The Story of a Lie

When Dick Naseby was in Paris he made some odd acquaintances, for he was

one of those who have ears to hear, and can use their eyes no less than

their intelligence. He made as many thoughts as Stuart Mill; but his

philosophy concerned flesh and blood, and was experimental as to its

method. He was a type-hunter among mankind. He despised small game and

insignificant personalities, whether in the shape of dukes or bagmen,

letting them go by like sea-weed; but show him a refined or powerful

face, let him hear a plangent or a penetrating voice, fish for him with

a living look in some one's eye, a passionate gesture, a meaning or

ambiguous smile, and his mind was instantaneously awakened. "There was a

man, there was a woman," he seemed to say, and he stood up to the task

of comprehension with the delight of an artist in his art.

And indeed, rightly considered, this interest of his was an artistic

interest. There is no science in the personal study of human nature. All

comprehension is creation; the woman I love is somewhat of my handiwork;

and the great lover, like the great painter, is he that can so embellish

his subject as to make her more than human, whilst yet by a cunning art

he has so based his apotheosis on the nature of the case that the woman

can go on being a true woman, and give her character free play, and show

littleness, or cherish spite, or be greedy of common pleasures, and he

continue to worship without a thought of incongruity. To love a

character is only the heroic way of understanding it. When we love, by

some noble method of our own or some nobility of mien or nature in the

other, we apprehend the loved one by what is noblest in ourselves. When

we are merely studying an eccentricity, the method of our study is but a

series of allowances. To begin to understand is to begin to sympathise;

for comprehension comes only when we have stated another's faults and

virtues in terms of our own. Hence the proverbial toleration of artists

for their own evil creations. Hence, too, it came about that Dick

Naseby, a high-minded creature, and as scrupulous and brave a gentleman

as you would want to meet, held in a sort of affection the various human

creeping things whom he had met and studied.

One of these was Mr. Peter Van Tromp, an English-speaking, two-legged

animal of the international genus, and by profession of general and more

than equivocal utility. Years before he had been a painter of some

standing in a colony, and portraits signed "Van Tromp" had celebrated

the greatness of colonial governors and judges. In those days he had

been married, and driven his wife and infant daughter in a pony trap.

What were the steps of his declension? No one exactly knew. Here he was

at least, and had been, any time these past ten years, a sort of dismal

parasite upon the foreigner in Paris.

It would be hazardous to specify his exact industry. Coarsely followed,

it would have merited a name grown somewhat unfamiliar to our ears.

Followed as he followed it, with a skilful reticence, in a kind of

social chiaroscuro, it was still possible for the polite to call him a

professional painter. His lair was in the Grand Hotel and the gaudiest

cafés. There he might be seen jotting off a sketch with an air of some

inspiration; and he was always affable, and one of the easiest of men to

fall in talk withal. A conversation usually ripened into a peculiar sort

of intimacy, and it was extraordinary how many little services Van Tromp

contrived to render in the course of six-and-thirty hours. He occupied

a position between a friend and a courier, which made him worse than

Old Mr. Naseby had the sturdy, untutored nature of the upper middle

class. The universe seemed plain to him. "The thing's right," he would

say, or "the thing's wrong"; and there was an end of it. There was a

contained, prophetic energy in his utterances, even on the slightest

affairs; he _saw_ the damned thing; if you did not, it must be from

perversity of will, and this sent the blood to his head. Apart from

this, which made him an exacting companion, he was one of the most

upright, hot-tempered old gentlemen in England. Florid, with white hair,

the face of an old Jupiter, and the figure of an old fox-hunter, he

enlivened the vale of Thyme from end to end on his big, cantering

chestnut.

He had a hearty respect for Dick as a lad of parts. Dick had a respect

for his father as the best of men, tempered by the politic revolt of a

youth who has to see to his own independence. Whenever the pair argued,

they came to an open rupture; and arguments were frequent, for they were

both positive, and both loved the work of the intelligence. It was a

treat to hear Mr. Naseby defending the Church of England in a volley of

oaths, or supporting ascetic morals with an enthusiasm not entirely

innocent of port wine. Dick used to wax indignant, and none the less so

because, as his father was a skilful disputant, he found himself not

seldom in the wrong. On these occasions, he would redouble in energy,

and declare that black was white, and blue yellow, with much conviction

and heat of manner; but in the morning such a licence of debate weighed

upon him like a crime, and he would seek out his father, where he walked

before breakfast on a terrace overlooking all the vale of Thyme.

"I have to apologise, sir, for last night----" he would begin.

"Of course you have," the old gentleman would cut in cheerfully. "You

spoke like a fool. Say no more about it."

"You do not understand me, sir. I refer to a particular point. I confess

there is much force in your argument from the doctrine of

possibilities."

"Of course there is," returned his father. "Come down and look at the

stables. Only," he would add, "bear this in mind, and do remember that a

man of my age and experience knows more about what he is saying than a

raw boy."

He would utter the word "boy" even more offensively than the average of

fathers, and the light way in which he accepted these apologies cut Dick

to the heart. The latter drew slighting comparisons, and remembered that

he was the only one who ever apologised. This gave him a high station in

his own esteem, and thus contributed indirectly to his better behaviour;

for he was scrupulous as well as high-spirited, and prided himself on

nothing more than on a just submission.

So things went on until the famous occasion when Mr. Naseby, becoming

engrossed in securing the election of a sound party candidate to

Parliament, wrote a flaming letter to the papers. The letter had about

every demerit of party letters in general: it was expressed with the

energy of a believer; it was personal; it was a little more than half

unfair, and about a quarter untrue. The old man did not mean to say what

was untrue, you may be sure; but he had rashly picked up gossip, as his

prejudice suggested, and now rashly launched it on the public with the

sanction of his name.

"The Liberal candidate," he concluded, "is thus a public turncoat. Is

that the sort of man we want? He has been given the lie, and has

swallowed the insult. Is that the sort of man we want? I answer, No!

With all the force of my conviction, I answer, _No_!"

There was no return to the subject. Dick and his father were henceforth

on terms of coldness. The upright old gentleman grew more upright when

he met his son, buckrammed with immortal anger; he asked after Dick's

health, and discussed the weather and the crops with an appalling

courtesy; his pronunciation was _point-de-vice_, his voice was distant,

distinct, and sometimes almost trembling with suppressed indignation.

As for Dick, it seemed to him as if his life had come abruptly to an

end. He came out of his theories and clevernesses; his premature

man-of-the-worldness, on which he had prided himself on his travels,

"shrank like a thing ashamed" before this real sorrow. Pride, wounded

honour, pity and respect tussled together daily in his heart; and now he

was within an ace of throwing himself upon his father's mercy, and now

of slipping forth at night and coming back no more to Naseby House. He

suffered from the sight of his father, nay, even from the neighbourhood

of this familiar valley, where every corner had its legend, and he was

besieged with memories of childhood. If he fled into a new land, and

among none but strangers, he might escape his destiny, who knew? and

begin again light-heartedly. From that chief peak of the hills, that now

and then, like an uplifted finger, shone in an arrow of sunlight through

the broken clouds, the shepherd in clear weather might perceive the

shining of the sea. There, he thought, was hope. But his heart failed

him when he saw the Squire; and he remained. His fate was not that of

the voyager by sea and land; he was to travel in the spirit, and begin

his journey sooner than he supposed.

For it chanced one day that his walk led him into a portion of the

uplands which was almost unknown to him. Scrambling through some rough

woods, he came out upon a moorland reaching towards the hills. A few

lofty Scots firs grew hard by upon a knoll; a clear fountain near the

foot of the knoll sent up a miniature streamlet which meandered in the

heather. A shower had just skimmed by, but now the sun shone brightly,

and the air smelt of the pines and the grass. On a stone under the trees

sat a young lady sketching. We have learned to think of women in a sort

of symbolic transfiguration, based on clothes; and one of the readiest

ways in which we conceive our mistress is as a composite thing,

principally petticoats. But humanity has triumphed over clothes; the

look, the touch of a dress has become alive; and the woman who stitched

herself into these material integuments has now permeated right through

and gone out to the tip of her skirt. It was only a black dress that

caught Dick Naseby's eye; but it took possession of his mind, and all

other thoughts departed. He drew near, and the girl turned round. Her

face startled him; it was a face he wanted; and he took it in at once

like breathing air.

"I beg your pardon," he said, taking off his hat, "you are sketching."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "for my own amusement. I despise the thing."

"Ten to one you do yourself injustice," returned Dick. "Besides, it's a

freemasonry. I sketch myself, and you know what that implies."

"No. What?" she asked.

"Two things," he answered. "First, that I am no very difficult critic;

and second, that I have a right to see your picture."

She covered the block with both her hands. "Oh, no," she said; "I am

ashamed."

"Indeed, I might give you a hint," said Dick. "Although no artist

myself, I have known many; in Paris I had many for friends, and used to

prowl among studios."

"In Paris?" she cried, with a leap of light into her eyes. "Did you ever

meet Mr. Van Tromp?"