The Woman in White

Chapter 7

Subscribe for ad free access & additional features for teachers. Authors: 267, Books: 3,607, Poems & Short Stories: 4,435, Forum Members: 71,154, Forum Posts: 1,238,602, Quizzes: 344

My conductor led me upstairs into a passage which took us back to

the bedchamber in which I had slept during the past night; and

opening the door next to it, begged me to look in.

"I have my master's orders to show you your own sitting-room,

sir," said the man, "and to inquire if you approve of the

situation and the light."

I must have been hard to please, indeed, if I had not approved of

the room, and of everything about it. The bow-window looked out

on the same lovely view which I had admired, in the morning, from

my bedroom. The furniture was the perfection of luxury and

beauty; the table in the centre was bright with gaily bound books,

elegant conveniences for writing, and beautiful flowers; the

second table, near the window, was covered with all the necessary

materials for mounting water-colour drawings, and had a little

easel attached to it, which I could expand or fold up at will; the

walls were hung with gaily tinted chintz; and the floor was spread

with Indian matting in maize-colour and red. It was the prettiest

and most luxurious little sitting-room I had ever seen; and I

admired it with the warmest enthusiasm.

The solemn servant was far too highly trained to betray the

slightest satisfaction. He bowed with icy deference when my terms

of eulogy were all exhausted, and silently opened the door for me

to go out into the passage again.

We turned a corner, and entered a long second passage, ascended a

short flight of stairs at the end, crossed a small circular upper

hall, and stopped in front of a door covered with dark baize. The

servant opened this door, and led me on a few yards to a second;

opened that also, and disclosed two curtains of pale sea-green

silk hanging before us; raised one of them noiselessly; softly

uttered the words, "Mr. Hartright," and left me.

I found myself in a large, lofty room, with a magnificent carved

ceiling, and with a carpet over the floor, so thick and soft that

it felt like piles of velvet under my feet. One side of the room

was occupied by a long bookcase of some rare inlaid wood that was

quite new to me. It was not more than six feet high, and the top

was adorned with statuettes in marble, ranged at regular distances

one from the other. On the opposite side stood two antique

cabinets; and between them, and above them, hung a picture of the

Virgin and Child, protected by glass, and bearing Raphael's name

on the gilt tablet at the bottom of the frame. On my right hand

and on my left, as I stood inside the door, were chiffoniers and

little stands in buhl and marquetterie, loaded with figures in

Dresden china, with rare vases, ivory ornaments, and toys and

curiosities that sparkled at all points with gold, silver, and

precious stones. At the lower end of the room, opposite to me,

the windows were concealed and the sunlight was tempered by large

blinds of the same pale sea-green colour as the curtains over the

door. The light thus produced was deliciously soft, mysterious,

and subdued; it fell equally upon all the objects in the room; it

helped to intensify the deep silence, and the air of profound

seclusion that possessed the place; and it surrounded, with an

appropriate halo of repose, the solitary figure of the master of

the house, leaning back, listlessly composed, in a large easy-

chair, with a reading-easel fastened on one of its arms, and a

little table on the other.

If a man's personal appearance, when he is out of his dressing-

room, and when he has passed forty, can be accepted as a safe

guide to his time of life--which is more than doubtful--Mr.

Fairlie's age, when I saw him, might have been reasonably computed

at over fifty and under sixty years. His beardless face was thin,

worn, and transparently pale, but not wrinkled; his nose was high

and hooked; his eyes were of a dim greyish blue, large, prominent,

and rather red round the rims of the eyelids; his hair was scanty,

soft to look at, and of that light sandy colour which is the last

to disclose its own changes towards grey. He was dressed in a

dark frock-coat, of some substance much thinner than cloth, and in

waistcoat and trousers of spotless white. His feet were

effeminately small, and were clad in buff-coloured silk stockings,

and little womanish bronze-leather slippers. Two rings adorned

his white delicate hands, the value of which even my inexperienced

observation detected to be all but priceless. Upon the whole, he

had a frail, languidly-fretful, over-refined look--something

singularly and unpleasantly delicate in its association with a

man, and, at the same time, something which could by no

possibility have looked natural and appropriate if it had been

transferred to the personal appearance of a woman. My morning's

experience of Miss Halcombe had predisposed me to be pleased with

everybody in the house; but my sympathies shut themselves up

resolutely at the first sight of Mr. Fairlie.

On approaching nearer to him, I discovered that he was not so

entirely without occupation as I had at first supposed. Placed

amid the other rare and beautiful objects on a large round table

near him, was a dwarf cabinet in ebony and silver, containing

coins of all shapes and sizes, set out in little drawers lined

with dark purple velvet. One of these drawers lay on the small

table attached to his chair; and near it were some tiny jeweller's

brushes, a wash-leather "stump," and a little bottle of liquid,

all waiting to be used in various ways for the removal of any

accidental impurities which might be discovered on the coins. His

frail white fingers were listlessly toying with something which

looked, to my uninstructed eyes, like a dirty pewter medal with

ragged edges, when I advanced within a respectful distance of his

chair, and stopped to make my bow.

"So glad to possess you at Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright," he said in

a querulous, croaking voice, which combined, in anything but an

agreeable manner, a discordantly high tone with a drowsily languid

utterance. "Pray sit down. And don't trouble yourself to move

the chair, please. In the wretched state of my nerves, movement

of any kind is exquisitely painful to me. Have you seen your

studio? Will it do?"

He stopped me in the middle of the sentence, by closing his eyes,

and holding up one of his white hands imploringly. I paused in

astonishment; and the croaking voice honoured me with this

explanation--

"Pray excuse me. But could you contrive to speak in a lower key?

In the wretched state of my nerves, loud sound of any kind is

indescribable torture to me. You will pardon an invalid? I only

say to you what the lamentable state of my health obliges me to

say to everybody. Yes. And you really like the room?"

"I could wish for nothing prettier and nothing more comfortable,"

I answered, dropping my voice, and beginning to discover already

that Mr. Fairlie's selfish affectation and Mr. Fairlie's wretched

nerves meant one and the same thing.

"So glad. You will find your position here, Mr. Hartright,

properly recognised. There is none of the horrid English

barbarity of feeling about the social position of an artist in

this house. So much of my early life has been passed abroad, that

I have quite cast my insular skin in that respect. I wish I could

say the same of the gentry--detestable word, but I suppose I must

use it--of the gentry in the neighbourhood. They are sad Goths in

Art, Mr. Hartright. People, I do assure you, who would have

opened their eyes in astonishment, if they had seen Charles the

Fifth pick up Titian's brush for him. Do you mind putting this

tray of coins back in the cabinet, and giving me the next one to

it? In the wretched state of my nerves, exertion of any kind is

unspeakably disagreeable to me. Yes. Thank you."

As a practical commentary on the liberal social theory which he

had just favoured me by illustrating, Mr. Fairlie's cool request

rather amused me. I put back one drawer and gave him the other,

with all possible politeness. He began trifling with the new set

of coins and the little brushes immediately; languidly looking at

them and admiring them all the time he was speaking to me.

"A thousand thanks and a thousand excuses. Do you like coins?

Yes. So glad we have another taste in common besides our taste

for Art. Now, about the pecuniary arrangements between us--do

tell me--are they satisfactory?"

"So glad. And--what next? Ah! I remember. Yes. In reference to

the consideration which you are good enough to accept for giving

me the benefit of your accomplishments in art, my steward will

wait on you at the end of the first week, to ascertain your

wishes. And--what next? Curious, is it not? I had a great deal

more to say: and I appear to have quite forgotten it. Do you mind

touching the bell? In that corner. Yes. Thank you."

I rang; and a new servant noiselessly made his appearance--a

foreigner, with a set smile and perfectly brushed hair--a valet

every inch of him.

"Louis," said Mr. Fairlie, dreamily dusting the tips of his

fingers with one of the tiny brushes for the coins, "I made some

entries in my tablettes this morning. Find my tablettes. A

thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright, I'm afraid I bore you."

As he wearily closed his eyes again, before I could answer, and as

he did most assuredly bore me, I sat silent, and looked up at the

Madonna and Child by Raphael. In the meantime, the valet left the

room, and returned shortly with a little ivory book. Mr. Fairlie,

after first relieving himself by a gentle sigh, let the book drop

open with one hand, and held up the tiny brush with the other, as

a sign to the servant to wait for further orders.

"Yes. Just so!" said Mr. Fairlie, consulting the tablettes.

"Louis, take down that portfolio." He pointed, as he spoke, to

several portfolios placed near the window, on mahogany stands.

"No. Not the one with the green back--that contains my Rembrandt

etchings, Mr. Hartright. Do you like etchings? Yes? So glad we

have another taste in common. The portfolio with the red back,

Louis. Don't drop it! You have no idea of the tortures I should

suffer, Mr. Hartright, if Louis dropped that portfolio. Is it

safe on the chair? Do YOU think it safe, Mr. Hartright? Yes? So

glad. Will you oblige me by looking at the drawings, if you

really think they are quite safe. Louis, go away. What an ass

you are. Don't you see me holding the tablettes? Do you suppose I

want to hold them? Then why not relieve me of the tablettes

without being told? A thousand pardons, Mr. Hartright; servants

are such asses, are they not? Do tell me--what do you think of the

drawings? They have come from a sale in a shocking state--I

thought they smelt of horrid dealers' and brokers' fingers when I

looked at them last. CAN you undertake them?"

Although my nerves were not delicate enough to detect the odour of

plebeian fingers which had offended Mr. Fairlie's nostrils, my

taste was sufficiently educated to enable me to appreciate the

value of the drawings, while I turned them over. They were, for

the most part, really fine specimens of English water-colour art;

and they had deserved much better treatment at the hands of their

former possessor than they appeared to have received.

"I beg your pardon," interposed Mr. Fairlie. "Do you mind my

closing my eyes while you speak? Even this light is too much for

them. Yes?"

Mr. Fairlie suddenly opened his eyes again, and rolled them with

an expression of helpless alarm in the direction of the window.

"I entreat you to excuse me, Mr. Hartright," he said in a feeble

flutter. "But surely I hear some horrid children in the garden--

my private garden--below?"

"Oblige me--you have been so very good in humouring my poor

nerves--oblige me by lifting up a corner of the blind. Don't let

the sun in on me, Mr. Hartright! Have you got the blind up? Yes?

Then will you be so very kind as to look into the garden and make

quite sure?"

I complied with this new request. The garden was carefully walled

in, all round. Not a human creature, large or small, appeared in

any part of the sacred seclusion. I reported that gratifying fact

to Mr. Fairlie.

"A thousand thanks. My fancy, I suppose. There are no children,

thank Heaven, in the house; but the servants (persons born without

nerves) will encourage the children from the village. Such brats--

oh, dear me, such brats! Shall I confess it, Mr. Hartright?--I

sadly want a reform in the construction of children. Nature's

only idea seems to be to make them machines for the production of

incessant noise. Surely our delightful Raffaello's conception is

infinitely preferable?"

He pointed to the picture of the Madonna, the upper part of which

represented the conventional cherubs of Italian Art, celestially

provided with sitting accommodation for their chins, on balloons

of buff-coloured cloud.

"Quite a model family!" said Mr. Fairlie, leering at the cherubs.

"Such nice round faces, and such nice soft wings, and--nothing

else. No dirty little legs to run about on, and no noisy little

lungs to scream with. How immeasurably superior to the existing

construction! I will close my eyes again, if you will allow me.

And you really can manage the drawings? So glad. Is there

anything else to settle? if there is, I think I have forgotten it.

Shall we ring for Louis again?"

Being, by this time, quite as anxious, on my side, as Mr. Fairlie

evidently was on his, to bring the interview to a speedy

conclusion, I thought I would try to render the summoning of the

servant unnecessary, by offering the requisite suggestion on my

own responsibility.

"The only point, Mr. Fairlie, that remains to be discussed," I

said, "refers, I think, to the instruction in sketching which I am

engaged to communicate to the two young ladies."

"Ah! just so," said Mr. Fairlie. "I wish I felt strong enough to

go into that part of the arrangement--but I don't. The ladies who

profit by your kind services, Mr. Hartright, must settle, and

decide, and so on, for themselves. My niece is fond of your

charming art. She knows just enough about it to be conscious of

her own sad defects. Please take pains with her. Yes. Is there

anything else? No. We quite understand each other--don't we? I

have no right to detain you any longer from your delightful

pursuit--have I? So pleasant to have settled everything--such a

sensible relief to have done business. Do you mind ringing for

Louis to carry the portfolio to your own room?"

"Will you really? Are you strong enough? How nice to be so strong!

Are you sure you won't drop it? So glad to possess you at

Limmeridge, Mr. Hartright. I am such a sufferer that I hardly

dare hope to enjoy much of your society. Would you mind taking

great pains not to let the doors bang, and not to drop the

portfolio? Thank you. Gently with the curtains, please--the

slightest noise from them goes through me like a knife. Yes. GOOD

morning!"

When the sea-green curtains were closed, and when the two baize

doors were shut behind me, I stopped for a moment in the little

circular hall beyond, and drew a long, luxurious breath of relief.

It was like coming to the surface of the water after deep diving,

to find myself once more on the outside of Mr. Fairlie's room.

As soon as I was comfortably established for the morning in my

pretty little studio, the first resolution at which I arrived was

to turn my steps no more in the direction of the apartments

occupied by the master of the house, except in the very improbable

event of his honouring me with a special invitation to pay him

another visit. Having settled this satisfactory plan of future

conduct in reference to Mr. Fairlie, I soon recovered the serenity

of temper of which my employer's haughty familiarity and impudent

politeness had, for the moment, deprived me. The remaining hours

of the morning passed away pleasantly enough, in looking over the

drawings, arranging them in sets, trimming their ragged edges, and

accomplishing the other necessary preparations in anticipation of

the business of mounting them. I ought, perhaps, to have made

more progress than this; but, as the luncheon-time drew near, I

grew restless and unsettled, and felt unable to fix my attention

on work, even though that work was only of the humble manual kind.

At two o'clock I descended again to the breakfast-room, a little

anxiously. Expectations of some interest were connected with my

approaching reappearance in that part of the house. My

introduction to Miss Fairlie was now close at hand; and, if Miss

Halcombe's search through her mother's letters had produced the

result which she anticipated, the time had come for clearing up

the mystery of the woman in white.

In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.