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A Brown Woman
by
Rain, sullen rain, was battering the window. “And you–you hunchback in the mirror, you maker of neat rhymes–pray, what had you to offer? A coach-and-six, of course, and pin-money and furbelows and in the end a mausoleum with unimpeachable Latin on it! And–pate sur pate–an unswerving devotion which she would share on almost equal terms with the Collected Works of Alexander Pope. And so she chose–chose brawn and a clean heart.”
The dwarf turned, staggered, fell upon his bed. “God, make a man of me, make me a good brave man. I loved her–oh, such as I am, You know that I loved her! You know that I desire her happiness above all things. Ah, no, for You know that I do not at bottom. I want to hurt, to wound all living creatures, because they know how to be happy, and I do not know how. Ah, God, and why did You decree that I should never be an obtuse and comely animal such as this John Hughes is? I am so tired of being ‘the great Mr. Pope,’ and I want only the common joys of life.”
The hunchback wept. It would be too curious to anatomize the writhings of his proud little spirit.
Now some one tapped upon the door. It was John Gay. He was bidden to enter, and, complying, found Mr. Pope yawning over the latest of Tonson’s publications.
Gay’s face was singularly portentous. “My friend,” Gay blurted out, “I bring news which will horrify you. Believe me, I would never have mustered the pluck to bring it did I not love you. I cannot let you hear it first in public and unprepared, as, otherwise, you would have to do.”
“Do I not know you have the kindest heart in all the world? Why, so outrageous are your amiable defects that they would be the public derision of your enemies if you had any,” Pope returned.
The other poet evinced an awkward comminglement of consternation and pity. “It appears that when this storm arose–why, Mistress Drew was with a young man of the neighborhood–a John Hewet—-” Gay was speaking with unaccustomed rapidity.
“Hughes, I think,” Pope interrupted, equably.
“Perhaps–I am not sure. They sought shelter under a haycock. You will remember that first crash of thunder, as if the heavens were in demolishment? My friend, the reapers who had been laboring in the fields–who had been driven to such protection as the trees or hedges afforded—-“
“Get on!” a shrill voice cried; “for God’s love, man, get on!” Mr. Pope had risen. This pallid shaken wisp was not in appearance the great Mr. Pope whose ingenuity had enabled Homeric warriors to excel in the genteel.
“They first saw a little smoke. . . . They found this Hughes with one arm about the neck of Mistress Drew, and the other held over her face, as if to screen her from the lightning. They were both”–and here Gay hesitated. “They were both dead,” he amended.
Pope turned abruptly. Nakedness is of necessity uncouth, he held, whether it be the body or the soul that is unveiled. Mr. Pope went toward a window which he opened, and he stood thus looking out for a brief while.
“So she is dead,” he said. “It is very strange. So many rare felicities of curve and color, so much of purity and kindliness and valor and mirth, extinguished as one snuffs a candle! Well! I am sorry she is dead, for the child had a talent for living and got such joy out of it. . . . Hers was a lovely happy life, but it was sterile. Already nothing remains of her but dead flesh which must be huddled out of sight. I shall not perish thus entirely, I believe. Men will remember me. Truly a mighty foundation for pride! when the utmost I can hope for is but to be read in one island, and to be thrown aside at the end of one age. Indeed, I am not even sure of that much. I print, and print, and print. And when I collect my verses into books, I am altogether uncertain whether to took upon myself as a man building a monument, or burying the dead. It sometimes seems to me that each publication is but a solemn funeral of many wasted years. For I have given all to the verse-making. Granted that the sacrifice avails to rescue my name from oblivion, what will it profit me when I am dead and care no more for men’s opinions than Sarah Drew cares now for what I say of her? But then she never cared. She loved John Hughes. And she was right.”