Basil: a story of modern life

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<y/y-œyt/< She staxted a_s she sa_w me" Page 56 LONDON SAMPSON LOW, SON fcC° 4.7 LUDGATE H.ILL.1S62 BASIL. EX .£• WILKIE COLLINS, ATJTHOE OP " THE WOMAK' IN WHITE," " THE DEAD SECEET," ETC. etc. LONDON : SAMPSON LOW, SON, & CO., 47, LLDGATE HILL. 1862. LETTEE OE DEDICATION. TO CHARLES JAMES WARD, Esq. It has long been one of my pleasantest anticipations to look forward to the time when I might offer to you, my old and dear friend, some such acknowledgment of the value I place on your affection for me, and of my grateful sense of the many acts of kindness by which that affection has been proved, as I now gladly offer in this place. In dedi cating the present work to you, I fulfil therefore a purpose which, for some time past, I have sincerely desired to achieve ; and, more than that, I gain for myself the satisfaction of knowing that there is one page, at least, of my book, on which I shall always look with unalloyed pleasure — the page that bears your name.

I have founded the main event out of which this story springs, on a fact within my own knowledge. In afterwards shaping the course of the narrative thus suggested, I have guided it, as often as I could, where I knew by my own ex perience, or by experience related to me by others, that it would touch on something real and true in its progress. My idea was, that the more of the Actual I could garner up as a text to speak from, the more certain I might feel DEDICATION. IV of the genuineness and value of the Ideal which was sure to spring out of it. Eancy and Imagination, Grace and Beauty, all those qualities which are to the work of Art what scent and colour are to the flower, can only grow towards heaven by taking root in earth. Is not the noblest poetry of prose fiction the poetry of every-day truth ?

Directing my characters and my story, then, towards the light of Eeality wherever I could find it, I have not hesitated to violate some of the conventionalities of sentimental fic tion. Eor instance, the first love-meeting of two of the personages in this book, occurs (where the real love-meeting from which it is drawn, occurred) in the very last place and under the very last circumstances which the artifices of sentimental writing would sanction. Will my lovers excite ridicule instead of interest, because I have truly represented them as seeing each other where hundreds of other lovers have first seen each other, as hundreds of people will readily admit when they read the passage to which I refer ? I am sanguine enough to think not. So again, in certain parts of this book where I have attempted to excite the suspense or pity of the reader, I have admitted as perfectly fit accessories to the scene the most ordinary street-sounds that could be heard, and the most ordinary street-events that could occur, at the time and in the place represented — believing that by adding to truth, they were adding to tragedy — adding by all the force of fair contrast — adding as no artifices of mere writing possibly could add, let them be ever so cunningly introduced by ever so crafty a hand, j Allow me to dwell a moment longer on the story which these pages contain.

Part I

I. What am I now about to write ? The history of little more than the events of one year, out of the twenty-four years of my life. "Why do I undertake such an employment as this ? Perhaps, because I think that my narrative may do good ; because I hope that, one day, it may be put to some warning use. I am now about to relate the story of an error, in nocent in its beginning, guilty in its progress, fatal in its results ; and I would fain hope that my plain and true record will show that this error was not committed altogether without excuse. When these pages are found after my death, they will perhaps be calmly read and gently judged, as relics solemnized by the atoning shadows of the grave. Then, the hard sentence against me may be repented of ; the children of the next generation of our house may be taught to speak charitably of my memory, and may often, of their own accord, think of me kindly in the thoughtful watches of the night.

Prompted by these motives, and oy others which I feel, but cannot analyse, I now begin my self-imposed occupation. Hidden amid the far hills of the far West of England, sur rounded only by the few simple inhabitants of a fishing u BASIL, hamlet on the Cornish coast, there is little fear that my at tention will be distracted from my task ; and as little chance that any indolence on my part will delay its speedy accom plishment. I live under a threat of impending hostility, which may descend and overwhelm me, I know not how soon, or in what manner. An enemy, determined and deadly, patient alike to wait days or years for his opportunity, is ever lurking after me in the dark. In entering on my new employment, I cannot say of my time, that it may be mine for another hour ; of my life, that it may last till evening.

Thus, it is as no leisure work that I begin my narrative — and begin it, too, on my birthday ! On this day I complete my twenty-fourth year ; the first new year of my life which has not been greeted by a single kind word, or a single loving wish. But one look of welcome can still find me in my solitude — the lovely morning look of nature, as I now see it from the casement of my room. Brighter and brighter shines out the lusty sun from banks of purple, rainy cloud ; fishermen are spreading their nets to dry on the lower de clivities of the rocks ; children are playing round the boats drawn up on the beach ; the sea-breeze blows fresh and pure towards the shore — all objects are brilliant to look on, all sounds are pleasant to hear, as my pen traces the first lines which open the story of my life.

II. I am the second son of an English gentleman of large fortune. Our family is, I believe, one of the most ancient in this country. On my father's side, it dates back beyond the Conquest ; on my mother's, it is not so old, but the pedi gree is nobler. Besides my elder brother, I have one sister, younger than myself. My mother died shortly after giving birth to her last child. Circumstances which will appear hereafter, have forced me BASIL to abandon my father's name. I have been obliged in honour to resign it ; and in honour I abstain from mentioning it here. Accordingly, at the head of these pages, I have only placed my Christian name — not considering it of any importance to add the surname which I have assumed ; and which I may, perhaps, be obliged to change for some other, at no very distant period.

It will now, I hope, be under* stood from the outset, why I never mention my brother and sister but by their Christian names ; why a blank occurs wherever my father's name should appear ; why my own is kept concealed in this narrative, as it is kept concealed in the world. The story of my boyhood and youth has little to interest — nothing that is new. My education was the education of hundreds of others in my rank of life. I was first taught at a public school, and then went to college to complete what is termed " a liberal education." My life at college has not left me a single pleasant recollection. I found sycophancy established there, as a principle of action ; flaunting on the lord's gold tassel in the street ; enthroned on the lord's dais in the dining-room. The most learned student in my college — the man whose life was most exemplary, whose acquirements were most admirable — was shown me sitting, as a commoner, in the lowest place.

The heir to an Earldom, who had failed at the last examination, was pointed out a few minutes afterwards, dining in solitary grandeur at a raised table, above the reverend scholars who had turned him back as a dunce. I had just arrived at the University, and had just been congratulated on entering " a venerable seminary of learning and religion." Trite and common-place though it be, I mention this circumstance attending my introduction to college, because it formed the first cause which tended to diminish my faith in the institution to which I was attached, I soon grew to regard my university training as a sort of necessary evil, to b BASIL be patiently submitted to. I read for no honours, and joined no particular set of men. I studied the literature of Erance, Italy, and Germany ; just kept up my classical knowledge sufficiently to take my degree ; and left college with no other reputation than a reputation for indolence and reserve.

When I returned home, it was thought necessary, as I was a younger son, and could inherit none of the landed property of the family, except in the case of my brother's dying without children, that I should belong to a profession. My father had the patronage of some valuable " livings," and good interest with more than one member of the go vernment. The church, the army, the navy, and, in the last instance, the bar, were offered me to choose from. I selected the last. My father appeared to be a little astonished at my choice ; but he made no remark on it, except simply telling me not to forget that the bar was a good stepping-stone to parliament. My real ambition, however, was, not to make a name in parliament, but a name in literature. I had already en gaged myself in the hard, but glorious service of the pen ; and I was determined to persevere.

The profession which offered me the greatest facilities for pursuing my project, was the profession which I was ready to prefer. So I chose the bar. Thus, I entered life uuder the fairest auspices. Though a younger son, I knew that my father's wealth, exclusive of his landed property, secured me an independent income far beyond my wants. I had ro extravagant habits ; no tastes that I could not gratify as soon as formed ; no cares or re sponsibilities of any kind. I might practise my profession or not, just as I chose. I could devote myself wholly and unreservedly to literature, knowing that, in my case, the struggle for fame could never be identical — terribly, though gloriously identical— with the struggle for bread. Eor BASIL 5 me, the morning sunshine of life was sunshine without a cloud !

I might attempt, in this place, to sketch my own character as it was at that time. But what man can say — I will sound the depth of my own vices, and measure the height of my own virtues ; and be as good as his word ? We can neither know nor judge ourselves ; others may judge, but cannot know us : God alone judges and knows too. Let my character appear — as far as any human character can appear in its integrity, in this world — in my actions, when I describe the one eventful passage in my life which forms the basis of this narrative. In the mean time, it is first neces sary that I should say more about the members of my family. Two of them, at least, will be found important to the progress of events in these pages. I make no attempt to judge their characters : I only describe them — whether rightly or wrongly, I know not — as they appeared to me. ni.

I always considered my father — I speak of him in the past tense, because we are now separated for ever ; because he is henceforth as dead to me as if the grave had closed over him — I always considered my father to be the proudest man I ever knew ; the proudest man I ever heard of. His was not that conventional pride, which the popular notions are fond of characterising by a stiff, stately carriage ; by a rigid expression of features ; by a hard, severe intonation of voice ; by set speeches of contempt for poverty and rags, and rhapsodical braggadocio about rank and breeding. My father's pride had nothing of this about it. It was that quiet, negative, courteous, inbred pride, which only the closest observation could detect; which no ordinary ob servers ever detected at all. Who that observed him in communication with any of BASIL the farmers on any of his estates — who that saw the manner in which he lifted his hat, when he accidentally met any of those farmers' wives — who that noticed his hearty welcome to the man of the people, when that man happened to be a man of genius — would have thought him proud?

On such occasions as these, if he had any pride, it was impossible to detect it. But seeing him when, for instance, an author and a new-made peer of no ancestry entered his house together — observing merely the entirely different manner in which he shook hands with each — remarking that the polite cordiality was all for the man of letters, who did not contest his family rank with him, and the polite formality all for the man of title, who did — you discovered where and how he was proud in an instant. Here lay his fretful point. The aristocracy of rank, as separate from the aristocracy of ancestry, was no aristocracy for him. He was jealous of it ; he hated it. Commoner though he was, he considered himself the social superior of any man, from a baronet up to a duke, whose family was less ancient than his own.

Among a host of instances of this peculiar pride of his which I could cite, I remember one, characteristic enough to be taken as a sample of all the rest. It happened when I was quite a child, and was told me by one of my uncles — now dead — who witnessed the circumstance himself, and always made a good story of it to the end of his life. A merchant of enormous wealth, who had recently been raised to the peerage, was staying at one of our country houses. His daughter, my uncle, and an Italian _»i.bbe' were the only guests besides. The merchant was a portly, purple faced man, who bore his new honours with a curious mix ture of assumed pomposity and natural gocd-humour. The Abbe was dwarfish and deformed, lean, sallow, sharp-fea tured, with bright bird-like eyes, and a low, liquid voice. He was a political refugee, dependent for the bread he ate, BASIL on the money he received for teaching languages.

He might have been a beggar from the streets ; and still my father would have treated him as the principal guest in the house, for this all-sufficient reason — he was a direct descendant of one of the oldest of those famous Horn an families whose names are part of the history of the Civil Wars in Italy. On the first day, the party assembled for dinner com prised the merchant's daughter, my mother, an old lady who had once been her governess, and had always lived with her since her marriage, the new Lord, the Abbe, my father, and my uncle. When dinner was announced, the peer advanced in new-blown dignity, to offer his arm as a matter of course to my mother. My father's pale face flushed crimson in a moment. He touched the magnificent merchant-lord on the arm, and pointed significantly, with a low bow, towards the decrepid old lady who had once been my mother's governess.

Then walking to the other end of the room, where the penniless Abbe was looking over a book in a corner, he gravely and courteously led the little, de formed, limping language-master, clad in a long, threadbare, black coat, up to my mother (whose shoulder the Abbe's head hardly reached), held the door open for them to pass out first, -with his own hand ; politely invited the new noble man, who stood half-paralysed between confusion and astonishment, to follow with the tottering old lady on his arm ; and then returned to lead the peer's daughter down to dinner himself. He only resumed his wonted expression and manner, when he had seen the little Abbe — the squalid, half-starved representative of mighty barons of the olden time — seated at the highest place of the table by my mother's side. It was by such accidental circumstances as these that you discovered how far he was proud.

He never boasted of his ancestors ; he never even spoke of .them, except when he was questioned on the subject ; but he never BASIL, forgot them. They were the very breath of his life ; the deities of his social worship : the family treasures to be held precious beyond all lands and all wealth, all ambitions and all glories, by his children and his children's children to the end of their race. In home-life he performed his duties towards his family honourably, delicately, and kindly. I believe in his own way he loved us all ; but we, his descendants, had to share his heart with his ancestors — we were his household pro perty as well as his children. Every fair liberty was given to us ; every fair indulgence was granted to us. He never displayed any suspicion, or any undue severity. We were taught by his direction, that to disgrace our family, either by word or action, was the one fatal crime which could never be forgotten and never be pardoned.

We were formed, under his superintendence, in principles of religion, honour, and industry ; and the rest was left to our own moral sense, to our own comprehension of the duties and privileges of our station. There was no one point in his conduct towards any of us that we could complain of; and yet there was something ahfrays incomplete in our domestic relations. It may seem incomprehensible, even ridiculous, to some persons, but it is nevertheless true, that we were none of us ever on intimate terms with him. 1 mean by this, that he was a father to us, but never a companion. There was something in his manner, his quiet and unchanging manner, which kept us almost unconsciously restrained. I never in my life felt less at my ease — I knew not why at the time than when I occasionally dined alone with him.

I never confided to him my schemes for amusement as a boy • or mentioned more than generally my ambitious hopes, as a young man. It was not that he would have received such confidences with ridicule or severity, he was incapable of it ; but that he seemed above them, unfitted to enter into BASIL. 9 them, too far removed by his own thoughts from such thoughts as ours. Thus, all holiday councils were held with old servants ; thus, my first pages of manuscript, when I first tried authorship, were read by my sister, and never penetrated into my father's study. Again, his mode of testifying displeasure towards my brother or myself, had something terrible in its calmness, something that we never forgot, and always dreaded as the worst calamity that could befall us. Whenever, as boys, we committed some boyish fault, he never displayed outwardly any irritation — he simply altered his manner towards us altogether.

We were not soundly lectured, or vehemently threatened, or positively punished in any way ; but, when we came in contact with him, we were treated with a cold, contemptuous politeness (especially if our fault showed a tendency to anything mean or ungentlemanlike) which cut us to the heart. On these occasions, we were not addressed by our Christian names ; if we accidentally met him out of doors, he was sure to turn aside and avoid us ; if we asked a question, it was answered in the briefest possible manner, as if we had been strangers. His whole course of conduct said, as though in so many words — Tou have rendered yourselves unfit to associate with your father ; and he is now making you feel that unfitness as deeply as he does. We were left in this domestic purga tory for days, sometimes for weeks together.

To our boy ish feelings (to mine especially) there was no ignominy like it, while it lasted. I know not on what terms my father lived with my mother. Towards my sister, his demeanour always exhibited some thing of the old-fashioned, affectionate gallantry of a former age. He paid her the same attention that he would have paid to the highest lady in the land. He led her into the dining-room, when we were alone, exactly as he would have led a duchess into a banqueting-hall. He would allow us, BASIL as boys, to quit the breakfast-table before he had risen him self; but never before she had left it. H a servant failed in duty towards him, the servant was often forgiven ; if to wards her, the servant was sent away on the spot. His daughter was in his eyes the representative of her mother : the mistress of his house, as well as his child.

It was curious to see the mixture of high-bred courtesy and fatherly love in his manner, as he just gently touched her forehead with his lips, when he first saw her in the morning. In person, my father was of not more than middle height. He was very slenderly and delicately made; his head small, and well set on his shoulders — his forehead more broad than lofty — his complexion singularly pale, except in moments of agitation, when I have already noticed its tendency to flush all over in an instant. His eyes, large and gray, had something commanding in their look ; they gave a certain unchanging firmness and dignity to his expression, not often met with. They betrayed his birth and breeding, his old ancestral prejudices, his chivalrous sense of honour, in eveiy glance. It required, indeed, all the masculine energy of look about the upper part of his face, to redeem the lower part from an appearance of effeminacy, so delicately was it moulded in its fine Norman outline.

His smile was remarkable for its sweetness — it was almost like a woman's smile. In speaking, too, his lips often trembled as women's do. If he ever laughed, as a young man, his laugh must have been very clear and musical ; but since I can recollect him, I never heard it. In his happiest moments, in the gayest society, I have only seen him smile. There were other characteristics of my father's disposition and manner, which I might mention ; but they will ap pear to greater advantage, perhaps, hereafter, connected with circumstances which especially called them forth. BASIL, 11 IV. When a family is possessed of large landed property, the individual of that family who shows least interest in its welfare ; who is least fond of home, least connected by his own sympathies with his relatives, least ready to learn his duties or admit his responsibilities, is often that very individual who is to succeed to the family inheritance — the eldest son.

My brother Ralph was no exception to this remark. We were educated together. After our education was com pleted, I never saw him, except for short periods. He was almost always on the continent, for some years after he left college. And when he returned definitely to England, he did not return to live under our roof. Both in town and country he was our visitor, not our inmate. I recollect him at school — stronger, taller, handsomer than I was ; far beyond me in popularity among the little community we lived with ; the first to lead a daring exploit, the last to abandon it ; now at the bottom of the class, now at the top—just that sort of gay, boisterous, fine-looking, dare-devil boy, whom old people would instinctively turn round and smile after, as they passed him by in a morning walk. Then, at college, he became illustrious among rowers and cricketers, renowned as a pistol shot, dreaded as a single stick player.

No wine parties in the university were such wine parties as his ; tradesmen gave him the first choice of everything that was new ; young ladies in the town fell in love with him by dozens ; young tutors with a tendency to dandyism, copied the cut of his coat and the tie of his cravat ; even the awful heads of houses looked leniently on his delinquencies. The gay, hearty, handsome young English gentleman carried a charm about him that subdued BASIL, everybody. Though I was his favourite butt, both at school and college, I never quarrelled with him in my life. I al ways let him ridicule my dress, manners, and habits in his own reckless, boisterous way, as if it had been a part of his birthright privilege to laugh at me as much as he chose. Thus far, my father had no worse anxieties about him than those occasioned by his high spirits and his heavy debts.

But when he returned home — when the debts had been paid, and it was next thought necessary to drill the free, careless energies into something like useful discipline — then my father's trials and difficulties began in earnest. It was impossible to make Ralph comprehend and appreciate his position, as he was desired to comprehend and ap preciate it. The steward gave up in despair all attempts to enlighten him about the extent, value, and management of the estates he was to inherit. A vigorous effort was made to inspire him with ambition ; to get him to go into parliament. He laughed at the idea. A commission in the Guards was next offered to him. He refused it, because he would never be buttoned up in a red coat ; because he would submit to no restraints, fashionable or military ; be cause, in short, he was determined to be his own master.

My father talked to him by the hour together, about his duties and his prospects, the cultivation of his mind, and the example of his ancestors ; and talked in vain. He yawned and fidgetted over the emblazoned pages of his own family pedigree, whenever they were opened before him. In the country, he cared for nothing but hunting and shooting — it was as difficult to make him go to a grand county dinner-party, as to make him go to church. In town, he haunted the theatres, behind the scenes as well as before ; entertained actors and actresses at Richmond ; ascended in balloons at Yauxhall ; went about with detec- BASIL, tive policemen, seeing life among pickpockets and house breakers ; belonged to a whist club, a supper club, a catch club, a boxing club, a pic-nic club, an amateur theatrical club ; and, in sh rt, lived such a careless, convivial life, that my father, outraged in every one of his family preju dices and family refinements, almost ceased to speak to him, and saw him as rarely as possible.

Occasionally, my sister's interference reconciled them again for a short time ; her influence, gentle as it was, was always powerfully felt for good, but she could not change my brother's nature. Per suade and entreat as anxiously as she might, he was always sure to forfeit the paternal favour again, a few days after he had been restored to it. At last, matters were brought to their climax by an awkward love adventure of Ralph's with one of our tenants' daughters. My father acted with his usual decision on the occasion. He determined to apply a desperate remedy : to let the refractory eldest son run through his career in free dom, abroad, until he had well wearied himself, and could return home a sobered man. Accordingly, he procured for my brother an attache's place in a foreign embassy, and insisted on his leaving England forthwith.

For once in a way, Ralph was docile. He knew and cared nothing about diplomacy ; but he liked the idea of living on the con tinent, so he took his leave of home with his best grace. My father saw him depart, with ill-concealed agitation and apprehension; although he affected to feel satisfied that, flighty and idle as Ralph was, he was incapable of volun tarily dishonouring his family, even in his most reckless moods. After this, we heard little from my brother. His letters were few and short, and generally ended with petitions for money. The only important news of him that reached us, reached us through public channels. He was making quite a continental reputation — a repu- BASIL. tation, the bare mention of which made my father wince. He had fought a duel ; he had imported a new dance from Hungary; he had contrived to get the smallest groom that ever was seen behind a cabriolet ; he had carried off the reigning beauty among the opera-dancers of the day from all competitors ; a great Erench cook had composed a great Erench dish, and christened it by his name ; he was understood to be the "unknown friend," to whom a literary Polish countess, had dedicated her "Letters against the restraint of the Marriage Tie ;" a female German metaphy sician, sixty years old, had fallen (Platonically) in love with him, and had taken to writing erotic romances iu her old age.