The Figure in the Carpet

She was moved, as I could see, to such depths that she must mean the great thing.  “Vereker’s idea?”

“His general intention.  George has cabled from Bombay.”

She had the missive open there; it was emphatic though concise.  “Eureka.  Immense.”  That was all—he had saved the cost of the signature.  I shared her emotion, but I was disappointed.  “He doesn’t say what it is.”

“How could he—in a telegram?  He’ll write it.”

“But how does he know?”

“Know it’s the real thing?  Oh I’m sure that when you see it you do know.  Vera incessu patuit dea!”

“It’s you, Miss Erme, who are a ‘dear’ for bringing me such news!”—I went all lengths in my high spirits.  “But fancy finding our goddess in the temple of Vishnu!  How strange of George to have been able to go into the thing again in the midst of such different and such powerful solicitations!”

“He hasn’t gone into it, I know; it’s the thing itself, let severely alone for six months, that has simply sprung out at him like a tigress out of the jungle.  He didn’t take a book with him—on purpose; indeed he wouldn’t have needed to—he knows every page, as I do, by heart.  They all worked in him together, and some day somewhere, when he wasn’t thinking, they fell, in all their superb intricacy, into the one right combination.  The figure in the carpet came out.  That’s the way he knew it would come and the real reason—you didn’t in the least understand, but I suppose I may tell you now—why he went and why I consented to his going.  We knew the change would do it—that the difference of thought, of scene, would give the needed touch, the magic shake.  We had perfectly, we had admirably calculated.  The elements were all in his mind, and in the secousse of a new and intense experience they just struck light.”  She positively struck light herself—she was literally, facially luminous.  I stammered something about unconscious cerebration, and she continued: “He’ll come right home—this will bring him.”

“To see Vereker, you mean?”

“To see Vereker—and to see me.  Think what he’ll have to tell me!”

I hesitated.  “About India?”

“About fiddlesticks!  About Vereker—about the figure in the carpet.”

“But, as you say, we shall surely have that in a letter.”

She thought like one inspired, and I remembered how Corvick had told me long before that her face was interesting.  “Perhaps it can’t be got into a letter if it’s ‘immense.’”

“Perhaps not if it’s immense bosh.  If he has hold of something that can’t be got into a letter he hasn’t hold of the thing.  Vereker’s own statement to me was exactly that the ‘figure’ would fit into a letter.”

“Well, I cabled to George an hour ago—two words,” said Gwendolen.

“Is it indiscreet of me to ask what they were?”

She hung fire, but at last brought them out.  “‘Angel, write.’”

“Good!” I exclaimed.  “I’ll make it sure—I’ll send him the same.”

CHAPTER VII

My words however were not absolutely the same—I put something instead of “angel”; and in the sequel my epithet seemed the more apt, for when eventually we heard from our traveller it was merely, it was thoroughly to be tantalised.  He was magnificent in his triumph, he described his discovery as stupendous; but his ecstasy only obscured it—there were to be no particulars till he should have submitted his conception to the supreme authority.  He had thrown up his commission, he had thrown up his book, he had thrown up everything but the instant need to hurry to Rapallo, on the Genoese shore, where Vereker was making a stay.  I wrote him a letter which was to await him at Aden—I besought him to relieve my suspense.  That he had found my letter was indicated by a telegram which, reaching me after weary days and in the absence of any answer to my laconic dispatch to him at Bombay, was evidently intended as a reply to both communications.  Those few words were in familiar French, the French of the day, which Covick often made use of to show he wasn’t a prig.  It had for some persons the opposite effect, but his message may fairly be paraphrased.  “Have patience; I want to see, as it breaks on you, the face you’ll make!”  “Tellement envie de voir ta tête!”—that was what I had to sit down with.  I can certainly not be said to have sat down, for I seem to remember myself at this time as rattling constantly between the little house in Chelsea and my own.  Our impatience, Gwendolen’s and mine, was equal, but I kept hoping her light would be greater.  We all spent during this episode, for people of our means, a great deal of money in telegrams and cabs, and I counted on the receipt of news from Rapallo immediately after the junction of the discoverer with the discovered.  The interval seemed an age, but late one day I heard a hansom precipitated to my door with the crash engendered by a hint of liberality.  I lived with my heart in my mouth and accordingly bounded to the window—a movement which gave me a view of a young lady erect on the footboard of the vehicle and eagerly looking up at my house.  At sight of me she flourished a paper with a movement that brought me straight down, the movement with which, in melodramas, handkerchiefs and reprieves are flourished at the foot of the scaffold.

“Just seen Vereker—not a note wrong.  Pressed me to bosom—keeps me a month.”  So much I read on her paper while the cabby dropped a grin from his perch.  In my excitement I paid him profusely and in hers she suffered it; then as he drove away we started to walk about and talk.  We had talked, heaven knows, enough before, but this was a wondrous lift.  We pictured the whole scene at Rapallo, where he would have written, mentioning my name, for permission to call; that is I pictured it, having more material than my companion, whom I felt hang on my lips as we stopped on purpose before shop-windows we didn’t look into.  About one thing we were clear: if he was staying on for fuller communication we should at least have a letter from him that would help us through the dregs of delay.  We understood his staying on, and yet each of us saw, I think, that the other hated it.  The letter we were clear about arrived; it was for Gwendolen, and I called on her in time to save her the trouble of bringing it to me.  She didn’t read it out, as was natural enough; but she repeated to me what it chiefly embodied.  This consisted of the remarkable statement that he’d tell her after they were married exactly what she wanted to know.

“Only then, when I’m his wife—not before,” she explained.  “It’s tantamount to saying—isn’t it?—that I must marry him straight off!”  She smiled at me while I flushed with disappointment, a vision of fresh delay that made me at first unconscious of my surprise.  It seemed more than a hint that on me as well he would impose some tiresome condition.  Suddenly, while she reported several more things from his letter, I remembered what he had told me before going away.  He had found Mr. Vereker deliriously interesting and his own possession of the secret a real intoxication.  The buried treasure was all gold and gems.  Now that it was there it seemed to grow and grow before him; it would have been, through all time and taking all tongues, one of the most wonderful flowers of literary art.  Nothing, in especial, once you were face to face with it, could show for more consummately done.  When once it came out it came out, was there with a splendour that made you ashamed; and there hadn’t been, save in the bottomless vulgarity of the age, with every one tasteless and tainted, every sense stopped, the smallest reason why it should have been overlooked.  It was great, yet so simple, was simple, yet so great, and the final knowledge of it was an experience quite apart.  He intimated that the charm of such an experience, the desire to drain it, in its freshness, to the last drop, was what kept him there close to the source.  Gwendolen, frankly radiant as she tossed me these fragments, showed the elation of a prospect more assured than my own.  That brought me back to the question of her marriage, prompted me to ask if what she meant by what she had just surprised me with was that she was under an engagement.

“Of course I am!” she answered.  “Didn’t you know it?”  She seemed astonished, but I was still more so, for Corvick had told me the exact contrary.  I didn’t mention this, however; I only reminded her how little I had been on that score in her confidence, or even in Corvick’s, and that, moreover I wasn’t in ignorance of her mother’s interdict.  At bottom I was troubled by the disparity of the two accounts; but after a little I felt Corvick’s to be the one I least doubted.  This simply reduced me to asking myself if the girl had on the spot improvised an engagement—vamped up an old one or dashed off a new—in order to arrive at the satisfaction she desired.  She must have had resources of which I was destitute, but she made her case slightly more intelligible by returning presently: “What the state of things has been is that we felt of course bound to do nothing in mamma’s lifetime.”

“But now you think you’ll just dispense with mamma’s consent?”

“Ah it mayn’t come to that!”  I wondered what it might come to, and she went on: “Poor dear, she may swallow the dose.  In fact, you know,” she added with a laugh, “she really must!”—a proposition of which, on behalf of every one concerned, I fully acknowledged the force.

CHAPTER VIII

Nothing more vexatious had ever happened to me than to become aware before Corvick’s arrival in England that I shouldn’t be there to put him through.  I found myself abruptly called to Germany by the alarming illness of my younger brother, who, against my advice, had gone to Munich to study, at the feet indeed of a great master, the art of portraiture in oils.  The near relative who made him an allowance had threatened to withdraw it if he should, under specious pretexts, turn for superior truth to Paris—Paris being somehow, for a Cheltenham aunt, the school of evil, the abyss.  I deplored this prejudice at the time, and the deep injury of it was now visible—first in the fact that it hadn’t saved the poor boy, who was clever, frail and foolish, from congestion of the lungs, and second in the greater break with London to which the event condemned me.  I’m afraid that what was uppermost in my mind during several anxious weeks was the sense that if we had only been in Paris I might have run over to see Corvick.  This was actually out of the question from every point of view: my brother, whose recovery gave us both plenty to do, was ill for three months, during which I never left him and at the end of which we had to face the absolute prohibition of a return to England.  The consideration of climate imposed itself, and he was in no state to meet it alone.  I took him to Meran and there spent the summer with him, trying to show him by example how to get back to work and nursing a rage of another sort that I tried not to show him.

The whole business proved the first of a series of phenomena so strangely interlaced that, taken together—which was how I had to take them—they form as good an illustration as I can recall of the manner in which, for the good of his soul doubtless, fate sometimes deals with a man’s avidity.  These incidents certainly had larger bearings than the comparatively meagre consequence we are here concerned with—though I feel that consequence also a thing to speak of with some respect.  It’s mainly in such a light, I confess, at any rate, that the ugly fruit of my exile is at this hour present to me.  Even at first indeed the spirit in which my avidity, as I have called it, made me regard that term owed no element of ease to the fact that before coming back from Rapallo George Corvick addressed me in a way I objected to.  His letter had none of the sedative action I must to-day profess myself sure he had wished to give it, and the march of occurrences was not so ordered as to make up for what it lacked.  He had begun on the spot, for one of the quarterlies, a great last word on Vereker’s writings, and this exhaustive study, the only one that would have counted, have existed, was to turn on the new light, to utter—oh, so quietly!—the unimagined truth.  It was in other words to trace the figure in the carpet through every convolution, to reproduce it in every tint.  The result, according to my friend, would be the greatest literary portrait ever painted, and what he asked of me was just to be so good as not to trouble him with questions till he should hang up his masterpiece before me.  He did me the honour to declare that, putting aside the great sitter himself, all aloft in his indifference, I was individually the connoisseur he was most working for.  I was therefore to be a good boy and not try to peep under the curtain before the show was ready: I should enjoy it all the more if I sat very still.

I did my best to sit very still, but I couldn’t help giving a jump on seeing in The Times, after I had been a week or two in Munich and before, as I knew, Corvick had reached London, the announcement of the sudden death of poor Mrs. Erme.  I instantly, by letter, appealed to Gwendolen for particulars, and she wrote me that her mother had yielded to long-threatened failure of the heart.  She didn’t say, but I took the liberty of reading into her words, that from the point of view of her marriage and also of her eagerness, which was quite a match for mine, this was a solution more prompt than could have been expected and more radical than waiting for the old lady to swallow the dose.  I candidly admit indeed that at the time—for I heard from her repeatedly—I read some singular things into Gwendolen’s words and some still more extraordinary ones into her silences.  Pen in hand, this way, I live the time over, and it brings back the oddest sense of my having been, both for months and in spite of myself, a kind of coerced spectator.  All my life had taken refuge in my eyes, which the procession of events appeared to have committed itself to keep astare.  There were days when I thought of writing to Hugh Vereker and simply throwing myself on his charity.  But I felt more deeply that I hadn’t fallen quite so low—besides which, quite properly, he would send me about my business.  Mrs. Erme’s death brought Corvick straight home, and within the month he was united “very quietly”—as quietly, I seemed to make out, as he meant in his article to bring out his trouvaille—to the young lady he had loved and quitted.  I use this last term, I may parenthetically say, because I subsequently grew sure that at the time he went to India, at the time of his great news from Bombay, there had been no positive pledge between them whatever.  There had been none at the moment she was affirming to me the very opposite.  On the other hand he had certainly become engaged the day he returned.  The happy pair went down to Torquay for their honeymoon, and there, in a reckless hour, it occurred to poor Corvick to take his young bride a drive.  He had no command of that business: this had been brought home to me of old in a little tour we had once made together in a dogcart.  In a dogcart he perched his companion for a rattle over Devonshire hills, on one of the likeliest of which he brought his horse, who, it was true, had bolted, down with such violence that the occupants of the cart were hurled forward and that he fell horribly on his head.  He was killed on the spot; Gwendolen escaped unhurt.

I pass rapidly over the question of this unmitigated tragedy, of what the loss of my best friend meant for me, and I complete my little history of my patience and my pain by the frank statement of my having, in a postscript to my very first letter to her after the receipt of the hideous news, asked Mrs. Corvick whether her husband mightn’t at least have finished the great article on Vereker.  Her answer was as prompt as my question: the article, which had been barely begun, was a mere heartbreaking scrap.  She explained that our friend, abroad, had just settled down to it when interrupted by her mother’s death, and that then, on his return, he had been kept from work by the engrossments into which that calamity was to plunge them.  The opening pages were all that existed; they were striking, they were promising, but they didn’t unveil the idol.  That great intellectual feat was obviously to have formed his climax.  She said nothing more, nothing to enlighten me as to the state of her own knowledge—the knowledge for the acquisition of which I had fancied her prodigiously acting.  This was above all what I wanted to know: had she seen the idol unveiled?  Had there been a private ceremony for a palpitating audience of one?  For what else but that ceremony had the nuptials taken place?  I didn’t like as yet to press her, though when I thought of what had passed between us on the subject in Corvick’s absence her reticence surprised me.  It was therefore not till much later, from Meran, that I risked another appeal, risked it in some trepidation, for she continued to tell me nothing.  “Did you hear in those few days of your blighted bliss,” I wrote, “what we desired so to hear?”  I said, “we,” as a little hint and she showed me she could take a little hint; “I heard everything,” she replied, “and I mean to keep it to myself!”

CHAPTER IX

It was impossible not to be moved with the strongest sympathy for her, and on my return to England I showed her every kindness in my power.  Her mother’s death had made her means sufficient, and she had gone to live in a more convenient quarter.  But her loss had been great and her visitation cruel; it never would have occurred to me moreover to suppose she could come to feel the possession of a technical tip, of a piece of literary experience, a counterpoise to her grief.  Strange to say, none the less, I couldn’t help believing after I had seen her a few times that I caught a glimpse of some such oddity.  I hasten to add that there had been other things I couldn’t help believing, or at least imagining; and as I never felt I was really clear about these, so, as to the point I here touch on, I give her memory the benefit of the doubt.  Stricken and solitary, highly accomplished and now, in her deep mourning, her maturer grace and her uncomplaining sorrow, incontestably handsome, she presented herself as leading a life of singular dignity and beauty.  I had at first found a way to persuade myself that I should soon get the better of the reserve formulated, the week after the catastrophe in her reply to an appeal as to which I was not unconscious that it might strike her as mistimed.  Certainly that reserve was something of a shock to me—certainly it puzzled me the more I thought of it and even though I tried to explain it (with moments of success) by an imputation of exalted sentiments, of superstitious scruples, of a refinement of loyalty.  Certainly it added at the same time hugely to the price of Vereker’s secret, precious as this mystery already appeared.  I may as well confess abjectly that Mrs. Corvick’s unexpected attitude was the final tap on the nail that was to fix fast my luckless idea, convert it into the obsession of which I’m for ever conscious.

But this only helped me the more to be artful, to be adroit, to allow time to elapse before renewing my suit.  There were plenty of speculations for the interval, and one of them was deeply absorbing.  Corvick had kept his information from his young friend till after the removal of the last barrier to their intimacy—then only had he let the cat out of the bag.  Was it Gwendolen’s idea, taking a hint from him, to liberate this animal only on the basis of the renewal of such a relation?  Was the figure in the carpet traceable or describable only for husbands and wives—for lovers supremely united?  It came back to me in a mystifying manner that in Kensington Square, when I mentioned that Corvick would have told the girl he loved, some word had dropped from Vereker that gave colour to this possibility.  There might be little in it, but there was enough to make me wonder if I should have to marry Mrs. Corvick to get what I wanted.  Was I prepared to offer her this price for the blessing of her knowledge?  Ah that way madness lay!—so I at least said to myself in bewildered hours.  I could see meanwhile the torch she refused to pass on flame away in her chamber of memory—pour through her eyes a light that shone in her lonely house.  At the end of six months I was fully sure of what this warm presence made up to her for.  We had talked again and again of the man who had brought us together—of his talent, his character, his personal charm, his certain career, his dreadful doom, and even of his clear purpose in that great study which was to have been a supreme literary portrait, a kind of critical Vandyke or Velasquez.  She had conveyed to me in abundance that she was tongue-tied by her perversity, by her piety, that she would never break the silence it had not been given to the “right person,” as she said, to break.  The hour however finally arrived.  One evening when I had been sitting with her longer than usual I laid my hand firmly on her arm.  “Now at last what is it?”

She had been expecting me and was ready.  She gave a long slow soundless headshake, merciful only in being inarticulate.  This mercy didn’t prevent its hurling at me the largest finest coldest “Never!” I had yet, in the course of a life that had known denials, had to take full in the face.  I took it and was aware that with the hard blow the tears had come into my eyes.  So for a while we sat and looked at each other; after which I slowly rose, I was wondering if some day she would accept me; but this was not what I brought out.  I said as I smoothed down my hat: “I know what to think then.  It’s nothing!”

A remote disdainful pity for me gathered in her dim smile; then she spoke in a voice that I hear at this hour: “It’s my life!”  As I stood at the door she added: “You’ve insulted him!”

“Do you mean Vereker?”

“I mean the Dead!”

I recognised when I reached the street the justice of her charge.  Yes, it was her life—I recognised that too; but her life none the less made room with the lapse of time for another interest.  A year and a half after Corvick’s death she published in a single volume her second novel, “Overmastered,” which I pounced on in the hope of finding in it some tell-tale echo or some peeping face.  All I found was a much better book than her younger performance, showing I thought the better company she had kept.  As a tissue tolerably intricate it was a carpet with a figure of its own; but the figure was not the figure I was looking for.  On sending a review of it to The Middle I was surprised to learn from the office that a notice was already in type.  When the paper came out I had no hesitation in attributing this article, which I thought rather vulgarly overdone, to Drayton Deane, who in the old days had been something of a friend of Corvick’s, yet had only within a few weeks made the acquaintance of his widow.  I had had an early copy of the book, but Deane had evidently had an earlier.  He lacked all the same the light hand with which Corvick had gilded the gingerbread—he laid on the tinsel in splotches.

CHAPTER X

Six months later appeared “The Right of Way,” the last chance, though we didn’t know it, that we were to have to redeem ourselves.  Written wholly during Vereker’s sojourn abroad, the book had been heralded, in a hundred paragraphs, by the usual ineptitudes.  I carried it, as early a copy as any, I this time flattered myself, straightway to Mrs. Corvick.  This was the only use I had for it; I left the inevitable tribute of The Middle to some more ingenious mind and some less irritated temper.  “But I already have it,” Gwendolen said.  “Drayton Deane was so good as to bring it to me yesterday, and I’ve just finished it.”

“Yesterday?  How did he get it so soon?”

“He gets everything so soon!  He’s to review it in The Middle.”

“He—Drayton Deane—review Vereker?”  I couldn’t believe my ears.

“’Why not?  One fine ignorance is as good as another.”

I winced but I presently said: “You ought to review him yourself!”

“I don’t ‘review,’” she laughed.  “I’m reviewed!”

Just then the door was thrown open.  “Ah yes, here’s your reviewer!”  Drayton Deane was there with his long legs and his tall forehead: he had come to see what she thought of “The Right of Way,” and to bring news that was singularly relevant.  The evening papers were just out with a telegram on the author of that work, who, in Rome, had been ill for some days with an attack of malarial fever.  It had at first not been thought grave, but had taken, in consequence of complications, a turn that might give rise to anxiety.  Anxiety had indeed at the latest hour begun to be felt.

I was struck in the presence of these tidings with the fundamental detachment that Mrs. Corvick’s overt concern quite failed to hide: it gave me the measure of her consummate independence.  That independence rested on her knowledge, the knowledge which nothing now could destroy and which nothing could make different.  The figure in the carpet might take on another twist or two, but the sentence had virtually been written.  The writer might go down to his grave: she was the person in the world to whom—as if she had been his favoured heir—his continued existence was least of a need.  This reminded me how I had observed at a particular moment—after Corvick’s death—the drop of her desire to see him face to face.  She had got what she wanted without that.  I had been sure that if she hadn’t got it she wouldn’t have been restrained from the endeavour to sound him personally by those superior reflexions, more conceivable on a man’s part than on a woman’s, which in my case had served an a deterrent.  It wasn’t however, I hasten to add, that my case, in spite of this invidious comparison, wasn’t ambiguous enough.  At the thought that Vereker was perhaps at that moment dying there rolled over me a wave of anguish—a poignant sense of how inconsistently I still depended on him.  A delicacy that it was my one compensation to suffer to rule me had left the Alps and the Apennines between us, but the sense of the waning occasion suggested that I might in my despair at last have gone to him.  Of course I should really have done nothing of the sort.  I remained five minutes, while my companions talked of the new book, and when Drayton Deane appealed to me for my opinion of it I made answer, getting up, that I detested Hugh Vereker and simply couldn’t read him.  I departed with the moral certainty that as the door closed behind me Deane would brand me for awfully superficial.  His hostess wouldn’t contradict that at least.

I continue to trace with a briefer touch our intensely odd successions.  Three weeks after this came Vereker’s death, and before the year was out the death of his wife.  That poor lady I had never seen, but I had had a futile theory that, should she survive him long enough to be decorously accessible, I might approach her with the feeble flicker of my plea.  Did she know and if she knew would she speak?  It was much to be presumed that for more reasons than one she would have nothing to say; but when she passed out of all reach I felt renannouncement indeed my appointed lot.  I was shut up in my obsession for ever—my gaolers had gone off with the key.  I find myself quite as vague as a captive in a dungeon about the tinge that further elapsed before Mrs. Corvick became the wife of Drayton Deane.  I had foreseen, through my bars, this end of the business, though there was no indecent haste and our friendship had fallen rather off.  They were both so “awfully intellectual” that it struck people as a suitable match, but I had measured better than any one the wealth of understanding the bride would contribute to the union.  Never, for a marriage in literary circles—so the newspapers described the alliance—had a lady been so bravely dowered.  I began with due promptness to look for the fruit of the affair—that fruit, I mean, of which the premonitory symptoms would be peculiarly visible in the husband.  Taking for granted the splendour of the other party’s nuptial gift, I expected to see him make a show commensurate with his increase of means.  I knew what his means had been—his article on “The Right of Way” had distinctly given one the figure.  As he was now exactly in the position in which still more exactly I was not I watched from month to month, in the likely periodicals, for the heavy message poor Corvick had been unable to deliver and the responsibility of which would have fallen on his successor.  The widow and wife would have broken by the rekindled hearth the silence that only a widow and wife might break, and Deane would be as aflame with the knowledge as Corvick in his own hour, as Gwendolen in hers, had been.  Well, he was aflame doubtless, but the fire was apparently not to become a public blaze.  I scanned the periodicals in vain: Drayton Deane filled them with exuberant pages, but he withheld the page I most feverishly sought.  He wrote on a thousand subjects, but never on the subject of Vereker.  His special line was to tell truths that other people either “funked,” as he said, or overlooked, but he never told the only truth that seemed to me in these days to signify.  I met the couple in those literary circles referred to in the papers: I have sufficiently intimated that it was only in such circles we were all constructed to revolve.  Gwendolen was more than ever committed to them by the publication of her third novel, and I myself definitely classed by holding the opinion that this work was inferior to its immediate predecessor.  Was it worse because she had been keeping worse company?  If her secret was, as she had told me, her life—a fact discernible in her increasing bloom, an air of conscious privilege that, cleverly corrected by pretty charities, gave distinction to her appearance—it had yet not a direct influence on her work.  That only made one—everything only made one—yearn the more for it; only rounded it off with a mystery finer and subtler.