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Updated: May 5, 2025
"There is a Peter Marchdale I don't know whether he will be your Peter Marchdale or not, my dear; though the name seems hardly likely to be common son of the late Mr. Archibald Marchdale, Q. C., and nephew of old General Marchdale, of Whitstoke. A highly respectable and stodgy Norfolk family. He writes under a pseudonym, Felix I 'm not sure whether it's Mildmay or Wildmay.
The consequences of our actions, here below, if hardly ever so good as we could hope, are hardly ever so bad as we might fear. Let us regard this matter in the light of that guiding principle. True, she does n't dream that you are Wildmay.
"I can't make out the title," he temporised, shaking his head, and letting his eyeglass drop. On the whole, it was very well acted; and I hope the occult little smile that played about the Duchessa's lips was a smile of appreciation. "It has a highly appropriate title," she said. "It is called 'A Man of Words, by an author I've never happened to hear of before, named Felix Wildmay." "Oh, yes.
Remember she does not dream that you are Felix Wildmay. He is a mere name to her; and his story is an amusing little romance, perfectly external to herself, which she discusses with entirely impersonal interest. Tell her by all means, if you like Say, 'I am Wildmay you are Pauline. And see how amazed she will be, and how incensed, and how indignant."
To have had such an influence on the destiny of someone you've never heard of! There's a kind of intangible sense of a responsibility." "There is also, perhaps," laughed Peter, "a kind of intangible sense of a liberty taken. I'm bound to say I think Wildmay was decidedly at his ease. To appropriate in that cool fashion the personality of a total stranger!
Race was there, nerve. Sex was there all the mystery, magic, all the essential, elemental principles of the Feminine, were there: she was a woman. A wonderful, strenuous soul was there: Wildmay saw it, felt it. He did n't know her he had no hope of ever knowing her but he knew her better than he knew any one else in the world.
It's without incident, without progression it's all subjective it's a drama in states of mind. Pauline was a 'thing seen, indeed; but she wasn't a thing known: she was a thing divined. Wildmay never knew her never even knew who she was never knew her name never even knew her nationality, though, as the book shows, he guessed her to be an Englishwoman, married to a Frenchman.
The Duchessa and Peter were silent for a while, looking after them. They dwindled to dots in the distance, and then, where the road turned, disappeared. At last the Duchessa spoke but almost as if speaking to herself. "There, Felix Wildmay, you writer of tales, is a subject made to your hand," she said. We may guess whether Peter was startled. Was it possible that she had found him out?
You have said yourself how indispensable the eye of the beholder is 'the seeing eye. I think, indeed, the whole affair speaks extremely well for Mr. Wildmay. It is not every man who would be capable of so purely intellectual a passion. I suppose one must call his feeling for her a passion? It indicates a distinction in his nature. He can hardly be a mere materialist.
True, if you were abruptly to say to her, 'I am Wildmay you are the woman, she would be astonished even, if you will, at first, more or less taken aback, disconcerted. But indignant? Why? What is this gulf that separates you from her? What are these conventional barriers of which you make so much? She is a duchess, she is the daughter of a lord, and she is rich. Well, all that is to be regretted.
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