ARTHUR
94
The next morning I began my journey here, on foot. The road is not long; the weather, despite being cold, remains healthy and calm. My spirit was high, and I saw nothing in the world before me but sunshine and prosperity. I realized that my happiness does not depend on natural revolution or human change. All without it, indeed, change and uncertainty; but in my chest there is a center that should not be shaken or pushed aside. My goal is honest and firm. Each sense is the entrance of pleasure, for it is the way of knowledge; and my soul contemplates the world with ideas, and shines with joy over the majesty and beauty of its own creation.
This happiness was too festive for such a long duration. I gradually descended from this height; and the memory of past events, associated with the image of your family, where I returned, took my mind to a different channel. Welbeck and the unhappy girl he had betrayed; madam Villars and Wallace, recalled. The views that I have formed, to determine fate and to provide assistance to Clementa, are recalled. My previous resolutions about him have been suspended by the uncertainty over which the fate of Hadwin's family was, at that time, wrapped up. Wouldn't it be entirely necessary to override these resolutions?
That, indeed, is an annoying conclusion. No wonder I struggle to resist it; that I cultivate doubt as to whether money is the only instrument of profit; whether prudence, and fortitude, and knowledge, are not the true preservatives of evil. Do I not have the means in my hands to dispel his fatal ignorance of Welbeck and the people who live with him? Am I not allowed, by my previous relationship though lean, to seek his presence?
What if I had to step into Mrs Villars' house, want to be introduced to the woman, greet her with compassionate simplicity, and tell her the truth? Why worry about clearing the road? why deal with apologies, circuits, and innuendo? All of this is a weak and perverted purification, unworthy of honest purpose and steadfast spirit. To believe he was inaccessible for my visit is absurd. Waiting for permission from those concerned to ban visitors is cowardly. It is a violation of his freedom that is equally condemned by justice and the law. By what right can he refrain from relating to others? The door and the hallway might be between him and me. With a purpose like mine, no one has the right to close one or block the other. Stay away from the cowardly reluctance and hesitancy of the clown, and let me hasten this moment to his residence.
Mrs Villars is a mansion porter. He would probably present himself before me, and ask me the reason for my visit. What should I tell him? Truths. To waver, or vaguely, or hide this woman would be evil. Perhaps his character has been misunderstood and slandered. Can I give her a greater service than to tell her the suppositions she has, and to give her a chance for justification? Perhaps he was indeed selfish and extravagant; a traitor of youth and an agent of lust. Does he not deserve to know the extent of his mistakes and the disgrace of his trade? Does he not deserve the mercy of the good and the reproof of the wise? Refusing the task will prove that I am cowardly and unequivocal. So far, at least, let my courage expand.
Sweetheart! Clemenza doesn't know my language. My mind cannot make itself visible but with words, and on my words it will not be able to add meaning. But isn't that a hasty decision? The version of the Zeno play I found in his toilet was probably his, and proved that he had speculative knowledge of our tongues. Almost half a year has passed, during which he has lived with English speakers, and consequently could not fail to get it. This conclusion is somewhat dubious, but experiments will provide certainty.
Until now I have walked along the path with slow steps. Enough time, I thought, to reach the threshold between sunrise and moonlight, if my path was three times longer than before. You are a pleasant ghost floating in front of me and beckoning me to come forward. What a complete revolution it has been in a few seconds! for a long time my reason for Clementa and Villar needed to pass through my understanding, and escape, in a half-mumbled solilokui, from my lips. My muscles trembled with desire, and I jumped forward in a hurry. I saw nothing but a view of the catalpa, leafless, full of ice, and ending in four chimneys and a painted roof. My imagination went beyond my footsteps, and was busy imagining faces and practicing dialogue. At this time I reached the new object of my pursuit, darting through the street, noticing that some of the windows of the house were not closed, drawing a hasty conclusion that the house was not without occupants, and knocking, and knocking, fast and hard, to get in.
Someone inside crept into the door, opened it carefully, and was far enough away to allow a face to be seen. It was the face of a shy, pale, unwashed girl who was ready to become a servant, taken from a cottage, and turned into a carrier of wood and water and a scourer of tubs and ditches. He waited in silence who timidly delivered my message. Is Mrs Villars home?
Is there a daughter inside?
He doesn't know; he believes—what do I think—does I want? Miss Hetty or Miss Sally?
"Let me see Miss Hetty." Saying this, I pushed the door gently. The girl, half reluctantly, relented; I entered the hallway, and, putting my hand on the door lock that seemed to lead to the living room, "Is Miss Hetty in this room?"
No; there was no one there.
"Then, call him. Tell him there are people who want to meet him for important business. I'll wait for him in this room." While saying so, I opened the door, and entered the apartment, while the girl resigned herself to do my message.
The living room was spacious and expensively furnished, but an atmosphere of neglect and chaos was seen everywhere. The carpet was tangled and not swept away; a clock on the table, in a glass frame, so striped and mottled with almost non-transparent dust, and its index was motionless, and pointing to four instead of nine; embers strewn across the marble fireplace, and tongs lying on the fender with a handle on the ashes; a harpsichord, not covered, one end full of score , falling together, and others with volumes of novels and plays, some on the edges, some on its back, gaping open by the heat of their covers; renting; hazy; stained; stained; dog-eared; tables go awry; chairs crammed into each other; in short, there is no objection but to show neglect or ignorance of the tidiness and economy of the household.
My spare time was used to observe these objects, and listen to Miss Hetty's approach. A few minutes passed, and no one came. The reason for the delay is easy to imagine, and I asked for patience to wait. I opened the book; touched the instruments; observed the vases on the fireplace tree; the figures on the hangers, and the prints of Apollo and Sibyl, taken from Salvator, and hung on the chimney. I looked at my own form and clothes in the mirror, and asked how my rustic appearance would be considered by the haughty and voluptuous creatures I would show myself to be.