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WOMAN REGAINED, A Novel of Artistic Life
WOMAN REGAINED, A Novel of Artistic Life
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Scanned, proofed and corrected from the original edition for your reading pleasure. It is also searchable and contains hyper-links to chapters.
***
PREFACE.
THIS book attempts to trace the life of an artist, through phase after phase; beginning with the sunny dreams of youth, and ending with darker episodes of disillusion and despair. The artist, in his passionate pursuit of artistic— which to him stands for moral—rapture, sacrifices others, but he also sacrifices himself: he is himself Art's chiefest victim.
Artistic dreams, however subtle and refined, when carried into determined outward action in the present state of society, result frequently in chaos and catastrophe. Yet are these dreams pure and lovely in themselves, and though in a sense they may bring their own punishment, they also bring about their own reward.
***
An excerpt from the beginning of:
PART I. AT FERNCOMBE.
CHAPTER I. IN HYDE PARK.
IT was a beautiful winter evening,—fresh, but not too cold. Two persons—a gentleman and a lady—were walking along the path that skirts the east side of Hyde Park, engaged in a close conversation. Over the houses in Park Lane, the moon, nearly full, was rising, white and clear; and a light wind rustled through the leafless branches.
"But you do love me?" the gentleman said; and his hand sought the lady's arm gently.
"Nonsense," she answered. "You must not say such things. Really you must not. Not in this full moonlight, at any rate."
"What has the moon to do with it?" he said. "Has the moon eyes like Argus, or ears like—a husband? I know you do love me."
His hand had only touched her arm lightly before; but now it rested there for a moment, and she did not shake it off.
"The moon is a faithful dutiful creature," she said. "She always does her duty at home, and she thinks of others first, and she never beats against barriers which Fate has set up. She never talks nonsense in Hyde Park on a winter's evening; when there are so many nice things to talk about, too. She always"
"Always does her duty to the man in the moon, in fact," he broke in. "But does she love the man in the moon?"
"Of course she does."
"How much?"
"Immensely."
"But does she not love the sun more?"
"She cannot look at the sun. It dazzles her."
"Not after an eclipse of ten years, surely! You have been muddling about with your man in the moon, or moon-man, or whatever he is, for ten years, Margaret,—and now we have met, and you talk this commonplace rubbish about astronomy!"
"Well," said the lady, and her eyes gleamed with fun—" if it comes to be a question of talking rubbish"
"Yes—I know—exactly: but now let us talk sense. What have you been doing all these years? Here we are at the end of the path,— let us take another turn, in the moonlight."
"In the moonlight?"
"In the sunlight, I mean."
"What have I been doing? Many things. Reading novels, and dressing, and sleeping, and poking the fire, and washing my hands, and"
"Damn"
"No, don't be rash. Suns are never rash." "Well—go on."
"Where was I? Washing my hands,—and mending my stockings, and looking after my children"
"Ah!"
"And performing all sorts of commonplace
matronly duties. And—"
"Yes?"
"And—reading your books sometimes."
"Oh, you do read my books then?"
"Of course I do."
"I thought you were a very good little girl,
and always did what the moon-man told you, and that he would not let you read my books?"
"Don't talk of moon-men; it is very ungentlemanly. Of course I read your books."
"And do you like them?"
"Some of them."
"Which don't you like?"
"I don't like the untrue part."
"And what do you call the untrue part?"
"Well, a good deal of the love-part is quite untrue, I think. You always assume that a certain woman whom you met in past years loves you still, and she doesn't. And, even if she did, it would be very unfair to go about telling all the world so, in endless sonnets and lyrics."
"But suppose she told me so herself. Wouldn't that make a difference?"
"She cannot tell you so herself; she is dumb."
"But what makes her dumb? Here is a lovely moon—a perfect summer moon of romance; and here is a bench. Let us sit down and fancy we are in Venice, or—at Whitby. Come—sit down,— and I will write you a sonnet. Lend me your pocket-book."
"Thank you; but won't January be cold for sitting?"
"Not at all. Not when people have poetic minds. And you were always poetic, you know, and probably are still, unless the 'matronly'...
***
PREFACE.
THIS book attempts to trace the life of an artist, through phase after phase; beginning with the sunny dreams of youth, and ending with darker episodes of disillusion and despair. The artist, in his passionate pursuit of artistic— which to him stands for moral—rapture, sacrifices others, but he also sacrifices himself: he is himself Art's chiefest victim.
Artistic dreams, however subtle and refined, when carried into determined outward action in the present state of society, result frequently in chaos and catastrophe. Yet are these dreams pure and lovely in themselves, and though in a sense they may bring their own punishment, they also bring about their own reward.
***
An excerpt from the beginning of:
PART I. AT FERNCOMBE.
CHAPTER I. IN HYDE PARK.
IT was a beautiful winter evening,—fresh, but not too cold. Two persons—a gentleman and a lady—were walking along the path that skirts the east side of Hyde Park, engaged in a close conversation. Over the houses in Park Lane, the moon, nearly full, was rising, white and clear; and a light wind rustled through the leafless branches.
"But you do love me?" the gentleman said; and his hand sought the lady's arm gently.
"Nonsense," she answered. "You must not say such things. Really you must not. Not in this full moonlight, at any rate."
"What has the moon to do with it?" he said. "Has the moon eyes like Argus, or ears like—a husband? I know you do love me."
His hand had only touched her arm lightly before; but now it rested there for a moment, and she did not shake it off.
"The moon is a faithful dutiful creature," she said. "She always does her duty at home, and she thinks of others first, and she never beats against barriers which Fate has set up. She never talks nonsense in Hyde Park on a winter's evening; when there are so many nice things to talk about, too. She always"
"Always does her duty to the man in the moon, in fact," he broke in. "But does she love the man in the moon?"
"Of course she does."
"How much?"
"Immensely."
"But does she not love the sun more?"
"She cannot look at the sun. It dazzles her."
"Not after an eclipse of ten years, surely! You have been muddling about with your man in the moon, or moon-man, or whatever he is, for ten years, Margaret,—and now we have met, and you talk this commonplace rubbish about astronomy!"
"Well," said the lady, and her eyes gleamed with fun—" if it comes to be a question of talking rubbish"
"Yes—I know—exactly: but now let us talk sense. What have you been doing all these years? Here we are at the end of the path,— let us take another turn, in the moonlight."
"In the moonlight?"
"In the sunlight, I mean."
"What have I been doing? Many things. Reading novels, and dressing, and sleeping, and poking the fire, and washing my hands, and"
"Damn"
"No, don't be rash. Suns are never rash." "Well—go on."
"Where was I? Washing my hands,—and mending my stockings, and looking after my children"
"Ah!"
"And performing all sorts of commonplace
matronly duties. And—"
"Yes?"
"And—reading your books sometimes."
"Oh, you do read my books then?"
"Of course I do."
"I thought you were a very good little girl,
and always did what the moon-man told you, and that he would not let you read my books?"
"Don't talk of moon-men; it is very ungentlemanly. Of course I read your books."
"And do you like them?"
"Some of them."
"Which don't you like?"
"I don't like the untrue part."
"And what do you call the untrue part?"
"Well, a good deal of the love-part is quite untrue, I think. You always assume that a certain woman whom you met in past years loves you still, and she doesn't. And, even if she did, it would be very unfair to go about telling all the world so, in endless sonnets and lyrics."
"But suppose she told me so herself. Wouldn't that make a difference?"
"She cannot tell you so herself; she is dumb."
"But what makes her dumb? Here is a lovely moon—a perfect summer moon of romance; and here is a bench. Let us sit down and fancy we are in Venice, or—at Whitby. Come—sit down,— and I will write you a sonnet. Lend me your pocket-book."
"Thank you; but won't January be cold for sitting?"
"Not at all. Not when people have poetic minds. And you were always poetic, you know, and probably are still, unless the 'matronly'...
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