The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

“Yes. I am just as fond of her as ever. There is nothing I would not do for her. But I do not want to marry her and I never did, till that old cat made me think it was my duty.”

“I should think you would have known what your duty was, without waiting to be told. I would have told her mother that I did not love the girl, and I would have gone the next morning.”

“You are so sensible, father!” George exclaimed. “I looked at it differently. It seemed to me that if I had gone so far as to make Mamie believe that I loved her, I ought to be able to love her in earnest.”

“When you are older, you will know better,” observed the old gentleman severely. “You have too much imagination. As for Mr. Craik, he will not leave you his money now. I doubt if he meant to.”

George went and shut himself up in the little room which had witnessed so many of his struggles and disappointments. He sat down in his shabby old easy-chair and lit a short pipe and fell into a profound reverie. The unexpected had played a great part in his life, and as he reviewed the story of the past three years, he was surprised to find how very different his own existence had been from that of the average man. With the exception of his accident on the river and the scene he had witnessed to-day, nothing really startling had happened to him in that time, and yet his position at the present moment was as different from his position three years earlier as it possibly could be. In that time he had risen from total obscurity into the publicity of reputation, if not of celebrity. He was not fond of disturbing the mass of papers that encumbered his table, and there, deep down under the rest were still to be found rough drafts of his last poor little reviews. Hanging from one corner there was visible the corrected “revise” of one of his earliest accepted articles. At the other end, beneath a piece of old iron which he used as a paper-weight, lay the manuscript of his first novel, well thumbed and soiled, and marked at intervals in pencil with the names of the compositors who had set up the pages in type. There, upon the table, lay the accumulated refuse of three years of hard work, of the three years which had raised him into the public notice. Much of that work had been done under the influence of one woman, of one fair young girl who had bent over his shoulder as he read her page after page, and whose keen, fresh sight had often detected flaws and errors where he himself saw no imperfection. She had encouraged him, had pushed him, and urged him on, in spite of himself, until he had succeeded, beyond his wildest expectations. Then he had lost her, because he had thought that she was bound to marry him. He did not think so now, for he felt that in that case, too, he had been mistaken, as in the more recent one he had deceived himself. He had never been in love. He had never felt what he described in his own books. His blood had never raced through his veins for love, as it had often done for anger and sometimes for mere passing passion. Love had never taken him and mastered him and carried him away in its arms beyond all consideration for consequences. It was not because he was strong. He knew that whatever people might think of him, he had often been weak, and had longed to be made strong by a love he could not feel. He had been ready to yield himself to a belief in affections which had proved unreal and which had disappointed himself by their instability and by the ease with which he had recovered from them. Even in the solitude of his own room he was ashamed to own to his inner consciousness how little he had been moved by all that had happened to him in those three years.

He thought of Johnson, the pale-faced hardworking man, whose heart was full of unsatisfied ambition and who had distanced his competitors by sheer energy and enthusiasm. He envied the man his belief in himself and his certainty of slow but sure success. Slow, indeed, it must be. Johnson had toiled for many years at his writing to attain the position he occupied, to be considered a good judge and a ready writer by the few who knew him, to gain a small but solid reputation in a small circle. He had worked much harder than George himself, and yet to-day, George Wood was known and read where William Johnson had never been heard of. Of the two Johnson was by far the better satisfied with his success, though of the two he possessed by very much the more ambition, in the ordinary acceptation of the word.

Then George thought of Thomas Craik, and of his sneer at ambitious men. He had said that there was no pleasure in possession, but only in getting, getting, getting, as long as a man had breath; that the wish to excel other men in anything was a drawback and a disadvantage, and that nothing in the world was worth having for its own sake, from money to fame, through all the catalogue of what is attainable by humanity. And yet, Thomas Craik was an instance of a very successful man, who had some right to speak on the subject. Whether he had got his money by fair means or foul had nothing to do with the argument. He had it, and he could speak from experience about the pleasures of possession. There must be some truth in what he said. George himself had attained before the age of thirty what many men labour in vain to reach throughout a lifetime. The case was similar. Whether he had deserved the reputation he had so suddenly acquired or not, mattered little. Many critics said that he had no claim to it. Many others said that he deserved more than he got. Whichever side was right, he had it, as Tom Craik had his money. Did it give him any satisfaction? None whatever, beyond the material advantages it brought him, and which only pleased him because they made him independent of his father’s help. When he thought of what he had done, he found no savour of pride in the reflection, nothing which really flattered his vanity, nothing to send a thrill of happiness through him. He was cold, indifferent to all he had done. It would not have entered his mind to take up one of his own books and glance over the pages. On the contrary, he felt a strong repulsion for what he had written, the moment it was finished. He admitted that he was foolish in this, as in many other things, and that he would in all likelihood improve his work by going over it and polishing it, even by entirely rewriting a great part of it. He was not deterred from doing so by indolence, for his rarely energetic temperament loved hard work and sought it. It was rather a profound dissatisfaction with all he did which prevented him from expending any further time upon each performance when he had once reached the last page. Nothing satisfied him, neither what he did himself, nor what he saw done by others.

Thinking the matter over in his solitude the inevitable conclusion seemed to be that he was one of those discontented beings who can never be pleased with anything, nor lose themselves in an enthusiasm without picking to pieces the object that has made him enthusiastic. But this was not true either. There were plenty of great works in the world for which he had no criticism, and which never failed to excite his boundless admiration. He smiled to himself as he thought that what would really please him would be to be forced into the same attitude of respect before one of his own books, into which he naturally fell before the great masterpieces of literature. He would have been hard to satisfy, he thought, if that would not have satisfied him. Was that, then, the vision which he was really pursuing? It was folly to suppose that he would be so mad, and yet, at that time, he felt that he desired nothing else and nothing less than that, and since that was absolutely unattainable, he was condemned to perpetual discontent, to be borne with the best patience he could find. Beyond this, he could find no explanation of his feelings about his own work.

The only other source of happiness of which he could conceive was love, and this brought him back to his kindly and grateful memories of Constance Fearing, and to the more disturbing recollection of his cousin. The latter, also, had played a part and had occupied a share in his life. He had watched her more closely than he had ever watched any one, and had studied her with an unconsciously unswerving attention which proved how little he had loved her and how much she had interested him. He was, indeed, never well aware that he was subjecting any one to a microscopic intellectual scrutiny, for he possessed in a high degree the faculty of unintentional memory. While it cost him a severe effort to commit to memory a dozen verses of any poet, old or modern, he could nevertheless recall with faultless accuracy both sights and conversations which he had seen and heard, even after an interval of many years, provided that his interest had been somewhat excited at the time. The half-active, half-indolent, wholly luxurious life at his cousin’s house had in the end produced a strong impression upon him. It had been like an interval of lotus-eating upon an almost uninhabited island, varied only by such work as he chose to do at his own leisure and in his own way. During more than four months the struggles of the world had been hidden from him, and had temporarily ceased to play any part in his thoughts. The dreamy existence spent between flowers and woods and water, where every want had been anticipated almost before it was felt, served now as a background for the picture of the young girl who had been so constantly with him, herself as natural as her surroundings, the incarnation of life and of life’s charm, the negation of intellectual activity and of the sufferings of thought, a lovely creature who could only think, reason, enjoy and suffer with her heart, and whose mind could acquire but little, and was incapable of giving out. She had been the central figure and had contributed much to the general effect, so much, indeed, that under pressure of circumstances he had been willing to believe that he could love her enough to marry her. The scene had changed, the hallucination had vanished and the delusion was destroyed, but the memory of it all remained, and now disturbed his recollection of more recent events. There was a sensuous attraction in the pictures that presented themselves, from which he could not escape, but which he for some reason despised and tried to put away from him, by thinking again of Constance, of the cold purity of her face, of her over-studied conscientiousness and of her complete subjection to her sincere but mistaken self-criticism.

He wondered whether he should ever marry, and what manner of woman his wife would turn out to be. Of one thing he was sure. He would not now marry any woman unless he loved her with all his heart, and he would not ask her to marry him unless he were already sure of her love. The third must be the decisive case, from which he should never desire to withdraw and in which there should be no disappointment. He thought of Grace Fearing, and of her marriage and short-lived happiness with its terribly sudden ending and the immensity of sorrow that had followed its extinction. It almost seemed to him as though it would be worth while to suffer as she suffered if one could have what she had found; for the love must have been great and deep and sincere indeed, which could leave such scars where it had rested. To love a woman so well able to love would be happiness. She never doubted herself nor what she felt; all her thoughts were clear, simple and strong; she did not analyse herself to know the measure of her own sincerity, nor was she a woman to be carried away by a thoughtless passion. She loved and she hated frankly, sincerely, without a side thought of doubt on the one hand nor of malice on the other. She was morally strong without putting on any affectation of strength, she was clear-sighted without making any pretence to exceptional intelligence, she was passionate without folly, and wise without annoyance, she was good, not sanctimonious, she was dignified without vanity. In short, as George thought of her, he saw that the woman who had openly disliked him and opposed him in former days, was of all the three the one for whom he felt the most sincere admiration. He remembered now that at his first meeting with the two sisters he had liked Grace better than Constance, and would then have chosen her as the object of his attentions had she been free and had he foreseen that friendship was to follow upon intimacy and love on friendship. Unfortunately for George Wood, and for all who find themselves in a like situation, that concatenation of events is the one most rarely foreseen by anybody, and George was fain to content himself with speculating upon the nature of the happiness he would have enjoyed had he been loved by a woman who seemed now to be dead to the whole world of the affections. It was sufficient to compare her with her sister to understand that she was, of the two, the nobler character; it was enough to think of Mamie to see that in that direction no comparison was even possible.