The Woman in White

von Wilkie Collins

Pesca’s expression and energy that evening, when we met at my mother’s gate, told me immediately that something remarkable had occurred. Asking him for an explanation right then would have been pointless. As he pulled me inside with both hands, I could only guess that he had come to the cottage, knowing my routine, to ensure he met me that night, and that he had some particularly good news to share.

We burst into the parlor in a rather clumsy and ungraceful way. My mother was sitting by the open window, laughing and fanning herself. Pesca was one of her favorites, and she always excused his wild eccentricities. From the moment she realized that the little Professor was genuinely fond of her son, she welcomed him with open arms, accepting all his puzzling foreign quirks without trying to understand them.

My sister Sarah, despite her youth, was surprisingly less accommodating. She appreciated Pesca’s wonderful qualities but couldn’t accept him as my mother did, simply for my sake. Her rigid ideas of propriety constantly clashed with Pesca’s carefree disregard for appearances, and she often looked at our mother’s easy familiarity with the quirky little foreigner in disbelief. I’ve noticed this not just with Sarah but with others as well; the younger generation seems less spontaneous and heartfelt compared to our elders. I often see older people animated and excited about upcoming joys, while their calm grandchildren remain unfazed. Are we really as genuine as our seniors were in their youth? Has the advancement in education made us just a bit too polished?

While I can’t answer those questions definitively, I can say that I’ve never seen my mother and sister together with Pesca without noticing that my mother seemed much younger. On this occasion, for instance, while she was laughing heartily at our clumsy entrance, Sarah was anxiously picking up the shards of a teacup that Pesca had knocked off the table in his rush to greet me.

“I don’t know what would have happened, Walter,” my mother said, “if you had taken any longer. Pesca has been half mad with impatience, and I’ve been half mad with curiosity. He has brought some incredible news that involves you, but he cruelly refused to give us the slightest hint until you arrived.”

“How irritating! It ruins the mood,” Sarah murmured to herself, still focused on the broken cup.

Meanwhile, Pesca, blissfully unaware of the damage he had caused, was dragging a large armchair to the other side of the room, positioning it as if he were a speaker addressing an audience. He turned the chair around, jumped onto it on his knees, and excitedly addressed his small audience from his makeshift podium.

“Now, my dear friends,” Pesca began (he always used “dear friends” when he meant “good people”), “listen closely. The moment has arrived—I’m here to share my good news—I speak at last.”

“Hear, hear!” my mother chimed in, playing along with the joke.

“The next thing he’ll break, Mama,” Sarah whispered, “will be the back of the best armchair.”

“I return to my life, and I speak to the noblest of beings,” Pesca continued, dramatically addressing me over the back of the chair. “Who found me at the bottom of the sea, lifeless (thanks to cramp); who pulled me back to life; and what did I say when I was back in my own life and my own clothes?”

“Much more than was necessary,” I replied, trying to sound as stubborn as possible, knowing that even a hint of encouragement would unleash a flood of tears from the Professor.

“I declared,” Pesca insisted, “that my life belonged to my dear friend, Walter, for the rest of my days—and it still does. I vowed I wouldn’t be happy again until I found a way to do something good for Walter—and I haven’t been at peace with myself until this blessed day. Now,” he shouted with enthusiasm, “the happiness is bursting out of me like sweat; for, on my word, the deed is done at last, and all that’s left to say is—Right-all-right!”

Pesca took great pride in being a quintessential Englishman, not just in how he dressed and behaved, but also in the way he spoke. He had picked up a few common phrases from our language and sprinkled them throughout his conversations, often twisting them into his own unique combinations. He would blend words together as if they were one long, flowing syllable, relishing their sound while often missing their true meaning.

“Let me explain,” the Professor said, diving straight into his long-awaited story without any further introduction. “Among the fine London houses where I teach my native language, there’s one particularly grand place in Portland. You all know where that is, right? Yes, of course. This lovely house is home to a lovely family. There’s a mother, plump and pleasant; three young ladies, also plump and pleasant; two young gentlemen, similarly plump and pleasant; and a father, the plumpest and most pleasant of them all, a wealthy merchant swimming in gold. He was a fine man once, but now, with his bald head and double chin, he’s not quite so fine anymore.

Now, listen! I teach the great Dante to the young ladies, and oh my goodness, it’s impossible to describe how much the sublime Dante confuses their pretty little heads! But that’s alright—more lessons mean more opportunities for me. Picture this: today, as usual, I’m teaching the young ladies. We’re all four of us deep in Dante’s Hell. We’re at the Seventh Circle—but honestly, all the Circles are the same to the three young ladies, plump and pleasant as they are. At this Seventh Circle, my students are stuck, and to get them moving again, I recite, explain, and get all worked up with enthusiasm, when suddenly I hear boots creaking in the hallway. In walks the golden Papa, the wealthy merchant with his bald head and double chin.

Ah! My dear friends, I’m closer to the heart of the matter than you realize. Have you been patient so far? Or have you thought to yourselves, ‘Goodness, Pesca is rambling tonight?’”

We assured him we were completely captivated. The Professor continued:

In his hand, the golden Papa held a letter. After making his apologies for interrupting us in our little corner of the world with mundane household matters, he turned to the three young Misses and began, as you English often do, with a dramatic “O.”

“O, my dears,” said the powerful merchant, “I have a letter here from my friend, Mr.—” (the name had slipped my mind, but that didn’t matter; we’d come back to it). “I have a letter from my friend, and he’s looking for a recommendation for a drawing-master to come to his house in the country.”

Goodness! When I heard the golden Papa say those words, if I had been tall enough to reach him, I would have thrown my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly in gratitude. Instead, I just bounced in my chair, feeling like I was sitting on needles, my heart racing to speak, but I held my tongue and let Papa continue.

“Perhaps you know,” he said, twirling his friend’s letter between his golden fingers, “perhaps you know of a drawing-master I can recommend?”

The three young Misses exchanged glances and then responded, starting with the obligatory “O.” “O, dear no, Papa! But here is Mr. Pesca—”

At the mention of my name, I couldn’t hold back any longer. The thought of helping you, my dear friends, surged through me like a rush of blood to my head. I leaped from my seat as if a spike had shot up through the chair. I turned to the mighty merchant and exclaimed, “Dear sir, I have the man! The best drawing-master in the world! Recommend him by post tonight and send him off, bag and baggage—yes, bag and baggage—by train tomorrow!”

“Wait, wait,” said Papa. “Is he a foreigner or an Englishman?”

“English to the core,” I replied.

“Respectable?” he asked.

“Sir,” I said, feeling offended by his question and no longer willing to be overly familiar, “the immortal fire of genius burns in this Englishman’s heart, and what’s more, his father had it before him!”

“Never mind,” said the golden merchant, “we don’t need genius in this country unless it comes with respectability—and even then, we’re very glad to have it. Can your friend provide references—letters that speak to his character?”

I waved my hand dismissively. “Letters? Ha! I should think so! He has volumes of letters and portfolios of testimonials, if you want!”

“One or two will do,” said this man of business. “Let him send them to me, along with his name and address. And—wait, Mr. Pesca—before you go to your friend, you’d better take a note.”

“A bank note?” I asked, indignantly. “No bank note, please, until my brave Englishman has earned it first.”

“Bank note?” Papa replied, surprised. “Who mentioned a bank note? I meant a note of the terms—a memorandum of what he’s expected to do. Continue with your lesson, Mr. Pesca, and I’ll provide you with the necessary details from my friend’s letter.”

The merchant settled down with his pen, ink, and paper, while I sank back into my own little world, the three young Misses following me. Within ten minutes, the note was written, and I could hear Papa’s boots creaking away in the hallway.

From that moment on, I was blissfully unaware of anything else. The exhilarating thought that I had finally seized my opportunity and that my service to my dearest friend was practically secured intoxicated me with joy. I couldn’t recall how I pulled myself and the young Misses out of our little world, how I managed my other tasks, or how my dinner went down. All I knew was that I was there, holding the mighty merchant’s note in my hand, feeling as alive as ever and as happy as a king!

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Right, right, right—all right!” I exclaimed, waving the memorandum of terms above my head, finishing my animated story with a high-pitched Italian cheer that mimicked an English celebration.

As soon as I finished, my mother stood up, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. She took my hands warmly in hers.

“My dear, good Pesca,” she said, “I never doubted your true affection for Walter, but I’m more convinced of it now!”

“I really think we owe a lot to Professor Pesca, especially for Walter’s sake,” Sarah said, rising slightly as if to approach the armchair. But when she noticed Pesca enthusiastically kissing my mother’s hands, her expression turned serious, and she settled back down. “If he treats my mother like that, how will he treat ME?” Her face revealed her thoughts as she resumed her seat.

Though I appreciated Pesca’s kindness, my spirits weren’t as high as they should have been given the opportunity laid out before me. Once Pesca finished with my mother’s hand and I had expressed my gratitude for his support, I asked to see the terms his esteemed patron had prepared for me.

Pesca handed me the paper with a flourish.

“Read!” he declared with a grand gesture. “I assure you, my friend, the words of the golden Papa speak volumes!”

The terms were clear and straightforward. They stated:

First, that Frederick Fairlie, Esquire, of Limmeridge House, Cumberland, was looking to hire a skilled drawing master for a guaranteed period of four months.

Second, the master’s duties would be twofold. He would oversee the instruction of two young ladies in watercolor painting and, in his spare time, he would work on repairing and mounting a valuable collection of drawings that had fallen into disrepair.

Third, the compensation for this role was four guineas a week, with the expectation that the master would reside at Limmeridge House and be treated as a gentleman.

Finally, it specified that no one should apply unless they could provide impeccable references regarding their character and abilities. These references were to be sent to Mr. Fairlie’s friend in London, who would finalize all arrangements. The note concluded with the name and address of Pesca’s employer in Portland Place.

The prospect of this job was certainly appealing. The work seemed both easy and enjoyable, and it was offered at a time when I had fewer commitments. The pay was surprisingly generous based on my experience in the field. I knew I should feel fortunate to have this opportunity, yet as soon as I read the terms, I felt a strange reluctance to act on it. I had never before experienced such a painful conflict between my duty and my desires as I did at that moment.

“Oh, Walter, your father never had a chance like this!” my mother exclaimed after reading the terms and handing the paper back to me.

“Such distinguished people to meet,” Sarah added, sitting up straighter in her chair. “And on such wonderful terms of equality!”

“Yes, yes, the terms are tempting enough,” I replied, a bit impatiently. “But before I send in my references, I need some time to think—”

“Think?” my mother interrupted. “Walter, what’s wrong with you?”

“Think?” echoed my sister. “That’s a very strange thing to say, given the circumstances!”

“Think?” chimed in the Professor. “What is there to think about? Answer me this: haven’t you been complaining about your health and wishing for a breath of fresh country air? Well, here in your hand is the offer of four months filled with fresh country air! Isn’t that right? And let’s not forget—you need money. Well, is four golden guineas a week nothing? My goodness! Just give it to me, and my boots will creak with the richness of the man who walks in them! Four guineas a week, plus the delightful company of two young ladies! And on top of that, you’ll get your bed, breakfast, dinner, and all the English teas and drinks you can handle—all for free! Walter, my dear friend—what on earth are you waiting for? For the first time in my life, I can’t believe my eyes as I look at you!”

Neither my mother’s clear surprise at my behavior nor Pesca’s enthusiastic list of the benefits of my new job could change my stubborn reluctance to go to Limmeridge House. I threw out every excuse I could think of for not wanting to head to Cumberland, and after hearing each one countered, leaving me feeling thoroughly defeated, I tried to raise one last objection. I asked what would happen to my students in London while I was busy teaching Mr. Fairlie’s young ladies how to sketch from nature.

The answer was obvious: most of my students would be away on their autumn trips, and the few who stayed behind could be entrusted to one of my brother drawing masters. This man had previously offered to take over my students in similar situations. My sister reminded me that he had specifically made his services available to me this season if I chose to leave town. My mother earnestly urged me not to let a silly whim interfere with my own interests and health. And Pesca, with a look of genuine distress, pleaded with me not to hurt him by turning down the first heartfelt offer of help he could give to the friend who had saved his life.

The sincerity and affection behind their arguments would have swayed anyone with a shred of decency. Although I couldn’t shake my inexplicable stubbornness, I at least felt a deep sense of shame about it. I decided to end the discussion on a positive note by agreeing to do what was needed.

The rest of the evening passed in cheerful banter about my upcoming life with the two young ladies in Cumberland. Pesca, fueled by our national drink, which seemed to hit him like a lightning bolt just moments after he swallowed it, insisted on proving his status as a true Englishman. He launched into a series of rapid-fire toasts, raising his glass to my mother’s health, my sister’s health, my health, and the collective health of Mr. Fairlie and the two young Misses. He even thanked himself for the whole group afterward, patting himself on the back.

“A secret, Walter,” he said, leaning in close as we walked home together. “I’m still buzzing from the memory of my own eloquence. My soul is bursting with ambition. One day, I’ll be in your noble Parliament. It’s been my dream to be Honourable Pesca, M.P.!”

The next morning, I sent my references to the Professor’s employer in Portland Place. Three days went by, and I secretly felt satisfied, thinking my papers must not have been clear enough. But on the fourth day, I received a response. Mr. Fairlie accepted my services and requested that I head to Cumberland immediately. All the necessary travel instructions were neatly included in a postscript.

I reluctantly made my plans to leave London early the next day. In the evening, Pesca stopped by on his way to a dinner party to say goodbye.

“I’ll dry my tears while you’re away,” the Professor said cheerfully, “with this glorious thought: it’s my fortunate hand that has given your career its first push. Go, my friend! When your sun shines in Cumberland (as the English say), for heaven’s sake, make your hay. Marry one of the two young Misses; become Honourable Hartright, M.P.; and when you’re at the top of the ladder, remember that Pesca, at the bottom, made it all possible!”

I tried to laugh along with my little friend at his parting joke, but I couldn’t shake the heaviness in my heart. Something felt off, almost painfully so, as he spoke his lighthearted farewell.

Once I was alone again, all that was left to do was walk to the cottage in Hampstead and say goodbye to my mother and Sarah.