A mummer's wife, by George Moore

Front matter

THE LIBRARY

OF

LOS ANGELES

DEDICATION TO ROBERT ROSS ix

praise from you) : we were moved altogether, I think, by the consciousness that you had in a difficult task proved yourself to be a kindly critic, and yet a just one, and it was for these qualities that you received an honour that is unique, I think, in the chronicles of criticism.

II

Memory pulls me up, and out of some moments of doubt, the suspicion emerges that all I am writing here was read by me somewhere: but it was not in our original declaration of faith, for I never saw it, not having attended the presentation of the testimonial. Where, then? In the newspapers that quoted from the original document? Written out by whom? By Witt or by Mac- Coll, excellent writers both. But being a writer myself, I am called upon to do my own writing. . . . Newspapers are transitory things — a good reason for writing out the story afresh; and there is still another reason for writing it out — my reasons for dedicating this book to you. We must have reasons always or else pass for unreasonable beings, and a better reason for dedicating a book to you than mine, I am fain to believe, will never be found by anybody in search of a reason for his actions. My name is among the signatories to the document that I have called 'our declaration of faith'; and having committed myself thus fully to your critical judgment, it seems to me that for the completion of the harmony a dedication is necessary. A fair share of reasons I am setting forth for this act of mine, every one of them valid, and the most valid of all is my reason for choosing this book, A Mummer's Wife, to dedicate to you, your own commendation of it the other night when you said to me that no book of mine in your opinion x DEDICATION TO ROBERT ROSS

was more likely to ' live ' ! To live for five-and-twenty years is as long an immortality as anyone should set his heart on; for who would wish to be chattered about by the people that will live in these islands three hundred years hence? We should not understand them nor they us. Avaunt, therefore, all legendary immortalities, and let us be content, Ross, to be remembered by our friends, and, perhaps, to have our names passed on by disciples to another generation ! A fair and natural immortality this is; let us share it together. Our bark lies in the harbor: you tell me the spars are sound, and the seams have been caulked; the bark, you say, is seaworthy and will outlive any of the little storms that she may meet on the voyage — a better craft is not to be found in my little fleet. You said yesterevening across the hearthrug, ' Esther Waters speaks out of a deeper appreciation of life' ; but you added : ' There is a youthful imagination and a young man's exuberance on coming into his own for the first time in A Mummer's Wife, and this is

a quality ' No doubt it is a quality, Ross ; but what

kind of quality? You did not finish your sentence, or I have forgotten it. Let me finish it for you — ' that outweighs all other qualities.' But does it? I am interpreting you badly. You would not commit yourself to so crude an opinion, and I am prepared to believe that I did not catch the words as they fell from your lips. All I can recall for certain of the pleasant moment when you were considering which of my works you liked the best are stray words that may be arranged here into a sentence which, though it does not represent your critical judgments accurately, may be accepted by you. You said your thoughts went more frequently to A Mummer's Wife than to Esther Waters; and I am almost sure something was said about the earlier book being a more spontaneous issue of the imagination, and that the wan-

DEDICATION TO EGBERT ROSS xi

dering life of the mummers gives an old-world, adventurous air to the book, reminding you of The Golden Ass — a book I read last year, and found in it so many remembrances of myself that I fell to thinking it was a book I might have written had I lived two thousand years ago. Who can say he has not lived before, and is it not as important to believe we lived herebefore as it is to believe we are going to live hereafter? If I had lived herebefore, Jupiter knows what I should have written, but it would not have been Esther Waters: more likely a book like A Mummer's Wife — a band of jugglers and acrobats travelling from town to town. As I write these lines an antique story rises up in my mind, a recollection of one of my lost works or an instantaneous reading of Apuleius into A Mummer's Wife — which ?

G. M.

IN default of a screen, a gown and a red petticoat had been thrown over a clothes-horse, and these shaded the . glare of the lamp from the eyes of the sick man. In the pale obscurity of the room, his bearded cheeks could be seen buried in a heap of tossed pillows. By his bedside sat a young woman. As she dozed, her face drooped until her features were hidden, and the lamplight made the curious curves of a beautiful ear look like a piece of illuminated porcelain. Her hands lay upon her lap, her needlework slipped from them; and as it fell to the ground she awoke.