating, again, but
the doctor was not so smiling as he had been with regard to the first.
Clementina had got ready to drive out to Miss Milray's for one of her
Sunday teas, but she put off her things, and prepared to spend the night
at Mrs. Lander's bedside. "Well, I should think you would want to," said
the sufferer. "I'm goin' to do everything for you, and you'd ought to be
willing to give up one of youa junketin's for me. I'm sure I don't know
what you see in 'em, anyway."

"Oh, I am willing, Mrs. Lander; I'm glad I hadn't stahted before it
began." Clementina busied herself with the pillows under Mrs. Lander's
dishevelled head, and the bedclothes disordered by her throes, while Mrs.
Lander went on.

"I don't see what's the use of so much gaddin', anyway. I don't see as
anything comes of it, but just to get a passal of wo'thless fellas afta
you that think you'a going to have money. There's such a thing as two
sides to everything, and if the favas is goin' to be all on one side I
guess there'd betta be a clear undastandin' about it. I think I got a
right to a little attention, as well as them that ha'n't done anything;
and if I'm goin' to be left alone he'e to die among strangers every time
one of my attacks comes on--"

The doctor interposed, "I don't think you're going to have a very bad
attack, this time, Mrs. Lander."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, docta! But you can undastand, can't you, how I
shall want to have somebody around that can undastand a little English?"

The doctor said, "Oh yes. And Miss Claxon and I can understand a good
deal, between us, and we're going to stay, and see how a little morphine
behaves with you."

Mrs. Lander protested, "Oh, I can't bea' mo'phine, docta."

"Did you ever try it?" he asked, preparing his little instrument to
imbibe the solution.

"No; but Mr. Landa did, and it 'most killed him; it made him sick."

"Well, you're about as sick as you can be, now, Mrs. Lander, and if you
don't die of this pin-prick"--he pushed the needle-point under the skin
of her massive fore-arm--"I guess you'll live through it."

She shrieked, but as the pain began to abate, she gathered courage, and
broke forth joyfully. "Why, it's beautiful, a'n't it? I declare it wo'ks
like a cha'm. Well, I shall always keep mo'phine around after this, and
when, I feel one of these attacks comin' on--"

"Send for a physician, Mrs. Lander," said Dr. Welwright, "and he'll know
what to do."

"I an't so sure of that," returned Mrs. Lander fondly. "He would if you
was the one. I declare I believe I could get up and walk right off, I
feel so well."

"That's good. If you'll take a walk day after tomorrow it will help you a
great deal more."

"Well, I shall always say that you've saved my life, this time, doctor;
and Clementina she's stood by, nobly; I'll say that for her." She twisted
her big head round on the pillow to get sight of the girl. "I'm all
right, now; and don't you mind what I said. It's just my misery talkin';
I don't know what I did say; I felt so bad. But I'm fustrate, now, and I
believe I could drop off to sleep, this minute. Why don't you go to your
tea? You can, just as well as not!"

"Oh, I don't want to go, now, Mrs. Lander; I'd ratha stay."

"But there a'n't any more danger now, is the'e, docta?" Mrs. Lander
appealed.

"No. There wasn't any danger before. But when you're quite yourself, I
want to have a little talk with you, Mrs. Lander, about your diet. We
must look after that."

"Why, docta, that's what I do do, now. I eat all the healthy things I lay
my hands on, don't I, Clementina? And ha'n't you always at me about it?"

Clementina did not answer, and the doctor laughed. "Well, I should like to
know what more I could do!"

"Perhaps you could do less. We'll see about that. Better go to sleep,
now, if you feel like it."

"Well, I will, if you'll make this silly child go to her tea. I s'pose
she won't because I scolded her. She's an awful hand to lay anything up
against you. You know you ah', Clementina! But I can say this, doctor: a
betta child don't breathe, and I just couldn't live without her. Come
he'e, Clementina, I want to kiss you once, before I go to sleep, so's to
make su'a you don't bea' malice." She pulled Clementina down to kiss her,
and babbled on affectionately and optimistically, till her talk became
the voice of her dreams, and then ceased altogether.

"You could go, perfectly well, Miss Claxon," said the doctor.

"No, I don't ca'e to go," answered Clementina. "I'd ratha stay. If she
should wake--"

"She won't wake, until long after you've got back; I'll answer for that.
I'm going to stay here awhile. Go! I'll take the responsibility."

Clementina's face brightened. She wanted very much to go. She should meet
some pleasant people; she always did, at Miss Milray's. Then the light
died out of her gay eyes, and she set her lips. "No, I told her I
shouldn't go."

"I didn't hear you," said Dr. Welwright. "A doctor has no eyes and ears
except for the symptoms of his patients."

"Oh, I know," said Clementina. She had liked Dr. Welwright from the
first, and she thought it was very nice of him to stay on, after he left
Mrs. Lander's bedside, and help to make her lonesome evening pass
pleasantly in the parlor. He jumped up finally, and looked at his watch.
"Bless my soul!" he said, and he went in for another look at Mrs. Lander.
When he came back, he said, "She's all right. But you've made me break an
engagement, Miss Claxon. I was going to tea at Miss Milray's. She
promised me I should meet you there."

It seemed a great joke; and Clementina offered to carry his excuses to
Miss Milray, when she went to make her own.

She, went the next morning. Mrs. Lander insisted that she should go; she
said that she was not going to have Miss Milray thinking that she wanted
to keep her all to herself.

Miss Milray kissed the girl in full forgiveness, but she asked, "Did Dr.
Welwright think it a very bad attack?"

"Has he been he'a?" returned Clementina.

Miss Milray laughed. "Doctors don't betray their patients--good doctors.
No, he hasn't been here, if that will help you. I wish it would help me,
but it won't, quite. I don't like to think of that old woman using you
up, Clementina."

"Oh, she doesn't, Miss Milray. You mustn't think so. You don't know how
good she is to me."

"Does she ever remind you of it?"

Clementina's eyes fell. "She isn't like herself when she doesn't feel
well."

"I knew it!" Miss Milray triumphed. "I always knew that she was a
dreadful old tabby. I wish you were safely out of her clutches. Come and
live with me, my dear, when Mrs. Lander gets tired of you. But she'll
never get tired of you. You're just the kind of helpless mouse that such
an old tabby would make her natural prey. But she sha'n't, even if
another sort of cat has to get you! I'm sorry you couldn't come last
night. Your little Russian was here, and went away early and very
bitterly because you didn't come. He seemed to think there was nobody,
and said so, in everything but words."

"Oh!" said Clementina. "Don't you think he's very nice, Miss Milray?"

"He's very mystical, or else so very simple that he seems so. I hope you
can make him out."

Don't you think he's very much in ea'nest?

"Oh, as the grave, or the asylum. I shouldn't like him to be in earnest
about me, if I were you."

"But that's just what he is!" Clementina told how the Russian had
lectured her, and wished her to go back to the country and work in the
fields.

"Oh, if that's all!" cried Miss Milray. "I was afraid it was another kind
of earnestness: the kind I shouldn't like if I were you."

"There's no danger of that, I guess." Clementina laughed, and Miss Milray
went on:

"Another of your admirers was here; but he was not so inconsolable, or
else be found consolation in staying on and talking about you, or
joking."

"Oh, yes; Mr. Hinkle," cried Clementina with the smile that the thought
of him always brought. "He's lovely."

"Lovely? Well, I don't know why it isn't the word. It suits him a great
deal better than some insipid girls that people give it to. Yes, I could
really fall in love with Mr. Hinkle. He's the only man I ever saw who
would know how to break the fall!"

It was lunch-time before their talk had begun to run low, and it swelled
again over the meal. Miss Milray returned to Mrs. Lander, and she made
Clementina confess that she was a little trying sometimes. But she
insisted that she was always good, and in remorse she went away as soon
as Miss Milray rose from table.

She found Mrs. Lander very much better, and willing to have had her stay
the whole afternoon with Miss Milray. "I don't want she should have
anything to say against me, to you, Clementina; she'd be glad enough to.
But I guess it's just as well you'a back. That scratched-out baron has
been he'e twice, and he's waitin' for you in the pahla', now. I presume
he'll keep comin' till you do see him. I guess you betta have it ova;
whatever it is."

"I guess you're right, Mrs. Lander."

Clementina found the Russian walking up and down the room, and as soon as
their greeting was over, he asked leave to continue his promenade, but he
stopped abruptly before her when she had sunk upon a sofa.

"I have come to tell you a strange story," he said.

"It is the story of that American friend of mine. I tell it to you
because I think you can understand, and will know what to advise, what to
do."

He turned upon his heel, and walked the length of the room and back
before he spoke again.

"Since several years," he said, growing a little less idiomatic in his
English as his excitement mounted, "he met a young girl, a child, when he
was still not a man's full age. It was in the country, in the mountains
of America, and--he loved her. Both were very poor; he, a student,
earning the means to complete his education in the university. He had
dedicated himself to his church, and with the temperament of the
Puritans, he forbade himself all thoughts of love. But he was of a
passionate and impulsive nature, and in a moment of abandon he confessed
his love. The child was bewildered, frightened; she shrank from his
avowal, and he, filled with remorse for his self-betrayal, bade her let
it be as if it had not been; he bade her think of him no more."

Clementina sat as if powerless to move, staring at Belsky. He paused in
his walk, and allowed an impressive silence to ensue upon his words.

"Time passed: days, months, years; and he did not see her again. He
pursued his studies in the university; at their completion, he entered
upon the course of divinity, and he is soon to be a minister of his
church. In all that time the image of the young girl has remained in his
heart, and has held him true to the only love he has ever known. He will
know no other while he lives."

Again he stopped in front of Clementina; she looked helplessly up at him,
and he resumed his walk.

"He, with his dreams of renunciation, of abnegation, had thought some day
to return to her and ask her to be his. He believed her capable of equal
sacrifice with himself, and he hoped to win her not for himself alone,
but for the religion which he put before himself. He would have invited
her to join her fate with his that they might go together on some mission
to the pagan--in the South Seas, in the heart of Africa, in the jungle of
India. He had always thought of her as gay but good, unworldly in soul,
and exalted in spirit. She has remained with him a vision of angelic
loveliness, as he had seen her last in the moonlight, on the banks of a
mountain torrent. But he believes that he has disgraced himself before
her; that the very scruple for her youth, her ignorance, which made him
entreat her to forget him, must have made her doubt and despise him. He
has never had the courage to write to her one word since all those years,
but he maintains himself bound to her forever." He stopped short before
Clementina and seized her hands. "If you knew such a girl, what would you
have her do? Should she bid him hope again? Would you have her say to him
that she, too, had been faithful to their dream, and that she too--"

"Let me go, Mr. Belsky, let me go, I say!" Clementina wrenched her hands
from him, and ran out of the room. Belsky hesitated, then he found his
hat, and after a glance at his face in the mirror, left the house.

XXIV.

The tide of travel began to set northward in April. Many English, many
Americans appeared in Florence from Naples and Rome; many who had
wintered in Florence went on to Venice and the towns of northern Italy,
on their way to Switzerland and France and Germany.

The spring was cold and rainy, and the irresolute Italian railroads were
interrupted by the floods. A tawny deluge rolled down from the mountains
through the bed of the Arno, and kept the Florentine fire-department on
the alert night and day. "It is a curious thing about this country," said
Mr. Hinkle, encountering Baron Belsky on the Ponte Trinita, "that the
only thing they ever have here for a fire company to put out is a
freshet. If they had a real conflagration once, I reckon they would want
to bring their life-preservers."

The Russian was looking down over the parapet at the boiling river. He
lifted his head as if he had not heard the American, and stared at him a
moment before he spoke. "It is said that the railway to Rome is broken at
Grossetto."

"Well, I'm not going to Rome," said Hinkle, easily. "Are you?"

"I was to meet a friend there; but he wrote to me that he was starting to
Florence, and now--"

"He's resting on the way? Well, he'll get here about as quick as he would
in the ordinary course of travel. One good thing about Italy is, you
don't want to hurry; if you did, you'd get left."

Belsky stared at him in the stupefaction to which the American humor
commonly reduced him. "If he gets left on the Grossetto line, he can go
back and come up by Orvieto, no?"

"He can, if he isn't in a hurry," Hinkle assented.

"It's a good way, if you've got time to burn."

Belsky did not attempt to explore the American's meaning. "Do you know,"
he asked, "whether Mrs. Lander and her young friend are still in
Florence?

"I guess they are."

"It was said they were going to Venice for the summer."

"That's what the doctor advised for the old lady. But they don't start
for a week or two yet."

"Oh!"

"Are you going to Miss Milray's, Sunday night? Last of the season, I
believe."

Belsky seemed to recall himself from a distance.

"No--no," he said, and he moved away, forgetful of the ceremonious
salutation which he commonly used at meeting and parting. Hinkle looked
after him with the impression people have of a difference in the
appearance and behavior of some one whose appearance and behavior do not
particularly concern them.

The day that followed, Belsky haunted the hotel where Gregory was to
arrive with his pupil, and where the pupil's family were waiting for
them. That night, long after their belated train was due, they came; the
pupil was with his father and mother, and Gregory was alone, when Belsky
asked for him, the fourth or fifth time.

"You are not well," he said, as they shook hands. "You are fevered!"

"I'm tired," said Gregory. "We've bad a bad time getting through."

"I come inconveniently! You have not dined, perhaps?"

"Yes, Yes. I've had dinner. Sit down. How have you been yourself?"

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